Chapter Text
Two days have passed since Lyvia was left in her jail cell.
The guards bring her food twice a day, and while she knows she should be grateful for that much, it's a bland fare, even blander than the boiled mud crab with no seasoning she'd had before her arrest, somehow. The bread is always stale, nearly too hard to eat, and she's lucky if the…calling it a soup seems too generous, but she's lucky if it's hot when it reaches her. She eats it anyway; the first mealtime she'd hardly touched it, but when it became clear that all the meals would be as unappetizing, well, what other choice does she have? Unless she wants to starve in these stone walls.
The hours go by at a crawl; it's not like there's anything for Lyvia to occupy her time with — the chains hanging from the ceiling disturbed her enough to discourage trying to turn them into entertainment, and the only other things in the room are her paper-thin cot and a tiny wooden table. Her neighbor across the hall is unpleasant, rapidly switching between leering and catcalls and taunting that she will die behind these bars. She almost wants to play along with his clumsy flirting just for the chance to punch him in his stupid mouth, but at the same time… she doesn't know why he's here. He may seem to only be good at running his mouth, but who knew what he was capable of? So she keeps her mouth shut and tries not to let her imagination run away and give her reason for more nightmares.
Her dreams have been stalked, since she'd been left in her cell, by terrible, terrible dreams, and she has no idea what they could mean, if they mean anything. The first time she falls asleep on the dingy cot, she dreams of sewer tunnels, twisting and turning until she's hopelessly lost, water dark like blood and the distinct feeling of something hunting her. She runs and runs but never seems to find a way free, and no matter how she begs for Nocturnal's aid, the daedric prince is silent. She can't remember how the dream ends, but she woke with her heart pounding and drenched in sweat, dusty auburn hair sticking to her face.
The other dream is…stranger. Ever since Nocturnal first called her, she's dreamt of a peculiar place: a place cloaked in shadows and night, with great tall glowing mushrooms stretching overhead like trees, and a small, distant settlement at the end of a worn path that she never can seem to get closer to. It's a place where she can hear Nocturnal's voice, usually; she always assumes it must be Her realm. But here, in the jail, the dream has twisted. The night has become day, and the earth is dry beneath her feet. The distant buildings are crumbling, and there's some great structure that cuts through the skyline. And, looking over it, she feels a keen sense of foreboding. This dream doesn't wake her in a cold sweat, but it's deeply unsettling.
She can't help but think of her parents as she sits in the dim, damp cell. Do they know? If they do, they must be so disappointed in her. They already were of course, they were the day they discovered Lyvia's tiny shrine to Nocturnal in her room, but somehow it feels worse for them to find out that she's in jail. Leyawiin's a long way away, though. They very likely don't have any idea. They made it clear to her that until she renounces the Lady of Shadows, she's no daughter of theirs, after all, so why should they be following her so closely as to know she's jailed in the Imperial City?
Foolish. She's such a fool. Lyvia should never have assumed that Nocturnal would be so inclined to help her sneak into the guard captain's office. And despite the words of the man who had recruited her, the Thieves' Guild is nowhere to be seen. Maybe they had even sent her as a distraction, and used her arrest to get in and steal back the taxes the guard had taken from the poorest district in the city. Likely they've written her off as a lost cause, leaving her to sit out her time. Or rot in this place, if they never let her out.
The guard wouldn't do that, right? Not for breaking and entering, surely. And a first offense, at that. She didn't even manage to take anything!
Lyvia shifts to lay on her cot; it isn't long until her second meal for the day will be brought to her, assuming the guard keeps the schedule the same. She has no desire to sleep with her nightmares, but she can at least doze until then. Perhaps let herself daydream of being out on the lake shore, feeling fresh air on her face and the freedom of being able to just keep walking if she so chose. She's no hunter and her survival skills can use some work; perhaps she would have been better off practicing those than throwing her lot in with a gang of thieves.
There's suddenly a clanging of greaves and voices coming from the front of the jail. Lyvia jolts from her cot; that's more voices and footsteps than there should be for just delivering the evening rations. She starts towards the front of her cell, curious, anxious. Three well-armored soldiers in uniforms she feels like she should recognize appear, led by the front desk guard and escorting a fourth that wears no armor, but instead fine velvet-and-silk robes that swish along the stones and an overly large, and one less well read might even say gaudy, amulet hanging around his neck.
Lyvia is not poorly read, and she knows the Amulet of Kings when she sees it.
Now that she looks, she can see the little features that portraits often depicted of the Emperor of Tamriel. Piercing blue eyes and a prominent nose that cut a striking profile were the most distinct, his face weathered with age likely often touched up to make him look more impressive to the people, even in the twilight of his life. Even so, he holds himself with a certain dignity that is more than a little intimidating, though his face is currently heavy with grief.
"Why is there a prisoner here?" the only woman among the four demands of the guard, whirling on him as if an enemy. "This cell is meant to be off limits!"
"Y-yes, well, there must have been a mix-up with the watch—" the guard stammers under her scrutiny, and Lyvia feels her heart pounding hard in her chest. Why are there three angry soldiers and the Emperor at her cell door? Is the elf across from her right, that she is going to be executed? It doesn't make any sense, but, afraid of provoking these soldiers any further, Lyvia shrinks away from the door, folding her hands and ducking her head, avoiding any eye contact as she hears the barred door creak open.
"Stand aside, Prisoner," the woman snaps at Lyvia next, and she hopes it's not obvious how close she is to collapsing into a pile of nerves. "We won't hesitate to kill you if you get in the way."
No problem. She doesn't dare respond out loud, just nods, squeezing her eyes shut. Maybe, if she doesn't look at whatever they're doing, she'll be left alone. She hears stone scraping against stone and is terribly tempted to peek, but doesn't dare with the threat still hanging in the air.
"Captain Renault," one of the other soldiers follows his fellows, just a little after. "No signs of pursuit."
"Good. Let's go, then. We're not out of this yet," the woman, Renault, still sounds tense, despite the supposed good news. But the sound of movement stops after just a moment. The sound of shoes, not greaves, against stone. They stop before her, and she's suddenly more terrified than ever.
"I've seen you… Let me see your face," the Emperor's voice is the only thing cutting the tension, to Lyvia's relief. She lifts her head slowly, cracking her eyes open slowly, as if expecting a blow. He blinks, expression somewhere between surprise and acceptance. "You are the one from my dreams… Then the stars were right, and this is the day. Gods give me strength."
"Give you strength for what?" she can't help the question, and suddenly anxiety crashes into her when she sees the stern woman soldier glare at her. "Sir," Lyvia quickly adds. The Emperor takes a deep breath, seeming to steel himself for just a moment.
"Assassins attacked my sons," he explains, candid and blunt. "And I'm next. My Blades and I are leaving the city via an escape route, which just happens to be in your cell." Lyvia feels her mouth go dry again; if this was an incredibly secret escape route for the royal family, suddenly her fears that they will kill her as a loose end seem less wild.
"Look, I…I'm just a thief. And a bad one at that," she stammers. "I won't tell anyone about—"
"Ah, but you are no mere thief, and that won't be what you're remembered for," he interrupts her. "Perhaps the Gods guided your missteps so that we might meet." Lyvia tries not to bristle at the implication that her failure wasn't just Nocturnal leaving her to her devices, but that some power had sent the guard captain back to his chambers right when her hand was in the proverbial cookie jar. And why would it be so important for her to meet the Emperor that any god could be bothered to make it happen?
"Sire, we have to go," Renault interrupted, strain in her voice. Lyvia breathes a little easier; no one has drawn a blade or threatened her life again. Perhaps she could just go back to being some normal prisoner waiting for her evening meal and wondering when they might let her out. The party moves towards the opening in the wall that seemed to lead somewhere dark and damp. "This one only opens from one side, we'll have to leave it open." The front guard frowns and so does Lyvia; they were just going to…give her a way out?
"Looks like it's your lucky day," the one soldier that had lagged behind comments, resting one hand on the hilt of his blade none-too-subtly. "Just don't get in our way."
"Duly noted," she mumbles, falling into step behind them as the guard they leave behind flounders, trying to find a protest but having none; after all, the Emperor doesn't protest and indeed looks most pleased with the turn of events (as pleased as a man hounded by assassins that murdered his family could be, at any rate). How is one lowly jail guard meant to argue with that?
The five of them follow the dark tunnel; the stones become darker with moisture as they go down, and eventually they emerge into a more brightly lit, if only slightly, chamber. It feels almost comical to have the Emperor in his finery in such a decrepit part of the city, but he doesn't seem perturbed by it. There are various crates scattered about, and there, on one of them—
"My pick!" Lyvia excitedly darts forward, for a heartbeat forgetting the warning to stay out of the way; lucky for her, the Emperor's guard—Blades, he's called them, she knows little of them herself besides being the Emperor's guard but that's why their uniforms had seemed familiar—look at her with more annoyance than anger. "She must have left it for me!"
The words slip from her tongue without thought, and it's moments later when she realizes they're all staring at her that Lyvia realizes she's said the wrong thing. They are escorting the Emperor to get away from assassins and now there's an object that's out of place, that belongs to a prisoner out of place, that was left by some mysterious she.
"Who's 'she'?" The captain demands, crossing her arms as her two fellows grip their blade hilts. Lyvia swallows hard; she's going to have to lie, telling them oh just the Daedric Prince Nocturnal probably wouldn't be the best move. She notices the Emperor looking at the pick in her hands with interest.
"My…associate," Lyvia knows the moment she starts weaving the lie they won't buy it, and from the look of the young male guard that said it was her lucky day, she's right. "I was jailed doing a job and my patron must have sent someone to help me."
"Into a secret passage? Likely story," the younger guard grumbles, and his fellow cut a glance at him.
"Oh, don't ruin her fun, Baurus," the other man with them taunts, and Lyvia feels a chill. They don't believe her; would they kill her here then? She glances at the Emperor, and…he's smirking, as if enjoying a private joke. As the captain opens her mouth to speak, though, there's the sound of footsteps, and chaos erupts as strangers with bound armor and blades break into the chamber, shouting battle cries.
Lyvia sees Renault dive in the way of one assassin, teeth bared and drawing her blade. Baurus and the other Blade stand shoulder to shoulder as they meet more of the assailants. And she…she is left standing there with nothing but a magic lockpick for protection when one of the assassins turns to her. She barely thinks as he raises his bound dagger, dropping her pick and barely managing to catch his wrist, arm shaking as she tries to hold him back. His leg shoots out, his ankle catching around hers and knocking her to the ground, hard. The air is forced from her lungs as she lands flat on her back, pain exploding through her head as it strikes the stones. Weight settles just below her chest as the assassin kneels over her, and her eyes manage to focus just in time for her hands to shoot out as he tries to bring his blade down, one hand wrapping around the blade and the other around his wrist. Blood drips from her palm where the blade digs into her skin into her face; there's a roaring in her ears and she's breathing hard, her hands shaking from the effort of keeping the blade where it is. She knows the blade must hurt, but she barely feels the burn of it.
"Your blood shall slake His thirst!" the assassin hissed, his free hand going to her throat and squeezing. Lyvia chokes, bucking as best she could while holding the knife at bay. Her heart thuds against her chest. If she holds onto the knife, the pressure on her throat will knock her out before long. If she lets go to free her neck, the knife will end her. She tries to twist her neck so she can sink her teeth into the man's arm, but she can't get enough leverage to reach. Darkness gathers at the edges of her vision, slowly creeping across her view, and she kicks out, though her foot meets nothing but air. Her eyes water and she feels this must be it. Of all the ways she had feared she would die today, she didn't anticipate a royal assassin.
And then the pressure releases, all at once, as the weight disappears from her chest and the bound weapon dissolves into smoke. Lyvia gasps for air, coughing, mouth agape like a fish as she tries to stand, rolling onto her side and stumbling as she tries to get her feet under her. Baurus is standing over her, the body of the assassin laying, dead, at his feet as blood pools around it. As the realization that she's both alive and safe washes over her, she finally feels the burning, aching pain in her hand as she looks down at the deep cut in her palm. Once she can catch her breath, she thinks, she knows a simple healing spell she could patch herself up with. Baurus sheathes his weapon and reaches for her, bracing her by elbow and shoulder as he helps her get her footing.
"I think that answers whether you're with them," he mutters wryly, and the corner of her mouth twitches in an almost smirk. Yes, she supposed it did. She brings her uninjured hand to the cut and channels her magicka; it isn't quite enough to close the wound cleanly, but it stops the bleeding and heals it enough to be usable again. She sighs with relief as the stinging subsides.
Baurus moves to check on the Emperor, who is entirely unharmed. Well, Lyvia can't help thinking, at least that assassin decided to go after me instead I guess. After a moment, she realizes there are only four of them standing there, just as Baurus informs the Emperor that Renault fell in the assault. She feels a pang; as confrontational as she'd been, Renault seemed like she was good at her job and devoted to the task of protecting the Emperor.
"Stay here, we'll send someone for you when we can," the other Blade says, and she blinks at him indignantly.
"You're just going to leave me here? After that?" the protest falls before she can help it, and the man rolled his eyes.
"Glenroy's right," Baurus rounded on her. "You may not be with the assassins, but I still don't trust you. You can wait here. Don't follow us." He and the other, Glenroy, take up positions around the Emperor and lead him through a gate, which they inconveniently lock behind them, leaving Lyvia standing in the dim room surrounded by the bodies of the fallen.
She stoops, reaching for where her lockpick had fallen, and she swears it hums in her hands. Lyvia may be pedestrian at combat and actual theft, but no lock will be keeping her out.
…Except for this one it seems. She drags over a crate and plops herself in front of the door and gets to work, the pick working over the tumblers, the feeling familiar and calming, but, no matter how she twists and pulls and picks at the lock, it just will not spring open.
"You think this is funny?" Lyvia isn't sure who she's talking to. If the Emperor is right, if the gods had placed her in her cell and thus in this room and thus are likely clogging up this lock that she by all rights should be able to crack like an egg, then she supposes whichever one of them is responsible is the target of her ire. She sighs, heavily picking herself up from the crate, and turns to see what else is in the room she can use, tucking her pick into her waistband.
The first thing that catches her eye is Captain Renault's sword. It's a long thing, with an oddly shaped blade compared to a standard guard's weapon. She remembers reading briefly about the Blades once—the book hadn't had much information, but it did talk a bit about their swords, called katanas. The weapon has some weight to it, but not as much as she expected. The woman's armor was damaged beyond usefulness, but as she picks over her belt and pack Lyvia finds a shortsword as well; it's lighter and shorter than the katana, closer to the daggers she had more experience with, but still a bit unwieldy. As she looks over the weapons, she hears a strange thudding, and then the wall crumbles, giant sewer rats pouring through the hole and fixing her with their beady little eyes.
She drops the shortsword to free her offhand, and leaps onto the crate she'd just been using as a seat. The rats swarm the box, snapping at her feet. Lyvia swings Renault's katana at the beasts, and though the weight undoubtedly makes her swings clumsy and less effective, it is still plenty for rats. It takes several attempts, but soon the rats are laying dead or dying around her box. (Lyvia is no monster; she goes around to the rats laying injured but not dead and finishes them as cleanly as she can, not comfortable leaving them to suffer.) She considers the hole in the wall for a moment, thinking how fortuitous it was that the wall just happened to break after she failed to pick the infernal lock on the gate, and sighs. She uses the shortsword to cut a large swatch of fabric from one of the dead assassins, using a rope like a drawstring to make a bag of it. It's not very good, as she has no tools to make it more secure, but it would work for now. She ties it across her torso and heads through the hole, katana held defensively before her.
She creeps through the shadows in the adjacent tunnels, feeling a not-so-strange sense of comfort as she does. Lyvia is not afraid of Nocturnal's domain. The creatures that they hide her from? Maybe a little. Shadows can only do so much for her mediocre sneaking attempts, however, and it's not long before she runs into opposition. Having encountered them already, she meets the rats confidently, slowly getting used to the katana's weight and cutting them down with ease.
The goblins are less easy, able to wield tools and notably stronger than the rats. They rush at her without hesitation, and she swings her sword wildly at first, giving the goblins far too many openings to dodge. After taking one too many blows for her liking, Lyvia slows herself, takes a deep breath, and tries to time her cuts purposefully, carefully working to predict which direction the goblins were going to dodge. It's still a struggle, but with some effort, they fall, and she continues on, picking up long forgotten bits and bobs that may serve as supplies.
She knows she must be near the Emperor's escort, because she can hear them occasionally, talking about whether to bunker down somewhere defensible or continue on. After having seen the assassins—and only able to assume that that had been a small group—she found herself agreeing with getting out of these forsaken tunnels. That wall had come down easily enough; even with a defensible location, what guarantee was there that the assassins wouldn't just make their own entrance? Maybe when this escape route was first built, it was secure, but not anymore.
