"The Song of Pelinal
Volume 2: On His Coming
A history of Pelinal's origins
[Editor's Note: Volumes 1-6 are taken from the so-called Reman Manuscript located in the Imperial Library. It is a transcription of older fragments collected by an unknown scholar of the early Second Era. Beyond this, little is known of the original sources of these fragments, some of which appear to be from the same period (perhaps even from the same manuscript). But, as no scholarly consensus yet exists on dating these six fragments, no opinions will be offered here.]
[And then] Perrif spoke to the Handmaiden again, eyes to the Heavens which had not known kindness since the beginning of elven rule, and she spoke as a mortal, whose kindle is beloved by the Gods for its strength-in-weakness, a humility that can burn with metaphor and yet break [easily and] always, always doomed to end in death (and this is why those who let their souls burn anyway are beloved of the Dragon and His Kin), and she said: "And this thing I have thought of, I have named it, and I call it freedom. Which I think is just another word for Shezarr Who Goes Missing... [You] made the first rain at his sundering [and that] is what I ask now for our alien masters... [that] we might sunder them fully and repay their cruelty [by] dispersing them to drown in the Topal. Morihaus, your son, mighty and snorting, gore-horned, winged, when next he flies down, let him bring us anger." ... [And then] Kyne granted Perrif another symbol, a diamond soaked red with the blood of elves, [whose] facets could [un-sector and form] into a man whose every angle could cut her jailers and a name: PELIN-EL [which is] "The Star-Made Knight" [and he] was arrayed in armor [from the future time]. And he walked into the jungles of Cyrod already killing, Morihaus stamping at his side froth-bloody and bellowing from excitement because the Pelinal was come... [and Pelinal] came to Perrif's camp of rebels holding a sword and mace, both encrusted with the smashed viscera of elven faces, feathers and magic beads, which were the markings of the Ayleidoon, stuck to the redness that hung from his weapons, and he lifted them, saying: "These were their eastern chieftains, no longer full of their talking.""
The barren landscape offered no shelter or comfort to Cura and her companions as they made their way to the gate. It was a massive structure that blocked the passage to the other side, built into the rocky walls on either side. Wind howled through it in a song of dreary darkness - a melody heard far and wide in this domain's vast expanse.
Despite his resentment, Varla escorted Cura to the destination. He knew he was committing a grave offense against Molag Bal by doing this. He had no excuses for his disloyalty. His fate was sealed, he was sure of that. He muttered quietly, and started to look for other options. Where could he hide from Bal's fury in this place? He mentally scanned what he knew of the surroundings, hoping to recall a secret passage or a hidden door that was not the trap door on his palace floor. He knew Bal would not stop until he had his revenge, and he had no intention of facing him alone. He wished he had never crossed paths with the ruthless Paladin, but it was too late for regrets. He had to find a way out, or he would be dead even before the Graymarch.
Perhaps Molag Bal would even send Deathbringer Volar to claim his head. Why indignify himself and grant a traitor the honour of losing his head by the Prince's own hand?
He shuddered at the thought.
Mary, despite her own weakness, helped Varla to walk with his limp - but he was too heavy for the delicate woman. He finally decided to keep some distance from her for her own good. She, however, wanted to stay close to him because of his wounds. Her faithful white wolf, Korn, walked alongside her to ensure safe passage, as she always had. They had a bond that nothing could break - not even death, as it seemed.
Varla waved to the gate guard. "Allow her and her friends to enter. I, Lord Varla, order you to do so." He walked with a noticeable limp from his recent battle with Cura. He still wondered how she had defeated him, but he was sure of one thing: she was a formidable opponent. And if the Knight Sir Amiel was to be believed, and the Dragon flying over the land he'd seen was real, that meant that she had the blood of dragons in her veins, the same as the ancient rulers of Cyrodiil. She could speak their language, command their power, and even wear their crown. She was Dragonborn, a living legend, a chosen one. And he, he was nothing but a loyal soldier, a faithful servant, a humble blade. He had sworn to protect the Dragonborns, to follow them, to die for them, once.
And if she was Dragonborn, like Saint Alessia and Emperor Belharza, then...
Then he would have been her subject, her vassal, her knight. He would have pledged his soul to her, as he had to Belharza, in life. He would have given her everything he had, everything he was, everything he could be. He would have been hers, completely and utterly.
The thought both intrigued and mortified Varla. No, he belonged to Molag Bal. The Daedric Prince rewarded his brutality with a lonely Fort and this territory, which had been largely desolate for millennia, and surrounded by haunting memories of his past, and a Plague-ridden mire nearby. His mother was tortured under the Prison Tower, in those disgusting sewers for the longest time, and he hadn't even known it. The more he'd considered it, it really was not much of a gift at all - rather, his own form of torment.
The realization hit him like a ton of bricks, and a cold anger simmered under his skin. He was duped. No - no. He couldn't have been. Molag Bal valued him!
Coldharbour was falling. It was only a matter of time until Jyggalag's army breached the barrier and purged the land. Nobody was safe. He looked at his helpless mother, who was exhausted, herself. She was not a fighter - she was a Healer. Would Jyggalag care? No. She was an accursed being like Varla. She had no chance against the unstoppable force of Jyggalag. He wished he could protect her, but he knew he was powerless just the same. He couldn't believe the irony of their situation: after millennia of separation, he had finally found her, only to discover that they were both doomed. Their lives were hanging by a thread, and any moment could be their last. He felt a pang of anguish in his heart that was sharper than any weapon.
