"The Song-Never-Sung-At-Twilight
'That is not cruel which cures,
O faith, charity, rigor.
By faith true heart endures,
O hope, clarity, vigor.
Seventy-Seven shall guide us,
O praise, honor, and duty.
Alessia lives inside us,
And truth is one with beauty.'"
Coldharbour was weighing heavily on Cura's psyche, the more she wandered it alone. It was manageable - and did not seem as much of a challenge as Savos and Mirabelle had warned her, but that was quickly beginning to change. Anxieties haunted her with every footstep and torment lurked around every shadowed nook and cranny, staring into her soul with unseen eyes.
She felt as if prongs were prying her heart from her back - a malignant force prodding her constantly. She was being hunted by something; be it a hidden, malignant entity, or perhaps the realm itself.
The Soul Cairn wasn't even as arduous as this. With every step she felt like she was being killed, over and over again, all for someone's amusement. And yet, this was not so. The ambience of torment wrapped its fingers around her throat and mocked her, spitting in her face as she rounded a few embedded stalagmites.
Negative, intrusive thoughts consistently overshadowed her, no matter how hard she tried to push them away. The torments of Coldharbour were hard at work, and whispers of darkness told her to end her life; to give up her quest; to kill Varla; to kill this, to kill that.
She hushed them away with silent prayer, but these disgusting gestures would leave her no respite as she wandered the underground labyrinths.
Cura could feel the dryness choking her as she traversed the crude underground caverns. She muttered her stern disdain against Varla for having launched her down here. Though, perhaps she had nobody to blame but herself: she really should have seen it coming.
She could never say she wasn't warned about his vile nature beforehand. She'd just thought that perhaps she'd won him over. Perhaps she'd found a kind spot in his character. Perhaps he was capable of more than just hatred.
No, she was delusional.
Cura kicked a flat stone swiftly and growled. Now, due to her kind gesture, she was in a hole, both figuratively and literally. She walked over to a stone and parked herself beside it and slowly slid down to rest for a while.
She hoped Lucien would attempt to contact her again. She could really use his insight. She wondered how he would react to learning that Umaril the Unfeathered had a son with a Priestess of Mara. That would certainly raise his eyebrows.
Or what if she would tell Inigo of the little Khajiit girl Atima? How the poor thing was treated by the people she trusted? No - perhaps Inigo had enough on his plate at the moment. She shouldn't disturb him on top of it all. Perhaps she could tell him about how she flipped off the discount Hermaeus Mora in his honour? That might be worth a laugh.
Cura sighed and leaned her forehead into her Dwemer Metal hand. The only sound which surrounded her was the ambience of the caverns. The small river nearby's flow went through her ears, and the small drips of water from stalactites above hit the floor with reverberating 'plips' and 'plops.' Otherwise, it was silent; peaceful.
Suddenly, scuffing of the sand as a small, round arthropod creature crawled up to Cura and nudged her on her side. With her attention grabbed, Cura swiftly backed away on instinct, and the insectlike creature immediately settled into the spot where she was sitting, digging a tad into the ground to make a nook for itself.
"Gee, thanks." Cura sneered at the creature's rude action. She lifted herself up and decided to keep moving forward. In the cavern, she began to notice much more of these nonhostile creatures huddled around a much larger one on the level above. As the large one appeared to leave her be, she decided it best to do the same in kind.
After all, Stendarr would never sanction the attacking of one who's done no wrong. And neither would Cura herself.
A light raised above a crevice a few stories high, catching Cura's eye with its gleam. It beckoned her to follow it, by the looks of it, and she hurried after the glowing white ball. It took a bit of climbing, where she had to raise herself up over two steep ledges, but Cura managed to reach the top bluffs.
Proceeding up a natural ramp, Cura ducked through the crevice and found herself into another section of the large cavernous network below ground - and here, she was hit by a great surprise: there were people huddled around bonfires, singing familiar songs of praise, but with mournful undertones.
On closer inspection, her heart simultaneously broke and leapt for joy once she'd realized who these people were.
Vigilants!
Her eyes lit up when she took in the familiar robes and hoods that they wore, and she hurried into their midst. "By Stendarr! I can't believe it!" she cried out to the group of them.
As soon as the Vigilants saw her approach they drew their weapons. One of them stepped forward and gave his mace a twirl. "Stay right where you are! Let's have a good look at you."
Cura submitted and did as she was asked, reaching to her armoured hood and pulling it down to reveal her face. Immediately, one of the Vigilants stood up from her seat around the fire. "Wait, I know her! That's the Dragonborn, Vigilant Cura! Last I saw her, she argued with Keeper Carcette about Meridia and Azura. Gods... how long have I been here?"
Once they realized she was non-hostile they sheathed their maces again. The one who'd drawn his mace first stood upright and backed up a step. "My apologies. In this wasteland one can never be too careful."
"Indeed." Cura nodded in agreement. "We are in Coldharbour, after all. Not the most pleasant place in the world."
The Vigilant nodded. "I've heard stories about you, Vigilant Cura. I'd heard that you killed Fenrik, that traitor who cast us all down here." he gestured towards the other six Vigilants who stood around him.
Cura's eyes gleamed with recollection for a second; there was a reason why they seemed particularly familiar; she'd seen them laying in the sarcophagi before the Shrine of Molag Bal underneath the Quicksilver Mine in Dawnstar. Wow. That really was a long time ago.
Author's Note: the events referenced here could be traced back to Chapters 27, and 29, respectively.
She could vaguely recall those days - they were as a flitting memory, riding the winds of a time long passed. Cura scanned the small group before her. "I assume there are more Vigilants than just the eight of you?"
"Many more, though scattered throughout the realm." the leading Vigilant explained morosely. "Some have lost heart, and have taken their own lives as well - gods rest them. Vigilant Tyranus was here some time ago, but he wandered off to find more kindling for our bonfire."
"Wait - Vigilant Tyranus!" Cura gasped loudly when she heard his name. "Where did he go? I must speak to him!"
"I'm not entirely certain," the Vigilant admitted a clear lack of communication amongst their ranks. "but he headed through the narrow passage in the wall over there a short time ago. How many minutes ago, I cannot say." he gestured towards a fissure in the cavernous wall nearby behind a columnous stalagmite, where faint light from the realm proper trickled in like light water, illuminating the flakes of dust in the air.
