A/N: This one-shot, along with several others in the hopeful future, takes place immediately following the conclusion of The Last Years of the Fourth Era: Second Seed. I highly recommend you read that first so as to avoid spoilers and confusion.
I may yet release something in between this and "Alpha", so this may not stay the third chapter for long.
Anyway, have a (possible-sorta-kinda) surprise Halloween update. Hope you enjoy! - K
None know your nature;
save Us.
None share your fate;
save Us.
None welcome you as kin;
save Us.
– Excerpt from the Manifesto Cyrodiil Vampyrum
I
Today kept on getting stranger and stranger for Mistress Malys.
Only hours ago—a short time into what had started as a trip to Morthal—She had encountered an Imperial by the name of Venarus Vulpin, who had been on the hunt for what he had called "a vampire artifact" buried deep in the heart of the Pale, in the ruins of Dimhollow Crypt. He had, naturally, turned out to be a vampire himself.
This had not shocked Malys at all—as a dark elf who'd managed to contract both Sanguinare Vampiris and Poryphilic Hemophilia while fleeing Morrowind during the Red Year some two hundred years ago, it was not difficult for Her to sense another fellow bloodsucker.
What had shocked Her was that Venarus Vulpin was already long dead.
Unbeknownst to Her, he had been killed long before they'd ever met, and by yet another vampire at that—this one, an Imperial called Carmilla Anglinius. This was even more surprising, as Malys had had some previous dealings with her father Lucius—a fanatical priest of Meridia who despised all manner of the undead, from the lowliest of draugr to the highest-blooded of vampires. Most shockingly of all, this Carmilla seemingly possessed the ability to masquerade as anyone she met, male or female. The ease with which she had demonstrated this unsettling power mere minutes ago made Malys wonder if the tall, stately blonde currently standing a few feet to her left was actually Carmilla's true form.
And then there had emerged the revelation behind the mysterious thief who'd just hunted down them both like a fox. Malys had crossed paths with Rolega the Quiet, too, in her days with the College of Winterhold—back when She'd known the silent, skull-faced Nord as merely a former associate of the Thieves Guild. What had preceded that moment had also been a cavalcade of surprises as well—not least of which was that she was also the leader of the Dark Brotherhood, the deadliest assassins in all of Tamriel, and who'd claimed responsibility for the murders of Maven Black-Briar, Emperor Titus Mede II, and just about every high-profile death of the past four years.
Yet even these paled to the sight Mistress Malys was seeing right now: Her first glimpse of the "vampire artifact" that Venarus—no, Carmilla, Her mind corrected—had spoken of, and unveiled just seconds ago.
"Ugh … where is … who sent you here?"
The Nord—who'd been sealed inside the stone monolith Carmilla had just ripped apart with her vampiric strength—had tumbled out with a groan a few seconds ago, and was only just now rising to her feet, brushing dust off various effects and parts of her body with clawed black gloves: a charcoal velvet cape; a black, tightly laced corset; a large, ornately decorated scroll strapped to her back, and eyes with the color and intensity of highly polished garnets.
Mistress Malys didn't need to be a vampire to know what She was looking at right now—but something was … off about this woman. The blood flowing through the stranger's veins was like nothing She'd ever sensed before. It was older, more powerful … and yet, for all this, this blood felt strangely similar to Hers.
Carmilla scoffed, holding one hand on her hip, while the other leaned on her eerie black staff. "This is our artifact?" she said disbelievingly. "A woman?!"
Malys shook Her head, shaking bits of pulverized stone out of Her short black hair. "No. Look at her eyes," She replied. "She's just the same as us, no doubt about it." Her fiery eyes were once again drawn to the gleaming scroll.
"So you're vampires too, huh?" said the woman, huffing a strand of hair out of her face—much like Malys', short and black, though woven into several complicated knots at the scalp. The vampire looked and sounded much more bored than anyone who'd just been dug up from a sealed stone coffin ought to be. "Guess I shouldn't be surprised they'd send some after me."
Her glowing eyes then narrowed. "Oh—because I know you're going to ask about the giant thing on my back"—she thumbed over her shoulder to the object in question—"yes, it's an Elder Scroll. And no, you can't have it."
Malys' jaw nearly hit the stone floor. Did I just hear that right?!
Carmilla, too, looked surprised to hear this. "That's one of the Elder Scrolls?!" she gaped. "How did you come by that? The Order tried to steal one ages ago, but the Empire's security was impossible to penetrate, even for us!"
It was the woman's turn to look surprised. " … I'm sorry, what?" she asked. "What Order? … What Empire?"
What?! Malys mouthed the words in confusion, and then answered, " … The Empire," at the same time as Carmilla replied, " … The Order." They looked at each other, mystified, and Carmilla then added, " … From Cyrodiil?" in a tone that suggested she was just as nonplussed as Malys was right now.
The woman's next response did little to calm the rising headaches for the two vampires. "Cyrodiil's the seat of an Empire?" she asked, scratching her head. "Hm. I must have been gone longer than I thought," she shrugged. "Definitely longer than we'd planned for."
Long, nothing, Malys thought in amazement. She knew a little bit about the history of the Empire and its origins—all three of them, actually. The first Empire, the Alessian Empire—had been named after its first ruler, Saint Alessia, who ruled until her death midway through the second century of the First Era.
Which meant this woman was over four thousand years old.
"This changes everything," the woman was saying. "I need to get home, now—I need to find my family, figure out what's happened."
But Malys had had enough with all the surprise and mystery. "Now wait just a minute," She spoke up. "There's something you're not telling us. Why were you locked in here? Why do you have an Elder Scroll with you?"
For the first time, the woman's aloof expression faltered, and suddenly she looked rather small against the monolith she'd been entombed in; she was actively avoiding Malys' gaze.
"That's … a little complicated," she replied, after a protracted period of awkward silence. "And I'm not entirely sure I can trust you two with the gory details."
Two? Malys looked around, and felt a shiver creep down Her spine when She noticed that Rolega was no longer here, having apparently disappeared under the noses of three fully-grown vampires. How, exactly, was anyone's guess—vampires were no slouch at sniffing out their prey—but if assassins and thieves had their own methods of escape, the few who could be both likely had better means of doing so at their disposal. The assassin must have fled, She decided, and so She turned back to hear what the woman had to say.
