I don't own this gaaaaaame~ Woohoo, 100 reviews! :D I know this took a while to get up - there were a lot of factors contributing to my slowness, including a school competition and nasty writer's block - but I have to say, I'm proud of this one. :B
Arty - My bad, it is tudor. Will have to change. And a somnambulist is a sleepwalker. Also, I was pretty sure I'd explained why the two have reason to stick with each other within chapters 15 and 16, fairly thoroughly. As for Avielle getting attacked a lot? Firstly, in-game, there's like a highwayman/rabid animal/group of bandits every three or four inches of road you travel. Secondly, getting rescued repeatedly was the only way I could really think for her to have any base of trust with Vicente, somebody who she naturally had every inclination to detest. And finally, while she might be a danger magnet, I like to think she has more character than, say, Bella Swan. e_o Since they're together now, I can finally allow Vicente to begin teaching Avielle, so she will gradually morph from useless to powerful in her own right.
Snape - Yeeeep :D And in their case, it's hardly 'homg ily pl0x marry me' at first sight, like some people seem to think... After all, they do say that hostility is merely sublimated attraction. ;D
Melinda - I wasn't aware I actually had a style. I mean, I guess I have a sort of snarky, sardonic tone when left to my own devices, but go ahead - if you see my rambling as something worth emulating at all, I'm seriously flattered.
DualKatanas - I don't know, I went over to the Gottshaw Inn and it's built like a tudor. I like tying in Morrowindic stuff because there were a lot of nice things from that game that weren't carried over, and since Vicente came from there, it leaves a lot possibilities. Rather nice gentleman... haha. One of the reasons I did the scene is because Vicente seems exactly the gallant type to rescue some young girl's virtue... I mean, listen to him talk in-game. And idiocy... if they could recruit Ray, well. (Not to mention, most of the in-game DB characters are nutcases.) Claymore? You may have a point, but your hypothetical Orcish warrior-shaman is not an ancient Quarra vampire at the height of his abilities.
Hoodedmage - Like I said, it can't go on forever. But when I say that won't happen for a while, I mean it. Cyrodiil's a big place. Have a little faith. :P
Phantasmys - Thank you! :D I live in New York; it's moreso that Shivering Isles is 'old' rather than I'm in a remote location. They just don't really sell it in stores these days. Skyrim? Super psyched. But trepid about the repercussions on .
Cola - Thanks, I really can never get those two straight. I was wondering which one even as I wrote it.
The night was cold, but it was a final effort; winter blew its last gusts of breath. Vicente could smell the the faintest hints of spring stirring beneath the lingering chill - mice scarpering in their buried dens, the fragrant buds and shoots that braved sprouting under the snow's heavy shawl. The sky might give forth one or two more flurries, but soon enough it it would turn to rain.
To Avielle, the night just seemed cold.
But the latent change of seasons met the vampire with the air of an old acquaintance, somebody fondly remembered but nearly forgotten. There was a nostalgia to it; the processes and cycles of the natural world had been all but lost to him over the years. Underground, scarcely venturing out into the world above beyond a city's walls, the glimpses he saw were so fragmented that he'd hardly noticed the change. It struck him powerfully now. Here he was, watching winter turn to spring; seeing the days lengthen and life sprout anew from the barren ground. Yes, here he was, still dead amidst the revival of everything.
His reminiscing was interrupted by a rustling sound. He glanced to the side; his companion had slowed somewhat, and seemed to be looking in her pack for something. Vicente held the silence; it had taken her long enough to stop inquiring after a certain demented Khajiit, and he did not wish for the questions to start up again. The entire subject was just so... mental.
The girl was not so quiet. "What are you staring at?" she demanded.
"Merely wondering what you were up to. I assure you, I was not staring at anything."
Avielle rolled her eyes and rummaged in her bag for a bit before withdrawing a loaf of bread. "Still fresh," she approved, before biting into it. The vampire idly watched crumbs float to the ground, diamond dust in the moonlight.
"So you have food? Excellent."
"Yeah, no thanks to you. Thing is, I'm dead broke now," she mumbled around her mouthful of bread. "Spent the last of my pocket change on food, and I can't really go to the Mages Guild and ask for my money when I'm supposed to be kidnapped."
"Fortunately, I am not." Vicente fished around in a pocket that rested just below his belt. "I found perhaps fifty septimes earlier, along with this."
"Is it filled?" she asked, looking intently at the soul gem. At his nod, she smiled. "Thanks. Might need it later."
"That's what I assumed," he agreed, stowing it away once more.
A lazy cloud drifted towards the moons - Masser's red form was absent from the sky, and Secunda's pale light was easily shrouded. Gradually, the night's dim luminescence waned. While Vicente could read the Black Horse Courier with ease in worse conditions, Avielle met the change with much bumping into things and muttered swears.
