Chapter 12: A Bridge Between Foes

Tristan witnessed all of it.

Having been kicked out of High Hrothgar so quickly was unexpected, but, he realised, deserved. Regardless of that, having to go down the mountain within the same hour he'd just came up it was something that Tristan didn't think of in a positive light.

He had only made it to the foot of the mountain when he saw the second assassin on horseback, and the sight inspired some form of fear.

Reinforcements, he thought. I'm dead.

If there was one thing the Dark Brotherhood could be commended on it was their tenacity, he supposed.

But when the second assassin began attacking the first that fear was replaced by surprise, and then confusion. Is this what happened to assassins who failed their contracts? They send out other assassins to kill those assassins?

Tristan crept closer as they fought, hoping that him still being alive wasn't the reason for this dispute. At last, the first assassin was on the ground, and Tristan knew from the blood that was slowly pooling around her that she was on her last legs. The second assassin, now unhorsed, went to deliver the final blow, but with what had to be her last reserves of energy the first assassin tripped her hunter and rammed the head of an arrow into her throat.

Tristan cringed. Brutal.

She then rolled away, still looking to be in ample amounts of pain, and tried to make for her bag. The guards had approached the scene, and – as Nords were – not so quick to put two and two together.

Tristan abandoned his attempts at stealth and walked to where the first assassin was lying on the ground, grunting heavily as she fought to stay conscious as she pulled a vial from her bag and fumbled with the cork.

"Why'd you kill her?" Tristan asked, gesturing with a nod to the other assassin. "Aren't you two on the same side?"

She got the cork off and drank the contents greedily.

"If we were, she wouldn't have shot me," she snarled at him.

Tristan conceded the point.

She dug in her bag for something else, and was quick to draw a health potion. Divines knew she needed it. She uncorked it and began to drink, and Tristan watched absently, mulling over her words.

The guards began to make a ruckus, and they started to approach the pair. Tristan took a small step back to indicate he'd had nothing to do with what had happened. The assassin – on the other hand – panicked, and instinctively got up to run. Tristan almost laughed at her effort.

She took her bag, took three steps, and collapsed to the ground.


Half the day passed, and it was half a day that Tristan spent sitting in a tavern room sitting patiently on a chair, meditating on ways he could increase how much magicka he could use before fatigue would kick in. More often than not the answers lay within the spiritual plane. Not the spiritual plane of the religious nature, but of focusing and trying to feel the magic inside all things, and following that back all the way to Magnus, one of the Original Spirits and god of magic. Another method was traversing the planes of Oblivion. Being able to phase consciousness in and out of Oblivion was a trait possessed by some mages in Tamriel, but few knew how to do it, and those who could generally benefitted from it.

The room he was in was mediocre, even by small tavern standards. Skyrim was known for its warm and welcoming inns – such was the atmosphere outside the door – but in this room all of that vanished. The wood was rotting, and there was a dank smell of mould. Scattered around the room was furniture of equal mediocrity, and the walls had no windows to let in the light of the moon.

The chair Tristan sat on was blocking the door, stopping anyone from entering or leaving. The assassin was lying on the bed in her undergarments, still unconscious. He'd relieved her of her weapons and had laid them out on a table that occupied some space near him. Her uniform was hanging from a nail on the far wall. It had been washed in the river that flowed near Ivarstead., and so no longer smelled or looked like it was covered in blood and grime.

The time that passed between Tristan taking her here and him sitting on the chair seemed long, but meditation had kept his mind busy. However when she finally stirred, he would be lying to say he was disappointed.

He heard the sheets move slightly, and in an instant he had escaped from the pool of the arcane that he'd been searching for, back to reality. He watched carefully as the assassin stirred and then finally opened her eyes, and he registered that whatever those eyes expected to see when they woke was different to the situation as it was.