"Have you seen the prisoner?" she hears the Emperor ask, as she creeps closer to the party. There have been a few doors and gates, but they've held no difficulty for her, whatever higher power had stopped her from opening the original gate seeming to find it acceptable for her to take this route. She's almost to the same room as them, she can hear it in how close they sound.
"You think she followed us? How?" Lyvia recognizes Baurus's voice, incredulous but also strained, likely from the anxiety of suddenly being in charge of making sure the Emperor lived with no commanding officer present.
"I know she did." The Emperor's voice is certain, and she has no idea how he could possibly know, with thick stone between them and her own silence. "Let me rest a moment longer," he says when the two Blades try to press him to keep moving, and she has a strange feeling that the delay is calculated when she finally finds her way to an entrance back into the main route. The Blades whirl on her, drawing swords fast as lightning, and Lyvia holds her hands up in a sign of surrender, tucking her own katana first through the ropes holding her makeshift pack together.
"It's that prisoner again!" Glenroy snarls. "We should kill her; she could be with the assassins after all!"
"No." The Emperor leaves no room for argument. "She is not one of them. She can—she must—help us!"
Help? Lyvia doesn't know what he's on about, but she's starting to get the feeling that Emperor Uriel Septim is just a bit odd, to say the least. She's just a girl that was in the wrong place at the wrong time, after all. She can barely defeat goblins, how is she supposed to help with their assassin problem? The Blades hold their stances for a few moments more, then sheathe their swords with murmured words of reluctant acquiescence.
"Here, might as well make yourself useful," Baurus grumbles, handing her a torch. Lyvia takes it without argument; they're much more impressive, combatively, and she and the Emperor would be much safer with them able to have all hands free. She falls into step next to the older man while the Blades lead the way forward. For a moment, it's quiet, and she gets a strange but powerful feeling that…she's been here before. Not really, of course, but her thoughts go back to her strange dreams, and the one where she's fleeing through a sewer, with water dark like blood. Surely it's just a coincidence, right? Most sewers were dark with disgusting water, after all.
"They cannot understand why I trust you; they’ve not seen what I’ve seen," the Emperor breaks the silence. "Hm, how to explain?"—His voice turns thoughtful, a pensive hum—"You know the Nine? How They guide our fates with an invisible hand?"
Lyvia fights back a grimace. The last thing she wanted to do was to have the same fight she had with her parents with the Emperor of Tamriel. She bites at her lip; what was she to say? She's already proved that she can't lie worth a damn. But admitting she worships a daedra at this juncture would practically be signing a death warrant.
"I have a…complicated relationship with the gods," she finally decides on; it's not untrue, after all. She didn't go looking for Nocturnal for power or knowledge or anything like that. She was simply lonely, and desperately disappointed with the deities most worshipped. Their silence, their high expectations. Not that Nocturnal has low expectations, but…where the Nine expect so much without ever offering anything in return, Nocturnal offers companionship, and support, and something that feels strangely like home even if she only sees it in her dreams.
"Don't we all?" he responds like he already knew what her answer would be. Maybe he did. Who's to say? "I have served Them all my days, and chart my course by the heavens, the innumerable signs they leave there. What do you chart your course by?" Lyvia's hand absently touches the pick still at her hip, and when she glances to the man's face he looks almost amused. As if he can hear every thought she's had and knows her little secret she's keeping from the Blades. Maybe he does. How, she doesn't know, but, it's uncanny.
"I don't know, to be honest," she mumbles, looking down at her feet. "I've just been trying to get by, you know? I only moved to the city a few months ago and it's been…a struggle. And it certainly doesn't feel like the gods are watching or listening to anything that's been happening to me."
"And yet," he says with a smile. "Here you are." Lyvia's mouth twitches. Yes, but on the other hand, here I am, she can't help thinking. How is this supposed to be a good thing? She's stuck in a horrible sewer with at least two men who would like her dead and assassins willing to kill her for being in present company. And if all that wasn't bad enough, she still hasn't eaten since this morning. How precisely was she supposed to be thankful?
"You say you chart your course by the heavens," she challenges. "Did they say something to you about my fate?"
"Not precisely. They cannot show me past death's doors. But, in you I see the sun's companion." He's looking at her strangely now, and she looks after the Blades as they lead the way, feeling a bit like a particularly interesting reagent an alchemist is observing.
"I don't know about that; I'm more of a night person," she looks into the shadows just outside of the flame of her torch, thinks of starlit paths through the woods, and they are more appealing by far than a scorching sun burning away her comfortable hiding places.
"Are the moons not companions to our sun?" the Emperor challenges back, and she frowns.
"Poor ones, maybe," she indulges. "They're never really there for the sun. They only appear when the sun is gone, and the sun only when they have set. Sounds like pretty poor companionship if they can't even be in the same room together."
"They make up for what the other lacks," he counters, a knowing thoughtfulness to him. "The sun cannot light the night, or it would not be night, and we would never know rest, and the moons cannot light the day, or nothing would grow; we would only ever be in darkness."
"Must be lonely for them," she mumbles, kicking a stray rock just ahead of them.
"Perhaps so," he concedes. "But that doesn't mean there's no love there." Lyvia shifts the torch in her hand, uncomfortable. She doesn't like this line of questioning, to think of such loneliness for the sake of making others more comfortable. She wants to shoot back why should they give up so much, but she's getting drawn too far into this metaphor, she thinks.
"Are you not afraid of death?" She shoots him a sidelong glance; despite his grief and his cryptic words, he seems strangely calm. He closes his eyes for a moment.
"No," he answers, a kind of peace to him. "I have lived well, and I shall rest easy." She watches him for a moment, but he seems confident, steady. Lyvia is certain it's a moot point; with his guards, both willing to put their lives on the line for him, surely he would be safe from these assassins. But there's an air about him that makes her wonder. They walk for a while longer, the silence only broken by their footsteps on the damp stones. The silence is starting to unsettle her when they stop at another gate.
"Shit," Glenroy hisses, rattling the bars. "It's blocked." Lyvia perks from where she's been starting to lag a little behind.
"I can pick it, let me see," she says, starting forward, but Baurus holds out an arm to stop her.
"Not locked, blocked," he emphasizes. "This is a trap!"
"There was a side passage a little ways back," Glenroy backs away from the gate, as if expecting an assassin to appear from nothing.
"It's worth a shot," Baurus agrees, and the four turn and make for the passage. Her torch flickers with the movement, and for a moment it makes her jump, her mind conjuring assailants from the dancing shadows. They turn down the side passage, only to find a dead end.
"Shit," it comes from Baurus this time, his face taut. As Lyvia scans the room, looking for any signs of a secret way out or maybe a weak wall they can break through, like the rats had, she hears thundering footsteps from the tunnels they'd just passed through.
"Oh," was all she could manage. Glenroy took a defensive position in the only entrance to their passage, and Baurus pulled her over to stand next to the Emperor, pulling Renault's sword from where Lyvia had tied it to her pack and pushing it into her hands.
"Protect the Emperor with your life." His voice is determined, grave, intense. All she could do was nod, gripping the hilt with her free hand while still clinging to the torch. She thinks the bruises around her neck from the attack earlier throb with her heartbeat, and she wonders if she's the only one that can hear it pounding in her chest. Baurus and Glenroy leap to meet the assassins, blades drawn and voices rising in a battle cry.
"Lyvia." The sound of her name shocks her out of some of the panic; she hasn't told him her name, has she? Maybe he saw it somewhere on the way into the prison, she reasons. "I can go no further."
"They're going to win, sir," she meets his eyes, trying to reassure him, but he's gained an intensity he didn't have before. He takes her hand, the torch clattering to her feet, forgotten almost instantly.
"You must stop the Prince of Destruction!" He takes the amulet from where it rests around his neck and presses it into her hand. The metal is warm, like it's alive. "Him and his pawns. Take this to Jauffre. I have another son, and he alone knows where to find him. Find him, find him and shut the jaws of Oblivion!"
"I…" she looks down at the massive gem set in the necklace before looking back at the Emperor. "What if I can't do it?" He gives her a smile that should be ridiculous here in this damp, dark tunnel surrounded by enemies. She thinks she hears clattering behind the walls.
"Take heart, my friend. You asked what fate I saw for you in the stars? This." He squeezes her hand holding the amulet, before letting go and stepping back, just a step. "Go with my blessing, and may all the gods watch over you."
She looks back to the amulet; it's heavy, like the sword in her hand, like his words, like the stones as they crumble behind him. Lyvia raises her head and sees—as if everything, even herself, had been slowed by magic—a robed man with bound weapon raised high. She grips her sword, desperation and fear flooding her veins, but it all happens too quickly. The assassin strikes true, and Emperor Uriel Septim falls.
The unknown man slinks back into the shadows from whence he came, and she heard splashes and thuds and then silence, and she knows that the battle outside is over. Baurus charges in just as the last of the final assassin's robes swish out of view. She can't look away from the Emperor's body laying across the stones, broken in his finery and his last words ringing in her ears even over Baurus' pained cry.
"Where's the Amulet?" Baurus turns to her, and she notes he's not waving his weapon at her this time. "The Amulet of Kings, he didn't have it—"
"He gave it to me," Lyvia feels like she's barely present, more that she's watching as she shows Baurus the amulet clutched in her hands. The Blade looks at the necklace, but doesn't reach for it.
"How strange," he mumbles, voice thick. "He…saw something in you. Probably the Dragon's Blood, word has it that it let him see more than the average man. They also say only an heir of the blood can wear the amulet. Why would he give it to you?" She looks back to the gem, swallowing hard as she remembers the Emperor's last request. His last, desperate wish.
"He…he said that he has another son," she squeezes the necklace; the bite of the metal into her fingers helps ground her. "He wanted me to find him." Baurus blinks at her.
"I've never heard of another heir."
"He said that 'Jauffre' is the only one that knows where he is." Lyvia turns the name over in her mind. She doesn't know a Jauffre, from her books or from around the city.
"That's the Blades' Grandmaster," Baurus explains. "He lives out at Weynon Priory, as a monk. You should…you should go there and see what he has to say."
"Alone?" she hesitates, frowning as she thinks of the assassins, how twice she's failed to fend them off.
"I need to stay here and…and take care of the Emperor." His voice is grave. "You'll be okay, I know you will, and an unknown face traveling alone will attract less attention. Here—" he shrugs a small pack from his back. "Take this, it'll be safer to carry the amulet in than a tied up robe. There's a few supplies inside too; I won't need them." She takes the pack, carefully moving the few things she had collected to the more secure bag and dropping the tattered fabric she'd been using to the ground.
"Why help me?" she asks; she tries to put her lockpick in the pack with the amulet, but she gets a powerful feeling of absolute rejection, and so instead tucks it back into her waistband, using a small piece of rope to tie it in place, not keen to find out what would happen if she put them together anyway.
"The Emperor trusted you, so I trust you," he says simply. "Here, this is the key for the way out; if you follow this path it should take you there, I think. It's where we were heading before…"
"Right," she nods, looking down the revealed tunnel he motions towards. "How do I get to Weynon? I haven't traveled much."
"It's just outside Chorrol, just follow the signs and you'll find your way. And, listen, whatever's going on with that—" Baurus gives her a meaningful look to the rope around her waist, "—keep it to yourself. I mean it when I say I trust you, but it doesn't look good to have a magically appearing lockpick." She swallows, nodding, then steps her way carefully over the fallen stones and into the tunnel.
The fresh air is a relief after hours in the damp and dark; Lyvia emerges at the edge of the lake that runs up against the Imperial City. The sun's starting to set, the barest trace of stars beginning to twinkle in the dusky blue of the twilight sky. She sees a bridge across the water just a short ways down the shore and sets her feet that way. She's tired, so tired, but the thought of stopping and sleeping is unthinkable. Even if the wider organization those assassins were with didn't know her face, the one that killed the Emperor did, and what if he was stalking her even now to finish the job? No, she'll make it to Weynon without stopping as much as possible.
She walks briskly along the road after that, throwing glances over her shoulder every few minutes, watching for any signs of being followed. Besides one traveler on horseback waving a polite hello, she sees no one, and quickly makes it to a copse of trees, gratefully ducking into the shadows of underbrush and taking the pack from her back, taking inventory of the small amount of supplies Baurus had given her. There are a few potions—a couple labeled "for fatigue", and some red ones she recognized as being healing potions, and a blue one that could be for restoring magicka but the label is torn—carefully wrapped in scrap fabric to keep them from breaking, a well maintained dagger, what seems to be a firestriker (useful, she doesn't know any spells to start a fire), a small bag of dried meats, what appears to be a small repair kit for sewing up fabric, and a very small tin cup.
Lyvia goes for the dried meats first, carefully taking only about half of what's in the tiny pouch and tucking the rest away for later. She gnaws on the tough fibers as she thoughtfully stares into the shadows of the woods; there's not much in the pack, and she's not sure how far Chorrol is. Would this last her until she got to Weynon? She's no hunter, and her knowledge of edible plants is limited. If she's lucky, she'll pass some farms along the way she can steal a small amount of produce from; if she's unlucky, she'll try and get a pitchfork through the arm for her efforts.
The meat is gone far too quickly, and she takes one of the fatigue potions and throws her head back, downing as much as she can in one gulp. It's terribly bitter, but she can already feel energy flowing back into her limbs. She repacks the bag, settling it on her back and continuing on her way, choosing to walk through the brush rather than on the road proper. She hopes that, whoever the assassins are, they'll be less accustomed to walking through shadows and underbrush. Lyvia is also unaccustomed to it, but she hopes that perhaps her familiarity with Nocturnal will incline Her to ensure the shadows are sufficient cover.
It takes three days for Lyvia to reach Weynon Priory. Her resolve not to sleep lasts almost a full day before she nearly walks straight off a small cliff in her exhaustion. She creeps onto a patch of farmland, taking shelter in a small outbuilding with a gap in the floor under some hay piles. It takes at least an hour for her to decide no one is coming to kill her and give in to the exhaustion pulling at her eyelids. She wakes some few hours later, not long enough for it to be light out again, and moves out under the cover of darkness, snatching a few vegetables out of the fields as she goes, careful not to take any more than might be ruined by rodents. The second day she's attacked by a wolf. The beast leaps at her and they tumble through the underbrush before Lyvia manages to drive her dagger into its stomach. She wonders if wolf meat is safe to eat, but doesn't know how to dress a kill. Afraid of making herself sick, she moves on.
The third day, what little food she's been able to scrounge is gone, she feels weak, and, on top of it all, it's raining, soaking through the thin rags she was still wearing from the jail. Luckily it's not too cold out, but her legs are exhausted, she's out of fatigue potions, and she can only hope her destination isn't much further. And when she looks up the road, squinting into the rain, and sees buildings, not farmhouses but stone buildings and a stable and she thinks someone ducking out of the rain that looks like a monk, she wants to sob in relief. Even if it's the wrong place, it's still somewhere she can get out of the rain and maybe resupply.
The monk she had seen is surprised to see anyone out in this weather, but happily confirms that, yes, this is Weynon Priory, and points her in the direction of Brother Jauffre. She nods and thanks him, but as Lyvia turns to follow his instructions, her legs shake and she wobbles precariously. The monk catches her by the arm and tries to get her to rest first, but she insists that she must see Jauffre immediately. Uncertain but seeming to be unwilling to fight, he helps her hobble along until she's standing in front of the supposed Grandmaster of the Blades.
"Sorry to disturb, Brother Jauffre," the monk helping her says. "But this traveler was asking to see you." The man behind the desk looks her up and down, stern expression unfaltering. His hair is thinning, the very top of his head bare, his face older and weathered, maybe just a little younger than the Emperor had been. Even still, he has a presence about him that tells her she would be a fool to underestimate him.
"Well, you found me, what do you want?" He holds her gaze, and she briefly panics; how is she supposed to tell him this without him thinking she murdered the Emperor?
"I—the Emperor, he… I…" Lyvia trips over her words, leaning heavily on the man helping her stand as he waves over another monk to request he bring a chair. Jauffre frowns more deeply.
"What about the Emperor?" he demands.
"…He's dead. He—he gave me the Amulet of Kings, told me I had to come find you—" she stammers out as the other monk brings a chair and the first helps her sink into it. He offers wordlessly to take her pack, but she clings to the strap, holding it close. Jauffre's face turns to one of alarm.
"That's impossible, only the Emperor can handle the Amulet!" He holds out his hand, and his expression makes it clear it's not a request when he says, "Let me see." She pulls the amulet from her pack, just as weighty and warm as when the Emperor had given it to her, and hands it over to Jauffre. His expression is inscrutable as he looks down at the necklace laying in his palm.
"By the Nine," he breathes. "Tell me everything. Who are you, why do you have this, what do you know?"
As Lyvia tells her story, the first monk she'd met, a man named Piner, brings her a modest fair of bread and cheeses and some dried meats not unlike those that had been in her pack. Her parents would be scandalized if they knew she was talking with her mouth full, but she could hardly ask Jauffre to wait until she was done eating, nor would her stomach permit her to wait to eat until she was done speaking. If it bothered the older man, he showed no indication of it, listening intently to every word.