"It's so fetching dark," she complained as she stumbled into the vampire for the umpteenth time. "I can't see anything."
He halted, turning around. "You do know how to cast Night-Eye, correct?"
The look he shot her was so pathetic that Avielle's indignance burst forward with an answer. "Of course," she huffed, before seeing the pit that she was digging herself into.
"Then do stop complaining and use it," the vampire said pointedly. "I recognize your unfamiliarity with combat - and diplomacy - but I refuse to spoon-feed you in those fields that you can handle yourself in."
Crap. Why hadn't she just claimed to not know the spell? Then she'd just look stupid, rather than caught in the very difficult spot she was in. Vicente had one eyebrow raised, arms crossed over his chest - it was the sort of posture that indicated complete immovability. Quick, find an excuse...
"Hm?" The assassin's non-lifted brow furrowed down, creating a very impressive expression. "Don't think I haven't noticed, girl. I've seen you use magic before, and your talent was noteworthy. But now? You never restored your energy last night, nor healed the head injury you sustained earlier. You chose to lay defenseless at the feet of those thugs. It begs the question why. What are you hiding?"
And here it was, an open confrontation. There was only one thing she could think of doing now, one chance to get this out of the way. The power had caught her unprepared last time; so perhaps, if she was careful, she could edge around it...
"Nothing!" she spat, and reached for the magicka within, searching for what little illusionry she knew to bring forth dark-delving vision.
The familiar abyss yawned before her, and she tumbled down.
Vicente actually jumped back, instinctive shock mandating his actions, as the mage went rigid, eyes glazing over with a solid blue film. A thin, watery keen broke from her lips as sparks and streams of magicka blazed from her fingers. There was no order or sense to it, no sort of spell or its definitions; he could feel power from every different school, all underlaid with another property he was surprised to recognize.
"Avielle!" he called urgently, but she gave no indication that she'd even heard.
The girl herself was panicking. No sooner had she touched her magic before it tore itself free. She jerked in its throes, completely at its mercy. It didn't hurt, didn't burn like the fires of Oblivion as it had once, but she knew that the power's withdrawal would mark the real torture's beginning. A person was saying something, and it dimly occurred to her through the chaos that she hadn't wanted somebody to see this, for some reason...
And she staggered as the magicka shuddered to a halt.
Why? came the familiar voice in its gentle, mocking cadences of velvet, and as she spiraled down, she finally recalled whom it resembled. Did you actually think you could hide it?
"Oh, hell," she muttered aloud, heart beginning to race wildly as an eerie, chittering laugh filled her mindscape. Her head felt like an auditorium, filled with the echoing voices of a vast crowd. She couldn't think, and a debilitating terror grasped her body. Where was she? Who was she?
Things with grasping claws and razor-bladed limbs prowled around her, leaving trails of shadows like wisps whenever they moved. Blood dripped from their numerous rows of jagged teeth, black as tar; the hunger burned like fire in their dead eyes. They wanted her. She backed up, the scream finally finding its way from her throat.
There was movement behind her, and she whirled - but not fast enoguh. She caught a glimpse of somebody who she felt as though she knew, and then the blind fear reigned supreme again. A taller, thinner shadow pounced, pinning her to the stone with claws as cold as death.
Vicente held her down until her dilated pupils had narrowed and the frantic pounding of her heart slowed to a tired purr. Eventually, her thrashing ceased, replaced by a weary silence. She got to her feet using his proferred arm, but refused to look him in the eye, keeping her head down. Her breath came in short gasps, on the verge of hyperventilation.
"What," he intoned flatly, "was that?"
Avielle said nothing, staring at the ground as if all of life's answers could be found there.
"Whatever the problem is," he noted dryly, "I doubt it will go away on its own. Avielle, I am over three hundred years old. I know things. Please explain."
"Just get it over with already," she spat suddenly, hoarse from her fit. "You don't need to drag it out any longer than you have to."
He was shocked at her vehemence; what was she so angry about? He supposed her emotions could have been twisted by whatever seizure had struck her, but there seemed to be a quality about her agitation that bespoke something contained - a lie left to ferment. "What am I supposed to be dragging out?"
She glared up at him. Her eyes were distinctly bloodshot, but that didn't remove the furious quality that blazed within. "I'm perfectly damned useless to you, so just leave me and be done with it!"
"What exactly gave you that impression?"
"...what?" The girl looked up, unable to comprehend what she was hearing.
"I said, I have no intention to toss you aside. I merely wish to understand. I've never seen anything like that little display back there. What did you do to yourself?"
