XXIII
Winterhold
Three days later
A single torch burned in the nighttime, held aloft by a tough, gnarled hand. There were five coffins before the presider of the funeral ceremonies, laid out in a V pattern on the shoreline, facing the Sea of Ghosts.
Vinye and Malys stood, with many of the College of Winterhold, and even some of the townsfolk as well—including the Jarl and his family. Both elves' eyes stung with tears, and the coldness of the sea, and their faces were crusted with rime as they bowed their heads in silence. Everyone was dressed in black robes.
"Before the ancient flame," spoke the rough Nordic voice of the man holding the torch, reciting the traditional Nordic funeral incantation, "we grieve."
"We grieve," echoed the congregation around him.
"We grieve," whispered Malys and Vinye. None of them were interested in searching for Cosette; she had not been seen since the three mages and Grimnir had returned to the College. All attempts to visit her had been met with silence; the fiery Breton had refused to leave her room ever since they'd returned from Rkund.
"She must be taking it especially hard," Grimnir had guessed. "Best not to disturb her, I think. She is welcome to attend the funeral if she wishes to. If she does not, then let her grieve on her own time."
Then he had asked to have a word with Mistress Malys after the funeral was concluded. The vampire, perhaps for this reason, felt especially cold in this gods-forsaken place: the base of the spire on which was nestled the College. Every two seconds She stole a look at the impassive ebon mask of the Dragonborn, and wondered what he could be thinking at this moment. For Arch-Mage Grimnir's face—though who could say about his eyes?—had not strayed away from the man holding the torch ever since the funeral had started.
If it was Her place to say, Mistress Malys thought Grimnir was scared of him.
"At this loss," the torchbearer continued, "we weep."
"We weep," echoed the congregation.
"For the fallen … "
"We shout."
Mistress Malys felt something twinge in Her insides once more upon hearing the word "shout," and felt something inside Her shrivel up at the memory of the power She had briefly wielded.
She chanced another look at Grimnir. No, nothing had changed, She thought; his expression radiated uneasiness, and his gaze had not strayed an inch from the man with the torch.
"And for ourselves … " concluded the speaker.
"We take our leave," finished the crowds.
At this last, the torchbearer finally moved, and lowered his flame upon the central coffin. Malys instantly knew Tolfdir was inside that coffin, and felt the shriveling sensation inside Her again. She wished—for what felt like the hundredth time this week—that She had gotten to know him a little better.
The rude wood of the coffin was just as crusted with sea spray as everyone else, and so it took a long while to set alight. When it did, though, the man nudged it just a little, pushing it out into the sea as it began to burn brighter.
Next came the other four coffins, each one containing the four students that had also died in Dagoth Solyn's assault: Malys had neglected to ask about Drevis Neloren, the sixth casualty of the attack. Brelyna had briefly mentioned taking custody of the illusion instructor's remains, and possibly bringing them back to Morrowind, presumably so he could be interred there. The four coffins were lit in slow succession—partially for deliberate effect, partially owing to the rime crusting the wood that made them as well. But they were all lit at length, and in short order, they followed Tolfdir's coffin out into the sea.
Mistress Malys stood there a long time, as did Vinye, and everyone else in attendance. Not one person—not even the Jarl's family, anxious as they looked—wished to leave at this moment in time. A great tragedy had been dealt to the College of Winterhold today. And although the town of Winterhold was often at odds with their own College, Grimnir had said in the eulogy earlier, they had been united here by the sacrifices that these five people had made.
Malys was grateful that he had not acknowledged Her or Her companions for the part they had played in all this.
She watched the five blazing coffins disappear into the far reaches of the sea—minutes, hours; She could not remember how long it took. But Her own blazing eyes had not strayed once from their retreating forms; and in that time, She had felt a small flicker of warmth in Her own self—not nearly enough to match the consuming thing that she had leeched from Grimnir, but much more pleasant.
It felt rather like … hope. Hope for Her own self … and hope, perhaps, for the world.
The rime around Her lips cracked as a small little smile began to unfurl. It did not waver until long after the sight of the five lights of flame had been lost to sight in the sea.
His role in the ceremonies now complete, the torchbearer extinguished his light, and stepped back from the shoreline.
It was sometimes said among the Companions that the only thing bigger than Varulf Blackmane's battleaxe was Varulf himself. Even without his armor, the High King of Skyrim stood well over six feet tall, and nearly a full head taller than Grimnir, but his iconic horned helm—which had once belonged to Yngol, son of Ysgramor, so the stories went—added nearly two feet to an already impressive stature.
Varulf's progression from a Stormcloak whelp to the most politically powerful figure in the province had taken all of two years. By all accounts, such a rise to power was staggeringly meteoric—although it was not without a fair share of controversy, either. For Ulfric Stormcloak, if a polarizing figure, had been considered a very charismatic character by both the Empire and his followers. Indeed, after learning of Varulf's challenge to the former Jarl of Windhelm and his subsequent victory, many Stormcloaks had deserted, and left to either settle down with their wives and children, or to pursue their own destinies elsewhere.
But Varulf had quickly proved to be a charismatic figure in his own right—in his mind, he was a throwback to an older time of Skyrim, when kings led their people from the front lines of the battlefield, rather than the safety and security of the throne. He styled himself one of those warrior-kings of the past, in the vein of men like Harald, Borgas, and Olaf One-Eye—even his armor, as well as the massive battleaxe currently slung over his back, had been fashioned in the ancient Nord style, to further emulate the men he considered heroes.
Only Grimnir, perhaps, had been the only person to see that Varulf—while loyal to the Stormcloak cause—had invested a far greater degree of loyalty elsewhere. The Arch-Mage had never seen him wearing any other kind of armor; Varulf, it was said, had even turned down the ceremonial bear-pelt armor worn by the Stormblade generals upon his promotion to that position. The Harbinger of the Companions fought for something older than the Stormcloaks—and indeed, perhaps, older than all of Skyrim as well.
