In Memoriam
The wind picked up speed, rustling the leaves overhead and sending some fluttering down. Heavy boots trampled them into the ground, briskly following an unused trail through the open forest. Hood up, face hidden, the collar of his cloak was pulled tight to keep out the mountain chill. At his waist, in a spot where it would easily be seen, was a large, sheathed knife. Also under his cloak, in a place where it could not be seen, was a simple brown satchel. It was the latter his palm rested against, despite the danger.
Isran paid no more mind than was necessary to the world around him. He reached the base of a hill at the end of the path that, at its height, would overlook Lake Honrich and the town of Riften, and began to climb. His back and legs began to protest but he kept the strength of his stride. The wind picked up again and the air's chill began to seep through his layers. He ignores the cold. He presses on.
At the top, the trees parted. Past them stood a stony overlook with the sky above, cloudy and dark, and the forest below. Isran's pace slowed but he continued to walk until he reached the very end. Ever so slightly, his fingers tightened against the satchel. He lowered himself to the stone until he was sitting down, his feet hanging over the edge. He could feel the pressure on his muscles melt away almost instantly. He pulled a skin of water from his belt and drained it, noting out of the corner of his eye, a pond where he could refill.
Isran took in the Rift below, its trees of orange and red and green swaying and whispering in the wind. Orange and red and green. He sniffed. It would have benefitted from some pink. Pink leaves, like the Imperial Gardens of Cyrodiil.
Isran rose to his feet. At the same time, the wind picked up, pushing at his back and he chose not to waste this opportunity. He pulled the satchel off his shoulder and, after releasing the slow, shaky breath he had taken in, he opened it. Inside was a pile of leaves, picked from the ground on his journey here and cleaned of mud in a watering hole. His eyes closed so that he may focus. A gentle wave of heat passed from his hands to the leaves, drying them as best he could without burning them to ash. He was never any good with gentle magic. Never any good with magic that didn't leave a vampire thrashing, screaming, begging…
Isran pulled in another lungful of air and silenced his thoughts. This was not the time for that. Nor the place.
The wind maintains, drawing away the sigh that escaped through his nose. His hand dug into the satchel. Then he spoke, his voice hoarse from having not used it in over a day. For a single sharp second, he could hear his own age.
"To the Divines," he murmurs so lowly, he could barely hear himself. His cloak billowed slowly in the wind. "To the gods of my father and his, I offer this prayer. For my heart and my soul." His throat tightened slightly. "For my wife and my daughter."
"Kali, my love. On this day of all others, our daughter was born. A day the gods must have held in favor because it was the same day as you, not even two decades prior." He shook his head. "So young were we. So foolish and so terrified. We knew we were unprepared. We knew that we could not be what she needed. But we knew that we could try. Kiara, we named her. And…we loved her the best we could. For…" he swallowed, "For as long as we could. To the both of you, know that I am glad to have met you. To have known you. To have held you in the night, to have comforted you in the dark, to have loved you at every moment I could. And to have been loved by you."
Isran turned his eyes to the sky. Then, he closed them. "Arkay, I beg that you be gentle with their souls. Tu'Whacca, I pray that you guard them in their eternity. I pray for their happiness. I pray for their peace. I pray for their patience, for when the time comes, I will be with them again. As it was always meant to be."
Isran brought his hand up to eye level and opened it. Almost like a response from the sky itself to his prayers, the wind carried them from his hand. They went drifting through the breeze and raining down onto the trees below. It wasn't the same as the Gardens. Kiara would have loved it all the same. He would always try to give her the best he could manage. And she would always turn him on his head and be happy for just the bare minimum. He had found it puzzling for so long until his wife had explained that she was happy because the gift was coming from him. What a wonderful child she was. What a wonderful woman she would have become.
The satchel ran empty. Isran allowed himself to stay a small while longer, to watch the leaves drift over the world below and to dwell on what could have been.
But only for a small while. He drags himself back from the world of sweet dreams to cold, frigid reality. As he has had to every single day for three decades.
It was over. He turned from the overlook and without one last look, started back the way he came.