She wasn't quite listening past the first sentence. "But... you needed a mage," she muttered, the bitterness still heavy in her tone. "Somebody strong, somebody who could help you kill Lachance. I'm not. I'm broken. A deadweight."
"Whatever happened, you are still magically capable, and I am aware of your arcane prowess in the past. I cannot judge your usefulness without understanding what you believe to be wrong with yourself. I may be able to help. So, Avielle, tell me what has happened and I shall do my best to identify it."
And she did.
She told him of the Dreamworld, of nightmare tests and a culmination of events that should have led to her death. She spoke of sudden and extreme flares of power that came unbidden, bringing results beyond any spells she'd known. And she recalled the uncertainty and then terror as it had spread, growing like some poisonous and vile weed, breaking through at the faintest touch of spellwork and driving her into bouts of insanity. Despite the ludicrous notions that her tale spun, the vampire listened attentively, nodding thoughtfully at details that anyone else would have put her into an asylum for confessing. Avielle felt as though a crushing mantle was gradually being lifted from her shoulders as she was finally able to share her woes.
"Curious," was all he said when the words trickled to a halt and she looked at him intently.
"So you don't have any idea what it is?" Her heart sank. "I should have guessed. Even the head of the Anvil Mages guild was clueless."
"I didn't say that." Avielle snapped back to attention, eyes wide. Vicente was stroking his chin with one pale finger, looking thoughtful. "I do not know. But that hardly strangles the field of guesswork. After all that you've told me - your temporary mental struggles especially - I believe I can form an educated hypothesis on the matter."
"Well, spit it out!"
"Of course. How much do you understand of magicka, Avielle? It might aid me in the explanation."
The mage was impatient. "I know a lot, but I'm not really sure what you're asking me for. I don't suppose 'it's sparkly and it blows stuff up' is a suitable answer?"
His gaunt face cracked into a smile. "Perhaps not on the caliber I was searching for, but you at least can derive from that phrasing that magicka is a form of energy. It seems to me that you've tapped into an atypical source."
"Like what? You're losing me."
"Well, suppose the magicka that all spellcasters utilize is of a certain quality. It can be withdrawn with a high degree of safety, with few to no detrimental effects to the user. The same can be said for the so-called 'powers' that certain races and star signs possess - as does my condition. They come from a different sort of energy than typical magicka, with different restrictions and boundaries. However, those aren't the only types of power that exist. For instance, when vampires drink blood, we actually are indirectly absorbing life energy from the victim, with blood merely being the medium we extract it in. Furthermore, each of these has a different quality. The energies of typical magicka cannot heal me as life energy does, and drinking blood would do absolutely nothing for you... It's a poor example, perhaps, but it's difficult to describe."
"That's interesting and all..." Avielle shook her head. "But I'm still not following you. What does this have to do with my broken magicka?"
"Bear with me. Power and magicka, in this case, are synonymous. While all of the types I described to you are different, they all branch from the same sort of energy. Magicka and the mind are deeply interlocked. Everyone possesses what you would call 'magicka', whether they can actively use it or not - some have smaller, extraneous reserves of power that is used to cast spells, while others cannot wield it. But - and this is merely guesswork - power is intrinsic to every living being, or at least sentient ones. What you've managed to touch upon is the vastly deeper magicka within your subconscious. Unlike typical magic, it's already in use; to bring forth that power means you're dragging it away from the function it was already performing. Simply put, your sanity. I cannot be sure, but considering the progressive nature of what you described to me, my guess would be that when you withdraw that power, it adversely affects your mind's ability to function. To spend that kind of magicka... whether the effects are transient or permanent, one can only guess - this is magicka hitherto unknown, as I believe you once put it - but mark my words, there will be consequences."
The mage blinked. "Why aren't you in the University? You could end up running the place, knowing as much as you do."
"Your guild does not take kindly to those of my state. You saw their relationship with dear Janus, and they only deal with him because he is both a Count and likely able to defeat their entire council alone if it ever came to a duel. And do not take my words at face value - they are merely the hypotheses of somebody who has seen enough to draw from. Guesses and theories, nothing more."
"Better than any of the crap anyone else in the guild has given me," she muttered back. "So a little more guesswork, if you don't mind. What consequences do you have in mind? So far, nothing's been permanent, but it does get a little longer every time. Could I somehow stop using it and keep things from getting any worse?"
"I'm afraid not," sighed Vicente. "Once, twice - you could have gone back. But I'm sure you've noticed it - I most certainly have, both in the recent incident and your unwillingness to use magicka since our encounter in Anvil. You cannot even cast the simplest of cantrips without drawing that energy out. You've broken the barrier between conscious and subconscious magic, Avielle. That, I'm sure, cannot be fixed. Not without cutting you off from magicka entirely."
