Chapter Five: A Potato, Dawning Eyes
Screaming was a natural response when a cold hand hooked around her own. This grip was crushing, vile, and she could feel the tingle of magicka forming in those cold fingers. She was yanked backward, forced to turn, and the shriek in her throat died. She wanted to scream—Divines knew it—but with the vampire's eyes scorching her, its stained mouth opening to reveal those awful teeth—sharp, sharp!—how could she?
The vampire released the spell in its hand, and the beginnings of the paralysis magicka took hold of her. But that fear, that fear of losing feeling in herself, of feeling her blood slowly drained from her, of dying in some unknown crypt, was what made her slam her free palm against the vampire. The strike was dangerously close to the monster's mouth, and had her mind not been addled with this fear, she'd have hesitated and checked herself. But there was no time, no time! She had lost feeling in her other hand, the one still locked by the vampire's. The fear was rising, rising like fire feasting upon oil, when the vampire hissed and lunged for her neck.
There was no stopping the flames that scorched up her body, along her arms, burning her soiled tunic. The vampire shrieked when the fire leapt onto its flesh, as if it was a hound chasing its kill. It let her go then, this monster, and smacked and rolled and flailed and screamed. Its skin peeled away like parchment, and with a gulp, Ismene ran.
Her hand, still numb from the paralysis charge, flopped and dangled at her side. She chose a tunnel by random, her vision ebbing and blurring. Vaguely, she registered her magicka still twisting about her body, the flames dancing across her. She couldn't feel the fire; she could only feel fear when she heard the other vampire close behind her. She ducked down another passage, this one leading to a chamber with crumbling earth serving as pillars and spidery vines littering the ground. It was like a chessboard, the pillars the black squares and her way to freedom the white tiles. She heard a curse and thud, and, her curiosity overruling her fear, she turned to look over her shoulder.
This mistake nearly doomed her. Her body tore through vines, ivy, and branches, and the flames licked at the earth. Wailing, she clawed through these obstacles. She had to have been crying, she must have been, but the fire dried all tears. The vampire had regained its footing, and she heard it running toward her. Sobbing, she pushed through the vines, nearly falling in relief when they gave way.
Then, she was out of the cave—not a cave, but a fort—but not out of the dark.
Kicking, pumping her arms, moving her legs faster, she bolted under the ruined archway of the fort and into The West Weald. The plantlife was thick and choking: ferns snaring her ankles, branches whipping her cheeks and arms, rocks and trees creating a maze. She was breathless, but still cried out wordlessly. It was behind her, a meter away at most, and it was then that she felt her fire, her magicka, burn her. Wailing, she ran through a brief clearing. There, with the sky not blinded by the trees, she could see it: the sky was turning into a warm coral.
When the vampire swore and screamed, she wanted to laugh. She would live! These beasts only triumphed where shadow ruled, and this, the lightening sky, was their bane. Perhaps it was this knowledge, this relief, that made her muscles slow. Like a python coiling, the vampire's arms captured her. Nevermind the fire—the vampire would not be dissuaded—and they went down in a tangle of limbs, tumbling in the middle of the clearing. Ismene kicked and twisted, her boot catching it in the chest, and she struggled to drag herself away. Hissing, the vampire was on her again. It wrapped its hands around her throat, and squeezed.
Her magicka flared and sputtered, the fire's oxygen being sapped away. She opened her mouth, a gargled choke sounding, and scratched at the vampire's hands. The monster leaned closer to her, its nose briefly touching hers, and roared.
Its arm, exposed by short sleeves, was glowing. It looked like a piece of raw meat simmering in a pot—right when the meat starts to cook, the fat and juices leak out, the meat starts to brown, the fat spits and sizzles—
Sunlight.
She did not know whether to be frightened or elated when it roared again. Its fury was evident in its eyes, pupils the size of quill tips against the bloodshot whites. The monster knew, then, with a glance at the sky, that tonight was not meant for the vampire. Spitting, the beast let go of her throat, stood, and backed away. Its glare was dark, unforgiving, and told of so many promises. The vampire stomped the ground, it ripped at its hair, it shrieked at her and bared its vicious fangs. And all she could do was wheeze and chuckle at its display, at the serendipity of it all.
And then, without warning, it scampered back into the forest, back into the shadows.
Ismene lay there, arms outspread and her fire extinguished. She panted, finally feeling the tears leaking. She grabbed her hair, patted her soiled cheeks, touched her throat, felt her pulse. Alive. Chest heaving, she gulped and cried out a laugh that soon turned to a wail. She sobbed there, among the ferns, with the sky turning a lighter shade of pink after every moment. Reaching up, her eyes clouded, she wanted to touch those heavens, touch the light of the Divines which had saved her.
