A/N: To reassure anyone who's still doing me the kindness of following me that I am, in fact, not dead, and more importantly still writing.
Being ill for most of the previous year put the sequel to Tyranny in the uncomfortable position of hiatus, and then from September I've been absolutely, utterly, totally absorbed by the mysterious, exhilarating, frustrating, beautiful, beloved world that is Tamriel nine hundred years or so before the events of Skyrim, with Dark Anchors dropping everywhere and roleplaying to be had. I know a oneshot isn't much, but it's a start getting the rusty writing gears grinding again.
Enter an Ashlander who attacked a Dragonborn flung back from his time. Enter a Dragonknight determined to avenge his ally. Lights, camera, action.
Tarveth Dren had had enough.
Bred and raised a Dragonknight, he had learned to control the output of his emotions at an early age. He had learned exceptional physical and mental discipline that, in later years, had undoubtedly kept him going in circumstances that would have broken lesser-minded and -bodied. For the most part, come battle, he could keep his emotions hidden or falsified to mislead his adversaries. However, riding to this conflict, he let his anger show. He would temper and refine it to serve and drive him, but for now he let it gather, reminding himself why he was doing this.
His direwolf, Serjo, could feel it. He was distressed by this anger. But the creature was faithful, loyal and obedient, qualities that overshadowed his unnatural cowardice, and continued to traverse the terrain of Deshaan, Morrowind at a brisk lope.
This was where it had happened. Tarveth could smell the blood. Serjo flattened his ears but sniffed quickly at the ground, presuming his master wanted to chase a scent. He would assume correctly. Since Tarveth had lost his sight, his other senses had increased in potency to the point where he could rebuild perception of his world around him. But his sense of smell would never be as good as the wolf's. After all, he wasn't pure Tsaesci.
He dismounted swiftly and dropped to a knee, feeling the cobbles charred, cracked and still warm beneath his scarred fingertips. He tried to picture what had happened. Archer had stood here, had lashed out. But his adversary had been too swift, too magically inclined. He felt the ripples in the rock where a bolt of lightning had forever deformed the flagstone. Hasiran Zahuluu had struck to kill.
It was a miracle Archer had managed to survive.
Tarveth stood, fury afresh threatening to spill over. The Argonian warrior had not deserved this. He did not even belong in this time; thrown back from his Era by volatile magic, the future Dragonborn had come to miserable terms that he was trapped nine hundred years apart from his rightful place, would likely never reclaim his soul or lost Voice and, most devastatingly of all, would never see his wife again. He had regained some semblance of his former prowess, refining his natural draconic blessings in the discipline of a Knight, but Tarveth knew Archer's power was a shadow of itself. He knew better than anyone, given his forefathers had served Archer's predecessors.
But Archer hadn't learned how to control his emotions like a Knight. He was suffering and sick with longing for that which he would likely never have again. Acceptance was proving difficult for him. Distracted, he was vulnerable. And enemies of this time showed no mercy. From what little he'd managed to glean from his wounded friend, Tarveth had learned that he had been attacked without provocation or warning on the road here, winding east of Mournhold. Attacked by an Ashlander. He hadn't known his assailant's name, but Tarveth guessed immediately.
A line had been crossed. Tarveth would not stand idly back any longer. He hardened his resolve and spurred the wolf on, quickly, silently, off the road.
His friends wouldn't be thrilled to hear what he'd done, when they inevitably did. Tarveth thought he'd set aside the vindictive, vengeful qualities his four years' incarceration in Coldharbour had imprinted on his husk. Now he could feel fingers of them creeping back to mingle with the anger.
Every grievance Hasiran had ever placed upon him and his friends replayed itself in his mind. The Ashlander Gulakhan was a particularly spiteful soul and never wasted time to mock and scorn anyone outside his tribe. His beloved and betrothed, Willow, had told him Hasiran and his twin were the last of their clan, which Tarveth figured was a reason for his spite.
Hasiran was also a formidable warrior. Tarveth's battle-brother Brinsingr, the biggest and toughest Nord he knew, had fought him to a standstill. Formidable, aye, and unquestionably dangerous, to wear down a Nord of Brinsingr's caliber, and brutalize a dragonslayer.
So fighting like a Nord isn't the way with the fetcher. So I won't. I didn't learn first under them...
Tarveth clenched his jaw. He expected to be hurt. He might even die. But truthfully he had little choice. He'd fight and die for any of his friends. The Dragonguard fought and died without question for the Dragonborn they'd served. By instinct and friendship, he was doubly compelled to see this through.
They were good excuses, too.
Rider and steed had always nurtured a close connection. Serjo had always known like instinct where his master wanted to go. The pair understood each other with the smallest of movements. Following Tarveth's blindness he'd become so sensitive to Serjo's gestures he could tell from the saddle if the wolf's ears turned.
It didn't take a genius to figure out what Serjo meant when the direwolf halted in his tracks, flicked his ears up and growled menacingly.
The Dunmer warrior spread his senses, trying to build an image of the landscape around him. There was a slight hillock - he could hear sounds of camp life coming down from its crest. Water lapped drowsily at the bank a stone's throw from where Serjo stood. There was a stretch of reasonably flat, sturdy earth between hillock and water's edge. That would do.