She winced. "That's even worse. You're sure about this?"
"As I have said before, I am not. But being undead, I have an innate sense of the energies around me. Everything has its own very distinct... flavor, if you will. Each different school of magicka, life, unlife, Daedric power; they all have different feels to them. And when your magicka changed from a spell to that chaos a few minutes back, so did the impression I got from it; instead of perceiving it as a spell, it felt almost exactly like your life essence."
The girl absorbed this.
"My mother was able to cast utterly titanic spells," she said slowly, after a few quiet strides. "I couldn't imagine how she could use such powerful castings like that when I was little. Looking back, their scope doesn't seem all that different from what I've been able to do. But she could control them; she never had any of this craziness tearing her apart when she would experiment."
"Did she?" Vicente shot the other Breton a sideways glance. "It's possible she burned everything else away besides that experimenting, besides that goal she focused so obsessively upon. I'm sorry, Avielle, but 'normal' people would not mutilate themselves in the way you claim she did. It's possible that this split in her mind occurred while the loss of her husband was still fresh, and as she drew on the newfound power, she grew increasingly irrational until toying with death on a daily basis meant nothing to her."
"Are you calling my mother insane?"
A less confident man would have balked at the sudden venom in Avielle's tone; unsurprisingly, he had hit a nerve. But the vampire dearly needed to prove a point if he was ever going to help the girl, so he steeled his resolve and said, "Yes, unfortunately, I am."
For his efforts, he recieved a whack from a slightly magical stick. He'd had worse.
"Reserving your charges, I see," he approved.
"Shut up," Avielle growled back, strapping the staff back to where it belonged. "You have no right..."
"Honestly, that temper is going to... well, I would say 'into trouble', but I fear that's redundant, so I'll settle with the adage 'that it's going to be the death of you'. I am not trying to take jabs at your mother, I am being deadly serious - and seeing as this is all the insight you have on your condition, I would consider what I have said."
She glared in response. "Hey, you yourself said it was just a guess."
But she lapsed into silence, obeying him without realising. Vicente rubbed his head absently, smoothing over his hair where the staff had collided, and an idea took root as his fingers brushed over the residual charge from the magical object.
"Do you have any jewelry?" he inquired, seemingly out of nowhere. "A necklace or a ring, perchance?"
Avielle was innattentive while preoccupied, and didn't have enough spare thought to question his request. "Mhm," she said absently, taking something off of her left hand; the vampire squinted and made out a golden ring with a sapphire reflecting the moonlight. "My mother gave this to me when I turned sixteen."
Before she could protest, he plucked the circlet from her hand, drawing the soul gem from his pocket as he did so. The girl did a double take as he held the gem at eye level, seemingly inspecting it for something. "Hey, what-"
And then he took the gem and crushed it in his fist.
"What the hell are you doing?" Avielle gasped, horrified at the waste, as he sifted the remains of the jewel and scattered the glittering dust over her ring.
He ignored her fixedly for about half a minute, muttering something under his breath - an incantation? His voice was so soft, she couldn't hear - that seemed to make her ring absorb the fragmented gem, glowing all the while. At last, it emitted a humming noise and dimmed. However, she quickly noticed that the moonlight seemed to touch it with a strange, glossy cast that it had not had before; it looked as though it had been dipped in a feather-thin veneer of transparent silver, or mercury.
She glared up at the vampire. "What did you do to it?" she demanded. "That's one of the only things I have left from my mother, how dare you go screwing around with it-"
"An enchantment," Vicente said smoothly, twisting the band in his fingers. "Willpower fortification. I believe it may help you in controlling your magicka."
Avielle was not pacified. "I never said you could - wait. You're lying."
He closed his eyes for a long moment; when he opened them, they were rolled impressively upward. "What makes you think such a thing?" he asked, voice mocking and on the cusp of irritation.
"How stupid do you think I am? I was in the Arcane University. Normal people can't just enchant things."
"I see you never brushed up on your ancient history," the assassin remarked dryly. "Ancient as in over a decade ago, in your case. And are you honestly attempting to brand me as a 'normal person'? I do not know whether to be amused or insulted. No, the act that restricted that school of magic to the highest ranks of your Guild does not predate me. When I lived in Vvardenfell, the Mages Guild had not yet claimed dominion over the art of Enchantment. Anyone was allowed to craft magical items in those days. It was never a popular art - it was difficult to learn, and the numerous failed attempts wore down one's wallet with impressive speed - but I learned the theory in my youth, some hundred years before it was forbidden. I was never exceptional at it, but you could say I have a much better perception of the oscillations of living energy than I did back then, hm?"
That particular aspect, she didn't want to think about too deeply, but the rest of his words were deeply intriguing, especially those hidden behind the lines. "So you lived in Morrowind back when you were alive?" she guessed. "Your accent sounds very High Rock to me."