She blinked when she felt something solid, and after blinking again, she could not see the sky. Ismene only saw black. That was what it was, the color personified into a form. That billowing icon from The Two Sisters. The air in her throat ceased, and she grasped her neck, feeling something compressing it. The figure loomed closer, and the shadows cloaking it crept toward her.
Thrashing, she turned her head to the side and screamed. When she looked back, there was only the pink sky. The sounds of morning's early birds chimed from the Weald. Heaving, Ismene pulled herself to her knees. She swiveled this way and that, eyeing the clearing from every angle. She was alone. Battered, burnt, and alone. Teeth chattering, she inched her way to stand, and only managed so far until her knees buckled. She crawled and struggled, feeling like a filly first learning to walk.
When she had reached the trees again, she gripped the bark and pulled herself. Still shaking, still shivering, she was not surprised when something warm trickled down her leg. Tree by tree, she moved. Working the fields in Skingrad had leant her strength and stamina to labor long hours, but this…
This was not work, nor was it labor. This was the burden of survival that refused her to rest, to stop, to give her uncertain legs a moment's reprieve. When the trees thinned out, she fell and just caught herself on her palms. Her skin split, and the smudge of red in the grass had her choke on mucus.
So much red. So much of it—in her hair, around her neck, pooling out of Glarthir and staining the sheets. Squeezing her eyes closed, she bowed her neck. She fisted her hands against her forehead. What she would give to wake from this nightmare! To turn back and sleep in her rented room, to laugh with Bernadette on how silly a dream she had! But a look behind her, back to where the rosy fingered dawn was, made her swallow.
At the bottom of the hill she had climbed, there was a ripple. The dawn was breaking into morning. The dawn's eyes were upon her, and surely, if she did not move, it would break her, too. For the dawn destroyed all dark things, all vile things, all things touched by a black hand. Steeling herself, she moved.
"This one cannot sympathize with that one's potatoes," Abhuki, proprietress of the Faregyl Inn, said with a shake of her head. Her whiskers twitched, and she resumed wiping down her counter. "Khajiit do not eat potatoes." The inn was dimly lit with the curtains closed, a kindness for Khajiiti eyes, and there was a warm glow to the abode. Despite the few candles, Abhuki could still see her usual patron seated at the table.
From across the inn, another Khajiit was slumped over in her chair, hissing and howling. Her ears drooped, her tail flicked, and she pawed the table. "This one's potatoes! This one's jumbo potatoes!"
The stripes on Abhuki's neck stood on end, and not just from the drizzle that had found its way through the cracks in the roof. "That one does not know it is Khajiit. That one does not know Khajiit are carnivores." Slinging her rag over her shoulder, Abhuki placed a cup of water in front of her distressed patron, S'jirra. "There, there. Potatoes come back soon, yes?"
"No," S'jirra wailed. "This one's children were stolen! This one's potatoes!"
"Quiet, now," Abhuki said with a click of her tongue. Then, she knelt and held S'jirra's chin. "Travelers will hear you from outside. This one likes travelers, and this one does not need to lose customers to the Omen!" S'jirra whimpered but ultimately nodded. Then, she muffled her whines in her arms. Sighing, Abhuki moved back to the counter.
The proprietress placed a bucket under one of the leaks and had begun sweeping when a thud came from the porch. S'jirra lifted her head, a grin splitting over her feline face, and curled her tail in curious question marks. "They have been returned to this one?"
Broom still in paw, Abhuki climbed a set of stairs and opened the main door. She stepped back. A slumped Imperial slid into the common room. S'jirra spat and grumbled, "Not this one's potatoes."
Abhuki poked the Imperial with her broom. "But it looks like potato, does it not? All dirt, like potato." She knelt and brushed the muddied hair off of the unconscious woman's brow. "Filthy like potato, smelly like potato." From the shingles, rain dripped and plopped onto the porch. Exhaling, Abhuki pulled the woman further into the room so she could close the door.
"This one has no coin for a room," Abhuki said as she searched the woman.
"I thought it liked travelers?" S'jirra snickered. She hid her cackles in her paw when Abhuki furrowed her brow. "Abhuki is too kind to poor traveler. Abhuki should leave it outside. Let the rain wash it away."
"And S'jirra should help this one," Abhuki snarled. She had her arms looped beneath the Imperial's and, step by step, pulled her upstairs to a vacant room. "Or Abhuki will let the rain wash S'jirra away," the proprietress added when her patron flicked her tail. Hissing, S'jirra trudged over to Abhuki and lifted the Imperial woman's legs.
Ismene awoke to the sound of purring. Her head lolled to the side when something dabbed against her forehead. Groaning, she reached out with a shaky arm and felt something furry touch her face. "Mittens," she whispered. A smile cracked her split lips, and she opened her eyes to find a pair of feline eyes blinking at her.
