Her paws hit dry, dusty ground and Zudarra almost slammed into a dremora as momentum propelled her forward. Several of them were milling around the gate with their weapons sheathed, not paying very close attention. Zudarra would say they looked irritated and bored, but scowls seemed to be the resting expression of dremora to begin with. The fire hummed and flared brighter as she passed through and one of them looked her way, but Zudarra darted aside through an opening in the crowd and was gone. She thought she could smell Saraven, but with no heartbeat or any way to signal each other she could only hope that he'd made it through.
There were no lava oceans here that Zudarra could see. Instead the terrain was rocky and mountainous, crawling with the shifting red vines. The portal stood on a flat, daedra-made shelf with steps carved into the red rock and below it a winding trail cut through the mountain, wide enough to admit two dremora side by side. Jagged rocks jutted up on either side of the trail, obscuring the landscape beyond. The trail sloped steadily upward and Zudarra could see a solitary tower rising before them, a black silhouette of wicked pincers and spikes against roiling crimson clouds. It would be several minutes away, too far for any hope of reaching the door still invisible.
The trail twisted haphazardously and Zudarra crouched down at a bend to wait for Saraven after her nose appeared in front of her face. Vines had rustled at her as she passed, but Zudarra always kept out of their reach. The trail stunk of scamp and clannfear, but she'd seen no sign of them yet.
Saraven stepped out of the swirling vortex and onto dry ground, heat striking him in the face with an almost physical impact. He was surrounded by dremora, but he could not say that his heart skipped a beat; the absence of that very visceral reaction was shocking in itself and he faltered for a second. He realized after another that they could not see him; some were staring off up the trail suspiciously in the direction Zudarra had undoubtedly taken. Saraven started off that way as quietly as he could, but without waste of time – he knew that the invisibility would not last. He shot around a bend, fingers of fat red vine grasping after him fruitlessly, and skidded to a halt as he realized his hands were fading into view in front of him. Zudarra crouched up ahead, squatting by the path. He jerked his chin up as he approached. They were yet some minutes from the base of the tower, gray and yellow blooms swaying in the hot breeze to either side of the trail up ahead.
"Hopefully we won't have many to deal with if they're all guarding the gate," Zudarra said when Saraven came up next to her.
"I wonder if they were trying to ambush us again or if they were just trying something new," he muttered. She stood and slung the axe off her back, holding it close to her body as they walked along the path. It was eerily quiet, the only sound a slight rustling of the vines rubbing against themselves.
High-pitched alien voices drew Zudarra's attention. She paused, eyeing the bend in the trail ahead of them. Saraven lifted his head. It was a moment after that he heard them, his ears less keen than hers.
"Something's coming," she whispered, raising her axe. No sooner had she spoken than a gaggle of scamps came bouncing around the corner, two in front with a third behind, chittering their strange sounds that might have been language. They froze for the briefest moment when they saw the intruders and then one was bounding toward them and the other two were lobbing fire down the slope.
Saraven loosed a lightning bolt at the scamp that ran toward them, then spun aside to avoid a ball of fire. It impacted on the path behind him, and he felt the heat on his back as he heard the loud WHOMPH on impact. The creature convulsed as the lightning engulfed its body. He did not wait to see its dying convulsions as he sprinted up-slope toward the other two, drawing his longsword.
Zudarra sidestepped another fireball, pressing herself against the rocky wall that enclosed the trail. Red vines slapped against her armor, sliding harmlessly away when they found no flesh to hook their pointed tips into. As the heat of the blast whirled past her face she spun from the wall and dashed after Saraven.
The scamp on her side backpedaled as he loosed another blast of fire and Zudarra sprang into the air to avoid it, swinging her battle axe back over her head to slam down on the creature. Its beady red eyes shot open in fear and it turned to flee, too slowly. Blade thwacked against skull as Zudarra came down, burying her axe in the side of the scamp's turned head. It couldn't even screech before it was dead.
Saraven's scamp was more bold, or perhaps stupid, running at the mer with fire blazing in both hands. It released them both at once, sending twin fireballs hurtling to either side of him. It grinned and chattered as it ran, baring long and thin yellow teeth.
The Dunmer hurled himself forward in a low roll, both fireballs slashing past over his head with a roar that seemed deafening from so close. Hard ground against his shoulder, his back, and then he was up and his momentum carried him forward to impale the scamp on his longsword. The serrated blade pierced flesh, cracked bone, and jetted out through the creature's back with a wet sklush. It screamed in his face as he snarled back, and then it slumped, eyes going blank, and he shoved it off the blade with his foot. The smell of its blood tormented him, it was alluring and intoxicating and the thing was already dead, there was nothing for him there. The sound in his throat was not a noise a mer should make as he turned to look for Zudarra.
Strength. She had split the other one's skull. There would be no fight over who fed. He shook his head violently, clenching his empty left fist; the pain dragged him back to the vestiges of his sanity as he turned to start up the path again.
Zudarra's ear twitched toward the sound Saraven had made but she did not turn to look at him. She understood well enough what he must be going through. She yanked her axe from the daedra's head and flicked blood from it, vibrant crimson spattering dull red stone. The blood gushing from the mangled head was a terrible loss that made her stomach clench with need, but Zudarra was glad she didn't have to live with herself after putting her lips to a scamp's leathery hide.
Saraven walked under the red sky, fist clenched as he continued to work himself back toward sanity. Thank the gods Zudarra was there, with senses more advanced than his in every way, with the ability to keep her head through all of it. He had never given her enough credit.
It didn't take much longer for them to reach the end of the trail, emerging on the top of the mountain right by the base of the tower. It was relatively flat, as if the dremora had carved out an area for their tower to be built, and looking down they could finally see the ocean of lava that surrounded the little island. The sky seemed far too close here, and Zudarra felt that she could reach up through the red mist and pluck a star from the tarry sky.
Saraven stood by with blade at the ready as Zudarra pried open the arched tower doors. Before the jagged, interlocking teeth had even fully parted a mottled red and black face glowered at them from the cracks. The doors yanked open and a serrated shortsword struck out, banging against the side of her helm. The resounding clang in her ears was deafening and Zudarra stumbled to the side. Saraven lunged forward, jabbing at the dremora's throat with his longsword. The creature jerked backward, and Saraven turned sideways to slip inside and then immediately dodged to his right to avoid an attempt to decapitate him.
"So you have come to us after all," the dremora said in Common, grinning. He turned in a circle to keep track of Saraven as the Dunmer stalked around him narrow-eyed. "Your torment will be eternal."
"Could be," Saraven said. The dremora's back was to the door.
The ringing in her ears might never end. Zudarra shook herself to stop the world tilting and staggered upright to see the dremora's back through the shrinking opening as the doors crawled shut. Anger and thirst boiled within and a low growl rumbled from her chest. She lurched through the doorway, shoving at the jagged door with her left arm as she swung for the back of the dremora's skull one-handed.
The daedra was opening his mouth to make another taunting retort when Saraven saw Zudarra rise up behind him like an avenging angel, and the flat of her axe smote him full in the back of the skull. He dropped as his eyes rolled upward. Saraven snarled, teeth bared – mine, mine! - and turned sharply away. It was hers. Let her have it.
Zudarra caught the dremora as he crumpled and hissed at the other vampire even as he backed down, long fangs glistening wetly before she descended on the helpless daedra. She was vaguely aware of their acting like wild animals but could not bring herself to care as liquid ecstasy rushed down her throat. I could share, Zudarra thought, but she dismissed the idea as soon as it had come to her.
