Next chapter up soon!
Spottedfyre: Thank you for the sweet review! I'm relieved to know the plot twist wasn't a bad idea, haha. And if you're a bad person for finding Akatosh's and Mr Mysterious Stranger's interactions funny then I'm the devil for writing it. Thank you again! :)
It was cold.
So cold.
His horse only made it halfway to the Imperial City before rearing back. The action threw him straight off the steed's leather saddle and onto the ground. He spluttered and blinked, rain drops like little bullets pounding on his muddy form.
It would have been disgusting to cry, so he didn't. Crying was for the weak hero who had to drag a corpse across the Sigil tower. He was better than that, now, and he was capable of pulling himself up and continuing to Bruma.
Akatosh struggled to his feet, pushing his hair back. It had been a long while since that one time when Martin cut it, back when he had still been gathering allies for Bruma, and he didn't really care anymore. Admittedly, it did get in the way, but he didn't want to shorten it. Martin doing it was somehow different.
His fur boots felt uneven on the ground. Really, his whole world felt uneven, as if it were suddenly balancing precariously off the edge of the universe, just seconds from falling. Akatosh felt just seconds from falling, and it was only by leaning on his grunting horse that he stayed upright.
"Shut it," he murmured, spooning out the last of his magical reserves to calm his nickering steed. It would be a miracle to get to Cloud Ruler Temple at this rate, at least with this ride. Maybe to the Imperial City, which was only some hours away. He could probably buy a horse at the stables- or at least bribe one of the stablehands into letting him buy one, seeing as they weren't for sale. It was plausible, and really, the best place for him to stay until he could figure this all out would be at the temple.
Akatosh shivered as he mounted the chestnut furred animal. This thing had deserted him outside the ruins of Miscarcand, but at the same time, it was the fastest thing he had. Even faster than the Prior's old paint horse, and less dead at that. He would have to make do.
With a smack on the rear and an encouraging yell, they were off, running in the midst of a storm.
He pulled back from their full gallop as he came within sights of the White-Gold Tower. At a slower trot the rest of the hold revealed itself to him in its shining marble encasement. He skirted around the road and took the back way to the stables, hopping over the wooden rails with a well-placed tug and a large jostle.
The grass had sunken well into the ground, sparkling with dew. Each step squished under his feet and made an unpleasant sound in the silence of night, causing him to flinch. He was already nervous enough about what he was about to do as it was.
Akatosh tethered his horse to the gate before moving quietly up to the row of nice Imperial bred horses. Each one had a spotless coat and nervous feet, ready to be released and set about. He knew it to be a trait of the faster types, and didn't doubt that any one of these could take him up to where he needed to be before tomorrow's midday.
The hero let a long sigh escape him. He didn't like the thought of this, but knew it to be necessary. It wasn't as if a person lived without disobeying the law once in their life, and although he had no idea the extent he had done so to get into prison, it didn't change the need to complete this rather distasteful task. Plus, as his terrible memory had eventfully revealed a mile down from here, he didn't have any money.
He crept over to the only white one of the bunch. Akatosh was new to thievery, but he did have the feeling taking the flashiest item of the bunch was sure to get some attention. Still, when Baurus had tutored him on combat, he had devoted a section of their time to horseback riding to better his skills. The Blade had drilled it into his head (along with other things) that you always pick the fastest horse and that the white ones were it. Or was it the black ones? He supposed it didn't matter; there weren't any black ones, and he was going with this guy.
Akatosh didn't bother to transfer the saddle- he didn't remember how all the ties and knots went, and didn't think he had the strength to carry the heavy weight anyway. The Breton jumped onto the steed's bare back before he could loose the courage to do so, bidding it nervously forward.
Nothing else stirred. Beneath him was an animal who's muscles flexed elegantly like clockwork covered in a hue of purest white. He heaved upwards when they approached the end of the gate and she jumped it gracefully, mane getting tangled in his fingers.
He rushed her forward before his luck could run out like it had so many times before. Together, they bounded over the bridge stretching over a stream of Lake Rumare, cutting across the inn at the end and heading off into the countryside. He didn't have time or concentration to feel guilty between the spaces of trees that blurred by them both, feeling weightless at the exhilarating speed.
The damp ground turned to snow dusted hills, and he turned back to the road. Bruma came into the horizon just as the last of the clouds cleared away, exposing the furious sun. It was easy to forget how good sunlight felt on one's skin, especially when he had no idea how much longer the sensation would last.
The thought was almost enough to make him sick again, so he beckoned his tired horse up the rest of the way. The pounding of hooves along the slope of the mountain was rhythmic to his ears, all up to the point where they slowed down as he got to the doors.
The stone walls of the Blades' fortress looked unyielding as he gazed upon them from their shadow. He didn't understand how the occasional thief or spy had enough guts to make it up here and even try to break in. Those doors were impassive, the height vast, and the attempt fruitless.