"Look, just … just worry about taking me back to my family for right now," she went on. "Maybe if all goes well, I can tell you more after that."
Malys exchanged a questioning glance with Carmilla, trying not to look at the milky white orb that was the Imperial's left eye, and the purple hook-shaped sigil tattooed over it.
" … Fine." Malys could sense the changeling wasn't too happy about the decision. "Where do we need to go?"
"My family lives on a remote island a ways west of Solitude," said the woman. "At least, I hope they still live there. You could probably chart a ferry. Unless you really like to swim."
Carmilla did not blink. "We'll find a boat," she said flatly.
The Nord suddenly extended a hand, as if she'd forgotten about it all this time. "My name's Serana, by the way," she said to Carmilla. "I'd say 'Good to meet you,' but you don't exactly strike me as the social type."
She turned to Malys. "And you … well, let's just say I don't want to raise any old ghosts on your part."
"Carmilla Anglinius," said the Imperial. She did not return the offered handshake, and kept on smiling a smile that could have shriveled scathecraw.
"Mistress Malys," the Dunmer introduced Herself, shaking Serana's hand, not wanting to appear offended by her less-than-cordial greeting. "And what do you mean by that, Serana?"
The glowing eyes were fixed entirely on Her. "That if there's anything you're happier not knowing," Serana replied, "you'll go your own way, and you won't ever have to see my face or my family again."
Malys shook Her head. "I don't think so," She said defiantly, crossing Her arms to look more intimidating. "I don't like admitting it, but I'm probably the youngest vampire here. I've still got a lot to learn about Myself. Who better to help Me than another, older vampire?" Much, much older, She added to Herself.
Serana stared back at Malys with one of the loudest silences She'd ever experienced. "Your funeral," she shrugged, before turning away from them. "Let's go, then. This place looks different from when I was locked away, but I'm pretty good with direction. Give me a chance to stretch my legs, we'll find a way out soon enough."
And without any further preamble, Serana walked away from the monolith that had been her prison for Azura only knew how long. Carmilla and Malys were both left dumbstruck by what had happened here that it was several moments before it occurred that Serana might not be waiting up for either of them.
"I was hoping I'd find a bargaining chip," Carmilla groused as they hurried after the ancient vampire, "but I didn't expect that bargaining chip to be able to walk and talk!"
"Bargaining chip?" Malys repeated. Carmilla was certainly a hard one to read, she thought. "Just who are you? Why are you here?"
Carmilla drew in closer to Malys, as if she was about to relay a closely kept secret.
"Lately, there's been a shift in the wind," she whispered. "The Volkihar clan is becoming bolder, more active. Recently they've even started attacking townsfolk. I'm not sure what they're getting at, but whatever it is, it's big. Then I heard that the Vigil had unearthed some vampire artifact, I thought that if I found it, I'd have an in with the Volkihar, and they'd cut me in on their plans."
Malys arched an eyebrow. Not only a complete enigma, but ambitious as well, She thought with combined appreciation and apprehension. This Imperial was definitely someone to keep an eye on.
"And Rolega?" She ventured, anxious to know more about the equally enigmatic assassin. "What did she want with you?"
A sneer worked its way across Carmilla's face, and the violet tattoo curled imperceptibly around her left eye, like a snake tensing to strike.
"Let's just say my father wouldn't know a lost cause if it took his head off."
True to her word, Serana was indeed good with direction, and the trio of vampires soon found themselves feeling the frigid air of the Pale on their face. Of course, it was frigid only by the standards of the more lively denizens of Skyrim; to the undead, the change in temperature was almost unnoticeable.
Serana, and Carmilla more so, had remained largely silent after their exchange in the cavern where the Nord had been entombed. It wasn't until they started their trek north to Dawnstar that Serana finally spoke up.
"You're not like me … are you?" she asked. "You're vampires, I could tell just by smelling you—you're just not Volkihar vampires."
"Is that supposed to mean anything?" Carmilla asked testily. "I'm a Cyrodiil vampire, sure—but what's it to you?"
Serana said nothing. Malys, however, was pleasantly surprised by this news—that must have been what Carmilla was talking about when she had mentioned "the Order." She had heard only rumors and conjecture about the Cyrodiil Vampyrum Order since regaining Her memories; members of that particular bloodline kept largely to themselves, and were highly manipulative and deceitful.
If She was honest, that described the Imperial to a proverbial T. Still … "I don't think even the Volkihar can change their face and form the way you can, Carmilla."
Carmilla grinned. "My being a vampire has nothing to do with it." She brandished her black staff, holding the horned, mutilated skull that adorned it close to Her face. "I follow the Daedra Vaermina—the Prince of dreams and nightmares. She gifted me with her Skull of Corruption, to collect dreams and add them to her collection. That's how I shapeshift," she explained, twirling the artifact around her palm. "Vaermina can mold dreams, but I can let them mold me into anything—or anyone—I wish."
This information took Malys aback. She'd not heard much of Vaermina—indeed, She could not recall anyone ever worshipping her back home in Morrowind. As if she wasn't enough of a mystery, the Dunmer thought to herself.
"You're pretty outspoken for a Cyrodiil," Serana said from just ahead of them. "I always thought they were a little more … discreet over there."
"That's about why they declared me a traitor," replied Carmilla with a nonchalant shrug. "Change your face all you want, but having a Daedric artifact tends to make you stick out like a sore thumb. The Order knew that, and one day they decided to … well, cut their losses."
Malys remembered what Rolega had told them earlier. "By killing you," She guessed.
Carmilla's smirk grew wider. "Well, I gave them credit for trying."
She was oddly nonchalant for someone who had an entire guild of powerful undead after her head, Malys decided. It was hard for Her to tell if this was confidence—or complacency.
They walked in silence for some time. By the time Serana spoke up again, the trees had begun to clear, and the faintest ribbon of cobblestones—the road that led north to Dawnstar—could be seen through the snow.
"I still think you're making a mistake coming with me, Malys," said the ancient vampire.
Malys growled under Her breath. "I told you, my name is Mistress Malys," She corrected her without thinking.
What happened next was very fast. Serana moved like black lightning, spinning Her around with surprising strength. Her free hand then moved towards Her throat, but Serana's claws did not close around it—claws?!