This one is mine. He'll get his own! She watched Saraven from the corner of her rolled eyes as she fed, as wary as she could be in that state. His presence was a series of tiny needling pinpricks behind the waves of pleasure.
When the corpse was a bloodless husk she let it fall, crimson eyes searching wildly about her for the next. But there were no other beating hearts to fuel her bloodlust, only Saraven, and her fervor slowly calmed as she wiped blood from her mouth with the back of her hand. She was still holding her axe loosely by the end of the hilt. She jerked it up to grasp with both hands and wordlessly headed for one of the doors that she thought may lead up, on the other side of the well of fire that the humming spire shot out from.
A familiar upward-leading ramp lay behind the door and the vampires ascended. There were no dremora in the next room, or the next. They met a stray scamp and another dremora alone on the ramp and dealt with them by neatly tossing them over the side rail. The lack of much opposition gave Zudarra plenty of time to grow disgusted with herself. When she was alone it had been easier to control her wild urges. With Saraven around, both of them were reduced to snarling wolves in their weaker moments.
When Dagon is defeated Saraven and I will have no more reason to fight as comrades. Or the daedra will overrun Tamriel and we'll all be dead and it won't matter. Either way, this won't go on forever. The thought was meant to console her but instead elicited a sharp pang of heartache. She glanced briefly aside at the mer, wondering why she could not fathom being without him. She was not so weak that she required companionship. Never had been, and Molag Bal take her if she ever was.
Saraven squashed his earlier resentment with increasing ease, gradually more able to tell what was himself and what was vampiric urges. He went up the tower beside Zudarra without having to scramble to try to match her lowest speed, without his legs screaming at him from the first ten minutes, and he gradually began to come to the realization that he liked it. He did not miss constantly having to work around the possibility that his body would fail him from sheer mortal incapacity. Even less did he miss the conflict between Zudarra as comrade and Zudarra as someone who constantly had to fight the urge to pounce on him and devour him.
And for the first time he could not hate himself. It was not unnatural to wish to walk beside your friend as an equal, not as baggage and potential prey. And this time he did use the word friend to himself unabashedly. There was no retreating from the last conscious moments of his mortal life, the moments of truth.
But Zudarra seemed unhappy. She was less exultant in her strength than he had sometimes known her, brooding inside her adamantium helmet. She looked at him in a way he could not read, less aggressive or calculating than he had been wont to expect.
They were fast approaching the membranous ceiling that stretched across the tower top.
"Child's play," Zudarra said, the drone of the pillar masking her voice to all but Saraven. "I'll stay below and create a slow-moving target for them. You run for the stone?"
He grunted agreement at her assessment, then nodded. It was his turn to make the run anyway, and in light armor he would move faster than a dremora could visually track, let alone hit with a spell -
A grinding noise pulled their attention to a level below them on the ramp. A door had opened and a figure unlike anything either had seen stepped out. It was obviously not a dremora; its gray skin and long, backwards-sweeping horns had to belong to some other race. He was large and brutish, thick veins standing out all across his heavily muscled body. He had shaggy black hair that ended just below his pointed ears, and did not wear much- his clothing seemed ceremonial in nature, a red skirt and a sash across his bare chest. Some type of heavily ornamental metal necklace, all jagged points and wicked spikes, lay draped across his broad shoulders. All four of the creature's trunk-like limbs were heavily tattooed with twisting shapes that could have been purely decorative as easily as they might be letters, all of it glowing unnatural crimson. He looked up at them immediately, heavy brows drawing together over deep-set, white eyes that glowed as vibrantly as his markings.
He snarled and pointed a long-clawed finger at them. Zudarra thought the gesture to be some sort of challenge but then white lightning was crackling through the air. She jumped sideways without thinking and sprinted down the ramp. Saraven dodged aside from the lightning as well, sprinting after her on the opposite side of the hall. He dared not make his run and leave her down here. The ceiling of the narrower passage might crush her before she was transported away.
The gray-skinned daedra turned to face the advancing vampires, heavy features twisting into an unimpressed scowl in spite of their superior speed. He opened his claws and purple light flashed out to form a protective shell around his body. Zudarra was in front of him now, snarling as she threw her weight into an overhand swing toward his unprotected neck. The blade slowed as it passed through magicka and the daedra knocked his own meaty forearm against the hilt of the axe, sending Zudarra stumbling off-balance beside him.
Saraven skidded on his knees past the creature's left thigh, slashing at his unprotected femoral with the longsword. It, too, was slowed by the shield, leaving hardly a mark as he passed, and then he was on his feet and attempting to jab upward under the gray daedra's arm.
Zudarra spun around to slash again as she regained her footing. The daedra caught the haft of her axe with his bare hand just as Saraven's blade pierced his flesh. He bellowed in pain, a deeply resonate roar that shook the air and smacked the Dunmer with a tree-trunk arm. Saraven was flung back against a wall with a bruising blow that knocked the air from his lungs. He landed hard on his knees, but he kept his grip on the longsword, did not even see stars. He didn't need to breathe any more, he recognized.
Zudarra twisted her weapon away from the daedra's hand and thrust upward, slamming the pointed tip at the top of her battle axe into his jaw from below. The spike pierced flesh and scraped bone before the daedra jerked his head up and stumbled back toward the door he had come from, slamming against it with a meaty thwack and a jangle of his metal necklace. He groaned, black-red blood pouring down his throat, throwing his arms up in front of himself for protection.
Saraven scrambled to his feet as he saw the gray daedra run into the door. He sprinted toward them, picking up speed, and then ran straight up the wall to backflip off, gaining him enough height to slash at the daedra's carotid as he passed.
Blood splurted from the slashed neck and the daedra lashed out wildly at his attackers, roaring furiously all the while, but all Zudarra had to do was jump back out of his reach and watch as he quickly lost steam and collapsed onto his face. The ramp trembled beneath her paws as his heavy body hit the floor and Zudarra watched a pool of blood flow out from underneath him.
Saraven landed on his feet, then spun, mouth frozen in a snarl. The fragrance of daedric blood filled his nostrils, blotting out everything else. She would not have this one damn it -
But the creature was already dead, his heart no longer beating. Zudarra's mouth hung open as she stared, transfixed. The loss, the thirst, it was nearly painful. The roar of fire snapped both vampires back to the present, though Saraven was unable to stop the growl in his throat.
A fireball whomphed against Zudarra's back, pain flaring at her armpits and neck where the fire reached its fingers through the gaps in her armor. She jerked around to see a mage standing at the top of the ramp behind them, having been drawn by the sound of the strange daedra's roar.
"Get the the stone and don't stop, I'll take him!" she bellowed. Zudarra sprinted for the dremora with her head ducked behind her shoulder and battle axe raised, an adamantium juggernaut bearing down on the dremora faster than a stone from a sling.
"Right!" Saraven sprinted forward, diving into a roll to avoid another fireball that exploded against a wall behind him. He wanted to stop and seize on the dremora, drain him dry, he ached for it. Even his clenched left fist only made the pain greater, it barely distracted from his lust for blood. But it was enough. It kept his feet moving past the dremora and up to the doorway into the sigil room.