"As unlikely as this all sounds," he begins, glancing back at the gem in his palm. "I believe you." She blinks at him, surprised.
"Really?"
"Stranger things have happened when it comes to Uriel Septim," he says dryly; she can't help but note that he's the first person she's heard call the Emperor by his name. They must have had quite the history. "It's the only explanation for how you made it to me carrying the Amulet of Kings." They're quiet then for a few moments, Lyvia finishing the food she was given thoughtfully.
"The 'Prince of Destruction'," she frowns at the amulet, choosing her words carefully. "He means Mehrunes Dagon, right?" Jauffre's face doesn't falter, though she considers that perhaps the lines on his forehead deepen just a touch.
"You are well versed in daedric matters." The words aren't accusatory, but only just.
"I read a lot," the words fall from Lyvia's lips with ease; after all, they're not a lie. She does indeed read quite a bit, it's just not where she's heard the name. One doesn't worship one Prince without having at least heard of the others. He's quiet for several moments, seeming to consider.
"Indeed," he finally accepts. "It is… unsurprising that he has a hand in this, though how and why are entirely different questions. The mortal world should be protected from Oblivion by magic barriers."
"Then what did he mean by 'close the jaws of oblivion'?"
"Your guess is as good as mine at the moment," he leans back in his chair with a heavy sigh. "With no emperor and no heirs, the dragonfires will be dark for the first time in…centuries. Perhaps that has something to do with it; only the Emperor understands the ritual truly."
"But there is one, he said," Lyvia leans forward a little. "He said he had another son." Jauffre sighs, rubbing one temple.
"I'm one of the few that knows about him," he begins. "I was once the captain of Uriel's personal guard. One night, he wanted to speak to me privately, in his chambers. There was a baby boy in a basket; Uriel asked me to take him somewhere safe. He never told me anything else, but I knew he must be his son. He would ask after him from time to time. And now… Now that child is the heir to the throne. If he still lives." She can't help but notice that not once did Jauffre say "the Emperor"; he could be any man talking about an old friend.
"You must know where to find him, if the Emperor asked about him," Lyvia presses.
"Yes. He lives a little ways south of here, in Kvatch, serving as a priest in the chapel to Akatosh there." Jauffre slips the Amulet of Kings into a little pouch he pulls from a drawer in his desk. "His name is Martin. He has no idea that he's Uriel's son; you need to get him back here as soon as possible, before the assassins get to him too. If they know about him, and that seems all too likely, he is in terrible danger." Lyvia's legs ache at the thought of another long trek, but she nods determinedly anyway. She still feels terribly out of her depth, but… Who else can Jauffre send? Actually, she can't help wondering, why does he not go himself?
"Should I take him the Amulet?" she asks, and he shakes his head.
"No, it will be safer here with me to guard it," he says, and she nods. That makes sense. He stands and makes his way over to a large chest, unlocking it with an ornate key. "Here, I have a small stash of supplies here, take whatever you need. Please help yourself to our larder and washrooms as well; it'll do no one any good if you don't even make it to Kvatch to begin with." Lyvia mumbles her thanks, opening the chest and picking through the contents. She takes what feels like a full set of armor made of sturdy leather and light metals, a sword (though she thinks she still prefers a dagger), and some sturdier clothing meant to act as a protective barrier between the armor and her skin, she remembers reading somewhere. (Although calling it sturdier than her prison attire truly doesn't imply much, she thinks wryly.)
Another monk who's name she doesn't know shows her to their washrooms and promises he'll let the others know to knock first. She smiles, thanks him, and the moment the door closes finally strips off the dirty rags she's been wearing for five days now. There's water in a basin, and she's unsure if it's enchanted or someone just assumed that, in her state, she'd want to clean herself and filled it for her. She starts by scrubbing soap into her hair and onto her face. After rinsing, she proceeds to sponge down the rest; she feels a bit foolish taking the time from such an urgent quest, but it would equally do no one any good if she got an infected wound fighting because she was dirty. (And, maybe a little selfishly, she doesn't want to look a terrible mess when she meets the future Emperor. She knows after a day or two on the road she won't be anything to write home about, but at least she won't smell like sewer water and wolf blood.)
When she's clean to her own satisfaction, Lyvia turns to the clothing and armor. The clothes are easy enough, and the fabric is much softer than the burlap scraps she'd been given when arrested. The pants even have a pocket she feels safe tucking her lockpick in, and the boots (maybe just a hair big but she won't complain) are supple and comfortable. But the armor… She beholds the varying sizes of leather squares covered in metal and straps and feels utterly lost. She struggles for several minutes with the various straps and buckles and pieces before finally giving up. Leaving the chest pieces (or she's fairly sure they're chest pieces) draped over her shoulders, she creeps back out and through the halls to Jauffre's office.
"Jauffre?" Lyvia peeks sheepishly around the doorframe. He looks up, eyebrows raising when he sees the loose pieces of leather hanging off her. "I've, um. Never worn armor before." It takes a moment, it seems, before her words sink in. Jauffre pushes back his chair, picking himself up with a heavy sigh and something murmured under his breath. (She thinks she catches the Emperor's name, but she can't be sure.) He guides her by the shoulder back to the washroom, where she'd left the rest of the armor, and started to fasten buckles and tie ties, having her hold parts in place here and there as he does. As he goes, he points out which buckles are absolutely necessary for getting the armor off should she need to. Lyvia pays rapt attention, committing each comment to memory in the hopes that she won't end up stuck in it in some emergency requiring its removal.
"Have you wielded a blade before?" He asks conversationally as he cinches up straps and ties. She nods.
"Not with real swords but, I had a few lessons with practice blades. Father always told me it would be good to know when I took over the shop if I needed to defend myself from thieves."
"Thank Akatosh for your father's foresight then," he grumbles, and she can't help the embarrassed blush. She has a sudden urge to defend herself, to snap that she hasn't asked to be dragged into this, but she bites her cheek instead. She knows that he knows, and that he's just a veteran soldier frustrated at having to trust someone so green with such an important task. Once her armor is snug, he helps strap the sword to her hip without her needing to ask, blessedly; though she'd worn a sheath with her practice sword, she'd always had help equipping it, and she'd stopped attending before she'd started learning how to do it herself. It doesn't look difficult, but probably good to let the person that knows what he's doing do it.
"Is there anything else I should know?" Lyvia asks anxiously as Jauffre steps back to take one last look over his work.
"It's entirely possible that the enemy may have beat you to Kvatch," he says gravely. "It's best to keep a low profile as much as you can, and get Martin out as fast as possible. And watch for anyone acting suspiciously; if they were able to infiltrate the Imperial Palace, they could be hiding anywhere." She swallows hard; the feeling of hands around her throat and a blade digging into her hand comes unbidden, and she digs her nails into her palm to try to ground herself. She is not helpless this time, after all. And, with any luck, she'll get in and out before anyone even knows she's there.
"Oh, Miss Lyvia!" Piner scurries over as she and Jauffre enter the main room again, his arms full of black fabric. "It's still raining, and the nights can get cold, so we wanted you to have this." She takes the bundled fabric; unfurling it, she discovers it's a long, black cloak. "It's enchanted to repel water. And we'll say prayers for your safe journey." She bites back a huff at that; she doubts any of their Nine would be particularly keen to keep her safe. But, perhaps, if their gods are kind, they can pass the prayers on to her own chosen deity. And it's the thought that counts anyway.
She spends a few moments gathering food and potions as well, enough to hopefully get her both there and back, or as close as she can with what her bag can hold. She supposes she can likely resupply in Kvatch when she gets there. As she heads for the door (her legs complaining that they just arrived), Jauffre stops her to press a small pouch of gold into her hands. Just in case, he says.
And then she opens the door, slinging the cloak over her shoulders, and heads out into the storm.
Chapter 2
Summary:
Lyvia arrives at Kvatch too late for the city, and she can only hope it's not too late for the Emperor's last son.
Notes:
Shoutout to my lovely friends that have been supporting me, and a big big thank you to anyone here or on tumblr that told me how much you liked the first chapter! :3 It really empowered me to get through this chapter so quickly (even with it being just as long as chapter one <_<; ). This chapter we get to introduce everyone's favorite Septim. ^-^ By the way, if you want occasional updates on the fic, feel free to follow me over on tumblr at @akirakirxaa_ooc.
Anyway, enjoy!
Chapter Text
The rain finally lets up well after sundown, clouds blowing away for a brief few hours to reveal twinkling stars, moonlight leading Lyvia's way as she follows a rough map that had been folded in the pocket of her cloak. It truly doesn't seem too far away from Weynon, and she feels much more confident with a pack full of supplies and some knowledge of where she's going. She still walks off to the side of the path, picking her way through the underbrush; though it is partly for comfort, the shadows acting almost like a security blanket as they break up the cold moonlight, it's also practical. Should more assassins appear, she can duck down and hide until they pass.
The trip is oddly peaceful, however, even the few creatures she runs across easily frightened off or accepting of bribes to leave her alone, in the case of one hungry looking wolf that gladly took a piece of her rations and fled back into the dark with its prize. She doesn't dare stop in a major city; even though part of her is certain it would be fine, the memory of the assassins coming from the literal walls of a so called secret escape route won't leave her. So for the few days' travel she finds empty caves or remote farm buildings to rest when she can, never letting herself fall into deep sleep.
The first sign she has that something is wrong is the smell of smoke.
It's powerful, not unlike a wildfire but something about it stings in a way it shouldn't. She looks around and sees nothing immediately near her, not even a smoke column, so Lyvia continues on her way, convinced that some traveler's campfire just went out of control or somesuch. But, as she continues alongside the path, glancing down at her map to check that she's still on the right track, it only gets stronger. And the chances of this being a coincidence, when the closer she gets the worse the choking stench gets, are so slim.
And then she starts seeing damaged trees, burned and broken both, and scorch marks on the ground, and she knows without a doubt this is no coincidence. Someone, something, has beat her to Kvatch. She takes off at a run up the path, abandoning her attempt at subtlety as she takes the road directly for the sake of speed. And as the road switches back on itself, up and up the great hill Kvatch is situated on, she begins to see what looks like black snow, falling in the choking wind—ashes, they're ashes, and they're coming from the city. So focused on the damage around her and how it only gets worse, Lyvia doesn't realize there's someone running in the other direction until they collide, the force of it knocking her to the ground. The man who slammed into her takes her wrist and tries to pull her to her feet.
"Come on, we have to go, while we still can!" His eyes are wide in panic, his stance such that she thinks for a moment that he's going to continue fleeing without her.
"Wait, what's going on?" Lyvia takes his arm and lets him help her up, but doesn't let go, determined to get as much information as she can. "What are you running from?"
"Gods, you don't know? Daedra, there were so many daedra, they completely overran the city!" His voice gets more shrill. "There were portals, like…like gates, gates to Oblivion! And there was this huge creature, like something out of a nightmare—" Lyvia stares at him dumbly; she hears the words and she knows what they mean but…
How could they have gotten this far so quickly? How had they known?
"Surely the whole city isn't destroyed?" She places a hand on his shoulder, as much to steady herself as him.
"Go and see for yourself! It's all gone, everything, everyone!"
"You can't be the only one left," she says it because he can't be she can't have lost before she even got a chance to try. "H-how did you get here?"
"The guard, the guard and—I guess he's sort of a captain now, he took charge anyway—Savlian Matius, they helped us…some of us…not everyone…but they cut their way out of the city. He says he can hold the road but I don't believe him, it's too much, they can't stop it. If you saw, you'd understand. Now I'm getting out of here, and if you're smart you'll do the same!" And the man pulls his arm free of her and takes off down the road, fleeing as if a daedra were right on his heels. He's right, Lyvia knows. If she were smart, she would leave. But she can't get the thought of Uriel Septim and his absolute faith in her right before he died out of her head. If she abandoned his son now when he may still live… She has to try. Turning, she continues her run, breathing harder as the ash becomes thicker and the skies darker.
There's a refugee camp far too close to the city to be safe, and there's not nearly as many refugees as she would expect from a whole city's worth of people. Every one of them wanders around the camp or huddles in a tent with a haunted expression, as if all the life and color had been drained from their world. Lyvia goes from person to person, asking after Martin, feeling terrible that she can't stop and provide more aid and comfort but there's just no time. Everyone seems to have the same answer; they didn't see him leave the city. Feeling like she's swallowed a stone, she decides that she still has to look for herself. She takes off up the road, heading for the city proper.
"You there, civilian!" A curt voice catches her attention as she rounds a corner; just a ways up the road she can see something large and stone with what seemed like fire inside. "You shouldn't be here, get back to the camp!"
"I need to know what happened," she insists, hands on her knees as she catches her breath and the guard who spoke approaches her.
"We lost the damned city, that's what," he snapped, and she looks up to see his face twisted in grief and frustration. "It all just happened so fast, we couldn't even evacuate everyone. There are still people in there. And we can't even get to them with that damned gate in the way." Lyvia straightens, slipping the cloak off her shoulders and tucking it under a rock; she can collect it later. If there was a later. The skies overhead are a vivid red now, more red than even the most stunning sunset would paint it, and it's as if the gate as the guard called it is a raging furnace, the heat oppressive as it washes over her.
"Surely there's something I can do to help," she presses, though frankly even she isn't sure what. The man scoffs.
"You have to be kidding." He looks her up and down, and if she didn't know how out of her depth she is she might be offended at the skepticism she sees in his face.
"I'm not. There's a man in the city I have to reach. It's of dire importance." She crosses her arms, trying to match the guard's stubbornness. Lyvia notices with a quick glance around that the other guards are holding positions, not giving orders, and concludes this must be Savlian Matius, the "captain" that the fleeing man had mentioned. He huffs an almost laugh.
"It must be dire if you look at that—" He jerks his head at the gate, "—and still think you want to help. But who am I to turn away willing hands? I'll be honest though, you're probably going to die. You sure?"
"Very."
He looks at her for a moment, thoughtful and maybe a little sad. Lyvia resolves to make him eat those words. She doesn't know what he's going to ask her to do, but she decides there that she's going to make it out of whatever it is.
"Look. I don't know how to close the gate," he starts. "But it has to be possible, because the daedra closed the ones they opened originally. See? You can see the marks in the ground where they were." He points, and she does see, bits of stone and scorched earth scarring the ground. "I sent some men in to figure out how to close it, but they haven't come back. I want you to find out what happened to them. Help them if they're still alive, or finish the job yourself if you can." She swallows hard and gives a nod; Lyvia doesn't even know what skills she wishes she had for something like this. As she steps toward the gate, Matius stops her by the arm, just for a moment.
"Good luck. If you make it out, we'll be right here waiting." Somehow the words are of some comfort, and she gives him a small smile before squaring her shoulders and marching up the path and through the gate.
However terrible the city had looked, Oblivion is worse. Massive oceans and lakes of lava give off choking, terrible heat. Soot and ash cover everything, making every breath feel like suffocating. The land under her feet is hard and dry, and terrible twisted towers command the skyline around her. Lyvia doesn't know where to even start, but start she must, so she picks a direction and draws her sword, picking her way around stone and strange plants that lash out at her as she passes. It's not long before she hears the sounds of battle and rushes forward to see a couple of minor daedra—scamps, she remembers reading in a book about conjuration spells—fighting a man in the same uniform as the guards outside Kvatch. She sets her jaw and rushes in, sword raised.
One of the scamps turns and screeches at her, leaping with claws spread wide. Lyvia manages to catch it in the abdomen, shoving it hard away from her. It lands nimbly, hissing and lunging again; she takes a wide stance and slices with her sword, aiming for the torso but missing, though she does catch the creature's arm with the blade. It's blood is just as red as anyone's, and somehow that gives her confidence. It claws at her, and she's too slow to dodge, and though its claws do little against the armor it shoves her off balance. She digs in her boots, teeth grit as she grips her sword with both hands, and a snarl rips from her chest as she lunges and drives the sword into its chest.
For a moment, she's still, the scamp thrashing on the blade for a moment before its movements slow. It goes limp, the weight of it dragging her blade down as it slides off the end, landing with a wet thud in the blood pooling below it. Lyvia breathes hard, staring at it for several moments before looking to the guard; he's fought off his scamp as well, his arms shaking. She wonders for a moment how long he's been in here, fighting off daedra, and where the rest of them were. Had he been separated?
"Oh, thank the Nine," his voice is shaky and giddy and disbelieving all at once. "I never thought I'd see another friendly face again!"
"Steady," Lyvia takes his arm, and he clings to hers, and she hopes he doesn't realize that she's shaking too, just a bit. "Where are the others?"
"They…they took them to the tower!" he stammers. "The big one. Most of us didn't make it I don't think but they still have Menien! Please, you have to save him!"
"I'll do my best." Lyvia hesitates to promise, because having seen this place she worries she won't even be able to get herself out, but the man's so defeated she can't help trying to reassure him. "Go back to the gate, it's just a little ways that way, it was clear when I came through, and your captain could use your help."