When he arrived at the pond he had sighted earlier, his hand was already pulling his waterskin from its place. Pushing his cloak back, he took a knee and dipped it in.
His eyes flick up to catch sight of his reflection in the pool. His scowling mouth beneath a thick, unkempt beard. Dark eyes that burned like ice. They were reddened. Likely only from the wind. He hasn't shed a tear since he last knelt before their graves.
His eyes locked onto the bump of his misshapen nose before rustling catches his attention. Isran's head snapped up. One hand wrapped around the hilt of his dagger. He began to draw…
A bear, massive and rumbling, emerged from the thicket on the other side and his hand stopped. It was too late to avoid being noticed. It was too spacious for him to duck out of sight. His eyes never left the animal as it growled and moaned at him. The pond was wide and deep enough that it would have to swim if it had any intention of starting trouble.
It didn't. Its head lowered to the pond. Slowly, Isran's hand leaves his dagger. He pulled the skin from the water and sealed it, his magic staying near the surface of his skin, ready to burst.
The bear raises its head, water dripping from its lips. It growls, raking its claws across the ground for good measure. Then it turned its back on him and walked away. Isran released the breath he didn't know he had been holding.
Another half hour of walking took him to Riften. He could see the smokestacks of working forges and ovens, the high walls, the very top of Mistveil Keep.
He pays it as little mind as he did the forest. A sharp, bitter wind caused him to tighten his cloak. The Dawnguard's sigil was emblazoned on his back, a sun of dark gold. Florentius' idea. Isran was outvoted. It signified his connection to the group and all that connection entailed. That included the Jarl's protection while on her lands but not her authority, something she hoped to change.
It is not until the trees part and the gate and watchtowers of the city begin to come into view that Isran stops.
She was here. She lived here, in a house gifted to her. The vampire. Harkon's offspring. The last of that wretched coven. A fact he had deliberately forgotten until now.
As always, he was tempted. The girl was smart, talented. He saw sprouts of her father's power within her and already, they were beginning to grow. But alone against him, she still would have stood little chance.
But Isran reminded himself of what he swore. Of what he owed. To her. To…him. For all they had done.
He chose to forget again, even as his magic hummed in anticipation. He took a deep breath and started towards the open gate. Most guardsmen were in Legionnaire uniforms, still tasked with holding the city until the last stragglers of the rebellion were taken care of. Isran trudged through the path between. One of them looked at him and did a double-take. He chose to ignore that as well.
A meal was the only thing he wanted on his mind right now as he made his way over the wooden walkways to the town's square. The clouds hadn't lifted since he left the forest and all of Riften was left cast in a dour gray. From the Legionnaires marching about to the orphanage to Mistveil Keep standing above the rest of the town. Only the Temple of Mara had any sort of warmth to it, braziers burning out front and candlelight emanating from the windows.
Isran headed for the inn, not even bothering to read its name before pushing his way through. It was midday, despite the lack of sun, so the inn was empty for the most part; a scattering of retired and unemployed littering the first floor. The Argonian behind the counter scowled at him as he approached, which he did not mind. He scowled at everyone. As long as he took Isran's money and gave Isran what he was paying for, the Argonian could scowl as he liked. He doubted it would amount to anything.
Isran's heavy fist came down on the counter, a handful of septims within. "A meal," he ordered, voice scratching, "Meat, if you have it prepared. No room."
The Argonian leaned back slightly and blinked, as if surprised by the sound of Isran's voice. But the scowl melted away. He held out his hand. "Anything in particular?"
Isran dropped the money into his palm. "Whatever's warm." He turned back to examine the inn, taking in the other patrons. He jerked his head towards a table in the far back, secluded in a corner. "I'll be over there."
He moved away from the counter, pulling his cloak from his shoulders and folding it. He placed it on the back of his seat before lowering himself and his complaining legs and back into it, folding his arms and resting them on the creaking table. Another Argonian was at his side within minutes. In her hands was a large steaming bowl, a plate of bread and a large, sloshing tankard. She too blinked at him in surprise but put the food down before him. Isran grunted his thanks and drained half the ale in one go.