After missing Saraven the dremora threw another fireball at Zudarra's ducked head instead. Heat licked Zudarra's face under the helm as she ran, singeing the tips of her fur but not much else. Then she untucked herself to cleave the mage from shoulder to breast, a fountain of blood splattering her armor as he dropped in a heap. She did not stop, leaping over the body to follow her ally.
Saraven was aware of another mage and a warrior just turning toward the noise from the corridor, but he brushed past the armored dremora without even a chance of being hit, a heavy greataxe swishing down inches behind him as he sprinted up the ramp. The loud hum of the sigil stone and the column of fire that held it suspended filled his senses, merciful change from the sight and scent of blood. He slid to a halt and struck at it as hard as he could with the butt of his longsword.
The stone flew out into space and crashed down on the floor of the sigil room below, rolling toward the hallway. Saraven was thrown back against the wall with the impact, bouncing back onto the floor even as the structure began to shake. The first vibration became a world-shattering roar as the ceiling overhead began to crack and fall.
Zudarra had only exchanged a few blows with the armored daedra when the explosive force of the destabilized pillar rocked the tower, throwing them all off their feet. She rolled to the side to dodge a massive slab of the upper balcony that crashed into the floor beside her. Fire and debris filled her vision and then Zudarra was falling to the scorched ground outside Bravil, smack dab into a sea of flashing blades and roaring voices.
Battle! There was no time to collect herself. Zudarra rolled to her feet, battle axe still in her hands. They were surrounded on all sides by a chaotic, churning mass of dremora and mortals of every race. The Sheogorites. Three Sheogorites swarmed a single mage, laughing maniacally as they bashed his head in with a rake, a hoe, a hammer, before flouncing off to their next target. Zudarra spotted a dremora warrior ready to strike the young Argonian they had seen earlier from behind while she was preoccupied savagely carving up another with her axe. Zudarra surged into the fray, knocking aside the dremora's sword.
She was a flurry of flashing adamantium and daedric steel as she fought, completely absorbed by the steady rhythm of battle, the clash of metal against metal and the final gratification of axe driving through flesh and bone. A heady bouquet of daedric and mortal blood inflamed her senses, stoking her thirst and her rage. She was lost to it, purely animal and unthinking as she tore through daedra after daedra, at times descending to feed when she could, breaking away when another struck her and pulled her back into the maelstrom.
Saraven fell out of the white and into the noise and stink of battle. He looked around quickly as he got to his feet – so easy, it was so easy now, his knees didn't hurt him – and then had to parry a daedric spear aimed at his chest, leaning aside to shove the shaft away as he stabbed at the cuirass seam behind it. All around him Sheogorites with were fighting with demoniac fury, bringing down armored warriors with their makeshift weapons. He could hear them laughing and bandying words:
"Got him, got him! Have his guts for garters!"
"Silly man, I don't need any garters. Give me his eye instead."
"Here, but watch out for that one!"
"Oh, I say, you're being rather rude, Mister Dremora."
"Wabble! Gark!"
He had no time to listen to their mad chatter as he fought for his life. It was easier than it had ever been. He was faster, was stronger, was not tired; and after the first dremora that he managed to stun alive he was energized by daedric blood, the roar of Dagon in his veins. He was aware of Zudarra not far away, fighting and feeding as he was. It was impossible to miss the big bright suit of armor. And while a couple of Sheogorites greeted her with frightened cries of "Oy, Jyggalag!" they quickly passed on to the daedra again when they saw her fighting.
Some of them even cheered the vampires on. "Get him, get her, bite them and tear them! Haha! That'll teach them to sing purple for a rosebush!"
Zudarra wasn't sure how long they'd been fighting. She only knew that the sky had been black when they emerged from the gate and now she looked up to a thin line of pink on the horizon, bleeding purple into the barrier of night and day. Corpses lay heaped around her in every direction. Mobs of surviving Sheogorites swarmed the last standing dremora, who were clearly outnumbered and dwindling fast; there were many more of the Sheogorites than they had met on the road earlier, Zudarra realized. With nowhere to retreat - as if dremora ever would retreat - they stubbornly clung to their weapons and faced their certain deaths with the same overconfident taunts Zudarra had heard too many times.
She let her axe head drop to the dirt and rested a palm on the hilt, surveying the mass of broken bodies with a sense of pride and searching for Saraven. The Sheogorites could have the stragglers. Zudarra wasn't about to insert herself in their way.
Her chin and neck were matted with blood, and she was aware of blood seeping through her padding for the first time since the battle had begun. That minor discomfort was nothing in the face of the intoxicating strength that trembled through her limbs. The endless feast had left her with the godlike power Zudarra had not felt since she was first made and she reveled in the glory of it, remembering once again why she had chosen the path of a vampire.
A flash of red light in the corner of her eye caught Zudarra's attention and she turned to see a spiral of magicka unfolding around a massive object that loomed two stories tall above her, blotting out the light of the sunrise. As the magickal mist faded away the gray silhouette raised a massive, bony-frilled head to the sky and threw open its beak in a piercing shriek that commanded the attention of every person on the battlefield. Zudarra winced at the ear-splitting sound, hand automatically flying to her helm-protected ear. This hulking monster with tree trunk-thick limbs and wicked, curved claws as long as Saraven's sword could only be a clannfear.
She picked up her axe, eyes darting to the creature's massive clawed feet to search for the mage that had summoned it, but she saw none nearby.
Saraven came to himself with a shriveled body in his hands, ecstasy fogging his mind. He looked down and saw that it was a dremora. That was a great relief to him as shame flooded in to crowd out the animal urge to feed and feed and feed. He was battered beneath his chainmail. His ribs had been broken and healed several times over as he took hits to the body in order to get hold of his prey, and now bruises remained. It was a wonder he hadn't been decapitated. He felt sure he must have been careless. Probably only supernatural speed had saved him.
Something had attracted his attention, some noise? Zudarra? He looked around, letting the carcass fall as he wiped blood from his mouth. He felt invincible, ready to explode with uncontainable power, a need greater than the sexual, almost greater than the urge to feed.
There she was, a brilliant silvery thing on this battlefield of black and red and the motley dull colors of the Sheogorites. His eyes traveled upward to the behemoth beyond her, a clannfear larger than any living creature he had ever seen. Its giant shadow fell across the Cathay-raht and dwarfed her utterly. He looked around quickly for his longsword. He had dropped it beside the body on which he had been feeding – bad, that was bad, a breach of discipline. He grabbed it up and ran toward them, challenge roaring in his throat.
The clannfear lumbered forward, massive talons thudding against the ground with every step. A thundering herd of bloodied and bruised Sheogorites ran for the clannfear, makeshift weapons held high as they roared their assorted war cries. It dropped down onto one hand to sweep the feet out from under the attackers with the other and mortals cried out as they were knocked aside. Zudarra leapt over the scaled limb, twisting in midair to hack at the creature's arm. The scales were thick and she barely managed a graze before she landed and danced back out of its reach, grinning at the welcome challenge.
Saraven sprinted between the monster's giant taloned feet, nimbly dodging the attempt to swipe him. When the thing straightened up its tail swept downward to counterbalance it, and he leaped onto the tip and began to sprint up toward its back, feet on either side of its upthrust spikes. Each one was nearly a foot tall and three feet long, a gnarled growth of bone so enormous as to beggar belief. The thought that it could shake him off did not for one second occur to him. When it twisted to make its rattling creak at him, beaked mouth open wide enough to swallow a horse without chewing, he laughed in its face. Then he was forced to grab at one of the spines as the tail shook violently from side to side, trying to dislodge him. One of the mighty three-clawed hands swept back to try and grab him, and he avoided it only by swinging himself to the other side of his bony handhold. Bone scraped bone as claws met spine.
