Chapter 33: Through the Gale
Singird felt as though reality was slipping away from him. It was Yrith he had hugged. It was Yrith he had kissed. She had not forgotten him. She had gone straight to him and he did not care for whoever might be watching. Suddenly, she was there, in his arms…
Everything should feel right. She was back. But right was not the word he would use. She had changed beyond his wildest imagination. His Yrith had grown into a hard, fierce woman. Too powerful, yet somewhat too vulnerable. If someone drew a picture of her, perhaps he would not know the difference. She still had those beautiful silver eyes, that captivating look in her face, both keen and distant… and still, he could hardly recognize her. Her cheeks were less round, cut sharper. Her arms were covered in distinct lines of muscle. Despite all the exhaustion and hardship, her grip on him was firm and strong. The way she carried herself… he could not decide if it was prouder, or more burdened. Perhaps both, however absurd it sounded. Her recent experiences must have taken a toll on her. And yet… she was so beautiful. Perhaps more than before. Even with her face covered in sweat, grime and blood. Even with the look of a hunted animal that has run its share.
He wanted to keep her locked in his embrace, to claim her, to taste her warmth. But even if he tried to ignore them, he still felt all the looks on him. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the intent gaze of Cain Aldaryn. Instinctively, one hand of his sank from Yrith's shoulder. Those crimson eyes were burning their way into him. For sure, the Dunmer did not approve. Perhaps some time ago, he would have ignored a mere student expressing his disagreement. But now, he was a different man. Yrith had taught him to listen. And observe.
He stepped back, looking around. Contrary to his expectations, only Cain Aldaryn and Leyna Travi seemed surprised. The Dragonborn's beady eyes sparked with amusement and Qassir Tahlrah looked hardly moved at all. Kharjo's cat face was as unreadable as ever.
He felt something brush against his forearm. Instinctively, his other arm followed, catching Yrith just before she could hit the ground. She hung in his arms limply, her face pale with the effort to keep her eyes open despite her wretched state. Still, she smiled a painful smile.
"I'm sorry," she breathed.
He should have realized. Instead of selfishly claiming her, instead of only following his own desires, instead of painting images of her in his mind, he should have looked at her properly. He lifted her in his arms and she looked at him weakly.
"Don't be," he shook his head. "Let's find you a place to sleep."
Everyone moved from their places in apparent will to help. Kharjo dug in the pile of things they had managed to gather by the entrance and pulled out one of the bedrolls he had snatched on their way from some unfortunate Imperials.
"Here," he said as he spread it just by the fireplace. "The furless cub needs some warmth."
"Thank you," Singird nodded, laying Yrith down gently. She was so light. Much lighter than he remembered her. He wondered how much she had been eating. Whether she had been resting properly. In the end, one could hardly rest when all Skyrim was up on their feet to hunt them down. He touched her face lightly. She was burning.
"I'm sorry," she whispered again. "A long day, I suppose. Or three. Or a hundred…"
Singird's lips curled up. At least she kept her good humor about her.
"Rest," he told her. "There are many more long days ahead, I'm afraid, and you'll need your strength."
"Mhm." She closed her eyes. Or, rather, they seemed to have closed by themselves. Immediately, she was fast asleep. He looked at her with care, wishing to curl up by her side. Instead, he raised his head back to the rest, his gaze meeting the Dragonborn's.
"That was fast," he commented for lack of other words. "A truly long day it's been, hasn't it?"
The lizard gave a sigh. He bent down, finally dumping all of his burdens on the floor. Then he stood astride them, measuring them with his eyes as if their size could express how much Yrith had been through.
"You don't know the half of it," he said wearily. "Yrith especially has been… well, I think she'd better tell you herself. Just know that last night's battle was only the tip of the cake. Some things even I can't fully grasp. And I daresay I can understand a damn lot of things."
Singird nodded, unable to express how much he felt those words himself. Even before Yrith had left the College, there were far too many mysteries about her. Now, he could not fathom even his own part. He wondered how long it would take for Yrith and himself to exchange everything. Surely after the long days, there would be many evenings full of stories ahead. Oh, how he wished to be back in Winterhold. How he longed for those lazy days when time just went about its own way and he cared little for it. He looked toward the cave entrance, to the coming winter outside. Just two mountain ridges. That was all that separated him and Yrith from that comfort. Two mountain ridges of potential battles and running in fear. He contained a sigh.
"I suppose we'd better go to sleep ourselves," he muttered, eyes fixed on Yrith's gently heaving chest.
"Indeed," the lizard seconded. "I'm tired as it is, and I haven't even taken a race in a crippled state after fighting my worst nightmare, like certain someone." He too glanced toward the sleeping Yrith, staying with her for one pensive moment before he turned back to Singird. "But, awkward as it may sound, we've never been properly introduced. So before I choose to sleep with you in the same room, or cave, my name is Keneel-La. You may have heard of me once or twice."
He extended a hand, holding it out for a shake. Singird's brows shot skyward. So this was the Dragonborn. Even when he did not face the fire, it seemed that two merry sparks danced in his eyes. True, as the Chosen of Akatosh, Alduin's Bane, and whatever other titles he had, he had likely lived through worse. Still…
This was not a defense mechanism. He had managed to convince Yrith to come back. Singird truly believed that his smile, whatever its source, was genuine. It felt warm and soothing. However he had doubted General Tullius, now he knew the man had chosen the best protection for Yrith there was. The best for both her vessel and her spirit. Suddenly, he felt a rush of gratitude toward the sturdy lizard. He took the hand in his, shaking it firmly.
"I am Singird Larkwing. You may have read about me once."
The Dragonborn's jaw widened. "Ah, I'm sure General Tullius mentioned you more than once in the letter he sent me."
"That is very generous of him."