"Thanks." Cura nodded in friendly compliance as she made a dash for the stagnant crevice. She turned over on her side and sidled through it with her back pressed against the stone. Shuffling one foot beside the other, she passed through into a surprisingly lush greenspace that appeared to be overlooked by a cliff, and a ravine ran through the very bottom.
The glow of dusk from the dampened skies above cast its hue over the grass and rock, and Cura could see him wandering around there.
Vigilant Tyranus!
He paced the floor on this small ledge, obscured from eyes above by a cliff. Perhaps the Vigilants hid in these caves because Molag Bal had missed them? Could that be possible?
"Tyranus!" Cura called out to her former ally.
The Vigilant looked up upon hearing his name, and Cura could see that half of his face appeared to be blackened and broken. The sight of it brought back horrific memories, and she'd nearly lost her footing.
BAM!
CRACK!
She could see the Mace splitting his skull again, and she quickly averted her eyes and covered her face. It took a few seconds, but she gathered the courage to peek through her fingers and eventually lowered her hands.
"Cura..." Tyranus recognized her. His face bore the scars of regret when he saw her. She was expecting sternness and anger, but he had none to give.
Cura hurried down the natural ramp to her right, which arced around the cavern walls and led to the ledge where he stood. When she came face-to-face with Tyranus, guilt convicted her. Tears clouded her vision as she rushed towards him. "I'm so sorry, Tyranus! I'm so sorry!" she wailed as she wrapped her arms around him and buried her face in his chest. His robes were stained with crusted blood, and his movements were slow and stunted, due to the manner of his death.
How was he not Soul-Shriven by now?
"Don't be sorry. I left you with no choice." Tyranus slowly pried away from her. "Molag Bal claimed you anyways, it seems. I'm sorry Cura. I never should have asked you to assist me in that Abandoned House."
A moment of silence passed them by, though it seemed an eternity. Cura was stunned to hear it. Tyranus really blamed himself for his own death. She shook her head. "Bal took control of me. There was no way around it... my faith was weak. It was my own fault."
"My faith was even weaker than yours. What happened was not your fault. I was a coward, and I paid the price for it." Vigilant Tyranus leaned against a large stone near the outer ledge for support as dizziness overtook him. He looked down at the brutal river flowing around jagged below them. "Please, Cura. I need you to forgive me."
Cura's heart, filled with compassion, urged her forward. "I-I do! Of course I do!" She carried the blame in the end - she volunteered to help him because she was there in Markarth. She could have told him to go himself, and Molag Bal would not have had the opportunity to claim the Dragonborn through having her kill an ally.
Tyranus closed his eyes, feeling serenity wash over him, now that he was granted closure. "Thank you. Go in peace, Cura." It was over. He felt peace gather him into a warm embrace and he let go of the cold world around him.
"What do you-"
Before she could finish the question, Vigilant Tyranus flung himself over the ledge.
"TYRANUS!" Cura attempted to reach forward and grab him, but she was not fast enough. She watched in feeble terror as his body hit the stones below and was pulled by the rapids. She looked on in sorrow-filled shock and began to weep against the stone he was leaning on.
She should have said no. If she would have said no, perhaps he would have hesitated a second longer. Perhaps she could have stopped him if she'd known his intention.
Tyranus, no matter how hopeless you felt, it was never the answer. Cura mourned to herself, alone. Her throat felt constricted; swollen; and her breath grew short.
While Tyranus may have been granted closure in his final moments, she was not. She cursed Molag Bal for this. She cursed his unholy name. She cursed his Mace, she cursed his Shrine, but most of all, she cursed the man he was - the sadistic, horned, tormentous, licentious, nefarious, notorious, derelict, malevolent, rancorous, maligned, spiteful, demonic, despicable, hateful, violent, vicious, evil creature that he was. She cursed the day he ever came to be, however it was.
She punched the rock repeatedly as frustration overcame her sorrow. It all came flooding back to her: she was in Cidhna Mine again. Trapped in her hatred. Surrounded by the suffering.
She was back in Markarth! That damned Markarth!
Cura curled herself up in the fetal position and wept into her robes. Her agonized sobs filled the air around her. There was no escape! There was no way out! The torment ensnared her in a sturdy cage, barring any and all escape.
A flash of lightning captured her eye. "STRUN BAH QO!" Lightning struck the city walls, blood and rain soaked the steps as city guard after City Guard was cut down by Cura and the Forsworn.
Off rolled Thonar Silver-Blood's head, down the cliffs onto the steps below, and into the brooks.
Cura was there again, wielding that accursed Mace of Molag Bal, dripping with blood, on the stone steps of Markarth.
Somebody, help me! Help me, please! Who am I? WHO AM I? Cura's mind was trapped; only her pleas could be heard as the vision of herself stood there, despondent. She cried out in anguish, though she simply stood there, in a trance. Is she there? Was she there this whole time? Has her entire journey past that point simply been a dream?
Was she Cura? Or was she someone else?
Was it like this, even then?
Why?
What was happening to her?
"Cura...?" A familiar voice called out to her in the dream.
A smile stretched upon the Breton's face, and she began to laugh as the tingling sensation from the stab in her side kicked in and all that occurred registered. It was then that she realized it was the familiar face of her friend, Inigo. When his eyes trailed down towards the weapon in her hand, concern grew upon his face. "Cu...ra...?"
"Ha... ah... ahha... ha..." Cura slowly began to return to her senses, when she looked down to her hand and saw the Daedric Weapon soaked in blood. "Huh?"
"When your enemies lie broken and bloody before you, know that I will be watching." came the despicable voice of Molag Bal.
Cura dropped the dark weapon to the floor. "No... No, no! Stop it!" She shouted.
Inigo tried to console her, but his face quickly began to resemble the Daedric Prince. In a moment of hysteria, Cura grabbed the dark mace and cracked him in the face, splitting his skull. The evil face faded, and Inigo now stood before her, his skull splintered and blood running down his tattoed, scarred blue face. "My friend... how... could you...? Hng..." Inigo fell down as blood spurted up and his body began to slide down the wet stairs and his soul was pulled into Oblivion.