He looked at Sir Amiel, at Sabrina the plague doctor, at Mirabelle Ervine and Savos Aren, and finally, back at Cura. Cura, who seemed to glisten in the dark, like a candle. He looked to the white figure and wondered if perhaps she was here for a reason. Perhaps she really could put an end to the insanity in this realm. Perhaps.
The Dragonblood Knight who stood guard before the gate tapped the shaft of his lance on the floor and then proceeded to the left, and the off-white coloured gate opened with the wailing cry of a thousand tormented souls. Its shrillness stung the ears all around it.
Even Sabrina, clad in a hooded mask, pushed her ears shut to drown out the resonant scream. Nails scraping across a flat stone would have been more pleasant to hear.
When the sound stopped, Cura was faced with an open stone quarry before her, spanning a cruel desert. She turned to Sir Amiel and Sabrina, and then looked at the expanse before her. She was determined to make it through to the Barrier Tower. For what choice did she have?
"You're really heading east, then? You're certain you want to commit to this?" Varla said with a sneer. "I doubt you'll make it back alive. The Whitestrake will finish you off for good." He glared at her with malice in his eyes, as if he was certain of her fate and it pleased him greatly.
Cura ignored his hateful words. "I faced the World-Eater and lived. Don't count me out just yet."
"Maybe you'll lose another limb on the way." Varla taunted her with spite, still resentful of her killing his Hounds.
Cura didn't appreciate the crude remark, and scowled. She touched her Dwarven Metal Arm with her other hand as a reflex to his comment. It figured that Varla would be heartless enough to mock an amputee for being as much. Though, she has experienced worse. She allowed the comment to slide off her like oil on a ramp.
Mary shook her head, rejecting her son's spiteful attitude."Pelinal was a valiant knight - he may have been violent, but remember what I've told you. I believe in him. He still has a chance for redemption. Try to aid him, as you did for me." Her expression softened. She wished to appeal to Cura's gentle heart; to offer Pelinal the same mercy she had given her in the Bed of Corruption.
Cura took her words into consideration, and even looked to Korn. The wolf stared at her for a few seconds. Cura knelt on one knee and gently caressed her. "Grant me strength, Mother." the Breton whispered to the creature of Mara. The task ahead of her was a daunting one, and now knowing the Divines did have a presence here, no matter how small, gave Cura hope.
She knew, however, that to hope in Coldharbour was a sin that would swiftly be punished, and as such anticipated the worst.
Varla glanced at his mother, then at Cura. He felt something shift inside him, but he couldn't identify it. It was like a hidden force urged him to join the fool, but he resisted it. A nagging worry troubled him, and he couldn't shake it off.
He looked at Mary again - was she the cause? Maybe the Alessians were right and she was a witch. Or maybe her kindness was infectious. The half-breed walked to the fence next to the gate and leaned on it, brooding. "I'll be here. If you make it back - and that's a big if - come see me again." He sounded reluctant as he made this proclamation, but he spoke with a sort of conviction and assurance.
Cura was surprised by this assertion, but would keep it in mind. With a deep breath expelled, she took her first steps into the northeastern cliffs of Coldharbour. Shining in a column to the skies some distance away was the Barrier Tower, inviting her to meet destiny.
In the desolate expanse of Coldharbour, where the very fabric of reality frays and sanity unravels, the air hung heavy with despair. Here, the sun was but a distant memory, its feeble light swallowed by the oppressive void that stretched across the heavens like a tattered shroud. The sky, if one can call it that, was a vast emptiness—an abyss devoid of stars, moons, or any celestial hope. It is as though the gods themselves had turned their backs on this forsaken realm.
The ground beneath their feet was parched and cracked, a mosaic of desiccated earth and jagged stones, decorated by the corpses of the tormented dead, hung on posts, and strung through wheels and laid for show along the roads.
The sand clung to Cura's boots like the remnants of forgotten dreams. Each step raised a swirl of fine dust, particles that danced in the wan light, mocking the feeble existence that persisted here.
Corpse-laden dunes rose and fell along the treacherous landscape, their contours shaped by the agony of countless souls. These were not mere mounds of sand; they were mass graves, the final resting places of those who dared to defy Molag Bal. Their bones lay intertwined, their flesh long since devoured by scavengers or dissolved into the very essence of Coldharbour itself. Skeletal hands clawed at the surface, their silent screams echoing through eternity.
The wind, if it could be called such, carried shrill whispers of suffering. It moaned through the ribcages of fallen warriors, their armor rusted and corroded. Their swords, once wielded with valor, now lay broken and useless, scattered upon the trail. The air tasted of bitterness—a bitter irony, for here, death is not an escape. It is an eternal sentence, a cycle of torment and rebirth.
Immediately, as if sensing a threat, a few giant Scorpions, alerted by the sound, came burrowing up from the hopeless dunes, tails extended upwards, scurrying over to attack. One of them lunged forward, but was taken down by one of Mirabelle's Firebolts.
Savos Aren cast a row of ice spikes up from the ground to impale the second one, and Cura fired a Bolt into the third and final one from behind the guardianship of Sir Amiel.
"Coldharbour really doesn't seem to like you, my lady." Sir Amiel grit his teeth and moved lightly to the side.
"That's okay; I don't like Coldharbour either. If I had it my way, I'd give it a complete remodeling from the top, to the bottom." Cura replied snidely.
Savos Aren chuckled as he enjoyed posing such hypothetical scenarios to his pupils. "Cura, what would you do with Coldharbour if you had the power to reshape it?"Cura pushed a femur bone away with her foot and it fell on a ribcage lying between two big rocks. "First of all, I would not make it a giant graveyard. Bones are not a good decoration."