He let Serjo take a few paces, feeling the lay of the earth through the wolf's tread. Then, with a gentle nudge, Tarveth turned the wolf back. He needed to get Hasiran's attention. He loosened his greatsword in his sheath, then sat heavy in the saddle and touched his heels between Serjo's ribs.
The direwolf threw back his head and howled from the depths of his lungs. It was a long, loud and chilling cry that resonated through the tribesite. The Dragonknight thought he heard the camp sounds falter.
The Ashlanders had indeed heard. They paused in their labours, well aware wolves were not a natural denizen in Morrowind. Some of them did not even recognize the howling cry. A few of them began to whisper to one another, slanted eyes narrowing, hands straying to weapons.
"Wait here," said Hasiran. "I'll handle it." Lowering the load he had been helping to shift, the Gulakhan gathered up his staff, loosened his swords in their sheaths, and went to investigate the disturbance.
By the time the Ashlander had passed through the barricades the direwolf's howl sounded again. Tarveth slid off his back.
Hasiran could hear the cries were sounding very close to the camp. If he had to guess, the creature was by the water's edge. Strange it had not chosen to move before sounding its cry again. Stranger still there was no answering cry. If there was a pack in the area they'd be singing the skies by now, preparing to hunt. Lithely he sprang upon a cluster of boulders to overlook the shoreline from afar.
He saw something he did not expect to see. Hasiran blinked in slow astonishment. "It can't be." Tarveth Dren, that crippled fetcher of a Housemer, stood boldly beside a huge grey direwolf geared for travel; his animal, of course. Despite the blindfold, the mer's face was turned directly to him.
This wasn't chance. This was deliberate. This was new. The Gulakhan hopped down from the rocks, his staff still gripped firmly in hand as he approached.
Tarveth Dren wasted no time. "This was the last straw, Hasiran."
The fool was challenging him. Hasiran, still surprised, barked back, "Are you mad as well as blind?!"
"Oh, no. I'm quite serious." The Housemer spoke with cold calm. Hasiran figured he had to be furious. And downright stupid.
"Go home to your n'wah friends," he dismissed with clear disgust. "I have no interest in fighting a cripple." He turned away, expecting that to be the end of it.
Instead Tarveth rebuked sharply, "Would you prefer to wait until night, or move into a cave that sees not the light? Would that then satisfy you?" He curled his fists, flexing energy into the flame-scarred fingers. "My blindness was always a source of discomfort for you. You can't in good conscience fight a mer that supposedly can't fight back, so you amused yourself at my expense with the wit of a playground bully. But know that with or without the light I can see you perfectly either way, Hasiran. I can hear your heartbeat and feel your blood through the earth. I can taste the stench of magicka that clings to you in the air."
Hasiran turned around. There was definitely something else in the other mer's voice now. Something that intrigued and amused him.
"Answer me this, Ashlander," said the Dragonknight, catching his breath with an un-mer-like hiss. "Have you ever fought a Tsaesci before?"
Hasiran threw back his head and laughed with open scorn. What a fool. "Do you have any idea how many warriors have come for my head and always left wanting. You think a title means anything to me?"
Tarveth merely tilted his head. Darkness was as natural to Tsaesci as cruelty to a dremora. And even with eyes - both of them - he had shared in that darkness. He thought the loss of his sight would debilitate him, and at first he'd been afraid. Strange, then, to feel so liberated by it. Stranger still to almost relish feeling like Ta'avith jhati Ku'aljhath-Shaie again.
"I haven't come for your head," he said.
"How quaint," snorted Hasiran.
Clouds weighed down the sky. The scent of approaching rain permeated the wind. A chill seemed to saturate the air. Tarveth let the pause last out its length before speaking again. "Blood should suffice."
Blood. Akavir was stained with it, from the dawn of time. The Akaviri lived for it, died by it, and the few who practiced magic drew from it. Tarveth felt his essence stir, his heart's flame quicken. He wondered if this was how the most fanatical of Reman's followers had felt when their Lord was threatened. So willing to wreak chaos for the sake of one.
"You're making a mistake challenging me, House dog." Hasiran slowly shook his head, wearing a grin that went ear to ear. "I've spent years perfecting my gifts and enhancing my powers. You have not even seen me at my full strength. But…" He strafed the fool mer slowly, cocking his head with a sneer. "...you can't see much now, can you?"
Tarveth almost smiled. You sound so familiar. Just as slowly, he turned his head, letting Hasiran move into the trigger zone. He could perceive his adversary so clearly the lack of light was almost a relief.
"Nor have you mine. As for seeing you…"
Had Hasiran blinked he would've missed it. The greatsword on Tarveth's back leapt into his hand; wings burst from his shoulders; air pulled him up; he flashed across the distance between them. Hasiran's grin faded. This was certainly not what he had expected from the blind mer. Before he could react, he was pinned, the breath knocked out of his lungs with a grunt as he was thrown flat on his back. Tarveth's wings shuddered over his shoulders, clenching like fingers; he burned with an inner inferno, his knee forced into the Ashlander's chest. With the tip of the greatsword against Hasiran's jugular, he got a much closer look at the weapon than he'd have preferred.
Tarveth pulled back his lips in a snarl. "You've given me many great reasons for this, coward."
Hasiran's eyes twitched as he looked up the greatsword to the mer over him. "Alright," he conceded, "maybe you will put up a challenge."
