All Fall Down
By: SurreptitiousFox245
Disclaimer: I don't own Elder Scrolls or Dragon Age. All rights go to their respective peoples. I do, however, own my OC, Lys Ralvayn, in all of her awesome glory. So eat it. :P
Quick Author's Note: I am really, really tired. I have not gotten much sleep the past few weeks. If I made any mistakes, you will have to forgive the oversight because I am fucking exhausted, pardon my French. The first part of the chapter is background on Lys. It isn't everything, not by a long shot. Her story prior to being sent to Thedas is going to be revealed slowly but surely. The second part is "real time", so to speak. Back at the Dalish camp, anyway.
Well, enjoy!
"When everything is wrong and nothing feels right,
and everyone has left,
no one said goodbye -
the days seem so lonely, and I've never been this scared.
And you were so strong...
you touched with no hands.
And all the days that we missed,
gonna find where they've been.
I don't care if you love me, just say that I win.
And I'll try harder this time when I know that I'm right.
You hung up the phone the night that God saved my life.
And every new beginning comes from some other's end.
This four letter word,
it's all I have left.
It's all I have."
~One Less Reason "Four Letter Words"
Chapter 2
~Nirn - 4E 201~
Believe it or not, you had always been a rather unremarkable elf before the whole fiasco with the Thalmor. Worse still, you'd been penniless and unremarkable, and if you were honest, the penniless part stubbornly clung to you straight through to the end up on that damned mountain. Sure, you had a decent enough grasp of hunting and foraging. You'd had to survive somehow, and the forests along Cyrodiil's northeastern border were not as unforgiving as they appeared at first glance. The deceptive tranquility of Lake Arrius glinting under the twin moonlight had fooled you into security before, so you had mastered the art of constantly being alert as well. Magic, though a strong suit, had been considerably muddled by your being Altmeri. Considered to have an unnatural grasp of the arcane arts anyway by the other races and honestly being mediocre in the schools to your own rendered what could've set you apart by leaps and bounds to be categorized by that stupid little word you'd learned over time to be synonymous with survival.
In any other situation, you supposed it would be somewhat sad. Not in yours, though. A life of wandering and, when called for, poaching, as well as being a solitary female made you realize quickly that attention was the last thing you wanted to draw. Bandits, the errant escaped criminal, soldiers, guards, vigilantes, thieves - the list never truly ended, and you'd conditioned yourself to lay low from all. Fame and infamy never played out in your favor, either, so you kept as best you could to the wide unpopulated spaces of dense forests and barren grasslands. Recognition, acknowledgement, or what have you were always more troublesome than not.
You had been raised an orphan. Wherever your parents happened to be, or whoever they once were, had never been an answer able to be given. Your recovery was perhaps the most interesting aspect of you, truth be told. You'd been found, as the Acolyte who had primarily cared for you, Undilar, often liked to repeat, by a patrolling guardsman only a half hour east of Kvatch on the Gold Road. You had been nothing more than a hungry bundle screeching from amidst a tangle of flowers and weeds, tossed to the side of the road as if something to be ashamed of. It had only been several years after the Great War, and while not entirely a welcome presence, the Aldmeri Dominion had steady claim over the region. An abandoned, healthy child of High Elf blood was an oddity, but also considered a tentative commodity. Though selective when it came to breeding, Altmer children of unknown parentage were considered assets so long as they proved skilled enough. One had to be on par with the fabled Aldmer race to be considered a productive member of Altmeri society and accepted within the Dominion. It could be said that one had to be remarkable.
As you grew within the temple to Auri-el, once dedicated to Akatosh prior to Altmer occupation, you proved to be anything but noteworthy. Your magic was decent, but at a common level amongst your peers - it was nothing worth giving a second glance. Your scholarly pursuits were admittedly lackadaisical in retrospect to what the Acolytes had attempted to teach you. The reigning Thalmor Emissary over the area, a stuffy, oily old man by the name of Anariil, had shown a particular frown of distaste when scouting for potential recruits to the over-glorified supremacist faction. Even as a child and being fed a steady stream of beliefs negative towards humans, other mer, and the beast races, you had never really believed in the harsh treatment and instead found a shimmering fascination on the subject. Something about having these negative views shoved on you and having never had contact with the races in question sparked your natural curiosity to find out exactly why they were held in the first place. That view had only been strengthened as you entered your teenage years.