"Indeed. Hmm, and here I was warned about you being overly serious, but you seem quite fine to me," the lizard laughed, causing Singird to blush instantly. He was lucky the Dragonborn was now preoccupied with stuffing his rucksack to the side of the cave, looking around for a place he could make his bed for the night. Or day. "Well, time to hit our bedrolls, I suppose. Hopefully there will be a chance to exchange some stories later, because I am very much interested in your prior adventures."
"The feeling is mutual," Singird nodded in accord. "Kharjo mentioned some underground tunnels. Blackreach? I thought that place was a legend."
"I would say that's quite accurate. But it's a long story. One I would rather leave for when we are fresh enough to enjoy ourselves. And I reckon Yrith would have something to say as well."
"And her story is the one I'm most eager to hear," Singird whispered.
"I'm quite sure she feels the same about yours," Keneel-La said, kindness creeping into his rough voice. He turned away as though embarrassed, scanning the cave absently. When his eyes found the pile of crates and other properties Kharjo had gathered near the entrance, his face brightened. "I see we got ourselves a bundle of spare bedrolls, some food and… a keg? Kharjo?"
The Khajiit wiggled his ears as he stood to attention. "Our Imperial friends were much willing to share. Such goodness is unheard of in these troubled times."
"Tell me about it." The Dragonborn smirked, or so Singird guessed from the way his reptilian jaws parted. He clapped the Khajiit on the back, chuckling lightly before he made his way to one of the crates and grabbed several apples. He threw one of them to Singird who barely managed to catch it. But then, the lizard's expression sobered again as he gestured toward the mouth of the cave. "We will need some protection. Kharjo, can I count on you to take the first watch? As much as I hate to admit it, I could use some sleep."
The catman sniffed and narrowed his eyes. Over the recent encounters with his kinsmen, Singird had learned that this meant assent.
"Kharjo would prefer the night watch," the Khajiit said, "but he will wait for that till there's some proper adventure to be had."
"Don't you worry, there will be enough adventure for everyone. Though with our Yrith here, you might get more than you bargained for. Speaking of which," the lizard gave Singird a meaningful look, "perhaps we should raise some magical protection as well this time."
Before Singird could open his mouth to speak, Qassir hurried to his side.
"May I?" he asked, dropping a curtsy. "I've been helping Master Larkwing with this since Whiterun anyway. Not that he needs any help, of course."
Just by sheer instinct, Singird's hands clenched into fists. Of course he needed help. Every time, he relied on the courtesy of his own student, a Redguard with reputedly no aptitude for the arcane arts. He could very well stand Yrith exceeding him in every way possible. In case of Qassir Tahlrah, the circumstances felt rather aggravating. Especially since the boy never failed to remind him in the most irksome way possible. He took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly to regain composure. The lizard watched him with his head tilted to the side, then just smiled and shrugged.
"Whoever wants to take care of it, as long as the protection is functional. Preferably something to ward off both magic and physical missiles and to keep outsiders out."
"I suppose I can let Mister Tahlrah do it then," Singird said slowly, trying to sound as indifferent as possible. "He always provided the barriers."
"Please, do. Now then, let's not waste any more time. I won't risk staying for more than a day, and I'm afraid tomorrow will come sooner than we'd wish."
With that, the Dragonborn made to spread his bedroll, leaving everyone to their own devices. Qassir walked away with a single nod, his hands flaring with magic. Everyone went about their own way, not sparing another word. Watching their backs, bent with the gravity of the recent events, Singird bit into his apple and set out to find his own place to sleep.
The bedroll he had picked for himself smelled of sweat and liquor. Of course. It had belonged to some Imperial soldier, and everyone knew how soldiers liked to spend their long evenings. Singird felt his face twist in disgust. He forced himself to carry it across the cave and spread it in a cozy corner, as close to Yrith as possible. On the other side of her, he could spot Cain Aldaryn doing the same. An uneasy feeling settled just at the nape of his neck. Something about the Dunmer made him feel almost unwelcome. And he was quite certain it had something to do with Yrith.
He burrowed into the bedroll, closing his eyes in hopes to chase all the uninvited thoughts away. They were all tired. Perhaps his mind was playing with him, making him doubt the boy for no reason, just as he had back in Winterhold. It could be just his own prejudice. Perhaps when they have all rested, he would see things in a different light. Sleep would surely bring relief. He listened to the rustle all around, as the others laid themselves to sleep, letting the sound lull him.
But the smell of the bedroll distracted him.
After all the travelling, battling, finally meeting Yrith… he was distracted by a godsdamned bedroll. He tried to focus his thoughts on something else. Winterhold. Perhaps soon enough, they would be back, and his room would be cozier than this place. He opened an eye to view the fireplace. To feel its warmth. But the fire was slowly dying and the fading glow of the embers was drowned in the light coming from the entrance.
And now, it was the light that tore through his thoughts and invaded his senses, even when he tried to close his eyes.
He groaned quietly, turning onto his stomach. The ground underneath was so hard he had to roll back. He gritted his teeth, watching the frozen ceiling through his fingers. It glared back at him, crackling, laughing at his futile attempts. Godsdamned ice. Godsdamned winter. Godsdamned exhaustion with its clutches of steel that took even his sleep away.
At last, he gave up, leaving the time to flow at its own pace. The half-slumber he had fallen into brought no comfort whatsoever.
A quiet snap of the dying embers woke him after what felt like long hours. In reality, judging by the light from the entrance and the shadows that had only moved a slight bit, it couldn't have been more than a few short moments. Singird sat up, his head feeling heavy on his shoulders. Everyone seemed to be asleep now. That was, everyone except Cain Aldaryn, who was staring up just as Singird had been a while before. He took a moment to observe the boy. Even he had changed. His face was now marred with a long scar. It was apparent how much weight he had lost over the time he had been away. For sure, this was not a choice he would make willingly. Singird should have no reason to doubt him.