Varulf, was—plain and simple—a patriot of man. Stories abounded that upon his accession to the throne, he had sworn a blood oath against all who wore their devotion to the Forsworn or the Thalmor on their sleeve—and damn anyone who would stand in his way: man, woman, or Dragonborn.
Which was why Grimnir was so uneasy—why Varulf Blackmane had been the last person he had expected to come here.
With the service concluded, the congregation dispersed and returned to Winterhold and the College, but Grimnir remained behind. He and Varulf had crossed paths several times in the past, and deep in his mind, the Dragonborn suspected that the High King had not come out all this way simply to preside over the funeral of his colleagues, his students … and his friends.
And sure enough, Varulf approached him at length, and performed a short, brief bow, enough so that his eyes were level with Grimnir's mask. "I am sorry, Dragonborn," he said gruffly, "that our next meeting had to come under such grim circumstances."
Grimnir said nothing.
"House Redoran has contacted me about your friend Drevis," Varulf went on. He wiped his eyes, bloodshot from the weather and what many said was a lack of sleep that bordered on perpetual insomnia. "They wish to take custody of his remains, and to bury him in Blacklight. You have no objections to this, I assume?"
For a moment, Grimnir debated telling Varulf that yes, he did indeed have an objection; Drevis had been dear to him, and he might have preferred to be buried on College grounds. But the Dunmer, with Brelyna's help, had helped the efforts to recolonize Morrowind grow by leaps and bounds. Perhaps, in time, the province would return to its glory days—before the Oblivion Crisis, before the Red Year. And Grimnir believed that day would come to pass—and that Drevis would no doubt want to see the results of his work.
Thus, he shook his head. "Tell them to make sure to bury him facing Vvardenfell," he told Varulf, who nodded back at him. "I will have Brelyna Maryon transport them over at her earliest convenience."
They stood there in silence for a long time, both wishing to say more to the other, but neither actually wanting to. Finally, Varulf broke the spell. "I would speak with you," he muttered, out of the hearing range of anyone nearby.
Grimnir heaved a massive sigh—he'd known this was coming. But he nodded, and turned away to make his way up to the College, indicating Varulf should follow him.
An hour later, the two Nords had retired to Grimnir's quarters. The Arch-Mage had already prepared a pot of tea, but Varulf had politely refused, instead draping his mail-and-bear-pelt cloak over a nearby chair, and proceeding to down an entire mug of mead in a single gulp.
"How has Solstheim been treating you?" Grimnir asked, as Varulf wiped the last drops of drink off the beard that earned him his name—a whole foot long, and so stiff and black as to be almost unnatural; it looked as though it had been dyed in pitch. "I hear that changes have been taking place at Thirsk thanks to you, and that the Skaal nearly lost one of their own to a Thalmor plot."
Varulf grunted. "Why those damned elves would want the knowledge of the Skaal is beyond me," he said, a little irritably. "However … soft the Skaal may be, they are still Nords at heart, and the knowledge they possess is something not given out lightly—or by force. I can only hope that will be enough when the time comes."
Behind his mask, Grimnir furrowed his hairless brow. "Then you are still set on fulfilling the promise you made?"
"Yes," answered the High King. "True Nords never back down, after all. I will not go back on the offer I made you those years ago. But did you forget that we only agreed on the end result of that bargain? Whatever gets us there falls to me. And that's why I came to you."
His frown grew deeper. "Because after all, you have your own promises to fulfill, don't you?"
It was only for an instant, and then it passed, and all was as it had been. But no other man except for Varulf could have been prepared for what happened next: Grimnir paused. The teacup he held began to rattle in his hand … and the words of Dagoth Solyn once again wormed their way into his head.
Alduin will not only return, but be reborn … You've already taken the first steps towards the inevitable end … You don't have a choice … and you won't have the Elder Scrolls to save you this time …
Are you going to accept your fate? … Will you condemn this world to its destruction?
"That is not something I can do anymore, Varulf," Grimnir eventually said. "I've learned a lot about myself in the time since we last spoke." The teacup, no longer trembling, was set back on its plate, and pushed aside.
"I know what I am now, and I know what you want me to become," Grimnir said, his voice much clearer—and dangerously level. "And if that happens, it won't only be Winterhold that's at risk of being destroyed—it won't only be Skyrim, either."
Flashes of memory surged through his mind: a desolate iceberg, the College of Winterhold, the nine holds of Skyrim, and the Throat of the World—all consumed in lightning and fire … and the shadow of that golden dragon.
Tahrovin! Tahrovin! Tahrovin!
The Arch-Mage reached for his teacup again. "My answer is no," he said simply. "It was no the first time, and until I decide otherwise, it will always remain no."
Varulf suddenly stood up, his boots hitting the floor with a loud clang. "Why do you hide and cower from your future, Dragonborn?!" he shouted, spittle flying from his mouth. "Our two paths may differ, but our destinations remain the same! We both seek a world of peace. I know the path that lies ahead for me. But what about you?" He circled around the table until he was at Grimnir's side. "Do you know the path on which you are destined to walk?"
He leaned in closer. "Do you even know the ground on which you stand?"
It was Grimnir's turn to stand up, and he did so with so much force that the chair clattered to the floor, and the High King actually backed away a couple of paces. He was shorter than Varulf, but when push came to shove, there was no question who among them was more intimidating.
"Know your place, Varulf!" the Arch-Mage hissed. A single wisp of blue mist appeared from the mouth of his mask. "Dah ro fus. Do not forget who first set you on the path to becoming High King."
His voice grew colder still. "Or what it will mean for Skyrim if you fail."