"NO!" Cura screamed in horror once she'd realized what she did. She rushed down to Inigo's body and scooped her friend into her arms.
It's a lie! This isn't what happened! This isn't what happened! Cura reminded herself as her heart throttled about in a frenzy within her ribcage. She grabbed the sides of her head and thrashed about on the ground until the vision receded.
Remember who you are. You are Vigilant Cura of the Pale, the daughter of Ulfric Stormcloak and Elenwen... a Vigilant of Stendarr... the Last Dragonborn... she told herself over and over again.
An inexplicable hatred boiled up within her as she looked up from the ground she'd buried her face in. She aggressively forced herself back up into a sitting position.
"Your hatred is a powerful weapon, but take care not to be consumed by it, lest you become that which you've sworn to destroy." Cura was halted by the familiar feminine voice of the Daedric Prince of Life energies.
Meridia sat atop a ledge and addressed Cura once more, glowing luminous and golden as usual. "The mortal intended to take his life regardless - you granted him much sought-after closure before he did."
Cura was silent. She looked to the river again, and then looked back at Meridia. "I just wish there was something more I could have done."
"You shall. Stone-Fire's ultimate defeat must be by your hand."
Cura nodded. "And what happens then, Lady Meridia?"
"You will have not just your freedom, but more than you seek. More than you could ever have imagined will be granted to you. Much, much more." Meridia smiled warmly. "I look forward to being witness to your success."
"Thank you. That means a lot to me." Cura was happy to see that Meridia was rooting for her, even if her declaration was a tad cryptic. She wiped her tears away and the Daedric Prince slowly disappeared.
The profound sadness slowly subsided after several minutes, and Cura picked herself back up. With renewed resolve, she elected to return to the Vigilant camp on the other side of the long crevice.
No sooner did she walk halfway into the crease than she heard the clamour of fighting. Fearful of seeing any more of her allies die, the Vigilant rushed into the fray to fight alongside them.
The Vigilants were set upon by a skeletal hooded figure who wielded a scythe weapon and bore Daedric armour with the appearance of a red ribcage on the cuirass. "You cannot hide her from me!" He was brutal in his movements, and managed to knock one of the paladins to the ground. "I will slaughter as many of you as it takes to draw her out!" He raised his scythe over his head in preparation to cleave her head from her shoulders.
A Fireball hit the figure and caused him to fall to the side. The Vigilant scuttled backwards in a panic and hurried to her feet. She looked to her right to see Cura surrounded by smoke caught up by the flames.
The air was thick with anticipation, as if the very earth held its breath. The Paladin, clad in gleaming golden armor and white Meridian robes, stood resolute, Dawnbreaker gripped tightly in her right hand, ablaze with holy fire. "I assume I'm the one you're looking for."
"I suppose you are the one they call 'Cura.'" The Reaper's hollow eyes locked onto the Paladin, and his chilling voice echoed through the cavern. "Foolish mortal," he hissed. "your light cannot pierce the darkness that awaits you. This realm will swallow you whole - and I shall feed you to it!" He swung his scythe threateningly, brushing some sand into the air with his swing.
Around the two of them, a ring of crimson red fire formed a small arena - whatever this was - he wanted to interference from anybody. He wanted the pleasure and the credit of taking down Molag Bal's self-declared enemy himself.
The Paladin tightened his grip on her sword, the blade humming with its divine energy. She returned without fear, without sorrow, with unwavering resolve. "I am no fool, Reaper. I am the shield against your shadow. My purpose is to protect the innocent, and tonight, I stand between you and your grim harvest." She motioned to the injured and frightened Vigilants, who'd been scattered on the battlefield.
The orange glow of the bonfire illuminated the shadows surrounding them, and Cura kicked a femur bone out of her way as she stepped forward daringly. This was just what she needed after what just happened.
A perfect punching bag, at the opportune moment.
Stendarr be praised!
"Death to you, child of Stendarr!" The Reaper lunged, his scythe slashing through the air. Without delay, Cura parried his diagonal arc, sparks flying as Daedric steel met Daedric steel. Each clash reverberated through the caverns, sharp pings bouncing off the walls. Each scythe swing was dodged and parried by a nimble Cura, who treated his blade with the respect it deserved. Its sharp lacerous looks were enough to discourage carelessness.
Cura's eyes tracked the blade as it sung, creating a symphony of caution as she refused to allow contact with her person. She monitored the movements as she planned her course of action and eventually, after much swooping and ducking, she found her opening.
When the blades clashed, Cura used the center of the blade on Dawnbreaker to hold the scythe's curved blade back from her head and she reached forward, putting her Dwemer Metal palm on the Reaper's chest. Without hesitation, she cast an Electroball directly into his being, electrocuting him and causing the caverns to light up in a violet hue as the fiend convulsed.
In mere moments, however, the beast teleported out of her range and fired a crescent beam of red light at Cura from his scythe. When it hit her she was caused to stagger as her vitality was sapped away by an increment. A quick Healing Spell saved her, however, and she looked sternly at the dark creature.
"Your faith is futile," the Reaper taunted. "Death is inevitable. Embrace it. Embrace your end, with arms in hand, and forget yourself."
But Cura pressed forward, invoking ancient prayers. She put her focus onto Stendarr - on the light which he grants his Resolutes when they need it most - and immediately, a golden aura formed around her, searing the Reaper's spectral form.
The Reaper recoiled, his form flickering. He stepped backwards and covered his face from the light. "Gah! Confound it! You should have no power here!"
The other Vigilants had begun to pray alongside Cura - seemingly empowering Stendarr's Aura.
"ENOUGH!" The Reaper retaliated with black, ethereal tendrils, seeking to drain the Paladin's life force. But the Paladin's faith shielded her, and she countered with a Restoration Spell Colette had taught her back during her Winterhold days: Dust to Dust. The Reaper wailed - a sound that echoed the suffering of countless souls as his body began to char.
"You cannot defeat me!" he screeched. "I am the right hand of Bal!" The creature convulsed, its form unraveling amidst the swirling golden energy which enveloped him.
"This... is... not... over!" In a last ditch effort, the Reaper retreated into the shadows, teleporting away from her.
Cura stood there, shaken, with a racing heart. Her knees wobbled and she staggered backwards, barely maintaining her footing. One of the Vigilants came to her aid.
