Chapter 11: Hunters and Hunted

Ria had never ran so much in her life.

She had forgotten just how much distance separated the Valtheim Towers and Ivarstead- and how much distance separates Ivarstead from High Hrothgar. She walked when her lungs would no longer allow for anything faster, but for the most part, she jogged along the rode, often for miles at a time. She didn't have to pretend to be pitiful and half-dead when she finally made it to the door of the fort-like monastery.

She must have looked quite the sight, drops of sweat frozen on her face, shivering incessantly, covered in blood from the frost troll that she had been unable to sneak past like she had the wolves. She had abandoned her horse a few hours before dawn, arriving just after the following sunset, and the full day of constant movement had exhausted her more than she knew she could be; it was a wonder that she had had the strength left to push the massive door open.

The monks could see plainly that she was in no shape to be turned out into the cold again, even with her Brotherhood leathers still plain to see- she'd been too tired to think to change before she climbed the mountain. She wasn't really sure which came first, getting to the Greybeard's bed or unconsciousness, but either way, that was where she was when she woke up.

One of the soft-spoken men was at her bedside when she sat up, momentarily disoriented by the room. His beard- the only hair she could see- was a stark white, and looking at the wrinkled expanse of his face, she wouldn't even begin to try and guess his age. Cicero was old enough to be her grandfather; this man had to be old enough to be his father. Still, his eyes were clear and sharp, younger than the rest of him by far.

"I know you have only just woken, child, and I don't mean to be insensitive." He said gently. "But I must ask why one of your order has come to these halls."

The man's eyes flickered to her assassin's leathers, the tell-tale red and black, caution mixing with a number of other things.

All the way up the mountain, Ria had distracted herself with how she would answer that exact question, rehearsed the words that would give the impression of a lost soul looking for meditation and enlightenment. Now, though, she was weak and barely awake and so tired, and what came out of her mouth was the partial truth.

"Safety. Solitude. Whatever you want to call it." Ria shut her eyes, thinking that she needed to find another way of saying this that didn't make it sound like she was planning on hiding here, even though she was. "As long as I can be away from the world."

The monk said nothing, merely studied her, so she added, "I'll do whatever it takes to stay. Run errands, clean, anything that needs doing. As long as I don't have to go back out there."

"And what has driven you to such desperation, that you seek us out?"

Here she hesitated, but why lie? Real life had given her more than enough reason to want to get away from the rest of the world. So she explained her unease with her occupation and the demon armies that had destroyed Whiterun. She skirted around the encounter between Lucian and the Conduit, and the one between Lucian and herself; letting on that the Brotherhood might have reason to hunt her would not be a point in her favor.

When further prompted, she told him in detail of the little boy in Riverwood, and the nightmares in the days since then.

He didn't push her after that.

When she was done talking, he regarded her for a long moment, searching her face for honesty. The Greybeard didn't know what or how much to believe, though he seemed unsurprised by her words, even the part about the Void-creatures; as his expression didn't change much throughout her tale, she took that to mean that he just reacted stoically to any new information.

His distrust didn't surprise her. How many people would trust a cutthroat, after all? The old man looked down, perhaps thinking or searching his memory, before meeting her eyes again.

"Many years ago, another with blood on his hands came to these halls, and became a great man. I will allow you to stay." Relief flooded the assassin, some of the tension uncoiling from her stomach. "But I implore you to remember that this is a place of peace. If you bring violence to these halls, you will be ejected. There is no possibility for leniency in that."

The monk's eyes hardened with determination with his last sentence, but it had little effect on Ria. If the Brotherhood found her, being kicked out would be the least of her problems, so she didn't worry too much about his rule.

The next of the day came and went in a relative peace, something she was unused to after the controlled chaos of Dragonsreach's halls. She had no clothes that would keep her warmer than her armor did, and being this high up there was a constant chill to the air, even inside, so she was given an oversized grey robe she could through over her

Brotherhood leathers. If she stayed here much longer, she noted, she would need to get some winter clothes from somewhere.

The next morning, she was feeling stronger, a day of relative rest having done wonders for her aching body. She rearranged her bag and set it by the door, immediately to the right of the giant oak entryway where it was unlikely to be noticed, but easy to grab on her way out; if the other assassins found her here, she didn't want to be scrambling away from the exit to grab her essentials.

After that, she hid herself away, reading and exploring, until hunger drove her to the main hall to inquire after lunch. She wasn't far from rounding the corner when she heard voices, raised in argument.

