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Chapter 10
Arenthia was a city in the north-east of Valenwood and situated on the Strid River's banks, close to Cyrodiil and Elsweyr's borders. The multi-cultural city in the Reaper's March was a perfect location for both trade and diplomatic purposes. Taurmillan had made use of the wealth and resources at his disposal to have an Altmer-style estate built for him amidst what he thought to be the primitive structures of Khajitti, Bosmer and Imperial influence.
Unorganized rabble…He folded his hands behind his back as he peered over the estate's inner courtyard where his men practiced their skill in sword and spell. None of these pathetic, inbred humans and beasts could ever hope to possess our people's grace or skill.
He looked at his general; a noble, fellow Mer of high birth, named Thorelas. "All preparations are in order as you desired, my Lord Exarch," said the general after removing his helmet and bowing for his superior. In comparison, Thorelas was a battle-scarred, broad and strong High Elf, whereas Taurmillan was a taller, slender and more intimidating appearance because of the way he carried himself. He wore exquisite and elaborate silk robes that shimmered in the sun-light that peeked through the dense foliage of Valenwood's trees. Like his father, his gloved hands were adorned with gemmed and enchanted rings. "If you do not mind my bold inquiry, any news yet of your bride to-be?"
"I take it you handled the situation as I desired?" Taurmillan's voice was calm, but there was a visible rage in his eyes.
"But of course, Lord Exarch. The evidence has been planted to direct the Thalmor to the Beautiful. Two birds with one stone I say. The less of that scum to contend with, the better." Thorelas looked at his men as well. He could not wait for the grand part he would soon play in his Lord's plans.
"A pity that it could not be avoided. My father was a brilliant man. Shame he decided to get in my way for the last time…" Taurmillan's voice was as cold and calculating as his eyes. "As for my betrothed, it would appear that she was sighted near Helgen not long after it had been razed to the ground by a 'dragon'…" The High Elf pinched the bridge of his nose. Dragons… Preposterous. "It most likely were those Stormcloak mongrels that razed it to the ground. The trail goes cold from there for a few days, but she has arrived at the College. It would appear a Thalmor Operative made an inquiry about her as she was in the company of some filthy, Ashlandic cur. But the College has been anything but cooperative on disclosing any further information about its attendants. I will make sure their Arch Mage will not make that mistake again when I get there."
"I wish to caution you for First Emissary Elenwen, however, my Lord." Thorelas glanced sideways at his superior, trying to pinpoint whether he would hear more of it or not. "If she caught wind of your plans…"
"I will take care of her. She will not have a foot to stand on once I set foot in Skyrim. That College is the perfect location from where we can operate. Once Cirilonde and I are wed, her father will have to cooperate, lest his beloved daughter suffer the consequences. We should be able to march freely where we wish and make conquest of our own and raze that barbaric filth from the face of Nirn."
"And my men will be ready, Lord Exarch." Thorelas placed his fist on his chest, proud of his Lord and eager for the battles to come. First Skyrim, then Morrowind. All would submit to their new Lord of the Dominion. "It has been too long since our people reminded the lesser races of our supremacy on the fields of battle."
"My Lord Exarch."
Taurmillan did not even glance over his shoulder where a shadow had appeared out of seemingly nowhere. "I hope for your sake that you have good news."
The Wood Elf that had knelt behind Taurmillan wore dark attire. Her eyes were lined with coal and traditional assassins' tattoos marked her face. Her vivid and panther-like, green eyes were all they could really see of her face, though. "Have I ever failed you, my Lord Exarch?"
Thorelas needed not be dismissed. He bowed his head to his Lord and left, so he could read the contents of the letter the Bosmer slipped into Taurmillan's grasp.
"Dear Lord Gravia,
I regret to inform you I can currently be of no further assistance as to your inquiry. This due to unfamiliarity with past correspondence between you and Arch-Mage Savos Aren. May Arkay preserve his soul, for he has recently passed.
If you wish for the College to be of further assistance with whatever information or aid you require, feel free to respond and we shall be at your disposal where able.
I hope to have informed you adequately.
Regards,
Cirilonde Valanocke, Advisor of the College of Winterhold."
Sylva had not seen such a sincere smile play on her Lord's lips in such a long time it scared her.
"How...unfortunate for the Arch-Mage to have met his end." Taurmillan was disappointed. He'd wanted to strangle this Savos Aren himself that his agent had to resort to forging correspondence to obtain the information he needed. A tedious waste of his time and resources. "Anything else of use?"
"Oh, my Lord, you will be quite interested…" The Bosmer bared her canines as she smiled.