"That was incredible! You really are all that they said!" the Vigilant she'd rescued proclaimed.
Cura felt a darkness strike her from within, throbbing; pulsating. She gripped her chest until the pain subsided. "Oog. Yes - I... I suppose... I..."
Molag Bal's face appeared in front of her, and then vanished as quickly as it had manifested. She leapt forward to grab him, but he was not there. The other Vigilants watched her frenzied action with some concern. "GRAH! You COWARD!" she cried out ferociously. "Just you wait until I get my Dragon Soul back, Molag Bal! I'll SHOW you what Domination looks like!"
She wrestled away from the Vigilants and proceeded to walk towards a cavern exit. Before walking out, she turned back to them. "Stay here, or follow me. But whatever you do - don't kill yourselves. Please."
"It's evidently no longer safe here." one of the Vigilants stated. "Where are we to go?"
"It will be safe again, once I've left." Cura told them sternly. "That monster came here to kill me. Molag Bal is afraid of me; of what I can do. And I swear, by the Nine - I am going to validate him."
"You intend to kill the Lord of Domination?" one of the Vigilants asked for clarification, as he could scarcely entertain such a fantastical idea.
Cura nodded. "I do. And I will. For all he's done to our world, Justice demands it, and I intend to deliver." She could not quite explain it, but something was pressing down on her heart; a clamp of sorts. She was no longer sad, nor in mourning, but instead angry. Incredibly angry.
"Stendarr be with you. Avenge us upon him." one of the other Vigilants imparted a blessing upon her.
Hearing nothing more, Cura proceeded out of the cavern and onto the dirt path outside, which led to a quarry filled with large rocks and stone obelisks with skeletal hooded figures depicted on statues above them. At the very center of the rows she could see the black sun with red flames surrounding it in the gloomy orange and gray skies.
To her left, there was Fort Welkynd's walls, stretching high into the skies, bordering the cliffs and the palisades of the Imperial City. Her heart was black with hate at the moment, and she thought that perhaps she ought to storm the Fort and slay Varla for his treachery. Her fingers wrapped around the hilt of her mace and she seethed through her gritted teeth.
She charged a Firebolt and obliterated one of the hooded skeleton statues on one of the obelisks in a flash of rage.
The noise attracted the attention of stray Soul-Shriven Alessian Priests who were congregating over the pathways beyond the large stones to her right, and they came around to see what caused the sudden blast. As soon as Cura saw the weapons in their hands, she lost it.
I'm in Coldharbour. It doesn't matter. she told herself as she proceeded to rip and tear her way through the crowd in a furious rage. Anyone in a red outfit would die.
The earth trembled beneath her boots, and she stumbled, tripping over the corpses strewn across the blood-soaked ground. Her breath came in ragged gasps, and she clutched at her chest, as if trying to hold her sanity together. But it slipped through her fingers like sand, leaving only a void.
Whispers echoed in her mind, urging her to yield, to surrender to the madness. And then, a laugh - a guttural, unhinged sound - escaped her lips. She wildly laughed at the absurdity of it all. The futility of war, and the fragility of life - or rather - unlife in this case. Her bloodsoaked mace slipped from her grasp, and she reached down towards it, fingers trembling.
"Is this what madness looks like?" she wondered aloud, the words lost in the chaos. "Is this what victory feels like?" her laughter turned to sobs, and she fell to her knees, forgetting herself again. Deeply moved by her horrific visions of Markarth, she'd relived it again. She pressed her forehead to the ground, surrounded by the deceased Alessians. "Forgive me, gods, for I have lost my way."
Coldharbour surrounded her, like a jar around an entrapped insect. With no holes in its lid for air. She sunk into the darkness that threatened to consume her. All was a blur, all was illusion. A violent, brutal, horrifying mirage. Her hands throbbed, and her heart pounded within. All was cold.
"The only god listening is me." came a dark voice which enveloped her in the growing cloud of blackness. The shadows swirled around until they consumed the immediate area, and Cura quickly leapt to her feet.
As Cura walked through the shadows, she came face-to-face once more with Molag Bal. The Daedric Prince glared at her with an intense, burning hatred in his cold, frozen eyes. "So, you've mantled Meridia's Champion. That is a mistake you will come to deeply regret. Just what are you trying to do here, Mortal?"
There was an invisible, endless distance between the two of them, even as they stood face-to-face, six feet apart. The closer Cura approached, the further he seemed to be. With each step forward, he seemed to be just that much further away, just out of reach.
"You said earlier that you hate all things. That you hate the gods, that you hate creation. Why?" Cura asked. She could relate to the aspect of hatred; after all, it was all she felt when she saw his hideous visage.
"Why? It is who I am, I think." Molag Bal admitted, though uncertain with his own answer. "They say this Dream no longer needs its dreamer. What do they know?" He spat embers onto the bottomless pit beneath them.
Cura tilted her head. "Who are you? Don't you have anything else to your name besides what you stand for? Are you really so single-minded that you've no personal identity?"
"SILENCE! QUIET! QUIET! BE QUIET! I AM THE ONE ASKING THE QUESTIONS HERE! DO YOU UNDERSTAND?" Molag Bal roared with unyielding aggression, stamping flames down onto the invisible floor beneath him. A great wave of blue flames snaked out of his mouth in a dispersing arc, closing in around Cura.
Cura held up her arms, covering her face and upper body from the intense flames as they swept over her and swallowed her whole in a rushing tide, and yet left no burn. The fire swirled around her and sputtered out, sizzling into the air.
Once he'd calmed, Molag Bal clenched the sides of his head. "I... I am..."
The location where the two of them stood was supplanted by a vision of an ancient Gildergreen tree surrounded by a large field and forest in all directions, by the look of it. Thunder roared above as a heavy downpour fell upon the land. A small, dark, dragonlike lizard spawn lay at its roots, struggling to exist. This fetus, as it were, was dark, and gnarled, sprawled on the wet grass under the deep rainfall next to a red stone.
So Molag Bal was lost in a hell of his own making, as well. Not that he didn't deserve it for all he'd done.
Had Cura's Dragon Soul really caused this to happen to him? Were their fates truly intertwined now? Though, perhaps they always were. Or would have been at some point or another.