He clapped a hand to his mask, as if to whip it off and show Varulf the mutilated visage that lay behind it—but Varulf had already shrunk away from him, his reddened eyes watching warily, never breaking from the sight of the Arch-Mage.
"Good—you haven't forgotten," said Grimnir, with something that almost felt like satisfaction. He felt the fire of the dragon's soul inside him burning with pleasure, and immediately he regretted what had happened. The Dragonborn had cowed the man before him into complete submission—it was written all over the High King's face.
But that was the Dragonborn—and not the Arch-Mage of Winterhold.
Just another mask.
Grimnir swiftly replaced Nahkriin, his ebony mask, with the carved moonstone face of Morokei. To the untrained eye, he had simply waved his hand, and his mask had appeared to change colors.
"I am as my father made me," he said, repeating the same words he'd told Solyn on that day beneath Rkund. "Nothing less, and nothing more. The time may come when I have no other choice but to accept. But until that day, I will forge my own path."
He looked the High King in the eye, and the High King stared down at him from his full height, neither Nord daring to even blink. "You already have one axe, Varulf," Grimnir said icily. "That is enough. I am not some ultimate weapon of Skyrim, to be used at the beck and call of her master—not of her people, and certainly not of her king. And neither am I your loyal bloodhound."
Perhaps it was a trick of the light, but Grimnir swore he saw Varulf's eyes shift at the mention of the word bloodhound. For an instant, they flashed, and suddenly they did not look like the eyes of a man at all. They looked ferocious … almost bestial.
But the moment did not last, and eventually, Grimnir sat back down. "I thought you would have learned all this from the first time I declined your invitation to join under Ulfric's banner," he said. The fire and ice had left his body, and he felt weaker now despite the tone of his voice. Not even a fresh cup of tea could help to dull the numbness that felt as if it was seeping into Grimnir's very soul.
A sudden cough from the entryway distracted the Arch-Mage. He turned to see Malys Aryon standing at the entrance to his quarters, looking very uncertain about something that Grimnir suspected was not his argument with Varulf.
Inwardly, he sighed in relief at the timing of the interruption. "You'll have to excuse me, Varulf," he said, putting as much weight into his voice as he could. "I have a prior engagement with one of my students here." One that's been a while coming, he thought.
Varulf turned to look at Malys with one of the blankest expressions the Dragonborn had ever seen the High King wear, then back to Grimnir.
"All right," he said darkly. "But know this, Dragonborn: no matter what you call yourself—no matter how long you shut yourself away in this place—the world still calls you a hero. And heroes will always be destined for greater things in their lifetime. We will talk about this later … and for Tamriel's sake, I hope that you reconsider my offer."
And he strode out of the College, helmed head held high and mailed cloak billowing behind him, leaving Grimnir and Malys behind him.
Nervously, the vampire stepped forward. "You wanted to see me, Arch-Mage?" said the Dunmer.
"Sit down, Miss Malys," said Grimnir. "We have a lot to talk about … "
Eventually, life at the College began to return to normal, though there were many changes effected in the wake of this death and destruction. J'zargo had been named the permanent master of illusion at Winterhold, and Faralda was to succeed Tolfdir as the Master Wizard of Winterhold. Tolfdir's position as instructor of alteration, however, was not so easily replaced; for the time being, Grimnir would take on that particular responsibility, in addition to his duties as Arch-Mage, until he found someone who was—to use his own words—"better qualified than me."
None of it mattered to the three mages, however.
Cosette Ionsaithe would rather die than admit it, of course, but she had not been in the best of sorts ever since what had happened in Rkund. Vinye—when she herself wasn't brooding over that strange Dwemer contraption full of elven blood—had told her it was the lull after the storm. The three mages had seen real, living Dwemer—only a handful of people in the known world had ever done such a feat. It was only natural, Vinye had said, to feel some sense of disappointment after all this—after all, where would one go from here, after seeing the sights they'd seen?
But the dwarves—amazingly—were not the foremost thought in Cosette's mind. She had not attended the funeral of Tolfdir and Drevis, ostensibly out of wishing to grieve in her own way. But in reality, she had felt that familiar anger returning to fester inside her: the same anger she had felt when facing Taron Dreth for the last time—the same desire for bloody revenge.
Solyn had cheated her again, she'd thought over and over. The Forsworn considered bloodshed an answer to bloodshed in every scenario. In particular, if a member of the family was killed, then that bloodshed had to happen at the hands of another of the family. Yet the Culler had been forced to watch as Taron Dreth, still gloating over how he had dispatched those Forsworn, Cosette's parents among them, was murdered at the hands of Solyn, not her own. That had been bad enough, to feel so cheated out of vengeance, and therefore she had steeled herself even further to kill Solyn—if she had, then perhaps her blood debt would be settled.
But again, Solyn had cheated her. He had let himself be destroyed by the Daedra—there was no other reason why a wizard that powerful would die in such a way. Cosette had not killed him, therefore. The debt was still unpaid.
And now, the Culler was not sure where to go from here. She had felt herself retreating into her dormitory more and more often since coming back, and socializing with Vinye and Malys less and less. With each passing night, she was losing more sleep—she could hear the laughter of Taron and Solyn in her head, jeering her for her lack of action. It was just as well that things hadn't quite gone back to normal yet; otherwise, one of the staff might have looked into why she was missing classes and lectures.
"You should go outside," Vinye told her one night, during yet another one-sided conversation while Cosette buried her head under her pillow. "The air might help clear your head a little."
Cosette had snorted under her breath at this—fresh air wouldn't solve her problems. She needed someone to talk to—someone who could truly understand the searing anger she was feeling. Neither of the elves, although they had been more welcoming than she anticipated, would be able to help her.
