Chapter Text
Chapter 40
The Departure
She had sworn to never enter the City of Kings again. Yet, she stood in front of the high, iron mounted gate. The three eagle heads attached to the archway above looked down at her with their beaks open. Cold gusts blew around the walls of the oldest city in the province, whistling through the holes in the stone. The city guards in their blue cloaks eyed her in suspicion.
Nevri felt naked under their watch, bare and extradited. The lack of an armour made her unsure of herself and she crossed her arms before her body. She now wore garments, that the College had given to her, the robes of novice mages. They were of a blueish gray with beige accents, a beige hood accompanied the clothes. She felt seen too much, too long had she worn only black and was accustomed to hiding in the darkness. Only the fur cloak darkened her figure a little. Canmal had gifted it to her shortly before she had left.
“We do not want mages like you in Windhelm, Elf. Go cast your fancy magic some place else.”
Of course, nothing had changed. The guards were as annoying as ever, still racist and corrupt. Nevri stopped ascending the stairs to the gate and turned. With a darkened look on her face, she fixated the Nord, who had dared to speak to her.
Grinding her teeth, she rummaged in her purse and got out a gemstone, flipping it to the man. He caught it, turned it in his hands and opened his mouth to say something, but Nevri had turned her back on him. Without another word, she opened the city’s entrance and stepped inside.
Windhelm was exactly as she had left it. Desolate, gray brick walls, disparaging looks from Nords, men and women alike. There was not a Dunmer to be seen. All of them were in the Gray Quarter. The drunkard stood in front of Candlehearth Hall, bellowing a song. She didn't know his name, she realised. He'd been drinking in the tavern every night for as long as she could remember and then graced the streets with his off-key tunes. And yet she had no idea what his name was or where he lived.
The sun was just setting and the last rays stretched golden over the mountains in the west. Windhelm was bathed in an amber light that almost lent the place a kind of beauty. But Nevri was unable to find anything even remotely pleasant about this city. Everything she had experienced here weighed too heavily on her. The hatred of the Nord was in the air and she bowed her head, letting her face disappear in the shadow of her hood. It was an absurdity that she had to come back here so that she was able to leave Skyrim behind her.
Her path led her to the Gray Quarter. A young Nord girl came towards her, a basket of flowers in her hand. The child looked famished, lonely and sad. Her face showed deep worry lines that Nevri usually only saw on much older people. She glanced after the girl. Her brown hair was dishevelled, the red dress on her body dirty and full of holes. So, the Nords didn't even look after their own children anymore. A hint of pity swept through Nevri, but she averted her eyes and walked on.
Arriving at a narrow alley, she descended a flight of stairs and finally arrived at her destination. Tattered and faded banners hung over the wooden door set into the stone, framed by two square pillars. The house was almost submerged in the city wall, like many of the dwellings in Windhelm. The name of the store was emblazoned on a sign: Sadri's Used Wares.
Nevri’s mouth was dry when she kicked open the creaking entrance. Coming in she was greeted by the familiar smell of old things and dusty paper. She sucked in the scent and her eyed needed a moment to accommodate to the dim light. But soon she was able to see and heard a rumbling in the adjacent room. Clearing her throat, she spied into the dusk.
“Revyn?” She asked, remembering how he had only listened to his first name, when she was here the last time. Or more like calling him an old Mer.
“We’re closing,” he yelled, not intent on coming any step closer to his counter.
“It's still light outside, you're still open. Now come here at last.”
Nevri couldn't help but sound a little annoyed. All she wanted to do was exchange some jewellery for gold, then she would be out of here.
“I’m closing early. Sod off.”
Instead of answering anything else, Nevri grabbed her satchel and pulled out necklace after necklace, then fished some rings out and a few gems too. She knew, that Revyn waited for the sound of the door closing, but she was going to stand here all night, if necessary. She needed the Septims.
