Chapter 11: Shadows and Echoes

The look on Aventus' face when she told him he could order anything he liked for dinner nearly made up for the guilt lingering in the pit of her stomach. And when the innkeeper brought out a hearty beef stew, grilled potatoes, and an entire loaf of bread, still warm from the oven, she nearly forgot about the entire thing. She hadn't had a decent meal since leaving Riverwood, and she could only guess at how it'd been for Aventus. He'd slightly warmed to her, she'd noticed—but not by much. Maybe he'd finally forgiven her for dragging him all the way back to Riften, or maybe he was just in better spirits when he wasn't suffering the effects of malnutrition and exhaustion. Or, basic needs she was responsible for, to put it another way, and she forced down the pang that followed with another mouthful of bread.

But the effects of extensive hunger were not quite so willing to part ways, and they had barely made a dent the mountain of food before they had sagged back from the table, somehow already uncomfortably full. So she gratefully accept the innkeeper's offer to wrap up the remains, and they trudged up the stairs to the room that she'd rented even before ordering the food.

But as they stepped through the doorway of the room, her dark thoughts melted away entirely. After weeks of sleeping upright in chairs and on little rickety cots in seedy wayside inns, there it was—a real bed. Sheets! Pillows! Sh could have sobbed tears of pure joy as she gratefully flopped down on it, not even bothering to discard her boots or turn back the covers. The mattress was straw, thin and lumpy, but right then and there, it may as well have been the silken nest of feathers that made up Lady Adlen's bed.

She only meant to rest her eyes for a moment, but she must have fallen asleep, for when the rush of scaly wings sent her bolt upright in bed, soaked in sweat and gasping for breath, the room was dark. Aventus was asleep beneath a mound of blankets on the other side of the bed, his even breathing the only sound aside from the faint sounds of merriment wafting up between the floorboards. Her panic eased a little at that—the past weeks had been downright grueling, and it was a relief to see him able to actually rest for once. She was finally keeping her promise.

Prying off her boots, she settled back down, allowing her aching head to sink into the soft pillow. But try as she might, the rest she so desperately sought continued to evade her, and as she lay awake in the darkness, she slowly came to realize it was not a dragon chasing her sleep away—it was a Dunmer. The Dunmer from the marketplace. Brand-Shei.

Groaning, she sat back up, swinging her feet over the side of the bed and dropping her head into her hands. Guilt was a feeling she'd grown far too accustomed to over the last few months. Her brief lapse in judgment had affected so many: Aventus, Guinevere, Alvor and Sigrid, Susanna...and now Brand-Shei. She was suffocating under the weight of it, and beneath it all, she'd been quietly seething the entire time at the burning injustice of it all. This heavy, sick feeling in the pit of her stomach was new, though.

A quick glance over her shoulder confirmed that Aventus was still asleep. With any luck, he wouldn't awaken for several hours at least—and with everything he'd been through over the past several weeks, that seemed unlikely. Tugging her boots back on and slinging her cloak over her shoulders, she quietly stole out of the room and down through the inn's main room into the chilly autumn night.

Riften in the darkness was unsettling as ever, but somehow, it was no longer as frightening as it once had been. Its dangers seemed far less threatening now that she'd met them by the light of day—knew them by name, even. And seen them in the dusty mirror above the dresser in her rented room. Her heavy cloak blocked the night breeze, but she shivered just the same. Was she someone people should be afraid of?

She reached her destination swiftly enough, and as she climbed the steps to the Temple of Mara, she felt yet another pang of guilt. Religion was something she'd greatly neglected since leaving Battlehorn—and it would seem most of Riften's citizens did the same, given the temple's general state of disrepair. It was nothing like Battlehorn's pristinely-maintained little chapel, but despite the shabby exterior, the solemn peace as she crossed the threshold hit her with a burst of familiarity, and she found herself aching for home all over again. The statue of the Mother Goddess stood straight ahead at the front of the room, emanating a quiet glow of comfort, and Monica felt herself breath just a little easier. The main room seemed deserted as she drifted up the aisleway between the pews—for which she was eternally grateful. At the foot of the altar, she knelt, closing her eyes as she began to pray.

"O Mother, forgive me," she began, her words barely a whisper of a murmur. "I've hurt someone, someone who did me no wrong." The words were pouring out of her now, and in a haze of shame and tears, she found herself admitting all the agony that had plagued her since she set foot outside of Cyrodiil.

"I broke the law. I defied the Legion's orders and snuck across the border anyway. My cousin has suffered because I couldn't take care of him. And I tried to fix it, but then I stole, and I...I set a stranger up to take the fall for my crime."

Saying it out loud made is suddenly seem all too real, a fog of condemnation hanging heavy across her shoulders. "I should make it right," she continued. "I should go to the guards—tell them what I did and accept my fate." She had started crying again, the tears rolling down her face to drip onto the floorboards. "But if I do they'll send Aventus back to Honorhall. And I'm so afraid—afraid for him. There's darkness in him, and if that happens, I'm scared of what he might do." She shuddered, thinking of the grisly scene back in the Aretino home. "He's so angry, and I understand why, I really do, but he needs...guidance. He's lost so much, and I don't know how to help him but he needs me—and Mara, oh Mara, haven't I been punished enough?"