Vicente gave an approving half-smile. "A good deduction, and wholly accurate. As for accents, my mother was an emigrant from said province - I picked up on that quite strongly in my youth, and vampirism tends to set one's habits in stone."
It was strange, almost alienating, to look at the ancient vampire in his neat black vestments and try to picture him as a child. It was difficult to connect the concept of parents, of youth, of an actual human past to him. She tried to envision Vicente Valtieri as normal, tried to flesh out his concave features and pour color into his crimson eyes, but the images refused to solidify in her mind.
Honestly, though, why did it even matter to her? Inwardly, she frowned, not trusting her earlier train of thought. She quickly grasped for another.
"You know, you're not the only Breton around - I can sense magicka too. If you can seriously enchant stuff, then..." She waved a hand in a wide gesture. "The only magical object on you is your sword. Why not spruce up the rest of your gear if you can do that sort of thing for free, on a moment's notice?"
The reply was slow and thoughtful. "I dislike worn enchanted items," he said ponderously. "They tend to distort a person's sense of capability, to make them expect more of themselves than that actually give. I enchanted your ring because I feel that you need it to prevent things from getting worse on your behalf. You may just need it. But never rely... A man who wears an amulet that boosts his fortitude for a single day may enjoy the exultation he gets from his new strength. But a man who wore such an item every moment of his life would find himself weak and despondent if he were ever to remove it - perhaps even fatal if he were to have it taken from him in a dire situation. Tools are practical to use, but they are not extensions of your self... you may one day find yourself without them."
"So?" Avielle crossed her arms. "Your guy in the example would only feel weaker if he never wore it. He wouldn't actually be weaker. I don't see the point."
"In combat, to speak of one is to speak of the other, and besides, Avielle, I believe you're forgetting the fact that I am a vampire. My state my prove a hindrance at times, but where abilities are concerned, I am strong enough without a collection of enchanted trinkets."
"You could be stronger," the mage protested.
The words 'I don't need to be' simultaneously formed and died upon his lips. Yes, he was strong - three centuries of shadows and slaughter had proved his mettle. But in the end, they'd still died, hadn't they? He'd lacked the strength to face the Black Hand the first time around, despite his aptitudes, despite the fact that he was a hunter and they were nothing but prey... and the second, he'd arrived to find them all splayed in their blood like broken dolls...
And he was disgracing them if he was going to fall to pieces every time they chanced upon his mind. He shivered slightly. "Here," he said abruptly, proffering the ring to her. "Take it."
If Avielle was surprised at his sudden harshness, she didn't show it. Desperate for anything to divert his mind, Vicente watched her slide the newly-enchanted circlet back into place, noting its quicksilver gleam and the way her muscles tensed slightly as its magicka washed over her. "You wear it on your ring finger," he noted, more for the sake of idle chatter than anything else.
She snorted. "I'm not married, but it makes men quit asking me out. When they latch onto you, they just won't let go. Knnh. I don't have time for them."
"Hm. That's a problem for you?"
Avielle took offense. "Are you having a go at my looks?"
"No, no." The vampire held up his hands in surrender. "I've been rather distanced from culture. In my day, simply asking a lady on a date, having no pretenses and and pressing her after her first refusal, would generally lead to fighting her father for the sake of honor. I meant no insult. You're a very striking young woman... and," he added dryly, watching her expression fluctate, "before you get the wrong idea, I am not a bachelor."
Which she thanked the gods for, because there were few things more disturbing than a vampire hitting on you. Even if said vampire was remarkably polite and dressed like a dashing gentleman. Once again, it took Avielle a bit of time to grasp beyond what he was saying. "What? Who in their right mind would marry a vampire?"
A strange expression perched upon his features momentarily, but he rolled his eyes and it was but a mirage. "I wasn't born like this. I believe I have already touched upon this.
Oh. Right. She mentally slapped herself for the stupid slip. "My bad. So where's she now?"
"It's been over three centuries," he drawled, treating her to his best pathetic stare. "I've mentioned this number to you on several occasions. 'Alive and kicking' is not exactly an option."
Two for two; now, she really was starting to feel like a complete idiot. "Then what-"
"Has it occurred to you that I prefer to leave some subjects well enough alone?" he interjected.
"I think it's only fair," Avielle criticized. "You know all about my past, but I don't know a thing about yours."
A pause, and then the soft words: "Ask what you will, then."
The girl hadn't been expecting him to give in so quickly, but she hid her shock. "So you were married?"
"Yes," Vicente replied, his tone short. "I met, courted, and married a Breton woman in my early twenties. At the time, I was alive, and perfectly acceptable material for a relationship. I cannot see how this is difficult to comprehend."
