Chapter 3: The Count of Kvatch
In one night, he stole his love and broke it in a single stroke of death.
He embraced death's name 'til his blade left them with their last breath.
The Castle of Kvatch was true to its history, a Colovian military fortress first rather than a glorious palace for its Count. Windows were rare in its cold stone hallway, reserved only for rooms in its tallest keep and those that faced the castle's inner courtyard for esteemed guests. In place of the prestige stained-glass windows would bring, glass lanterns with ornate workmanship, rich rugs and tapestry lined the dimmed halls that led to those rooms.
At least that would have been the case – Dagon's Daedra after all had enjoyed razing through these very same hallways and had left a mess behind them. The stains and stinks of blood and burning, the stench of Scamps and the claw marks of otherworldly monsters, the haphazard trail marks left by Atronachs. A mess one could see glimpses of if they looked closely for the scratches and marks in the stones.
She stood alone in this cold hallway with only the candlelight of her portable candlestick sheltering her from the darkness. The place a far cry from the warmth of the family manor she grew up in, but it was familiar like the High Rock's castle she had served as a lady-in-waiting. Once she had been so excited to finally be able to see what was out there beyond her family's manor, to become someone at least in court and work.
Now she missed it so helplessly, so much there would always be the familiar warmth creeping up in her eyes.
Curse this homesickness. She was a big girl already. She had led an army to battle as a flag bearer against the Daedra's invasion, had stood defiant at her death when the fear-mongering mania had led the people burn her on a stake. She was a Warhaft, an old personal enemy of Mehrune Dagon's servants. Yet, she still yearns to hear the laughs of her brothers that echoed throughout her memories.
Little baby Doruntin misses her brothers so much!
"Constantin," she called out softly for her twin in the empty hallway.
She had expected to hear the clinks of cold chains, the soft but chilling whispers of the now-holy wraiths that her brothers had become, saved but cursed by their own mother, blessed and sanctified by Divines powers. Her twin always haunted her nearby.
She just didn't expect him instead.
He was a prudent Count, she admitted. He did not focus on bringing the castle's prestige back but focused on the city first. He was happy enough to prioritize only the repairs to keep the fortress strong and the castle a livable place for refugees and servants.
In a way, he had it easy for now. He didn't need to worry about having the luxury to entertain nobilities to the best of his ability despite however much they ask to visit him, not with the current state of Tamriel as it is. Those that he did at least did not mind from what his close ties to the once-missing Count of Anvil and even the notorious recluse Count of Skingrad seems to imply, both ruling-noble of counties known to be the most prosperous due to the economy they bring.
They told her he was the missing son of Warhaft, the mysterious fourth brother the eldest of her brothers refused to speak of and warned her to never mention his existence in front of their parents. Frankly, she suspected Chancellor Ocato conveniently picked their family as this man's nobility because of their close loyalty and history to the late emperor as well as the fact the patriarchs could say nothing against this decision since both her grandfather and father were missing in action – and with her mother poor state of mind, she couldn't trust her confirmation in the matter.
"Is there something wrong?"
You're up late?
You can't sleep?
Why are you here?
As always, he cuts straight to the matter instead of questioning the obvious, neither lying nor forcing the truth of what they were supposed to be. He had come out of darkness seemingly out of nowhere that she almost wanted to scream at him for doing that. How he could do that despite that starry-white hair of his that shone like starlight just added more to his overwhelming mystery.
"I could ask the same," she spoke back and stared at him.
His grey eyes looked back piercingly but overall nonplussed, his expression unreadable even now. She recalled her late grandfather on her mother's side also shared the same grey eyes, the same grey eyes her late twin also shared, and she begrudgingly admits, he eerily looked too much like her father. He could easily be mistaken as a younger relative of his – after all, her father was a powerful mage and that came with the perk of appearing younger than he should be.
She knew she was unreasonably resentful of his presence. He was nothing short of her savior that broke through the castle's gate, snatched her from the stake and stopped the witch-hunting hysteria that had took place in High Rock, the knights of the Imperial Temple he led suppressing the riots right behind him. A stranger nonetheless that she should be grateful to.
He was after all a hero for all these people – for all Cyrodiil and the Empire.
"It's a bad habit of mine." He smiled reassuringly at her. "But still, it's a bit dangerous for you to be walking in the dark." He waved behind him in the cold hallways covered in darkness.