"Hey…Wake up. Cirilonde! Why are you shaking? You're dreaming, wake up!"
Ancano woke with a start but saw nothing. His whole body was drenched in cold sweat but his skin felt as though it was on fire. His brain thudded in his skull as if a herd of mammoths had stomped over it repeatedly. Upon hearing the Dark Elf's voice near him, he made to lunge but was instantly punished when the wound at his shoulder was torn open in the process.
"Stay down you s'wit!" Ganir had leapt away from the Thalmor. Had Ancano been able to see, he would've been startled by the troubled expression Ganir's face bore.
"What. Did. You. Do. To me?!" Ancano bared his teeth in a snarl and clutched the wound that had begun to bleed profusely. What had they done to him? What had happened?! Was this some sick, Dark Elven torture method he wasn't familiar with?
"We didn't do this to you-, Oh Auri-El, Ganir I warned you-!"
"The fetcher tried to attack me!" Ganir exclaimed. "I didn't do anything."
"Keep your hands off me, wretch!" Ancano had made to slap Cirilonde's hands away from him, but heard the female Elf gasp before he could do anything. Cirilonde had jumped back with a gasp, but not in fear of him. It wasn't just the wicked, teal haze over Ancano's eyes that caused his blindness, but it was as though there was another pair of eyes over Ancano's that stared back at her. No. Glared. "Where is the Arch-Mage?!"
"Tell him, Ciri. He clearly doesn't remember a damned thing." Ganir shook his head in disbelief. He'd seen what she'd seen. At first, the Dark Elf had not been convinced at all, but Cirilonde had been right. Ancano had been possessed. Perhaps he still was.
"Don't you remember anything?" Cirilonde honestly doubted if it was wise to ask such a thing but she needed an answer for medical and personal reasons.
"Would I be asking you if I did? Because the last thing I remember was some filthy mongrel stabbing me!" Ancano failed to maintain his composure and reached for his head. Whatever it was, had buried its talons into his skull and begun to tear away at his brains. Unseen by him, the scars all over his body flared up at the same time his temper had. The Thalmor cried out when the scars began to sear hot red and burned his skin. The excruciating agony knocked Ancano out in a matter of seconds.
"Well…at least you can patch him up again in peace." Ganir's comment was not well-received by Cirilonde and he winced.
"Just get Tolfdir." Cirilonde sighed. She'd have to start all over again.
She hadn't even expected for Ancano to survive. It had almost been two weeks in total but he'd finally awoken. If this was a good sign, she had yet to determine. This, however, had not been a good development.
The High Elf raised a ward and cautiously reached out to the unconscious Thalmor. She immediately withdrew her hand when she saw the effect hadn't worn off yet and Ancano winced.
"Guess we'll have to do this the old fashioned way…again." She returned after a while with clean bandages, a bowl and another bucket of clean, hot water. She uncorked a vial on the nightstand and mixed the healing potion with the herbal poultice she'd made.
Having stopped the bleeding, she had barely applied the mixture to the wound when Ancano grabbed her hand. He was pleased to hear he'd startled her enough to yelp. "That. Hurts," he growled.
"Serves you right for tearing that wound back open." She caught him off guard as she'd spoken in the Altmer tongue. "Do you have any idea how much work that was? Now, hold still."
He angrily looked away. Silence.
Fine. Be that way. Ungrateful bastard. She began applying the mixture to the wound again and though she knew it was wrong of her, she couldn't help but feel a little satisfied whenever he failed to suppress a hiss or wince of pain. Served him right for making her go through all this tedious work again.
She had tried to heal him with magic, but it had backfired too often and she didn't want to risk hurting him more than he already was, or herself. It was tedious to resort to the traditional means, but there were slow results. She tried to be as gentle as she could with him, hoping it'd improve his mood well enough so she could get some answers out of him.
"I know you might not remember anything and I understand that you are angry, but had Ganir not stabbed you, you would've killed us all. Don't you remember anything at all?"
Again. Silence, but this time it was a ponderous one where Ancano strained his mind to remember, but all he saw before his eyes were vague, confusing and brief flashes.
She felt how he tensed when she took his hands away from his head and gently laid her own on top. "Try to relax. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to push you."
The pain had returned, but it didn't immediately fade away when she began to incant. He could tell that she made sure her magic flowed forth gently and with caution as not to cause another flare up of whatever ailed him. His memories became clearer and more vivid. "Where is the Arch Mage?"
"…You killed him." Her hands had twitched and her voice shook. "Mirabelle too."
He actually seemed…shocked? Confused? "What happened?" He even no longer sounded as commanding and vicious as before.