The voice of a young man spoke over the scene as Cura walked up to the fetus, to examine it as it lay pitifully. She was perturbed by this thing that sprawled in the grass, like an armoured gray slug.
"Once... once upon a time, when the Eldergleam was still young, I slept in Kyne's cradle."
So this was the Eldergleam! She looked at the tree, which reminded her greatly of the one which sat in Whiterun. And then she looked at the field surrounding her and this tree. Was this the Eldergleam Sanctuary?
Cura's eyes fixed on the withered serpentine form which was shivering in the grass. It whimpered there, curled up against the tree's roots itself, next to a burrow which led to an abyss beneath the tree.
"Nobody wanted me to awake. But in the search of light I forced myself through thousands of roots, and crawled out of the ground."
Cura felt the flaming eyes of Molag Bal burrowing into her back from a distance away as she observed the depressing scene. She squatted down to get a closer look and her compassionate nature tempted her to touch the wretched creature as it wept, cold and alone.
"The sound of a rusted bell calls my name and a red eye looks into my heart. Everything falls into darkness and there is nothing I can do..." the voice shook with fear and resignation.
The dark figure behind her evaporated into the air as her hand touched the suffering infant's face. The embryonic creature tilted its head upwards to look at the one who touched it, and its face was unmistakable: Molag Bal.
With a red flash of its eyes, Cura was transported to another location: a dark, sodden forest lit by the light of the moon above. Rain fell upon the shadows of the land, sparkling like sorrowful teardrops, falling from Kyne's eyes. The blood on her own robes was washed away by the dewfall.
The darkness was blinding, and Cura had to take each step carefully. Rain splattered on her hood and dripped down her armour as she walked knee-deep in murky swamp water. There were various dead animals in the forest, but a dead Fox caught her eye especially.
"You are not Shezzar! Nor his prophet." came the familiar voice of Sheogorath, resounding from above. However, rather than in his usual whimsical fashion. Sheogorath roared with anger and disgust. "You are just an imitation. A fake. Nothing but a pale beast of Sithis."
Cura felt shivers ride her spine like a highway, going up and down with each spoken word. Sheogorath was addressing another, and yet she felt the shame in their stead. She walked out of the deep muck and up a natural incline, where a Nedic Nobleman lay dead in the grass with a lantern at his side, facedown in a puddle of his own blood. She walked past the body, and Sheogorath continued to speak, now in a meek, sorrowful prose. "The first cry of the stillborn king resounded like a bell and all the wishes will be realized with blood."
The sobs of a woman filled the air, and Cura was called to investigate the troubling sounds through the bramble and drenched leaves. When she approached, she saw a woman: a Nedic maiden with short, blonde hair and a torn carnation in her hair laying in the mud under a collapsed tree next to a cliff, entirely naked, stripped of any and all clothing. Upon her flesh were bruises and cuts, and she had been horribly ravaged, blood running onto the grass underneath her. A drop of blood stained her forehead and she choked back tears as the life was slowly leaving her.
Cura clasped her hands over her mouth in horrified shock at what she saw before her. She wanted nothing more than to give the maiden her robes to hide her shame and to heal her grievous wounds, but there was an obstacle: a force holding her back.
Before her stood an Altmer Bard in fine blue clothes, who, cursed by his action, was transformed into the very creature she loathed: Molag Bal. He clenched his head with his hands in horror as he looked upon the grisly deed - though that remorse quickly began to disappear into the glow of the Red Stone, visible in his right pocket.
The maiden wept bitterly, and with great suffering. None would come to her aid. None could come to her aid. Her Amulet of Arkay still remain hung around her neck, and nearby her priestess robes were ripped apart and discarded.
A vision of Arkay himself weeping for his priestess filled Cura's mind as she observed the scene, and heard the cries that would one day haunt the Pale and furthermost reaches of Skyrim.
"Lamae." Cura whispered to herself as she recalled tales of the Blood Matron's origin. Looking upon the maiden, she could not help but think of her friend Serana, and her blood began to boil. That was what Molag Bal did to her? She was ready to draw her sword and impale him through the skull right now, but a force prevented her from doing so.
The Bard's voice faded in as Molag Bal looked into a rain puddle beside him in the dirt, lit up by the moon. "When did insanity overtake me? When did the reflection in the water turn into an ugly monster?"
Cura grit her teeth. She wanted to tell him what she thought, but her throat was closed and no sound could escape. She was here to observe, nothing more.
Molag Bal looked down at his helpless victim, who was laying in fetal position, surrounded by bushes of Nightshade next to a small precipice. "Who am I? Where am I going? What... what do I seek?" he asked himself.
With a whirling vortex of red energy, Sheogorath finally revealed himself to the beast and the Daedric Prince was not happy. He did not wear his normal smile - instead he bore an incredibly serious expression on his face. The prince sat atop the small precipice and looked down on Bal. "You know that. You should have known. And now everything is beyond oblivion." He pointed an accusing finger at him. "Is it not so? You don't even know who you are anymore."
Molag Bal struggled to think of it. "I... I am..."
"Even burnt by the Stone you won't let your desire go? Must your soul burn on and on without ever knowing peace?" Sheogorath asked rhetorically like a teacher disappointed by a student who'd refused to study for a test.
"Still..."
"As expected from Molag Bal, a beast furthest from Shezarr. Just weak, just wicked, just ugly." Sheogorath growled lightly as he made his point. He stood up slowly and held his arms up to the night sky. "Ah, your black soul has finally reached Sithis. Welcome, our new sibling." With that final declaration, the Daedric Prince of madness faded away into the void.
Author's Note: Play "Vigilant OST - Sad Ending" for this small segment ;) thanks for reading!
Molag Bal turned around to look at Cura, and the pair of them faded away into the darkness, and only Bal remained, at the foot of a red-lit throne room, led upwards by an ascending staircase.
The Bard's voice resonated through the emptiness above, filled with shame, disgust, and regret.
"I am a coward who can only live in eternally-repeating dreams. From the very beginning it was my fate to be swallowed by the darkness I raised myself."
The Daedric Prince walked past an army of Dremora and Daedroths, flanking him on either side of the throne room, standing in lines along a red carpet.
A pulsating darkness caused by the severed fabric of time touched him tangibly as with each flaming footstep he prodded the hot stones that paved the room floor.