She heard the soft simultaneous nudges of the candle followers in their lanterns dragged down their waxy stick before the sudden warm lights filled the hall when all candles lit with flames. An act of area-wide magic with strong coordination and subtlety – yet she did not feel assured in the least bit.
"Thank… you." She managed to drag her gratitude out, feeling now out of place with her lit candle holder in the brightly lit halls.
"Would you like some late-night tea with me?" he prompted.
She looked to him in surprise but spoke the lines that came into her head that her nanny commonly used on her. "Tea is bad to have before bed."
"Black tea is bad before bed." He corrected; the reassuring smile remained with now a hint of amusement. "I know some blends that can calm the nerves. I plan to make some for myself."
The spindly hands by his side stirred briefly before they still, listless. She couldn't really see any sign of nervousness in him.
"Are you alright?" She wasn't really concerned. She was curious.
What could shake the seventh Champion of Cyrodiil that he stays awake in the night?
"I am…" He paused and his face became open to her scrutiny. The thinness of his body that had alarmingly grown ever since the day he came back from answering the pleading request of Traven's chosen pupil to rid of Cyrodiil the King of Worms. Despite the growing curse, he had somehow remained a strong figure towards the people of Kvatch, towards her.
He had rescued her under this curse, and she would never have known of this fact if not for the servants mentioning this. He never really slipped when she thought about it, nor did he show that the curse bothered him. If anything, he seems to find it a minor nuisance, and that was more towards the servants' reaction in trying to keep him well.
Now she felt like it was a façade, and she felt the reminder of her resentment against him.
"I will be fine," he said finally.
Regardless of her past effort she went through thinking what he really was to her, the stupid hot angry tears crept up in her eyes when she continued to stare at him.
"And if you're not."
It was a curse. It was a curse given by a god, the necromancers' god. No priest and no mages would be able to lift or break it. Only the Divines could break the curse as they once did for their Divine Crusader when it came to reclaiming their relics. Was that why he wasn't worried at all when he was literally wasting away and causing anxiety. Why then wait for the cure, why not seek the solution now? Did he know something?
If he was her brother, then like them he would die, and she would be the only surviving Warhaft by blood. If he was not, he would be leaving behind people after giving them so much hope. Either way, so much for claiming responsibility.
His grey eyes remained calm as a gentle look graced his face. "I will. I promise," he told her.
"Have the Nines finally answered our prayers then?"
He was needed here, people loved him. Lies or not, her mother wasn't trying to be the least bit insane when he was around.
"The Nines?" A peculiar smile grew on his face, a strange sense of alienness that she never expected from his expression. He had a certain way of smiling, but the smile he was giving her felt unrecognizable. It was too forceful, too alarming.
The hackles on the back of her neck raised. There was a sense of urgency to leave him now.
"Then is it the young Hist tree you've rescued?" she quickly spoke as a distraction more to herself.
No one knew that the sad sick tree that he had ordered to decorate Kvatch's city pond was actually a Hist tree, a sentient tree the Argonians give respect to. She heard the sap was a panacea to those the tree would give willingly. It had been exploited by a mercenary company and was forcefully extracted for its sap as both a form of drug and essence that strengthened the mercenaries – and it was just a sapling too.
It was equivalent to torturing a child and has been said that was the reason he had intervened in the Fighter's Guild business and the decision of the champions when it comes to destroying the tree.
"No," he said firmly as his expression settled back. "It's still too hurt for that."
"It seemed to be thriving." It did grow new leaves last she've seen of it during her walks through Kvatch.
"It is, but I don't think it will ever trust mortals."
"Oh." She couldn't help but feel for the tree.
"I take it you're not up for tea then?" He reminded her of the current matter at hand.
"No," she answered with a soft shake. "I was actually going for a short walk before going back to bed."
"Very well then." He nodded courteously at her decline. "Have a good night."
"Have a good night, lord." She bowed her head in reply then watched him leave.
Silent without a rustle of fabric, not even a peep of his footstep could be heard, he might as well be just as much of a wraith like her brothers. It was only when he disappeared around the corner that she let out a sigh of relief and blatantly realized the man had been walking around in the cold hallways in his bare feet.
One of his peculiar habits she will have to remind him not to do, not even commoners do that.
It was not befitting of a Count.
Prosperous in the dark arms of a brotherhood, 'til deceit parted them from their glory.