"This one has no mittens," the Khajiit said. Ismene sucked in a breath and struck out. Pain lanced through her, halting all attack and forcing her to fall back in the blankets. She tried to sit herself up, but the Khajiit placed a paw on her shoulder and readjusted her pillows. "The potato needs to rest." The Khajiit dunked a rag in a washbasin and placed it on Ismene's forehead. "It has fever. Is it hungry?"
Ismene struggled to open her mouth. Her lips were dry, and she felt like paste had sealed her mouth shut. Fingers twitching, for she so badly wished to rid herself of this place, she tried to call her magicka. But whatever spell she wanted to use would not surface; she could feel it in her, refusing to be bothered like a sleepy child.
She uttered a moan and tried to speak. The Khajiit nodded and pat her shoulder. "This one will be back with broth and bread." She stood, then, and made to leave the room.
"Mittens," Ismene tried again.
The Khajiit curled her tail and mused, "This potato is confused. It is not cold enough for mittens." The door closed with a soft click. Ismene rolled her head side to side; she tried to gather her surroundings with her frantic eyes. She was in a cot, small but warm, wearing a plain shift. She felt clean—mostly—and her clothes, while stained and torn, were cleaned and folded on the foot of her cot. Her hands, arms, and shoulders were wrapped with bandages smelling of medicinal herbs.
Her magicka had been raw, untamed, and too eager for someone so inexperienced, and had scarred her. Though the welts were not deep, they stung something awful. Ismene shifted as much as she could on the small cot to make herself more comfortable.
A bedside table was squished between her bed and the wall. The room was small, just enough space to walk and fall into bed. Only two candles were lit, and she stared at the dark corners of the room that the light did not reach.
Something was watching her; something had been watching her. She remembered it well: feeling eyes on her as she stumbled toward the inn, feeling safety only when she toppled and could no longer feel.
There, in the corner by the door—just her body's length away, at most—was a ripple. It was like the air had folded in on itself, like someone had dropped a pebble in water and distorted all imagery. She squinted, trying to determine if it was just her eyes playing tricks on her. Her gut clenched when the ripple moved, and she opened her mouth to cry out.
Then, the door opened, and the Khajiit entered with broth and bread, just as promised. Ismene stared passed the catperson, trying to find that distortion again, but it was gone.
"Abhuki is confused," the Khajiit sighed as she set the food on the nightstand. "Potato is confused about mittens, Khajiit eat potatoes now, and now potatoes eat. Everyone is confused." Abhuki helped Ismene sit herself upright.
"Where am I," she croaked out after her first sip of broth. It was hot, scorching even, but she felt as if she was coming back from the dead when it heated her insides.
"A place close to warm sands," Abhuki said.
"I have no money," Ismene said, quietly.
"This one knows that." She buttered a piece of bread and offered it to her. "Here, eat." Her whiskers twitched in amusement when Ismene all but wolfed the bread down. "What happened to lead this one to Abhuki's doorstep?"
Ismene slurped the last of the broth and smacked her lips together. She stared at the bowl, tracing the rim with her thumb. She was idle; her eyes were trudging in the past like an unwary adventurer mucking through a bubbling swamp. Oh, how her eyes glazed over, how she wished she would find her way out of the swamp. Sticky, encroaching, choking, and red.
So much red.
She blinked, collecting herself, and said, "Bandits."
Abhuki nodded. Whether she was satisfied with, or believed, her answer, Ismene did not know. But the Khajiit uncorked a bottle and handed it to Ismene. "A healing potion for the potato," she purred. "Even more confused, this one is."
After the potion was finished, she chased it with another chunk of bread. The potion dulled her welts and soothed her cuts and bruises. Her tongue felt thick, and she just managed to finish her bread before her eyes began drooping. Something was laced in the potion, she realized, something to make her sleep. She wanted to scream and beg the Khajiit not to let her fall asleep—the ripple!—but all she could do was sink into her cot.
"Rest, now. May you dream of warm sands," Ismene heard before the billowing darkness consumed her.
A/N: Hello, readers! I hope you are all doing well. First, I must apologize for postponing this story. A Dark Brotherhood story is very difficult to write; I want my ideas to be organic while still complementing the canon storyline. This is harder than I imagined, and I kept running into dead-ends with ideas; they were either too boring, too similar to things I had written for my other stories, or just "meh." But I have a firmer understanding of how I want this story to play out. I can't say what sparked these ideas, or what spurred me into writing another chapter, but here I am!
Second, I'm happy with what I have so far concerning The Lucky Vintage, and I'm happy with my sketched ideas. But this story is still very much incomplete in terms of outlining, and I don't want to rush chapters only to think, "Ah, I should have put this in chapter so-and-so," or "Oh, I should have done this instead of that!"
And thirdly, I am already working on the next chapter; I think we all know what's going to happen.
Thank you for taking the time to read this story. I hope you find it organic and enjoyable.