A/N: Hello! I know it's barely Monday back home, but...I'm finally in Oxford! So any of my updates will be according to what time I have here, on London time. Anyway, yeah, I'm super pumped to be here, but the wifi is really slow, so trying to get this out is kind of a pain. I do have some class work to do these next few weeks, and a shit ton of adventuring, but I'll write when I can and hopefully be inspired by how cool everything is over here. That being said, no notes for this chapter. It's all based around the "Dragonborn" expansion of Skyrim, so minor spoilers for that. And go ahead and get to reading and have an awesome day! As always, many thanks to my beta reader (and sister) GrowlingPeanut. Reviews are appreciated.
Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Bethesda Softworks and George R. R. Martin.
Rating: T for some violence/gore, I guess. Nasty Black Book stuff cause those are the worst.
Though Jaqen tried to sleep for the sake of his tired body, he could not, for his mind was restless. Beneath his pillow sat the tome which he had stolen from the Telvanni Wizard. The "Black Book". He could feel its evil, and feared the attraction that drew him to it.
Whatever the book truly was, it was powerful. Incredibly so. As he returned to Raven Rock, the ash spawn along his path simply stared with their undead eyes, but made no moves toward aggression. Similarly, the cursed gazes of those within the city sought him out, and they halted in their trance-like movements to watch him pass. Never before had he encountered something with such influence. Not even the Eye of Magnus could compare to whatever magick was held within its pages.
Carefully, he withdrew it, and his eyes found the figure on its cover once more. The shape stared back from a dozen eyes, ensnared within a mass of twisting tentacles. Each eye held its share of the world's mysteries, while each limb reached for the tides of Time and Fate. It was the form of Hermaeus Mora, he knew, and it called to him as it once had to his father.
With trembling fingers, he lifted the cover, and turned his gaze to the yellowed pages within. The first began with a curling script, written by a mortal hand but only through the power of the Prince of Fate.
"The City of Inkseeds rose from the desert, shining and decadent. Somehow, it still stood. I crossed through the gate, and the beast knew exactly where to take me: the way worn by beggars and poets. The only place a man of my appetites can find satisfaction. I'm not proud, but then, nobody ever is."
The words faded there, and the walls of his room began to shift and change, darkening into pools of brackish liquid that churned and bubbled around him. He found himself on a stone platform, with disembodied pages floating freely through the thick and poisonous air.
The wizard had not lied after all, for he had no doubt that he had been pulled into Apocrypha. His father had once sought the knowledge that lay upon the spinning pages, and it had stolen his very being. Absently, Jaqen wondered if he would find him wandering through the halls of Oblivion, endlessly searching for the soul that had been torn from him.
His lungs burned as he tried to steady himself and his head swam as he rose to his feet. Surely, mere mortals had no right to walk these halls. If he had not been killed for his very effort, it was because the Prince of Fate had willed it so.
With trembling limbs he began to walk. With no escape in sight, he had nowhere to go but onward.
A small scrye stood at the end of his path, the vine slowly curling atop its pedestal. As he reached forward, it opened, revealing a warm ball of light within, and behind it a doorway appeared. Just past it there was a large open tome upon a table, and as Jaqen's eyes found the words, his head began to spin once more.
This time, there was a sharp pain in his side as he was transported to a twisting corridor, and it looked as though the very walls around him throbbed in time with the ache in his limbs. He dragged himself onward as the halls opened into a large room, and the thick air shimmered and trembled before him. After a moment, a figure appeared, with dark eyes and grotesque, otherworldly features.
As Jaqen fell back, another sparkled into view, and beyond it, yet another, each fainter than the one before. As a glowing orb of magick shone from the sleeves of the black robes worn by the one before him, the assassin fumbled for the dagger at his hip, slashing out at the horrifying spawn of Oblivion.
When the ebony blade sliced through the ragged robes, the figures shrieked in unison, and the others faded into nothingness as the one he had wounded blew away in a tendril of smoke, leaving behind only a pile of robes and fluttering pages written in an unknown tongue.
Shaken, heart pounding, Jaqen began to move onward once more, his dagger gripped firmly in his fist, and his knuckles white.
On and on went the strange pocket of Hermaeus' realm. The corridors twisted and turned around him, shifting in their paths and leaving the disoriented Breton to wander aimlessly, not even sure what it was that he was searching for. Every so often, he would find another tome atop a pedestal, and each time he tried to read its words, he was transported deeper and deeper into Apocrypha.
More strange creatures blocked his path and he struck out at them with growing desperation, wondering if he would ever escape the winding passageways of forbidden and deadly knowledge. Every step left him weaker, but he pushed onward. If he could find Hermaeus Mora somewhere within the convoluted halls, then it would not have been in vain. For his lovely girl, he would wander the labyrinth forever.