Malys blinked. No, she wasn't seeing things; the arm that Serana had reached out with was not a human arm. Gone was the pale, near-alabaster skin of the vampire; now, the skin of the arm was as deathly gray as Malys' own, like basalt from the Red Mountain. And three other things had caught Mistress Malys' eye: firstly: the fingers of that monstrous arm terminated in wicked-looking talons that could no doubt slice Her to ribbons. The thought of the pain an injury like that could cause made Her squirm.
Secondly, those talons were now beginning to glow with an unholy reddish-orange color, like fire and blood.
Thirdly, her throat was beginning to feel a little tight …
Malys realized what was going on just as a sudden, invisible something latched onto Her throat and pulled Her forward and off the ground. Telekinesis, thought a small part of Her. She'd heard that the College of Winterhold only taught that spell to its most advanced students in the school of alteration—and Malys had seen it performed several times in the past. But even then, it had only been on inanimate objects, mere scraps of metal—sometimes heavier objects, to be sure, but never living things.
Yet that was exactly what Serana was doing now—and as she looked at the ancient vampire, Mistress Malys noticed that a change had come over her. Before, Serana had been somewhat of a mystery—one moment cool and collected, almost to a fault; the next moment, shy and reserved. Guarded, even.
Now, the mystery was dispelled. There was no mistaking the raw, unrefined rage behind that face.
"Just so we're clear," Serana hissed, fangs bared and eyes blazing, "I'm four thousand years older than you—and I think I know ten times more about vampires than both of you combined." She squeezed her hand a little, and Malys choked out a sudden cry of pain as the tightness in Her throat constricted Her further still. "I don't think either of you—who just met me an hour ago—have any right to act like you're better than me."
Malys' eyes were beginning to roll over in Her skull, and the edges of Her vision were starting to turn grey. She frantically tried to scrabble out of the stranglehold of Serana—to try and resist this—
And then, quite suddenly, it was gone. The invisible force left Her throat, and Mistress Malys tumbled to the ground in a heap. She could not feel Her body, but as She gulped in several grateful breaths, the numbness left Her, and She stared up at Serana with eyes that betrayed much more than She wanted to.
For the first time in a long while, Mistress Malys was scared. Her whole body was trembling out of abject fear of this ancient vampire. Up until now, She had believed Herself to be unique—a rare but powerful hybrid vampire who could take more than blood from Her kill, and take more than life from that blood.
But today, She had never felt more out of Her league. And yet, for some strange reason, through the terror that coursed through her body like some icy substitute for blood—Malys had never felt more excited.
Serana, meanwhile, had finally stepped away. The fire had died out in her eyes, which were actively avoiding Her once again. The clawed, rock-gray arm was now human again, and Serana rubbed at the limb as if it had been stung.
"I'm sorry you had to see that," she said softly, almost whispering. "I don't like showing that side of me."
Without another word, she turned around and headed north up the road to Dawnstar. "Let's … let's just go."
Carmilla watched her go while Malys continued to catch Her breath. "I saw that," the Imperial said airily.
Malys didn't immediately hear her. "What?"
The changeling's right eye stared intensely at Her. "Deep down—you enjoyed that, didn't you?" Carmilla asked. "You liked the feeling of pissing yourself in fear."
Malys sprang to Her feet, forgetting all about Serana. "What did you say?" She hissed, baring Her fangs at the vampire.
But Carmilla was not fazed. "All your life you've given and taken pleasure," she whispered. "Now you're giving and taking pain as well?" She smirked. "You've got a sick mind, Mistress Malys."
The Dunmer was confused—and not a little offended at the insinuation, either. "What are you talking about?"
"When you knew me as Venarus Vulpin, you told your life story to me," replied Carmilla. "You didn't tell me everything, though."
Malys knew what she was implying. So elated had She been to find a fellow vampire that She'd spilled Her guts almost from the first moment she'd met Venarus, and continued doing so throughout the whole of Dimhollow Crypt en route to finding Serana. Malys had spoken of her upbringing in Suran, where She'd worked at a pleasure house as a "special request". She'd spoken of fleeing from the eruption of Vvardenfell, and seducing an Ashlander for the maps She'd needed—only for the Ashlander to reveal himself as a vampire of the Quarra clan by biting Her. She'd spoken of resettling in Windhelm, only to be bitten again, this time by a Volkihar—then run out of town after Her promiscuous habits had landed Her in even more trouble.
And She'd spoken of Her adventures in Winterhold two hundred years hence, plumbing Dwarven ruins with no less a person than the legendary Dragonborn, and finally discovering the powers granted to Her from possessing two strains of vampirism.
She regretted speaking of all this now, of course—had Malys known who She'd really been telling her life story to, Her mouth would have stayed shut the whole trip through that crypt. Nevertheless, Carmilla had a point: She'd been wise enough that She hadn't told that Imperial everything—certainly nothing about such a relationship with pleasure and pain as Malys had had described to Her.
So how does she know?!
"We all have our secrets, Carmilla," She eventually said, to feel her out and give Herself time to think. "What's it to you if you don't know everything about Me?"
The changeling twirled the Skull of Corruption in her hand. "When I use Vaermina's power, I don't always get a face for my trouble," she replied cryptically.
The hook-shaped tattoo around her left eye faded, and for just a moment, Malys thought She saw Her own face staring back from where Carmilla's should have been. There was a hint of the cleft that ran from Her forehead to her chin, Her blood-red eyes and ashy gray skin—even Her own black hair, shorn off at the neck.
Then, as swiftly as it had come, the apparition was gone, and the blonde-haired, gaunt face of the Imperial (if indeed that was her original one) was staring back at Malys—tattoo, milky-white left eye and all—with a knowing smile.
"Fear, Malys." Long fingers stroked the horns adorning her Skull of Corruption. "To an acolyte of Vaermina, the fear of any mortal is more savory and scrumptious than all the blood in the world. And to me … you're a feast."
Carmilla's good eye flicked downward for only a split second. Then, that smile of hers widened just a little, and she walked off in Serana's wake, leaving behind a very confused Mistress Malys.
At least, She was confused until She chanced a glance downward Herself, and was finally aware of Her own shaking legs, wobbling weakly at the knees as if She'd just made love several times on end. She was also aware of a strange, faint tingling sensation below Her waist, almost as if …
No, Malys thought, as Her finger reached out to touch, and She withdrew Her arm quickly. I'd better not find out for Myself, She added grudgingly, as She hurried after Carmilla and Serana.