So when the slippery, gray haired Altmer had stared down his beak-like nose at you out of twenty or so other orphaned children with a knee-buckling gaze and asked why the Empire had surrendered to the Dominion in the war, you'd very innocently answered, "Because the Dominion was being an ass and didn't give them a choice...or a chance."
Needless to say, that answer hadn't gone over well. Not that any answer straying even remotely from bathing the Dominion in gilded righteousness and the Empire as mewling worms writhing in inferiority would've, in retrospect. The Emissary had gone a shade of angry red, mixing with the natural yellow tone of his gilt skin to create an amusingly vibrant orange that looked rather out of place with his dull yellow eyes and lank, cinereal hair. The Acolytes around the room had gasped in shock, growing pale and flustered while stammering abhorred apologies that one of their students had even dared give such a scandalous answer in blunt and vulgar terms. You could've sworn that one of the elder females had fainted where she was seated in the back of the room. Had you more brains at the tender age of fifteen, you might have just kept yourself silent for the duration of the inevitable tongue-lashing.
No, instead you'd giggled at the spectacle the man was making of himself.
Correction - you'd giggled uncontrollably.
The following morning, you had been predictably kicked out of the temple and left to fend for yourself. Such disrespect towards a figure of power was not to be tolerated under any circumstances, by anyone, and the message had been made resoundingly clear with your excommunication. Undilar, a middle-aged mer with questionable mousey colored hair always secured in the topknot typical of a servant of Auri-el, had expectedly been the only one to see you off. He'd seemed solemn as his thin, bony hands - scholar's hands that had fed, clothed, and taught you - conspiratorially handed you a small bundle of provisions. It wasn't much, barely enough to survive a few days comfortably. You remember an eyebrow rising at that. Smuggled food, was it? Still, the sentiment had touched you.
You had kept the cloth that had bound the bread, apples, and potions for some time, actually.
With a roguish grin to hide your apprehension, you promised to a disheartened face you wouldn't get into too much trouble. Sans a childish look of amusement towards Anariil when you passed him on the road you couldn't resist and the ensuing, angered chase, it was a relatively easy promise for you to keep considering your humdrum nature for the next seven years. Learning to survive had been rather solitary, with a string of days here and there broken up by a hunter requiring aid tracking big game or an alchemist searching for herbs that had taken pity on your lack of ability and taught you a few essentials before moving on. It was mundane, but it was comfortable - liberating, even, from the temple's expectant structure, if one wished to go so far.
At least, it had been up until the chilly autumnal day you found yourself a little farther north of your usual hunting grounds than you'd intended. The quickly settling chill had warned you of a harsh winter to come, and so you had decided that the risks of going farther north to hunt more were worth it over potentially starving and freezing to death. Walking into an ambush hadn't been on your "to-do" list that Morndas, but you had to give credit to the Imperials who had done the ambushing - it was skillfully and silently carried out. You'd been knocked out, loaded onto a wagon with three other Nords, and carted north towards what would probably be your execution.
Initially, you hadn't been frightened - just curious. Due to your time in the woods around Cheydinhal, you had had your fair share of encounters with humans, and the ravenous childhood yearning for knowledge had stemmed to a dull thirst. And you had come to accept your death as inevitable anyway the minute you had taken to your nomadic lifestyle. Only a hardheaded fool would believe themselves invincible enough to survive such dangers forever, and a hardheaded fool you were not. You just had never pictured it would end with you as a falsely accused war prisoner.
Upon waking, the more chatty man across from you had managed to fill you in on the details. Secluded as you had been, you hadn't a clue that there had been a rebellion brewing against the Empire in Skyrim until it had almost literally fallen on top of you. The man, stocky and blond, obviously a warrior, and answering to the name of Ralof was a soldier in the rebellion. The man next to you, brunette, oddly gagged, and dressed in fine, if not slightly dusty, furs was none other than Ulfric Stormcloak, said rebellion's leader. The sniveling, cowardly fool adjacent to you was another unfortunate bystander to the whole thing, a horse thief named Lokir who had, like yourself, been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
It was several nights later, a day from the hamlet you'd learned to be your destination that you managed to slip out unnoticed. The soldiers had made camp, and after a failed attempt by a handful of unmarked Nordic soldiers at liberating the imprisoned rebels, you'd been separated from the rest as each of you was questioned individually. That had been the Legionnaires' first mistake. The second had been leaning you against a tree while they attempted to figure out who had organized the attack. Severing the thick leather bonds hadn't exactly been easy, but with the cover provided by feigning sleep and a nimbleness acquired from years hunting game partial to tight crevices, you had managed and slipped off into the frigid wilderness before the Imperials had been any the wiser.