He let her get her bearings. She seemed surprised at first, but as he expected she was quick to employ her skills and scope out the room. She didn't appear bothered that she no longer wore her armour (she may have been good at hiding it), or perhaps the fact that all of her belongings were visible in the room eased her mind somewhat. Finally her eyes rested on him, and her brow furrowed somewhat, her lips dropping into what could have been a frown. The reaction was expected – he didn't particularly think too kindly of her either.

She watched him carefully, trying to pick up any sense of hostility, any sign that he was going to attack her. Tristan remained still and lax in his chair, watching her with equal measure. She must have figured that if he was to kill her he would have done it already, and Tristan noticed that her muscles relaxed somewhat – still ready to run if need be but not ready for a counterattack.

She stretched her injured arm and her hand went to where she'd been struck by the arrow. She inspected the pale scar that was still there, but it largely looked to be in working condition. Tristan internally smiled at his handiwork.

"I healed it," he said, breaking the strained silence that was present in the room. "Your potion had done enough to staunch the flow of blood and cover the wound, but for a fuller recovery it needed a purer form of healing magic."

She looked at him inquisitively, untrusting, but didn't open her mouth to speak the question that Tristan could see in her eyes.

"What's your name?" Tristan asked, changing position and leaning forward on his knees.

The assassin offered him a deadpan look, continuing her silence.

Tristan sighed. "Look, I can make this whole thing go by by calling you 'assassin', 'murderer', 'monster' or even 'cold-blood', but I would much rather call you by your name," he said. "So… what is it?"

She looked at him evenly for the best part of a minute, studying him more intensely than she had beforehand.

"Ria," she said at last.

Tristan smiled slightly. "Ok, Ria. Now, let's talk."

"Why aren't I in prison?" Ria asked quickly, taking Tristan by surprise. He knew she'd ask the question, but he had hoped to ask some of his own first. He definitely didn't expect her to be so forward about it.

"The Bretons have built their kingdoms on diplomacy," Tristan said, his own part well rehearsed. "I talked the guards out of arresting you."

"Why?"

"I needed to talk to you, and I didn't want to do it in a space full of guards and bars in between us."

She nodded slowly, understanding.

"So how are you feeling?"

"Pleasantries? Really?" Ria snapped.

Tristan shrugged. "It's easier to talk on even ground."

"And how even is this?" She questioned. "I'm in a bed, as unprotected as I could be, my weapons and my armour all the way over there, whereas you can summon your own weapons out of Oblivion!"

"A fair argument, I admit, but I still distinctly remember you trying to kill me in Whiterun."

"It was just business."

"But it's still a contract that has remained unfulfilled. The Dark Brotherhood are known for never letting contracts slip out of their fingers, so I'm not taking any chances."

"But –"

"You're still a Dark Brotherhood assassin, are you not?"

"I – " she hesitated, conflicted on what she was about to say. "I don't know…" She finished softly.

Tristan let the silence hang. He knew most people would feel uncomfortable with silence, and try to break it. He remembered his parents using silence to get him to admit to something he'd done wrong. Maybe she was like most people, or maybe she just wanted to get on with it.

"What do you want?" She asked, looking at him with fire burning in her eyes.

Strong-willed, Tristan noted. A dangerous trait.

"Like I said, I just want to chat. Would I be right in thinking the Dark Brotherhood have eyes and ears everywhere?"

"Maybe," Ria responded.

Stubborn, too. This just keeps getting better.

"Ok, well, tell me if you know anything about Imperial occupation of Skyrim."

The look on Ria's face told Tristan that she had no idea what he was talking about.

"Underground operations? Hidden society?" Tristan tried. "Nothing?" He sighed in frustration, leaning back into his chair. He closed his eyes to think.

"Why do you need to know?" Ria asked after some time.

"I need an army that can help me win a war," Tristan said absently. "The Nords are fierce, courageous, strong, but they can't beat the demons on their own."

"The demons…" Ria mumbled.

"The ones that appeared in Whiterun."

"I know. You plan to lead a war against them?"

"Not lead. I plan to fight against them."