Well, one of them was arguing, anyway. The sound was muffled by the stone in between them, but someone was speaking in a volume close to yelling. Arngeir, the monk who had spoke to her after she awoke, said something in reply; the soft-spoken man was close as she knew he could get to shouting, mild anger tightening his voice. She quickened her pace, curious and annoyed about whoever this stranger was.

She really should have been used to the shock by this point.

Tristan froze when he saw her, apparently as unused to the shock as she was. But then his expression changed.

Once, while hunting with her father, Ria had seen a group of young wolves come upon a fox, which they cornered against the steep stone slopes surrounding Whiterun's plains.

The smaller canine was snarling and snapping before the pack was even truly upon it, teeth and claws flashing the first chance it got.

Dorrien was the fox in this situation. He went from surprised to angry while Ria was still trying to figure out why in Oblivion he was alive. She saw his hand come up, and, remembering his preference for bound weapons, ducked under the ethereal knife hurled at her head. Her hands went to her daggers out of reflex, drawing them to block the Breton's overhead swing of a summoned sword.

She ducked and dodged and blocked, noting Dorrien's improvement from last time. He must have healed more in the days since Whiterun; he was faster and stronger, less hindered by the wound she had glimpsed while in the bowels of Solitude. A few more days of good health and a few more hours with that sword, and Ria would find her equal- or her death.

Despite the Breton's obvious intent, Ria's wasn't trying to kill him, only trying to stay alive. Logic and fear were screaming in the back of her head, Arngeir's warning about violence occupying her mind. Her chances of remaining at High Hrothgar dwindled every time the Oblivion sword clanged against the Blade of Woe and her bone-handle knife, and would take a nose-dive if she drew the Breton's blood. But neither words nor retaliation slowed Tristan long enough to make a ploy for reason.

Who knew people take their attempted murders so personally? Ria thought wryly.

"Enough!" Arngeir's voice held the power of a Shout in it, shaking the walls and freezing Dorrien in his place, the Breton's weapon dissipating with his anger. The monk was fuming, rage etched across his face and body language, and he glared at her when she didn't put away her weapons. She didn't plan to- Dorrien could obviously summon his blades faster than she could draw hers- but she caved under the old man's gaze, sheathing the daggers and watching the Breton out of the corner of her eye.

"How dare you." Arngeir growled lowly. "How dare you come to this place of peace and bring with you hatred and violence! I refuse to play host to your tainted souls. You both must leave."

Fear surged through Ria, and Arngeir gave her a look of equal parts disappointment and anger. I warned you, it seemed to say.

Neither of them moved for a heartbeat, and at the end of it Ria opened her mouth- to speak in defense of her actions, to swallow her pride and beg forgiveness- but the Greybeard was having none of it. He'd taken a chance and harbored and assassin, and it had nearly brought bloodshed to the monastery for the first time in centuries.

"Now!" he snapped at her before she had the chance to say a word. Her mouth clamped shut, a muscle working her jaw as she tried to contain her emotions.

Ria's eyes flickered to Dorrien, her mind a whirlwind of thought. After a grand total of not even two days, she was on the run again, and all because of the Breton standing next to her.

She shouldered past him and stalked to the door, swinging her bag onto her shoulder and stepping out into the frigid cold of the mountain. She took a deep breath, and began to run. She needed to put as much distance as possible between her and Dorrien, in case he wanted to continue their bout out of the Greybeard's supervision.

She thought as she ran, noting that it was much easier going down the mountain than it was coming up. She had to find somewhere else to lay low. Morthal and Winterhold were both low-population, isolated cities, but Ria hated the swamp and couldn't stand the cold.

She'd settled on a smaller town by the time she reached Ivarstead, perhaps Rorikstead or Shor's Stone. She slowed to a walk as she crossed the wooden bridge, breathing heavily as she trudged down the road towards Vilemyr Inn. She would need supplies to make the journey, and the inn was the closest thing to a trading post that this little town had.

Ria was only feet away from said inn when something down the road caught her eye. A figure on a dark horse was riding into the town opposite her, the wind catching the cloak and blowing it to the side enough to reveal the red-and-black armor of one shin and thigh. Ria froze when she saw it, but the horse's master had the opposite reaction; as soon as the other killer spotted Ria, she- the figure was to slender to be one of the boys, unless it was Cirion- kicked her mount into a gallop, shooting down the street towards the Imperial.