And I'd rather not make her think she's right.
Dawnstar
Even so, Malys noticed a slight spring in Her step by the time the three vampires made it to Dawnstar, a small, sleepy little town on the northern shores of Skyrim that looked one storm away from getting blown off the map. Carmilla took the lead here, as she mentioned to Malys that she'd been through here before, and was therefore the most familiar with the lay of the land.
As they walked across the shoreline, looking for a promising boat to sail on, Malys felt a chill wrap around Her that didn't feel like it had to do with the cold coming in from the Sea of Ghosts. The sudden feeling of cheer had vanished with it, too; when she mentioned this to Carmilla, the Imperial nodded knowingly.
"When I first came here," she explained in a hushed whisper, pausing briefly as a guard strode by with a torch, "the town was under a spell. Everyone was having strange nightmares. Nothing out of the ordinary, except for how strong they felt to the townsfolk. They all swore blind that the nightmares were real, and that they'd been cursed."
"Were they?" Serana asked. "Real, I mean."
Carmilla shrugged. "No more than your average nightmare—but no less potent for it. Anyway, a priest of Mara roped me into investigating the sources, and he said they were manifestations of Vaermina's power."
Vaermina. Malys felt that chill rising up Her spine again. "What was causing the nightmares?" She wanted to know—although part of Her suspected She already knew.
And sure enough, Carmilla was smirking again. "The same thing," she answered, as casually as if discussing today's weather, "that lets me see your dreams."
Malys felt the chill redouble in its intensity. That was not the answer She had been expecting. "What … did you see?" She demanded, unable to keep the faintest of shivers out of Her voice.
"The same thing I want," Carmilla replied back. She was no longer smiling. "The same thing we all want," she added, giving a knowing glance at Serana. The Nord had turned back, piqued at the Imperial's words, and was giving Carmilla a very strange look indeed.
Malys couldn't blame her. She was becoming less and less sure about this vampire with each passing moment … and now that She knew what she'd meant from their pain-and-pleasure talk, less and less fond of her as well. The Dunmer fervently hoped they would be going their separate ways after seeing Serana off to her old home.
"What happened to the priest?" Even as Serana asked the question, she didn't look like she wanted to find out.
Nor did Malys, truth be told, but the Imperial's face was already changing again. This time, her new face had assumed elements of a Dunmer in his prime, complete with facial hair and almond-shaped eyes that glinted like rubies. Once again, the face was only there for a moment before reforming into Carmilla's usual appearance.
Throughout all of this latest transformation, the Imperial never spoke a word. Nor did she need to; the implications of her actions were enough to make Malys shudder.
She would definitely be happy to see the back of this vampire for good.
Haafingar
For now, though, Malys would have to endure an agonizingly long boat ride along the northern shoreline, Carmilla at her side. Serana had managed to find a ferryman waiting at the far edge of town, his rickety transport dwarfed by the larger cargo ships that very occasionally made port in Dawnstar. No one had inquired about how much gold the trip had cost, or even if Serana had paid any toll at all—vampires were known for getting their way in the end.
Nevertheless, the ferryman, Harlaug, didn't seem to enjoy their company too much. Malys had to wonder if he suspected they might be vampires, if it had something to do with the coldness of the air, or if it was just because no one had spoken a word ever since the three women had boarded his rickety little boat. Whatever the case, the journey westward was not one that Malys was keen to remember again.
Even seeing the majestic cliffs that formed the foundations of Solitude—the capital city of Skyrim, no matter what the Stormcloaks might claim—was not enough to rouse any inspiration or awe within the three vampires. And the immense boat that lay anchored at the delta didn't help matters at all—at least, not for Malys. Only the Emperor of Tamriel would have any need of a ship that enormous—and he was dead. Killed for reasons known only to his killer—and whoever had told her to kill him.
Malys raised Her cowl over Her eyes, and did not lower it until She was absolutely sure that the ship had vanished from sight. She wanted nothing more to do with Rolega the Quiet—in Her mind, the assassin was just as mysterious as Carmilla, and therefore just as untrustworthy.
How long they sailed on in silence, no one knew. But at length, Malys suddenly heard a grinding noise from under the boat. The craft shuddered to a halt, and Malys noticed they'd run aground on a jetty, a stone's throw from a crumbling fort on the shoreline, and several feet away from what appeared to be a rotted pile of wood. The entire area was shrouded in a thick mist.
She frowned—had the ferryman meant to stop here?
"What is it?" Carmilla asked.
Harlaug rose from his seat with a huff, and several joints creaked. "This is as far as I'm going," he blustered. "I don't rightly know why you want to go to this place, and I don't intend to sit around and find out. That place is cursed. The only sailors what draw near that island have a death wish something fierce. Insane."
Serana said nothing. Carmilla, meanwhile, had her hands on her hips and sported a jaunty smile. "Are you questioning our sanity?" she asked.
Harlaug did not smile back. "The thought had occurred," he replied. "But I'd have the cold over you three any day of the week." He sat back down, and grabbed his oars. "I'm headed back to Dawnstar. You can find your own way back."
And before anyone could say anything, he'd sat back in his boat, and shoved off the shoreline—his eyes never once leaving the three women, even as he disappeared beyond the horizon.
Only when he was lost to sight did Carmilla speak up. "So what?" she asked Serana. "We just swim from here? That boat looks older than you."
She pointed to what Malys had thought was a decomposing pile of driftwood, and then, realization hit Her like a warhammer to the face. There was no way in a hundred eras that this pile of flotsam had ever been seaworthy.
However … "I don't think we have a choice," She finally said after a long while. "This far up north, the water could probably freeze fire if it tried. Vampires like us … best not to try."
And feeling slightly reckless, Mistress Malys made for the boat. How the collection of moldering wood didn't break apart in Her hands was a mystery, but She took it as a good sign. There must be some kind of magic holding it all together, She decided as She climbed in—not daring to look at Carmilla as She did so.
Then Serana stepped in, carrying a pair of oars that were almost as rotten as the boat. These she thrust out to Malys, before she settled into the bow of the craft. "You'll need my eyes to get you there," she said shortly.