"I don't mind telling you, but you need to know that you are seriously injured still. I don't want to over exert you." He gave a snort. Did he actually catch a hint of concern? "A lot happened. I don't even know where to start, so bear with me."
Now that she spoke in the Altmer tongue, he could clearly distinguish her clear and highborn accent. She told him everything from the moment the Eye of Magnus was brought to the College and that everyone, including him, slowly sank further into its grasp. How everyone, including him begun to act strange, which eventually led to his possession by the Eye. How? Divines knew what his intentions had been in the first place. Even he didn't remember.
He immediately grabbed hold of his head with both hands when excruciating pain surged through his skull. Memories flashed before his eyes of terrible, deafening shrieks, bright lights and the faces of the College's inhabitants. He could hear Savos' voice and then saw how the old Dunmer reached for him with a pleading look. It was clear the Arch Mage wanted to help him, but it was too late and Ancano could not break free no matter how much he willed it.
Not trusting her, he grabbed hold of her wrist when she laid one hand on his forehead and the other on his chest. "I'm not going to hurt you," she said to him. "Let me help you." He grit his teeth in anger. His elven pride despised his current state of weakness and vulnerability, but he was alone and it was clear he was only alive because of her. Even if he'd wanted to object, he was in far too much pain and weak to do so. She was so close that he caught her scent; jasmine and a mixture of other crushed herbs. She began to incant and her soft, serene and melodious incantations resounded through the Arch Mage's quarters. Her magic held a warm, golden and ardent glow that slowly seeped into his aching body. The both of them remained tense at first, fearing that his scars would flare up again, but when it didn't happen, he relaxed some.
Her mastery of the Restorative Arts was truly astounding and slowly but surely, he felt the pain ebb away. He wanted to know what else had happened, and he wanted to ask, but he suddenly grew so very, very tired and weak that his eyes fell shut.
Cirilonde looked up at Master Tolfdir and Ganir who had entered. "Is he still out?"
"No, he woke up again for a moment. But he's in a lot of pain." She washed her hands after pulling the thick wool and fur covers over Ancano. "I knew he wouldn't be at his best if he awoke, but I fear its worse than I initially thought. The Eye still seems to have some sort of hold on him, but I can't tell if this is temporary. It's depraved his eye sight and severed his connection from the arcane." She tucked some stray locks of her hair behind her ears after glancing over to Ancano.
"Well, that should make him less of a problem to deal with at least." Ganir raised a brow when Cirilonde glared at him. "Don't tell me you actually feel sorry for the fetcher."
"I do and I don't," she responded, crossing her arms over her chest. "I doubt you can even imagine, but if magic is such an innate part of you, it's terrifying to find yourself severed from it. He is in constant pain and he is blind. Divines know if this is permanent."
"I certainly commend your ability to sympathise, Cirilonde, but Ganir is right," Tolfdir said. "It should make thing a lot easier for us to handle Ancano because the last thing we need is an angry Thalmor out for vengeance."
"Beyond the reasons I gave you, I don't think he will be." Cirilonde wasn't sure whether she was convincing them or herself. After all, he had been livid. "I suspect that memories will resurface over the course of time."
"Won't make him any less keen to burn my face off," Ganir grumbled.
"How would you react if you woke next to the person who stabbed you?" The High Elf raised a brow.
"He had it coming." Ganir crossed his arms over his chest. And I'll happily do it again if he tries anything.
"Surely you can comprehend his pride…arrogance, call it what you will," she waved a dismissive hand as she tried to explain. "He might never admit that he underestimated the Eye and nearly destroyed the College, killing two people in the process. Maybe he couldn't care less about Mirabelle, but he did look shocked when I told some of what had happened. He awakes next to his enemy, blind, in searing pain and severed from his connection to the Arcane. Give him time and give me time and perhaps we can reason with him. So if you could please not antagonize him and refrain from your wisecracks because it's really not helping."
The Dark Elf began to fiddle with the golden ring that pierced his ear. "I won't be around to make them. I'm leaving…"
"You are what?!" Cirilonde's exclamation alarmed Ganir and he immediately raised his hands as her temper flared. How can he even think of leaving right now?! She thought.
"Calm down," he grabbed hold of her hands, squeezing them. "It's not forever. Please, listen…" Her temper had been replaced for an expression of fear and hurt. "I spoke with Tolfdir about this. He has no problems with it, especially now that we know Ancano isn't as dangerous at the moment, but, after Whiterun…After what we saw in Labyrinthian…"
"Surely you're not thinking of actually…"
"I've done a lot of thinking and it's really been gnawing at me. I know I said I didn't want to get involved, but I just can't shake the feeling I should…well, answer?" Ganir ran a hand through his hair, hoping he made sense to her.