His brother Ashiran had always been the more martially inclined of the pair, but Hasiran had taken after their mother. He had greater powers at his command, and he called on them now. He gritted his teeth as his body erupted into electricity.
Instantly the weight eased off him. Tarveth sprang back a considerable distance, wings fanning around him defensively. Though it had come without any warning at all, he'd managed to escape receiving the brunt of the shock, although his senses still smarted slightly from the current he had so briefly felt. He remembered the scarred, misshapen cobblestones on the road and knew he would have to be cautious.
Hasiran pulled himself up as his hands crackled and sparked. Through a blue and white haze he pinpointed the Housemer and let his anger grow. "You may have flight, but I have the forces of nature at my beckoning call!" Unable to be contained, the building energy under his fingers he released, firing a powerful bolt at the blind Dragonknight.
The air rippled with the violence of the missile; spinning to give them power, Tarveth reflected the charge with a snap of his wings and pirouetted out of the way of the wake of the attack. Using them to give him a final thrust, he launched himself back upon the Ashlander, dispersing the bastard dragon magic as he aimed for Hasiran's arm. He brought his greatsword down with force.
Hissing, the Gulakhan spun aside, cleanly avoiding the strike. Unseen by his sightless adversary, the sinister radiance flaring in his eyes brightened as his temper grew.
"Is that the best you've got, snake boy?" Snarling, Hasiran swiped his staff at Tarveth's legs to sweep him off-balance, propelling power into the blow with his twist.
But Tarveth had never stopped moving. Let your enemy write the battle. Let him think he is in control. All that matters is who has the final word. Hasiran's counter now directed his next attack; he moved into his enemy rather than away, following Hasiran's dodge. Carried by the momentum of the swing of his sword, he pushed off from the ground, hooking one foot under the Ashlander's knee while pushing off from behind it with his other. A quick twist sent Hasiran sprawling, an easy victim of an old Akaviri unbalancing trick.
The Ashlander gasped a nasty cuss as he braced his hands ahead of him to stall the introduction of his face to the dirt. His wrath was only growing, his magic with it. With a dangerous growl he pushed himself back onto his feet in one smooth motion, the air crackling violently around him. "I am growing tired of you, s'wit."
You have no one to blame but yourself for this, wretch, Tarveth thought bitterly. His veins might be afire with the magic of the Dragons and the Knights who slew them, but cold anger edged his every sense and action, keeping him focused and alert. He stood in what did not seem to be a defensive stance; side-on, his greatsword resting 'idle' in one hand. But every muscle in his body was taut as a coiled spring, waiting for release.
Let your enemy write the battle. Let him think he is in control…
It happened too instantaneously for his senses to track. Hasiran's magic peaked; he spun on heel, like lightning from a storm's belly launching across the field to his target, putting every scrap of strength he could muster into shoulder charging his foe to the ground. Tarveth tried to spring aside, but too late. Hasiran barrelled into him with all the impetus of a thunderbolt. There was air, not earth, beneath his feet, and no wind in his lungs; then suddenly he was horizontal, his shoulder burning with cold fire that sent rivulets of stony pain down his arm. His hands were empty; his greatsword clattered on the dirt just out of arm's reach.
He jerked; the sharpened head of a staff tickled his throat. Hasiran loomed over him, sneering. "Out of weapons. What now, snake boy?" he hissed. "Beg for forgiveness and I might let you keep all your limbs."
Instead, Tarveth felt a cold grin play itself over his face. Out of weapons? So long as a Dragonknight had breath and blood in his body, he was never out of weapons. The life's blood of serpents and dragons writhed in his veins with the smoldering embers of Red Mountain. Fire and blood were a perilous mix.
All that matters is who has the final word.
He curled his fingers. The flesh warped and hardened, the heat of flame rising in them. Hasiran's love of taunts rewarded Tarveth with the means to consistently pinpoint the precise location of his adversary's head. Air burned, his talons' reach extending into fiery tendrils. He slashed savagely at the Ashlander's face. Hasiran's eyes widened and he tried to pull away, but not quickly enough. The tips of the talons grazed him, but he'd spared his eyes; hot pain flushed down his neck, but it was nothing compared to the shock he felt at the Housemer, that he'd had had the nerve to try such a tactic.
You have no idea what I used to be. Tarveth felt the weight leave him. He rolled for his greatsword.
Hasiran had leapt aside, his body crackling afresh, his growl becoming a roar of rage, as once more lightning overtook his very form.
But Tarveth had spun onto his feet again, his greatsword in one hand. Earth had moved with him. Still moving in the turn, he swiftly drew back his empty hand, feeling air compact and energize between his fingers. His fingers curled and pushed, hurling a missile of earth, blood and heart's flame at the Ashlander's chest. A direct hit from an obsidian fist could shatter the victim's ribcage.
A shriek unheard flickered through the din. "What is going on?!"
Hasiran sprang aside, his character continuing to crackle. He knew he was rapidly depleting his magicka pool to maintain this form, but burning rage was leaving him feeling exceptionally dangerous. His palm thrust out, expelling a river of electrical current towards the Dragonknight. Let the fetcher burn again!