They had taken the patchwork armor of mildly tanned hides and furs and left you in thin roughspun clothing that did little to protect against Skyrim's native chill. Your second-rate bow, arrows, and daggers had also been confiscated, leaving you to rely on your magic for both defense and warmth if you wished to survive in an environment even harsher than what you were used to. Somehow you'd managed, sticking to roads and looting from a few bandits stupid enough to cross your path. The fur armor you'd taken from one hadn't been as tailored as your own had been, but was certainly warmer than the tattered clothing you'd been forced into. The plain longbow and handful of shoddy iron arrows you'd also managed to salvage provided you with a more reliable means to hunt, but as you'd stumbled across Morthal and had to be helped to the town's wizard to be treated for frostbite and magika exhaustion, you rationalized that perhaps returning to your nomadic lifestyle was not the best choice. At least it wasn't a good one until you could either get used to the cold or procure better, thicker armor and more potent restoration potions.
Alas, the decision whether or not to stay hadn't rested with you in the end, so your three days spent pondering the decision at the inn and the coin spent there had really been useless. A tall, stocky Nord man in a plain brown tunic had approached you, claiming to be the Jarl's steward. He'd seemed kind enough, if a bit haggard. What you'd heard about the civil war made the exhaustion brewing in his eyes entirely understandable - it hadn't been easy on anyone in the province. They were damned for supporting the Imperials, and cursed if they backed the Stormcloaks. And the situation in Whiterun was quickly showing that neutrality wouldn't get anyone anywhere, either.
You'd followed Aslfur out of civility when he'd mentioned that Jarl Idgrod wished an audience with you. Morthal wasn't a particularly large town, even though it was a Hold capital. In actuality, it was more a village than a proper city, and you were an anonymous newcomer of a race the people in Skyrim were understandably wary of to begin with. You'd expected the Jarl would want to question you at some point and so far hadn't been disappointed, until the grizzled old woman had looked you point blank in the eye first thing and, without preamble, asked you if you would like a job.
It had been a shock, certainly. You were left standing in the blissful warmth of the longhouse, dripping from the freezing rain drumming away outside and gaping like a fish for several moments before you managed to gather yourself and ask just what this "job" would entail. You were still healing from the frostbite, though Falion's spells and poultices had helped considerably. You weren't in a condition to be fulfilling bounties or any of the requests to take care of bandits or other nuisances this Jarl could possible conjure. There was something about the woman that had put you on edge, a tingle of knowing behind her dark squinted eyes that was disquieting. Like she could bore into your soul and poke around every little embarrassing secret you had stuffed away. Skeletons laid bare for judgment to be passed.
A stiff moment of silence trudged along before the old woman's lips twitched up into a smirk of victory, as if she'd found what she'd been looking for, and your heart dropped into your stomach, "The war is creeping up on our borders. My husband believes I would benefit from an advisor of a sharp mind and versed in the arcane. From what Falion has told me, you are both. I am hereby offering the position to you." The word "husband" had been emphasized by an amused pause, as if to convey that the word did not indicate the person it was supposed to. Somehow, you hadn't been able to help mentally replacing it with "I". A chill raced down your spine unbidden. And "versed in the arcane"? By Falion? You sourly recalled the hooded Imperial snidely railing at your inability to use a flame spell to evenly distribute heat. Your protests that Destruction magic had never been your strongest school had fallen on selectively deaf ears.
"Am I able to refuse?" Your tone was tentative, but dry. You already knew the answer. No vocalization was needed as the smirk reappeared, followed by a slow, lazy blink as if to convey the words, "Look at your position - what do you think?" Two guards were standing stoically at the doors, three placed disproportionately, yet tactfully, around the room (escape should you decide to run was all but impossible), and a Legionnaire hovered in the doorway to the left all but giving you a death glare. He obviously knew who you were and what you'd escaped. From his angry stance, he had been ready to arrest you. It was then you realized the Jarl was trying to keep you from recapture by making you a servant bound to her household, though you couldn't fathom why. It was probably more complicated than your proverbial pay grade. Your sigh was melancholy.