Cirilonde cast a worried glance at Ancano before searching Tolfdir's eyes. "We should be fine, child." Tolfdir assured her.
She gave a sigh. "I have no right to force your stay. You've helped me and the College so much. I certainly would've died without you. I just wish I could go with you and help."
"If you'd been able too, you would've, I know that." Ganir hugged her tight, so glad she understood. "But they need you here. I will be back, I promise."
"I will come looking for you if you take too long." She held him tight. "You should go. Now."
The Dark Elf gave her a nod and kissing her forehead, he was quick to leave the tower. Not because he was eager to leave. He had to leave. Once outside, he climbed on Tormagg's back, turning around a final time to look up at the window of the Arch Mage's quarters where he saw Cirilonde. With a wave, he turned and rode off.
Later that night, Cirilonde and Tolfdir found themselves stood before Jarl Korir of Winterhold in his longhouse. His wife and housecarl, Thaena, the few villagers and the guards were present there as well. Not that this was a merry meeting. Cirilonde and Tolfdir felt as though they were surrounded by a group of angry bears that also wielded axes.
"Don't beg my pardon for not receiving you so warmly," Korir said angrily, especially glaring at Cirilonde. "As you no doubt figured out, I hold as much love for the Thalmor as I do for your College and the rest of those knife-ears. Your lot is always trouble. It destroyed my city. Winterhold was once a glorious and wealthy city of trade. And look what remains of it now and what you did this time!"
Tolfdir shot Cirilonde a warning glare as not to speak up in spite of the daring glare Jarl Korir had shot her. "I do not feel it adequate to discuss the Great Collapse at length as there's too many variables and it will lead us nowhere," Tolfdir said. "I mourn Winterhold's fall as much as you do, Jarl Korir and we are truly thankful for your cooperation. But I do not understand what more you want from us and-,"
Korir raised a hand. "If we can be spared the risk of dealing with more knife-eared scum by spreading the word the College was attacked by rogue mages out for revenge, I'm all for it. But I've been thinking. What does it really get us? The people of Winterhold?"
Cirilonde bit her tongue as her blood threatened to come to a boil. Who did Korir think he was? The red-haired Nord sat on his throne as though he ruled a grand city like Whiterun, but had it not been for the College, no one would've been even tempted to come here in the first place!
"Again, we are most thankful for your cooperation," Tolfdir gave a small bow. "The last thing any of us want is to get the Aldmeri Dominion knocking on our doors. They have no place here. They are not welcome here."
"And yet you spared the life of one…" Korir's eyes didn't leave Tolfdir's.
"I'll happily explain you what methods of torture they'll unleash upon us if they find that we killed one of them. They will delve further into matters and if they find out what truly happened, they'll raze all of Winterhold to the ground." Cirilonde's eyes bore holes into the Jarl, who returned the favour. "We're just as happy about it as you are, but we have no choice. I despise the Thalmor as much as you do. Yes, things went awry, but if you hold on to your anger and bitterness over something that we might or might not have caused, we're not going to get anywhere, so what more do you want from us?"
"You'll rebuild." Jarl Korir said, raising his chin as if to dare her to speak up again like that. "You destroyed Winterhold. We run a great risk covering your irresponsible actions up. We're even so 'kind' to allow you to keep that Thalmor scum alive. It's time you repay in kind and rebuild the city."
Ganir had not hated being at the College, regardless of all that had transpired there, but he hadn't stayed in one place for a long time. Granted, he would return, but he hadn't been able to stay any longer because he could no longer deny the Greybeards' call to come to High Hrothgar. He had not dreamt anything. He had not heard anything, but still he felt it somewhere deep inside.
For the past weeks, everyone at the College had been occupied with getting things back on track for the daily state of affairs while also making repairs to the College itself. But next to that, Ganir had assisted Tolfdir and Faralda with the initial negotiations with Korir while also checking in on Cirilonde and helping her get whatever she needed. But a day was long for one who did not need to sleep and Ganir spent his time in the Arcaneum whenever he could.
If Cirilonde could've seen me…He chuckled. He wasn't the sort to delve into books, but Urag had been helpful. From what he'd read, the Greybeards were an ancient order of honoured monks who sought to live peaceful lives in silence in their monastery near the peak of the Throat of the World. Here, they adhered by Jurgen Windcaller's teachings; The Way of the Voice. Whatever the fuck that means…
He also didn't like to admit it, but he felt more at ease now he didn't have to worry about Cirilonde's safety...as much. He only had to mind Tormagg's need for food, water and rest, but the stallion was a hardy one. It had taken him a day and a half in total to arrive in Ivarstead, which lay at the foot of the Throat to the World and where the one could find their way up the 'Seven Thousand Steps'.