The Gulakhan was growing careless; his anger was wild but undisciplined, almost predictable in that way. Tarveth strafed with the warrior, the sudden flush in the air warning him of the oncoming attack. A silent snarl fixed on his face, his blood boiled under his skin; on his back and forearms, his flesh ruptured into hardened black spines to absorb the shock of the burst. Despite this, the surge stunned his senses for a heartbeat and he fought not to stagger. There was no question about Hasiran's arcane prowess.
"Beg for forgiveness or be sent to the ash!" Hasiran bellowed as he came forward, still overcharged with lethal currents.
Tarveth's lips twitched in a soundless hiss. Dragons do not beg. Drawing a deep breath to prepare himself, he launched himself at his electrified adversary, his presence standing out in his mind like a white blot of light. He shouldn't talk so much. His potent life's red roiling in his veins, Tarveth ignored the pain of the charges prickling at his flesh - indeed, he almost welcomed it - for a moment losing himself to battle fury and slashing savagely at the Ashlander's neck.
Hasiran's head snapped back just in time to avoid the metallic blur of red. He cast aside his staff and seized Tarveth's chestplate, ready to expend himself to his utmost to see the House dog writhe. Every spark in his body he projected into his held enemy. He bared his teeth in savage satisfaction as he felt the other mer begin to thrash, tensing and struggling as shock forced his body beyond his control.
I can't...take this...Tarveth fought to free himself, but his strength was slipping away like water through a sieve. In seconds he'd be overwhelmed.
...only...the final...word!
He dropped his greatsword. He forced his fingers into a fist. A Knight was master of his own body, damn it! He fought through the shock-induced paralysis and struck out with a final burst of strength. He felt his blow connect, Hasiran struck soundly across the head. The Ashlander reeled, shoving Tarveth away. Instantly the surge stopped, in both of them.
Hasiran staggered to one side, doubled over, utterly drained. His form regained corporeality, the glow in his eyes dimmed. All his arcane force had gone into maintaining that form, and his magicka pool was exhausted for the moment.
The Ashlander raised his head. Tarveth Dren lay sprawled face-down in the grass. He convulsed weakly as the last currents drained from his flesh, then lay ominously still.
Rain had begun to fall. Still panting heavily, Hasiran looked over at the fallen Knight. "Ready...to surrender...dog?"
He received no answer. Hasiran staggered closer, gritting his teeth, body weak from the magicka spent. Upon further inspection, his challenger did not even appear to be breathing.
Good. Serves you right, s'wit. The Gulakhan spat.
The battle over, Hasiran now had time to reflect on the voice that had cried out during the brawl. He glanced up the hill, recognizing the one who'd spoken. Bow in hand, Ashana Norvay crouched overlooking the scene, bewilderment plain on her countenance.
A glint of red caught Hasiran's eye. The Housemer's greatsword lay almost at his feet. He bent down and took it in hand. It was deceptively lightweight for its appearance. Hasiran appraised the weapon approvingly a moment; it would make a fine trophy. He rested it over one shoulder and turned to finally address Ashana's question. "He was prowling close to the camp," he shrugged, "issued a challenge." His lips quirked smugly. "I answered."
Hasiran Zahuluu was a capable and worldly warrior, but like most in Tamriel his knowledge of what lay across the Padomaic Sea was lacking. Had he known of the Eastern creature Ka Po'Tun and Tsaesci alike called the possum, had he known that the possum was exceptionally skilled at feigning death to preserve its own life, and had he known that Tsaesci warriors particularly favoured employing that maneuver in battle to regain the favour of surprise, he would never have turned his back on the Dragonknight.
Guard lowered, Tarveth's spell caught him completely unawares. Instantly petrified, Hasiran let out a snarl of surprise as he found himself completely unable to move, encased up to his neck in a skin of scalding stone.
On the rise, Ashana yelled in alarm, unhesitating as she loosed a shot. Braced on his knees, Tarveth bared his teeth. He'd long been aware of her; now she'd given him the excuse he'd been waiting for. He leapt to his feet as his wings unfurled with a fiery flourish, turning the projectile back on its caster. The archer yelped as she barely twisted out of its path, the arrow grazing her armour.
"Get back to camp!" Hasiran roared at her, struggling furiously under the encasing rock.
The weapon is not one with your body, but merely a means to an end. Ta'avith could have struck the trapped Gulakhan down where he stood; with but a whispered word the metal that served him would strike on its own accord. But Ta'avith was no more, and Tarveth, as much as he loathed his opponent, did not overly desire to see him dead. He proceeded to Hasiran and wrenched his greatsword off his person, shattering the petrify as he did. Before the stunned mer could react, Tarveth shoved him forward with a kick for good measure, sprawling him on the ground with a grunt.
The Dragonknight spun the greatsword idly, reconnecting himself with the weapon. The brief respite playing dead had given him had allowed him to recover from the shock, regain mastery of his senses and regenerate lost energy. His cold anger, still potent, kept him feeling remarkably fresh.
"I am at the camp!" The archer was still around. Tarveth turned his head sharply, expecting another attack. He heard her mumble a spell and the air shivered as a large heavy globule was hurled towards him. Tarveth dropped into a shoulder roll rather than deplete his magical strength with another reflection. He heard a sickly splat as the spell struck open earth.
Hasiran, on his knees, gritted his teeth looking at his hands, sparking feebly. But as soon as he heard Ashana's incantation he spun to her. "No! This is my fight!"