The Dunmer thought briefly of pawning them off to Carmilla, but the Imperial had already squeezed into the aft section of the boat to operate the tiller. Sighing inwardly in resignation, Malys followed suit, plunking Herself between the women with a dangerous creak of timber.
As She pushed off from the shore, and began to row due north, Her eyes met Carmilla's. They were staring directly at Her—even the blind left one didn't seem to be blinking. Malys stared right back at the changeling. She didn't want to let her out of Her sight for even a second—not until it became clear what this woman wanted with both Her and Serana.
They floated in the mist for a very long while. Twice Malys wondered if they had gotten lost on the way over. But it was almost as if the boat was sailing of its own accord; Carmilla was at the tiller, doing absolutely nothing.
Suddenly, the clouds of mist parted, and the three vampires were suddenly faced with a massive construction of stone that could have swallowed Winterhold in a gulp—not merely the College, but the rest of the town with it. The parapets of the fortress were lost to sight in the clouds. There was no sign of habitation to be found.
"Castle Volkihar," Serana said quietly. "Doesn't look like my family redecorated while I was gone."
Malys thought that was putting it mildly—it didn't look like anyone had lived there for a very long time. Hundreds of years, certainly—possibly even longer than she'd been alive.
There was a rough rustling of wood against wet sand as the boat finally ran aground, right in front of a cobblestone bridge that made a beeline for the castle. Multiple gargoyles—more of the same they'd seen in Dimhollow, and half as tall again as any of the three women—flanked either side of the massive construction.
Carmilla looked at the stone figures with apprehension as they walked up the road. "It feels like they're looking at us … " she said uneasily.
Malys was about to tell her off, but Her gaze had lingered upon one of the stone creatures for only a moment, and yet She thought that one of its black eyes was indeed staring back at them.
They'd gone halfway across the bridge when Serana suddenly came to a halt, and spoke again. "Hold on."
Malys stopped. "What is it?"
"I … wanted to thank you for getting me this far," Serana told them. She was averting her eyes from them again. "But after we get in there, I'm going to go my own way for a while. I think … " But she trailed off at this.
"What is it?" Carmilla asked impatiently. "Why tell us this now?"
"I just … need to be alone for a while after we get there," said Serana haltingly. "I've got a lot of feelings wrapped up in this old place, and I don't think you're quite ready for them. So let me … take the lead once we're inside."
The way that she'd said "take the lead" made Malys more than a little apprehensive. "Should we expect a fight?"
"Mm." Serana shook her head. "There are plenty of covens out there that want us dead, simply because of who we are. Maybe you're part of them, maybe you're not—but I think you're capable of showing a little more restraint than that." Her garnet gaze suddenly flicked in Carmilla's direction.
The Imperial didn't fail to notice, even with only one eye. "Why are you looking at me like that?" she said irritably.
Serana sighed as she resumed her trek towards the castle. "Just stay quiet once we get in. I'll handle any talking."
As they hurried to keep in step, Malys heard the first sign of habitation within this forbidding place. "Lady Serana's returned!" hollered out a voice from above, a Nord—and an old one, by the quaver in his words. "Open the gate!"
"Lady, huh?" Carmilla grinned from alongside her. "I might still have a chance here."
Malys jabbed her in the ribs, shushing her.
The trio of vampires squeezed through the small door beyond the iron gate, and it closed behind them of its own accord with an echoing boom.
Malys, unfortunately, had no time to get adjusted to the interior of the castle. She caught only a glimpse of rock-carved walls that looked as dank and eroded as they did on the outside, of torches that flickered and cast forbidding shadows on the worn stone blocks—before Serana drove a fist right into Her chest. A thump and an angry hiss of breath told Her that Carmilla had been treated likewise.
Malys moved to retort, but Serana's eyes were round as septims, and focused elsewhere—namely, at the high elf striding towards them with purpose in every step, and anger in his burning eyes.
"How dare you trespass here!" shouted the new arrival, preparing a spell to blast them to kingdom come. Malys tensed, feeling the first crystals of frost magic on her hands to respond in kind.
But before She had the change to create a single snowflake, the high elf had stopped, barely a few feet away from the trio, and his eyes were just as wide as Serana's had been just now.
"Wait … " he whispered, almost reverently, taking another dangerous pace closer. "Serana? Is that truly you? I cannot believe my eyes!"
Serana did not speak.
Instantly, however, a change had come over the Altmer vampire; apparently, he knew full well whom he was talking to. He stiffened, looking for all Nirn like someone's butler—albeit a butler dressed in spiky, roughly cut leather—as he turned on his heel. Wordlessly, Serana gestured to Malys and Carmilla, indicating they should follow him.
They didn't have long to walk. A stone balcony was only a small number of paces away, overlooking a large banquet hall lit by more torches. Malys heard voices inside, close on to half a dozen, possibly more—although some of them sounded more bestial than human.
"My lord! Everyone!" the Altmer announced. "Serana has returned!"
A silence immediately fell over the entire hall. "Hm. I guess I'm expected," Serana remarked. Carmilla looked faintly intrigued, and Malys as well—She imagined all the people inside this place were suddenly looking right up at the balcony they were heading towards, in anticipation of Serana's return.
Had all these people been awaiting her, Malys wondered, after she'd been away for so long?
But every single question in Her mind was suddenly driven aside when She heard who was speaking.
"My long-lost daughter returns at last. I trust you have my Elder Scroll?"
Malys only had a moment to register the velvet-smooth baritone that echoed in the hall—even though a moment was all she needed.
The next thing She knew, a lance of pain had sliced its way down the cleft in the middle of Her face. The sensation was brief, but vivid—enough that Malys instantly clapped a hand to Her brow.
Carmilla would have been blind in both eyes not to notice. "What is it?" There was just enough worry in her voice to show the closest thing to genuine concern a vampire could display. "Are you okay?"