T'was a fox who stole him from pauperhood and rewrote his story.
What the hell was he supposed to do now?
Theodore looked cross as he held his hot mug of calming tea blend. He stood in front of the smoothed stone floor of the summoning room. He had expected a ritual circle of the sort, but he shouldn't be surprised to find none at the moment. It was times like this he should have brought his own personal journal just to see if he had written or drawn any information about portals, especially a portal into daedric realm.
All he knew though if he opened a portal to Dagon's realm, the portal would close behind him considering how much hostility the Deadlands has against Nirn. If it was an invitation though, that was a different case entirely.
He doubted Mehrune felt like inviting the very being that made a mess of his Realm and was instrumental in ruining his plan.
"Sheogorath?" He inquired at the empty air.
Nothing. No answer. He made a face. Haskill was right, maybe he was going crazy. Praying to Himself that's what he was doing. Even worse, he was seriously thinking of invading the Prince of Destruction's realm in his freaking jammies, bare feet with no weapons to arm himself against whatever would be on the other side of the portal, while being less than stellar state because of Mannimarco's curse on him!
That is if he managed to open a portal.
He felt like a stirring of a headache was growing despite the tea he was holding. This was anything but calming right now. He groaned in frustration. Theodore felt like he should purposely give himself a concussion just so if it meant he could meet the Sheogorath inside his brain, because right now he needed answers.
Think. Sheogorath inside his head isn't really Sheogorath. He reminded. He's just a part of him. If he had the answer, then technically he himself also knew the answer. He needed a stable portal into Mehrune Dagon's realm, however temporary. He must not have the portal close behind him because how then was he going to escape the Deadlands without it? Especially if it's portal back to Nirn that he needs. It also has to be a stealthy portal, something that shouldn't cause an alarm.
The portal to Shivering Isles was stable because it was a portal meant as an invitation, not an invasion. He recalled. He must open the portal to Shivering Isles, then open a portal to the Deadlands from there. That would solve the issue of portal stability. The one to Shivering Isles will not close, and the one to the Deadlands can be kept open.
Yes, that sounds like a plan. Theodore sipped his tea as he stared absentmindedly into the empty air of the summoning room.
Opening a portal to Shivering Isles would be safer. It would be a test if he was capable of such feat in the first place since this would be a first from him attempting a form of teleportation magic. He could pick up the weapons he left and armed himself there.
He put his mug down on the floor and stepped forward into what he imagined was the circle. Right now, the room just felt like any empty room that was bar of any furniture. It was one of the rooms that he never really focused on correcting. It didn't feel any different to him nor special, least of all magical.
Visualization was important for magic. He had to believe in it. Feel it. Know it. He didn't need to understand the world truly, he just needed to believe that was how the world is. Magic could be said to be one's relationship between the world and its caster. Its logic was everything but at the same time it wasn't consistent nor universal. One mage could experience one truth of the world, but the truth would not be true for another mage. Hence there were many ways to approach magic.
He imagined Shivering Isles. The soft grounds of its mossy carpets that crept from the bogs and swamps of Dementia and always smelled of rain. The stifling heat of the sun in Mania shone through the canopies of the giant mushrooms and empty branches, their golden spores fogging the air on some days. The numerous unknown flowers that spread its fields, that he wished to pluck and taste to sate his inner alchemist. The dancing, glimmering light that accompanies him and playfully leads him to nowhere and anywhere. The countless alien stars he hardly recognized in the night sky.
He felt the weight of the cold grim stones of fallen ruins and past civilizations resting deep into his lands, carrying their grudge, their resentments, their blood, and spirits becoming the scars that he will carry on and never forget as veins of his ores. His palace New Sheoth standing triumphantly unblemished, filled with his living followers while that accursed Spire that had haunted him in the Fringe since forever finally in ruin.
His realm breathed and beat through the roots of his tree. It bled his blood that turned into beautiful gold amber. His fountainhead should not be dry now. It should be filled to the brim with his water now and not the pitiful puddles it had been reduced to. On his best of days, it would even flood down from his palace as heavy waterfalls and formed rivers through his streets.
That was Shivering Isles. That was his Shivering Isles.
Water had begun pouring heavily down onto the floor in front of his hand as he had reached out through the air. From his feet moss, poppies and mushrooms had crept out and bloomed beneath him. There was a sound of deep rumbling as distantly he noted roots of his tree had begun growing out of thin air. Just like curtains, he easily pulled the current reality aside and opened the portal in front of him – the heavy weight he used to feel the curse so thoroughly on his body barely there.