The Sheogorites surrounded the clannfear's feet like a tidal wave, hacking at the scales to little effect. Saraven's world was dizzying movement as the tail swung through the air to knock the attackers aside. Then the clannfear dropped onto all fours, bones crunching as frail mortal bodies were crushed beneath the weight of its hands. Saraven climbed back atop the tail to continue his run toward the clannfear's back. An unlucky Orc was scooped up in the giant maw and the clannfear tossed back its head, snapping the man in half and raining blood upon the rest. Zudarra held up an arm to fend off the fleeing, screaming Sheogorites who raced past her, banging against her armor in their mad rush to escape. A few still hacked away gleefully at whatever part of the clannfear they could reach, either oblivious to the danger or uncaring. But now Zudarra had space to maneuver.
She sprinted straight between its forelegs while its head was up and launched herself into the air, roaring as her battle axe slammed against its chest. The blade cut deeper than before and red blood oozed from the wound as Zudarra hit the ground, rolling quickly away out from under the feet. The clannfear shrieked again, tossed the dead Orc from its beak and spun, trying to hit Zudarra with its tail and shake off the Dunmer in one movement.
Saraven couldn't tell what, but Zudarra had done something to hurt it. He could smell the gallons of blood and it almost made him insane, snarling and snapping at the air. He could hear his own animal snarls and he hated himself for it, but at least he was still conscious enough to know hate. He clenched his left fist so hard that he felt his own cold and dreadful blood running down his hand as he ran.
Then the thing twisted and spun, and he slipped half-off the tail as he saw Zudarra and the ground rushing toward him. Saraven held on by one arm, sword in the other, as he hacked at the tail, trying to hurt the thing enough to make it change direction again.
Zudarra's world was a tangle of spinning grey-green limbs and dark blue sky as she rolled, her own armor digging harshly against her body. She clanked to a sudden stop staring up at a dangling Saraven and scrabbled to her feet just before the clannfear roared and spun again, yanking its tail away from the source of pain. It was facing away from her now. Zudarra had been too close to the feet; it couldn't see her under itself. It screeched and took off in its slow, lumbering gait, snapping at the fleeing madmen. Zudarra ran after it, dodging the swaying tail to run underneath and flinging her axe one-handed around an ankle to trip it up. With its next step forward the foot yanked the axe out of her hands and Zudarra let it go to dodge aside. She scooped a shortsword from a fallen dremora off the ground as she ran.
The clannfear screeched in shock as it fell with a heavy thud that shook the world, plowing jaw-first into the ground and kicking up a cloud of black soot and dirt.
Saraven was thrown clear as the thing hit the ground, spinning through the air. He tucked in his legs and his empty left arm, right hand out to one side to keep from stabbing himself on impact, and then he hit shoulder first and felt the pop of his left shoulder dislocating as he rolled over and over. He was bruised, but his head had been protected, he was conscious and oriented. He got to his feet, grimacing at the pain, and turned quickly to see what was happening. The clannfear was down. Zudarra had done it. He ran to lance it repeatedly through the roof of its mouth, dodging each snap of its beak with his useless left arm flopping.
Zudarra sprinted for the head, joining Saraven to stab it again and again with the serrated sword. The clannfear screamed in agony and tried to push itself away from them on its forearms but Zudarra stabbed its neck and chest as it rose. Blood oozed from its many wounds, little rivers coursing around the scales of its muzzle to join the curtain of red that poured down its neck. Its movements grew weaker and finally the clannfear shuddered and collapsed to the ground, no longer able to hold its own weight on its arms. It groaned as their stabbing continued and then grew silent, yellow reptilian eyes rolling up in its head. Zudarra was snarling furiously as she attacked, but now a cheer rose behind her and her movements slowed. The thing was dead. She yanked her blade from the roof of its mouth, bringing chunks of flesh with the teeth of her blade, and turned to see a ring of Sheogorites behind them, clapping and yelling in jubilation. Inexplicably, a few of them were sobbing, throwing themselves on the ground and having full-on tantrums.
"The eyes! The eyes! Carve out the eyes!"
"But I wanted the eyes! It isn't fair..."
"Now I shall never get my new shoes," one of them wailed.
Saraven kept a wary eye on the mad folk as he knelt to clean his sword on the weeds, rolling his shoulder to shove it back into the socket. It met with a click as he grimaced. Again there were no sparks in front of his eyes. Everything about his body was different from what he knew, but he felt increasingly less unbalanced by it.
Zudarra glanced from the Sheogorites to the dead clannfear, then at Saraven. Then she laughed, a hearty belly laugh that shook her armor. When the humor of the absurdity had passed she raised her arm to Saraven, grinning, to clasp his hand in victory.
He looked up at Zudarra's laugh, uncomprehending at first, then grinning reluctantly. He stood up to take the offered arm, quelling the complaint of the vampire back-brain that felt this was obviously some sort of dominance gesture. Zudarra clasped his hand firmly in hers before she really knew what she was doing. She quickly released him and then sheepishly pawed the back of her helm with her hand, looking at the ground.
"I never saw the like," he said.
"And I'm not too keen on cutting its eyes out-" she began, when a sudden burst of black smoke appeared a few feet in front of their faces and a tall man stepped forward from the mist. Zudarra's demeanor instantly changed; she took up her sword, still wet and dripping with blood and snarled at the newcomer.
"Please do calm down," he said dryly. "I've come to collect the clannfear eyes and offer your due reward. I don't believe you are followers of Sheogorath, but that you should be so was never stipulated."
The man that stood before them was dressed in a bizarrely extravagant black silk suit with tall, puffy shoulders and black hose. An oversized, red-frilled collar rose to the man's chin, snugly hugging his neck until the pointy frill blossomed out. The effect was quite ridiculous, as if his head were the center of a blooming flower. He appeared to be in his early sixties; bald but for a ring of thin gray hair around the back of his skull, pale skin engraved with deep lines from frowning. His entire face drooped, from his sagging jowls to the crow's feet at the corner of his baggy, tired eyes. The tip of his beak-like nose seemed to droop down as well. All of these features implied an Imperial but Zudarra could plainly smell that he was not anything human or mortal.
He looked at them with extreme boredom, completely disinterested in the snarling vampire or the enormous corpse behind her, hands clasped behind his back. Zudarra's composure returned, but she did not lower her sword.
Saraven did not even draw his weapon. The man's words made it clear that it probably would be of no use. Instead he bowed from the shoulders, one arm out to rest against Zudarra's breastplate in a restraining gesture that he absolutely would not have dared attempt three weeks ago.
"Take them and welcome," he said. "We ask for no reward if it delivers us from His wrath."
The strange man raised a hand palm-up and inky black butterflies that seemed to flow out of the thread of his suit fluttered across his hand, black wings obscuring his palm for a second before fading away like smoke. When they had gone a large silver platter with a domed lid remained behind, ornately detailed and gleaming prettily in the pink and orange hues of the rising sun. With his other hand he lifted the lid and the vampires heard a wet noise behind them.