No. She was not okay. The last time that Malys' head had pained Her so, She had learned much more about Herself than she had dreamed was possible. Back then, she had still been Malys Aryon of House Hlaalu—naïve, immoral Malys Aryon—that side of Her who'd emerged from that forgotten cavern, and made Her way to Winterhold with bare fragments of her memories left to her, unknowing of the power that a two-hundred-year-old slumber had not managed to completely suppress …
That voice …
But those memories inevitably began to return, and so they had, one fateful day: Malys had learned the truth of herself in a Dwarven ruin whose name had been lost to time. Malys Aryon had died that day—perhaps she had even died two hundred years ago. Now, there was only Mistress Malys—a vampire of pleasure and pain, of cold heart and colder magic …
I know that voice …
Not all of Her memories had come back, however; some parts of Her past yet remained unknown … but She had come to terms with this … She had hoped to live Her new life, happier not to know what more She had endured …
Faintly, She saw Carmilla pull away, confused; one of the saner parts of Her pondered if She'd spoken that out loud.
"After all these years, that's the first thing you ask me?" Serana might as well have stood on the other side of Skyrim, so far away was the sound of her voice. "Yes, I have the Scroll."
"Of course," said the unseen male. "I'm delighted to see—" But he'd trailed off here, and it was apparent to everyone there why he had been distracted.
Malys, in spite of the continuing surges of pain that plagued Her face, had managed to make it to the balustrade that overlooked the grand hall. She now beheld a sight no mortal eye could ever have wished to see in their lifetime.
Vampires. More vampires than had been seen in one place. Some were feasting on bloody dishes, piled with meat and bones; others were stroking the ridged backs of dogs that only looked like such animals—for no dogs could ever possess such shadow-black fur or many-fanged maws—while still others lounged about with people in rags that a corner of Malys' mind knew had to be thralls, from the slow, ungainly way they moved hither and thither to serve their undead masters.
Yet there was only one undead master that She had her eyes on—and it had just locked eyes with her.
"You?!"
The man, resplendent in clothes not unlike Serana's, had risen from his throne-like chair in the middle of the center table. His black hair, slicked back to reveal the full of his brow, gleamed in the dim torchlight like refined ebony. High cheekbones were set below eyes as fiery as those of the Nord She'd helped to rescue, connected by a black beard so meticulous that not a single hair looked out of place.
That beard now looked nothing so much as a perfect letter O, framing an open mouth that exposed just enough teeth to reveal the tips of his long fangs.
" … You?" Carmilla was looking around. For the first time since Malys had met her, she looked quite perplexed, evidently not anticipating this turn of events.
And neither had Malys. For she did indeed know the voice she had just heard, but she had never believed she would hear it again …
—She held out Her tin, starving and begging desperately for septims, but the nords either ignored Her or shoved Her out of their path; it had been a slow day today, She had not had company in so long, and She constantly wondered how She had been reduced to this—
It had been two hundred years ago, that fateful night in Windhelm. Even the harsh reality of being a stranger in a foreign land—an immigrant of circumstances beyond Her control—had not dulled the lessons Helviane Desele had taught her long ago, in her House of Earthly Delights. Malys knew how to excite the senses of men, elves, and beast-folk alike—even the more extreme of sensations that offended the senses of more conservative folk.
She'd used those lessons again, this time to live for Herself, and not for Her family. And for a time, life was good—until the night that everything had changed—when the pain had come once again—
—one of Her regulars came up to the slum where She made Her home that night; the nord had brought a companion: a kinsman, whose slick black hair shone in the torchlight. He was not of the city, But She didn't care; She wasted no time in seducing the young, handsome man—
—who was he—
—the black-haired nord overpowered Her at Her highest point of pleasure, at the moment when She was ready to come, and for the second time in Her life She felt a stinging sensation in Her neck—
The pain in Malys' face reached a crescendo—it felt as though a battleaxe was cleaving through her head, from the top of her brow to the bottom of her lip—it traveled to her neck, where the bites had once been, enveloping them—
—She was unpleasantly roused from Her sleep by all manner of weapons in the hands of dozens of people; every one was pointed at Her, and every face flashed with hatred—
—face—
—"Go back under the ash where you belong!"—
—She had to look beyond the emotion—beyond the fury and anger distorting them—she needed to see the face—
—"Get away from my children, you gray-skin slut!"—
—they were blending together too quickly for Her eyes to tell them apart—until she saw one, turned away from Her, moving against the rising tide of the furious crowds—a familiar shock of short raven hair, shrouded in the night—
—"Gonna run you through like a pig on a spit, filthy elf!"—
—turn around, thought a part of Her mind; turn around, let Me see who you are—
—How long She ran, She did not know; Her legs carried her out of the slums, out of the city, and westward along the frozen River White, all the way to Lake Yorgrim—
—some featureless citizen waved a torch, and the face of the man was suddenly thrown into sharp relief—the pain refused to fade away, but she accepted it, endured it, all the while willing herself to see the truth—
—and there it was.
The same black hair.
The same black beard.
The same burning eyes.
The same gleaming fangs.
The same twisted, sinister smirk—
—only then did she stop to catch her breath, only when the signs and sounds of the angry mob had faded away to nothing—
But the faces had not faded with them—and this one, more than all the others, had now crystallized in Her mind's eye. The face that had eluded Her for nearly two hundred years had resurfaced once again, seared into her very being as if by a white-hot brand.
At long last, the mind and memory of Mistress Malys—once Malys Aryon of House Hlaalu—was finally complete.
"YOU!"
Her screech echoed throughout the hall—and before anyone could react, the Dunmer's world became a giant blur. She had only scant memories of leaping over the balustrade, straight for the man whose face had been erased in the turmoil of that night in Windhelm—the man that had changed Her life forever—
The high elf she'd just left in the dust was shouting in panic—"Feran! Garan! Stop her!"—but She did not heed this, either. She did not care how many vampires were down there, whether it was six or six hundred.
They were all in Her way.
Suddenly, She noticed—out of the corner of Her eye—two Dunmer men, one with bright red hair tied back in a ponytail, another with sleek black hair much like his, though less on the face, were rushing for Her like black shadows on the wind—
Mistress Malys suddenly growled—they weren't rushing for Her; they were trying to beat Her to him—
The two dark elves alighted either side of Her quarry at exactly the same moment as She did. For only an instant, the four of them were separated by less than a foot of space. Then, that instant passed, and with a scream of fury, Malys lashed out with Her fist, intending to rip his head off—tear into his flesh, paint the court with his blood—
—only to be restrained by the two vampires either side. Two arms bound Her at the torso, and another restrained each arm. So great was their strength that She could not resist, even in Her maddened state—but even now, Her fury was rapidly evolving into rising panic. For she was only a fledgling, and had just attacked a vampire who'd been undead for longer than most civilizations of Tamriel had existed.