She lifted her gaze beseechingly, but the statue's face was blank, its mournful visage empty. Monica dropped her head again, absently tracing the burn scars through her sleeve as a fresh wave of tears rolled in. The Eight scorn the wicked, she could remember the priest back at Battlehorn always saying. Maybe it'd been a mistake to come here.

In the end, she rose and shuffled back out into the night, somehow feeling even worse than when she'd entered. She paused in the courtyard to scrub the last of the tears from her face. No matter what she did, she'd have to live with something horrible. Letting an innocent stranger rot in prison for her crime, or send Aventus back to Honorhall to be abused by that horrible headmistress—although he'd just escape again and get himself killed. Or even go so far as to harm the woman himself? She shuddered at the memory of the look in his dark eyes when she'd told the driver they were heading to Riften. There were times he seemed like a sweet, average kid, if not a little odd. And then...well, he had broken into the Hall of the Dead, after all, and he was so determined to see Grelod dead...

There was no way she could leave him to his own devices. It simply wasn't an option. But as she stood there in the temple courtyard, an idea began to take form. She couldn't tell anyone the truth—it would mean revealing herself, and she couldn't afford the risk. But if Brand-Shei were to do it himself...well, maybe there was a way to make things right after all.


Her feet were heavy as they carried her to the guardhouse, her heart thundering more furiously with each step. There was still a good chance that things could go horribly wrong, and the worst part was that she had no exit plan. Deep down, she knew she hadn't thought this through, and a voice in the back of her mind was screaming at her to turn and run. But she'd never handled guilt well, and the panic clouding her judgment far outweighed her common sense.

Inside, the guard barely glanced at her as she entered, and she stood fidgeting uncomfortably before him until he finally looked up. "What?"

She blinked, taken aback. "I'm, ah, here to see a prisoner," she began, but he cut her off before she could get any further.

"Name?"

"Name?" For a moment she froze, stumbling over her words. This she hadn't counted on. "It's—it's, err, S-susanna," she stuttered out feebly. She cringed, waiting for the guard to comment on her blunder, but his face remained blank as he leafed through a haphazard stack of parchments.

"There's no prisoner here by that name," he said finally.

"Oh!" She could feel the color flooding her face. Leave it to her to offer up unnecessary information at a time like this. "Brand-Shei," she corrected, more firmly this time. "I'm here to see Brand-Shei."

The guard huffed, rolling his eyes as he hauled himself to his feet. "Follow me, and don't touch anything," he ordered curtly before stalking out of the room. She hurried to catch up, following him through a twisting maze of hallways and down a set of stairs to a room where another guard sat with his feet propped up, clearly absorbed in the book he was reading. "Got a visitor for Brand-Shei," the first guard announced as he unlocked the door and led her through. The other absently nodded as they passed, and Monica cringed as they entered a hallway lined with cells, the torture room beneath Helgen suddenly flashing back to her.

"Brand-Shei!" She nearly jumped out of her skin as the guard let out a bellow, banging a fist against the cell door they'd stopped in front of. "You've got a visitor." He turned back to her. "He'll be watching," he said, jabbing a finger in the direction of the doorway, where the other guard still sat hunched over his book. "Don't try anything." And with that, he stalked back toward the stairs.

Monica turned back to the cell door, where a very disgruntled-look Brand-Shei stood glaring at her. "Do I know you?" he snapped. Her racing heart was already sending stabbing pains through her chest, but coming face-to-face with the very real consequences of her actions nearly sent her collapsing to the floor. Her words were failing, and she was struggling to think—even to breath.

"I was in the market today," she blurted out finally. "I...I saw what happened."

For a moment, the Dunmer merely stared at her, then let out a scoff. "And?" She could feel herself withering beneath his scowl, but she forced herself to continue.

"When you go before the Jarl," she said, fighting to keep her voice steady, "tell her Madesi has a friend in the guard."

Brand-Shei's scowl deepened. "What's that supposed to mean?" he asked slowly, and she took a deep breath.

"I think you might have been framed."

His face froze, and his eyes slowly widened. "Madesi was behind this?" He slowly inhaled, and somehow, he seemed even angrier than before. "How do you know about this? Who sent you?"

"No one!" she quickly protested, but he lunged forward, his hand shooting through the bars and locking around her wrist.

"Tell me what you know!" he barked.

"Let go!" she shrieked, throwing her weight backward and tearing her arm free of his grasp.

"Hey!" There was a shout as the guard dashed into the room, his book apparently forgotten. "What's going on in here?"

Monica staggered back, recovering her balance. "Nothing," she said quietly, adjusting her sleeve. Looking up, she locked eyes with Brand-Shei. "I have to go now." And she fled, even as his shouts followed her up the stairs.