Yet who on earth could? The obvious solution was to return to the Reach … to the Forsworn. But, again, the last Ionsaithe found herself undeniably, painfully alone. She was a Culler—and Cullers did not reveal themselves to the unsuspecting masses unless it was absolutely necessary that they do so.
"You don't find the Cullers," an old saying went. "They find you." No, Cosette thought, gritting her teeth as she dug her head further into the pillow; even if they could help her, it would take too long—too much time, too much effort. And there were many other affairs to set in motion as well—though what they entailed, only the other Cullers could possibly know.
However, at dusk one day—on the Morndas after the funeral—Cosette was distracted from her conundrum completely when Malys let them in on some unwelcome news.
"Y-you're leaving the College?" Vinye managed to stutter, after a few seconds of stunned silence following the Dunmer's announcement. A disassembled rucksack was already laid on Malys' bed, and she was busying herself with snatching everything within reach to pack it.
Cosette looked more confused than shocked as she continued to process this. "Did Grimnir expel you?" she asked.
Malys heaved a sigh as she tossed some robes and effects onto the large worn cloth on her bed. "It's a little bit more complicated than that," she said. "He thinks I'm a liability. I guess I should feel lucky, though—the Vigil of Stendarr would probably have tried to kill me, or experiment on me, or something like that, just to try and find out how I can gain someone's power through simply drinking his blood. And that's not mentioning other people."
The way she emphasized this reminded Cosette strongly of that one priest of Meridia.
Malys, meanwhile, crossed over to the alchemy station to gather a few potions and ingredients. "All things considered, it isn't so bad," shrugged the vampire. "For a while, I was worried the Dragonborn would want to kill me. It wouldn't have been the first time he'd killed another Dragonborn, he told me—even someone like me."
Cosette didn't bother asking about that last—her brain was still reeling from the news. Malys had only just arrived in Winterhold barely a month ago, she thought, and now she was being asked to leave just as quickly?
"You're not going to fight this?" she found herself asking. "You're just going to roll over and do his bidding?"
"He never really gave me much of a choice," said Malys with a snort, inspecting a selection of soul gems with a narrowed burning eye. She went through about a half dozen of every shape and size, frowning at each one, before shrugging and tossing them all onto the sheet. "Besides, like I said, he isn't expelling me outright. Call it an … indefinite leave, effective immediately. He wants me to get myself cured before he can consider taking me back on."
There was silence as the others processed this. "Malys," Vinye spoke up, as the vampire began to secure the corners of her makeshift pack, "you've never once regretted being a vampire, have you?"
Malys didn't even look up at her as she shook her head—and somehow, Cosette understood the implications.
"Where will you go from here?" the Breton asked, her voice sounding considerably softer than normal.
"Probably Morthal," Malys shrugged again, as she finished tying off her rucksack. "Someone lives there who's supposed to know an awful lot about vampires. Used to be with the College at one time, so chances are the Arch-Mage has already sent word ahead. I think I could learn from him—maybe understand what I am a little better."
She looked up at them. "But I don't plan on coming back here," she said resolutely. "I like what I am. And more than that—being a vampire gave me meaning in my life. Up till then, I didn't know what I was. I'd spent most of my life without a home, without a name—without any knowledge that I still existed. But when I woke up to this … " She flexed her fingers, exhaling through her fangs. "I feel like a better person, now. I feel whole. And if the Dragonborn thinks he can take that away from me, then clearly he's not as powerful as he thinks."
Cosette felt a lump in her throat building up as Malys walked away from them, out the door of the hall, and out to Winterhold. A hundred emotions were tearing at her insides, trying to get out, being choked down—she had to speak now, or live with it forever—
"I'm leaving too."
Malys had just reached the top landing of the staircase. Both elves had now rounded on Cosette, blank shock written on their faces, and it was only at that point that she realized those words had been hers.
"I've … got some things to figure out in my life," the Breton finally forced out. "This whole business with Rkund … I feel burnt out. Like I'm not going to be doing much here again. Nothing worthwhile, anyway."
She stared at Vinye and Malys. "I liked being with you two, don't get me wrong," she conceded. "We did a lot of good work together, and that's not something I'm likely to hear myself saying again. But I really don't know where to go from here. I might head back to the Reach for a bit, go from there."
"With the Forsworn?"
Cosette had been expecting to hear this from Vinye, but that didn't make the sting of the question any less painful. "Yeah," she nodded, grateful that no one else was in the tower to hear. "I don't know if I'll be a Culler again, though. It's not exactly something you can just walk away from, but … "
Her mind faltered, as she tried to search for the right way to speak her thoughts. "I just need someone to talk to, help get all this stuff out from off my chest. Someone who isn't with Winterhold," she amended, as the elves both opened their mouths to speak. "Call it an … outside opinion."
The thought had only just now come to her. It was obvious, really. There was someone she could talk to—someone who wasn't affiliated with the Cullers, but trusted her enough to be able to tell her anything she wanted to know. The only problem was that Cosette had no idea if this person was still alive—but it wouldn't be too hard to find out.
Meanwhile, she and Malys had now turned to look at Vinye. The question went unasked, but both knew the Altmer was sharp enough to know why they were staring at her so intently.
"Well, I suppose with you two gone, there's not much point in me being here either, is there?" Vinye asked, raising an eyebrow in slight indignation. But then it was gone, and a small little smile appeared on her face.
"I don't know, though. I might stay on a little longer," the elf confided. "Only as a scholar, though—I can't see myself doing much more adventuring like the sort we did together. But," she amended, "there's still a lot left to discover in Skyrim—and I'd still like to find as much of it as I can. Maybe I can write some books on what I've discovered, while I'm at it. Someone has to make sure we don't forget the truth, after all."
Cosette noticed her looking at Malys quite intently; though the Breton was unsure what this last part might have meant, she assumed that Malys must have some knowledge of it. Sure enough, the vampire nodded in apparent understanding, before turning away from them and continuing on her way down the stairs.