Sabrina grimaced. "Really - this realm has more dead bodies than rocks."
Cura went on, "And I would remove the rough sand everywhere; replace it with soft snow, and with a gentle snowfall in the air. No more of that dreadful void above, and no more of the black sun. I would swap them for the skies of Sovngarde and the real sun."
"Sovngarde, you say? The Nord afterlife?" Sir Amiel recalled the name. "Sir Torolf had often spoken of it. 'Tis the house of Shor, I believe. Or, rather, Shezzar. The way you said it so casually, and given the fact that you're here by your own volition - dare I assume that you've ventured to Sovngarde?"
Cura nodded to confirm. "I defeated Alduin the World-Eater there. Not that long ago, actually. Or... um... how long have I been here?" It felt like she'd been in Coldharbour for a few months, though she knew it couldn't possibly have been that long, could it?
Sir Amiel, who had a knack for keeping track of time, was the only one who could give her an approximate answer. "It's been about eight days-and-nights since I first saw you here. I count every hour, out of the twenty-four in a day."
Sabrina spun around and looked at him with obscured, yet wide pink eyes. "Wow! That's amazing! How do you manage that? The sky's always the same!"
Sir Amiel struggled to articulate his reasoning. It was not a very logical method, after all. It was based on guesswork, ultimately. "I started counting from the day I got here. I mark a number on a stone wherever I go. I remember the largest number that way, and count backwards as I walk familiar routes."
"That is incredibly absurd." Mirabelle wrinkled her forehead in skepticism.
Sir Amiel sighed and drew his sword. He went to the edge of the cliff and started to scratch something on the rock. "Well, as of right now, today marks 182,625 days of my existence." He used the tip of his blade to engrave the digits on the stone. "It helps me remember if I write it down."
Hearing that made Cura wince. She couldn't imagine how anyone could endure this twisted nightmare for so long. She felt like she was losing her sanity on what seemed to be her eighth day, apparently. "I've already lost myself eight days in. Twice."
"Well, you won't have to worry about a ninth day here if you can't defeat the Whitestrake." Sabrina gave Cura a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "But if you want to conquer this place, don't let yourself get killed. Keep your chin up, Cura - you can do this." Playing the role of a moral supporter felt odd to the plague doctor. She had no reputation for being friendly or gentle with people in general, let alone her patients. Yet, here she found herself trying to cheer up a frightened Paladin in a realm of Oblivion. She couldn't help but wonder how her life had led her to this situation.
Cura glanced at her supporters and felt comforted by their trust in her. "I will try my best."
"You have to! You promised me a way out of this shithole." Sabrina nudged her arm. "Don't renege on your promise, now!"
"She will have our support." Sir Amiel told the rash doctor firmly.
Cura said firmly, "This is something I must do by myself. I have to confront Pelinal alone." She touched her chest with sincerity. "I can't let any of you sacrifice yourselves for me. Especially not here, not now. If we can avoid it, we should."
"I don't mind." Sabrina found a smooth rock and settled on it. She removed her hooded mask and reclined on the stone, gazing at the sky. She felt a pang of nostalgia for a sky with clouds.
This is madness!" Mirabelle exclaimed. She looked at Cura with disbelief and fear. She had never seen such a powerful and dangerous enemy. "Cura, this isn't Ancano you're dealing with - this is Pelinal Whitestrake! He may be beyond anything you have faced before..."
"She's faced Ancano with the Eye of Magnus in his possession. She's conquered the Labyrinthian, defeated Alduin. I believe in her, even if you don't." Savos agreed. "Cura is no mere child, nor apprentice wizard any longer. She is a mighty warrior. Have confidence in her abilities."
Mirabelle knew that what he said was true. She'd doubted Cura once, and that negligence may or may not have played a part in their downfall at Winterhold. She relented when the pitiful memory pinched her ego again. "Very well. Just take care of yourself there. I will pray for your success."
"Thank you, Mirabelle."
"Don't make me regret stepping to the side." Mirabelle preemptively warned her.
Cura reached another gate and saw a twisted path that led to a cliff where corpses were impaled on torture wheels. The sand was littered with dead Alessians. She moved towards the gruesome sight, but Sir Amiel quickly caught up with her and stood in her way. He had something to say, and he had to say it immediately.
Sir Amiel stabbed his sword into the earth and rested on it. "I know you will do this with or without my consent; I get that. But please, Dragonborn, be cautious. We Knights of the Nine are a formidable group; and we followed the Whitestrake's example, and marched in his faint shadow. Do not overlook Sir Pelinal's fierceness. Though opposed to this, I, Sir Amiel Lannus, will hold back my blade at your order. Please, be cautious."
"Sir Amiel -"
We formed the Knights of the Nine to protect the holy Crusader's Relics. We failed in our mortal lives, but we found redemption when the Champion of Cyrodiil claimed them to defeat Umaril upon his return. We served the glory of the Whitestrake, our patron saint. It grieves me to think of you two clashing in battle, but I know it is unavoidable." Sir Amiel lowered his head to Cura. "Lord Akatosh lends you his might. When your own strength fails you, trust in the Nine."
Cura touched the top of his hands with her own as they balanced upon the pommel of his claymore. "I thank you, Sir Amiel. Don't worry - in any case, it shouldn't take long. If I do not return within three hours, then I have perished."
Sir Amiel shook his head. "No. You shall not perish! I have told you; Akatosh will lend you his might. You must trust in him, Cura! Otherwise... what are we fighting for?"
The hopelessness in his voice tugged her heartstrings. Now she knew that this endeavour wasn't just for her Dragon Soul, or for the Amulet of Kings, or for retribution, but for Faith.