She mulled it over. "Huh," she finally said. "What happened to her?"
"I became a vampire, that's what happened to her."
"And?" Avielle folded her arms. "I'd already figured that much out. Your turning into a bloodsucker didn't make your wife just vanish, obviously. Something happened, and I'd like to know that something."
"Do you?" A humorless half-smile pulled at his thin lips, but his eyes were bleak.
"I grew up and lived in Ald'ruhn. My memories of... life are very faded; I can recall almost everything that occurred from the moment my heart stilled, but the specifics before that are all but lost to me. My father always wanted to see me join the Mages' Guild, but despite my penchant for it, magicka never truly interested me. Perhaps like any other young boy, I dreamed of heroics and adventure." At this, he laughed, in that typical harsh and bitter manner. "I certainly wouldn't have guessed myself ending up what I am now. I joined the Imperial Legion as soon as I came of age."
"You were in the Legion?" Avielle just couldn't picture it. It clashed too sharply with what she knew.
This reaction amused the vampire. "You could say that my experiences over the past centuries have rather changed my priorities. I used to be young and idealistic... I had been in the Legion for seven years when it happened. I was... twenty-four? It's difficult to recall, I'm afraid... At the time, I was happily married, still very much in love, and a proud father of one."
...And that was simply impossible to compute with the vampiric assassin that stood before her. "Wait. You had a baby?"
"Certainly not. I don't know if you've noticed, Avielle, but I happen to be male."
"You know what I mean," she sighed. "You're somebody's dad?"
"Interesting wording, and I think was would be the proper word. As you might be able to guess, I was removed from my son's life when he was at a very young age... but posthumously, I learned that he had grown up in house Redoran, made a small fortune off the flin trade, and moved to High Rock. While I must admit I am not the most doting relative, I believe I currently have several..." Here he paused, flicking a finger as he counted the words, "...great-great-great-great-great-great grandchildren living in the same general area."
The way he said it seemed extremely calm, but there was something in his eyes that betrayed a hint of some melancholy sentiment. How strange, the girl thought, to watch everyone around you grow old and die while you're still stuck in time...
"But my progeny is hardly what you wanted to hear about... I confess, I cannot remember my wife's name. As I said, the specifics of my life elude me, and after what happened with her, I tried so rigorously to put it behind me that I actually did manage to forget it. But I loved her, much moreso than I believe I could ever convey. I look back upon those wisps of memory and recall being happy, happier than I have ever felt since.
"I was infected with vampirism on Legion duty. I'm not sure if you're aware, but the anti-vampire sentiment in the land of the Dark Elves makes the stigma in Cyrodiil appear downright friendly. The local House guards were all extensively trained on how to ferret out and kill the unholy. Unfortunately, there was a very strong dislike between the Legion and the Great Houses, and they were hardly keen on sharing their tactics. So it came to pass that I was given the task of leading a contingent of two newer recruits, joined together in tracking down an apparently insane fugitive that was behind three deaths within a single week.
"So when I finally hunted him down, a day's travel north into the lifeless and hostile territory that the Dunmer aptly call 'the Ashlands', I had no reason to suspect he was not human. Crazed and feral, yes, that was the impression I got when he ripped my cohorts apart with his bare hands and abandoned his mace in favor of sinking his teeth into my skin. It was one of the nastiest confrontations I had ever endured, and I shall spare you the gruesome details... but I have always been skilled with a sword, and it was I who walked out alive from the skirmish.
"I returned to Ald'ruhn a day later, mourning my comrades and having no inkling of the true nature of the creature I had brought down.
"One of the perturbing facts about porphyric hemophilia is that the infected will show virtually no signs of sickness until the disease is incurable and the victim is a full vampire. Some minor dizziness, fatigue, agitation... It felt no more serious than a small flu until my heart stopped beating. And I somehow failed to notice that for a fairly long time...
"When I actually became a vampire is somewhat sketchy, because as I said, it took me a regrettably long amount of time to put the facts together. Besides the green glass so often used in weaponry, glass is uncommon in Vvardenfell, and I had no exposure to any mirrors. Even if I had been able to see my reflection, I was less conspicuously a vampire at the time than I am now; my eyes were paler, my skin still colored, my face still appearing in its twenties rather than its nineties. The first thing I noticed was that everything seemed so much brighter; so bright, in fact, that exposure to sunlight triggered migraines. My senses felt as if they'd been bolstered with a spell that refused to wear off. Everything I perceived felt so much more vivid, so intense... and then, of course, there was the fact that I had become perpetually thirsty, and no amount of water could sate it."
Avielle flinched.