"He's still holding the barricade? I was afraid I was the only… Right, I'll go find him. Listen, you saved my life. I… I won't forget this." The man claps her on the shoulder, then takes off for the gate. She watches him go for a moment, then heads for the nearest tower.
The inside of the towers aren't much better than the outside, the heat seeming to radiate from the very walls. Lyvia is deeply grateful that she'd had the foresight to leave her cloak behind; even just her armor is nearly unbearable. She scrambles up the tower, fighting daedra as she meets them. Her throat is raw and her arms shaking by the time she approaches the top of one tower, her blade dripping with viscera. There's another daedra—this one seeming more well-armored than the others—there to meet her, standing guard near a large cage holding who she can only assume is the missing guard, Menien.
"One of the Ur-dra's birds has flown the coop," he growls, drawing his own blade. "I'll be glad to clip your wings!" Lyvia barely has the time to raise her sword to block the blow; the force knocks her almost down the ramp she'd just climbed. She slips below their crossed blades, shoving her shoulder hard into his chest. He doesn't move much, but it's just enough for her to slip around the other side; at least she won't be in danger of falling. The sound of metal clashing fills the air as they strike, back and forth. Lyvia grits her teeth as she feels some of a blow get through her armor, not enough to bleed but enough to hurt, and strikes back, knocking part of the daedra's armor off, though it's such heavy armor that it feels ineffectual.
She dodges another blow, slipping under his blade in just enough time to avoid it digging into her throat. Mind racing, she charges close again, but he's ready for her, blocking her sword with his. Remembering her first one-sided fight against the assassin, she shuffles one foot forward, hooking it around his leg and pulling as hard as she can. It's just enough force to knock the daedra off balance, his grip loosening on his weapon, and she jerks her own, pulling it out of his grasp as he fell back. Lyvia raises her sword and, before she can give herself time to think about the act, brings it down on his skull. The daedra doesn't move again.
"The key!" the prisoner calls from his cage, and she looks up to see him pointing at the dead daedra. "He has a key, grab it!" She nods, rummaging over the corpse before finding said key and approaching the cage.
"Here, I'll get you out." She reaches for the door, but Menian grabs her wrist, stopping her. Lyvia blinks at him, frowning.
"No, that's not for this cage, it's for the Sigil Keep," he corrects. "You need to get there quickly, it's what's keeping the gate open!"
"Here, let me just get you out first!" She pats his hand reassuringly before starting to reach for her lockpick, but he shakes his head.
"There's not time, every minute you waste on me… Just get to the keep, there's something they call a Sigil Stone, if you take it out the gate will close!"
"I can't just leave you here!" Lyvia takes his hand in hers, grabbing the bars with the other and giving an experimental tug. The metal is solid and unyielding, and the lock is large and intimidating—she can pick it, she knows she can, but it would take time. Time that the city and the refugees don't have.
"Yes you can," he takes her by both shoulders through the bars, so close but so far. "You have to get the Sigil Stone and get out of here. Go!"
Nocturnal knows she wants to stay and get him out and figure out the rest later. But if this is what's going to happen without an heir to the throne… She doesn't like to have to choose duty over people. But in this case, choosing the person may doom everyone. Lyvia gives Menian one last, apologetic, look before turning and running, doubling back to where she had earlier seen a locked door. The key fits perfectly, and she's climbing again, the pillar of fire in the center of the largest tower feeling like it's searing her very skin.
At the top there's more daedra, and she's so tired she fears she won't be able to win the fight this time. So she wonders, if she takes the Sigil Stone, would the gate close immediately? Could she simply avoid them long enough to grab the stone? It was worth a try. She darts forward, raising her sword as if to attack, but when the daedra raise their own to block her blows, she drops down low and slips between them, sprinting as fast as she can for the sphere held at the very peak of the fountain of flame. Hearing the daedra on her heels, she has no time to be afraid of the fire burning her; she reaches for the Stone, gripping it hard and wrenching it free of its pedestal. There's nowhere else for her to run, so she squeezes her eyes shut and prays to whoever might be listening that this worked. There's a blinding light behind her eyelids, and a roaring sound, and then…
Lyvia feels a hand clap on her shoulder, heavy enough to knock her just slightly off her balance. Opening her eyes, she's standing where she'd entered the gate. The red skies are gone, the heat dissipated other than that coming from mundane fires. Dark clouds gather overhead, sprinkling raindrops beginning to fall on the embers. She's still clinging to the Sigil Stone; it's warm, but not so hot that she can't hold it, otherwise completely still and dark. She blinks up at Captain Matius, who looks shocked and delighted in equal measure.
"You did it! I knew you could!" he declares, and she almost wants to laugh and ask I thought you said I was going to die, though she still hasn't quite found her tongue again. "This is our chance to get into the city!" Lyvia's hands shake as he presses a potion for fatigue into them, and she downs it gratefully, even if the taste is terrible. The magic of the concoction floods her limbs with energy and steadies her; it might only be a temporary solution, but it was good enough.
"Alright then," she nods. "Let's go." He thumps her back in his excitement before turning to his men, gathering them up before leading the charge on the gate; exhausted from her run even with the potion's help, Lyvia lags a little behind, but holds her blade firm and charges with the rest.
Lesser daedra meet them in the town square, and she's relieved it's not more of the heavily armored soldier-types she'd met inside Oblivion, like the one she'd taken the key for the keep from. She sweeps behind the guard, landing final blows or blocking escape routes and it's not long until the square is completely daedra-free. Matius lets out a cheer and rallies his soldiers, all looking worlds more optimistic than just an hour ago (has it even been an hour?), then gathers them up to see who's left in the chapel and form his next plan, to push into the castle and find the count.
The inside of the chapel is blessedly cool, at least compared to outside, and dark. There's a handful of civilians and a couple of soldiers, and Lyvia is suddenly reminded of her fears, that she was too late before she even set out. Outmaneuvered, again and again it seems. Of course, she had been a fool to think that she wouldn't be; if the assassins had been able to infiltrate the imperial palace so thoroughly as to wipe out the whole legitimate royal family, then of course they would have known that—
"You should probably sit down, you look like you need it," a soft voice interrupts her thoughts, and Lyvia just about jumps out of her skin. Whirling around, she comes face to face with someone she…doesn't recognize. Not one of the guards, that's for sure; he wears a simple grey robe with no armor to be seen. He looks haggard — his long brown hair dull with soot and sweat, face drawn and tired, and a smattering of stubble across his jaw — which she supposes is only to be expected. She doesn't know precisely how long the city has been under siege, but she remembers how terrible she'd felt after just a day without sleep — how terrible she feels now going close to as long — and honestly is surprised he doesn't look worse. She lets him steer her to a nearby bench and sinks onto it gratefully with a heavy sigh.
"Thank you," she says earnestly. "It's been a long couple of days. Although, I suppose I don't need to tell you that…" She trails off with an uncomfortable chuckle; he makes a sound just short of that, and she hopes she hasn't offended. But he sits next to her, so she can't have said anything too terrible.
"That looks pretty bad," he nods at her shoulder, and, for the first time since she went into the gate, Lyvia really takes a look at herself. She's covered in soot and ash and dark splatters of who knows what, bits of the armor she wears dented and torn, and specifically the shoulder he's looking at has a nasty cut on it; she's not sure how long it's been oozing blood but it certainly would go a long way to explaining why she feels so out of sorts. She mutters a word she probably shouldn't be saying in a chapel and moves to put pressure on it with her palm.
"I know a little healing magic," the man holds out his hand hesitantly towards her shoulder. "May I?" Well, how actually fortuitous, she thinks as she nods, pulling her own hand away. The magic is like a balm on the irritated wound, soothing as it knits her skin back together. When he's done, the blood on the leather is the only sign anything had happened; she rolls her shoulder experimentally, breathing a relieved sigh when it feels as good as before the gate.
"Thank you again," she smiles at him. "It sounds a little crazy but I hadn't even noticed."
"I imagine you had bigger things to worry about," he agrees; the half smile he favors her with doesn't reach his vivid blue eyes, and she wishes she'd gotten there sooner. Spared these poor people such horrors, now that she knows that she could have. She remembers the haunted looks in the refugees faces in the camp outside the city, and can only imagine how much worse it had been inside the city. They sit in the quiet for a moment; she should get back to her mission, but she's just so tired that even the bare wooden bench feels comfortable enough to sleep if she's not careful.
"I'm Lyvia, by the way," she says, finally breaking the silence between them. "Maybe you can help me again, actually; I'm looking for someone."
"I can't promise they'll still be…" he trails off for a moment before gathering himself. "I'll help however I can, who is it?"
"His name is Martin." He blinks at her for a moment, and she wonders if she's said something strange.
"Well, you've found him," he says, and now it's her turn to blink blankly at him. For some reason, he's not what she expected. She supposes that when Jauffre had mentioned him being a priest, she'd pictured someone…stuffier, maybe older. Not that the man sitting next to her is young precisely, he must be older than she is at the very least, and likely not by just a couple of years, but he feels like someone she can picture being friends with. The surprise wears off, and urgency takes its place as she leans towards him.
"You have to come back with me; you're in terrible danger!" she blurts out, relief being overtaken quickly by the need to get him back to Jauffre where he would be safe. Martin frowns at her incredulously.
"You don't say," he says dryly, and she realizes suddenly how stupid she sounds; he's just lived through a literal hell and she's arrived a day late with the most obvious statement she could have said. "You came all the way here to tell me that? There's a lot of other people here that actually need your help."
"No, no, you don't— You are Martin, priest of Akatosh, right?" It would be her luck that there would be two Martins and she's just making a fool of herself.
"Yes, yes, but I don't think I'm going to be much use if that's why you need me. I'm having trouble understanding the gods right now." He looks away, eyebrows drawing together in…frustration, anger, something more complicated. Lyvia remembers her words to the Emperor, that she has a complicated relationship with the gods, and scoots a little closer.
"You and me both," she admits, fiddling with the tail of one of the straps on her armor. Now that she's allowed to sit and breathe, the weight of what she had seen in Oblivion is starting to settle on her. She remembers the image of Oblivion she sees in her dreams from time to time, dark starlit paths and glowing plant life and a quiet settlement in the distance. Calm and most certainly not on fire. It's hard to reconcile with the hellscape she had seen within the gate; the lava, the fire, the scraps of people strewn about.
"If this is some kind of divine plan, I want no part of it," he murmurs. Lyvia glances at him, his face, and hates that she has to drag him into this. But she knows that, if there was another way, Jauffre would have told her, surely.
"I don't either, but unfortunately I think we are the divine plan." She picks at a spot on her sleeve. "That's what the Emperor said, anyway, that this was my fate, or something to that effect." Martin looks to her again and frowns in confusion.
"The Emperor? What does he have to do with any of this?"
"…Oh. You're—"
"Hey, we're about to head for the castle!" Matius certainly has impeccable timing, Lyvia can't help thinking in annoyance. "You're with us, yes?" Over his shoulder, some of Matius' fellows are looking at her expectantly, hopefully, and she feels suddenly like she once again doesn't have much of a choice in the matter. If she says she has to go, that she has an important mission to complete, what would they say? Would they let her? She hesitates, torn.
"I… I had a mission, and I have to—"
"It's fine, you can tell me later," Martin stands, looking to Matius. "If you need another pair of hands, I can go too." Lyvia feels a sudden jolt of panic; she was supposed to deliver him to safety, not to a bunch of daedra on a silver platter!
"No, no you have to stay here," she pushes herself off the bench (her poor legs feel like they wish she would have stayed a little longer). "I didn't fight through that whole gate just to walk you back into danger!"
"I appreciate your concern, but I'm not helpless, and I'm not going to just sit here when I can help." Martin's voice is steady and confident and determined, and he steadily holds her gaze. It's just her luck that he would be so stubborn, and she knows she's already lost this fight. She can only hope that he's as competent as he is insistent.
"…Fine, but, please, stay near me. I made a promise to get you out safely," she begs, and he nods his agreement. Matius gathers his men, and Lyvia and Martin follow him back out into the square, pulling weapons as they go.
They together cut a swath through the minor daedra. Lyvia, already exhausted, feels like her arms will fall off at this point, each swing of her blade feeling as if she's moving through thick mud, and each move to block slashes from the daedra's claws coming slower. For a moment, when there's a break in the fighting, she thinks she's safe to take a breath, only to feel something slam into her back, jolting her forward and nearly into another guard. Lyvia catches her balance and whirls, brandishing her sword, to see Martin burying his dagger into the neck of a scamp, jolts of electricity leaping over the creature's skin. It drops to the ground, dead or soon to be, and he turns to give her a small near-smirk.
"I thought you were supposed to be protecting me," he teases, and she stares for a long moment before allowing herself a slightly-hysterical giggle.
"Yes, well, you said you're not helpless, so…" she shrugs at him, and it feels so incredibly normal considering the circumstances.
"Dammit!" Matius' voice interrupts the moment from nearby. "The castle gates are locked!" Lyvia perks up; fighting may be difficult for her, but locks? She can handle locks. She would love to handle a lock instead of a sword for a moment, in fact.
"Here, let me see," she hurries over; however, her hopes are dashed as the gate's not locked in a traditional sense, as it's connected to a mechanism on the other side meant to raise it. "How do we get over?"
"There's a passage in the north guard house," Matius glares at the gate as if it's personally offended him. "But it's always locked."
"That's no trouble, I can get in and open the gate for you," Lyvia assures confidently. "Just be ready to come through, I don't know how many daedra might be inside—"
"I'll go with you," Martin interrupts; he'd followed her when she asked to look at the gate, and now he's fixing her with that look again, that one that said he will not be convinced otherwise. Lyvia sighs in frustration.
"Look, I know you said you can handle yourself, but there might be too many—"
"And how do you suppose I would sleep at night if I let you go alone and you didn't come back?" he challenges, and she pauses, staring at him. It's not that she thinks he's cruel or anything, but he doesn't even know her, why should he lose sleep if she didn't come back out? If this is how he thinks of a stranger, how much have the deaths of the townsfolk over the course of the attack weighed on him? She closes her eyes for a moment; she shouldn't, she shouldn't let him, if nothing else she should say that she'll unlock the door and let someone else go through to open the gate, or call off the mission to retake the castle altogether, or—
"Okay," she looks up at him. "Okay, but, if it's going badly, we leave, both of us, no arguments."
"But if there's still someone inside—"
"No arguments," she repeats, stepping a little closer. "I cannot impart on you how important you are right now. You'll just have to trust me. Please." He has to do no such thing, she's confident that she can't force him to do anything at this point, but she can't even fathom heading back to Jauffre to tell him that she allowed the last heir to the throne to fall in battle. But he wants so earnestly to help, and so far he's the first person since she was locked in that jail cell to seem to actually care if she lives or dies beyond this mission she didn't want but ended up with anyway. He seems to consider, and she can see how frustrated it makes him; she's suddenly very sure that if the door through to open the gate weren't locked he'd go even without her, even if it were a death sentence.
"Alright," he agrees, finally, reluctantly. "If you call the retreat, we retreat. Both of us." Lyvia notes the emphasis, that it's as much of a threat as a promise; if she tells him to go, he won't unless she does too. Fine. She has no desire to die tonight, anyway; if the count is still alive he'll just have to stay bunkered in the castle until reinforcements can arrive. The castle gates will provide protection enough from any daedra inside for the rest of the townsfolk.
"Good. We'll be back," she says confidently to Matius, then heads for the guard house, Martin following close with one hand on his dagger.
The guard house proves no trouble at all, and after so many locks just outright refusing to be picked or held shut by things a lockpick can't help with, Lyvia feels a sense of relief that she hasn't lost her touch. A few moments and the lock springs free, the hatch in the floor opening with ease and letting them into the dark passage below. Martin summons a little ball of light to help show the way, and she's grateful. It means any attempts at stealth will be pointless, but also that they'll be able to see any danger coming.
The passage is clear of enemies, though, and they emerge into the open air unchallenged. The rain is falling harder now, and as much as she normally would hate to be soaked through, the cool was welcome after the fire and heat. The area the passage brought them to is sandwiched between two walls and gates; on one side waits the guardsmen, and on the other she hears the shrieks and scrabbling of daedra. Lyvia sheathes her sword, taking stairs two at a time to where a great metal wheel is affixed to the stone walls. She grabs the handle of it and shoves with all her might…but it doesn't move, not even a little. Worse, her hands slip around the handle, making each attempt even worse. She tries to dry her hands on her pant legs, but the rain renders it a vain attempt.
"Do you need help?" Martin's voice is soft at her shoulder, raised just enough to be heard over the occasional thunder and the not distant enough daedra snarls. She steps back, motioning to the wheel, mouth curled down in a frustrated frown.
"It's all yours."