Tarveth licked his lips and tasted the air. The other's magicka was still regenerating. He made to push his advantage.
"You don't have that much fight left," Ashana snapped at the Gulakhan. "Remember your young."
Interestingly, her words brought both warriors to a pause. Hasiran looked back at Ashana. Zerubabbael, Vairla… his little ones… his future. No, he could not die today. He would not. He'd see Tarveth Dren in the ash first. Somehow. He drew his blades and turned to face the blind Dragonknight.
He has children. For a moment, Tarveth felt his Dunmeri ancestry take over, his anger hesitate. Heirs to his name. Something he had forbidden himself from, the instant he discovered the bargain that chained his family. Oathsworn to oathsworn... Never again, I told myself, never again would a Dren be bound to it…
He picked up the rasp of twin blades being roused into wakefulness and jerked instantly back into aggression, his focus once more on the battle. He expanded his awareness and slipped into a subtle defensive stance, prepared to attack in reflex in answer to the other mer's inevitable attack. A beast is easier to read when you let it strike first.
Out of the corner of his eye Hasiran saw Ashana sheathe her bow, soundlessly drawing her daggers. "Trust me, Hasiran…" The air warbled around her as she vanished.
"It's still my fight…" he hissed. He growled in frustration, facing the motionless Knight once more. Under his heated rage, he felt a colder, more careful fury spread through his bones. He drew a deep breath to prepare himself, his swords hissing as they licked in anticipation at the air. He prowled, his tread light, the death mantra on his lips.
"You've wandered off the beaten path...know not which way to go...Turn to me, embrace your Three, off to death you go…"
Tarveth stiffened. The mantra did not intimidate him half so much as the memory its rhythm stirred in him. "Naal sosseqeth ahrk sil zu'u vaat, dii laas vahriin fahin… Louder, mortal. Speak up... Hin kogaan dein zu'u ahrk dii fron, erei los vod fin tiid…" He shook his head angrily. He did not serve that Master any longer, and he'd see to it that no Dren ever served him again. That oath was dead. Cold anger swept through him once more. He'd never felt so dangerous in his life.
"You challenged me, mer," Hasiran spat as they circled. "I will answer until one of us can no longer fight. My magicka may be drained, but I can fight without it."
Tarveth curled his lip, remembering with a surge of hatred why he was here at all. "You should not have hurt those dear to me."
He felt the air whistle as Hasiran spiraled his swords, limbering his wrists and fingers. "Your friends should not have challenged me, or trespassed too close to our camp."
Tarveth felt a soft tread in the earth, a discordance that could only have come from a second pair of feet. He angled his head very slightly. The archer, the other Ashlander, was hoping to use their talking as cover to position herself behind him, undoubtedly for a sneak attack. He recalled sensing little cover where she was. She'd be in the open, unless she were invisible, or made bold in the reality of his blindness. Either way, however, it made no difference to him. He let her move behind him. He gave her no indication he knew she was there.
The fact that he had heard and sensed the stealthy Ashlander at all gave him pride. He was no cripple. He could see without sight. His prowess as a warrior had not dulled but sharpened. He raised his head.
"You can wear down a juggernaut, a tower of strength and endurance. And you can beat down a dragonslayer deprived of his Voice and his heart." The Dragonknight stopped walking. "You'll keep fighting? Good. Then come. Face Ku'aljhath's heir."
Hasiran growled lowly. He charged forward, his swords reaching for the mer. Tarveth harnessed the other's brute energy and moved into it, parried and strafed. In an instant he had put Hasiran between himself and the other Ashlander. He didn't stop moving, not for an instant. Blood is thicker than water. Move like both. Graceful and swift you must be. Flow until they stumble, then strike to drown. He countered Hasiran's attack with savagery, his blade whining as he drove it through an opening with lightning speed. The blow would have hamstringed the Ashlander, had he not managed to dodge the brunt of the attack. Armour and flesh still ripped under the blade's edge, and Tarveth scented blood well from the graze.
First blood is meaningless if it is not the last drawn.
Hasiran grunted with the pain, but grateful his swift instinct had saved him from being hamstringed. Melee had always been his brother's strongpoint, but pride was on the line and he would not stand down. He gripped his swords tighter as he scowled at the blind warrior, driving one from above and the other from the side, to catch Tarveth in a devastating pincer maneuver.
A flash of movement. Ashana! She'd thrown stealth aside and leapt into the fray, the finely crafted points of her daggers reaching to cripple the Dragonknight from the backs of his knees. This is my honour duel! Don't interfere, dammit!
But Tarveth was still moving. As though foretelling the twin attacks he moved into the Ashlander, not away. Hasiran felt, briefly, a weight on his shoulder that nearly staggered him; suddenly there was nothing in front of him. The Dragonknight had vaulted off his shoulder, somersaulting neatly, impossibly from both attacks to land catlike on the grass behind them.
The blind Dunmer hissed. He'd gone into that evasive maneuver as soon as he felt Hasiran's blades moving, and had escaped with only grazes. Only the sheer luck of choosing to vault than block had spared him from being lamed by the surprise attack. He spun around in fury, blood pounding and roiling with the heat of his wrath. He let the greatsword hang from one hand and extended the other.
"I SAID STAY OUT OF THIS!" the Gulakhan roared, twisting out of Ashana's path.