She was standing in the midst of a Holy war. And it was one she could not afford to lose. The world hinged on her victory in this damned realm. That was all she needed to know.
Cura kept in her heart the Ten Commands of the Nine:
"1. Stendarr says: Be kind and generous to the people of Tamriel. Protect the weak, heal the sick, and give to the needy.
2. Arkay says: Honor the earth, its creatures, and the spirits, living and dead. Guard and tend the bounties of the mortal world, and do not profane the spirits of the dead.
3. Mara says: Live soberly and peacefully. Honor your parents, and preserve the peace and security of home and family.
4. Zenithar says: Work hard, and you will be rewarded. Spend wisely, and you will be comfortable. Never steal, or you will be punished.
5. Talos says: Be strong for war. Be bold against enemies and evil, and defend the people of Tamriel.
6. Kynareth says: Use Nature's gifts wisely. Respect her power, and fear her fury.
7. Dibella says: Open your heart to the noble secrets of art and love. Treasure the gifts of friendship. Seek joy and inspiration in the mysteries of love.
8. Julianos says: Know the truth. Observe the law. When in doubt, seek wisdom from the wise.
9. Akatosh says: Serve and obey your Emperor. Study the Covenants. Worship the Nine, do your duty, and heed the commands of the saints and priests.
10. The Nine say: Above all else, be good to one another."
Cura nudged her head and Sir Amiel lifted his sword and moved aside. He wanted to fight for Cura, but, fresh with the memories of the wounds from her days in Markarth, Cura recounted the deaths of Vigilant Tyranus, and her Housecarl Lydia. This time, if it were avoidable, measures would be taken to protect her allies.
The words of Savos echoed in Cura's mind as she prepared to face the Whitestrake. She had accomplished many heroic deeds in her short life. She had proven herself time and again, facing dangers and enemies that would have broken lesser mages. She had rescued her mentor, Keeper Carcette, who was both her staunchest ally and her harshest critic, from the clutches of a fell Daedric Prince, earning her respect and gratitude. She had slain Harkon, the leader of the Volkihar Court, and prevented him from blotting out the sun with the power of Auriel's Bow. She had explored the Forgotten Vale, a hidden realm of beauty and danger, and discovered the secrets of the Snow Elves. She was the hero who freed the prisoners of the Wretched Spire, a stagnant city of nothing, in the Deadlands that had trapped them since the dawn of time. She braved the horrors of the infernal realm and broke the ancient curse that bound them there and helped them escape to Windhelm, the city of her father and his Stormcloak rebellion.
She had survived the power of the Eye of Magnus against Ancano, the rogue Thalmor agent who sought to use it for his own nefarious purposes. She had braved the horrors of Labyrinthian, the ancient city of the Dragon Cult, and retrieved the Staff of Magnus, the only artifact capable of controlling the Eye. She had even faced Alduin, the World-Eater, the dreaded dragon prophesied to bring about the end of days. She had fought him with courage and skill, aided by the ancient heroes of Sovngarde. She had earned the respect and admiration of her mentors and peers, even those who had doubted her at first. She was no longer a novice, a student, a fledgling. She was a master, a leader, a legend. She was a hero, a legend, a savior. But she was also a daughter, a friend, a lover. And she wondered what the future would bring for her and those she cared about. She had to believe in herself, as they did. She had to trust in her abilities, as they did.
The more she tried to motivate herself, she could feel her confidence beginning to grow. She felt as if she was coming across as arrogant, but she cared little for it. Their lives were more important than their perception of her. Cura ascended the winding pathway, surrounded by stones and crags, and ruined pillars. It was like a parade of death passing upwards to the peak.
And upon the peak, she saw the tower - a rigid stone structure with an open door - therein was a sepulcher with bones, as well as a binding floor with shackles clamping bones down to it. Red light shone within and reached the doom-filled skies like a beacon.
Cura was unsurprised by what else she would see there.
The Knight himself: Pelinal Whitestrake, sat there before the tower, surrounded by leagues and leagues of slaughtered Alessian Soldiers and inhabitants of Coldharbour themselves. Statues and smaller structures lay in ruins the hill upwards, and more bodies were hung on torturous breaking wheels and spokes, lining the stones – forming a sort of fence. The hopeless sands were stained dry with the blood of the damned by the gallons.
The blood of countless enemies had turned Pelinal's armor into a dark and corroded shell. He was riddled with arrows that stuck out from his metal plates and his helmet, where one had pierced his left eye. He knelt on the ground as if he was too tired to stand, like a stone statue on a ledge. This was the Divine Crusader?
His very presence was a deterrent to any who dared think to draw near. Cura looked to the direction past the gate and the deathly dunes where her allies were, and was glad that she had the sense to bid them to stay where they were, out of his sight. If he truly was Pelinal, then he was not one to be trifled with.
And here she was, herself, about to trifle with him. His reputation caused her heart to grieve - to plead her - not to go there. Turn back, Cura. Turn back and return to the Waterfront District. No - return to the Deadlands. It's not worth it.
Cura walked up the path to approach the Knight in desecrated Crusader's armour. "Excuse me… are you really Pelinal Whitestrake?"
A red light glowed dim from the right eye socket of his rusted barrel helm on her approach. He scanned Cura up and down first, and slowly pulled himself upright, standing atop the cliffside before the Barrier Tower. He was a tower himself; standing large over the small Half-Elf like a golem.
"I see." Pelinal muttered under his breath. When he stood up, he towered at least two feet above Cura. "I see it now… you are the one. The one who will plunge the sword into the snake. Kyne… told me about you."