When he reached his throne, the Reaper Dremora in the hooded mask with a scythe mounted upon his back spoke to his lord in his dry, gagging voice. "That Vigilant will be here soon. What is your command?"
"Take care of the matter, Volar." Molag Bal hissed back at him.
"Gladly. You can rely on me, my Lord." the Reaper Volar growled before dismissing himself and disappearing, leaving Molag Bal alone at the forum.
As Molag Bal approached the throne, there it sat: the Red Stone, upon the seat itself. When he touched it, a sense of relief filled the Daedric Prince and he felt the energy flow through his being. He closed his eyes and held his breath as he savoured its scorching burn under his palm.
When he was finished, he spoke aloud: "My name is... Molag Bal. Prince of domination and enslavement. The one who burns his own soul and curses the world of the Divines... Everything repeats. Even now, after I knew the darkness. After I overcame the darkness, after I died..."
He turned around and looked to the arched open ceilings and statues mounted on the archways depicting the skeleton in a hooded robe with hands clasped together in prayer. His eyes darted around, falling upon his Daedric Minions who looked at him for guidance in their wickedness.
He let out an anguished roar as everything faded to black and he was brought back before Cura again, in the void, surrounded by a large halo of blue flames on the invisible floor.
Cura was luminous; enshrouded by the light of Meridia. She simply stared at her nemesis with an expression of pity. An expression that roused much anger in the Prince. He really could feel nothing more than the desire to be wicked.
"Do not look at me with your pity, mortal!" Molag Bal jabbed a clawed finger her way. But like she was, he was bound by distance. "This is all your fault! You caused all of this!"
"You cast your mark upon me in Markarth. This is your own doing." Cura reminded him.
Molag Bal huffed, and blue fires spewed from his skeletal nostrils. "You have meddled with my affairs for too long. First, by slaying Minorne, one of my worshippers, in Ruunvald. Next, by sabotaging Fenrik's sacrifice in Dawnstar. Then by slaying my followers in the Volkihar Court. You have even stripped my influence from Serana. Do you think I have just forgotten all the trouble you've caused me, Cura?"
Cura shook her head. "If you weren't always committing acts of evil, I wouldn't have had to intervene. And as for Serana, what you did to her alone makes me want to destroy you, you vile fiend!"
"Violence. Compassion. Love. Hatred. Why can't you just pick one and be done with it? Why must you dance around like this?" Molag Bal spat.
"Well - "
Before Cura could respond to him, the Daedra vanished from her, and took the darkness with him. She was left right where she was, on a pathway near obelisks with hooded skeleton statues upon them, surrounded by the slaughtered Alessian foes which lay strewn about on the terrain.
"Cura! By the gods! Are you all right?" came the cries of Savos Aren, who with Mirabelle Ervine hurried up the beaten path. When they saw the slaughter, they were striken with horror.
"Gods... if only we could have gotten here sooner. Did you really kill all of them yourself?" Mirabelle asked with great surprise. "If so, that is quite impressive."
Savos Aren observed the scene, as well. "And without your Dragonblood to boot. Well struck, I must admit." He admired her handiwork.
Cura's lip trembled and she looked to the ground shamefully. "I... I did."
Mirabelle sensed her change and offered her a reconciliation. "They meant to do you harm. This is justifiable. I'm just impressed that you were able to take down fifteen of them on your own." she noted the weapons scattered about.
But Cura wasn't even entirely certain that they meant to attack her. They could very well have simply been curious and brought their weapons as a precaution. Not that they were fully capable of reason any longer. Perhaps her guilt was misplaced. After all, they were Alessians. They'd surely done something to bring them to this point.
Savos Aren crossed his arms. "I take it things didn't go well with Varla?"
Cura shook her head. "No. Not at all. I'm going back to his Fort. I have a score to settle with him." She clenched the shaft of her mace.
Mirabelle grit her teeth. "Are you certain this is the right course of action? There's no telling what instability will grow of this in Coldharbour."
"I don't care." Cura put it simply. "There's no stability left here anyways." She pushed past Mirabelle and walked around Savos before casting Fast Travel to reach the entry door of Fort Welkynd. She shoved the doors open, in spite of their pleas, and left her allies outside, where they belonged.
She headed to the lift and pulled the lever, and raised herself up to the top floor - stiff-lipped and grumbling. Once the lift's gate opened she stepped off and hung a left, and ascended the stairs to Varla's Hall. She hadn't bothered to open the door the normal way - instead she elected to viciously throw them wide open. Metal be damned.
Within the room, Mary sat on the steps leading to the upper floor with Korn, who was bandaged now. Once she saw Cura, a brief moment of relief swept her before she saw the furious look in the Breton's eyes.
Varla, who sat upon his throne accompanied by his hounds, was taken by surprise to see her again so flinched in his seat and his hounds immediately began to growl at her baleful presence. "What the...? How did you..."
Before he could finish his sentence, Cura fired a Crossbow bolt into his abdomen with her Dwemer Metal Arm. This caused Mary to scream with horror, and Maril and Umar leapt from their master's side to attack Cura.
The Death Hounds readied their venomous bites to rend her flesh, but they would taste her not. Without a moment's hesitation, Cura kicked Umar in the lower jaw, and brought her shield up against Maril. She smacked the second hound over the head with a downwards shield-drive, smashing it into the ground and killing it. She stamped its head in for good measure, burying the heel of her Daedric golden boot into its fragile cranium.
When Umar came back around to snap at her again, she grabbed its upper and lower jaws with both hands and pried them apart. As the hound wailed, Cura finished it by casting Meridia's Wrath directly onto it. The golden light tore it apart particle by particle, reducing it to a pile of ash.
Mary covered her mouth in horror, but Korn was sure to keep her away from the battle. Being more than a mere wolf, the Aedric animal understood what was happening.
"My hounds! You... filthy whore!" Varla roared with fury as he pried the bolt out of his armour. Blood ran down the steel plating, and his hand trembled with the bolt in his grasp. He tossed it towards the eastern wall and he drew his sword and parrying dagger. "I'll make you wish you died in the fall!"
