Thanks for all the support! Sorry its been like a month since the last update! Been super busy and trying to plot this out just right! Enjoy and leave any comments or suggestions! :)
"I can't get through."
I find Vorstag sitting on a crumbling, stone pillar in a torch lit cavern with a large, intricate door blocking the way forward. His blond hair is down and messy and there are a few fresh cuts on his arms, alluding to his recent fight with the undead. His war-paint is smeared and he glistens with sweat, breathing heavily. He's like a trapped animal beginning to go mad.
"The door is activated by pulling these two levers down," he huffs, pointing to the levers on opposite walls, "But they need to be pulled at the same time. Otherwise the gears reset and the door won't open." His voice is bitter and he sighs in frustration, looking to me with contempt.
Realization hits me. "You need my help." I meant it to be a statement, but it sounded more like a question. He sighs again, reluctant to accept the turn of his situation, but he knew he would never make it out without my help. We were stuck together from here on out.
"I'll help you, Vorstag," I said slyly with a small smile. "But from now on we stick together. There's no way we'll make it out of this hell hole unless we form a truce."
He paused, his jaw clenched, and studied me. I could see in his eyes he had calmed down, and that some part of him knew I was the same person he had met at the inn. I just wasn't a Nord. I waited for his inevitable acceptance, but after a minute he still hadn't answered.
"If my race is going to be an issue—," I began, crossing my arms.
"All right!" He blurts finally, sounding riled. "All right. But I have a condition as well. No more magic."
"Magicka." I correct, eyes narrowed. He was so blind to the subject I found it irksome.
"Whatever," he says, standing up. He approached me in a cautious demeanor, as if he were about to pet a wolf, but was ready to fix the mess we were in. "Do I have your word?"
I swore, and he did the same. I knew this new partnership would be nowhere as easy or cocky as the first, for we would always be keeping one eye on the other, waiting for a knife in the back (or in my case an ice spike) and would be more eager to help ourselves rather than each other. But we needed each other. And once we made it out, we'd never have to cross paths again.
We released hands, and I stepped backward, a little uncomfortable by his closeness. There was still so much hate and distrust in his eyes. I gave him a thin smile and side stepped, heading over to one of the levers. He was not going to make working together easy, but I wouldn't let his prejudice phase me. Or at least I would try.
He watched me for a moment, then mimicked, walking over to the other lever. I look back at him and see him waiting, still cautious but now with a spark of excitement. He loves the thrill of adventure, even if this one happens to be in a Daedric shrine.
"On three." I say, as he places his hand on his lever. I count and we pull, listening to the grinding gears that roll the large door open and rattle the stone walls around us. He looks at me, no smile on his face, and walks inside, taking the lead, trusting me to obey the alliance and blindly follow.
xxx
"Duck!" Vorstag warns as he swings the sword over my head, slicing a Draugr in its stringy throat. He kicks it in the gut with his boot and sends it flying to the floor, where it grunts and tries to pull itself up again.
He leaps over me, his sword pointing downward, and lands on top of it, stabbing it where its heart used to be. It howls as the death blow hits, and then suddenly quiets as the bluish light leaves its eyes.
Dead. Or, re-dead, suppose.
Vorstag slowly stands, his back to me, and wipes the residue off his sword with his bare hand, flinging it to the floor. He sheathes it and turns to me, offering a hand up then quickly retracting it as he remembers he is supposed to hate me.
I give him a thankless smile and push myself up, stretching my sore muscles. I find my sword gracelessly cast upon rocky debris. I weave around the lifeless Draugr, trying my best not to think about how many I actually killed. But the shameful number seeps into my head the moment I tell myself not to think about it.
Two.
Two Draugr out of the six that attacked us. One was a lucky stab in the head, and the other was just finishing off Vorstag's work. I quietly pick up my sword and sheathe it, then walk back over to Vorstag, who looks all too happy with himself.
"Fighting not as easy without magic?" He says, mockery in his voice. I ignore him and walk past, looting the Draugr he just killed. "I could tell you were just burning to use it, especially when that Deathlord shouted your sword from your hand."
He was right. I was burning. But not because I couldn't use my magic, but because I was fighting back rage. I could just feel the lava bubbling in my throat, forcing the angry words out before I could censor them.