Defiantly the Ashlander retorted, "This is my c - !" A smoking chain forged of blood and heart's flame seized and silenced her. Tarveth whirled his arm and violently threw her aside. She crashed at the edge of the battlefield with an audible thump and slumped there, dazed.
Hasiran hissed and rounded furiously on his opponent. "This is an honour duel… keep it between us."
"That's exactly my intention," Tarveth shot back. "Have your little cutthroat stay put."
His words struck home; growling once more at the slight to his honour, the Ashlander began to circle once more. He'd noted the way Tarveth turned to pin his senses on him every time he opened his mouth or made the slightest noise, and now did his absolute best to bring sound down to a minimum to disorientate his sightless opponent. He lowered his breathing, and was careful to place his feet only on the softest, thickest grass, made slick with the rain. He strafed very slowly, pleased by the way the Knight's head didn't turn to follow him.
Licking his lips again, Tarveth parted his lips and inhaled deeply, focusing on regenerating his mana in the lull. He decided that Hasiran was finally being smart about his opponent; he moved with graceful silence, hoping to catch him by surprise from behind. You speak of honour, but behave like a classic backstabbing coward, he thought. No better than any Tsaesci. But a serpent's greatest asset was his sense of smell, and Tarveth had grown so sensitive to immediate aromas that he could scent even through rain if Hasiran was in front of him, or elsewhere nearby. Pinpointing the Ashlander's location to the best of his ability, Tarveth flexed his blade. His magicka was still recovering, but he hardly needed it to fight; he had trained extensively in the martial arts for exactly these circumstances; he'd even spent thirty years both incapable and unwilling to use the magic of the Arts.
Without warning he charged suddenly at Hasiran, feinting then thrusting, again trying to catch the other off guard, but this time with intent to wound rather than incapacitate. He was rewarded with Hasiran's gasp of surprise and the rough clang of metal as his crossed twin blades barely deflected Tarveth's greatsword; the force of the blow could not be wholly parried off and Hasiran staggered, pushed back.
There was, perhaps, for a moment, a glint of nervousness in the mer's eyes as he regained his footing. It was fortunate Tarveth could not see it. Hasiran began to wonder to himself if he could, in fact, win this fight. It was very unusual of him to contemplate this, and he dismissed the thought as quickly as it came. He only had to last, stall a little longer, and he'd be able to cast once more. Until then, enrage and disorient, keep moving, distract, taunt. He curled back his lips and assumed a braced stance. "Try that again, snake boy."
Hasiran immediately regretted opening his mouth. Tarveth's head snapped around, facing him with disconcerting accuracy. The Knight was taking the bait, at least. He was charging again. This time the Gulakhan was ready for him.
Surprise is a warrior's deadliest weapon. Never be predictable. Tarveth was almost pleased Hasiran taunted him so much; he could always tell where his mouth was, therefore his head, and the body beneath it. He imitated the same charging tactic he'd pulled before. Having pinpointed the Ashlander's precise location, it was child's play to then sidestep and backswing, the blade smiling under Hasiran's defenses to gash his flank.
Hasiran tensed, swords weaving as the Knight flashed by. Hot pain flushed through him in his enemy's wake. Dammit, he was fast! The Ashlander staggered, resisting the urge to drop his sword and hold his hand against the fresh wound. Not much longer... only a little longer…
Tarveth acknowledged the pain. He had not been fast enough; Hasiran's swords had again left their mark on him. He forced the pain aside; by ignoring it, it would hurt far worse later, but for now he could at least focus on the fight and made the small sacrifice willingly. His ears picked up the trail of Hasiran's laboured gasps. Good. He's tiring.
Hasiran was retreating, undoubtedly winded by his wound. Tarveth would give him no respite. His magicka was by now sufficiently recovered to call on blood and flame to forge another chain, which he hurled at Hasiran, intending to drag his opponent back into range of his sword.
Hasiran's eyes widened. Forgetting the pain, he dove to one side, the chain hissing over his shoulder by a hair's breadth; the heat of it scorched his skin beneath his armour. Will this cur ever tire?!
Again, an uncharacteristic thought. No sooner had he pushed this aside when he felt an oh so familiar, and so very welcome, spark in his spirit.
A wicked chuckle bubbled up in his throat. Hasiran raised his head, and from his eyes a sinister radiance burned once more, brightening with every heartbeat. "I've survived a war, House dog," he sneered; sparks from his hands made the swords tingle with an ominous light. "How long can you last?"
Tarveth knew immediately, by the dreaded shiver in the air, that he was too late, and Hasiran's magicka had regenerated. But the question did not cause him any alarm at all. In fact, it calmed him, reminded him that he had faced and endured far worse than this petty squabble.
He tilted his head, unsmiling. "I've survived Akavir, Ashlander. Try me."
The Gulakhan slowly rose from the ground, his form fast fading to an electrifying blue. The weapons in his hands sizzled with the building currents. "Never stopped me before," he hissed. "Ashlander War faces Akaviri War… This will be interesting."
The air was getting hotter and drier with the increasing charge every second. Tarveth allowed himself a step back, to prepare himself.
The charge overtook Hasiran, peaking in its intensity with a deafening crackle of energy. He launched himself forward, swinging his electrically charged blades into Tarveth's sword, hoping the voltage would transfer down into the other's weapon and stun him nerveless. The fight would end immediately if that were so.