She could do nothing but wait for the blow to fall—but damned if She wouldn't get one last word in edgewise.
"Do you have even the faintest idea of what you did to Me?!" She hissed in fury at the source of two centuries' worth of misfortune. "Do you know what sort of hell you put Me through?!"
"I would hardly call it hell." The man's voice was smooth and calm, in spite of the recent attempt on his life; he hadn't even dropped the goblet he'd expertly balanced in his fingers, let alone moved to defend himself. "To the contrary, it is a blessing—one that you and I have the luxury of sharing. Well," he amended, "perhaps not entirely."
He took a sip from the goblet, wiping his reddened lips on a pristine white cloth that the Altmer vampire had promptly presented him. "You've truly become quite the extraordinary being … Malys Aryon."
Malys wasted no time in spitting on his face. "You don't have any right to call Me that name," stormed the Dunmer. "You will address Me as Mistress Malys!"
"And you will address me as Lord Harkon!" bellowed the man, raising his voice for the first time. His name echoed off the stone as if a dozen of him were shouting his name in response, hammering it into Malys' mind like so many wooden stakes. "If you want to live one second longer, my dear, I suggest you know your place."
Mistress Malys, unable to attack, concentrated every last ounce of cold fury She had for this man, Harkon, into Her eyes. She stared at him, wishing She could blast his smug face into a thousand shards of ice with her gaze alone.
Carmilla chose that moment to interfere in the tense moment. "Would someone please tell me what's going on here?" she demanded. "Why do you two have it out for each other?"
"I already told you how I came to be, Carmilla," snarled Malys. "You knew I was part Volkihar, that I used to be Quarra. You knew that side of me came from an Ashlander I met during the Red Year. But the Volkihar side … "
She barely heard Herself trail off here; a sudden thought sprang into Her mind—
" … you won't ever have to see my face or my family again … "
"You knew from the beginning," Malys realized, tearing Her gaze from Harkon at last to settle on her new target for the fury She felt. "You could sense his blood inside me. Isn't that right … Serana?!"
The vampire looked smaller than ever as she shrank back against the stones. Her eyes were not meeting anyone else's—and certainly not the Dunmer's.
"I warned you, Malys," she whispered forlornly. "I gave you the chance to go your own way. You could have lived in peace the rest of your un-life—you could have been happier not knowing that my father made you what you are. It was entirely your choice to refuse."
"And I for one am glad she did not," Harkon chuckled. He snapped his fingers, and the two Dunmer holding Malys finally released Her—though not without one last gesture of hostility; they threw her from Harkon so fiercely that She nearly missed colliding with a Redguard dining on what looked like bloodied human flesh.
"The happy little family, reunited at last!" Harkon went on, throwing his hands wide. "Ah, if only your traitor mother were here, Serana. I would let her watch this reunion before putting her head on a spike."
Mistress Malys—too desperate to find some other object to distract her from Harkon's face—was too absorbed in the macabre décor of the hall to notice how Serana flinched at these words.
The vampire lord, meanwhile, had turned to Carmilla. "Now, then. Two of you I already know as my own blood. But you alone are not familiar to me. What is your name?"
"Carmilla Anglinius." The Imperial introduced herself brusquely. "I was the one who found your daughter."
We both found her, Malys thought with some irritation—although, to be fair, it had been Carmilla who had forced Serana's stone tomb open in the first place.
"One of the Order?" Harkon inquired. "How … nice. Well, then, you have my gratitude for Serana's safe return."
It could not have been plainer that he was not gratified in the slightest, Malys knew. She had seen the way his nostrils had flared at the first sight of the Cyrodiil vampire. Harkon clearly did not like the fact that a supposedly inferior breed of bloodsucker had been successful in retrieving his Elder Scroll.
And that was the other thing, Malys thought. It sounded as though he was more concerned about that Scroll than his own daughter. Considering Serana had been locked away since before an Empire of Tamriel had ever existed, one would think he would go to any length imaginable to bring her back.
She frowned. Something wasn't adding up here. But Harkon was speaking again, and She brought Herself back to reality to listen to what he had to say.
"Such a service demands an equal reward, I believe," the vampire went on, "and there is only one gift I have that is equal to not only my daughter, but the Elder Scroll she carries as well."
Carmilla's eyes narrowed. "And that would be?"
"My blood." Harkon smiled, as if his answer was the most obvious in the world. "Take it, and you will walk as a lion among sheep. Men will tremble at your approach, and you will never fear death again."
Malys nearly forgot about her distaste for Harkon when he heard his reply. You will walk as a lion among sheep … Had this, then, been the source of her power—why the magic She'd displayed in times past, that strange ability to tear souls from the vessels that carried them, was unique even among other vampires?
Carmilla, for her part, remained very still—though a small smile was playing across her mouth. "I don't need blood to make me strong," she said. "I just need a face."
And as the last word fell from her lips, her tattoo began to fade, and she began to transform once again. Her height stayed roughly the same, although her hair was shrinking, darkening to a very familiar shade of black …
Whispers arose through the hall, and several vampires pointed excitedly. Mistress Malys, on the other hand, could not resist a shudder as a second Harkon took shape before Her eyes.
"The Order didn't like my methods," continued Carmilla in the man's own voice, "or my abilities. I deemed them frightened and weak. So I first chance I got, I jumped ship and made for Skyrim."
The real Harkon, for his part, remained unfazed by the display of power. "Hoping to get in my good graces, no doubt," he responded, "by finding Serana."
He suddenly smiled—one of the smallest yet coldest smiles Mistress Malys had ever laid eyes upon. "You're one to keep an eye on for sure," Harkon added. "Having a vampire like you in my court could very well tip the balance of power in our favor."
It was Carmilla's turn to smile now. "That's the plan. But." The smile had vanished as suddenly as a candle being blown out by the wind; as Carmilla began to shift back into her initial form, her eyes—even the milky-white left one—were gleaming in a way that Malys didn't like at all.
"As I said," Carmilla went on, "I don't need your blood to make me strong. I don't need your gift—but she might."
She nodded over at Malys, and the Dunmer suddenly felt the eyes of every vampire in the room trained on Her.