"It was only an inconvenience at first, some strange aftereffect of my earlier illness. But as the days passed, it grew into a sort of desperation. I became tetchy and compulsive, while physically I only continued to feel worse. The thirst burned all over, the daylight began to scorch me, and I was constantly disoriented. It was a visible change. People around me began to point me towards healers, claiming that I looked haggard and pale. I'm not sure why I failed to follow their advice, but I am quite glad I did not. If I had, they would have discovered me for what I was and subsequently ended me.
"But with that unexplained malady reaching critical levels, it was only a matter of time before the inevitable happened. I was on the night shift at the guard barracks - I could no longer stand taking the daylight hours - and I stepped into the common room of Fort Buckmoth to get another futile glass of water. The bunk beds were lined with sleeping soldiers. I noticed a scent that I had been aware of for several days, something that I wanted so badly it was nearly painful. But I had no idea of what that ever-present temptation was until, somehow, my eyes rested on a guard's neck and became completely unable to look elsewhere. My legs moved forward of their own vocation. That was my first confrontation with my new instincts, and it was most definitely the instincts that won.
"And it was only then, with the blood dripping from my lips, that I realized what I had become.
"I was afraid, terribly so. But the blood... after feeding, I felt normal. I felt human, for a time. I could liken it to the case of a Skooma addict; when I focused on life around me, everything eventually came back to the craving, a euphoria that petered away much too quickly. As much as I tried to fight it, I found myself slipping out at dusk - at first, one or twice a week, but that quickly became a nightly habit as the need grew more insistent - to take moonlight strolls, sojourns under the night sky that ended in some poor stranger's house, with my teeth in the owner's neck. Oh, don't look at me like that; to my credit, I killed not a one of them. They felt nothing; they suffered no more than waking up dizzy from blood loss. If anyone had been suffering at the time, it was me. I was completely lost, and I knew well enough that any attempts to go for help would result in my execution. I was clinging to humanity as best I could, but it was a broken cause, a race that I had lost before I began running. And gradually but surely, I felt myself slipping. I tried to tell myself that I wasn't hurting anyone, that I wasn't killing, that I was doing all I could... but I could feel it. The urges and impulses kept growing stronger, harder to resist, the hunger more difficult to quench.
"And then, of course, I was still living with a budding family at the time. Which brings us back to my wife.
"I couldn't keep the truth from her forever. She wanted to know why I kept vanishing at night, wanted to make sense of all the changes I didn't even understand in myself."
He closed his eyes, turning his head away. "She found out.
"She followed me one night. Saw me... hunting. I don't know how she did it, how she managed to avoid me sensing her. It hardly matters. What's done is done... When I returned home, she was waiting for me. I remember it perfectly. The lamps weren't lit, but I could see it all as clear as daylight, the disgust in her eyes and a single word on her lips.
"Vampire.
"She said it tonelessly, without inflection, but with the next step I took towards her, she recoiled. She was holding a knife... it was the first and last time I ever saw her armed. It was... so wrong. I think that she had always been a gentle person, and that my sweet wife should be armed, ready to fight, and against me, of all the people... I tried to reason with her. I begged her to understand, that I was doing all I could not to be a monster. But she... she..."
"She what?" Avielle asked, her tone almost soft.
Vicente opened his eyes, and it seemed to her that those red irises were misty, staring at some unknown horror that she'd never be able to see. "She ran. She tried to run, and I... I don't know what happened. Oh, by Sithis, I do know what happened, but at the time... there was nothing, nothing. One moment and she'd jerked forward, trying to get past me, and the next... the next... covered in blood. It was everywhere. I am three centuries old, Avielle. I've had ages to understand the Dark Gift, to control it, to master it. Back then, I was young and scared... and out of control. It always starts like that, finding yourself in a new body with violent impulses you can't keep contained, rearing up when you least expect them. She tried to run, and I lost it. To the human part of me, her running meant that my beloved was leaving me, that she didn't want to see my face again, that she was so terrified of her husband that she'd forgotten all about our baby boy asleep upstairs. But vampirism draws no such definitions... and to that part of me, she was prey. She was trying to escape. And I killed her, Avielle. I killed my own wife. I lost control, slammed her against a wall, snapped her neck, and drained her blood. And came to with her broken shell in my arms."
The Breton girl went as white as a sheet; partly with disgust, and partly with... pity, somehow. It was the look in his eyes, the unspeakable horror as he continued on.
"I may be a man, but I'm also an animal. That half of me would do the same thing, a thousand times over. And that was why I joined the Brotherhood, Avielle. That was why I accepted without a second thought when they came to me so long after. You asked me once how I justified murder? Better to channel that madness on people scheduled for execution than those whose lives stretch out unhindered. I'm a killer either way."
"Are you really?" The words came unbidden.