Tarveth had a split second to react; he felt the charge pressing in on him and instinctively fell into a defensive stance, raising his sword to block it. But in the moments before the attack he had anticipated the inevitable current, warning his body of the pain it was about to endure, preparing himself to accept the blow. He felt the Gulakhan's blades meet his, the charge shoot down his bones, rattling his teeth. But the pain did not overwhelm him, and he held onto his focus. He moved back again in a half-turn, then thrust in a counter, drawing power from his hips to add strength and precision to the strike. He caught the offending blade; a swift jerk of his arms, and the sword flew from Hasiran's grasp.
The Ashlander grunted as he felt himself disarmed, the sword spinning out of his hand. He didn't see where it fell and for the moment he didn't care. The blue haze intensifying over his vision, Hasiran narrowed his eyes and summoned a naked fulmination in his palm, thrusting it against Tarveth's chestplate. With fierce satisfaction he saw the Knight raise his defense a second too late; even his snakelike reflexes didn't get him out of range fast enough, and he watched the Dragonknight convulse as the shock blasted through him. A pity; in full that attack could have shut down his vitals. It had done little more than stun him.
Tarveth grit his teeth, falling into a defensive crouch until the earth under him soaked the last of the charge out of his body. His resolve was weakening with dreadful speed under the oppressing shock. His light wounds were burning with agony. Neither Tsaesci nor Dunmer were noted for their endurance to electromancy. Do not let it show. Do not.
Across from him, similar thoughts were raging through Hasiran's head. Although his magicka had returned, his adrenaline was fast wearing off. He had fought many times before but never for this long against a single opponent. He wondered if it was just unbridled stubbornness that was keeping the two of them at it still. Not that he was going to back down, not yet. He still had some fight left in him, and the blind mer across from him couldn't last forever. He took a few cautious steps to the side, ostentatiously bracing his feet into the earth as though preparing for a charge. If I can't escape detection I'll mislead the n'wah. He watched Tarveth's form stiffen; undoubtedly he'd felt through the earth or air the other's change in stance and adapted accordingly, preparing to brace himself against the charge, poised to react.
Hasiran pushed off from the ground, sending currents through his feet to propel him into the air. There was a flash of light as, hissing like a lightning bolt, Hasiran honed in on his target with his remaining sword extended before him, intent on skewering his foe.
Tarveth was taking no more chances. He let Hasiran think he was bracing, but the instant he felt the air swell in tandem with the oncoming attack he dropped a shoulder and dived aside. But fatigue was taking its toll, his reflexes jaded. He felt the white-hot blade rip soundly through his arm where his heart had been half a second before. Before the pain could blind his senses he forced himself back into a spinning counter. Had he struck with more precision and focus, his blow could have slashed his enemy open hip to shoulder. Exhaustion and building pain resulted in a wild strike, but it struck true. Hasiran's cry alerted him that he'd opened another wound - not the one he'd intended, but certainly a debilitating gash.
The Gulakhan caught his breath as he felt a sharp pain explode in the small of his back. He snarled defiantly as he spun around to face Tarveth again, and almost staggered off his feet. His legs were trembling under him, the sword hung heavy in his hand. The leap had sucked all his remaining strength from him and now his exhausted body was shutting down.
He's going to strike, he thought, trying to assume a defensive crouch. But Tarveth did not. He stood as though unmoved by the attacks he had endured, as though the deep slit to his arm pouring blood was nothing but a thornscratch; but Hasiran noticed for the first time the pallor to his skin and the lines to his face, and he realized in an instant that the Dragonknight was as exhausted and weak as he was. How he managed to still stand tall and imposing, expertly hide his weakness and fatigue under an astonishingly expressionless face, even still hold the greatsword in both hands - though the stronger was undoubtedly compensating for the weaker - was beyond the Gulakhan. It had to come down to the breed of warrior that was his foe. He knew better, yet the Housemer could still have fooled him into thinking he was as fresh as when the battle first started.
And Hasiran Zahuluu felt an inkling of something he never expected to feel for the House-born Dunmer: respect.
He looked upon the Dragonknight for a few more moments. Then, slowly, his eyes lost their light. Forgetting his paining wounds, in one fluid motion the Ashlander drove his sword into the earth and took a knee.
The other sensed the change. His sword lowered slightly, betraying his curiosity, but he remained poised to defend himself if necessary, anticipating another trick.
No more tricks. This ends for both of us. "You do not have children," Hasiran said flatly, staring firmly at the ground. "I do not have the luxury of being able to accept a glorious death in battle."
Tarveth affirmed quietly, "You are a father, then."
Ashana Norvay must have come round at some point during the fight; she now called irascibly, "That means I jump in? Or are you two done?" She might never have spoken; the pair ignored her superbly.
Hasiran nodded once, lifting his eyes. "Aye."
It seemed to be what Tarveth had been waiting for; his stance relaxed entirely, losing all aggression. His greatsword touched the earth as the hand of his uninjured arm held it at ease. The fight was over.
"What you did to Archer, honour demanded I avenge," the Housemer said expressionlessly. "But I did not intend to kill you from the beginning."
Hasiran gave the mer a curious look as he rose from the ground. "You are one of the few, then, Housemer."