And yet…
The Dunmer wriggled and tossed. Their eyes met. Instinctively, Singird averted his gaze, but then he turned back, trying to appear as casual as possible. The boy fixed his crimson eyes on him.
"Can I help you, Master Larkwing?"
Singird quickly shook his head. "Just… looking at who's awake."
The boy nodded, rubbing the back of his head against his bedroll.
"I'm surprised that they can sleep so soundly," he muttered to himself, but Singird could almost agree. Almost.
"Even in Yrith's case?" he asked, feeling a wicked tingle of curiosity.
The boy's eyes found her heaving chest, then slid to her face, watching the cloudlets of steam rising from her lips with every breath. Singird had never seen a look so gentle in the crimson eyes of a Dunmer. He felt his own face flare. Perhaps he should have never asked.
"No," the boy uttered quietly. "She's… had it different."
For a moment, he kept his mouth open as if to continue, taking a few breaths. But then he closed it, falling silent. Singird could nearly feel all the thoughts running through the boy's mind. All the thoughts that mirrored his own, the care, the concern, the…
Affection.
So that was the answer. No malice, no ulterior motives. Singird closed his eyes, rubbing his fingers against his temples a little too strongly.
"You… love her," he voiced his thoughts without planning to. The silence that followed felt too long, even if it was but a few short moments.
"So do you," the boy whispered into the furs of his bedroll. Singird could not see his face anymore, even if he wished to. But even so, the muffled sound of the boy's voice gave him a strange feeling of unease. No. In fact, it strengthened the one that had settled there the first time Singird had met the Dunmer's gaze.
"You hate me for it," he dared. And, to his great surprise and unease, he realized that he cared.
The boy wiggled and squirmed in response. The bedroll creased as he clutched it.
"Do I?"
"I certainly have this feeling."
"I don't."
The answer was too quick, too curt. Singird glowered at him, wondering what expression the boy was wearing. What he was feeling. After all, Singird himself could not decide on how he truly felt.
"If you say so," he muttered quietly for lack of other words.
The Dunmer sighed. He laid himself on his back again, watching the flowers of frost on the ceiling, as if he could find his own feelings there. Instinctively, Singird's eyes drifted the same way. The winter could surely paint beautiful images. If he could take one of those flowers and put it in Yrith's raven hair…
Perhaps Cain Aldaryn was thinking the same thing. Perhaps there was so much on his mind that he could hardly bear it.
He looked back at the boy, studying his distant expression.
"You can talk about it," Singird told him, surprising himself. "Whatever you say will stay in this cave. At this moment, I'm not your teacher."
The boy raised himself on his elbows, eyeing the still figure of Kharjo, sitting at the entrance, face turned outside so that he would see any potential intruders. Singird nodded in understanding. But contrary to his expectations, the Dunmer spoke.
"Yeah, I hate you."
For a moment, he let the sentence hang there. Singird blinked at the sudden honesty, opening his mouth to reply. But the boy continued.
"I hate you… for noticing her sooner. I hate you for being there for her while I was busy figuring her out. I hate you for sending us to fetch the godsdamned fish together and giving me the chance to… change. To know myself… And now I hate you for saving my life and making me watch from the sidelines."
Singird stared at him. There was no trace of hatred in the boy's voice. Quite the contrary. Just how in Oblivion had he managed to make Singird feel so defeated? Guilty, even. He too found himself hating the Dunmer. Hating him… for giving praise above any he had ever received in his life.
Indeed, Yrith had been in good hands. Perhaps he himself couldn't have done a finer job protecting her than this boy and the Dragonborn.
He looked at the Dunmer with a mixture of envy and respect. What should he say now? All the words that came to his mind sounded so ridiculous in the shadow of this confession.
"I…" he began, already feeling stupid. "Thank you. For being there for her while I wasn't…"
Suddenly, the boy shifted his gaze toward Singird, looking him directly in the eyes.
"You thank me?"
"That's what I said, yes."
He gave a snort. But then, his face brightened with a smile so dazzling Singird almost felt the need to shade his face. "Well. I suppose I should be thanking you."
"For?"
"Helping me find the courage to say this. You say you're not my teacher at this moment, so I'm not talking to you as your student. I'm talking to you as a rival." He took a long breath, sitting up straight. "Giving up is not my strong point. So," he raised a hand, pointing an ebony finger at Singird, "make one wrong move, one step astray, and I will take her. This is a showdown… Singird."
Singird would have clenched his fists. He would have hissed at the Dunmer, glared into his dark face, made him repent for the insolent words. The old Singird would have surely done that. But now, he couldn't. He laughed. He could hear himself laugh at the top of his lungs, like he had not laughed in a long time. There was something intrinsically annoying about the boy. And yet, he could not help but like him. There was no pretense in Cain Aldaryn's speech, no hidden motives. In a way, this Dunmer had faced him like a true Nord.
"Very well," Singird said, his lips curling up by themselves. "Let it be a showdown. Cain."
Quiet murmurs broke through the throbbing in Yrith's head. No… they caused it. On and on they went, perhaps inaudible for others, but very much apparent for her, like continuous drizzling of water. Not the peaceful drizzling one observes from the safety of their home, but the annoying, cold drizzling that prickles one's skin and soaks through. She rubbed her brow, then buried her face in the furs of her bedroll, pressing its fabric against her ears. It did not help. The sound seemed to come right into her mind, unhindered. Whispers in a language that she could not speak, yet it felt so familiar. Whispers of suffering and death. Memories of wicked triumph, turned into sheer power.
She tried to breathe, relax her body. Feel each part of it. Instead, she felt her bones and muscles ache and her wounds pulse with pain that had nothing to do with the voice in her head. She felt how parched and hungry and tired she was, despite the hours she must have spent lying in the cave. And yet, she felt as though she had barely slept at all.