One pale brow lifted. "I've told you what I was too afraid of to admit to anyone else, and you ask me if I'm not a murderer by nature?"
To this, the girl did not know what to say.
"What happened then?" she ventured, after a profound silence.
"I fled. There was nothing else to do, nothing to go back to, and I was too much a coward to face what I had done. I took our baby - he slept through the whole thing, by some unknown mercy - and left him swathed in blankets at my neighbor's doorstep. With that, I cut my ties and let go of humanity. I went to the Ashlands and lived as a predator.
"In Morrowind, there are three major clans of vampires; bloodlines, if you will. Each had their own aptitudes; clan Quarra is known for brute strength, the Berne vampires are masters of stealth, and Aundae are powerful sorcerers."
"Let me guess - you're a Bren or whatever the second one was?"
"Actually, no. I was bitten by a Quarra vampire. My penchant for stealth is something I learned, not something I automatically gained upon dying. All vampires have enhanced skills in certain fields, but my natural capacity for remaining unseen is no greater than any other of my kind. I doubt you would notice the difference, but I am physically stronger than the vampires you will find in this province. My vampiric ancestry is the reason why I can easily wield a claymore in one hand. But where was I? Ah, yes. Over the years, I gradually wandered upwards through the foyada - ashland valleys formed by ancient rivers of magma - and away from Ald'ruhn, towards the Sea of Ghosts. Spending my days in tombs and caverns, my bloodlust barely sated by the scarce fauna, I lived as an animal. I stayed away from the cities; guards knew me for what I was then, and the few times I tried to creep in, I barely managed to escape. By the time I happened to stumble into the Dwarven ruin that serves as clan Quarra's nest, I had all but forgotten how to speak.
"Had I not been of Quarra descent, they would have killed me immediately. I have no doubt they could have - I was starved and weak, while they were all in full strength, and there was an assortment of deadly weapons at my throat. But since I was their fledgeling, they saw it as an obligation to take me in, even if they made it very clear that they had no love for me. They considered me a mistake, an abomination among abominations. 'Accident', they called me.
"I spent perhaps two decades there; it was from their armory that I was given the weapon I carry with me now." He gestured to the sword strapped on his back. "Since I was younger than them, I could still withstand the sun's rays when I was well-fed, and they made use of me as a scout. They taught me many things; how to hunt, how to manipulate, how to control my more carnal instincts and hone the magical abilities that come with the unlife. The clan kept living slaves as cattle, blood harvesting. The treatment could only be described as barbaric; they fed from them while the victim was still awake and aware, and they often brought them close to death with their unchecked voracity. I confess, I was too far gone to care about the cruelty of it, and having the blood of men and mer quickly nourished me back to health. But despite the time I lived within their halls, it was never really a home to me. Being around people, no matter how loosely 'people' was defined, brought back the entirety of civilization to me. When I reflected on what I was, I felt more like an animal than I had when I hunted in the wilderness.
"So when I learned that the western provinces were said to be much less opposed to my kind, I left without a backwards glance..." He stopped, as if realizing something. "And here I am, giving you my spoken autobiography in response to a single question."
"I'm listening." And she had been - the supernatural elements woven so darkly in his words made his tale sound half like a recollection and half like a novel, riddled with intrigue.
"As I am aware. But I've said more than enough. In time, perhaps, I may share my life story. For now, we are practically strangers."
There was finality in Vicente's tone, and some intangible spell was broken; Avielle ceased to see his vibrantly woven past self in the memories he'd recalled, and he was once again the black-garbed assassin. But the departure of that accidental intimacy, the closeness, had not faded as completely. There was a lingering trace of understanding that hung tentatively between them where both hostility and unbridled openness had both had their time to fill.
Avielle's quietude came not from lack of curiosity, but because she was finally breaching the realization that beneath the vampire's 'remorseless killer' act lived a self-inclusive moral code, philosophies, and most shockingly, some notion of guilt. She hadn't even considered him capable of it, and she resolved to learn more. It's not like I like him or anything, she reasoned. I just may as well figure him out if I'm going to be stuck with him for so long.
But was that really the case? The mage was unfamiliar with feeling any intrigue towards people at all. Generally, they fell into one of two categories for her - irritating and unbearably irritating. Maybe there was something to them, but Avielle never felt like listening. Why bother to get to know people when the only person she ever looked up to was dead? She kept a few acquaintances, but even her closest cohorts she kept at arm's length. The only object in her life that deserved much attention was revenge. Not a certain assassin who happened to be tagging along.
Passing interest, Avielle decided firmly. She was stuck with his company and she'd be safer learning about the vampire so that she didn't screw up again and wake up one morning with his fangs in her neck. That was all it was. There was nothing more to it.
Right?