He takes the wheel in hand and shoves, putting his whole weight behind it, jaw tight with the effort. Lyvia isn't sure if it was always this hard to turn, or if whoever had shut it against the daedra had jammed it to try to keep them out. But just when she thinks the whole endeavor is hopeless, it budges, just a bit. She takes the other side of the wheel — there's no grip on this side but she only needs to add enough force to get it moving — and pulls, dropping her own weight to add to the effort. There's a great scraping noise, and the wheel jerks free; Lyvia falls on her ass but doesn't even care, it's moving and now the guards are moving in… and the daedra are alerted by the sound of the great gates raising. Guards and daedra fall against each other, metal and claws scraping and scratching at each other; Lyvia and Martin shoot each other a quick glance before drawing their blades and joining the fray.
It's not long before the daedra in the courtyard are felled, Martin's ice spells doing more than any sword to finish them off, and the group moves into the castle. The foyer is completely trashed, isolated pockets of fire burning in corners, furniture broken and scattered, and more daedra. Matius and his men charge to meet them, steel ringing against obsidian claws of the beasts.
"Go, find the Count, we'll hold them!" he yells to Lyvia, and she nods, pulling Martin's wrist briefly before slipping past the battle raging among the wreckage. Luckily, he seems to understand and follows her, sending a parting ice spell at one of the creatures the guards are facing. She hates to take him from helping the guard when he has a knack for striking down daedra, but if the Count is injured, Martin's healing skills could make all the difference in getting him out alive.
A hope that is all too soon dashed. Every room they sprint through is completely wrecked, broken and burning furniture flung around haphazardly, books littering corners where their shelves had been knocked over, though whether it was by daedra wreaking havoc or by castle guards trying to buy time, she has no idea. Outside of the throne room there's a single, empty chair facing away. That should have told her precisely how well holding the castle had gone. But she pushes on anyway, finally reaching the furthest sleeping quarters from the front of the castle. As Lyvia pushes open the ornately carved door, she's met with a wave of heat and the screech of a scamp. It leaps at her, and she raises her sword to meet it, only for it to fall limp against the blade, an ice spike shot over her shoulder jutting through its skull. She glances back, murmuring a quick word of thanks before pressing into the flaming room.
And there she finds the Count, limp and cold on the bedroom floor, still dressed in his finery, stained as it is with blood and ash.
"Gods." Lyvia covers her mouth; too late again and she's looking at the Count but she's seeing the Emperor broken on the stone floor of that passage and she thinks she might be sick—
"Lyvia," Martin's voice breaks through the panicky haze settling over her; she blinks and realizes he's keeping the flames at bay only barely with his ice spells. "We have to go!"
"J-just a moment, I need to…gods…" She needs to get something to at least show Matius that she tried. Kneeling down next to the body, she looks over the Count and tries, tries, to be methodical about it. Look for some object that would satisfy the guards. Lyvia doesn't understand why, when she'd seen terrible things inside the Oblivion gate, that this relatively mundane dead body is bothering her so badly. She finds the Count's ring and decides that will have to be good enough; slipping it free of his stiff hand, she backs out of the room as the inferno threatens to overtake it entirely. Martin closes the door behind her, freezing the wood to buy them time. Then he follows her, jogging for a moment to catch up with her quick stride, and slips his arm around her shoulders.
"We did our best," he tries to comfort, but she can't help but wonder if he even believes that. If they hadn't bickered about whether he should accompany her or not, would those few seconds have made the difference?
It wouldn't have, she knows it wouldn't have, the Count was already cold when they found him. But how many hesitations of hers have added up to not making it in time? If she had taken one less break on the way to Kvatch, or on the way to Weynon Priory, or if she hadn't hesitated at Menien's cage, or if or if or if.
She leans into Martin and accepts the comfort anyway, because she doesn't know what the alternative is.
They stumble together back into the foyer, where the guards have defeated the daedra and continue to hold the room. Matius demands to know where the Count was, why he isn't with them. She holds out the ring wordlessly while Martin explains that the Count was dead already when they reached the room, and that the fire meant they couldn't retrieve his body. She doesn't realize that tears started falling until Matius looks up from the ring and his own grief made way for something like pity.
"I don't blame you," he says. "You didn't have to risk your life to help us but you did anyway. You did more than anyone could ask." Lyvia wipes at her face, tries to arrange it into something neutral, and thanks him for the reassurance before excusing herself and wishing him well. Together, she and Martin left the castle, his arm still around her shoulders.
"So, what were you trying to say earlier?" he asks as they step back into the chapel, taking the brief moment out of the rain to at least attempt to dry off (an empty hope, Lyvia knows, they'll just be soaked again when they step back outside). She pauses wringing out her hair; it feels like hours ago, even if she knows the castle plan hadn't taken that long.
"I… You're the last living son of Uriel Septim." Lyvia looks over to see him staring at her, as if he hadn't heard her.
"Emperor Uriel Septim? You think the Emperor is— No, no you must have the wrong man." He's shaking his head, and how can she blame him? She's just a petty thief, a runaway daughter of a shopkeep and now here she is, too. Neither of them asked for this.
"I know it's hard to believe. I know it is. But that's why the daedra attacked Kvatch. They were after you." She steps closer, her dripping hair forgotten. "That's why the Emperor sent me to find you."
"You spoke to the Emperor and he told you to find me? All of Kvatch razed to get at me? Why?" Gods she hates to upend his life like this; what a great way to thank him for being so kind to her since she'd walked in this chapel.
"Because you're his son, and you're the only heir left," she says quietly, and for several moments, there's just silence. Martin holds her gaze, as if waiting for her to say that she was just joking. She wishes she could. "Why would I lie to you?"
"…I don't think you are," he swallows hard. "I think you're telling the truth, as hard as it is for me to believe. It's strange."
"Apparently that's a Septim thing," Lyvia gives him an apologetic smile. "Either that or I just have one of those faces." He huffs something close to a laugh that sounds like he's as close to a breakdown as she was in the Count's quarters. She reaches out and touches his arm, too short to reach his shoulders the way he had draped his arm over hers. He catches her hand for a moment, just one, and takes a deep, steadying breath before letting go.
"So, what do we do now?" he asks.
"Jauffre asked me to bring you to Weynon Priory. It's a couple days' journey from here. I'm not sure after that." Lyvia catches what seems to be a blanket that Martin tosses to her from the pile of sparse supplies in the far corner of the chapel, and she uses it gratefully to at least somewhat dry off. She hangs onto it in the hopes that maybe she can reach her cloak before becoming completely soaked. And that the enchantment that repels water is working where she'd left it outside of the gates. She hears Martin clear his throat.
"You risked much to stop the attack. You gave the people hope. The least I can do in return is come with you to see what Jauffre has to say." He gives her another tired, strained smile, but this time it just touches his eyes. "Lead on."
The two make good time, the rain letting up not long after they set out from the chapel; Lyvia manages to find her cloak amongst the rocks outside of the city gate and sends silent thanks to Nocturnal that no one else found it and thought it free for the taking. She spreads the cloak as wide as she can and throws it over herself and Martin. It works well enough to keep them relatively dry, even if walking became much more difficult, squeezed so close together. The further they walk from Kvatch, the more the weather lightens until the clouds begin to break up overhead, letting the twin moons peek out at them. They walk and walk, until the clouds have completely cleared and the moons are high.
"We should probably find somewhere to rest," Martin says around a yawn. Lyvia thinks back to how many times she's slipped on seemingly nothing since the rain had stopped. She hates it, but she knows if she doesn't rest she'll be useless against any threats.
"I know somewhere," she pulls out her nearly-ruined map and points to a little smudge, not far from where she thinks they are. "There's a little cave here I stayed in when—" Lyvia cuts off; something's wrong. She glances up and sees shadows on the path ahead; people, people that clearly aren't wearing any kind of guard's uniform. They're walking briskly, with purpose. She glances back up at the moons; nearly midnight? No. This is very off.
Grabbing Martin's wrist without a word, Lyvia drags him into the trees. He starts to protest, but she gives him a sharp glance, a silent warning, and he falls quiet. She pulls him into a thick bush; the branches hurt, but they hurt less than the knife she remembers digging into her hand. Crawling over Martin, she crouches low and peers out of the bushes. The shadows are close enough that she realizes she recognizes the robes they wear; she saw them in the passage, the same ones the assassins wore. She barely dares to breathe as the two pass within paces of her hiding place.
But they don't stop, look around, or even speak. They walk like they're on their own mission, and Lyvia doesn't have to think too hard on where they're going as they slowly shrink into the distance. When she can't see them anymore, she lets out the breath she didn't realize she was holding…and scrambles off of Martin, flushing red in embarrassment.
"I'm sorry, I just—"
"No, it's okay," he picks himself out of the branches, brushing leaves off his robe as she pushes herself to her feet, shaking debris from the underbrush from her hair. "I'm going to take a guess that those are the people who wanted me dead so badly?" She swallows hard; she swears she can feel the assassin's hand on her throat again for a moment.
"Y-yeah," she takes a slow breath, then looks down at the map in her hand; it had been absolutely shredded by the branches in her haste to hide them. "Looks like we'll have to follow the road signs. Or stop in Skingrad for a new map maybe."
"Let's get to that cave you mentioned, and we can make a plan from there," he suggests, and she agrees. They walk through the brush this time, both spooked from the open road at least for tonight. It's not long before she spots the cave, blocked by a simple door. They both draw their blades as she pushes it open with a creak… only to sheathe them again as the cave was just as empty as Lyvia had left it. Martin busies himself with making a fire while she circles the room, just to be sure.
Before long, they're settled next to the fire with what's left of her food; her plan to restock in Kvatch had gone horribly sideways to say the absolute least. She tries not to let him see that she gives him a bigger portion than herself; she has no idea how long exactly he'd been trapped in that chapel, what their supplies had looked like. If he would've even taken any while there were people hungry around him. It's tempting to stick her head back outside — she's almost certain the first time through that she'd seen some berry bushes — but the assassins earlier had come far too close for her comfort. So she quickly scarfs down the dried meat and cheese and bread she had packed and doesn't let that she's still terribly hungry show; she's suffered worse, she tells herself, and tomorrow they can restock.
"So," Martin's soft voice is clear in the hushed cave. "How did you end up here?" Lyvia lets out a small laugh.
"Well," she begins. "It all started with me getting arrested. And they put me in the wrong cell." He's quiet as she recounts the tale, from the cell to her escape through the sewers and the stop at Weynon.
"So, fate, huh?" He says it like he wants to scoff at it but can't bring himself to, and she quite agrees.
"Supposedly. The Emperor said—" and she puts on her best Uriel Septim impression, "—'in you I see the sun's companion', whatever that's supposed to mean, when I asked him what fate he saw for me in the stars."
"Maybe he meant son as in child," Martin suggested. "Talking about getting me to Jauffre?"
"I don't think so," she says, leaning back on her arms in exasperation. "Because then we got to talking about moons and suns and it was pretty miserable actually."
"Why do you say that?"
"Because I'm a night person, I don't like being in the sun, and then he compared me to the moon, but the moon doesn't get to be with the sun so what is the point?" She glances over and sees him watching her with some amusement and fights the urge to throw dirt at him; not a lot, mind, just enough so that he'll stop laughing at her. "Never mind, I guess it's something where you had to be there."
"No, I didn't mean—" he twists where he's sitting to face her better. "I wasn't laughing at you. I just think it's quite the coincidence that neither of us were really looking for this kind of…responsibility." And then he smiles at her somewhat sheepishly. "It's nice not to be the only one." Gods damn it all but when he looks at her like she just kicked him she just can't stay mad at him.
"Yes, I suppose it is," Lyvia agrees, looking back to the fire.
"You should probably get some sleep," Martin suggests, and she curls in on herself at the thought. The image of the assassins passing so close is still in her mind, and… She thinks of the Count and Menien and Uriel and her own close call with the assassin in the escape passage and she's frankly afraid to sleep.
"I'm fine, you sleep first."
"You literally just fought through Oblivion and back, and then stormed a daedra infested castle. I only did one of those things," he looks at her pointedly. "You sleep, I'll keep watch." The anxiety settles like a pit in her stomach. She stares determinedly into the fire.
"I've been going on less sleep than this."
"Lyvia. Why are you actually avoiding sleep?" She grimaces at the question, because there's something about the way he says her name that makes her feel like he's serious. That she can't just shut it away in some dark corner. That he'll drag whatever it is into the light, whatever it takes. She wonders if he's doing it on purpose, or if it's something else that came with the royal blood he didn't want.
"I am…" She takes a breath and tries again. "It's childish. I've never done anything like this before. I… I'm afraid that if I close my eyes for longer than a quick doze that I'm just going to see it all again and—" Shit, she's crying again. Gods, she's supposed to be protecting him, at least until she can deliver him to Jauffre. She can't just keep falling apart like this. Her palms press hard into her eyes as she tries to make herself stop, but then they're peeled away as Martin takes them and holds them firmly in his own.
"If… If it helps, I have the same fears," he confesses, and…she's surprised that it does help, at least some. "I don't think anyone, even a seasoned soldier, would have been prepared for what we saw in Kvatch. So, I have a deal for you. If you do have a nightmare, you can tell me about it, no judgment. And if I have one, you do the same for me. And we'll get through it." Lyvia can't help the tiny smile that sneaks its way free.
"I thought I was supposed to be protecting you?" Her voice is still thick with the sudden emotions, and he chuckles.
"Well, maybe watching each others' backs is a better plan, hm?" he proposes, and she wipes her face on the edge of her cloak. (And then briefly wonders, in a strange tangent, how one cleans a water repellent cloak.)
"Maybe," she relents. "But I'm still the one standing in front; I won't be telling Jauffre I let you get stabbed by bandits or something." But her tone is teasing, and he laughs, the first time she's heard him actually laugh.
"Of course," he agrees. "Now, get some sleep, I'll be right here watching the door." Lyvia arranges her pack like a particularly lumpy pillow, dragging her cloak over her to be a blanket. The cave floor doesn't feel wonderful, but she's so tired she can't bring herself to care much. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she remembers the many warnings her mother gave her about letting her guard down around men, but… She can't explain it, how safe she feels around Martin when she just met him. He just seems kind. Maybe she would live to regret that, but maybe not.
"Tomorrow," she says around a yawn. "We go to Skingrad to stock up." He smiles, just a little.
"Sure."
"And make sure to wake me up so you can sleep first."
"Of course."
They fall silent, a comfortable silence broken only by the occasional cracking of the fire. Lyvia stares between the fire and the door, eyelids heavy but still fighting to get them to stay shut. She thinks that eventually she's going to be scolded for still being awake, but Martin's quiet; occasionally she glances over to see him diligently watching the door to their cave. Eventually, she blinks, and this time her eyes stay closed.
She dreams that she's walking through a forest. Not the one she normally dreams of, with luminescent mushrooms lining the path; no, it's the woods just outside their cave, or one that looks very similar. Clouds cover the moons and stars, plunging the whole forest into darkness. And where normally this would be ideal for her, there's a thick knot of dread in her stomach. In the shadows of the trees, even darker than the darkness on the path, she thinks she sees bodies, a parade of the people she had failed already, even the ones who's names and faces she doesn't know. And, somewhere behind her, she knows something is following her. No matter how fast she runs, she can feel them stalking, watching. Her foot catches something and she falls, hard, onto the packed dirt of the path. She's afraid to look at what she tripped over, her legs won't cooperate to get up and keep running, she can't breathe—
A small weight, a flash of warmth appears in her hands, and she looks down to see a tiny ball of golden flame. Her mind says 'candle' but it's wrong, candles have sticks of wax. She doesn't know what this is, but it's warm and bright, illuminating the section of path she's kneeling on, chasing away the visions of bodies and blood and whatever is — was — chasing her.
She doesn't remember the rest of the dream, but Lyvia wakes feeling more rested than she's felt since she left the prison.
Chapter 3
Summary:
Lyvia and Martin head out to Weynon Priory in earnest. But what will await them there?
Notes:
Hey all, and thanks to everyone that's offered support. :D I've been really enjoying writing this so I do hope that you're enjoying it. Special thanks to my friend Lee for being an amazing source and proofreader for the horse content. :3
Chapter Text
It's hard for Lyvia to wake up when Martin shakes her shoulder in the early morning hours. But with wakefulness comes an aching in her back and shoulders from the hard cave floor, and going back to sleep is out of the question. She stands and stretches, pacing around the cave room to hopefully walk out some of the pains while Martin settles down next to the burned out fire, his little light spell he'd used before providing just enough to see by. He starts to use his arm for a pillow before Lyvia pushes her cloak at him, and he doesn't quite manage to hide the relief as he balls it up and rests his head on it. His little wisp of light zooms over to hover at Lyvia's shoulder instead, and then he goes quiet and still, and she settles nearby, leaning against a large rock.
The cave is almost eerily quiet without the crackling fire. Lyvia finds herself jumping at every little sound, every unseen drip of water and imagined snapping of a twig becoming another assassin coming to kill them in her mind. She thinks she can see it becoming light outside of the rickety wooden door; at least she'll be able to see any figures on the other side blocking the small amount of light. Drawing her lockpick from where it sits in her pocket, she fiddles with it even if she doesn't have a lock to use it on. The familiar touch of the handle soothes, bringing her some measure of peace. She isn't certain that Nocturnal's domain of shadows includes caves, but the thought that She might be watching over them is comforting.