"It'll be your death."

"I would rather die knowing that I tried to save the world that I lived in."

Ria said nothing. For the briefest of moments Tristan had forgotten who it was he was talking to, it was why he'd talked so freely. But he couldn't shake the feeling that maybe, just maybe, for but a second, the two seemed to share a common goal. The feeling was gone as quickly as it had arrived.

This woman tried to kill you Tristan. Don't be lenient.

"Do you know anything about the Imperials?" Tristan asked again.

"How do I know you won't kill me once I've told you?" Ria countered, defensive but not entirely believing of the notion.

Tristan spread his arms out helplessly. "You don't," he said. "But if I did, would you rather die by my hand, or someone else's? Would you rather die by the hand of a demon?" He stood and collected Ria's belongings; armour, weapons, provisions, and placed them at the foot of the bed, within her reach. He went back to the chair, trying to decide whether he'd done the right thing or not by giving her back the things she could use to kill him.

Too late to back out now.

"A show of faith," he said, gesturing to the items. He sat back down.

He knew Ria would only trust him less now that he'd willingly given her back her stuff. If she was a suspicious as he thought, she probably expected the armour to be laced with acid or something. Regardless, he tried to keep his stance and expression neutral.

Ria sighed. "I don't know anything about the Imperials, or what they might be doing in Skyrim," she admitted.

Tristan deflated. As unlikely as it was, he had hoped that maybe she knew something.

"I do know about the creatures though," she said.

Tristan perked up, but said nothing, instead letting her continue at her own pace.

"I know what they're capable of," she said slowly. "I know you can't beat them."

"But I think I can," Tristan interjected.

The assassin let out a bark of laughter. "You're fooling yourself, Dorrien."

Tristan paid her no mind. "I have a theory," he said carefully. "It has worked in the past, but I don't know if I'm right. I don't know if I'm keen to find out… But I'll have to try. If there's one thing I know about those things, it's that they won't come peacefully. If I don't try they'll wade through the blood of Tamriel," he added.

Another silence filled the room. The statement was a dark one, and it was heavy with truth. Both Ria and Tristan were tired and Ria – Tristan knew – was still injured, despite the healing he'd given her.

He sighed in defeat and stood, replacing the chair where it had been before he'd taken it.

"I'll leave you to it," he said quietly, and he exited the room.


He sat in the main room of the inn, his back to the fire, a flagon of ale in his hands. The change from the room was drastic. It was almost hard to believe that they occupied the same space.

He waited for some time, not watching the door but listening for when Ria planned to take that first step and be on her way. Perhaps half an hour passed before she did so, and it was the creaking door that alerted him to her presence.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see she had collected all of her things, and was hiding her assassin's outfit under a cloak.

The atmosphere of the inn was subdued. Everyone's eyes rested on her. How could they not? She'd killed a Dark Elf in the middle of their town.

Ria didn't look like the planned to hang around, and began pacing towards the door that would lead back out into the wilderness.

She stopped in front of Tristan.

"Why let me go?" She asked.

Tristan took a sip of his ale and sighed. "I guess we'll see."

She recognized that was all she'd get out of him, and with it she left.

Tristan estimated the time and made a mental note. He'd make to follow her at about midday tomorrow, perhaps then he could get some proper answers. Their short conversation hadn't much changed his opinion of the woman, but he recognized when he could benefit from keeping someone alive. He wasn't too worried about losing her, either. It didn't matter how far she got, he'd always know what track to follow. The Trace he'd cast on her ensured that.


Midday came slowly. Tristan had too much on his mind, and as such his sleep was restless. He was awake long before the sun was rising, so to keep busy he decided to do everything that there was to do in Ivarstead… twice.

Ivarstead was a small town, so that didn't take as much time as he had originally hoped. He spent his mid-morning writing a letter for the Commander who he hoped was still at Windhelm, and strapped the letter to Ahnwynn's saddle before he uttered a command and sent her off to deliver it. She was a strong horse, and he wished to see her again, but for this mission he didn't require her.