"I don't fight with magicka, you dumb brute." I spit, throwing half the coins his way. He easily catches them and slips them into his belt pouch. I don't want to argue with him, but I know it's too late now. I just instigated a quarrel that could quickly turn ugly.
He almost laughs at this. "No wonder your previous adventures turned out so poorly."
I gape at him, trying to form the words to make him understand. "You assume too much." I growl back walking away from him. "I never even said I liked magicka, or even that I was good at it." I almost explain my past to him, but catch myself. Why do I even care if he understands me or not? I'll never see him again after we make it out of here. I'm a loner, a self-exiled barbarian, and will always be.
"What's that supposed to mean?" He asks, but it sounds more like a taunt. "You Forsworn love magic and take so much pride in it. Maybe you ran away like you said, maybe what they did scared you. Maybe you really do hate that life. But guess what Saber! You haven't written it off completely. You still use magic."
I stop walking, clenching my fists. This ruthless, fight-before-flight, mercenary has just called out my life's problem. An inner battle I've been waging with myself for years. But I can't just let him expose me like that. So I whirl at him.
"You know, I have just as much reason to hate Nords as you do Bretons." I say angrily. "They stole our land and forced us into exile. It was only natural for us to retaliate."
"Sacrificing young men and women is not natural," he snarls back at me.
"I never said I agreed with the Forsworn's methods." I say, offended once again by him placing me into that savage group. "They are evil. I know that and that's why I left."
"Maybe, but that doesn't erase what you did. What your people did."
"I never said that either." I realize I truly want him to understand, to make him understand. "You think you know me. You think you know what happened. Why do you think I was trying to outrun my past, Vorstag? Why do you think I was so eager to pretend I was a Nord? Tell me!"
He has backed away from me slightly, but enough to tell me I'm scaring him. Good, my darker side thinks, show him who is boss. But I ease my anger, calming myself down. He's gaping now, and I realize I had asked him a question. A question neither of us wants him to answer.
"I hate the Forsworn and the Daedra and magicka." I say, my voice slow an octave lower than before. "But deep down I know it will always be a part of who I am." He doesn't respond, but I think he's dwelling on my words, rather than ignoring them. Maybe he is trying to understand, somewhere in that thick head of his, maybe he wants a reason to let go of his hate. But then he starts walking away. Fast. I scurry after him, not finished with what I was saying.
"Look, I understand you hate the Forsworn and everything to do with them, but that's no reason to hate all Bretons and magickas. You can't stereotype people and powers like that. It's wrong and cruel and narrow minded."
He stops and I nearly crash into him. I stumble back suddenly but regain my composure to find him staring down at me, fire in his eyes. Literally, the torches are reflecting in his eyes.
"Don't lecture me about how I should feel." He says with a low, threatening growl. "Just because you can forgive Nords for trashing your barbaric camp doesn't mean I can forgive Bretons for slaughtering my family. We are nothing alike and you can never fully understand—,"
"Stop!" I say, suddenly, pressing my hand to his mouth.
He splutters, and yanks it away in disgust. "What the hell—?"
"Shhh!" I say glancing around the deep catacombs. "I hear something."
He is calm and alert the second the ominous words leave my lip, hand on his sword and back to mine, ready for whatever daemon may appear.
The sound resonates in the tomb, and dust falls from the ceiling as rotted beams quiver from the resonation. It is not the bark of a Draugr, or even a Deathlord, but something far, far worse.
The piercing cry of a daemon I'd only seen in my nightmares. A Dremora.
xxx
"Get down!" I hiss at Vorstag from my bunkered position. "You need to hide. Now."
"What's that matter?" He hisses back, still peering from behind the wall trying to get a glimpse of the daemon. "Why are we hiding and not taking whatever made that noise's head?"
"I told you it's a Dremora!" I whisper yell, desperately trying to make him understand.
"Yeah, I heard you the first time." He murmurs sarcastically. "And like the first time, I don't believe it. Dremora are rumors, dark magic shit meant to scare little kids from playing in the dark. And just like the Daedra, they aren't real. False idols worshiped by mind-warped barbarians." He gets up, stalking forward warily, convinced I'm wrong.