Drowsily, she lifted herself, looking around. Half of her companions seemed to be sleeping, as far as she could tell in the faint glow of the embers. Kharjo kept watch at the entrance, sitting so still she would have easily confused his cat frame for a stuffed decoration. Keneel-La, nestled in the tightest nook of the cave, was trying the sharpness of his dagger. Qassir, similarly to her, seemed to have only just woken up, looking around and trying to rub the sleep from his eyes.
Her eyes drifted to the Dragonborn. His mind seemed to be elsewhere, the movement of his fingers against the blade almost instinctive. But when Yrith's eyes found his figure, he turned to her, shaking the stupor away.
"Morning," he said quietly. "If I can even call it that." Momentarily, his gaze roved to the darkness outside. Then, as he stared back at Yrith, he noticed her unease and tilted his head to the side in question. "What is it?"
"A bad dream, I suppose," she muttered. "I… it's like I hear voices. In the Dragon Language."
Keneel-La's eyes narrowed. "In Dovahzul? What do they say?"
"Something about… killing… for honor."
Slowly, he put the dagger aside, his eyes following its blade, from what Yrith could tell. Then, he looked back at Yrith, examining her as though he had just found a rare historical artifact.
"You truly are sensitive to these things, aren't you?" he said thoughtfully. "What you hear is no dream, nor illusion. Down this cave is a crypt. Hidden there is a wall, a memorial to the Nords of the old. If you ask me, they hardly deserve it for driving the Snow Elves off the surface, but… well, the wall has a hidden purpose, which you might have guessed. It contains a fragment of draconic power. There are many walls like that hidden across Skyrim."
Yrith nodded. "There's one up at the Throat of the World, isn't there? Paarthurnax showed it to me."
"Indeed."
"Well, that's bad news," a voice issued from the shadows. The two of them turned to Qassir who was now slouching over his bedroll, his handsome face uncharacteristically grave.
"Beg your pardon?"
"I thought I was mistaken when I woke up and didn't feel any connection, but this cave was supposed to be shielded from all sides. I created the protection myself. If the urchin can hear the wall, then it has either died out, or it has been breached."
"Well well, I couldn't have asked for a better start of the day," Keneel-La snorted as he pulled himself on his feet. "Time to wake everyone up, I suppose."
At the entrance, Kharjo gave a quiet sniff. "Kharjo does not see or sense anything," he reported.
"Neither did I on my shift," Keneel-La sighed. "Could any of you guess how long it's been since you felt the barrier missing?"
Qassir shook his head. "I've just woken up."
"So have I," Yrith seconded, "though I can't say exactly how long I've been dreaming of the voice." She looked around, as though an enemy should materialize out of the thin air. After all they had been through, she would not even be surprised anymore. Then, she turned back to Keneel-La.
"Permission to scan the surroundings?" she asked, her fingers stretching and curling back up to suppress the need to let her magic out just yet.
"Granted," the lizard said absently, his eyes already roving through every crevice and corner they could find. On his knees, he crawled to Leyna who was closest to him, touching her face. The elf wiggled unwillingly in her slumber, turning to the other side.
With little hesitation, Yrith allowed her power to spring out on its own, guiding it to spread around. Instinctively, she closed her eyes, focusing on the shapes and life it touched. The vast area she covered was nearly empty, save for a very few people walking around. For sure they were patrols, pacing back and forth, armed, mostly dressed in light armor of Nordic cut. Some had more of a wanderer attire, though Yrith doubted many would just aimlessly travel through the winter Skyrim lands. Still, nothing she would call outright suspicious. She sent her magicka further, but found only still, peaceful land, disturbed only by wild gusts of wind whirling up ruffled puffs of snow. She could feel her own brow furrowing as she searched for traces of any kind of illusion, and still, she found none. No ripples in the power currents, no strangely lifeless or static places, no anomalies, no unnatural patterns. Nothing…
"So?"
She shook her head as she opened her eyes, withdrawing her magic.
"Nothing. If there is any kind of illusion in effect, it's none that I can detect. It just looks like there are only occasional patrols, never more than three people together."
"Hmm…"
Keneel-La scratched his beardless chin, or so Yrith could trace in the dark. Other than that, he was motionless, staring somewhere on the ground where the sleeping lot of their little party lay still deep in their dreams.
"So it's either some undetectable illusion, or…"
Yrith waited for him to finish, but he never did. She wriggled in her place.
"Or?" she pressed.
"Pardon me. Either that, or they have become… afraid of you."
Yrith felt her shoulders stoop, as if someone had draped over her a mantle of worry too heavy to bear.
"A… afraid of me?"
"Indeed. You managed to devour the man that had, at least figuratively, risen from the dead to haunt you. He had every advantage over you but still couldn't best you. What do you think this tells the one who is after you?"
"Probably that now they can become serious," Yrith uttered grimly.
"They've been serious all this time."
Yrith followed the new voice with her eyes, squinting at the new silhouette rising from the ground in slow, fitful motion. Singird had woken up and joined the conversation. At last, Yrith sent a ball of magelight to the ceiling to gain a better view. She had never seen his hair so unkempt and his eyes so droopy. Despite that, he looked keen and awake.
"But I'm still alive."
"And all of us, including you, made it harder for them to change that. You underestimate your abilities," Singird said, adding a low grunt as he stood. "He's been afraid of you this whole time, hiding in the shadows, never daring a direct attack. Now you've just proven to him that he has a good reason to."
She looked away, feeling her stomach turn. Was that a reason to be happy? Did Singird, he of all people, the obstinate, uptight Nord, the man of principle, approve of her wicked tactics? Was he encouraging her in them? Or was he talking out of pity? Was it a good thing that their enemy was afraid of her? Perhaps short-term, it could bring them advantage. But what would happen to her and Singird once everything was over? Would he become afraid of her too? He would have every reason, after all.