Bowing your head in respect you weren't quite sure you really felt, you acquiesced gracefully, "I am humbled, my Jarl, and accept." Though there had been many teachings from the temple that you had easily discarded, the etiquette had been a habit you had never quite been able to shake. Polite as you were being, though, you certainly didn't have to like the situation you now found yourself in.
Still, as you slowly raised your head and eyed your new advisee, you couldn't repress the shiver at the spark quickly and alarmingly becoming familiar. You felt the urge to bolt as the hair on the back of your neck stood on end and another shiver wracked your frame. Ground held dutifully, your teeth grit themselves together. You recognized the favor being given, but you somehow felt that while it was advisor-advisee officially, the roles were going to be reversed in practice. Because as you glowered against a cool scrutiny, you had a feeling that Idgrod Ravencrone knew more than she was letting on. And you also had an inkling that the knowledge had far too much to do with you than you cared for.
~Thedas - 9:30 Dragon~
You noted that you were by a fire. The roaring warmth engulfed you, and it wasn't until you were nestled comfortably next to the flames that you realized you'd even been chilled at all. It was appropriate. You'd been on top of a mountain before waking, clad in tattered armor atop an even more rugged, threadbare tunic and trousers you'd scrounged up from...somewhere. The exact specifics of where you'd salvaged the cloth and hide eluded you, lost in the rushed fog of a war waged perhaps too late. It was all piecemeal, you were sure; remnants from darting cross-continent - fort to sanctuary to village, just trying to stay alive. How exactly had you gone from a Jarl's advisor to skulking about and coveting half-decayed, albeit usable, armor as if it were gold? As you sat there comfortably nursing a bowl of mercifully savory, gamey stew (probably rabbit), you figured it didn't matter any longer. What was done was done and you couldn't change it.
The warmth reminded you of the day you'd been offered the job, however. Truth be told, it wasn't much different. Outside instead of in a longhouse, gently chilled instead of frozen and frostbitten - you were sightless this time. There was still a...perhaps not grizzled, per se, but there was an experienced elder across from you with a proposition, power draped languidly across her shoulders as if a cloak and knowledge burning her eyes. The nature of the knowledge may have been different, but knowledge was still power regardless of make. The conditions were even vaguely similar - stay, join the clan of elves and work comfortably to grow accustomed to your new disadvantage (blindness instead of susceptibility to cold), or leave and fend for yourself in the elements, in a land foreign to you. And once more, it sounded as though you were not being given much of a choice to begin with.
You spooned another chunk of tender, gravy-covered meat onto your tongue, sucking and gnawing on it to prolong the thoughtful silence that had fallen. Though you couldn't see Marethari, you could feel her gaze piercing you expectantly. She wanted a story you were reluctant to share. It sounded outlandish as it was, but while you trusted her and the Dalish to some extent, you didn't trust them with the truth. At least not yet.
Swallowing your delaying morsel of stew, you waved the hand holding the wooden spoon around for emphasis, "I think you already know my answer, Keeper. I don't know where I am or how I came to be here. I woke up blind, for Arkay's sake. Staying with the Sabrae clan is the most logical course of action, and I thank your hospitality for graciously suggesting and allowing that I stay." Marethari seemed to smile gently at that, though without visual confirmation, you couldn't begin to tell for certain.
"It is no trouble, child," she brushed the matter off as if the clan accepted outsiders every day of the week and twice on Sundas. "Two of our own passed away recently, Dread Wolf never find them. As much as I would like my generosity to be plain, we require someone to aid in picking up the slack they left."
"I can't promise I'll be the most useful, but I will try to help where I am able," you shrugged, scraping the spoon along the wooden bottom of the bowl in your lap in search of any extra broth once you realized you'd emptied it.
Marethari's nod shifted the air, "I mean to speak with you on the subject. Even blind, your reflexes are impressive. One would think you could see perfectly well, if perhaps they didn't focus on your eyes. Were you a warrior before coming here?" She was testing the waters, trying to ascertain which subjects about your past were safe to broach and which were not.