But Malys hadn't gone three paces before she paused once more.
"Do you think we'll meet again?" she asked. "I'd like that, one day. I don't know if we'll be able to keep in touch—especially considering," she said to Cosette, "where you plan on going. But maybe somewhere, years in the future, we can find a place to meet. I'm thinking the tavern in Whiterun—the Bannered Mare. It'll be just us and a few drinks. No more crazy assassins, no more Dwemer artifacts—and no more secrets to keep between the three of us," she smiled.
Cosette rubbed her cheek where Vinye had slapped her that one morning—it was amazing, she thought, how long ago that felt to her. It didn't sting anymore, of course, but the memory of the incident was still fresh in her mind.
For the first time in what felt like a very long time, the Breton smiled, and she felt the anger at Solyn and Taron dissipating—albeit not entirely—under the warmth of that smile. "You know … I'd like that," she said. "I just hope they don't water down their firebrand wine next time," she added with a chuckle, "because whatever happens after that is going to be their own damn fault."
"Just as long as you don't take it out on me," Vinye said severely, crossing her arms and fixing Cosette with a steely glare, showing her that the high elf would not forget that incident in the bar so easily, either. But it didn't take a sharp eye to see the ill-concealed smile that flitted across Vinye's face.
The trio pulled open the door that led out to the courtyard. It was strangely clear today; Masser and Secunda were rising in the sky, the light of the twin moons easily illuminating the town of Winterhold in the distance, and the jagged cliffs and mountains of rock and ice beyond. Vinye idly wondered if the Dragonborn had used his Voice to clear the skies for Malys and Cosette, to ensure them a safe journey—wherever it might lead them.
Malys pulled her hood over her head. "Well," she sighed, "I guess this is it. I'd hug, but … well, it's cold enough outside for you both, I think." She forced a grin at her own joke, and Vinye couldn't help but crack a smile herself.
Cosette, however, did not return any smile. "I don't really care for touchy-feely moments anyway," she said, her arms crossed. "I won't say goodbye—I'm only going to say good luck. We'll see each other again, I know it."
Then she grinned. "I'll make sure we meet again in Whiterun—even if I have to hunt you down and drag you there myself to make it happen," she said with a wink.
Vinye, for only a moment, felt a twinge of unease at the choice of words. But Cosette's smile softened into something much more genuine, and the Breton extended her hand—the one with the splotchy burn on the palm. Vinye accepted the handshake, feeling the roughness of the flesh against her own.
Cosette and Malys did not shake, but merely looked into one another's eyes for a moment, as if sizing each other up. Then, the Forsworn turned on her heel, and set off on her way down the bridge.
Both elves watched her go before Malys eventually moved to follow in her stead.
"Malys?"
Vinye's question had come almost automatically—she hadn't even known it was on her lips. But the Dunmer had already turned around, one foot out of the gate, the other yet within.
Vinye swallowed as she looked Malys in the eye. "Be careful out there," she said softly, thinking of the priest of Meridia they had encountered, and the hunters he had claimed to be in league with.
The dark elf nodded. "I will."
And without any further exchange of goodbyes, the hybrid vampire turned on her heel, and walked out of the gate and onto the crumbling footbridge that led to Winterhold—leaving behind Vinye, who was now feeling substantially more alone than she had ever remembered feeling in her lifetime.
Unbeknownst to the three mages, however, another pair of eyes was observing their farewells. The giant window of the Arcaneum that overlooked the courtyard afforded Grimnir Torn-Skull an unobstructed view of Malys Aryon traversing the precarious bridge to civilization.
"What is it about you that attracts people like them?" asked the old man to his right with a gruff sigh. The yellow robes covering his deceptively fragile form were emblazoned with a symbol Grimnir had never seen before, save in the tomes of his library: a shield wreathed in the fires of the sun. "Powerful mages, they are … powerful enemies, too, if you don't keep a close eye on them. I don't agree that you're simply letting releasing her into the wild."
"And who says that?" Grimnir asked, somewhat irritated, turning away from the window to regard his visitor. "Your instinct, or your Lady?"
The snow-white eyes of Lucius Anglinius blinked owlishly as he surveyed the scene below. "My experience," he said brusquely, looking sidelong at the Arch-Mage. "And yours as well, I would imagine. Absolute power corrupts absolutely."
Grimnir stiffened at those words. He had heard them before.
Suleyk fen du unslaad …
What if I was one of them?
The will to seek power is in our blood.
… anyone who has ever desired power … should they be evil, too?
Dov wahlaan fah rel.
"Arch-Mage?"
Grimnir brought himself back to reality as Lucius' gruff voice spoke once more.
"Forgive me," he said. "This has been a very … rough ordeal for me, Master Anglinius." Abruptly, he strode for the staircase leading up to his quarters. "If you'll excuse me, there is something I must attend to."
Lucius followed him, sputtering. "But—my proposal!" he said, taking three steps for every two of Grimnir's as the two men reached the Arch-Mage's quarters. "I have come all the way from the Rift for this moment, Arch-Mage! My organization has been licking our wounds for too long in that desolate fortress! The time is now upon us for action—but we need your expertise!"
"Master Anglinius, you will hold your tongue!" Grimnir rumbled as he spun around to face the priest of Meridia—and the stones of the College seemed to tremble with his words. "I do not care how powerful an enemy you are poised to meet. I will not be your ultimate weapon against them!"
Unexpectedly, Lucius smiled back. "The Dawnguard has all the weapons they need to fight the taint of the vampire menace," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "We do not need your services in that regard, Dragonborn. But many of these weapons remain undiscovered; they are yet to be researched. Surely you would accept the chance to advance the course of knowledge in our—"
He had said the wrong thing. Grimnir's gnarled hand reached out and caught Lucius by the robe, and swung him—hardly delicately—into the wall directly under the massive window.