"I'm not sure I'm happy about this," she muttered into her bedroll as she pressed her face to her knees.
"You don't need to be happy about it to use it to your advantage," Keneel-La said to her gently. "Defense mechanisms don't always feel right. Still, they are there for a purpose."
Yrith raised her head to look the lizard in the face, feeling heat in her cheeks. The damn reptile was so unfair. Always knowing the right words…
She gave a silent nod, wishing above all to find a place to contemplate in solitude. A wish that she knew would not be granted for days to come.
"In any case," the lizard continued, "I'm afraid we can't stay here. How scattered are the patrols, Yrith? Any chance we could simply make our way through without being noticed?"
Yrith forced herself to sit up. In the end, this was her rescue mission and she should at least play her part. Leave the wallowing in her despair for later.
With a sigh, she shook her head as if to clear it and sent out her magic once more, forcing her mind to refocus on the guards. They were spread rather evenly, but the land was mountainous, the forests in the valleys were lush and the occasional wall of stirred-up snow left them at a disadvantage too.
"Theoretically. If they don't know where we are already… I'm not even sure how many of them are Imperial and how many are… whoever else can be."
"Right, this is still Stormcloak territory… hmm. Let's just have a quick breakfast and be on our way. I'm not too convinced that this place is safe anymore."
And then there was food. She did feel hungry. Yet filling her stomach was the last on her list of desires. Kharjo was already on his feet, giving out slices of smoked fish, fresh apples, bread and goat cheese. The first real meal Yrith had seen in ages, likely the courtesy of some charitable Imperial they had met on their way. And still, she found no appetite in herself.
Taking the precious meal with little enthusiasm, she suppressed a sigh and watched as the Dragonborn tapped Leyna on her cheek, shattering her peaceful slumber into the cold, unpleasant unreality.
Yrith had no idea how long they had been walking. It felt like days, although it must have been less than an hour. The air around them was pure white, biting into them as though their clothes were nonexistent. She was quite convinced that this was no weather to be treading around in, and that the Dragonborn would have happily agreed with her if he hadn't considered staying at the cave even more dangerous. She gritted her teeth, forcing her legs to move, half with willpower, half with magic. Despite all the magic she had stolen the previous day, she felt weak and tired. Instead of her feet, she had two weights of lead, and the muscles on her shins felt like paper, ready to be torn at any moment. The only thing she wished for now was a warm bed. But that comfort was still a long way ahead.
For the umpteenth time, she checked whether all the others were still with her. They were almost solely relying on her magic now, having no other means to navigate in the gale. And Yrith did not bother taking long detours to avoid the guards. There could have been a guard right before her and they wouldn't have spotted her. At least in this case, the snowstorm was convenient. So, with the assistance of Keneel-La, she chose the shortest route possible, only careful not to bump directly into a patrol.
"Well, Kyne, thank you for the gifts, but you didn't have to be so generous," she heard Qassir mutter behind her. She glanced over her shoulder to see the Redguard bent low in his struggle to keep up against the harsh wind.
"I didn't know you worshipped the old Nordic gods," she commented, kicking away a clod of snow to clear the path. She tried to ignore the pain signals her recently injured leg kept sending her. At least the storm swept away her quiet hisses and grunts. Nobody needed to know. Especially Cain and Singird.
"It's more of a… figure of speech, really," Qassir huffed his way along the freshly dug trail. "Let's say the gods did very little to make me believe in them. And even if they did, what have they done to deserve to be worshipped?"
Yrith laughed. "Those are the words of a heretic, friend."
"Only if they prove it to me. I am in the Nordic land and we were talking about Nordic gods. Who says I was talking about gods in general? I am a Redguard after all."
She could almost feel him winking at her. If she'd had the strength, she would have kicked him for the inept joke. Instead, she only gave a snort, keeping her eyes fixed on the nonexistent path. They fell silent again. In her head, Yrith recited a mantra to keep her feet moving. Left and right, step and go, left and right, step and go…
Her eyes were nearly closed, formed into two thin slits just to see ahead. With the snow, perhaps it wouldn't have made much difference if she closed them entirely. Still, she kept looking forward, into the endless white. She was frozen to the bone, but their steady tempo helped her get used to the chill. Almost like a Dwemer automaton, she walked and walked, oblivious to the wind. The mantra resounded in her mind, a music box lulling her into a sweet trance until its cogs stopped turning. Or until something came and broke it into pieces. But nothing happened.
Their journey was peaceful as could be. No guards spotted them, there were no surprise attacks, no avalanche, no unexpected occurrences. Only white everywhere and wind in their faces. Yrith had fallen into her pace, nearly comfortable at its steadiness. The pain seemed almost bearable. No… it had even ceased. Just like all the other discomfort, the cold…
She took a deep breath and the air slipped smoothly into her lungs. The wind was still there, yet she hardly felt it. As if it simply passed them, as if the swirling air was just a pleasant, warm breeze leading her onward. Into sweet oblivion…
Oblivion. No, it couldn't be…
She froze, barely keeping balance when Qassir crashed into her. Never mind that, she quickly checked that their group was whole. All six of her companions were standing behind her, eyeing her with curious looks.
"What is it?" Keneel-La asked. She could feel his voice hardening into that steel-cold tone he adopted every time things became serious. The mere sound made her hairs stand even more effectively than the gale. More so that he had read the situation right.
She focused on the magic laid all around them, touching the land. Only it wasn't. The image blurred in her mind, as if someone had poured oil in her inner eye.
"I think we're walking in a circle."
"What do you mean? That's impossible. We've been walking upward all this time, and you read the terrain…"
"I've seen this at work once… in…" she cast an uncertain glance at Singird, then Kharjo and Qassir. Then she shook her head, deciding to put her worry aside. For now. "In the Shivering Isles."