He knew he was being watched, could feel the eyes on his form. He also knew he wouldn't be recognizable from this height without his armor, and although he would usually just stroll right in anyway (you can't lock doors without doorknobs and they never barricaded the entrance unless they were under attack) his fellow knights had been awfully high strung as of late. It was kind of his fault, too. He had been the reason their leader was of stone, and now Jauffre was gone, too, because he couldn't end the battle of Bruma quick enough.
He got off his horse. Akatosh's rough sweater was soaked thoroughly, sack cloth pants hanging loosely on his waist and only being restrained by the belt on which his dagger hung. He stepped up to the door, ignoring the pain between his thighs from riding hours on end, and knocked in a delicate sequence taught to him as soon as he had joined the order.
The brunet waited patiently for the few seconds it took for the doors to slide open slowly. And slowly they went indeed, weighing more than he did. A helmeted face poked out from the crack, and he braced himself for the bone-crushing hug that Baurus always gave him when he got back from his trips.
He quickly loosened his posture when the tackle never came, as it wouldn't. The doors opened fully to let him in, his retriever offering him a tight smile under his helmet. "Took you long enough."
He didn't trust himself to talk, merely nodding. Akatosh could tell who it was by the familiar glimmer in the Redguard's brown eyes and the deep tilt to his voice. Cyrus ushered his stolen horse inside, leaving the Breton to figure it out for himself.
Akatosh walked over the evenly patterned stones of the temple's floor, heaving to close the doors behind him. He managed it three times as long as it normally would have taken but he did it without help, and it was good enough. The hero allowed Cyrus to stable his horse with the lone bay in their horse stalls, having a feeling the Blade would want to talk to him, and knowing he had plenty to say as it was.
Akatosh's assumption proved to be correct as his friend waved him over, beckoning him into Cloud Ruler. He ducked inside after Cyrus, treasuring the warmth that spread over his skin, even if the relief somehow felt more dulled than it usually would have after traveling so long in the rain and snow. Banners bearing the crest of their outfit swayed gently in the wind seeping through the door before it closed, leaving them to the heat of the fireplace aglow with crackling flames.
"Do you mind if we take a seat and talk for a while?" It was empty besides them in the hall, the rest of the Blades either sleeping or patrolling.
Akatosh looked down at his feet. "Okay." He couldn't gauge Cyrus' reaction and didn't feel the need to, looking as the taller man took a seat at the table across from Martin's. He purposely avoided looking at the arrangement of books on the thing, sitting on the wooden bench with his back to the fireplace.
The hero didn't meet Cyrus' gaze. It was the Redguard who spoke first. "How has your traveling been?"
"It's been good." And before this mess, it had been. He had spent two weeks bedridden in Martin's old room, sobbing over the tussled sheets and refusing to come out like a heartbroken female not yet in her age of being a woman. Coming out of that room and taking it upon himself to mount his horse and improve the life of his citizens had been amazing, like his own way of rebelling against the cruelty of fate.
There wasn't a way to put that into words, so he settled on the feeble sentence like a bear might settle on the meat of a bird for dinner when the deer proved too fast to pursue. "They've made a statue for you, you know. For their hero of Kvatch."
He nodded. Akatosh had seen it when he had been called in by Countess Narina. She had wanted some artifact retrieved and it had proved quite the adventure, and as always, he has turned down her gracious gift as he had all the other offered rewards. He almost regretted the decision now that he was poor again.
Cyrus finally sighed. "And what's wrong with you?" He asked, not unkindly. "You act afraid."
I am afraid, he thought, and the words were on the tip of his tongue. Instead, he finally swerved his neck up to meet the eyes of the other.
It took the taller a moment to notice the difference in his face- or rather, to perceive it. It gave Akatosh idle time to study the lines across his features that were showing age in a young man. He couldn't imagine how they felt, failing their job a second time. Well, he could, having witnessed both deaths by his own account, but he wasn't trapped to guard a place lacking the person it was built for.
Cyrus didn't gasp or scream or impale him with a silver sword. Instead, his mouth barely slackened, before the Blade clenched his jaw to clear himself of signs of weakness. "You're bitten."
Akatosh shuddered. He couldn't help it; he felt as if he were about to burst from strain. Again, he nodded, not trusting his voice enough to speak.
Cyrus adopted a softer gleam to his eyes. "Is this why you came here?" It wasn't accusing. It was an honest question, one that he struggled to provide an answer for still.
"Partially," Akatosh replied eventually. "I had to come here again soon. I couldn't keep running on fumes." It was a truth he had known the months he had spent going around Cyrodiil. He needed people, and these were his people, even if he barely knew their names.
"I understand." After that, they were silent for a while. Akatosh didn't feel the need to fill the empty space with meaningless words. He was content to look at the creases in the wooden table, examine the patterns carved in by man and nature. It was a sturdy thing that held up just fine for all its flaws.