It hit him now after the water had reached over his chin that he was about to flood this whole summoning room.
"Oh come on, Sheogorath-" Theodore began to swear only to gulp water down his throat.
The fog in his head lifted, the clarity of his mind swirled, it would be a good time to curl, to purr and twirl between Haskill's legs and trip him. No, no that was not the time to do. There was something else he had to do, something precious to do, something lustrous that must not be bloodless. Was it to catch and scratch the stars and back? He felt like dancing. He felt like jumping. He felt like he could chase his tail forever and ever.
He heard weeping. He heard soft calling and just like that he gave chase.
From poison and death to midwifery and apothecary,
Thievery to knighthood, his tale ended with melancholy.
She woke up to chaos and flooding. The whole Castle of Kvatch stirring like disturbed hornets. She didn't wait for the servants to come into her room and instead reached out for her staff she had hid beneath the mattress of her bed.
With a slam, she rushed out into the hallway and found the guards in their cuirasses and Kvatch's wolf surcoats rushing past the corridor she was in, heading instead for the keep. Following them only led to finding her feet wet with running water and her quizzically staring at a flooding corridor.
Castle Kvatch was an ancient building. Plumbing was only supported on the ground levels, reserved for bathrooms and the kitchen. There was never any further renovation made in its history to extend the plumbing to the upper levels.
"Guards," she called out to the soldiers moving past her.
One of them paused and turned towards her as the other hurried ahead, carrying a precious ebony axe up the spiral steps water was endlessly pouring from.
"Lady Doruntin." The Imperial guard saluted quickly.
"Explain to me the situation. Why haven't I been informed sooner?" she demanded crossly.
"An incident has occurred." He bowed, apologizing. "The Count is missing, and my colleagues have found a room blocking us from entering."
"My brother is trapped in there?"
How could a man like him managed to do that? That sounded like a stupid prank one of her brothers would do to be honest.
"We don't know. We are currently trying to clear the thing that's stopping us right now."
"What thing?!" She grew pale. They didn't need another otherworldly incident happening so soon in their lives.
"It looks like roots of some tree, my lady." He informed as his eyes glanced towards the stairs leading up to the keep. "Fire magic does nothing against it and a mage suspect it might be daedric in origin."
It just gets better and better. Doruntin was about to command him to take her there if it were not for the fact she had caught sight of an older women in her white mourning dress storming past them.
"Mother!" She called out in horror and chased after her.
No, no, no! She didn't need her out here calling out her brothers from their rest and scaring Kvatch with horror stories about the necromancer witch of a mother the Count had. She raced up the stairs quickly behind her, catching glimpses of the trail end of her mother's silk shawl flowing in the air. The sound of banging and shouting grew louder as they reached the top.
The soldiers that swarmed the top of the keep hacked away the large roots overtaking the oak door with the few ebony axes they had. There was barely any room for them to move past, especially in this narrow spiral stairway.
"Move out of the way." Her mother coldly commanded.
The spell immediately made them all press against the wall without so much a cry. It would have been a terrifying act had she not one-upped it even further by blowing the wall of the tower room apart instead of bothering herself with the door. In that very instant it unleashed a rush of water on all of them. Had it not been for her command, they would all have been swept down the stairs and suffer from grievous injuries when a sudden river flowed in.
Doruntin coughed and blinked away the water in her eyes. She stared aghast at her insane mother then looked into the hole her mother had made.
It was a garden. A wild garden that had crept out from some other world. The roots held the room altogether as the thick smell of thunder and rain came through. No sign of glowing portal met their eyes, just the greens of moss speckled with cute red, white, and blue flowers and glowing blinks of unknown yellow-fire mushroom bulbs.
Laid in the center of it was someone naked and unfamiliar. From the soft feature of her face and pointy ears, she was a small Bosmer curled up around a large long-haired white and silver-suit tabby cat.
He sought the Mother's hand, but it was the Night Mother who extended hers onto his.
Theodore: My wife. My love. :)
Sheogorath: Our wife. Our love. :D
Theodore: Oh fuck no!
AN: Slowly trying to crawl back to healthy lifestyle. This would actually be the first chapter I've ever published since years…
I apologize to those who has to put up with my bullshit.