Lyvia's eyes wander to Martin's sleeping form. It's funny, really. A priest of Akatosh and a worshipper of Nocturnal; under normal circumstances she would never have stepped foot in his chapel and he almost certainly would never have been found at a shrine to a daedric Prince. If they were not bound to this horrible plot unfolding, would they have ever even met? And yet she finds this one thing, in these last several strange days, she doesn't regret. He seems a good person, and she'd like to know him better. And maybe try not to think about how he's going to be Emperor. Will she stay with them, once she's delivered him to Jauffre? Or will she be sent away, a security risk they can't chance, and she'll never see him again? The idea hurts, the thought that she wouldn't be able to see this through. That she might lose what could be one of her very few chances at friendship, and so soon. She can hardly think of it without inviting thoughts of betraying the late Emperor's faith in her, which, despite her impatience with his metaphors, feels unthinkable. No, she'll see this through, she thinks, however it ends.
He shifts, just barely; it wouldn't even have been noticeable if she weren't watching. His hands clench, just a bit, and his jaw tightens. She can't be sure, but she thinks she hears a quiet sound from his chest, though she couldn't put a name to what it was with it being so low. Is this what she looks like when she has nightmares? Is that what's happening? He can't have been asleep for long, but she isn't really sure how long it takes for a nightmare to take hold. Lyvia, unwilling to leave him to deal with it alone, slides closer across the stone floor, until she's sitting at his side, careful not to sit on his robes. As if he can sense her, his hand seeks hers like a messenger bird finding its home roost; she jumps at how sudden it is, but doesn't pull away. They did agree to watch out for each other, after all. After a few moments, he seems to relax, though his hand stays locked to hers. She adjusts, just a little, and looks back to the door, resuming her vigil.
Skingrad they can likely make before too late in the day, maybe by about noon. She doesn't know about Martin but she desperately wants to wash off the ash and gore of the last day or so; surely they can find an inn with bathing facilities. Such things are expensive, but… Lyvia glances back at Martin's sleeping face and wonders if Akatosh has any rules about playing up sob stories to get discounted assistance. They could perhaps pretend to be a married couple, barely able to escape the horrors of Kvatch and—
The feeling that this is silly almost drowns the idea immediately, but Lyvia has seen it in action before. Her father is a little harder to work, but her mother has often given away goods to sufficiently polite, down on their luck patrons. And she's well aware of other shops in Leyawiin who have as well. And unless Martin is hiding his royal fortune somewhere in his robes, they have very limited funds; they need supplies to make it the rest of the way to Weynon, and if they have to feel a little silly for a while to get them, so be it. She's done less pleasant things to afford to eat for an evening back in the Imperial City.
Lyvia waits until the sun is shining brightly through the gaps in the door's boards before shaking Martin awake. The dark circles under his eyes speak to how much more sleep he could probably use, and she's sure she doesn't look much better, but honestly this will only help her plan. As they collect their few belongings, she pulls her cloak close around her; the less innkeeps will be able to see of her armor, the better, if she's to pass for a teary refugee. They set out quickly, and as they walk, she tells Martin of her idea.
"Wait," he interrupts, stopping her in the road; she bites back her frustration, she can see the stables outside of Skingrad's walls from here. "You want me to—"
"You don't have to do any talking, and minimal acting," Lyvia assures, and hopes she doesn't look as embarrassed as she suddenly feels as her mind hisses at her how this is a stupid idea and she should just forget it. "Just leave all the talking to me and…look supportive. A lot of men let their wives do the talking anyway, especially if she's upset. Hopefully they'll be too busy trying to get me to calm down to notice you much at all."
"And you're okay with this plan?"
"I'm— Of course I'm okay with this plan, I came up with it!" she laughs a little, if only to let off some of the anxiety in her belly. "Look, we're just playing things up a little so we can actually afford to get the things we need. It's not…I'm not asking you to do something you're uncomfortable with, am I?" He looks at her in surprise.
"No, no I understand." He fiddles with the hem of his sleeve. "And we're not really lying, we are refugees of a sort…"
"Exactly. And trust me, we're not going to go anywhere that will break for giving us a few loaves of bread and letting us use their washrooms," Lyvia assures him. "And shopkeeps all talk, by the time we're done at the inn word will have spread; it should be easy then." He nods as they resume their pace.
"How do you know all this?" he finally asks as they're passing the stables. She huffs an almost-laugh.
"My parents are merchants, and I grew up watching them. I've seen just about every scam you could possibly imagine."
"If your parents are shopkeepers—" he starts, and she cuts him off, presuming where he's going with this line of questioning.
"I never wanted to be one," she glares at the ground in front of her feet. "They presumed I did and I didn't. Let's leave it there." She can tell he doesn't want to, but he drops it, and she's grateful. She remembers well how easily he'd pried why she was afraid to sleep from her and knows he could have done the same here, but she knows where it would go. And she's not ready to tell him about Nocturnal yet. Maybe she won't ever be.
Before they go through the Skingrad gate, they huddle closer together, trying to look the part of a traumatized couple. She passes off her pack to Martin; it would make little sense for his much smaller and distraught "wife" to be carrying it. He slips his arm around her shoulders, like back at the castle, and Lyvia thinks it's a nice touch. She pulls her hair forward, letting the curls wrap around her face messily, then reaches up to ruffle his hair too; the less put together they look, the better. She glances around, notices a fairly well kept inn with even stone and a nice sign, and decides they'll begin there. Summoning up some of the most upsetting images she can imagine from the past week, Lyvia feels tears well up and decides that will be good enough before pushing open the door.
"Please, please you have to help us!" she wails, hoping the way her voice cracks is helping. "We've lost everything!" The innkeeper looks up at her from where she had been writing something on a piece of parchment. Lyvia does her best to not lose her nerve at the keeper's stern gaze; just because her father had been harsh about charity doesn't mean this woman will be. Before she can say anything though, a bosmer woman bustles over; her attire marks her as a maid for the inn, and she has a motherly air about her.
"Oh, you poor dears! What happened?" she asks before the innkeep can so much as say hello. Lyvia glances around quickly; there's a few patrons in the lobby, a couple eating and at least one looking about to check out. This is good, she thinks, nothing quite puts the pressure on like an audience. And if the innkeep still puts up a fight about it, there's a non-zero chance that someone else here will pick up the tab out of pity, then go badmouth the innkeep at nearby shops.
"Th-there was a terrible a-attack!" Lyvia tries to work in realistic sounding hiccups, but decides on hysterical wheezing when they wouldn't quite work into the words. "In Kvatch, there was— Just, daedra, everywhere, they burned everything to the ground… Gods, the blood…" She lets herself swoon into Martin, just a little, and he rubs her arm; she doesn't dare look up to check his expression and just hopes it's convincing.
"Poor things!" The maid takes her hands (Lyvia worries for a moment about glimpses of armor, but the woman doesn't even glance under her cloak) and rubs her thumbs over her knuckles. "What do you need, a place to stay?"
"N-no," she sniffles. "We have f-family but they're in Chorral and it's such a long journey and we have no supplies…"
"Ardnea, what are you doing?" The innkeeper speaks up, and she feels Martin look her direction, tightening his grip on Lyvia. Good, good, play up the protective angle. Maybe he was better at this than she feared.
"Oh, Erina, we can't just turn them away, look at them!" The maid, Ardnea, clutches Lyvia's hands more tightly. For her part, Lyvia thinks back to walking in to see Kvatch's count dead on the floor and knows she'll pay for upsetting herself so on purpose later. But for now, she needs as realistic of an expression as she can muster. "Surely there's something we can do for them!" The innkeeper, Erina, looks down her nose at Lyvia, then up at Martin, and Lyvia hopes they're convincing.
"…We have a bathing room on the premises," Erina says after a long moment. "And an attached washroom for clothes. Help yourselves. The clothesline in the room is enchanted, they'll be dry before you're done bathing. I have a few connections, I'll see if I can find you any travel supplies." Lyvia feels the tension ease from her shoulders, and she lets them droop dramatically in her relief that's not entirely fake but also not nearly as desperate as she paints.
"Oh, Nine bless you!" she simpers, even as she internally cringes at herself. Martin murmurs his own words of thanks, and follows the maid, Ardnea, towards the back of the establishment.
"Here you are, dears." She stops before an unassuming door. "There's towels and soaps and things in the cupboard. If you need any assistance, just give a shout, yes?" Lyvia nods, and the woman bustles away. They maintain the image for a few more moments, then step apart, both breathing sighs of relief.
"You have quite the talent for that," Martin compliments, and she blushes.
"Oh, it's nothing much. People just can't stand watching a lady cry," she nervously chuckles. "We're lucky that maid was so nice, it always helps to have someone they know arguing on your side."
"Regardless, it was quite clever," he compliments again, and she shakes her head, doing her best not to argue with him despite feeling it really wasn't all that special.
"Let's get out of this hallway before someone hears," she motions to the room, intending for him to go first. Instead, he holds the door for her. Rolling her eyes, she walks past him, shedding her cloak (too warm in the already warm inn) as she goes. The bathing room is warm, steam rising from the water in the tub. (Perhaps enchanted? The inn certainly seems well enough off to afford it.) There are some well made cabinets, a long, frosted window in the far wall, close to the ceiling, letting light in but keeping the privacy of potential occupants. Fluffy towels are stacked on the counters atop the cabinets, and a mirror behind them, fogged by the hot water nearby. To Lyvia's left is another door that must lead to the washroom the innkeeper mentioned.
"Alright," she walks over and grabs one of the towels. "Okay. Right. You can take the bath first, and I'll handle the clothes." She doesn't look back at him, but she can feel him staring at the back of her head.
"I can't ask you to do that." She's not sure if this would be easier or harder if he weren't trying to be a gentleman about it.
"You didn't, I offered." Lyvia starts to hug the towel to her chest, then remembers the filth on her armor still and thinks better of it. "I did plenty of washing when I was in the Imperial City, it's not a big deal." There's silence for a moment, then the sounds of moving cloth, and she remains facing the door dutifully.
"So did you work in an inn in the city?" Martin asks conversationally. Lyvia can't help but think of how her father would likely have a conniption if he knew she was in a room alone with a naked man. It's almost funny, if it wasn't for how she thought she might melt into the floor in embarrassment if she wasn't careful. Very careful.
"Sometimes," she answers, picking at a loose thread on the towel in her hands. "Or in some of the more wealthy homes. I did odd jobs to earn enough to pay for my inn room at night." She didn't mention that she didn't always find jobs. Kind as he's been, she isn't ready to give him all her problems. His arm appears next to her and she takes his robes, carefully bundling them up and not following her instinct to glance over her shoulder.
"I'll…knock, when I'm done," he says, and she nods, stepping through the door and shutting it quickly behind her, both for his privacy and hers.
Lyvia's glad she'd watched so carefully when Jauffre was doing up her armor, but she's still unsure if she's going to manage to get it back on. She carefully unties and unbuckles each piece, letting them drop on the ground and then dumping them into the large barrel of water taking up about a quarter of the room, along with Martin's clothes. She decides not to soak her boots, carefully splashing just a little water on them to get some of the worst of the gore off and then setting them aside, against a wall. Then she takes a breath and pulls off the clothes that had provided a barrier between the armor and her skin; the formerly off-white cloth is now stained dark by blood and sweat and ash. Last are her underclothes and as much as her mind wants to worry about Martin, as the nearest man to the room, she knows she should really be more worried about literally any other patron that might be staying at the inn, people she doesn't know. People that could be more assassins.
Taking a deep breath, she tries to banish the thought from her mind; her lockpick is tucked into her boots for safekeeping as she dunks the rest of her clothes in the water. She thinks that the barrel must be enchanted as well, as the water isn't nearly as dark as it should be. The work routine comes back to her easily, and she scrubs at the cloth and leather without hardly thinking about the task, letting her mind wander. After they finish here, they should search for a trader; they'll probably have a map, and despite being able to follow road signs, if they're forced off the path a map could be a lifesaver. Perhaps find a smith to sharpen their weapons, as it is quite likely the dagger and sword both had been dulled in Kvatch. If the inn doesn't have food to spare, perhaps the trader will. An alchemist wouldn't be bad to visit as well; they need to get back to Weynon as quickly as possible, so fatigue potions will be nearly essential…
She loses herself to the planning, scrubbing and scrubbing and when she deems the clothes clean enough, hanging them on the lines stretching across the ceiling. Her cloak surprises her; despite maintaining its water repellency, the soap still seems to work fine and washes away well, leaving it nice and clean. When she hangs the last piece of clothing, her trousers, she turns back and sees that the water in the barrel is already clean again. How curious; she wonders at the enchantment and how much it must have cost, for none of her patrons in the Imperial City to have had one. As she's peering at the barrel, how the stains on the wood remain even though the water is clean, there's an almost too-quiet knock on the door.
"J-just a moment!" she calls over her shoulder, clambering for the towel, wrapping it around her tightly. It doesn't cover as much as she'd like, but it covers everything important and she earnestly doesn't think Martin is the kind of person to go leering at people just because they're slightly less dressed than normal anyway. So she summons her courage, chases the memories of her mother and father's fearmongering to the back of her mind, and answers the door.
He looks better, and not just in the way that one does when they're no longer covered in daedra viscera and sweat. It's like the warm water brought some color back to his skin and life back to his eyes. Though she keeps her eyes trained firmly on his face, she's aware that he's wrapped his towel around his midsection, and that he looks appropriately apologetic despite their predicament being entirely her own idea. They both duck their heads simultaneously and move past the other, her closing the door behind her.
And if Lyvia sneaks the briefest of glances, out of pure curiosity, and sees a soft torso with a dusting of brown hair and arms that are just very slightly more defined than she expected from a priest, well. No one else needs to know that.
The water is delightfully hot, and she frankly wishes she didn't ever have to leave. The feeling of her hair in particular being clean again is such a relief. Once the blood and dirt and ash is washed away, she indulges in just a few minutes of relaxation. Her exhausted legs in particular are overjoyed to soak in the heat, muscles finally getting a break after almost a solid week of walking and running and bracing for attacks. Her back and shoulders too, still sore after the night on the cave floor, feel much better when she finally makes herself leave the water's embrace. Lyvia reaches for a fresh towel, rubbing her hair mostly-dry before wrapping herself again, the damp waves falling around her face. Taking a deep breath, she knocks on the door, pushing the door open when she hears Martin call her in.
"You're looking better," he greets, as casual as if they were just sitting in one of the inn common areas and she wasn't only wearing a towel. Lyvia gives him an unamused look before crossing to the clothesline. As she reaches for her tunic, she hears him start for the door.
"Hold on," turning, she calls to him, and he pauses. "I…am going to need help with the armor, I think. Jauffre helped me get it on before, and I tried to remember but there's a lot…" Lyvia is tempted to just leave the armor off entirely, putting it in her pack, but she remembers the assassins from the previous night and it's all the encouragement she needs to make it work. After all, her charge is still wearing only a simple priest's robe that would be none too helpful against an assailant's blade.
"I can't promise it'll be the best work, but I'll do what I can," Martin agrees. He waits, politely facing the wall, until she's dressed in the clothing before turning to help with the armor. If nothing else, the extra hands are a massive help as Lyvia tries to remember what clasps and ties and buckles will hold the pieces together. Here and there, Martin seems to recognize or assume some of the ties that are meant to connect, and between the two of them they finally get the armor on well enough. Lyvia pulls her cloak back over her shoulders, even if the washing rooms are so warm that she immediately wants to pull it off; she needs to not look capable to the innkeeper. Martin picks up the pack, but before they leave she slips her hand in his.
"More convincing." The explanation is brief, and he nods, adjusting just a little so it looks just that little bit more natural, his fingers lacing with hers. Despite knowing he must feel so awkward, Martin's hand is sturdy and warm and, for just a moment, it's all to easy to slip into the role she'd cast for herself. Lyvia gives herself a little mental shake; she has to stay focused, not get caught up in the story she herself has woven. She feels a little bad as they leave; though the bath and the wash barrel are self cleaning, the muck that fell from them as they undressed and bathed remains on the floors and cabinets. She almost wants to go clean it herself, but they can't risk staying any longer than they must. And it really does play well into the tale, anyway.
Eyes fall on them as they reappear in the tavern area of the inn, hand in hand and looking clean and refreshed. Some of the patrons from before have moved on, it seems, disappearing either to their next destination or their rooms, but a few from before are still milling about the room and sneaking not-so-subtle looks at them. Lyvia does her best not to overthink what their glances could mean, what they're assuming, what they could be judging. Without the layer of grime the difference in her and Martin's age is probably a lot more apparent; it doesn't really matter even if they were a real couple, but despite leaving home and trying to shove them out of her mind, she can't help but think of her parents and what they would think.