A loud groan was heard from the next room and finally she heard the Dunmer's footsteps on the creaking floorboards. Revyn was about to start ranting as soon as he entered the room, but all his anger got stuck in his throat. Puzzled, he looked at Nevri and scrutinised her.
“Who are you, appearing out of thin air, vanishing once more for over a month and then suddenly being here again? What’s the matter with you, girl?”
“I had my business to do.” She said and had to swallow hard.
“Your business to do, I can’t believe it. What business does a girl like you have to manage anyway?” He waved his hands in the air, still standing rooted to the threshold.
“Don’t ask. It’s better not to know.” She forced a laboured smile onto her lips. “Now, tell me. What can you give me for this stuff? I need gold.”
“I have a déjà vu right now, you know that? A month ago, a young Dunmer, looking an awful lot like you came in here and wanted the same thing.” He gave a grin. “But that’s what my shop is for, I guess. Let me see.”
Revyn approached the counter and looked at the pile of trinkets that Nevri had arranged on it. He lifted a necklace with interest and rubbed the pendant. Nevri had already noticed that the ravages of time had gnawed away at the metal. Storage in a damp burial chamber had not done them any good.
“Fine, I’d say around 500 Septims. Enough?”
She nodded.
“Ambarys and Malthys had a bet, you know. When you would return to Windhelm. And I think Malthys said, he believed you’d never come back here. Too bad. No Skooma for him for a month, I think.”
“Is that so? Well, I had preferred not to return too, but the Northern Maiden is moored here in the harbour. If I want to go to Ravenrock, Windhelm is a necessary stop.”
“Ravenrock, eh? Finally leaving this forsaken province?”
Again, she nodded.
“Well, then I wish you the best luck. But I guess, you’ll spent the night at New Gnisis?”
“That’s the plan.”
His brows rose and his eyes darted to the left, gazing at the wall.
“Be careful passing by old Hilibre’s house. It’s haunted.”
“Haunted?” Nevri could not suppress a chuckle.
“Yes, the old lady must be haunting it. A week ago, I’ve heard the strangest sounds. Moans, rumbles and groans. I’ve laid wide awake in my bed, ridden with fear until the sun rose. It has not happened again yet, but… Who knows? The house has stood empty for too long. And now something lives inside it.”
Nevri bit on the inside of her cheek. She knew exactly what Revyn had heard. Memories flashed through her mind and she felt lightheaded, accompanied by nausea.
“I’ll take care,” she said, picking up the golden coins he had put on the countertop.
“Do that, girl. And tell Ambarys that he is a hound, when you see him.”
She lifted her brows, but did not ask. The two Dunmer had surely many reasons to hurl insults at each other, may it only be for fun.
Instead, she only said her parting words and left the shop.
She stood for a while in the chill and looked down the lane. In fact, the shortest way to get to New Gnisis was to walk past the abandoned building. Until Revyn had said the old woman's name, she hadn't remembered it. Hilibre, yes. The old lady Hilibre. With her outstanding pies. She had been dead for decades, her urn standing next to her husband's in the Hall of the Dead. Her children had returned to Morrowind, as far as Nevri knew.
She briefly considered taking a detour and walking all the way around the Atheron residence. An uneasy feeling had spread in her stomach and wanted her to keep as far away from the deserted dwelling as possible. But she had to go in there. She still had things to do.
Hesitantly, she approached the unadorned door. It was ajar, she realized. The handle no longer sat properly in the wood, the metal was bent and, in some places, it looked almost melted. The aftermath of a Daedra’s wrath. She shuddered.
Resting her hand on the handle, she pushed the door open with a screech. A meagre remnant of daylight filtered in through the stained-glass windows, just enough for her to find her way around. She stepped inside and leaned the door shut behind her. Then she paused, opened the entrance again and fetched a piece of wood from outside and placed it on the threshold so that the door could not simply slam shut.