Cura was confused by this statement. "Excuse me?"
He felt a surge of anger and disgust when he saw the newcomer. How could it be that his great deeds were rewarded with such an insult? How could it be that the last hope of Tamriel was one of those vile creatures, the ones he had sworn to wipe out? "Has all that I've accomplished amounted to nothing? That before my very eyes, I would be faced with a member of that foul race, which I'd long thought extinguished from Tamriel?" Pelinal tightened his grip on the shattered blade that stuck out of the earth. His left arm was useless, shattered by another enemy's blow long ago, and had never recovered. "Why do the gods mock me so? Of all the beings they could have sent here to fulfill the prophecy… they sent a blasted Knife-Ears?"
That was a harsh word to hear. If he knew what her duty in Coldharbour was, why would he obstruct her like this?
But, a prophecy?
"I just want to talk—"
Time stood still in that fleeting moment. Nothing else mattered but Pelinal in her eyes. He was with her, before her, and beyond her. He was the ancient warrior, driven by hate and contempt. He was the liberator of mankind from Ayleid tyranny. He was the slayer of Umaril the Unfeathered.
She would have been honored to meet him, if the situation were different.
Cura quickly raised her shield as the knight swung his blade across her. A powerful gust of wind emerged from the cracked blade, knocking her backwards and sending her rolling down the incline. When she'd made impact she came to the realization that she did not have the Thu'um to help her here.
"I am the Star-Made Knight!" Pelinal roared furiously. "I am the saviour of mankind – the wrath of Shor made manifest! The madness of Aka, and the cleanser of elvenkind!"
He could not accept the divine revelation of his Goddess as he gazed upon Cura. He dismissed her as nothing more than a vile Elf, unworthy of his mercy or compassion. He felt only hatred and contempt for the creature that stood before him, and resolved to eradicate her from the world.
Author's Note: "Vigilant OST – V.S. Pelinal Whitestrake" - the theme from Vigilant is perfect for this - go give it a listen as you read! Thanks for reading my story! I hope to do the Whitestrake justice! ^^
Cura fumbled onto the rocks and bounced back off one to dodge another powerful thrust of wind. She knew this was no longer a matter of accessing the barrier tower, but instead a matter of survival.
Pelinal showed no mercy to her. He swung his sword with such force that he cut through the rocks and split the ground beneath him. Chunks of the mountain fell as Pelinal's powerful gale sculpted the stone. He was unstoppable in his fury, driven by his divine mission to destroy the enemies of mankind. He did not care about the collateral damage he caused, only about fulfilling his destiny as the champion of Alessia. Even if that time had long passed.
He felt like he had no anchor to reality, as if he was drifting in a sea of memories and dreams. Maybe he was losing his mind, just like Cura did when she witnessed Tyranus' self-destruction. After she fought Volar, and seemingly returned to Markarth and relived the slaughter, and smashed Inigo's head with the Mace of Molag Bal. A brutal illusion of Coldharbour could be influencing him, and was triggered by her near-elven appearance.
Cura deflected one of his mighty blows, but this merely bent her arm backwards, rendering her in excruciating anguish. Pulling back, she managed to dodge his follow-up attack. She ran some distance away, leaping onto one of the raised brown stones, and fired an Exploding Bolt of Lightning from her Dwemer Metal arm.
The bolt hit the Knight and pushed him back, stunning him for a few seconds. Cura capitalized on this by hurling a series of Fireballs at him with one hand and setting a Frost Rune on the ground in front of her.
Unfazed by the blows, Pelinal's rage mounted. He sprang over the rune trap and slashed his sword at Cura, lodging it in her left collarbone.
Cura shrieked as the corroded blade tore through her flesh and cracked the bone. Blood gushed out, staining the white surcape of the Meridian Armour with the viscous liquid.
Cura dodged the sword with a swift slide and a backward pull, barely escaping its sharp edge. She rolled under Pelinal's legs and hooked his ankle, making him fall hard on his chest. The arrow that pierced his chest dug deeper into his flesh. She activated her Frost Rune and was struck with a blast of freezing energy.
Pelinal felt it too, as he was close enough to the explosion. The frost numbed his senses and slowed his movements, wrapping around his limbs in white streamers of unyielding cold. He was a vision of power, even in this state. In mere moments he shook the cold off his person, and his dark armour glistened in the glimmering flakes of light.
Cura was grateful for her bloodline that gave her a swift recovery from the sorcerous snare. She darted like a wild Skeever to the safety of the pillars beside the tower and casted a potent Healing Spell to mend the gashes that almost severed her left side.
She pressed her back flatly against the stone column and let out a long breath as Pelinal steadied himself. The chill in the air was fading away, and her pulse was pounding.
"You are yet another Ayleid to be crushed under my boot." Pelinal's voice grumbled from a distance. It seemed that the damage Cura had inflicted was insufficient. He truly was a beast of his own. It served as a tense reminder to Cura that she needed to focus more on herself and less on her enemy if she wanted to achieve victory.
"Even in Coldharbour you can't let it go?!" Cura barked back at him. "I'm not an Ayleid! I am the Dragonborn!"
She felt time stand still, and her heart stopped beating. She had uttered the most terrible words possible. His eyes blazed with the rage of countless infernos. "How dare you! How dare you compare yourself to her, scum?!" Pelinal roared like a Dragon as he soared into the sky and swung his corroded sword in a vicious downward strike, which split the slope in two, destroying the terrain itself.