…Honestly, she thinks they'd probably just be happy she finally had a suitor at all.
"There you are!" The bosmer maid hurries back to them, beaming when she sees their entwined hands. "Some of the other patrons pitched in for you to have a decent meal before you leave!" Lyvia knows they should decline; every minute they stay in Skingrad is another minute for the assassins to find them. But just as she opens her mouth to do just that, her stomach rumbles embarrassingly loudly. They haven't eaten since the night before, after all, and while they'll be getting some travel food soon before leaving, it would be smart to not have to eat from it right way. Martin squeezes her hand reassuringly before thanking the kind woman and letting her lead them to a quiet table away from the entrance to the inn.
They don't speak much as they eat, a combination of being too hungry to stop long enough to do so and not wanting to risk being overheard saying anything compromising. It hasn't been long before Martin moves his hand over hers; Lyvia, lost as she is in her thoughts of travel preparations, jumps, and wants to wipe the amused smirk off his face as her heartrate slowly returns to normal. She briefly considers kicking him under the table.
When they've finished, Lyvia excuses them with profuse thanks to the staff, only to be greeted with a collection of dried foodstuffs, a map, waterskins, a couple of small blankets, a handful of fatigue potions, and a few other odds and ends meant for travel, apparently gathered by both the inn's staff and some of the patrons. She stares for a long moment, truthfully unable to find her words; Martin steps in to offer his own thanks, the words coming with such earnesty and sincerity that honestly she thinks it's better that he was the one to speak. She murmurs her thanks as she packs the gifts, and then they're on their way.
They stop by the blacksmith before leaving, and luckily he had heard about the down-on-their luck couple already. He takes their battered weapons and happily sharpens them, and the stone with which he does is so loud they don't have to make small talk. Lyvia spins some tale of having picked up the sword from a fallen guard, for protection on the road as they fled, and the smith doesn't question it, refusing all attempts to give him even token payment. And finally they are back on the road back to Weynon Priory.
(It's strange, but she finds she misses his hand in hers when they can finally drop the ruse.)
The roads are surprisingly quiet; aside from the occasional wildlife needing chasing off, they run into few delays, excepting needing to stop for rest. Lyvia's been walking for just over a week at this point, with nearly no breaks, and she suspects that Martin didn't do very much of it in his chapel to prepare him for such a trek. But he never complains, and so she tries not to either, though her feet ache and her legs yearn to just sit for as long as she possibly can. When this is all over, she thinks, she'd like to sleep for a week straight.
They're about half a day out from Weynon when their easy progress is finally challenged. Lyvia stares up at a massive stone outpost that looks, for all intents and purposes, abandoned as they approach it. Some of the masonry has begun to crumble around it, ivy and moss and other vegetation growing up its neglected walls. The sun is starting to set above it, not quite out of view as the glare flashes into her eyes and partially blinds her. And so she feels Martin tense beside her before she ever sees the two figures appear from within the fortress to block the road.
"You go no further," the first, a huge khajiit, growls, hand resting on the handle of his weapon — an axe — at his hip. "Your money or your life." She thinks she sees Martin start to go for his dagger from the corner of her eye, but the second bandit, a dunmer with a bow, has taken up a stance on a pile of rubble. The bow is drawn taught, arrow trained at Martin; she touches his hand, a silent warning she hopes he'll heed, before taking just a couple of steps forward, careful to leave her hands limp at her sides under her cloak.
"Please," she puts on her best poor, desperate expression, though she dares not try to summon tears, lest she not be able to see well if the two decide to attack. "We are but refugees, fleeing from a terrible daedra attack on Kvatch. We have nothing save a little food." The khajiit hums thoughtfully for a moment, the sound a deep rumble in his chest, and takes a few steps forward, his hand never leaving his weapon. In the corner of her eye, his accomplice hasn't moved, bow held steady, aimed directly at Martin. A threat, a reminder, to stay put.
"Why should this one believe you?" he challenges, tail swishing behind him. "When this one could easily kill you and take it from your corpse?"
"I beg you, we have nothing, we lost it all, I swear!" she lets the desperation creep into her voice, and she doesn't dare glance back at the accomplice again; he exists in her peripheral only as a dark shadow now. She takes a small step forward again, carefully, keeping her hands low under her cloak to not reveal her armor or the sword at her side. She sees the bandit's hand tighten on his axe handle, but he doesn't draw it, nor does he give any signal she can see to the other. He steps closer, until he's close enough that she has to crane her neck to look up at his face. He takes her chin in hand; his claws are long and razor sharp, the tips pricking her skin. Lyvia sets her jaw as he tilts her face, grip strong enough that she can't hold her head still without actively fighting him. Not yet. Not with the archer still trained on Martin. I won't be telling Jauffre I let you get stabbed by bandits.
"Hmmm, there could be other ways you could pay this one," he says, and his sneer bares his fangs. Lyvia swallows hard, fighting the urge to draw her sword there and then. She will not fail this close to her destination; if she has to play along until the accomplice is distracted, or tired enough to lower his arm, then that's what she'll do. But just as she's found her resolve, she hears the shuffle of feet in leaf litter.
"Leave her be!" Lyvia doesn't even get the chance to tell Martin to stop, she doesn't get the chance to plead her case to the bandits, to do anything to distract. The khajiit's eyes flicker from her face to Martin behind her, then he jerks his head at his friend. She hears the bowstring release, and the distinct thud of the arrow finding its mark behind her, the pained sound from Martin cutting through everything else.
Jerking her face free, Lyvia shakes back her cloak and draws her sword in one smooth movement, the blade slicing into the bandit's less-armored thigh. He yowls in pain, drawing his axe and swinging it wildly towards her head. She ducks low, her sword slicing at his ankles; he leaps back with a hiss, his tail lashing. Lyvia doesn't know how, but she hears the sound of the bow being drawn again; she drops to the ground, rolling with the movement as she hears the sound of ice crystallizing and the sickening thunk of something burying in flesh. The arrow lands next to her feet as she comes out of the roll, and she looks over to see the archer fall, an icicle in his temple. She should look for Martin, make sure he's alright, but she sees movement and barely jumps back before the axe can strike her shoulder.
Lyvia's next swing bounces off the khajiit's breastplate, and his axe clips her bicep; there's a sting, but her arm still works so she grits her teeth and swings again. He growls, blocking the blow with his axe, the curve of it catching her blade and twisting it in her hands. Thinking quick, she drops the blade and lunges for his axe, grabbing it just below the head. They struggle over it for several moments; Lyvia throws her weight at him and then drops as she clings to the axe. He tries to cling to it, but it twists free; she falls clumsily to the ground, scrambling to get her feet back under her when she hears the sound of ice again.
The khajiit falls dead before she can regain her footing.
Breathing hard, Lyvia stares at his body for a long moment before she can regain herself. She spins on her heel, looking for Martin, and there he is, robes stained with blood and face a little pale but still standing. She rushes over, her dropped sword forgotten and the bandit's axe left to fall to the ground next to it. The arrow is still sticking in his shoulder, and it makes her furious, though she couldn't begin to explain why. Lyvia lets him lean on her as she pulls him over to a small pile of rocks, sitting him down gingerly.
"Why?" she demands, hands frantically fluttering around the arrow.
"Well I couldn't very well let him treat you like that," he says, almost casually, though his voice is strained. She hesitantly touches the arrow, only barely, but jerks away as he hisses in pain.
"It's fine," he grits out between his teeth. "Just get it out and I can heal it." Lyvia's hands shake; it's buried deep, but not so deep that as to go through entirely. She's no healer, not even close; what if she does it wrong? What if she becomes the reason why the last heir to the throne bleeds to death on the side of the road? What if—
"It's alright," Martin rests his good hand over one of her shaking ones, curling his fingers around hers. "I trust you." I don't deserve that. The thought comes unbidden, but Lyvia feels it in her bones. What has she done to deserve such faith? But he has it, she can see it his brilliant blue eyes that hold her gaze steady. She takes a breath; she can only try to be worthy of it. Wrapping one hand carefully around the arrow, she braces her other against his chest and she thinks they both hold their breath.
She wrenches the arrow free, and the pained keen is trapped behind Martin's teeth as he tries to hold his composure, though whether it's to preserve her feelings or his pride she can't say. Lyvia drops the arrow to the ground, his blood staining his gray robe darker. His hand glows gold as he holds the magic over his leaking shoulder, and for a moment she's terrified it won't work. But slowly, surely, the flesh knits back together and the blood stops flowing, and before long he lets out a heavy sigh of relief. Though the wound is as if it were never there, Lyvia can't stop staring at the torn and stained fabric.
"See?" he prompts, trying to catch her eye. "Perfectly fine." But she thinks she's going to sink to the ground right there, the way her knees shake. The way her everything shakes.
"He never should have sent me," she hears herself saying. The Emperor must have been mistaken, surely. If this was her fate, surely she wouldn't be fumbling through so badly. Fear roots her to the spot — if she can't keep him safe from bandits how is she supposed to face agents of Oblivion?
"Lyvia, it's okay," Martin insists — it looks like he thinks about reaching for her hand, his hand twitching where it rests on his knee. "If the worst thing that happens to me on this journey is an arrow to the shoulder, I think we've done well for ourselves, all things considered." She swallows, searching his face for any sign that he's just saying these things to make her feel better, but he seems so earnest, that look again like when he admitted it was nice to not be the only one yoked to fate. Lyvia shakes her head; no matter his belief, she's incredibly out of her depth, this incident only proved that.
"L-let's just get you to Jauffre," she hears herself saying, turning to pace back to her blade, sheathing it back at her side. She thinks she hears him sigh before he stands, following her. They leave the bandits where they lay, cooling in the fading sunlight.
They walk in mostly silence, the dirt crunching under their boots. Lyvia thinks that they should walk through the brush again, just in case they're being followed or someone comes along from ahead again, but she knows if they move quickly Martin will be with someone who can actually protect him all the sooner. Glancing between the map and the twinkling stars starting to appear in the twilight, she leads them as directly as possible toward Weynon.
By all rights, they should be stopping to make camp, the dark gathering around them like a blanket and inviting the temptation to rest. But there's something off that keeps her walking, strides brisk and leaving Martin to nearly have to jog behind her. Even so, he doesn't complain, and when she glances back at him…she thinks she sees that same strange dread she feels in his eyes that wasn't there earlier. Lyvia is no stranger to gut feelings, and this one demands urgency. Something is wrong, and she needs to move quickly. To avoid it? Or to meet it? She's not sure.
And when they approach the crest of the hill they climb, and see smoke and hear the sounds of fighting, she feels that dread grip her heart like ice.
"Help! Please help!" Someone — not one of the priors, he's dressed as a laborer rather than in robes — comes running from the compound, eyes wide in terror. "They're killing everyone!" Lyvia is struck still by the sudden deja vu, the memory of the oppressive heat and raining ashes smothering her.
"What do you mean, who's killing everyone?" Martin asks, placing a hand on the terrified man's shoulder.
"I don't know, I don't know!" he cries, shaking like a leaf in a storm. "I was working in the sheepfold when some travelers came through. They were speaking to one of the priors and then they called weapons and…and…" Lyvia shakes her head, as if to scare away the flies of her memory.
"Where's Jauffre?" she demands. A jolt of terror for him has taken her heart; if these were the same people that assassinated the whole royal family, through their guards, what chance did one nearly retired Blade stand?
"I-I'm not sure, the chapel I think. Please—"
Before the man can say anything else, Lyvia turns to see more of the assassins charging at them. Martin ushers the man behind him, drawing his dagger as Lyvia leaps forward, drawing her blade and a battle cry rising in her chest; she had done nothing to save Uriel Septim, but they will not have Martin.
She clashes blades with the first assassin she reaches, sliding sideways along his conjured blade to ram her shoulder into the other one as he tries to run past. He staggers, whirling on her even as his eyes flicker to Martin. Lyvia blocks his blow with her blade, arms shaking under the force. Pain explodes up and down her spine, the first assassin's blade burying in her exposed back; an agonized, choking cry escapes before she can stop it. Lyvia swings her sword wildly at the assassin before her — if she's going to die, she wants to at least take one of them with her. She should tell Martin to run, but the pain is blinding and she can't seem to find her words; breathing alone is hard enough. There's the sound of footsteps and scrabbling and maybe yelling before the bound dagger pulls from her back, the burning as it rips through the flesh on the way out drawing another gasp of pain from her.
She can't think about it; Lyvia grits her teeth and staggers forward, slashing her blade at the assassin, desperation and fear sending a strength she shouldn't have through her body. The strikes land true; the bound armor dissipates into air, and she plunges her blade through his middle, blood spattering the ground, his and hers. He falls, clutching at his middle; she stabs again, heart pounding in her ears as she drives her blade through his heart, her weight falling against it. He doesn't move again.
Still leaning heavy on her blade, Lyvia lifts her head to see Martin dispatch the other assassin, dagger drawing across his throat with electricity dancing over his skin. Their eyes meet and she sees the terror there, but not for himself, she thinks. She wants to tell him to go, before more show up, but she still is struggling to breathe. Letting go of the blade, she tries to take one step, two, then they buckle beneath her. The ground is hard beneath her knees, but it's like her body doesn't want to cooperate. Before her shoulders can hit the ground, though, there's hands on her shoulders, and warmth.
"It's alright, just hold on," Martin's voice is calm, composed, too composed for the way she just barely hears the waver in it. The touch of his magic is a balm on the wound in her back, the tendrils of it reaching deep to the damaged pieces of her that the bound blade had torn apart and putting them back together. She feels it when it stitches up whatever had been causing her such trouble breathing, because she's able to take the first full breath she's had in several minutes, and is embarrassed by the absolutely pathetic sob that rips itself free of her chest at last. She realizes she's placed over his lap, on her belly, only able to see the ground under them and the fabric of his robes. Her hands clench as he continues his work, angry at herself and still coming down from the absolute terror that she was going to die, that he was going to die; she feels his hand run through her hair soothingly, and where she might have protested at the familiarity, it's keeping her grounded, something to focus on. She's not sure she wants to know how many of the people in Kvatch he'd had to comfort to their deaths for it to come so easily to him.
"W-we have to find Jauffre," Lyvia tries to push herself up, stumbling and wavering as her head swims. Martin catches her, though, offering a steadying hand at her elbow as he stands with her.
"You need to be careful, you—"
"We need to find Jauffre because he has the fucking amulet!" she snaps, immediately feeling bad for it but no less desperate. She doesn't know what these people want, why they killed the royal family, but it can't be for anything good, not after what she saw at Kvatch. Staggering a few steps, she pulls her arm free of him stubbornly; it's probably better that he stays out here, if the other assassins are inside. But before she can get very far, he's caught up to her, is pressing one of their last fatigue potions into her hands. His hands are steady but he looks at her with a deep concern in his jewel blue eyes. Regret for her words tastes bitter in its wake.
"…I'm sorry," she averts her eyes, staring at the potion in her hands.
"I understand; you've had a trying several days, to say the least." He's holding her sword out to her; she forgot that she'd left it in the assassin she felled. "And you're right. We should find your friend." Lyvia downs the potion to hide how she almost wishes he'd shouted instead. She doesn't know what to do with this kindness. Kindness she hasn't had to manipulate or beg out of him, like her various patrons in the Imperial City, or earn with her behavior, like her parents. Feeling more steady on her feet in the wake of the potion's magic, she takes her sword, though does not bother sheathing it before leading the way to the chapel.
The chapel is in shambles, furniture scattered throughout, in various states of broken or damaged. The relief Lyvia feels at the sight of Jauffre, still alive and breathing though cornered by two assassins himself, is possibly only outdone with the relief on Jauffre's face as he sees reinforcements. He deftly knocks away one of their attacks, moving with the kind of ease she wouldn't expect from a prior, but absolutely would from the grandmaster of the Blades.
"You have impeccable timing!" he calls. "I have the one on the right!" Lyvia charges, blade held high and swinging with all her strength at the assassin on Jauffre's left. She stumbles before turning to raise her bound blade at Lyvia; she drops low and slices below the brandished bound weapon, shattering the bound armor cloaking the assailant. Lyvia twists the blade in her hands, driving it point-forward into the woman's gut. A bolt of ice shoots over her shoulder and into the woman's forehead, striking her dead, her body sliding off Lyvia's blade with a heavy thud as Jauffre finishes off his own combatant.
"Thank Talos you're back!" he sheathes his weapon, clapping her on the shoulder. "We had no warning before they attacked; I was here when I heard Marobel— Well, I only just had enough time to get my blade."
"We were attacked on the way in." She swallows, fresh memories of the pain and the fear rising unbidden. "But I think we got all the ones outside."
"Good, good. Come, we have to get to the Amulet; I'm afraid that's likely why they attacked us," Jauffre moves with purpose as he leads the way out, one hand resting on the grip of his sword. He barely gives Martin a passing glance. Lyvia jogs after him, and hears Martin on her heels. Together, the three head for Jauffre's office, where Lyvia had first spoken to him, walking past bodies of the fallen priors and more broken furniture. Once they reach the office in question, Jauffre moves to a bookshelf and Lyvia hears a click just before it slides out of the way, revealing another room.