By the end he was all but crawling, fingernails splintered and bloody as they dragged across the uneven stones. His breathing was ragged as his lungs fought against the thick and poisonous air. A trail of blood ran from his nose to his chin, and he could taste it on his tongue as he licked at his dry lips. Jaqen H'ghar was not afraid of death, and yet, he did not want to die.
His boots trailed through the pages that had settled across the floor, glued there by the thick rancid liquid that painted every surface of Mora's corner of Oblivion. A final tome lay high atop a stone pedestal, and behind it thick, dark tentacles twisted and writhed about, reaching high for the sickly green of the sky above.
He knew that the book before him was his escape, but he did not want to go. Not until he got what he had come for. Not until Arya's soul had been freed.
With a cry of pain and frustration, he hefted the book, muscles straining, and slammed it shut, his eyes closed against the words within. It grew dark as the tome shut with a puff of dust and smoke, and after a long moment, the sky went black, and from within it, a form appeared.
The Prince of Fate took a form as grotesque as the world that he had created for himself. The slimy limbs that churned languidly in the inky blackness of the sky were massive and reached out as they groped blindly, dragging across Jaqen's skin and leaving it clammy and cold. In the center, a single large eye stared unblinking through twin pupils, and around it, hundreds of others joined in the singular stare that kept the assassin motionless on the platform.
Blue eyes met pitch black, and for a long moment, he held the Prince's stare. In the end, however, he was forced to tear his gaze away as a ragged cough wracked his body, and he vehemently spit the blood from his mouth.
A low rumble came from the form above him, almost like laughter, and finally, the Daedra spoke.
"You are not who I was expecting, mortal..." The voice that came from the writhing mass before him was deep and echoed across the tepid water, ruffling the pages as they spun. "And yet...I know your blood. You are the son, aren't you? Destined to make the same mistakes as your father, then?"
"A man is not his father."
The reply came without hesitation, sharp and strong, and Jaqen felt as though he were a child again, being chastised for his rebellious behavior. "Do not speak in riddles, mortal. I can see within your very soul. You cannot hide behind your pretty words here."
He obeyed, for he had little choice. "My father was a fool," he said, bitterly. "He took his path seeking power."
"And why have you taken yours, son of Verick?"
Jaqen bristled slightly at the address. He had spent his life denying his birthright and viewing his father's actions as the betrayal they were. It was not easy to accept that he was now walking down a path parallel to the one that the Augur had once tread.
"For love."
Hermaeus' form rippled and squirmed as the sound of laughter boomed through Apocrypha. "Then you are just as much a fool. Far more men have died for the sake of love than on a quest for power."
When Jaqen did not rise to the taunt, the Prince continued. "Why is it that you have come to me, mortal? My puppets on Solstheim endlessly build their shrines, and yet it is you that comes to me, and not the dragons' daughter."
"The soul of the woman I love belongs to Hircine," Jaqen replied, remembering her broken body in his nightmares, carried away by the Prince of the Hunt. "I seek to set her free."
Mora hummed absently before speaking. "Arya Stark…the only one of her family to accept her birthright. The Starks were all destined for Hircine's realm, and yet he foolishly gave them the choice to accept or deny it. The ones that live today do not even realize it is a choice they have to make for so many of their ancestors shied away from the gift."
Jaqen listened impatiently to the Prince's words, but he continued without concern, his booming voice a steady and thoughtful drawl. "Fate led her to the grave...I saw it was so. And yet, she was torn away. The prisoner was not meant to turn back, nor were you to be so eager to return to the girl's side after the death of the lumberjack. The Huntsman is not pleased by this turn of events."
"I have come to you only for knowledge," Jaqen said. "I do not wish to bargain as my father did. Not with you."
"But with Hircine," Hermaeus finished. He laughed again. "And you thought that it would be so simple? All your life you have hidden beneath other faces, other names, but you cannot escape who you are, Jaqen, son of Verick. Fate has had her fun with you and now you find yourself standing right in the footsteps of your father. You will bargain with me, for that is the way of mortals and Daedra."
"What is it you want then?" Jaqen felt trapped, useless. He wondered fleetingly if freeing Arya's soul was worth enslaving his own.
"Not that," Hermaeus replied, easily sensing his thoughts. "Foolish as you mortals are, the Divines gave you a measure of control over the tides of Fate, and you say that you are not your father's son. So be it."
For a moment, he paused, and the tentacles about his form twisted languidly as he thought. "You are bound by another power that is neither Divine nor Daedra, and Sithis will not release you until his child is within the Void. Do as you were sent to do, son of Verick. When your work is finished, I will find you and then, we will discuss a trade."
Before Jaqen could respond, the tentacles reached toward him once more, gripping him tightly and prying open his eyelids as the book before him opened once more. As the words burned themselves across his tear-filled eyes, the halls of Apocrypha faded. He found himself in his bed once more, gasping and dripping with sweat. His whole body shook as the world returned around him and as his mind found its way back from Oblivion, it filled with dread. In his attempt to create a life with Arya, he may very well have only pushed himself closer to his own death.
Only Time would tell.