Something close to annoyance crossed under the blindfold. "I gave up House rights long ago, as I've been trying to tell you, Ashlander. I couldn't have cared less if you were the heir of Great House Telvanni or a bandit thug in the backstreets of Mournhold, my challenge would not have changed. And I don't care about the wars your kind wage with the Houses of Morrowind, so long as those dear to me are left out of it."
Hasiran folded his arms against the building pain of his wounds. "Then tell your friends to stay away from our campgrounds. These are tense times and we cannot afford to take a chance on any who may or may not be a threat. Do you understand? My tribe means as much to me as that lizard clearly meant to you. When every Great House in Morrowind wants your people dead, you take no damn chances. I kill anyone and anything that threatens the tribe. " His eyes glittered. "This is war, Dren. If you're not with us, you're against us. Simple as that."
He waited for some display of wounded pride or arrogance. He waited for Tarveth to take offense at how dismissively he'd spoken about his ruthless treatment of the Argonian. He waited for the retaliatory rage.
But the Gulakhan had learned by now that Tarveth was not an easily read mer; certainly not as easily as some others. It didn't overly surprise him when the Dragonknight merely gave him a short nod, one a warrior might give to another proven equal. "Fair enough. I'll say as much to them."
Hasiran Zahuluu nodded back. "Good. Now get the fetch out of my territory."
Tarveth didn't know when Evessa of the Zainab - no real friend of his, but at the very least an ally - had come to the dale or how much of the battle she witnessed, but she was there immediately in its aftermath, leading him away. She roughly sealed the gash to his shoulder, stopping the bloodloss before he fainted from it. Serjo reappeared from wherever he'd hidden through the fight, the saddle a welcome sensation under him. He recalled Evessa saying parting words to the Gulakhan, and the Gulakhan himself being shooed away up the hill by the archer that had tried to interfere. Then it was gone and done, another memory to meditate upon, perhaps even to regret.
Willow was beside him too, riding with him back to his property in the village of Narsis. He knew she would be angry with him for doing this to himself. Barely two weeks had passed since his blindness; only a short time before that he'd been bedridden, so sick he could hardly move. He was not a creature of incredible endurance. But some things endured still in him, things he thought he'd left behind.
It was not only anger at the injustice done upon Archer that had driven him to something uncharacteristically reckless of him. They passed the spot on the road where it had happened without comment; maybe the others didn't notice, but he remembered, even as weariness stole over him with gathering speed as the pain he'd set aside returned now to exact their vengeful due on him. Hasiran had attacked Archer without provocation, he had thought. Not so; just like Tarveth, he also had his excuses for his actions.
Family. That much was obvious. Tarveth had precious little of his own; a father tucked away in the plantation in Vvardenfell, a sister who had come to the mainland to join with him in his struggle against the Daedra. His friends knew through Thalya how fiercely he cared for them, how desperate he was to protect them.
He had not realized until that day how fiercely and how desperately he would protect his friends as well, any one of them. Those tied to him in blood were not his only family. Reman's heir Archer, his battle-brother Brinsingr, his beloved Willow, Evessa's sister Teleri, the alien Rolando, that endearingly maddening Gimbles-in-the-Wabe - every one of them had become his family too. He thought he'd never know that same powerful bond again, not since Danion's passing, a lifetime ago. But he had so much more than that; his was a tribe he would guard and defend no less ferociously than Hasiran with his.
Housemer, the Ashlander had called him, first with scorn, and then without. All through the fight he'd antagonized him with his diluted heritage, the serpent blood that ran potent in his veins. But did that matter? The Dragon had come first, and like those legendary creatures the Dunmeri too were born of fire, quick to anger, long to fight, in Housemer and Ashlander alike. And in the end both hearts' flames were fated to burn out, come death or understanding; in the wake of those fires of fury, both left ashes for the land to till.
A/N: This fic was the result of an hour-long roleplay battle Gangyzgirl and I put our Dunmer through. A lot of the dialogue and narrative came from what we wrote to each other ingame.
I also must shout out that while Tarveth is exclusively my character, Archer, Hasiran, and the others who appeared or were mentioned in the fic belong to different folk - gangyzgirl, HelloMyNameIsEd, grievousGrimalkin, and riami, respectively. The former four I've come to know well and they are a massive part of the reason why I love ESO so dang much.
To the Tyranny fans: ESO's also given me the opportunity I thought I'd never have; to explore the continent of Tamriel (almost) in full. Since some of the sequel's content expands beyond Skyrim's borders it's been delightful exploring those territories and learning their history firsthand; territories such as Craglorn have proven particularly interesting; and I've also met memorable characters who are definitely going to influence the upcoming book.
The Vestige has also been a most interesting concept to explore, and there are plenty of similarities I've drawn between someone like the Dragonknight Tarveth and the Dovahkiin. Both have dragon blood and use dragon magic (albeit Tarv's is more Tsaesci-based while a Dragonborn speaks directly from Akatosh); both have faced down gods of destruction hellbent on dominating the world and enslaving mortality and their souls; Ysmir's beard, both have even jumped through the portal in Skuldafn to Sovngarde.
But obviously a Dragonborn and a Knight aren't the same thing. While a Dragonborn has Odahviing to get places, a Dragonknight sprouts their own damn wings. Quite different.
But that's enough prattle. I hope you enjoyed this oneshot from my experiences in ESO. Thank you for reading!