Singird's reaction was instant. "In… where?!"
Keneel-La waved his words away. "Not now, Master Larkwing. Let's exchange stories later… Yrith, what do you mean?"
"Bent space… going somewhere, never reaching your destination, only to eventually find that you're back where you started. This. But I don't think he can bend the space. At least not here, on Tamriel. I would bet on an illusion. Just like everything else he does. Which means I have no idea where we are in reality."
"You sure know how to put a person at ease. And your vision is not working?"
"It's…" Once more, Yrith tried to see around. It almost hurt. Instinctively, her hand reached for her eyes to rub them. "… distorted. Though it wasn't just a while ago. Whatever he's trying, I don't think he wanted me to notice that I've lost track."
"So, this tells us that he knows exactly where we are. Is he playing with us?"
"I…"
"Frankly, I think he's trying to exhaust Yrith as much as possible."
Yrith turned to Cain who seemed to hate his own words. His eyes were turned to the white ground, his fiery brows knit together.
She looked at him in question. "But why would he do that?"
"Think about it. He always avoids direct confrontation with you. Doesn't that mean he wants you as weak as possible?
Keneel-La put a gloved hand on Cain's shoulder, patting him lightly with his fingers.
"Indeed, that would make sense. But it would mean our nameless friend is a lot less divine than he would prefer, eh?"
"Still, to command an illusion of this scale…"
"Hush, Master Larkwing, let's discourage our friends only after we've made it to safety. For now, let's focus on the problem at hand. So, if I understand correctly, we are all under some sort of illusion?"
Yrith gave a nod.
"Right then. How do you break an illusion?"
"Well, the easiest way is probably simply finding the source of the spell and cutting the flow. Although the safest one would be with another illusion… so that the caster is convinced their illusion is still in effect. It's a lot more complicated when there is seven of us though."
At her side, Leyna was playing with her fingers, deep in thought. As she turned to Yrith, one finger gestured to the path ahead.
"Wouldn't it be enough for one of us to break through the illusion and lead us out?" she asked. "Not all of us have magic, after all."
Yrith rubbed her brow, staring at the swirling white through her fingers. "Technically," she admitted slowly, "it could be possible. But not if we want to keep pretending we're still in. This way we'll be in for some serious retaliation."
"The question is," Keneel-La said, "do we have a choice?"
His fingers snapped around a snowflake. Yrith's eyes followed them as they crushed it. It did not melt. Curiously, she touched the air before her with magic. She could feel the snowflakes toss and dance. She grabbed one and turned it. It glittered. Upon closer inspection, it shone like a mirror, reflecting… anything and everything. A world of pure white. She shook her head. Of course. The presence of the storm would be no coincidence, would it? She must have been ensnared since the first time she examined the land from the cave.
"It doesn't matter," she muttered, pulling off a glove and reaching for another snowflake. It was not cold. She did not even feel the touch. "It's not just our minds that are affected. This whole place is. And something… I can't quite put my finger on it, but something just… doesn't feel right."
"Of course it wouldn't feel right," Leyna snorted. "We're under illusion."
"Yes, but there's just more to it than simple mind control or mirages. An additional layer of… something."
"Kharjo can quite feel it too," the silver-furred catman nodded. "Or, can't. He can barely feel his whiskers. And that is bad."
Keneel-La looked the Khajiit up and down, his face stiff in concern. Only his brows moved, slowly knitting together.
"I have a bad feeling about this. But we can either go along with it until it's too late, or break through and try our luck. Yrith, will you do the honors?"
"With all due respect," Singird said before Yrith could utter a word of response, "I think Yrith's had enough. Isn't there any other way? Perhaps one of us could…"
Yrith put a hand on Singird's arm, pressing slightly into his muscle. "I'll have to be involved anyway. No one else can… see around."
She looked away, feeling foolish for claiming to be superior. Then again, if superior meant hunted to the edge of the world, then she would happily give it away.
Singird gave a sigh. "I can never protect you, can I?"
"You don't have to protect me," she said to him gently. "I can't always run away from my own fight."
He nodded in silence. She could feel all the words behind his pained face, but he spoke none. She would have spent eternity looking into it, but instead, she forced herself to close her eyes and search for a way out. If only everything wasn't so distorted…
"I think it's best that we hold hands, just in case something tries to separate us," she said absently, tucking her gloves into her pockets and extending both her hands for someone to take them. For a moment, they stayed empty. Then, she heard Keneel-La's voice issue nearby.
"Won't you need them for casting spells?"
Indeed, she had never tried to cast without her hands. But then again, she considered magic a rather good friend of hers.
"I'll manage," she replied, keeping her hands out for the taking. Strangely, they still felt no cold.
"Very well."
She could feel both of her hands being grabbed. One was surely the Dragonborn's calloused lizard hand. The other… a humanoid one, too big to be the slender Leyna's, or even Cain's. A grip she knew all too well, firm, but gentle. So that was Singird, seizing the chance to take her before anyone else could. She suppressed a smile, forcing her mind off the daydream threatening to absorb it. Way out. She had to search for a way out.
If everything was distorted, the illusion had to be superficial. No strange lands, no complete Oblivion to get lost in. It covered a great area, but the Demon obviously had his limits. Still, it was something affecting them all the same way, creating a mirage of… of what? She could only see a storm made of myriads of fake, mirror-like snowflakes. Was it that simple?
No, it wasn't just the storm. There was that something. If they had been under the impression of going steadily upward, then it must have affected their state as well. Something to completely fool all of their senses. Still, the question was whether the feeling came from outside or inside. Perhaps addressing the storm would still solve the issue. In the end, it was the only thing she knew how to deal with, given she had already defeated one of the greatest gales on Tamriel back in High Hrothgar.