You grinned in a way you hoped reassured the clan leader that you were not offended by the inquiry, "I am an orphan. I was raised at a temple until I was fifteen. Then I was left to fend for myself - learning to hunt and move swiftly and accurately became necessity. I'm good with a dagger, sure, but I prefer using a bow when I can...well...preferred. I don't think I'd be much use with one now."
"Speaking of," your companion started as cool metal was pressed into your left hand, unoccupied since you finished your meal, "your dagger was retrieved. I had our craftsmaster sharpen it. It is of an unusual make. I've never seen glass tempered in such an effective manner, and neither has Ilen." Your spine stiffened slightly, but you tried to play it off as trying to pop the stiffness out of the joints perhaps a moment too late. How to explain, how to explain...
Regardless, you sheathed the weapon gratefully, "Thank you. I believe I found it in an abandoned fortress some time ago...or...was it a cave? Pardon me, I can't quite remember."
"If you don't wish to speak of it, child, all you have to do is say." The observation was harmless, but it told you enough. Marethari had noticed the ice woven into the last sentence, then.
You scoffed lightly, eyes rolling uselessly in habit. "Alright, alright. You don't have to worry the feathers off your coat, Keeper." As always, irritation loosed your tongue quite horribly. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you registered being taken aback by your suddenly casual tone with someone not only obviously ranks above you, but who had also showed you kindness when she very well could've left you to rot. You ignored it. Sometimes politeness got you nowhere.
However, you began kicking yourself once more when the woman spoke almost apprehensively, "You know my robes are feathered, child?"
"Uh...no?" Voice wavering of its own accord, you started trying to put the pieces together in whatever way they could be smashed to fit. Had you actually seen an image of Marethari and Fenarel, or had you just happened to get the feathered part right? Past events had taught you never to believe in coincidences, but if you had, then why? What had caused it? You'd been stripped of Sight, hadn't you?
"Don't lie to me," the words held no scorn, only absentminded, if not a little grim, awe. "How? You haven't even so much as touched them and no one murmured it."
You shifted awkwardly again, feeling like a scolded child, "I...I had an image flash into my head when you were leading me away... It was an older woman. An elf, though she looked more human than I do. White hair pulled back into a bun, green eyes, yellow tattoos on her face, and a well-worn coat with dark feathers on the shoulders...please don't tell me that I just described you..." You felt like cringing when there was a grim response telling you that you had.
The gaze was boring into you, "Has this happened any other time before or since? If so, what were you doing when it happened?"
"With Fenarel. When he helped me up..."
Marethari paused for a moment, "He touched your hand?"
You nodded, holding up the offending right appendage, "My wrist, actually."
"Where the armor is frayed?"
"Yes."
Another thoughtful, pregnant silence swelled, filled only by the crackling of burning sticks from the blaze to your left. Where the Keeper was silent, your mind was racing. Your wrist and your shoulder...what could it mean? Did you really have your sight back for a moment? If so, then...your heart leaped. No. Best not get your hopes up only to have them dashed, but if there was even the slightest possibility...
Suddenly, a warm, slim hand engulfed your own and unwound the bandages you had clumsily insisted on wrapping over the tender electricity burns. You hissed momentarily at the sting of cloth being ripped away from frail flesh, but the pain was only at the forefront of your mind for a moment. By the thick leather of the bracer still attached to your left wrist, your bared hand was eased to touch the dry dirt beneath the thick log you were sitting upon. Your eyes went wide as saucers.
"Kynareth..."
Colors of awe flooded your mind, sensations, sounds, music, essences of life and energy. Pictures danced restlessly before you, their mere presence sweeter than any of the honeyed meads you'd enjoyed back in Skyrim. You were floored, completely astounded and for once, you didn't much care for who saw the perfect rendition of a fish your jaw was doing. Propriety be damned - you were witnessing a miracle. And it was all for one simple reason that really wasn't so simple at all.
You could see. For the first time since your world had been upended, you could see everything.
Final Words: Hope you liked it. This is kind of a background story on Lys. It's not everything, but it explains how she deviates from being Dragonborn and her upbringing, a little bit.
Well, you know the drill. R&R!
~SurreptitiousFox