He packed what he could carry, choosing only to travel light, and by the time midday rolled around he was on the road, following the faint tugging sensation that would eventually lead him to Ria. From what he could feel, Ria was about a day ahead of him. He expected no less from the assassin. She could make ground faster than he.

Tristan followed the trail absentmindedly, thinking about the events that had transpired within the last day that had passed. Even though the assassin claimed to no longer be on the side of the Dark Brotherhood, he had no reason to believe her, as she had no evidence to prove it – other than the arrow-shaped scar in her shoulder. This led him to something that had been weighing on him for some time.

"Why aren't I in prison?"

"I talked the guards out of arresting you."

While the statement was true, the reason he offered for it was not as much of the truth as he would care to admit. In reality, he had told the Ivarstead guards that if he tracked her he could lead them to the Dark Brotherhood's base of operations, and once the base had been purged Skyrim would be free of the sect that had killed the Emperor. He must have told it very convincingly, because they believed him. And no matter how long it took, he would find a way to make good on that deal.

After our current crisis is put to bed, Tristan thought, trying to cheer himself up with some pointless humour. He smiled weakly and continued along the road, following the Trace for hours, and then days. Never losing a sense of where Ria was, but never gaining ground on her either.


"We've been sent to take you down. No one crosses Maven Black-Briar and lives."

Tristan had encountered the mercenaries near Fort Sungard. They were large and muscled, with menacing tattoos and dense steel armour and weapons. There were three of them, and they were definitely dangerous. When he came across them three thoughts had entered his mind. The first thought was something to the effect of: how in Oblivion's name did they find me out here? The second being: Maven is really persistent. The third: the Dark Brotherhood must be in her bad-books if she's sending these guys.

They crossed him nearing the end of his second day of travel. Without a herd of refugees to care for, he made pretty good headway on his mission of following Ria. He'd noticed that the Trace was leading him around the south side of the Throat of the World and through Falkreath Hold. It was a difficult route, but Tristan had enough of an intuition to tell that she was avoiding the demon-infested Whiterun.

Tristan wasn't concerned about the mercenaries – a single Dark Brotherhood assassin was worth about a dozen of them – but they still had an advantage in numbers, and Tristan really wasn't in the mood for a fight.

"C'mon gents," he beamed, spreading his arms wide. "Do we really have to do this here? I'll tell you what, whatever Maven paid you I'll pay double and you just turn around a leave, eh? How about it?"

The first mercenary – a Nord with short-cropped dark hair - scoffed. "We're not like you, mate. We're not ones to cross Maven Black-Briar." He hefted his battleaxe from his back and readied it. His buddies – a burly Orc and a lean Bosmer – did the same with their weapons, the Orc also wielding a battleaxe but the Bosmer dual-wielding war axes.

"It's nothing personal," the Orc said, stepping forward. "Just business."

Tristan inwardly rolled his eyes at the statement. He took a step back and held his hands up in surrender.

"Now men, I've been on the road for some time and there are three of you. This is hardly a fair fight," he said sternly.

"We don't play fair," the Nord grinned wolfishly.

The Bosmer cackled.

"Oh," Tristan said, taking a fighting stance. "Ok, I'll use both of my arms then."

And just like that the Bosmer and the Nord charged, the Orc having fallen to the ground dead with a Bound Dagger buried to the hilt in his face.

I'm getting really good at that, Tristan thought absently, casting his Bound Sword and readying a Healing spell.

The Nord was easy to dispatch. He had size and strength to boot, but he was clumsy with his battleaxe. After one swing it got stuck in the dirt and quick as lightning Tristan slashed his blade across the mercenaries throat. He fell onto his own battleaxe and started bleeding onto the dirt, the surrounding grass greedily soaking up the drink.