She took a breath and spread her magicka in a thick layer. It swirled and undulated uncontrollably, like a sea of wild waters that run wherever they please. Yrith gritted her teeth. This was much harder without being able to channel the magic through her hands. She had to find something. Something she could move at will. Feet? No, she could not do it while standing. So…
She opened her eyes, showered with immediate curious looks.
"What is it?" Keneel-La asked, frowning.
She shook her head. "Nothing. I'm going to use my eyes to control the magic. I will have a blind spot, so I will sometimes turn. If I do, please, follow my lead."
"As you wish. Tell us if you need assistance."
"Will do."
Once again, Yrith made a connection with her surroundings. She could not spare the time to look at her companions now, but she imagined she must have looked quite surreal, with her eyes glowing brightly with magic. The current gave her a strange, ticklish feeling that made it hard not to blink. Still, with eyes stinging and misty, she persevered, penetrating the wall of white just ahead of her. Just as she had expected, it worked similar to the storm covering the path to the Throat of the World. Magic was everywhere, changing the space, creating a myriad of fake images reflected in countless icy shards. How elaborate it was. She could not imagine the amount of effort it must have taken to create. In a way, she had to admire whoever had built such a wonder. If only they could use it for other purposes. How the world could change for the better had they been a different kind of person.
She sighed, carefully undoing shard after shard, flake after flake, cutting through the fine web of magic to see beyond. In her hazy view, she could not even spot guards. They could be found out at any moment, but if they ever wanted to escape their white prison, it was a risk she had to take. And so she worked, chipping away at the magical barrier separating them from reality.
The bits glistened as she worked at them, despite the absence of sunlight. A lace was undone, the strands fell off all too easily. A frown formed on Yrith's brow as she looked at the pathway forming before her. She had expected resistance, but there was none, except the fact that it was hard to see a difference in the endless white. Still, she sensed it, the clearance and the sudden touch of cold. A film seemed to have come loose, uncovering her skin. She hissed and jerked to the side, but maintained the connection with gritted teeth. A thousand tiny needles pierced the skin on her face, a white-cold blade slashed through her lips. Her senses were finally returning, bringing a shock, if not to her body, then at least to her mind. The effort to keep going took away her breath. With all her might, she had to focus. She could not afford to get distracted now. Not even by her own perceptions.
"Yrith…!" she heard someone call her name, but she couldn't turn after the voice.
"No," she said without a thought, squinting in attempt to keep her concentration intact. "If I stop here, it'll all be for nothing."
"Yrith! Gods above, stop! Please!"
She felt Singird's hand leave hers, only to touch her face. She recoiled, her magic finally giving way. His touch burned like the fires of the Deadlands. Everything burned. The cold had crept under her body, the infinite needles assaulting every inch of her. Then, the needles became white-hot razors, cutting deep, tearing off her skin, blinding her. Something snapped as she moved her legs, and a new eruption of pain paralyzed her. She wanted to scream, but found no voice.
The glistening white mist around them hardened, aiming for Yrith's skin. It was too cold and too hot. Yrith's senses stopped working. She could not understand the signals anymore, her sight blinding her with splatters of color, her hearing sending in a series of cacophonic whistles and buzzes. She felt her tongue as she bit it. Only vaguely, she could hear screams around her as something hit her companions. Soon, it would crush them all.
Blindly, with no sense of direction, she mustered all her remaining strength, producing a ward as hard as she could make, wrapping them all in a humming sphere. Her fingers trembled, the magic still threatening to go wild in the wake of the pervading pain. She fell to her knees to gain support, only to be flooded with a new wave of shambolic signals.
"H-help me…" she breathed, clenching her glowing fingers instinctively. "Help me!"
She could not touch them. Everything hurt, everything ripped her skin into pieces. And so she just sent her magic forward in a tangled mass, making contact, connecting with everyone in their group. She heard gasps, screams, even, but she could not focus on them. The ward. She had to protect them…
Leyna caught on first, if she could trust in what the last functional bit of her senses told her. She could feel the calm of her soothing, golden magic stabilizing the connection, taking hold of the barrier around them, gripping it firmly to keep it steady. The pain subsided one tiny bit, only for her senses to fully wake and send in more. Yrith moaned. And prayed.
Then, thank all the gods and spirits, she felt a pair of different people join, strangers whose magic she had never touched. That must have been Cain and Qassir. Cain's magic was warm and gentle, protective like a mother's embrace. She wished to take it for her own, to nestle in it and find peace. But she couldn't. It was all meant to hold the ward. Yrith's teeth screeched and hurt as she gritted them too strongly in the effort to stand her ground.
Qassir's magic was fierce, strengthening the ward with a repelling power. Another bit of pain receded, but the tremor would not go away. It was too late. Too late…
The last one to join, to understand at last what was going on, was Singird. But he did not fortify the ward. He focused on… Yrith. She felt her body gaining new support, her muscles relaxing against all odds, the cold giving way. Her limbs trembled with the sudden change, the warmth making her feel weak. She breathed deeply to keep herself from falling or breaking away. But she would not last long. The ward would not hold forever. Something had to happen. Something…
"Keneel-La…" she whispered, hoping he would hear her in spite of all the humming and swooshing. Hoping her quivering voice was enough yo reach him. The Dragonborn's reaction was instant.
"Yes?"
His voice was so alien, so distant. A strange buzz in her ears. She tried to focus on the words. Just a bit longer…
"Can you… the Shout…"
"What Shout?"