Cura felt a surge of pain as she tumbled down the slope, barely catching herself with her metal arm. She wheezed as the air escaped her lungs. Pelinal was relentless - he chased her down and aimed to crush her with his boot, but she raised Spellbreaker to protect herself. His boot slammed against the shield, pinning Cura to the ground as she fought to push him back.
In an act of vicious cruelty, the Star-Made Knight impaled her through her side by angling his sword, striking like a nimble cobra. Cura cried out and her shield slipped its position. Before he could strike her twice, however, she rolled forward, knocking him off-kilter. Pelinal's back hit the ground and Cura quickly took leverage over him. She smashed his head with her mace again and again until blood began to fountain from his cranium.
But he wouldn't die.
As the mace swung towards him for the eighth time, the knight caught it with his hand and clenched it firmly. He used the weapon to shove her away from him and slowly got up from the floor. He loomed over her with a menacing posture, but his expression had changed. His eyes, which had been filled with rage and madness, now looked more clear and calm. It seemed that he had regained some control over himself and broken free from the trance that had possessed him.
Cura danced around a pillar and cast a healing spell to relieve the wound in her side.
"What is your purpose here? Really?" Pelinal asked angrily with his sword pried sternly off the ground. "Are you here to ridicule the accursed knight?" He charged ahead and thrust his sword into the pillar. Fortunately, since it was only a broken half of its original form, it could not harm Cura on the other side. "Do you think to cleave and quarter me as your foul bretheren had? I will not allow it!"
Pelinal Whitestrake was a proud knight, and he had died when a group of Ayleid Kings strut upon him after he was weary of battle. They humiliated and tortured him brutally and cleaved his body into many separate pieces, Cura had heard.
She'd heard much about Pelinal, and yet knew so little.
After Celethelel the Singer slew Huna, a hoplite whom Pelinal had personally trained and cherished, Pelinal Whitestrake succumbed to his first Madness. He slaughtered indiscriminately and laid waste to the lands from Narlemae to Celediil, rampaging through the cities and killing anyone who crossed his path. Saint Alessia had to beseech the Gods for their aid, and they descended to the earth and soothed Pelinal until he ceased his senseless carnage and regained his sanity.
Fyrd of New Teed claimed that Whitestrake lacked a heart beneath his armour, and only possessed the "fury of a senseless dragon." This enraged Pelinal, and he slew anyone who reasoned or spoke with the wisdom of the gods, save for Alessia because she "acted rather than talked, as language without effort is a dead witness." When his men heard him say these things, they went silent and angered him. He ran into the rain, laughing madly and swinging his sword, while screaming "O Aka, for our shared madness I do this! I watch you watching me watching back! Umaril dares call us out, for that is how we made him!"
This man was entirely unhinged, for all intents and purposes. A smirk crossed Cura's lips. She understood that quite well. With a devious smile, Cura lunged around the pillar at him, striking his shoulder with her mace. She missed the mark narrowly and hit his right breast. Pelinal delivered a knee-blow to her stomach and she doubled backwards.
Cura looked to the ground, dazed for a second, and her mind was clouded. Pelinal was a formidable opponent! He was unlike anything she'd ever fought before. It was exhilerating! She was no longer fearful of the encounter, but filled with excitement!
Cura looked up at him and smiled. A streak of blood ran down the corner of her mouth and she spread her lips apart to reveal her bloodstained teeth before spitting the fluid onto the ground.
This was actually quite fun!
She laughed as she rushed forward, embracing her own madness. She collided with the Legendary Knight and headbutted him. The two danced around each other like a pair of furious Dragons.
With a great spinning attack, Pelinal's sword created a twister which picked up the dust and debris from the surrounding area. Cura used the dust as cover for her to gain distance to cast a Frost Cloak around herself. She then leapt onto Pelinal again, and clung to him so that her Frost Cloak could freeze him. Once he solidified, she smashed him with her mace again.
A frozen vapour filled the air and the swipe of his rusted sword cleared the way. Cura hopped backwards a few feet and healed herself once more. Her left foot pushed hard onto the terrain and halted her sliding.
Pelinal Whitestrake emerged from the mist. His armor gleamed like the sun's fury, and his eyes held the weight of forgotten battles. The land itself seemed to tremble as he stepped forward, a force of divine wrath made flesh. Blood dripped from his chest, where she had struck the arrow, burrowing it in further.
Cura was often told that he was a machine, but she could not find any evidence of that in his appearance or behavior. He seemed as human as anyone else to her. She, on the other hand, had to live with the constant reminder of her artificial arm, which she would acquaint her foe with well enough.
She felt a surge of adrenaline as she pressed the trigger on her Dwemer Mechanical Arm, launching a metal projectile at the ancient warrior. Pelinal was faster than she expected, and he deflected the bolt with a swift slash of his sword. The sound of metal clashing stung the air, and she saw his gaze lock on her with a fierce intensity. She knew he would not stop until he had killed her or she had killed him. She gripped her arm, ready to fire again, and hoped that her Dwemer technology would give her an edge over his divine power.
A second bolt, and a third, and a forth, skillfully evaded by the slaughterer. Cura found herself backing away to evade him as he quickly closed the gap between them.
She faced him in the dim light, a blood-soaked Half-Elf sworn to Stendarr. Her face was a harmonious mix of elven elegance and mortal resolve. Her eyes, the colour of emerald, held a quiet strength as she stared down her adversary.
He swung his sword again, but Cura was clever: she maneuvered around Spellbreaker with an elegant sidestep, letting Pelinal's blade slide along the shield as she moved to the side, unsheathing Dawnbreaker in her left hand.
Cura whirled around to her left with a swift motion, wielding Dawnbreaker and her Elven Mace. She struck Pelinal simultaneously with both weapons, delivering a powerful blow.