They turned to see the dead eyes of the clannfear bulging out of the scaly lids until finally they both popped free with a wet squelch and rose in the air, the optic nerve slithering out of the socket to trail behind them. The eyeballs floated forward and Zudarra jerked aside to let them pass, jaw dropping in disbelief. When they landed on the platter the man replaced the lid and stood holding it one-handed.
"I should think that denying a gift from His Lordship is the greater slight," the man sighed. "Are you even curious to know what it would be?"
Zudarra did not know what to say. She was curious, but Saraven seemed very wary. He was more experienced with the Daedra than she, and after her experiences with Molag Bal, Zudarra was not very eager to accept anything from a Prince. But that certainly sounded like a threat. She cut her eyes sideways at Saraven, questioning.
"Of course we're curious," Saraven said, his face an impassive mask. They had been warned. "And certainly we would not wish to offer any slight to the Lord of Misrule."
To accept a gift from Lord Sheogorath was to risk any amount of horrors, but to offend him was always to ensure a worse fate. He was not a scholar of daedric lore, but he did know that much.
The Sheogorites behind the stranger had grown quieter, some of them sniffling despondently or consoling others, the rest watching the proceedings respectfully. Some had wandered away and were playing leap-frog among the corpses.
"Don't worry!" The young Argonian had apparently survived the battle somehow, bloody axe resting on her shoulder. She now stood beside Saraven, clapping a small hand to his shoulder. There was a bandage tied around her head made from part of her skirt, but her big grin was undeterred. "If Lord High Panjandrum Haskill thinks it is worth seeing, it is worth seeing indeed!"
None of those words meant anything to Zudarra and she stared stupidly at the little Argonian, fist clenching tensely around the hilt of the sword that wasn't hers. Her eyes returned slowly to the man when he spoke.
"Indeed," Haskill said. "The heart's truest desire: this is what Lord Sheogorath promised to whomever could fell the clannfear and retrieve its eyes, which you two have done whether or not you knew you were doing it."
"My new shooeeeesss," a voice howled bitterly from the crowd.
Haskill stepped toward them, once again removing the lid of the platter. Zudarra recoiled from the eyeballs she expected to have shoved under her nose, but instead he had revealed two strange glass bottles.
The first bottle was filled with a dark red liquid, fat at the base but with an elegant, thinly tapering neck studded with upward curving spikes. Bat-like wings flared out of the top of the glass stopper which was tied with black ribbon.
The second bottle, which was closest to Zudarra, was filled with a glowing, opalescent liquid that pulsed faintly. She felt inexplicably drawn to it, could feel a thrum of power from it even from where she stood. The bottle was tall and grew broader at the top, as if to mimic strong shoulders. Above this was a frill of glass that flared out behind the long neck. Like the other, it was corked with a glass stopper and tied with white ribbon.
"A cure for one. Great power for the other. This is what your hearts' desire, do they not?" Haskill asked, holding out the platter to them. Zudarra stabbed her sword into the ground and tentatively reached out for the pulsing white potion, fear and excitement swirling together in her cold breast.
Great power! And a cure for Saraven! She couldn't believe it. Half of her mind was singing joyously for her own good fortune, while the other half sighed in relief at the weight lifting from her shoulders. Saraven would be restored, and with an end to his vampirism her guilty burden would be gone. She glanced back at Saraven to be sure it was all real.
Saraven nodded slowly as Zudarra looked at him. He did not want to be cured at all, he realized. He hated to acknowledge it, but it was the truth. At least she would have what she really wanted. It was his duty and his responsibility to accept what was offered, not only to avoid offending the daedra and suffering a terrible fate, but that he might end his life mortal and pass from the world as was his natural duty. When he was mortal again that would not seem so dreadful, when he had back the aches and pains of advancing age, when he was trapped again in a body that kept failing him.
Think how many I could have saved if I went on immortal.
Think how many I might harm or kill by accident because I cannot control my lust for blood.
No. He owed it to the world to accept this. He reached for the dark red potion and carefully thumbed free the winged stopper. He drank it slowly, not wishing to choke himself; that was the sort of irony that he felt Sheogorath would quite enjoy.
He was ready for loss of consciousness, for loss of strength, for his body to transform again. That was not what happened. Instead he felt something cold and deliberate leech into his veins, spreading like a draft of ice. The constant ever-devouring lust was still there, but caged, restrained, held tight within himself.
I have gained power over myself.
He looked up at the man with the tray, staring in astonishment. Then he realized what the man had said and turned to look at Zudarra.
Zudarra held the potion to her lips, mind racing with wonder. What sort of power was she being gifted? Would she feel the incredible strength she felt now every day for the rest of her immortal life? This Haskill did not seem inclined to say; daedra always had to speak in riddles, those associated with the Prince of Madness especially so.
She watched Saraven down his potion with a sharp pang of bittersweet longing.
A warm touch on her head, heart pulsing weak but alive.
No more endless hunger, no more hiding from the light of day, no more danger of waking up in Molag Bal's desolate realm to serve as his plaything for the rest of eternity. He was lucky to escape this hell that Zudarra had picked for herself. Zudarra found that, in spite of her unexpected sadness, she was glad for him. She wasn't just glad that she was absolved of her guilt; Zudarra was glad that Saraven would be happy. It may have been the Khajiit's first truly unselfish thought since meeting him.
Her lip pulled up in a small smile and Zudarra threw back her head to drink before Saraven had finished his. The liquid was unpleasantly bitter; it was not blood, but she gulped it all.
The potion had been lukewarm going down, but now something warm burned in her belly. Her stomach twisted, a sudden pain burst in her chest. The empty bottle fell from Zudarra's hand and she doubled over, clutching uselessly at her chest through the armor. Her jaw fell open in a silent scream of agony. Something throbbed inside her chest, an iron fist clenching around her heart over and over again. The heat exploded out from her heart, racing through her veins and burning her from the inside.
Fire in her veins! In her lungs! Every organ burned with the white-hot intensity of the sun. Zudarra dropped to one knee, looking up at the impassive, drooping face of the traitorous Haskill. Trickery! Poison! Her mind belted the words, but she was unable to speak or to form any other coherent thoughts. The world was growing blurry, edged with gray, and Zudarra felt an itching in her gums. She could not see her long fangs slowly recede, but she could feel the itchy, achy, slithery sensation as they shrank. The crimson pigment of her eyes faded away like a drop of ink dissipating in the water, revealing pretty hazel irises as she stared up at the sky in wide-eyed terror.
She could no longer focus on any one thing. The world had no color and was growing narrower with every aching throb of her long-dead heart. Zudarra realized she was suffocating.
She gasped suddenly, and the air she drew into her lungs, tinged with stink of the slain, was the sweetest she had ever tasted. Her vision slowly cleared as she panted, sucking in great lungfuls of air that burned in her chest as her lungs inflated more than they were used to. The ache in her chest was receding, and with it, the strength in her limbs leeched away. Her armor grew impossibly heavy, weighing her down.
I'm dying. She dropped onto her forearms and finally the sound escaped her lips, a pitiful wail that was half a cry of fear and half a cry of agony.
Saraven was dumbstruck as he heard Zudarra's heart burst into violent life, heard her rising pulse. To hear her take her first breath stunned him. He watched her change, suffused by wonder, red-on-red eyes wide. Oh, the bloodlust was there, and mortal she was glorious, the scent of her shed blood changing from barely noticeable to mouth-watering. But he was master of it now, easily quashing that desire.