After she had straightened up again, her eyes wandered around the room searching. She took a step forward and stepped on a dark spot on the wooden floor. It was large, about as wide as the door, and its colour was brown in some places, but there were also areas where it was deep black. Nevri swallowed. It was blood. Morotar's blood. She crouched down and her fingers stroked the stained floorboards. Dry as bone. This blood loss should have killed him. But the King of Strife had resurrected him. Only to serve his purposes.
Her lips tingled as the scenes of horror replayed in her mind's eye. The dagger, deep in his heart. She shook her head, closed her eyes. No. She had to leave it behind her. He was gone. And there was no sign that he was going to return.
She rose, stepped into the main room. One glance and she found what she was looking for. In a corner stood her backpack, her crossbow lay beside it. A few steps and she embraced the tiller. The smoothly polished wood lay comfortably in her hand and she breathed a sigh of relief as she strapped the backpack and crossbow to her back. The bread in her knapsack was certainly dry as dust by now and only edible if dipped in water. But that shouldn't be her worry. With the money she'd gotten from Revyn, she was going to get by in Ravenrock. Not only a room in the local tavern would be included, but also a sumptuous evening meal. The boat trip wasn't too expensive, so there would be enough left over. Not to mention that she was planning to look for a job anyway. Perhaps she would begin as a server until she found something better. There would be something on Solstheim. And if she were to start hunting.
She turned around, only now noticing the heavy stench of iron, salt and sulphur in the air. Together with the acrid smell of smoke from an extinguished candles, the dizziness returned. She supported herself with her hand on the tabletop, but jerked back when she felt the indentations in the wood. Flinching, she thought she saw a movement in the shadows. She had to get out of here. Maybe Revyn was right and the place was haunted. With long strides, she made her way to the door, but stopped abruptly when she saw something sinister glinting. She bent down and reached for it. Cold metal. In her hand was the dagger with its serrated blade. A crimson glow flitted across the blade as she turned it. This very dagger had saved her once before. And its owner was no longer among the living. She hesitated briefly, but then she attached the blade to her belt, right next to her Dwemer sword. May she never need it again.
*
As dawn broke, Nevri stood on the deck of the Northern Maiden and looked back at the coldest city in Skyrim. The aurora borealis had danced over it and the Velothi Mountains, and at dawn its bluish green shine was still faintly visible. It was still too cold, especially for summer, and the possibility of a poor harvest still lingered over Eastmarch. Nevri could see the farmers at their fields on the shore, struggling with the frozen ground. It was almost impossible to drive a hoe into the soil, it was too hard. Her gaze travelled over the mountain slopes and she thought she saw a small column of smoke where the Sacellum of Boethiah must be. So much had changed for her, but for Nirn it was only the blink of an eye. Insignificant. Even though it had meant everything to her. She clutched the hilt of the dagger tightly. It was a farewell. But also, a new beginning.
***
Days earlier, there had been a turmoil at the Sacellum of Boethiah. The champion had abdicated and left the followers of the Daedra behind, with no indication of what was to happen next. The Dark Mistress had appeared, but she had given the cult no words of guidance. Nothing was clear and unrest had spread among the disciples, no one really knew what to expect. The atmosphere was tense and the slightest misstep could cost someone their life.
No one knew what had happened or what the Queen of Shadows had spoken to her Champion about. A dark, impenetrable aura had surrounded them, no one had been able to catch a single word. And when the morning sky had turned as black as night, fear had descended on the cultists. The Daedra had been angered and so they dreaded for their lives, for their existence and that their souls would be at the mercy of the fires of Snake Mount for all eternity.
But in all her fear, pleading and begging, something most peculiar had happened. An Altmer had appeared, clad in sombre armour of Daedric design. He had stridden through their ranks, unfazed by the terror that had gripped the crowd. He had stepped over the dead, punishing the living with the most disdainful looks. When one of them tried to stop the Altmer, accosted him and begged him not to disturb the Dark Mistress, he snapped his neck with a mere wink of his hand. No one else dared to raise their voice and so the Altmer permeated the murkiness that surrounded Boethiah's statue.