Ria drew her daggers, legs braced to dodge. She couldn't outrun a mounted member of her guild, but she might be able to fight. Whether or not she could actually kill one of her old friends, on the other hand, was yet to be seen. For the briefest second, she was thankful it wasn't Cicero or Lucian who had come after her; she knew without being put in that situation that she could never drive a dagger through the heart of her friend or her mentor-and-almost-uncle.

The mounted assassin drew a bow as she thundered down the road, and Ria knew, immediately and with certainty, who it was. She recognized the bow, and as horse and rider grew nearer it was a suspicion confirmed as she saw the red eyes of a Dunmer gazing out from under the hood.

Then Seba was upon her, almost plowing her over as the Dunmer notched an arrow and fired. Ria stepped to the left, so close to being run over that the horse's hoof almost trampled her foot. She slashed out with her knife as beast and elf blew past, cutting one of the saddle-straps. When the Dark Elf yanked the reins hard to the left, turning sharply back for another pass, the saddle shifted to the side under her weight, flinging her to the ground with surprising force. The horse started at something being by it's feet, and danced away.

Seba pushed herself to a knee and notched another arrow, her bow having stayed in her grasp despite the bruising and harsh fall. She drew and fired mere seconds after hitting the ground.

Ria threw herself forward and down, tucking-and-rolling as the arrow flew threw the air mere feet over her head. She was up and running as soon as her feet came back to the ground, charging towards Seba in an attempt to reach her before she could fire again.

The half-Imperial underestimated her attacker; the Dunmer stood and reloaded again in one fluid motion, and Ria was barely three feet away when the bowstring twanged for the last time. The action was so quick that Ria barely had the time to try and avoid it, and she darted to the right. The arrow slammed into her left shoulder, punching through her leather armor with ease at this distance, the force of the impact at such close range throwing her backward onto the ground.

Pain exploded across the left side of Ria's body at the same time the wind was knocked from her lungs, leaving her gasping and unable to think. The Blade of Woe was dropped involuntarily as her right hand went to the wound. The other assassin strolled forward, and she scrambled back without conscious thought, trying to put distance between them.
Ria tried to focus; this was life-and-death, and adrenaline should have helped mask the pain enough for her to react. Instead, a fog seemed to hang over her mind, making the act of forming any sort of idea nigh on impossible.

Poison. She thought dimly. I've been poisoned.

As soon as the thought crossed her mind, she dropped her remaining knife and awkwardly wrestled her backpack off her shoulders, desperation making the agony it caused trivial. She had a general poison cure in her bag- she almost always traveled with one- and without it, she would succumb in minutes.

Ria was distantly aware of Seba staring down at her, lips curled back in disdain, and the Dunmer reached down with her free hand and yanked the bag away, flinging it aside. The half-imperial snatched her bone-handle dagger from where she had dropped it at her side, slashing weakly upward, but it went flying from her grasp as Seba kicked her wrist mid-swing.

Somewhere nearby, people were running and screaming for the guards, and the sound was more distracting than it should have been. Ria's thoughts were slowing to a crawl, unable to keep up with everything going on.

Seba still had her bow in hand, and she deliberately took another arrow from her quiver and touched the notch to the string, the projectile's tip so unavoidably close. There was no way, at point-blank range and with the poison clouding Ria's mind, that the next shot wouldn't kill her.

"I told Alistair not to let you two in." The Dunmer growled.

Ria's mind caught only on the name. Alistair? She pictured the late Imperial, pinkish-red burn scars marring the unusually sharp planes of his face. What's Alistair have to do with anything? He's been dead for six years.

Seba, however, was still talking, and the half-Imperial summoned her willpower to ignore the distracting sound. I need a weapon, she thought dimly, but her daggers were both far out of reach.

"-unfaithful petty cutthroats, but did he listen to me? No. And Lucian's not much better. I told him not to make you Speaker-"

Lucian. Did he order this? The unneeded thought caused something to twist painfully in her chest. Would he really put out a kill order?

No, he couldn't have. Anything they'd felt for each other, platonic or otherwise, wouldn't just disappear overnight. He wouldn't want her dead, at least not this soon after her leaving. No, it was more plausible that Seba's mission was to bring her back alive. A fatal assault must have been the Dark Elf's doing; it was just Ria's luck to run into the one Family member who'd always preferred to see her and Jared out of the Brotherhood.