"Do not talk to me about knowledge!" snarled the Arch-Mage. "It is because of knowledge that I chose to hide myself from the world. It is because of knowledge that I have become the monster I once destroyed!"
His hand trembled, and released Lucius from his iron grip. "It is because of knowledge," he hissed, "that I see the mortalkind—both men and elves alike—for what they really are. They have no regard for the world around them—only the world they choose to see. Varulf may yet prove to be a strong leader in his own right, but today he is no better than the rest of them. His vision is his very weakness—and unless he learns to see beyond the world he sees, then Skyrim will be nothing more than a fleeting shred of memory in the dead and the dying!"
And with that, Grimnir Torn-Skull turned on his heel, and swept away from Lucius. "Look to your own borders, and I will look to mine," he said shortly as he climbed up to the topmost spire of the Hall of the Elements. "The rest of the world will take its own course from there."
He stopped suddenly—he'd almost forgotten. "Oh, and Master Anglinius," he added. "Apology accepted."
And without bothering to look behind him at the Imperial priest, he'd thrown open the door to the parapet, into the bitter chill of the air that hit him like a frozen wall.
He inhaled that freezing air, and roared to the heavens. "ODAHVIING!"
Less than a mile away, Mistress Malys and Cosette were trudging through the snow-covered cobblestone road when they heard it—a bellowing roar in the distance, somewhere from behind and to Malys' left. She whirled around just in time to see a massive winged shape soaring barely a house's length above Her head with hardly a sound at all.
Her eyes, wide and round and bright as molten coins, pierced through the sudden veil of choking fear that had clouded Her mind as the dragon approached. She saw the familiar ridges and spikes, the blood-red coloration of the same dragon She had once mounted with Vinye and Cosette … a whole week that felt like a lifetime ago.
And astride it, the mage whose blood Malys had briefly shared, and whose terrible power She had briefly wielded.
If the mask of Grimnir Torn-Skull had noticed either of them standing there in awed, silent shock, even Her eyes could not tell, and so Mistress Malys did not wave, nor give any other sign that She was standing there. Cosette, She noticed, was avoiding looking at the sight entirely—had she even broken stride? Malys wondered—and was continuing on her way without any regard for her surroundings.
Malys thought about catching up with her and asking what was wrong, but something was holding Her back.
She continued to stand there, long after dragon and Dragonborn had disappeared over the horizon, due south for a destination known only to them.
Malys smiled at the sight of the Last Dragonborn, the faceless protector of Skyrim … and yet, as she followed Cosette—now a shrinking speck of tan against the endless snow drifts—and continued on Her journey west to the town of Morthal, She could not help but feel a slight shiver of trepidation.
How, She could not tell—but a part of Her knew: in time, they would all be meeting again.
Cosette, meanwhile, had hardened herself both physically and mentally to fend off the driving cold. She had dressed particularly for this day—not necessarily the robes she wore, but what lay under them more than anything.
There was no turning back now, she knew. Her path had already been set before her. She could only hope Malys was smart enough not to follow her for too long. The Breton chanced a look back at the vampire behind her, and felt a twinge of sadness slice through her insides; Malys was nothing more than a shrinking point of black robes.
The road curved sharply right at length, and Cosette remembered only now that they had once passed through this point to get to Rkund, as a possible shortcut. She remembered the trolls they had fought near the ruins there, and the ancient wispmother that called them home. It was here, she thought, that they had taken the first steps of getting to know one another.
Here, they had become more than students, but friends as well.
Cosette sighed. It was a pity that such things couldn't last under the circumstances.
But as she continued to look downward at the snow-covered ruins, a thought took hold of her. Cosette Ionsaithe was not typically given to reminiscing about the past, nor was she particularly one to cherish memories. She was part of the Forsworn, and as long as she lived—survived—with each passing day, the Forsworn lived with her. That was enough memory for her to get by in life.
But even so—even knowing the path that lay before her—Cosette was also not one to go quietly into the night, and vanish into Oblivion with hardly so much as a last gasp. One more stroll along this thread of her life, she decided. Yes … one more chance to relive the first of the chain of events that had led her to this point.
Cosette left the road there, and took a step down the rocks, then another, and then a third. As she walked further down the hillside, she could hear the echoes of the wispmother's shrieks in the back of her mind—cold as ice even in her memories—and smell the stench of burned troll hair and her own mage-fire. She let the memories wash over her, like the winds of the Reach.
For that one moment, after everything Cosette Ionsaithe had been through … all was finally good in her life.
The highest mountain in all of Skyrim—and now, all of Tamriel, since the eruption of Vvardenfell—had almost as many names as that ancient and terrible volcano. To the Akaviri it was Snow-Throat, the Snow Tower. To the dragons, it was the Monahven, the "Mother-Wind." And to the Nords, it was the Throat of the World, the site of Alduin's initial defeat in the Dragon Wars of old, and the home of the reclusive Greybeards.
But to a special few, it was something else entirely: home.
Grimnir Torn-Skull's boots crunched in the hardened crust of snow as he trekked his way upward, and the wind howled around him with the chill of a death rattle. He adjusted the dark-green mask tighter around his malformed face as he continued towards his destination.
Odahviing had already flown on without him, and the red dragon now circled the mountain listlessly, looking over all of Skyrim and the world beyond. But Grimnir's mind was focused elsewhere—specifically, on the sole occupant of the summit of this lonely mountain.
He remembered the last time he had been here, of how he had left the aged green dragon ahead of him, not even bothering to look back. Grimnir had felt ashamed of himself after that moment, and he could feel the shame welling up inside his throat once more like bile as he stared at the pitiful sight.