A storm had erupted, the sky had warped, turning in circles, forming a pitch-black vortex. The wailing of the disciples boomed from the mountainsides, their suffering, their fear unmistakable. Lightning struck the rocks, sending boulders crashing into the valley. And suddenly it was all over.
The sky cleared, the morning sun came out, its rays brushing over the peaks as if nothing had happened. The cult breathed a sigh of relief.
I am no longer your Champion, their former Champion had said. Farewell.
The Ebony Mail was gone, no trace of it to be seen. The Champion had left behind a battlefield, a bruised and broken priestess leaned lifeless on the Pillar of Sacrifice, the Altmer lay on his back, under his head a red puddle, ever growing.
The blonde woman stood in the middle of it, her gaze darting from one body to another. More corpses were down at the pit, all of them reeking of iron. She retched, as even the cool morning air was not able to dilute the stench of death that hung in the air.
“What now?” A dark-haired man asked.
He had a cut on his forehead and his hide armour was tattered in places. He was one of the lucky ones who had survived the big fight, that the Champion had started. It had been clear that she was about to return, the blonde woman had always put her faith in the Dunmer. Never did she want to follow the Breton.
“Pile up the pyres. A great blaze will be needed. The dead are numerous and they need to be burned before they start to rot. The crows are already hoovering over us.”
She pointed to the sky, where a flock of black birds was gathering. Cawing and squawking, they came ever closer to the ground, awaiting their feast.
“Not soon after rats will come. And with them, the sicknesses. Gather every abled-bodied person around. They need to bring the corpses up here.”
She made her way downstairs and started collecting firewood. The dark-haired man did what she had told him to do and rounded up the other followers who were wandering around absently. Together they piled up a large heap of wood and eventually heaved up the corpses.
Her priestess was given a separate pyre, as custom dictated. Those closest to Boethiah were given a dedicated entrance to her realm. So, they lit the first fire under Eranya's body. The flames flickered around her corpse, eating into her black robe and finally into her flesh. Her skin looked as if it was melting, but soon there was nothing left but the orange blaze.
“I will need help for lifting this one,” the brown-haired man said and the blonde woman turned.
He stood beside the Altmer, looking down on him. And he was right. Even for an Altmer, he was unusually tall and with his heavy armour it was going to be a real piece of labour to lift him. She hesitated for a moment, looking at the pale face of the dead Mer. The blood had stopped flowing from the back of his head and only now did she see the encrusted red smudges under his nostrils and at the corners of his mouth. Whatever it was about him, he had not left this life without pain.
“Don’t touch him, he is cursed! Haven’t you seen, how he walked into the black orb of the Dark Mistress? No one could penetrate it but him – there has to be something evil about him!” A woman squealed, pointing in fear at the corpse.
“Bullshit. It’s only a dead Mer. Come on, someone help me,” the brown-haired man answered.
“He is forsaken! Do not lay hands on him or you will be too!” Another woman screamed.
The bickering continued and soon afterwards a dispute broke out over the handling of the bodies. The brown-haired man reminded them that everyone who died here had to be burnt on the pyre, or so Boethiah wanted. But the woman stood by her opinion and others joined in. They said that pure evil was trapped in his flesh and that the fire would release it and doom them all.
The blonde woman soon stopped listening and approached the dead Mer instead. She tilted her head and looked at the little skin his armour revealed. It was pale, thin veins were visible on his neck. It lacked the waxy sheen that corpses usually displayed. The blonde woman frowned, but slowly it dawned on her. If she looked closely at his carotid artery, there was...
Sapphire eyes stared at her and she stumbled back.
“This one is not dead,” she exclaimed, staggering.
And so, the body of the Altmer rose once more, his silver hair tainted with a sanguine tint. His bones cracked with every movement and pain shot through his body. He uttered a single question.
“Where am I?”