He shook off this reverie as she collapsed, kneeling swiftly beside her to reach out and unfasten the clasps of her cuirass. After a second he shucked his gauntlets and shoved them into his belt so that he could work faster. There was a streak of black blood on his left hand, a desperate half-measure he no longer needed.
The scent of her shed blood. She was wounded, had probably barely noticed it in the heat of battle, but there was blood on her padding around the cuirass seams. Saraven winced at the sound she made.
"Easy, girl, we'll get it off you." He tugged at her helmet first, that it might not hurt her neck, and then gently rolled her over so he could completely remove the cuirass. Zudarra was shaking with rage and terror, desperately searching for the daedra that had done this to her, to kill him, but Saraven filled her vision. He pushed the heavy armor piece aside, watched it fall open like the shell of some strange bivalve, and held an arm around her shoulders as he reached out to lay his other hand on her side. He let the magicka go and watched it spiral up around her.
She growled weakly at him - Don't touch me! - but with his cold hand against her side some of her aches passed away. It did not stop the tightness in her chest. The heal wasn't enough. She was still so weak, so frail, so tired! Hot tears rushed freely from Zudarra's eyes, leaving a trail of wet fur along her muzzle.
"It's all right." She was warm now, and he regretted the coldness of his own flesh, so little able to give comfort, but without his vampiric strength he would not have been able to move the adamantium. Give and take. The evil with the good.
She could smell the blood encrusted on her fur, no longer alluring. It stank. She could smell herself. Mortal. Decaying. Growing closer to death with every beat of her heart, her own ghastly clock counting down the seconds of her life. She could hear the fast-paced thudding in her ears now. It was so loud and all wrong, so like her own prey just before she drained them.
"What's happening to me? I'm dying," she choked. She twisted her head and finally caught sight of Sheogorath's servant and snarled at him, hands flying past Saraven's shoulders to claw desperately at the air. "I'll kill you for this!"
"I doubt that, although it might be interesting to see you try," Haskill responded, unamused.
"Zudarra," Saraven said with some sympathy and some exasperation, arms around her to hold her from lunging at the man in the big collar. He was careful. She was big and strong, had always been big and strong, but he could still bruise her by accident. "You're not dying, you've come back to life. You're cured."
And it must have been what she wanted, he realized. He had what he had wanted, what he had truly wanted, not what he had felt was his duty to accept. Freedom from the crushing limitations of his aging body, his failing mind. Control over his vampiric urges. Power to go on. He had not wanted to relinquish what he had never wanted to receive.
She was weeping, he realized. He did not know in what state she had converted. Was she tired now, dehydrated, hungry? Suddenly he realized how fragile the mortal state was, how desperate in its needs. Vampiric lust was pressing, but ignoring that need would not end him.
"Come on," he said. "I'll help you carry the armor. We'll go find the others."
"I am dying!" she insisted angrily, shoving at Saraven's arms. "That bastard tricked us!"
"There was no trickery, I assure you," Haskill said evenly. "Now, as delightful as this has been, I'm afraid I must return the the Isles. On behalf of Lord Sheogorath I thank you both for your service and bid you good day." The man bowed deeply to them both, still holding the silver platter above his head. Saraven bowed his head politely as Haskill vanished in a flash of black smoke that quickly dissipated on the wind as if he had never been.
Zudarra pushed against Saraven and he released her rather than let Zudarra hurt herself. He stood as Zudarra staggered to her feet, glaring at the spot that Haskill had been. Her legs were so heavy in the adamantium, but Zudarra realized she could still move. She was not quite as weak as she felt. She clutched her hand to her belly in response to a sharp pain and winced. She turned her back to Saraven to wipe at the wetness on her face, horrified by her emotional outburst.
So weak. So pathetic. She growled at herself, screwing her eyes shut against another wave of panic. She had to breathe slowly. She had to calm her wild heartbeat. She was acting like a fool in front of Saraven.
He looked at her flat ears, frowning. She seemed terribly upset for having received something she must surely have wanted. Had he taken the wrong bottle after all? Ruined things for her to get what he himself wanted?
After several long moments of deep breathing, mind nearly overloading with the newness and the stink of every scent on the air, Zudarra turned and snatched up her helm from the ground. Tucking it under one arm, she reached for her cuirass. The huge thing was awkward to hold and its weight dragged her to the side, muscles trembling under the strain. The ache in her arm was an unexpected burn and her fingers spasmed, cuirass slipping from her hand.
Saraven went to take up the cuirass, holding it by the collar. She didn't want him to touch her, and he couldn't say that he blamed her. He was still cold, and now that she was mortal he was a threat to her in a new and unpleasant way. He could tell her that she would always be safe from him, that he was his own master now, but there was no reason why she should believe him.
He raised a placating hand. "Come on, Zudarra. We'll find the others." If she wasn't hungry or thirsty yet, she would be soon. That pained grab at her belly suggested she probably was.
Zudarra shot him a sharp glare, wanting to snatch her armor from his hands. She didn't need his help! But if he wanted to be useful, she would let him.
You can hardly hold yourself up, you idiot, she thought bitterly, staggering after him. Her mind was so fuddled up by the clawing ache in her stomach and her tiredness that she could barely think of anything else. Every step was a hard-won victory but she gritted her teeth and bore it silently until they had reached the horses. Zudarra vaguely realized the Dunmer must be fighting his own inner battle now, but she only really cared for her own plight in that moment.
The thralls had laid out their bedrolls side by side and had probably slept, but now Galmir was sitting up in his bed with the blanket over his lap. His hands were on his knees and he stared broodingly down at them. At the sound of footsteps he looked up, brows drawn together in concern, his aspect dark and grave in a way it had never been. His black eyes were clear and intelligent as he watched them approach.
"What's happened?" he asked, throwing off the blanket and standing. He wasn't sure if the blood caking Zudarra's face and neck were her own or not, but she seemed injured.
Brithe looked up groggily as they approached, then sat up, rubbing at her eyes, and looked again at Zudarra. No matter how many times she blinked, the Khajiit's eyes remained hazel.
"The gate is closed," Saraven said. "We encountered a manifestation of Sheogorath who decided to 'reward' us. Zudarra is no longer a vampire. She's going to need food and water."
"Oh," Brithe said, and got up quickly to rummage in the saddlebags for the food bag. "Galmir, do you have meat? There's bread, cheese here. Here's a water skin." She set things on the bedroll beside her as she found them.
"Sit down before you fall down," Saraven told Zudarra, setting the cuirass down beside the bedroll with a thunk. Ves eased over to snuffle at them both, the familiar vampire and the slightly less familiar Khajiit.
Zudarra plunked herself down one one of the bedrolls in a stupor, oblivious to the horse or the people moving around her, bringing her things. Saraven's words were sinking in and she realized, yes, that is what happened. I am not a vampire anymore. I am mortal. She sunk her head into her hands, hiding her eyes.
Did you want this? Weren't you envious of Saraven being cured?
No! I don't want to die! This body is frail and weak!
Her fingers clenched around her own head, claws drawing out and digging against her skin as she curled inward. She could feel all of their eyes burning on her back, pitying her, judging her. The scent of food wormed its way into her consciousness and her tongue grew damp. Zudarra looked beside her at the bread and cheese and lowered her hands from her face, snatching it up. It smelled so good and she ate ravenously, choking as the dry bread scraped down her parched throat. She ripped off the cork of the water skin, not caring where it landed and drank without thinking. The lukewarm water on her tongue, mingling with the bitter blood still on her mouth, was in that moment the most pleasant sensation Zudarra had ever experienced. She gulped too quickly and was forced to pause while she choked. Brithe patted her back carefully.