"M-Me?" She stammered at Carmilla, not expecting this turn of events. "I've already got his blood," She said, gesturing to Harkon without daring to look at him, "and that time, you didn't give me any choice."
"Perhaps not," said Harkon, "but you are still diseased. Whatever blood of the Quarra yet remains inside you is strong, but false." He smiled in a truly sickening way. "You'll find mine to be stronger by far."
Perhaps sensing the lecherous tone that had slithered into Harkon's words, Carmilla now stepped forward. "One last thing—Malys and I are a package deal," she declared. "She gets your blood, but I get the spot on your court. Something tells me she doesn't want it anyway," she added with a sniff, her eyes flicking to Malys dismissively.
The hybrid vampire was rooted to the floor in shock. So this was what Carmilla had been trying to do: she'd renounced her family, fallen in league with Vaermina, murdered her own kind, and gone out all the way to Skyrim to recover Serana—all to join forces with the Volkihar?
But even as she looked at the changeling, Malys doubted that was the crux of it. This Imperial was a born schemer, She knew—someone who could never be satisfied with how things were, only with how they would be. Someone like her would use everything at her disposal—and everyone who got in her way—to get what she wanted.
The only question for Malys was: what was it that she truly, deeply wanted?
Harkon, meanwhile, had been just as deep in thought. Evidently he was deciding whether Carmilla would shape up to be some kind of threat to his position. "Very well," he eventually said. "Do you still need convincing, Malys? Then behold!"
Malys whirled around at him just in time to see Harkon hunched over before Her, as if he was about to be sick on the carpet. But he was far from it: Harkon was transforming; a reddish-black substance was leaking out from every pore in his skin and consuming his body. There was a horrible crunching noise, like hundreds of bones being ripped to shreds.
Suddenly, two vast shapes burst from Harkon's back: great leathery wings that carried the wriggling mass of blood and shadow aloft. The dark slime began to seep back into Harkon, revealing the form that lay underneath.
Had Malys not previously witnessed a glimpse of this power in the Pale, when Serana had bodily lifted Her with her magic, She might have screamed at the horror before Her—though seeing the effect applied over one's whole body, rather than just an arm, was still more than enough to make Her recoil in disgust.
The monster stood eight feet tall—bigger than even most Orcs—with a brutish, elongated head that looked like a dog's, but with all the fur and skin torn off, and stone-gray skin that gleamed in the torchlight. So, too, gleamed ten clawed fingers and toes that looked like they could shred steel to ribbons. The eyes, meanwhile, were dark and piercing, with no whites to them at all—just two beady points of infinite darkness.
«This is the power that I offer!» Harkon's voice hissed—though his lips, bursting with long white fangs, did not move. And yet, the words he spoke echoed deep inside Malys' mind and body.
Telepathy, She instinctively realized.
«Make your choice,» Harkon pressured her. «Take my blood, or I shall take yours—just as I took you, those many years ago.»
Malys had never heard of any vampire having the capacity to transform their body into something so monstrous—not even one of the Volkihar. Was Harkon like Carmilla, then? Was this power, and Serana's as well, some gift from the Daedra, gained through the spilling of untold innocent blood? Or did She simply have more to learn about the ways of the vampire that She realized?
Take my blood …
… just as I took you.
Slowly, as Harkon's words began to echo in Her mind, Mistress Malys began to form a plan in Her head. It would take time, She knew. But there was a way that She could take Harkon's blood—and then some.
There was, in fact, only the one way.
Malys smiled, feeling slightly reckless in spite of Her surroundings. "All right," She said. "I'll have your blood."
Harkon bared his fangs. «Then be still!»
In the next second that followed, Malys' thoughts went to the promise She had given to a pair of mages at Winterhold, before She had left for Morthal. At the time, She had hoped that She would see them again—but times, unfortunately, had a way of changing in ways no one could ever account for.
I'm sorry, Malys thought, as Harkon suddenly tensed. I guess I won't be having that drink with you after all.
Harkon never seemed to move. In the next instant, he was nothing but black lightning, darting for Malys with his fanged mouth open wide. There was a crunching of bone, a spatter of blood—yet somehow, Mistress Malys remained standing still.
Then came the pain.
The right eye of Carmilla Anglinius gave only the briefest of dispassionate glances in the direction of Mistress Malys as she fell to the floor, writhing and screaming in agony. The Imperial's attention was focused elsewhere.
"What if she doesn't survive?" Carmilla asked, her gaze now flicking in Harkon's direction. The vampire lord had resumed his human form within the space of a second, and wiped his bloodstained mouth once more.
Harkon did not even look at Malys as he cleaned himself up, and did not bat an eye even as an especially earsplitting shriek rattled the silverware on the tables. "I believe she will choose to," he said with a nonchalant shrug.
A shadow suddenly fell over his face. "We all did, in the end."
Carmilla understood; vampires believed survival was of paramount importance; nothing else mattered in their mind. From the moment these creatures were first turned to walk the path of the undead, they were forced to spend every waking moment consuming the lives of others, simply to prolong their own. The thought made Carmilla wonder just how many lives vampires like Serana and Harkon, longer-lived than entire Empires, had claimed in their days.
Another scream from Mistress Malys brought her back to reality, and she forced herself to listen to Harkon, who was speaking to some of his court. "Vingalmo, Orthjolf," he was saying, "take her to the Cathedral. Let us rid the hall of this … irksome noise."
The Altmer from before, along with a grizzled, red-haired Nord, hoisted the still-screaming Malys like a sack of grain. Carmilla noticed the look that passed between them. She'd seen it plenty of times in Cyrodiil, among scheming politicians who served only themselves, masking thoughts of eliminating all the competition in their way.
Such thoughts were not, she reflected, entirely unlike her own. They'll have to be watched.
"In the meantime, lady of the Order," Harkon went on, "I have a task for you that you might particularly enjoy. It will take time to implement and carry out, but I think you'll find it most suited to a vampire with your … talents."
The disdain in his voice did not escape the Imperial either. But those in the Order were just as capable at scheming as any of Cyrodiil's Elder Council—let alone the court of an elder vampire—and beneath the thousand or more faces of Carmilla Anglinius lay the mind who'd forgotten more about intrigue than most mortals would ever know.
And so, the changeling smiled. "What did you have in mind?"
To be continued …