Cura slammed her shield into him with hateful force, knocking the knight backwards, and smashed his left pauldron off his armour with her mace. She then slammed him a few more times before he reacted by stabbing her in the left shoulder. He pulled back quickly to dodge the swing of her shield and leapt a few feet back.
Cura charged, her mace whirling like a tempest. Varla stepped back, parrying with his sword. The impact sent shockwaves through his arms, but he held firm. The throne room echoed with the clash of steel against steel.
The two of them circled briefly, focusing on the movements of the other. Cura's mace struck like a bolt of lightning, crushing his chest armour and digging into his flesh underneath with its hooks. Varla danced away, his movements fluid despite his heavy armour.
Cura fired another bolt into his leg, causing him to stumble before clubbing him over the head with her mace. Stunned, Varla paused for a moment and nearly lost his grip on his sword.
Red light glowed under the eye sockets of his helm as he lunged forward in attempt to meet her chest with his blade.
With a burst of rage, Cura projected her inner feelings outwards. "FUS!"
The minor Thu'um emerged in a strong burst of wind, knocking him off his feet and causing his parrying dagger to fly out of his hand. When Varla hit the floor, his helmet fell off of him, and Cura could see the fear in his eyes.
"Wh-what are you?!" Varla fearfully inquired.
Cura raised her mace to plunge it into his head, and Varla instinctively raised his hands to provide a futile shield.
"NO! WAIT, STOP!" Mary cried out, extending her hand forward. "IN THE NAME OF MARA, IN THE NAME OF STENDARR, STOP!" Tears ran down the woman's cheeks as she pleaded for her bastard son's life. "PLEASE!"
Korn barked loudly at the Dragonborn, responding to her owner's plea.
The world froze for a moment, and Varla's breath was heavy. He was overcome with feelings of shock; given the meekness he'd seen from her before, he had not expected such a thing from Cura. She fought in a manner unlike anything he'd ever seen before.
It was as if Pelinal Whitestrake himself had stormed his throne room in search of blood. Just pure rage - like a whirling twister.
Cura's mace hung in the air for a few moments and the hatred in her eyes slowly began to subside. Her breathing was tense and shaky. Her chest rose and fell with each passing second before she was fully calm. She took a few steps backwards and lowered her weapon. She still kept it in her hand, though lowered to the ground, to smash a kneecap if need be. "Get up. I want a word with you." She said sternly.
All pretenses of kindness and patience were gone. Cura was showing him exactly what he wanted to see: a person without mercy, without kindness, without love.
With trembling knees, Varla complied, pushing the floor and raising himself up, where he towered over his attacker. He could scarce believe that this little Half-Elf brought him to his knees. In front of his estranged mother, to boot. He was unsure of which was worse: his failure to kill her by trap door, or this humiliating defeat. Either way, he was now shamed before Molag Bal.
"You've bested me." Varla hung his head flatly and ran a hand across the blood emerging from his armour, forming a red streak. "I... I am humbled before you."
"I don't give a skeever's tail." Cura spat. "I tried to do this the civil way. I tried to be kind, to be charitable. But you were right. In this dimension, kindness does not exist. So instead, I'm going to give you an ultimatum: either open the eastern gate for me, or I'll kill you, and I'll kill her. The order which the deaths happen doesn't concern me; maybe I'll start with her first." She thrust her mace to the side to point at Mary for emphasis, terrifying the poor priestess.
"You wouldn't-"
"Wouldn't I?" Cura formed a Firebolt in her hand and readied to throw it at the Priestess and her wolf.
She was bluffing, of course, but the look in Varla's eyes told her that he believed her before he even spoke. His eyes looked moist, as if tears threatened to bead in their corners. A deep fear revealed itself amidst them.
He was just reunited with the mother he never knew, after all. Would it not be the pinnacle of cruelty and mercilessness for Cura to rip them apart now, after having brought them together?
"No! Don't. I... I'll do it." Varla held up his hands. "Come with me, and I'll open the gate for you. Don't hurt her. Please."
The look of disappointment on Mary's face stung Cura, but she simply responded with a shrug. What else was she supposed to do? Violence was Varla's language.
Varla limped to the door and past the remains of his hounds. He held his abdomen in his hand as he lumbered down the stairs. Cura followed him closely, and kept an eye on the evil Lord. Mary and Korn followed, as well. When they'd reached the lift, Varla pulled the lever and it slowly began its descent.
"So... y-you intend to shut down the barrier tower." Varla winced as he spoke.
"I do." Cura confirmed. "I intend to destroy the barrier around Molag Bal's Tower and storm therein and kill the Daedra myself."
Mary maneuvered to her son and examined his wounds. A profound sadness filled her as she took in the sights. She cast a Healing Spell on Varla, gently mending the wounds inflicted from the crossbow bolt and mace.
"Th-thank you." Varla found himself saying. A surprise from one such as himself. His voice was softer now, as was his demeanour. He was well and truly humbled by the harrowing experience.
Mary gently touched her son's cheek after she'd finished closing his wounds. "Varla, my dear, this is what kindness is."
The Half-Elf was silent. He embraced the warmth of the Healing Spell and felt its mending tingle spread throughout his entire body. He closed his eyes and considered her point.
What had the millennia of cruelty brought him? He was no happier in Coldharbour than he was in life. When his citizens revolted against him and killed him, it was because of how cruelly he'd treated them. His cruelty brought out the evil within the Half-Elven woman who'd come to him with an olive branch in the first place.
Now, his hounds were dead. And he well could have lost his mother, too. And himself.
Varla looked to his mother with soft eyes, and embraced her tightly, much to her surprise. In that moment, the world around them disappeared, and a gentle warmth took them. It was as if Mara herself had brought them together, to close the spiritual wounds embedded in them.
Mary closed her eyes and felt a tenderness she'd never quite experienced before. It was a wonderful feeling; a bright change from the endless sorrow she was drowning in for centuries; in life and in death.
Korn sat between them and barked happily before turning around to look at Cura.
Cura leaned against the railing of the lift and locked eyes with the White Wolf. In its gaze, she could see her: Mara. The goddess was indeed present with them, through the wolf. Perhaps there was more to the Divines than Cura realized. The Breton uncrossed her arms and slowly lifted off the rails as they descended to the bottom floor.