"-should've known you'd stick a knife in his back as soon as things got tough-"

Knife in his back. The phrase bounced off her brain, dragging an idea up with it. It wasn't a knife, and it wasn't in her back, but she did have one unconventional weapon available to her.

Ria awkwardly propped herself up on her elbows, gasping at the pain. She had to ignore it; she would only get seconds, and the poison was slowing her down on it's own. She held her plan in her mind, visualizing it, not letting it slip away.

"What, do you have some last words you'd like me to pass on?" Seba huffed sarcastically at the movement, obviously annoyed at being interrupted during her rant.

"Yeah." Ria said, her voice so hoarse and weak she could barely recognize it. She took a breath, marshalling her strength, and in one motion she lifted herself up farther and kicked out. Her foot hooked around Seba's leg, just below the knee, buckling it at the same time it swept the leg from under her. The Dunmer went down, her back colliding with the ground with a hollow thumff, her bow awkwardly pinned under her. In an instant, Ria pushed herself to her knees, wrapped her hand around the shaft of the arrow still stuck in her shoulder, and yanked it out. Agony flashed white-hot through her body, but she lunged forward, flipping the arrow around and driving it through Seba's neck. "You talk too much."

The slight cloud of dust kicked up by Seba's fall hadn't yet settled when the Dunmer's eyes went wide, blood spurting from around the arrow and pooling around her. She made a sickening strangled sound, and Ria couldn't decide if it was closer to the sound of a person who was choking or drowning.

The half-Imperial pushed herself to her feet and lurched away, her vision blurring as her head swam. Darkness was starting to descend on her mind; her rapid movements, combined with the poison that made her limbs more leaden by the second, was taking too much of a toll on her body.

The guards had finally arrived, she noticed dimly. It took only glances for them to learn what happened- the dead Dark Elf and the growing bloodstain on Ria's grey cloak was proof enough. Half-blind, semi-conscious, and so dizzy and lightheaded she could barely stand, she reached her bag, and began to fumble with the buckles.

I just killed Seba. The thought ran over and over again in her mind, incomprehensible. She had never liked the Dunmer, but she had known her for a decade. Of all the Family, Seba was whose life mattered the least to her, but that didn't mean that she wanted her dead. Now she was, by Ria's own hands, and guilt and mild grief was building itself in her chest.

Ria sensed more than saw someone stop a few feet away from her. She ignored whoever it was; whatever they wanted could wait until her chances of survival went up.
Her hand finally closed around the small vial, and she drew it out, hands slipping on the cork. There was still blood coating her fingers, both her own and Seba's, and she was having trouble getting a good hold on it.

"Why'd you kill her?" A voice asked, nodding down the street. If Ria had had the energy, she would have jumped, both at the voice and the reminder, but as it was she barely flinched; Tristan Dorrien didn't top the list of her troubles at the moment. "Aren't you two on the same side?"

Ria's fingers found purchase, and she ripped the cork off, swallowing the bitter liquid in one gulp.

"If we were, she wouldn't have shot me." Ria snarled back once she could talk again. If we were, I wouldn't have killed her.

She noticed no immediate effect of the cure. Then again, by now the blood loss might be mimicking the dulling effects of the poison. A second later, though, the pain in her shoulder became sharper- not because it increased in quantity, but because she could simply perceive it better. It was the only indication that the elixir had worked.

She almost preferred the poison.

The blood still flowing from her shoulder was the danger now; she pressed her right palm to it, trying to staunch the flow. With her left, she dug through her bag, searching for the healing potion she was sure she had packed. She found it quicker than she had the first, tearing the cork off with her teeth now that she lacked the use of either hand.

As soon as she drank it, some of the fog lifted from her mind, and she noted the odd sensation of the wound closing over. It wasn't healed by any means, but it was no longer bleeding freely, and she would survive. All she needed now was time to rest and regain the strength she'd lost, and to allow the damaged shoulder to heal fully.

The guards, who had huddled around the body that had once been Seba, turned towards Ria. Instinctively, her first reaction was to run; her mind was not so clear that she saw the folly in that, only so much that she recognized the engraved logic in avoiding lawmen- especially after she'd just killed someone. She pushed herself, swaying, to her feet, brain already planning. She needed to grab her daggers, and jump on the black horse Seba had rode in on, and get far from here.

Ria grabbed her bag, took three steps, and promptly passed out.