Finally, be broke the quiet between them, hearing it shatter inside his ear drums. "Do you know where I can get help? I haven't turned yet, not completely, I think. I can still walk in the sunlight without getting burned. All that's really changed is how I look, and there must be a cure somewhere." There always had to be hope.
Cyrus thought about it. "The only way I can point you to is the Imperial City," he said. "The Mages Guild might know something to help, and I've personally not dealt with vampires before, so I can't be of much help."
He had already considered speaking to Tar-Meena, or any one of the mages. Truly, Akatosh should have just stayed when he got to the city and avoided resorting to thievery, but there was things he needed here. Like money. And clothes. And food. Things.
"I guess I should gather my things and get going," he thought aloud. Akatosh made to stand, having his arm grabbed before he could. He frowned confusedly at Cyrus. "What?"
"Maybe you should stay the night," the Blade suggested. He opened his mouth to argue before falling short. The exhaustion he felt was clear on his face and the way he held himself; he had been riding horseback for quite a while after all. And either way, it wouldn't do good to disrespect some of the few friends he had by showing up in the first time for months and leaving quicker than they could blink.
"Yeah, okay." The Redguard let go of him, satisfied. "I'll just get everything prepared in the morning."
The more he thought about it, the more appealing the prospect of sleep grew. He could get food and drink later, after all. Akatosh scooted out from the bench, stopping as his eyes finally fell on the table next to theirs.
He sighed a soft sigh. Akatosh approached it slowly, gaze sweeping across the arrangement of books weathered with age and the miscellaneous scrolls of notes sprawled across the reads. There was still the dirty dishes from the food the hero would bring his best friend when said friend forgot to get it for himself, along with the spilled over ink bottle from when he had clumsily knocked it over. Well, not so much clumsily as rashly, angered at the way Martin hadn't let him have a peek at the Xarxes when he could read Daedric fluently and it took weeks for the priest to transcribe a paragraph. He never had told the man about that, but he regretted it now.
"You haven't touched this, huh?" Akatosh murmured. His hands shook as he picked up a piece of parchment layered in Martin's delicate handwriting. He wished he could read the words.
Cyrus shook his head, likewise standing. "None of us feel we have the right to disturb Emperor Martin's old studies." He left Akatosh with a parting comment before he headed out the door to continue his watch; "Feel free to do with them what you want."
He spent a few lonely moments observing the objects strewn about the table, both him and them bathed in the light glow of the fire. Spotting a familiar tome, he opened the cover, fumbling with it slightly. He almost ripped the page as he tried to flip it over.
And there it was. "When thou enterest into Oblivion, Oblivion entereth into thee." He whispered the words as if they were cursed. It was a precise and fragile translation from the haggard runes that held the words, scrawled underneath fine printed letters that hid their meaning away from him. He didn't know who had scribbled the symbols in, but more likely than not it was his Septim friend.
He held the book against his chest. Taking a deep breath, Akatosh turned his back on the table, heading through the side door to the West Wing. The Breton was careful to be as quiet as he could heading up the stairs as to not disturb the sleeping Blades, making his short march to Martin's room.
The sliding door clicked into place smoothly. His eyes took in the full sight of the empty bedroom. An elegant mirror stood balanced atop a delicately carved sink, small restroom behind a side door and a wardrobe shoved to the side. He padded over to Martin's bed, setting his novel on the nightstand and sliding off his fur boots. The hero looked on with discontent on the state of his torn shoes, adding it to the list of things he needed to replace.
He slid off his sweater, leaving his sack cloth pants on for now and wrapping his torso in the thick blankets on the bed. Light from outside seethed onto the sheets from the window overhead, adding a spot of brightness to the otherwise dark room. He reached over to the candle next to his book, pulling it on his lap.
Akatosh placed his fingers on the thin string poking out from the metal encased candle wax, trying to muster something from his Magicka reserves to ignite the tip. It took him a couple tries to summon the barest flicker of flames, and he moved his hand back, watching owlishly as the fire engulfed the candle. It swerved before his sight in the absence of wind, moving feverishly as he carried it with him to the sink.
Akatosh set it on the marble frame, turning the nozzle on the strange metal contraption positioned at the sink's crest. Water trickled idly down the mouth of the nozzle, and whether it was from enchantment or complicated machinery he didn't know. He used the cold water to clean the dirt from his face, scrubbing the skin clean and glancing up out of habit to see if he had done an adequate job. The mirror revealed nothing to him.
Scowling softly, he turned off the flow of water, watching it trickle down the drain and go wherever the thing emptied out to. Taking back his light source and dragging the blankets slung around his shoulders with him, the Breton collapsed into Martin's bed. And with a quick huff of breath, the candle was out.
"Well," the hero murmured, and then in Daedric, "goodnight to me."