I slip out from my spot and call after him, begging him not to go further. To wait it out, to come up with a plan. "They are as strong as entire pack of wolves, as fast and bloodthirsty as a night stalker, as cunning as a silver-blood." I recite, my eyes glazing as I recount the horror stories my father would tell me when I was bad. "May Hircine never send them upon you."
I shake my head, clearing the fear induced relapse and notice he is gone. "Vorstag?" I call tentatively. "Vorstag?!" I rush from the spot and head down the dark tunnel, swallowing me further into the belly of the earth. I call his name again, quieter. No response.
He couldn't have gotten far, I tell myself, searching in the darkness and resisting the urge to conjure up magelight. I may hate magicka, but like Vorstag said I sometimes find it hard to resist the easiness of its power. I swallow down the urge and pull myself together.
Red light flares all around and wind howls.
I stagger, blinded by the sudden, though muted, light and stifle a scream. Caught off guard, I fall back and blink hard, trying to make out the moving shapes. There are two bodies in the darkness; one with horns standing tall with its clawed hand around the other's neck.
"Are you prepared for your death?" The Dremora hisses with glee into Vorstag's face as he strangles him. Vorstag gags and splutters, clawing at the vice grip on his neck. "So valiant, so brave, so…mortal." It coos, lazily stroking his face with its free hand.
It stops suddenly, a hush coming across the dimly lit, ebony black cavern. The Dremora sniffs deeply then smiles, its head turning in a sickening fashion, its red face gleaming my way.
"A challenger is near…" It says with a daunting growl. "Another one seeking death." It tosses Vorstag to ground in a lifeless heap.
No, not lifeless, my heart grasps greedily. I can still hear his ragged, pained breath. He coughs suddenly and tries to push himself up, but the daemon clubs him in the head and he goes still. "Don't go anywhere, brave mortal." It hisses at him, and then turning it stalks forward, searching for me.
I have hidden behind one of the few standing pillars holding the red torches. I ease around it as the Dremora grows near, careful not to let the light catch my faint shadow. I hold my breath, thinking of a way to defeat the daemon.
"You have come to see Boethiah," it calls in a ragged voice. "You come to be her champion?" It jumps to a pillar, slashing the air with its claws, its wicked smile fading upon realizing I'm not there.
I make it around the pillar and run to the next, barely catching its eye. It laughs and creeps to the spot I just left, it red face and armor frightfully glaring in the dark. "Boethiah awaits your sacrifice, young Forsworn." It says again, searching for me. "But a mortal cannot simply approach her altar. A mortal must prove herself by destroying ME!"
It lurches at me, a frenzy of hisses and growls, grabbing at my armor and wrenching it off, leaving just my worn leather clothes underneath. I fall to the floor from the force, but quickly roll out of the way as it strikes again.
I want to hide again, but it has found me. There is no more hiding. I turn and face the Dremora head on. "I shall honor my lord by destroying you!" It wails, drawing its blade, ready for our fight.
I reach for my own but find myself grasping empty air. Shit. Shit shit shit. Shit.
I look around frantically to find it connected to the belt on the armor that was ripped off, which is unfortunately right behind the Dremora. My daedric blade is still with me though, I realize as my fingers graze its cold hilt. I clasp my hand around and wrench it free, ready to face my doom.
Doom, child? My father's voice says sadly. I can just see him shaking his head. You don't need that rude metal strip to banish this beast to the Oblivion. The power is right inside you, can't you feel it burning in your finger-tips, swirling in your soul?
"No father! I won't use it! I won't!" I say aloud, causing the Dremora to pause. It cocks it head in confusion.
"Something wrong, mortal?" It asks, feigning concern. It breathes in deeply once again and exhales, "I smell weakness…" It takes a threatening step forward, blade ready.
I won't let you throw your life away over this petty fear of yours! He growls in my ear. You will not lose this fight. Suddenly the dagger blazes in my hand, burning my palm. I drop it in a flash of pain and it scatters across the smooth, cold floor. Out of reach. The red light it yields fades. Out of sight.
The Dremora gets closer, laughing at my foolishness for dropping my blade and smiling wickedly. It raises the blade high, anticipating me not to resist defeat.
My power burns within me.
I swore I wouldn't.
The Dremora is so close I can almost smell it.
To myself and to Vorstag.
It brings the blade down.
And all of the Oblivion breaks loose.