The Knight was caught off guard by her swift movement, and Cura wasted no time in smashing her knee into his face and then swinging her mace, knocking his helmet away. The arrow lodged in his eye shattered from the force and only a fragment of it stayed in his socket, burrowed in further.
Cura dodged the vicious stab of Pelinal, whose white hair was matted with dried blood. She saw the rage in his eyes as he glared at her under the faint light of the accursed realm. He was disoriented from the suddenness of her blow, and she seized the opportunity and jumped on his back. She took Dawnbreaker into one hand and pressed its left edge against his throat as he attempted to shake her off, even slamming his back against the stone pillar to cause Cura to lose her grip. She felt his muscles tense and his breath quicken in his frantic attempt. Before resorting to the unthinkable, she tried to reason with him. "You can't win, Pelinal. You are too wounded to continue. Surrender now and I promise - I'll sheathe my weapon."
She tried to persuade him with logic, but she knew he was too arrogant and obstinate to surrender. He was a legend, a hero, a warrior. He had faced countless battles and killed countless enemies. He had no fear of death, only of failure. Despite his disdain for her ancestry, Cura felt nothing but awe and reverence for the Star-Made Knight. What she was about to do haunted her, and she knew that Lucien and Brother Adalvald both would be horrified to learn of it eventually. Because come hell or high water, she was going to see them again.
Cura quickly grabbed the blade with her Dwemer Hand and moved it back and forth, cutting his throat and making him gag on his blood. He bellowed and turned around, flinging her off his back. He slashed his sword at her, but she blocked it with Spellbreaker before it could smash into her skull.
They exchanged blows, sparks flying from their weapons like small fireworks as mace met broken sword again. Cura felt a surge of adrenaline and excitement. She had never faced such a formidable opponent before. She admired his skill and courage, even as she tried to kill him. This fight was by far the most exhilerating she'd ever fought. This was Pelinal Whitestrake! Pelinal. Whitestrake. The man, the myth, the legend!
Though, he wasn't quite what she'd anticipated, true. That didn't make this experience any less incredible. Even were she to die here, no death would be more worthy to speak of in Sovngarde. However, the reality was that she was already dead and in Coldharbour. But at any case, this may have made her eternity.
With graceful movement, Cura rammed into Pelinal with her shield, causing him to stumble so she could deliver another blow to his head with her mace. She wondered if there was still a shred of humanity left in him, or if he had become a monster.
As soon as their blades met, they both recoiled from the impact and Pelinal felt his left leg give way. He stabbed his sword into the ground to steady himself, but his left arm was useless. He quickly let go of his sword with his right hand and reached behind him to grab Cura by her hood. He lifted her up and thrust his sword up to skewer her, but Cura was faster and blocked the sword with Spellbreaker. "You… will not… kill me, Elf!" Pelinal roared as he struggled to slay his opponent. He dashed forward to shoulder-tackle Cura, but she pivoted to the left. A flurry of stabs followed a slide with his blade, several making contact with her, though she attempted to leap over him.
Cura stumbled over Pelinal's form and landed on the dusty earth once more. She quickly grabbed the corpse of an Alessian Lawmage and held it in front of her as a shield from Pelinal's next strike. The sword's wind sliced through the body like a knife through butter, sending chunks of flesh and blood flying over her and the immediate surroundings, painting the pillars nearby. She felt the warm spray of gore on her face and clothes as she tried to avoid the deadly blade.
Pelinal grabbed Cura by the collar and pulled her to his side as she leapt away. He held the shattered blade with a trembling hand, as if something restrained his killing impulse. "Death to all Elvenkind!" he hissed through gritted teeth.
The Knight of Wrath felt a deep loathing for the Half-Elven woman. He could not stand to look at her pointed ears and fair hair. Cura was the object of his violent rage. His hatred was unquenchable, it seemed.
He claimed that Kyne had spoken to him about her: about her coming. About her purpose. Perhaps that was why, despite his fierce hatred, he had been unable to kill her. The gods themselves forbade him to kill her! Maybe even now, they had some influence over the Knight of Wrath.
Cura felt a flicker of doubt in her heart. Could Mary be right? The Healer had claimed that there was still a chance to reach out to the berserker and calm his fury. Perhaps Cura should try to talk to him, to appeal to his humanity. Maybe there was more to him than just a mindless killing machine.
He gasped for air, feeling the life seep out of him with every drop of blood. The arrows had struck him hard, leaving gaping wounds in his mouth and neck. "WHAT – IS – YOUR – PURRRPOSE? YOU CANNOT BE THE ONE KYNE SPOKE OF!" he bellowed. Pelinal unleashed a violent tempest around them, muffling all other sounds with its fury.
Cura froze as a strange woman's voice rang out above them; she had never heard it before, and over the wind could not make out her words, but Pelinal seemed to recognize the voice instantly. "Pelinal, stay your hand! She is my heir - she is not an enemy of yours to slay." The voice commanded, with a tone of authority and wisdom.
Then Cura looked at Pelinal, who had stopped his attack and lowered his sword. His eyes were wide with shock and awe, as if he had seen a ghost. "I seek the Adabal!" Cura yelled her objective over the raging winds.
Pelinal released his grip on Cura and fell to his knees, and gazed to the skies above. "Perrif... Perrif... where are you?" He spoke with a heavy heart, realizing that he could not escape his fate of being trapped here.
Cura stepped back a few feet and sheathed her mace.