Zudarra's stomach clenched uncomfortably. The food did not seem to agree with her. It sank like a lead weight in her belly and did not offer the instant relief of blood. She was still weak.
Saraven stood facing the Cathay-raht, looking past her at Galmir. There was a knowing look there that he had never seen. The Bosmer had never moved to fetch the meat, but stood behind Zudarra, staring silently. His hands clenched once and then became limp at his sides. His mouth tugged down in a slight frown, but he seemed weary rather than angry. Saraven did not lay his hand on his sword hilt, but he thought about it. It was just possible that the Bosmer had come to, realized what had been happening, and filched Brithe's belt knife, and damned if Saraven was going to let Zudarra be stabbed in the back five minutes after she regained her mortal life.
"Galmir?" he said quietly.
Galmir looked up at the Dunmer as if some spell had been broken, and he turned around to dig in his own saddle bag for some jerky.
"I'm fine," the Bosmer responded tiredly, turning around with the packet of meat in his hands. He crouched at Zudarra's side, holding out the food to her. When he looked at the mortal Khajiit, he felt only a faint echo of the love and adoration he had felt before, mixed with disgust for what she had done to him and a small amount of pity for her sorry appearance. She seemed thinner than when they parted, fur plastered to her face with blood and wet trails leading away from her now hazel eyes. Her ears flattened against her skull and she glared from his face to his hand before taking the jerky, ripping into the paper wrap with her claws and tearing off a chunk with her teeth. She turned her head away as she chewed.
The smoky, salty flavor exploded across her tongue and she wanted to savor the taste but could not force herself to slow her gulping. The act of ripping shreds of meat with her teeth was deeply satisfying and uncomfortable all at once. It was harsh on her throat when she swallowed.
"You have something you want to say to me?" Zudarra demanded after she had eaten half the packet without looking back at the Bosmer, who had stood, still watching her quietly.
"I have a lot to say to you, but now isn't the time," he said with forced calm, and looked up at Saraven. "What are you two going to do now? Keep fighting, with her like this?"
"Of course," Saraven said, white eyebrows rising. He went to crouch near Zudarra, flicking his left gauntlet out of his belt to pry the broken link out of the inside. He pinched it back into his cuirass with two fingers, then dug out a polishing cloth from his saddlebag to spit on and wipe out the blood.
"Unless she chooses otherwise. We survived when I was mortal and she was undead. If anything we are better off now than we were when we met. She is young and strong." He glanced at Zudarra. "But I must fight on either way, or who will stand before Dagon for us? It won't be the Septims. It's not fair to let it all rest on one Argonian, no matter how powerful he is."
Brithe listened to them with a puzzled frown, as if she were trying to work her way back to real consciousness. Her eyes were gradually growing less wide and blank and more heavy and knowing.
"What if I don't want to go?" Brithe said suddenly. "What if I don't want to do this forever?"
Saraven turned to regard the Nord, tucking the gauntlet back into his belt. He turned the black-stained cloth in his hand as he looked at her seriously.
"Then you are free to go. I would ask that you wait until we are near a town with a Guild, so that you will have a place to find food and rest. But if you really want it to stop, I will not lay a hand on you from this moment. I place no constraint on you."
"You almost killed me that first time," she said.
He nodded.
"I didn't care then," she said quietly. "The pain was too much. It still hurts. But I've been thinking about it when I can't avoid it, and I don't think this is what Glarius would want for me, this half-life."
Zudarra continued to eat while listening to their conversation. It all seemed so petty, discussing the state of the world and their futures when she was sitting here in her decaying corpse of a body. None of it concerned her and she didn't care.
Galmir looked at Brithe with new comprehension, as if he were seeing her for the first time. He remembered holding her while they slept, both last night while the others were away and the night before. Her warm touch had eased a vague ache that was always on the periphery of his consciousness, which he now understood to be grief. She was like he had been, a mindless slave.
His fists balled at his sides and mouth pressed in a tight line, Galmir looked from Brithe to Saraven.
"Tell me something, Saraven. You've been going into those gates and killing daedra, rescuing people... You've saved many lives, haven't you? More than the Legion can claim."
"There are many we have saved," Saraven said. He balled up the bloody rag and stuffed it into his saddlebag. "There were others that we could not. I don't know how our tally compares to the Legion's." He thought of those inside the abbatoir in the Skingrad gate who were too far gone to survive, whose bodies they had burned, and his mouth flattened to a thin line. He thought of those to whom he had not even been able to administer that last mercy because he could not be trusted not to drink them dry. And he thought of the Anvil City Guard and others like them, hurrying through town to help dig people out who were trapped inside their own homes.
He glanced at Zudarra again. She didn't seem to be paying much attention.
"And yes, Brithe," Saraven said. "I wouldn't wish the life of a thrall on those I've loved. I don't excuse what I've done."
The Nord nodded, looking between him and Galmir as she sat beside the Khajiit.
Galmir inhaled deeply, as if fortifying himself for a difficult task.
"What you did to me was wrong, Zudarra. You had no right," he began, calm but firm. Zudarra glared at him sharply, mouth open to snap a rebuttal, but Galmir raised a hand and continued his deliberate speech. "No right to do what you did to me. But if my blood helped you to kill even one dremora bastard I can't regret it. Mr. Saraven Gol, if Brithe decides to go, I will stay to... feed you." He sighed and dropped his hand. "You shouldn't stay, Brithe. You're strong and.. and kind, and you deserve better. I know it hurts, but you're young. You can rebuild your life."
Zudarra was still scowling at him. It was easier to be angry than it was to be ashamed and she was too exhausted to examine herself. Galmir had never feared Zudarra while he was enthralled, but now he swallowed uneasily. She jerked her chin away as if to say his opinion was not worth responding to.
Saraven waited for the inevitable angry outburst, but Zudarra apparently had nothing to say. She really must be exhausted. He felt a pang of alarm, looking at her with knit brow.
Brithe stared at Galmir as she worked on assimilating that. Then she got up and went over to put her arms around the Bosmer and hug him tightly. "You are a good fellow, Galmir." The Bosmer's cheeks turned beet red when the Nord embraced him and he brought up his hands, unsure what to do, but finally closed his arms around her as well and squeezed her back.
"That is a brave thing to offer," Saraven said, looking back at them. "And I thank you for it. But since we're discussing it, maybe you should go with Brithe when the opportunity presents. You've both lost someone, you can each trust the other not to ask something of you that you can't give."
"What happens when you get thirsty?" Brithe asked.
"I can find another thrall. There's still those who will choose that life over what they've got now," Saraven said. He shrugged. "Maybe I'll have them one after the other, and each will go when they're ready. I don't mind if that's how it works."
Zudarra was no longer strong enough to separate him from his prey – but now she didn't have to. Now he was his own master. He had never expected to be thankful to Sheogorath for something.
Galmir raised a brow at Saraven's suggestion, as if the prospect of leaving had never occurred to him.
"Well, I.. I don't have anywhere to return to. I lost.. everything." He brought a palm to his forehead and suddenly seemed very far away, as if it were dawning on him for the first time. Galmir had not thought of that night in much detail since meeting Zudarra, but now it was all flooding back. His voice wobbled when he spoke. "Everything burned. Everything I knew is gone. I don't have a single drake to my name."