"Never thought I'd go on a pilgrimage," he muttered to himself. He dismounted Tormagg and he stared up at the mountain that stood lonesome in the middle of the land. He swore that its peak scraped the sky as it pierced the mist and clouds. He approached a farmer and arranged that Tormagg would be well-cared for while he was gone and then set off on the journey up. The higher he climbed, the more dangerous it became.
Not only was the path treacherous and slippery, he also encountered plenty of wildlife he had to sneak past. He simply wasn't in the mood to be sent tumbling off the mountain simply because he'd slipped or because the snow gave. He was sure he'd be fine but he wasn't about to test the stretch of his mortality. As he got higher, he felt how the pressure on his chest increased as the air grew thin and the wind fiercer. He pressed on regardless and read the words etched into the way shrines along the way.
"Before the birth of Men, the Dragons ruled all Mundus. Their word was the Voice and they spoke only for True Need, for the Voice could blot out the sky and flood the land.
Men were born and spread over the face of Mundus. The Dragons presided over the crawling masses. Men were weak then, and had no Voice.
The fledgling spirits of Men were strong in Old Times, unafraid to war with Dragons and their Voices, but the Dragons only Shouted them down and broke their hearts.
Kyne called on Paarthurnax, who pitied Man. Together they taught Men to use the Voice. Then Dragon War raged, Dragon against Tongue.
Man prevailed, shouting Alduin out of the world, proving for all that their Voice was too strong. Although their sacrifices were many-fold.
With roaring Tongues, the Sky-Children conquer, founding the First Empire with Sword and Voice, whilst the Dragons withdrew from this World.
The Tongues at Red Mountain went away humbled. Jurgen Windcaller began His Seven Year Meditation to understand how Strong Voices could fail. Jurgen Windcaller chose silence and returned. The Seventeen disputants could not shout Him down. Jurgen the Calm built His home on the Throat of the World. For years all silent, the Greybeards spoke one name; Tiber Septim, stripling then, was summoned to Hrothgar. They blessed and named him Dovahkiin. The Voice is worship. Follow the Inner path. Speak only in True Need."
Had he not known, Ganir would sooner have guessed High Hrothgar served as some sort of keep or fortress, but the ancient carvings and tattered banners indicated otherwise. At first, he had thought they were statues, but five men stood waiting for him. All of them were clad in leather-scaled and grey, hooded robes.
The man in the centre was tallest, and perhaps the oldest of the five. "So…a Dragonborn appears, at this moment in the turning of the age."
The men stared down at him with curiosity. They'd probably not expected a Dark Elf. It was not this that gave Ganir the chills as the wind had completely fallen silent all of a sudden. "I believe you called me up here," he finally said.
"Before we allow you to enter our Halls, we will see if you truly have the gift," said the man in the middle again. "So, show us, Dragonborn. Let us taste of your Voice."
Initially, Ganir thought the old monk meant to hear his voice, but then realized he meant the Dragon language he had read about. He remembered the Draugr's and Mirmulnir's guttural snarls, but only one word had lingered that he had also been able to use. His felt the rumble in his chest as the word came to mind again and then left his lips. "FUS!"
A burst of energy shot forth and sent the snow flying in a flurry but the monks remained standing. They exchanged glances and nodded at each other. "Dragonborn, it is you," said the man in the centre. "Welcome to High Hrothgar. I am Master Arngeir. I speak for the Greybeards. Now tell me, Dragonborn, what is your name and why have you come here?"
"My name is Ganir Mathendis and you called for me after I killed the dragon that attacked Whiterun," Ganir told them. "I don't even know why I'm here. I've tried to deny it, but I want to find out what it means to be Dragonborn."
"We are here to guide you in that pursuit, just as the Greybeards have sought to guide those of the Dragon Blood that came before you," Arngeir said. "We are honoured to welcome you to High Hrothgar and we will do our best to teach you how to use your gift in fulfilment of your destiny."
"Destiny?" Ganir raised a brow. Surely he wasn't the first Dragonborn from what he had read. Granted, they had achieved great things, but he wasn't about to conquer all of Tamriel.
"It is as obscure to us as it is to you, no doubt," said Arngeir. "We can but show you the Way, but not your destination, though you have already made your first step. You have shown that you are Dragonborn to us. You have the inborn gift. It remains to be seen if you have the discipline and temperament to follow the path laid out for you.
"Come, and enter."