The Bosmer was a lot harder to handle. He was thin and fast, and darted about Tristan as if he were a predator playing a game with his prey. The death of his comrades seemed to phase him very little (if he were like any other mercenary he probably didn't like either of them anyway). All he was concerned with was killing Tristan, collecting the reward, and having fun doing it.

As the wood elf danced about he would occasionally dart inwards for a quick strike, most of which Tristan had trouble blocking. This went on for some time, and after a while Tristan started sporting knicks and scratches from where the Bosmer had managed to find skin with his weapons. Tristan needed a different strategy.

"Enough!" He shouted, dispelling his sword.

The Bosmer – surprisingly – stopped, only to look confused.

Tristan stood front on and gestured for the wood elf to continue.

The Bosmer cackled and lunged, two war axes coming in from both sides. Tristan summoned two Wards in each hand and deflected the blows. His enemy overbalanced, and Tristan saw his chance and sent a swift kick to his crotch. The Bosmer stood motionless for a moment, before tears sprang to his eyes and he doubled over in pain, panting heavily and holding his aching jewels.

"That wasn't nice, I apologise," Tristan said, kneeling down to look the wood elf in the eyes. "Now you tell Maven to pull her silver spoon out of her ass, and come face me herself like a true leader."

He stood and turned, taking a second to feel out the Trace before following the same path he was on. Letting the Bosmer live was probably a decision Tristan would come to regret, but if it got Maven the tiniest bit angry he figured it was worth it.


A few hours passed before Tristan noticed that the tugging feeling he was getting from the Trace was growing stronger, and that only meant one thing.

She's stopped.

The revelation only contributed to his efforts, and within another day of travel he arrived in Rorikstead, the pulling of the Trace making strong butterflies in his gut. When he arrived it was approaching on night, the sun a long way through its venture towards the horizon. In the distance Tristan could see the peak of Dragonsreach, and the sight of it made him shiver involuntarily. He turned his gaze away and steeled his mind, intent on his mission.

It was a moment of surprise for Tristan when the Trace drew him to the local inn. In all honesty he hadn't expected a Dark Brotherhood base to be located in this area at all, but then they were crafty enough to know people wouldn't anticipate one.

Or Ria was telling the truth, Tristan thought, nudging the door open and being welcomed by the soft buzz of the inn and the warm glow of the fire.

He spotted the cloaked assassin sitting in corner with her feet up on a chair. The corner itself was in shadow, and the colours of her gear only let her further blend in. She was easy to miss, but only if you weren't looking for her.

She made no move at all when Tristan took the seat next to her. The two sat in tense silence for some time before she spoke.

"It's hardly a surprise to see you here," she said evenly. "I knew you'd be following me."

"I figured as much," Tristan responded.

"So what's your plan now?"

"The same as it was before. This just took me somewhat out of my way."

Ria chuckled. Whether it was of humour or mocking Tristan was unsure, but it was a chuckle.

The door to the inn opened, and the silhouette of a man stepped in. The man himself held an air of authority about him, and filled the room with a cold inferiority. He liked to be in charge, Tristan could tell. He was balding and wore brown and red leathers that resembled Cyrodiilic garments, but were more tailored for combat than warmth. He scanned the room slowly before his eyes fell on Tristan and Ria.

Tristan made to stand up but Ria's hand darted out and grabbed his arm, a gesture to tell him to stay sitting. Tristan reluctantly complied, his fingers preparing their magical dance if things went awry. He felt rather than saw Ria's hands go to her daggers.

The man approached them slowly, but said nothing. When he was standing in front of them he rummaged around in his pockets and produced a piece of parchment which he dropped at their feet before turning and leaving, disappearing back into the world.

Tristan let out the breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding, and reached down to collect the parchment.

"What was that all about?" Ria voiced the thought that was in his head.

"I've no idea," Tristan said, looking at what the man had dropped.

"Well?" Ria asked after Tristan had been quiet for some time. "Are you going to share?"

Tristan glanced at Ria and showed her the parchment.

On it was drawn the insignia of the Empire, below that, a picture of a bridge.