Her ears hurt so much. The lizard voice came through a thick wall, quieted down into a mere rustle in the wind. The words…
"The one…" even her breath was failing her, "you used… to clear… the path… to Paar… thur… nax…"
No. She could not hold up any longer. The pain was too great. Warm or cold, her skin was torn, her leg was hurt, her head hurt with all the muddled impulses and the effort to keep the ward in place. The shards of the storm were too many, attacking from too many places. They came at not just the ward and the air. She felt them inside, in her head, assaulting her mind, trying to take over. She had to repel the illusion as Master Neloren had taught her. Fake being controlled, give a false impression of triumph… but she was so tired. What was the Demon trying to do? What would he do once he took over? She could not understand. Not this time. She could not fake anything. He had succeeded. She had no strength to fight anymore.
Her breath. She had to focus on her breath. On their magic. On the ward. On anything.
In and out… her breathing slowed. Her mind dimmed. There was nothing. Nothing to hold onto. Everything was slipping away.
Singird, Cain, Keneel-La… how they would hate her for this. But she was so, so tired.
And so at last, she gave up and let herself sink.
"Yrith…!"
He wanted her to stop. He begged the gods, the Daedra, anyone… just so she would stop. She didn't seem to notice all the blood on her. She just continued, stubborn, blind to everything happening to her.
"Yrith! Gods above, stop! Please!"
Her skin… the whole of her. Even without the blinding light of her magic fiercely bursting out of every inch of her body, he almost couldn't recognize her. Thousands of minuscule wounds covered her, spreading over her, disfiguring her. No, no! This could not be happening. Not now, when he had finally found her…
"Yrith!"
She could not hear him anymore. He wanted to touch her, but his touch seemed to bring her even more pain. Singird found himself crying. The tears stung and burned on his face, but this excuse for pain could not compare to her torment. He was so powerless, and everything he tried to do only made things worse.
Frantically, he looked around. Everyone else seemed to be fighting the same battle as him. Wearing the same, desperate face. Why? Why? Why?!
Why did it always have to be her?
A shower of piercing snow, or whatever it was that came at him, hit him. He shrieked and covered his face. Several people screamed. He tasted blood on his lips as he bit into them. And then, despite everything, Yrith had somehow managed to raise a ward to protect them. A magnificent sphere, worthy of an Arch-Mage. But as she held it up, it flickered and quivered. It would not last too long. He raised his hands, ready to cast his own ward, weak and only able to protect them from one side. But as his fingertips flared in blue, a new wave hit his senses. No… it hit his mind directly. Yrith… this was her magic. With it came more. Pain beyond anything he had ever felt, shredding his flesh and burning him to ashes. Visions of… everything. Mountains, trees, snow, people… the inside of them too. Their minds. Their pains, joys, memories… information flooded him as though all of Mundus suddenly entered his mind. Unbearable, crushing…
He yelled and yelled. He could not focus on a single thing. His head hurt so much it could split any moment. And still… he felt her above all else. She was on fire. White, blinding fire, ice-cold, yet scorching. There was numb pain spreading in her leg, and he felt it in his own, suddenly weak and barely able to keep balance. And her skin… her skin…
No, no, no! She must have had a reason to do this. This was not something that would happen on its own. She had raised a ward. And now…
The ward. It was stronger now, he noticed. The gale was outside, not hitting her anymore. Three other people supported it. And still, she must have felt too weak to go on. There had to be something he could do. Something. Anything.
This was her magic. There was so much of it, so easy to grab and simply manipulate. He did not have to think about not using too much. He took it in, then sent it out along with his own. It embraced Yrith gently, squeezing her in a warm, protective embrace. If only he could make the pain go away. If only he could pull her out, into safety. She was so fragile. But he could not let her go. And so he held onto her, becoming a pillar she could lean on, a cushion she could fall into.
And then, she fell, her magic finally dying out.
At the same moment, a deafening shout shook the land and resonated in his bones. The Dragonborn stood beside him with his legs spread, panting as a wave of untamed magic left his lips. The ward disintegrated and so did the storm. The air cleared. The sudden quiet drummed in Singird's ears.
He stood there, trying to catch his breath. The moment he did, he dove down to Yrith, raising her head into his lap, embracing her with his arms. Her chest rose and sank, but her breath was shallow, accompanied with the faintest wheeze. She was motionless, not even shaking, the few spots of skin that did not bear the bloody wounds ashen gray.
"Yrith, please," he whispered into her raven hair, his fingers clutching her arms. "Please…"
Someone else had kneeled next to him. Cain Aldaryn. Leyna Travi. Even Qassir Tahlrah. They all watched in still, wordless terror. Only the Dragonborn and Kharjo the Khajiit were still standing, preoccupied by their own matters.
"Damn," Singird could hear the lizard utter above himself. "This is… no way. That's Anga's Mill down there, so we're in… Eastmarch?"
There was a moment of quiet. Singird stroked Yrith's hair gently, his fingers running through the strands. Then, the Dragonborn's words sank in. Eastmarch… the home of Ulfric Stormcloak. And, of course, his generals. That would mean… no, impossible.
He lifted his gaze, staring at the Dragonborn in disbelief.
"Eastmarch? No, how could we…?"
"That over there is the lift that's exactly between Irkngthand and Raldbfar and that bridge is the first one on the road to Windhelm, so right now…"
Singird slid Yrith gently into his arms, standing despite the sudden rush of exhaustion.
"So instead of going up, we were going down all along? This is bad news. We need to get out this instant."
"It is bad news for sure, but what's on your mind, Master Larkwing?"
Instinctively, Singird pressed Yrith closer to his body. Not again. He would not let it happen.
"General Toddvar is," he uttered gravely. "He is most likely the one in command of the Fake Imperial Army."
The lizard gave Singird a look that would make a dragon crawl away. Singird shuddered.
"Then we are in some serious trouble," the Dragonborn said.
A/N: Happy New Year!
I wanted to post this chapter on New Year's Eve, but it needed some polishing and improvements. At last, this chapter is edited by courtesy of RealityItch who is, aside from being an amazing writer, the best damn beta in the land! Here is my thanks to her and I hope you guys enjoy.
Mirwen