Paarthurnax did not look as if he had moved an inch ever since that fateful day. The cracked horns and battered spikes that covered every scale on his body were crusted with snow. His leathery wings looked more tattered than ever, to the point where Grimnir was pondering if the ancient dragon could ever fly again.
As he grew closer, the snow under his feet gave a particularly loud crunch. Immediately, the dragon's neck shifted at the noise, and Grimnir heard the horrible popping of disused joints as Paarthurnax turned to face him.
"Drem yol lok … Dovahkiin," rumbled the master of the Greybeards. His dragon-speech was as slow and stilted in age as the rest of his body, but behind the tremors and shakes of every syllable lurked the unquenchable flame of his spirit.
And Grimnir, somehow, knew that Paarthurnax had not given up on him—even when he himself had done the unthinkable. The old dragon had not been brooding here … he had been waiting for him to return.
The Arch-Mage felt a sudden upsurge of affection for the dragon, and he bent double in deferential respect to his elder. "Drem haal viik, Paarthurnax," he responded. "It has been a long time … my old friend."
Paarthurnax alighted on the snow before him with hardly a sound. And as the snow began to swirl around them, Grimnir Torn-Skull felt the Words flow from his mouth as he began to converse with the only one he could ever truly call his Master. For Paarthurnax, now, was the only one who could give him the answers to a new set of questions in his life—riddles of the Dragonborn's uncertain future, that he wanted so desperately to be solved …
West of Windhelm
The next day
The city had already shrunk behind her as the carriage clattered over the cobblestones. Vinye had begun packing her own effects not long after seeing Malys off—enough food, potions, and magickal supplements for a weeklong voyage into a Dwarven keep. The Altmer wasn't too fond of lingering around for longer than she felt comfortable—and besides, she had a feeling that Malys might be right; perhaps this would not be the last time the three mages encountered each other.
The three passengers riding with her were hardly talkative, in the meantime, which annoyed Vinye a little—indeed, the elf had hardly heard them speak since she'd clambered onto the carriage outside Windhelm and seen them on board already. They were also clad in very thick clothes that hid almost all flesh—they must not be from around here, she thought, and were therefore not used at all to the extreme cold in this part of the province.
Luckily, however, she had her own thoughts to entertain her—and Vinye had every intention on following through with her intentions to keep on studying the secrets of Skyrim. As a matter of fact, her destination wasn't too far away from here—or, at least, the entrance to it. The immense, naturally lit cavern Grimnir had called Blackreach kept on tempting her to uncover whatever lay within.
She leaned forward to the carriage driver. "I'll be needing to disembark in a mile," she told him. "You need not come back for me."
"Sorry, ma'am," said the man at the buggy. "This carriage goes straight to Solitude. No stops."
Vinye frowned at this—that was highly irregular. "Who told you this?"
The driver shrugged. "Ordinarily, I wouldn't have a problem with it," he told her. "But those three behind you were very insistent I take them directly to the stables of Solitude. No stops for anything or anyone, they said."
Vinye considered just making a break for it. The snow was deep enough off the shoulder of the road that it might be able to cushion her fall at a standing leap. The Altmer glanced back at the three people in the seats next to her, their faces practically mummified in scarves and coats. There was something that wasn't sitting right with her—some sixth sense in her head was buzzing nonstop.
"Why just the stables?" she decided to ask—she knew the layout of Skyrim's capital city; it was a fair hike from the stables to the gates of the city proper. "Why not take them to Solitude outright?"
"Because we're not going to Solitude," said one of the other passengers for the first time, as he removed his coat.
Revealing a familiar shade of ornate dark blue.
It all happened in an instant; Vinye only realized the man had a thick Altmeri accent at the exact moment one of his companions sent a firebolt at the carriage driver, incinerating him on the spot. Meanwhile, his other cohort had reached out with an arm, and grabbed Vinye by the wrist in an iron grip. The horse neighed in fear at the chaos unfolding within the cart, and tried to break free, but almost immediately, the third elf reached out with his free arm and sent a calming spell at the horse, which returned it to its normal canter on the road.
Thalmor, Vinye thought; her confusion was now quickly turning into a rapidly rising panic. They're all Thalmor!
I've been caught!
It had all seemed so flawless, but in hindsight, Vinye was kicking herself. She'd been thinking too much about Winterhold, she'd forgotten why she'd come there in the first place—why she'd been on the run at all.
And now, fate had cruelly reminded her why.
"We've been looking for you for a long time, Vinye," said one of the elves as he pulled off his thick coats, revealing impeccably trimmed blond hair and greenish-gold skin, beneath the standard blue robes of a Thalmor Justiciar. "Your mother's been very worried about you."
Vinye felt her breath catch in her throat—she had not been expecting this. My mother … she knew about me? All this time?
And then her eyes narrowed. No one must know.
It was like Falinesti all over again; Vinye's body began surging with incredible power—first a spark, then several, and finally an entire shower of electricity spilled from her body. But there was one major difference.
Vinye was no longer a child. She was finally in control.
No one can ever know.
Vinye's captor pulled back instinctively, but by then it was too late. The high elf shrieked a cry that embodied all the rage against the family she had come to hate, against the career she had long since spurned—and the monsters who would dare to make her one of their own.
Her world exploded in blue light and thunder and white fire, and for an instant, Vinye thought the heat from it all might have eclipsed that of Magnus' sun. But the next instant, the light had sound had faded away, the world around her had returned—and there was nothing left of the Thalmor—or the carriage, or even its horse and driver—save a few piles of ash blowing in the wind, and the tattered remains of the clothes they had once worn in life.
The lead Justiciar, however, had survived by the skin of his teeth, managing to leap out of the carriage just quickly enough to escape Vinye's lightning—but not quickly enough to escape injury. He had hit the road at considerable speed, and his right leg and left arm were sticking out at odd angles as a direct result. The Thalmor howled in pain as he tried to bring himself up to his feet. He reached out his good hand, hoping to cast a deadly spell—
—only to feel it stamped down on the ground by Vinye's foot.