The food was…edible, all that Isran required. The empty satchel sat heavy against his thigh. His memories weighed even more and against his better judgement, he began to wonder if he should have asked for a stronger drink and a room to stay in. He had intended to return to the fort as soon as he was done with what he had to do. Now, he wasn't so sure. He wasn't ready to return to the world just yet, to authority and responsibility and anything that generally required interacting with others.
Florentius especially. That god-addled chatterer would be back from the province of Cyrodiil any day now. He had left around four months ago to see his family in the Imperial City. His own wife, Tullia Baenius and his daughters, Felixa and Elianne. No doubt he'd be surprised and amused that Isran still remembered their names after all these years. Call that evidence of his "soft heart" beneath the spiky shell. Florentius would return and then talk the entire Dawnguard's ear off about his time. How little his memories compared to the real life visage of his wife. How much his children had grown in so little time. How beautiful the city looked at this time of year. How much his daughters loved their time in the Imperial Gardens.
Isran's knuckles squeezed the tankard so hard that it creaked. He brought it back to his lips and sculled down the last of it, mentally counting the last of his coin so he could get that damnable room.
"Isran?"
The voice reached his ears quickly and his brain slowly. Very slowly. But when it did, it hit him and left him near dazed. He turned to face the voice. Then slowly, he let the empty mug fall.
"Idessia?"
The tall, slight woman pushed away the hood covering her head. Dark brown hair cascaded down her shoulders, framing her angular face. Her eyes were wide and unblinking, even almost glowing in the tavern's dim light as they stared at him in disbelief. Idessia let her bag slip from her shoulder slightly and stepped closer. "It…" she gasped, "It is you."
Isran slowly rose to his feet. For the first and only time that day, Isran wanted to speak and no words would come. Idessia broke their lingering silence. She gestured to his table. "May I sit?" she asked in a small and quiet voice.
"Of course." He never took his eyes off her. "Please."
The Imperial woman shuffled over to the other chair and lowered herself into it. She had grown thinner since he last saw her, and paler. He would have worried for her health if not for the strength of her gaze that lay beneath the roiling waves of her emotions. Her hands were folded over the table in front of her. At this distance, he could see the thin scar on the junction of her neck and shoulder through the collar of her cloak and shirt. He knew it well.
"I…" Idessia swallowed. "I thought you were dead."
"I thought the same of you," he murmured, "How did you…"
"I left," she said, "Several weeks before."
Silence fell over them again. Isran's mind began to drift back to the past again. This time, on the bodies of the Vigilants he and Celann and several other Dawnguard members had put to pyre. How so many were mangled beyond recognition. How Celann had only found Keeper Carcette because of her medallion and how Isran, for so long, believed Idessia to be among them.
Some, like Gunmar and Durak, had volunteered to help put the bodies to rest, both knowing all too deeply how it was to lose people to the night creatures. Even Florentius came along, a priest to give last rites. But then there were others, like Agmaer, Isran forced along. The ones too green for their own good, still retaining their delusions of grandeur. These people needed to see the reality of their fight. The consequences of failure and even the bitterness that could still come with any victory. Several of them had quit the Dawnguard that same night and Isran never blamed them.
A light, melodic chuckle filled Isran's ears and brought him back to the present again. Back to the person in front of him. A person he thought he had laid to rest.
He was staring at a ghost and all he could ask was, "What's so funny?"
Idessia gently shook her head. "You haven't changed, you know that?" She took in his frown and her smile only grew. "I mean that in a good way. With everything that has, it is…a comfort to know some things are as they were before."
Isran blinked and felt the frown melt from his features. He grunted again, looking away towards the nearby window.
He looks back when he feels a gentle hand suddenly take his. "It's very good to see you again, Isran."
Idessia's laugh and smile always could light up a room. Seeing it again flooded Isran with waves of warmth and comfort and safety he hadn't known in years. Instead of falling back on his thoughts, trying to remember the last time anyone smiled at him. Isran squeezed her warm fingers and to his own surprise, he found himself smiling back.