She practically ran from the keep, drawing her hood around her face for security rather than warmth. That had not been what she'd expected—although the more she thought about it, she wasn't sure what she had expected in the first place. Her blood was still roaring through her ears, but as her gait and her heart both slowed, she began to feel foolish. What had she been trying to prove in the first place? She had money now. It was the sole reason they'd come to Riften. If she had any sense at all, she would have put herself and Aventus on the first carriage out of here the moment it was in her hands. So why hadn't she?

There was hooded figure up ahead, skulking by the stairs to the city's lower level, and she tugged her cloak a little closer to herself as she shivered, fighting her impulse to speed up. She was done with this city, and done with her own stupidity. First thing in the morning, she and Aventus were getting on a carriage to Whiterun and never speaking of this awful place again. "Hey," the figure rasped as she drew closer. "Want to buy some—"

But whatever he was about to say next was cut off with a short gasp. "By Azura," he breathed. "Monica Aretino?"

All the breath left her lungs in a rush.

She froze in her tracks, swiveling to face the figure as he threw back his hood—to reveal none other than Romlyn Dreth.

Her vision was beginning to swim. It was all flooding back: the mountain, the Jarl, Helgen…

It was always there, of course, in her dreams and her scars and in little details of the world around her—things she could never quite look at the same way. But she was slowly learning, figuring out ways to force it back down before it could overtake her. None of that made any difference, however, when it came roaring out of the darkness to smack her right in the face. He was speaking, and somehow, despite the ringing in her ears, she managed to decipher his words.

"Is it really you?" he was asking. "By Azura, I didn't think I'd be seeing you again. And here of all places!" He hesitated, and she saw the flicker of something flash across his face. Guilt, perhaps? "Look, Monica...I didn't mean to leave you, all right? I thought you were right behind me, honest. I swear. But by the time I figured out you were gone I couldn't see you and there were soldiers everywhere and—"

"It's all right, Romlyn." She numbly cut in before he could get any further. The last thing she needed right now was to relive the details of that night in any more vivid detail than she was already experiencing. Romlyn Dreth—someone she never thought she'd see again. And here of all places. But it made sense, of course: he'd mentioned living in Riften—and this city was turning out to be her own personal nightmare. "It's good to see you again."

"And you too—in one piece no less." He sighed, running a hand across his head. "Guess it's lucky the Imperials happened along when they did, then. They rescued you? Got you to a healer?"

He didn't know.

The thought was so absurd she could have laughed out loud. How could he, though—he was long gone by the time she was captured. He didn't know that she'd knelt in a dead man's blood awaiting her own death. He didn't know that the sky had turned to fire and the streets had been strewn with broken bodies. And he didn't know that a monstrous creature that was only supposed to exist in myth had laid an entire village to waste before landing just inches from her face. But he was still staring at her, awaiting an answer—and after everything, what was one more lie?

"Yeah," she said, nervously shuffling her feet together. It was partially true, at least—Hadvar was a member of the Legion, after all. "Yeah, they...took care of me."

Romlyn's relief was visible, and so she decided to let him keep it. Let him sleep a little easier at night—at least one of them ought to. "But hey—you're here in Riften!" he said brightly. "Find your cousin?"

She nodded, swallowing the urge to scream. This was too much—standing here in the middle of the street and making nice. As if they hadn't been prisoners of a megalomaniac madman just months ago. But when it came down to it, Romlyn had walked away, virtually unscathed aside from the loss of his stolen mead—and she had been left to burn and die.

But she forced a smile to her face just the same. Somehow, it felt wrong—too stiff, all teeth. "Yes," she said. "He's back at the inn now." Back at the inn, and safe. For the time being, at least. Until the money ran out. Or until some other disaster befell them. Luck had not been on their side so far. Her hand tightened into a fist as she remembered the freak blizzard in Windhelm. And although every time she'd cowered at a shadow overhead had been for naught so far, the dragon was still out there—somewhere.

"Good." Something in his expression faltered then, as if he were just noticing her icy quiet. "I'm glad you're all right." When she didn't respond, he frowned. "Monica?" He leaned in closer. "You are all right, aren't you?"

He wanted so badly for it to be true—she could see it in his eyes, even in the faint lamplight. He needed it. And she needed it, whether she liked it or not. She was so tired—tired of fighting a war she couldn't win, and tired of trying to be someone she wasn't. The girl she had been had died in the flames on the mountain—and whatever was left of her had a job to do.

Lying had never come naturally to her, but Romlyn wasn't the one she needed to convince here. So she softened her demeanor, and in her most earnest voice, she informed him that she was, in fact, all right. That the Legion had rescued her, that Aventus was safe and that they were simply waiting for spring for passage back to Cyrodiil.

And Romlyn bought it, the worry fading from the corners of his eyes as he allowed himself to relax. But it fell flat just the same, the words ringing hollow in her own ears as she spoke them. And she knew, deep down, that telling a lie wasn't enough. Only by living it would she have any chance of convincing herself.