Not a word was spoken until they reached the exit doors, where Mirabelle and Savos anxiously waited for Cura. Not just them, though, as Sir Amiel and Sabrina had returned at last from the Mathmalatu Priory.
Savos was relieved to see that Cura hadn't gone through with her plan to slaughter Varla, and her allies were dumbstruck upon seeing her so late.
"What, did you really wait all these hours for us?" Sabrina was shocked. "You didn't have'ta. We were goin' to the border to meet you there."
Sir Amiel nodded. "Indeed; we'd expected to catch sight of you in the east, though now I suppose we shall walk together."
Cura nodded. "I... persuaded Varla into allowing me exit."
As soon as Sabrina realized who the knight was, she flinched. "Ey, that's Varla?"
"I am." the knight said sternly.
The plague doctor swiftly moved behind Sir Amiel. She'd never seen the Lord of the Fort, but she heard more than enough rumours about him to keep her near the plague bed instead.
Mirabelle spoke to Varla directly. "I suppose you must have had a change of heart concerning Molag Bal. Why would you allow her to simply pass like this?"
Varla was taken aback by the question. He walked with his arm around Mary, and shifted a brief glance to her, and then to Mirabelle. "I have had a change of heart. I guess... I was a slave to my own misery for too long. I forgot how it felt to be human." He gestured his face to a column of red light over the cliffs that obscured their view from the pathway. "The Barrier Tower's there. See that red pillar of energy? But honestly, I think your journey's going to end here."
Cura spun around on her heel, and faced him. "That had better not have been a threat."
Varla shook his head. "No. No threat. Just a fact. If you knew who was guarding that tower, you'd give up right here and turn back to the Waterfront District."
"Who? Who's guarding the tower?" Cura demanded him to spit it out.
"Pelinal Whitestrake."
The name invoked a deep silence upon the group in that moment. It was not a name to be taken lightly. But surprising just the same, it was.
"D-did you say, 'Pelinal Whitestrake?'" Sir Amiel stuttered. "The Star-Made Knight?"
"He'll destroy you." Varla warned them.
Cura herself was visibly nervous upon hearing the name.
"Oh, no. No, no, no. This is not what I signed up for!" Sabrina protested immediately.
Cura weighed her options carefully, and turned to face Savos and Mirabelle. "You were right. This is going to be the toughest challenge I've faced." She was under no illusions that the Star-Made Knight would greet her warmly. She was, after all, Half-Elven, and clad in armour themed after Meridia. No death was surer.
"He can be reasoned with." Mary tried to reassure Cura. "I carried Umaril's seed, and yet the Knight spared my life. There is compassion in him, despite what you may have heard."
Savos Aren spoke up, as well. "Even still, I urge you to be cautious. He may not even still be the man he was back then. He could very well be truly lost."
Time in Coldharbour could drive the most sane person to madness. Cura herself had always sort of teetered on the line between madness and sanity as she'd discovered in that time which would best not be remembered, but Coldharbour brought the necessity to forget it to begin with.
This realm did things to people.
She turned her gaze to Sabrina and Sir Amiel. "I'm going to face him alone. I want the lot of you to just ensure no external threats find their way to me."
"What do you mean by 'external threats?'" Sir Amiel grew concerned, asking with a raised brow.
"I was attacked earlier by a figure who resembled a Grim Reaper. He was sent by Molag Bal to slay me." Cura confirmed.
"You survived Deathbringer Volar?" Varla's eyes widened in shock.
"Yes. He tried to kill me in the caves and I drove him away." Cura responded, though she was careful to say nothing of the Vigilants she'd met in those caverns, for their own sakes.
"What are you?" Varla asked again. "Surely you are more than just a Half-Elf."
"She is the Dragonborn. She defeated a High Elf who sought the power of Magnus, a powerful Vampire Lord, and even Alduin the World-Eater and saved Tamriel, among other things." Mirabelle explained as they walked under a large stone arch. The gate to the eastern island stood some distance away, guarded by one of Belharza's Dragonblood Knights.
Varla paused and stared at the Dragonborn. She went easy on him. Even in her wrath, she spared his life. He saw the back of her as they walked, but now he understood. She held back.
Perhaps she was going to slay Molag Bal. Could such a feat even be possible? Could she slay a Daedric Prince? Could a Daedric Prince be defeated by a mortal?
In the skies above, the group saw a shocking sight: a flaming, white Dragon flew circles around the Tower of Sacremnor, and Sir Amiel quickly pointed to it.
"Is that your soul, my lady?" he asked Cura to verify as all of their attentions were hooked on it, the Dragonblood Knight at the gate included.
The white Dragon roared, and its sound resonated over the land.
Cura's eyes glimmered. "It is! That's it!"
Sabrina took off her mask to get a better view. An expression of shock was plastered on her. "No way! So you were telling the truth! I mean, I believed you, but... wow. That's incredible!"
The Dragon continued flying westward, and escaped their sight.
Cura was frustrated. "Ugh! Why didn't it come here? I'm right here! I could use it right about now!"
Of course, it could not be that easy.
Near the western frontier, Carcette sat next to a fountain depicting Molag Bal. For many years, she'd feared a fate in Coldharbour, and yet, here she was, in Coldharbour. Though, rather than being here against her will, she'd volunteered for it.
What on Nirn was wrong with her?
She was startled by the sight of a White Dragon soaring the skies from the Imperial City behind her, and it perched on a rooftop nearby. Her jaw hung open as she locked her gaze with its burning emerald eyes.
Though there was something oddly familiar about it.
Not knowing what to expect, she quickly stood up from the fountain and took a step back, and placed a hand on Pendulum's handle.
The White Dragon gazed at her for a few moments before leaping off the rooftop and taking flight again to the south.
Carcette continued to walk towards the city, and checked the large double doors. They were locked firmly. She clicked her tongue and returned to her position, and wondered what exactly that was all about.
And when was she going to meet Cura again?
The more questions she had, the more she realized she was in the dark. Being with Jyggalag had given her so many answers, but spurred forth even greater questions. She looked at the ramparts around the city and wondered if there was an alternate way the Army of Order could get inside. The Obelisks were inactive at the moment, however, as they were cut off from Jyggalag.
Molag Bal may have bought himself some time, but that won't last very long.
It was a waiting game, now. And in the end, Order would prevail.