The storm quieted down for a moment, leaving a tense silence between them. They stared at each other across the distance. The Knight of Wrath felt a surge of emotion he could not name. He got up slowly, barely able to keep his balance, and staggered towards Cura. He had dropped his sword, and he looked defeated and weary. He moved with a limp and a slouch.
Cura lifted her head as Pelinal drew near. Their eyes met, and time seemed to freeze. A tense silence filled the air, like a prelude to a storm. "Who am I?" Pelinal's voice was sad. He let his blade fall to the ground. "I... I feel like I'm in a Dream that no longer needs its Dreamer..." He stared at the maiden and felt a surge of shame when he came to his senses.
"You are Pelinal Whitestrake." Cura said, her voice gentle and soothing. She touched his arm with a soft hand to reassure him. "You are the Divine Crusader. You have fought that war before, with Saint Alessia. That time has long passed." Though she knew he was far from Divine, by any measure – he was ruthless. No honor, no mercy. Just a killer in worn-out armour, it seemed.
Pelinal's piercing gaze fixed on her. He seemed to have a flash of insight, as if he could detect a hidden force around her. He picked up his fallen helmet and slowly put it back on his head. "And you are not only a servant of that cursed Daedric Prince, but also of Stuhn," he said, his voice a deep growl. "The God of Righteous Might."
Cura agreed. "My duty is to heal the afflicted, no matter their allegiance. Stendarr's compassion knows no bounds." She made her way to the tower's column to catch her breath. She had seen too much bloodshed and suffering in this realm, and she prayed for an end to the violence. She knew that her god would not abandon those who sought his aid, even if they were enemies on the battlefield.
Pelinal's gauntleted hand tightened around the hilt of his sword embedded in the sand and he looked to the ground off to the side. "Mercy," he scoffed. "I have seen the blood-soaked fields, the cities aflame. There is no mercy in war."
"You may think you are beyond hope," Cura said, as she faced the formidable foe in front of her, scanning their environment. "but there is always a chance for forgiveness. Even for someone like you."
He laughed—a bitter sound that echoed over the dusken plains, "Forgiveness? I am stained with the blood of kings and gods. There is no salvation for me."
Cura moved nearer, her gaze steady and piercing the hidden face behind his helmet. "You may have a point," she said. "But I believe in second chances. The light of the gods can reach even the darkest heart." She held his hand in hers and cast a Healing Spell on the wounded Knight. Pelinal felt a soothing sensation throughout his body as the spell took effect. The serenity quieted the beast inside him for now.
Pelinal looked at her with a penetrating stare. "I have wronged you in the worst way possible." he said with a deep regret in his tone, and then he asked her. "Do you seek my death, Knife-Ears?"
"No," Cura shook her head. "I seek understanding. We are all bound by fate, Pelinal. Perhaps our paths intersect here for a reason. And, 'Knife-Ears'? I really wish you wouldn't call me that."
HHe examined her closely. She was a half-elf servant of Stendarr and the Dragonborn. She embodied both what he revered and what he loathed. He felt a surge of mixed emotions within him—a twinge of uncertainty, a sliver of hope. "You puzzle me. I cannot make sense of what I see when I look at you." He motioned with his head up and down, indicating Cura's whole appearance. "Are you human or elven? Are you a follower of the Aedra or the Daedra? You are Dragonborn, like Perrif was, but you cannot be the one foretold by Kyne. And yet…"
He gazed at the weapons she wielded, a mace of elven make and a sword that glowed with holy fire. Both were stained with the gore of their enemies. "I... no. I see it clearly, now." He spun on his heel and looked back at the tower that loomed behind him. "My time has long passed and I have missed much in the world. This is where I belong. I cannot abandon it, for my history ties me here."
As she gazed at the crimson beam that pierced the dusky sky, Cura uttered his name with a mournful respect. "Pelinal..."
"Go," he said finally, sheathing his broken sword on his waist. "Leave this place. The storm is coming. Go and fulfill your destiny."
But Cura shook her head and stood her ground. "I will not abandon you to this fate," she said. "Not while there is still a chance for redemption." She was certain that whatever kept him bound to this tower could be abolished.
And so, in the land of the damned, two souls—one forged in fury, the other in faith—faced each other. The wind whispered secrets, and the ancient stones held their breath, waiting to see what would unfold.
The Star-Made Knight looked at her with disbelief. "You would offer me your aid, after I tried to kill you under the influence of my madness?"
Cura smiled. "I would. Maybe this is a chance for us to help each other. I could sever the bonds that keep you in this world, and clear the path to the Imperial City. "
"That is not the only obstacle to reach the city." Pelinal warned her. "But… if you can do it, we will find out."
"If your past ties you to this place, then we will untie that knot." Cura proposed the idea to him.
"The Dragon has broken. I do not remember what it is I've done." Pelinal held his head in his hand. "I… I killed Mara. I think? I was then taken by the Ayleids, torn to pieces before Meridia's Shrine at the Tower of White-Gold on my second venture against that accursed Umaril. He... refused to die. I'd killed him once, decades prior, but the devil returned then, and in silence gathered his Auroran Forces."
Cura clasped Pelinal's hand with her delicate fingers and gazed at the light. She would stop him from trying to articulate what happened, and would instead go right to the source itself. His memories whirled around in the red column of light behind them. "Come on, let's go on an adventure. To the past." She nudged him to peer into the crimson radiance as well and moved closer to it.
The fierce warrior nodded. His heart was soothed by the Dragonborn's gentle words. Pelinal's fury had calmed down finally, and he became more gentle as he held the Half-Elf's hand. "Alright. Let's go."
The pair of them stepped into the bright red light and the world vanished around them as their consciousnesses would be merged as one on this journey.