The Altmer could feel her leaf-green eyes blazing with fury as the Thalmor's bones crunched beneath her boot. But behind this veneer of homicidal intent, a plan was taking shape in Vinye's mind—an impossible, insane plan. If she followed through, it would most likely lead to her doom.
But … if it would give her the closure she had sought ever since that day in Falinesti, then she would gladly take it.
The high elf peered down at the hapless Thalmor. "If my mother is so worried about her only child," she said in a lethal whisper, colder than the north wind, "then it's only right I should pay her a visit, isn't it?"
The Thalmor was silent.
"Isn't it?!" Vinye screamed at him, spittle flying from her mouth.
Wordlessly, the Thalmor nodded.
"I'm going to kill you for what you've done," said Vinye coldly, "and nothing you say or do is going to change that. But I might show you some measure of mercy, if you can answer me one question: Where. Is. My. Mother?"
"Why should I tell you?" spat the Thalmor. "You've already said you're going to kill me, no matter what!"
Vinye smiled. "Wrong answer." She raised her hand, and sparks of lightning poured from her fingertips, raking the Thalmor with destructive energy. He screamed in anger and agony as the shocks rebounded through his body.
"I'm not going to stop," said the vengeful elf, as her lightning continued to spark and sizzle in the air, and the Justiciar continued to squirm on the ground before her. "I'm going to keep on doing this until you tell me what I want to know. You can either die a quick and merciful death … or a slow and excruciatingly painful death. And if that doesn't turn you," she added with a smirk, "I have a couple of friends who wouldn't hesitate to make your demise both quick and painful.
"Now," Vinye said, increasing the torrent of lightning further still, "would you like to hear the question again?"
The Thalmor was screaming so loud that it was a wonder the High King didn't hear this, Vinye thought. Idly, she wondered what he would think of the prospect of torturing this miserable wretch of an elf.
"All right, all right!" said the Thalmor all of a sudden. "All right! I'll tell you!"
Vinye smiled. She did not cease her assault, but she toned it down enough to where the sizzling noises of both her lightning and the sizzling flesh of the Justiciar no longer drowned out her voice.
She only spoke two words, almost inaudible against the sparks: "Tell me."
The Thalmor told her.
She smiled—a genuine, heartfelt smile this time. For once, this Thalmor had done something useful in his life. Maybe it would redeem him in the eyes of the Divines. Maybe.
But even then, she felt a sour taste in her throat, and the corners of her mouth turned down. It was too late for him now. He was a Justiciar; gods only knew how many atrocities he'd been involved with across Tamriel. Killing him would accomplish nothing in the grand scheme of things.
But that wasn't what Vinye was concerned about right now.
For only a moment, the sparks on her fingers flickered and died, and the Altmer closed her eyes in thought. But just when it looked like the Justiciar was beginning to believe that he might just be spared, Vinye's eyelids snapped open, and her lightning burned brighter and more terrible than ever before. The Justiciar coughed once, his eyes crossing to see the perfectly round hole that had just been burned dead center between them—and toppled over, dead. Vinye was only just able to see the Justiciar's mouth, frozen in a silent scream of horrified realization, before he disintegrated into more fine ash. Very little of the Thalmor remained to accumulate upon the road; everything else was blown away by the wind.
What happened after that, Vinye thought, must surely have been the result of divine intervention: the uniform of the Justiciar fluttered on the wind, and right on top of her boots. Somehow, it had not been vaporized with its owner. In fact, not a single inch of the royal blue fabric had suffered so much as a singed edge. Whether this was because of enchantments woven into the cloth, or sheer dumb luck, Vinye could not fathom—but neither did she care.
She picked up the robes, gingerly ran her fingers over its hood and sleeves—and smiled.
Blackreach could wait, she decided, as she retrieved the rest of the Thalmor's effects. It was time she stopped running away.
It was time she told the truth …
To Be Concluded …
A/N: Man, I hate writing endings. Something in me just twists every time I have to write someone saying goodbye for what could well be the last time.
Speaking of endings: as of now, I am officially the holder of a Bachelor of Fine Arts! Took me a long while to get here, but the journey has been very much worth it. And as for the story, all that's left to do from here is the epilogue. That should be a fun piece of work; it's about three-quarters done already—and I think you'll like where it leads.
By the way, one thing I haven't said much on is where this story really came from. A while after Dragonborn was announced as DLC for Skyrim, there was a thread or two on the TES wiki where everyone was talking about ideas for a new DLC; more specifically, one that involved the Dwemer—you can PM me for a link to those threads if you're interested. I submitted a suggestion, and for a while, that was that—though I do recall one or two people, myself included, who relinquished (perhaps jokingly) the rights to our IP on the off chance someone from Bethesda might have been on the forums, trawling for new possibilities in content.
Turned out it didn't really matter—eventually, the news broke that Dragonborn was the last DLC Bethesda would be making. I knew the odds on my idea ever seeing the light of day in a video game were very long indeed; nevertheless, I was still a little bummed. But over time, my obsession with the idea grew, and before long, I started planning it out on pen and paper, and ultimately released my questline another way. Over a quarter million words later, that questline has almost come to an end.
It's been a long and occasionally bumpy ride, and I couldn't have gotten this far without the critique that you've given me. But even though this story is about to reach its conclusion, like almost every questline in Skyrim, there's always a little room for something more: an ending that leaves its audience guessing, wanting just a little more in order to make it feel complete. I hope the epilogue for this story can fulfill all this for you, and more.
Sorry for the long post. With everything winding down almost all at once, I've had a lot to talk about lately. Hope you enjoyed this chapter, and thanks for reading! - K