Zudarra stood suddenly - it was such an effort, she was so heavy and all she wanted to do was collapse and be unconscious for a very long time - and stalked over to Shadow and her saddle bag, pulling out the heavy sack of gold gifted them by Count Hassildor. She flung it to the Bosmer's feet and he looked down in shock.
"There," she said tersely. "You have a horse, you have gold. You're richer than half the people in Cyrodiil with their rubble houses right now."
Saraven actually smiled at the Khajiit. What makes a hero is not that it is easy for them to do good. It is that they are willing to fight against their worse nature.
"I, well, that is, thank you, but.. Brithe, what do you say to all this?" Galmir asked, incredulous, turning his wide eyes to the Nord.
"I would go," Brithe said. "With my hammer in my hand I will always find work. Where would you choose to live? Somewhere near a forest? Cheydinhal, Chorrol?"
"Chorrol still stands," Saraven said. "I don't know about Cheydinhal. That's where we would be going next. I have hopes that Got-No-Home is there before us, but no rumor has yet reached us. Chorrol is a long ride, mind. You'd have to go slowly."
Zudarra was unstrapping the rest of her armor while they spoke. The food was beginning to digest and the pain in her gut was receding, but she felt like shit in a million other ways. She wanted to scream, she wanted to cry, she wanted to wring somebody's neck. She shed her armor haphazardly, not caring where the pieces lay.
"I don't know," Galmir sputtered, still in shock. "I don't know these cities - I'm from Falinesti, never been anywhere else before. Any town's as good as any other, I suppose. Where are you going, Zudarra?" After stripping to her padding the Khajiit had shouldered her bag and started away from them with no explanation.
"The river," she grunted without looking back at them.
"Good idea," Saraven said. After a wash she would hopefully feel better, or at least a little more relaxed and ready to face the necessity of sleep. And if anything stupid happened, as it sometimes would when emotions were high, he could still hear her heart beating from here. It seemed incredibly loud, in fact. He had never known her mortal.
"Chorrol, then," Brithe said. She watched Zudarra go, then went to drag a bedroll well away from the other one. "I will get the saddle blanket for me, if you do not mind, Saraven. She is having a bad day."
"Thanks," he said. "I'll give Ves and Shadow a brush."
He gathered up the adamantium armor and stacked it near the saddlebags. Then he got the round brush from the saddlebag and went to unsaddle the gelding and then Shadow as well, giving the blankets to Brithe. It looked like Galmir had already taken care of his own horse before he ran out of energy. Both of them snorfled his hair, complaining in low grumbles at the smell of daedric blood. He needed a wash himself. He would go when Zudarra had returned.
Meanwhile, caring for the horses was a pleasantly boring task. He had enjoyed very little of that recently. Brushing was something that linked together the moments of normalcy between the hours of fire and blood. And now he was able to enjoy it. The blood of dremora still quavered in his muscles, urging him to frantic madness, but it could not control him. He could look at the two mortals and see them for what they were, hurting people making the best of a bad situation.
While he lived, pain and desire had never mastered him. Now he was dead, and by the gift of a daedric prince he had only ever seen with fear and suspicion, he was yet the master. He would always carry the burden of his guilt, that Zudarra had had to stand between him and the living; but he would have opportunities to make it up to her, and thanks to her he had not taken lives to whose families he must make reparation. That was a gift of surpassing value.
As he brushed the horses he spoke to them softly in Dunmeris, keeping an ear out for changes to Zudarra's pulse.
It was another cool and misty morning, quickly warming as the sun climbed, but Zudarra was unprepared for the shocking frigidness of the river. Temperature had meant nothing to her for a year and she jerked away when the cold water first assaulted her paw. She had to wade in slowly, letting her body adjust. It wasn't so bad then, with her fur to insulate her.
At first Zudarra did not bathe. She stared at the ripples on the glassy surface, sparkling under the sun. The warmth of it on her shoulders, in stark contrast with the cold below her waist, was very pleasant in a way she had not noticed in a long time. The scent of the water was fresh and clean, inviting her to dip her head and lap the cool liquid. She did. It was even better than the water from the skin. The cold was starting to irritate her so she stripped off her filthy clothes and scrubbed her fur with sand as quickly as she could.
She was shivering when she dragged herself from the water to sit naked on the bank, legs drawn up to her chest and tail curled around herself. No one was around, and if they had been, Zudarra may not have cared. The novelty of the river had worn off and her brooding thoughts returned.
I'm so weak, and I'm going to die someday. If not in battle, I'll grow old and feeble first. She closed her watering eyes before she could embarrass herself again. But you would have died someday as a vampire, you know this. You tried to tell yourself you were too strong and clever, but were you? Saraven had killed vampires much older than you. It was only a matter of time.
She knew it was the truth but had never wanted to admit it. There was no such thing as immortality. If there was, vampirism was not the path to achieve it. She'd been living on borrowed time, nothing more.
"I was strong before I turned," Zudarra said to the air, opening her eyes and clenching a fist with sudden determination. "I'll be strong again." She didn't know if it was true. She didn't know if she could ever get used to her new weakness, but the only path to take was forward.
She did not really want to go back, did not want to face Galmir, did not want to see the pity she imagined on Saraven's face. But she was cold and tired and there was nowhere else she could go to be warm, so Zudarra dressed when her fur was half-dry and returned to the others, saying nothing to any of them before she flopped down on the bed.
The bedroll and the blanket smelled of Galmir and Brithe but it was just a scent. It was not a constant irritation that spurred her thirst. Almost immediately she fell into a heavy slumber.
Zudarra returned without speaking to him, to any of them; she just collapsed onto a bedroll and fell asleep. Saraven finished his task, put the brush away, and went to look down at her. He was peripherally aware of Brithe and Galmir talking, tentatively discussing their plans.
She was different asleep, brow unknit, face relaxed. He realized slowly that he had never seen her thus. She had always been awake by the time he woke up, if she chose to sleep at all. Her eyelids twitched as her eyes moved behind them. She was dreaming, chest expanding and contracting as she breathed, a very strange thing.
He was aware of the great artery and vein pulsing on the side of her neck nearest him, under the coating of damp fur – it was pretty fur, if you came to look at it without Zudarra yelling in your face, and that was a funny thought.
I could do to her what she has done to me. But if he did he would not even have animal bloodlust to excuse him. It would be a deliberate act of something very akin to rape, using another person's body against their will without the necessity of battle. And what had he earned if not the ability to choose not to be that monster? Perhaps he had an eternity walking Nirn ahead of him, alone forever as he had been alone before. That thought wrung his heart now as it had not two months previous; but it was full soon to worry about that. Perhaps he would be burnt to ashes in the fires of the next gate. Now was all. And now he chose the harder way. He needed her strong, and he wanted her to be able to trust him, now and always.
"You are safe with me," he told her softly, not wishing to wake her, hoping that words of reassurance would reach into her dreams. Then he went to wash up and clean his armor. He devoted a few minutes to getting the black stain out of the inside of his left gauntlet.
She slept long. The two thralls dozed for part of that time as well, curled up together on the other bedroll and the horse blankets. Saraven paced around them silently as he waited out the early afternoon, unstung by the sun as yet. Tomorrow would be another matter, but he had many hours yet to deal with that. The daedric blood gradually faded with all of its fervency, leaving him calmer, alone with three beating hearts.