"Dammit!" Lyvia knows when she hears the curse what Jauffre's found even before he reappears, an empty box in one hand. "The Amulet of Kings is gone! Outmaneuvered at every turn!" She stares at the empty box, as if she just looks hard enough, the Amulet might present itself. But the box remains empty, of amulets and of hope.
"Not every," Martin speaks up for the first time. "I believe you sent for me." Some of the tension falls from Jauffre's shoulders as he finally seems to really see Martin for the first time since he stepped into the Priory.
"That I did," he agrees. "And thank Talos for that. So all is not truly lost."
"Is it not?" Lyvia interjects. "Don't we need the amulet?"
"Yes, but the amulet can be recovered; dead men cannot," Jauffre looks back at his little box, for just a moment the frustration flashing into view before being shuffled away out of sight. "For now, we have to get Martin somewhere safer than this. When the enemy finds out he still lives, they will be back." He sets the little box on one of the weathered bookshelves before brushing past her and Martin, clearly intending for them to follow. Lyvia hesitates, eyes on the box. It's a selfish thing, but her hands itch for something to do with them in the down times. She has no hopes of ever getting back the little lock she fiddled with back in the Imperial City, or getting her small collection she'd left at her parents'. And the small box has a little lock right on the front, an ornate looking thing that is so very tempting.
Her hand closes around the box before she hurries after Jauffre.
"If not here, then where?" Martin is saying as Lyvia hurries out of the building after them; he glances at the box in her hands but doesn't say anything, though she imagines there's some amusement there.
"Nowhere is truly safe it seems," Jauffre leads the way to what appears to be the stables. "But we can play for time. We'll go to Cloud Ruler Temple, in the mountains near Bruma." Lyvia grimaces, her legs aching at the thought of—
"We're going to walk all the way to Bruma?" She doesn't mean for it to come out as a whine, and she should be embarrassed but Nocturnal preserve her she is so tired.
"Of course not," Jauffre scoffs. "We keep a few horses here at the Priory, and unfortunately their owners have no need for them anymore." His voice was frank, but for a moment there's a sorrow that settles on his shoulders like so much weight. But it's gone as quickly as it came, and he's briskly pulling horses from their stalls. Martin steps in to help, collecting saddles and bridles and other equipment Lyvia doesn't have names for from around the stable. Jauffre brings over a pretty paint and stops her in front of Lyvia before stepping back to the other horses.
She eyes the beast apprehensively; it isn't that Lyvia has never seen a horse before, far from, but she's only ever been on one's back for brief periods, as part of lessons, and it's been at the very least a few years since the last time she rode. She's never been particularly enthused by it, preferring the carts her family utilized to move their goods, and she never particularly excelled at those riding lessons she's sure her father paid far too much money for. And now… now she has to ride this horse all the way to Bruma. Not just to Bruma, in fact, but into the mountains near there. She's never been to a mountain, let alone ridden a horse on one. But it has to be better than walking, right?
But she doesn't know how to saddle a horse herself (is that even the right term? it's been so long since those lessons), and remembering the shame of having to admit she'd never had to don armor before makes her hesitant to ask for Jauffre's help, even if she knows he would give it. Just one more way for her to be a disappointment to all that faith the Emperor had placed in her; if this is her destiny, why hasn't destiny given her the skills to do it?
"Have you done this before?" Martin asks quietly when he approaches with saddle propped against his hip, the bridle over one shoulder. Lyvia swallows nervously before giving a little head shake.
"Not…not myself. I had a few lessons as a child—"
"That's alright, I can help, just give me a moment to finish mine," he smiles reassuringly at her, setting the gear down and handing her a brush. "Give her a brush while you wait, it'll help her feel more comfortable with you." He goes to finish helping with the other two horses, and she watches him for just a moment before looking down at the brush in her hand. It feels a little like the ball of flame from her dream.
The horse seems incredibly calm considering the carnage in the priory; she stands quietly and lets Lyvia run the brush over her back and sides, occasionally looking back at her with what Lyvia thinks might be suspicion, but otherwise seeming entirely content. She can only assume that the assassins had planned for there not to be anyone left to use the horses; otherwise, she would have expected them to either have turned out the horses and left them to run away, or killed them in their stalls. Or maybe she just reads too much fantasy and the assassins simply didn't think about it. But, considering everything else they've done, she rather doubts it.
Martin returns, this time with something that looks like a small blanket, draping it over her horse's back. He gets to it, working through the tack with Lyvia hovering near him, watching closely. At first he continues in silence, but quietly starts to point out this piece goes here, that piece connects here, make sure this part's snug unless you want it to slide. He encourages her to try herself, and now he's the one hovering while she works, carefully checking over each strap and buckle to make sure it's secure.
"So, how does a priest know how to do this?" she asks conversationally, nodding at the bridle she's now holding. "Do priests often go horseback riding?" He laughs, a warm thing that brings a small smile to her own face despite everything.
"I grew up on a farm," he explains, helping to slip the bridle over the horse's face when Lyvia is just a bit short to get it on easily. "I didn't do much distance riding, and it's been some time, but it's muscle memory."
"Since my family are merchants, we usually had carts we rode in." Lyvia fiddles with the bridle. "My father paid for lessons when I was younger, but to be honest I never paid much attention." Martin's hand slips over hers, adjusting it to where it should be. It's easy to follow his lead, his movements confident where hers are hesitant. She admires his patience, wonders if that's something he learned in his position as a priest or if that's something he's always had. And when she dares to sneak a glance up at him, he's watching her with a kind of fondness that she isn't accustomed to, a little glimpse of sunlight between the clouds.
"Can we please save the discussion for when we're on the road?" Jauffre's voice cuts through the moment. "We need to get moving, if you don't mind. Lest you forget, we are still in grave danger." Lyvia's head whips around; wrapped up as she is in her own little world, hidden safely away in the shadows of the stables, she's almost forgotten Jauffre is just a few paces away with his own horse. On his own horse, actually, frowning down at them like a disappointed father. She feels more than hears Martin duck his head sheepishly, perhaps just the breath of a chuckle.
"Alright, alright," he waves him off, then offers Lyvia his hand. "Do you need help up?" She looks back up at the horse; somehow she seems so much bigger when Lyvia is expected to ride her as opposed to being pulled in something behind her. She takes his hand gratefully and, with some doing and some teamwork, she manages to get in the saddle. Her face feels just a touch warm — she'd nearly lost her balance and gone tumbling to the ground, only for Martin to catch her, though not in a way that was wholly appropriate — and glancing over favors her with his face tinted just a bit pink as well as he mounts his own horse. She's sure they'll be able to laugh about it. Eventually.
She clumsily tries to guide her horse over to Jauffre's, but she's almost certain this horse simply is following her friend rather than following any specific commands she gives her. Lyvia's hands grip the reins tightly, and she hopes they're tense enough to not betray her by shaking. Martin's horse prances up next to hers.
"Just watch what I do," he encourages, and while pride makes her want to remind him that she did take those lessons, she sees the expert way Jauffre controls his animal and the comfort Martin seems to feel in his own saddle and knows she is, once again, out of her depth. Will her head ever break water, or will she drown in all the things she doesn't know?
Jauffre kicks his horse into a trot, the hoofbeats loud against the earth, and her heart jumps into her throat as her horse starts and follows, her back pitching in a way that makes Lyvia tense up and bury her hands in the horse's mane. She's barely aware as Martin follows, her focus entirely narrowed on not being thrown to the ground.
"She won't be happy with you if you pull her mane too hard," he raises his voice just enough to hear over the sounds of three sets of hooves. She glances to him, and he looks amused, and she almost gets angry again before she remembers the cave. It's nice not to be the only one. He let her guide him in Skingrad, following her lead and listening even if it was something that didn't come naturally to him. Now he's doing the same for her, is he not? The water is so far over her head, but he's reaching for her to bring her up with him, even though he's only barely doing any better.
But maybe, just maybe, she won't drown after all.
Chapter 4
Summary:
The three make it to Cloud Ruler Temple, and Lyvia and Martin both have to face the reality of their new lives.
Notes:
I appreciate everyone sticking with me, I know this one took just a little bit longer. <3 Special thanks again to Lee for helping me with the horse stuff; I know hardly anyone else will notice a difference but this is for all the horsefolks I know that have ever complained about fic writers not doing horse research. We get a lot of really sweet moments with our favorite future couple here too so I hope everyone enjoys.
Also freaky dreams. Is it really Elder Scrolls without freaky dreams?
Chapter Text
Riding is not better than walking to Bruma.
At first, the worst part is the constant feeling of almost falling. Lyvia tries to watch Martin and copy his movements, but no matter how closely she tries to mimic him it never seems to quite work as well for her. A couple of hours into their flight from Weynon, her back is starting to ache, and somehow her legs don't feel any better than when they were walking. On top of it all, she is exhausted, and doesn't think she's imagining Martin glancing back at her more than might be considered a usual amount of concern. The moons are high overhead when she blinks and finds herself almost falling sideways; only Martin's call over the sound of hooves and the quiet chittering forest noises jerks her awake in time to right herself. He nudges his horse forward, closer to Jauffre.
"We need to stop for the night," he insists; where she might have expected a tone of apology, he seems resolved. She can imagine Jauffre's frown, even if she can't see his face from both behind and in the dark.
"We're not nearly as far away from the priory as I'd like," he shoots back. "It's too dangerous."
"More dangerous than us falling off our horses along the way?" Martin counters. "We haven't rested since this morning." Lyvia notes that Martin doesn't look all that tired, the shadows under his eyes notwithstanding, but she certainly isn't going to argue. Jauffre is quiet for a moment, and she thinks she sees his shoulders move in a sigh.
"Alright," he says. "But not here. Follow me." He points his horse into the trees, and again she's fairly sure that her horse is only following the group. Fine by Lyvia; she's far too tired to even think about fighting an animal many times larger than herself. Martin pulls his back to fall into step next to hers, and she's fairly sure she's not imagining the worry there. He's nearly close enough for their legs to touch, and she suspects it has more to do with keeping her from falling than it necessarily does any fondness. She's grateful; Lyvia has no idea how she can possibly be so uncomfortable and also so bone-tired that she's nearly falling asleep in the saddle anyway. They ride into a copse of trees, shadows from the leaves dappling the moonlight, the slower rocking motions of the horse picking her way through the brush doing nothing to help keep Lyvia awake.
"This will do," Jauffre finally announces, all the horses slowing to a stop in a small gap in the trees that can only barely be called a clearing, the tiniest brook she's ever seen cutting through one edge. Desperate to finally be on solid ground again, Lyvia makes to slide off, only to have Martin catch her arm before she can.
"Wait just a moment, trust me," he says, and after he saved her life at Weynon Priory, she does, without question. Martin slides off his horse with far more grace than she thinks is fair, giving the animal a pat before circling around to the other side, offering her both hands. Placing hers in his, Lyvia awkwardly pulls her leg over her horse's back and slides to the ground…and instantly understands why he told her to wait when her knees nearly buckle under her, his grip the only thing keeping her from hitting the ground.
"It gets better with practice," he says, though she thinks he looks just a bit wobbly as well from this close; he did say it had been some time since he'd last ridden.
"Who would've thought sitting would hurt so much," Lyvia grumbles under her breath as he helps her onto a nearby log; even that hurts, somehow, though at least the log isn't moving.
"You just have to work the muscles more," Jauffre says from where he's tying his horse to a nearby tree, the riding bridle having been removed for something that looks more comfortable, at least from her human perspective. She thinks it must be, since the creature instantly starts nibbling on nearby plants as if he has no care in the world. "It would also help if you stopped tensing up so much."
"If I don't I'll fall!" Lyvia protests, even if the stinging in her thighs tells her he has a point. The look Jauffre gives her is pure exasperation, and she looks down at the leaf litter instead, the shame from before creeping its way back in, whispering to her how useless she is.
"You won't," Martin says, some levity in his voice as he goes back to their horses. "Well…you might at first, but with practice you won't." She shoots a glare at his back as he starts prepping their two horses for the night, removing their gear and walking them over to where Jauffre's is now happily sipping from the little brook.
"I don't think I want to eat dirt while we're being chased by assassins."
"Do you really think I'd let you fall?" Martin looks back at her, and he almost looks hurt, his royal blue eyes shining in the dark. Lyvia scowls; he can't keep getting away with this. She tries to push herself up off of the log, intending to… she's not sure, start a camp fire or maybe work on sleeping places. But her legs shake dangerously under her weight; though she stands, she's almost certain any real work is out of the question. But she can't just sit there and let them do all the work; she has to at least earn her keep, right?
"Sit down," Jauffre says, even as Martin starts toward her. "Before you hurt yourself. You won't be helping anyone pushing yourself like that."
"But I—" Lyvia doesn't know what she wants to say. She doesn't know why she feels like she needs to help. That she hasn't done enough. But when Martin rests his hand on her shoulder, she doesn't fight it, sinking down miserably back on the log. "Surely there's something I can do?"
"Do you not think you've done plenty?" Martin sounds incredulous. "By my count you haven't had a full night's sleep in over a week. I think you've earned some rest." She looks down at her hands. Has she earned that? They're still in danger, and now they're stopping because of her. She opens her mouth again, but before she can speak, Martin kneels in front of her, one hand on her knee.
"Please, you've done so much for me already," his voice is soft and gentle and dammit his eyes are just so clear and earnest and— "Won't you let me do something for you this once?" Lyvia can't catch the scoffing laugh that escapes.
"You've already saved my life! What more could I ask of you?" she protests, and the corner of his mouth quirks up, just a bit.
"You saved mine first," he says. "So wouldn't you say we're even?" She flounders as she searches for another argument. She can't just let him go taking care of her like she's someone important. He's going to be the Emperor and she's just the person who happened to be near enough the former one to be sent on this mad quest. What does it matter that she's been sleeping in few-hour stretches or that her body is protesting every move she makes? When he's the one that's truly critical to making sure whatever these people are planning doesn't happen?
"You can't— You're going to be the Emperor," her voice cracks somewhat unimpressively as she tries to crush down her own feelings of inadequacy. "I'm supposed to—"
"I don't want to be any more of a burden than you do," he lowers his voice a little more; she doubts even Jauffre just across the little clearing can hear him. "And I want to help my friend who has been having a really bad time of it. Let me? Please?" And…and something about that nearly breaks her. Friend? She had thought he might be a good friend, but she hadn't truly thought that he'd want to bother with— She's never had anyone say they want to be friends with her. It's suddenly hard to see him as her vision warps with tears and her throat tightens.
"I… Okay," Lyvia finally relents, trying so hard not to let the tears fall… but fall they do. "I'm sorry, I don't know why I'm crying—"
"You are, for all intents and purposes, a civilian," Jauffre says, brushing down one of the horses. "I'm frankly surprised you've held out this long." For just a moment, she feels the tiniest spark of anger try to catch flame. But she realizes it's not meant to be an insult; she's not sure how long he's been Grandmaster of the Blades, but she's sure he must have seen plenty of people crumble under less pressure than this. She's doesn't think it's meant to be a compliment either, but the ember dies before it can ever ignite.
And so Martin and Jauffre busy themselves with setting up camp while Lyvia sits on her log and tries not to feel like she's taking advantage. Martin sets to creating a camp fire with a spell (one that she notices doesn't create smoke) while Jauffre unpacks some of their saddle bags; the bedrolls aren't the thickest and the blankets are thin and worn, but there are bedrolls and blankets and they might as well be feather beds for how inviting they look. Martin rummages through their pack they'd been carrying since Kvatch, pulling what foodstuffs they have left (she thinks for a moment that she should have gotten more while they were in Skingrad, but chases the thought away, remembering how full the pack had been). While Jauffre takes inventory of what they have, Martin brings the little box she'd taken and stashed in her pack over and places it on the log before continuing.
Lyvia stares at the box. She shouldn't; if they recognize her lockpick as a gift from Nocturnal, it could end quite badly. But…it's just a lockpick, right? Even if it was gifted to her by Nocturnal, who is she hurting with a lockpick? It's not like they're catching her praying. She slips the pick from her pocket and takes up the box, and a moment later she's fiddling with the little ornate lock on the front. It's deceptively difficult, an appropriate challenge to keep her mind and hands busy.
"I have the key for that if you want," Jauffre says, pulling her attention from the clicking tumblers. She stares for a moment while she processes what he said.
"Oh, no thank you," Lyvia gives a little smile. "This is…ah, it's kind of weird. It's my hobby. I like figuring out how to pick locks. I like the…feel of it." She twists and pulls and shakes the pick, and the box springs open as surely as if she'd used the key. She lifts it just a little, as if to say see? Jauffre shrugs and goes back to sorting out the food, but… She notices that Martin is looking at her pick with a curious expression on his face. A curious, not unfamiliar look; it reminds her uncannily of how the Emperor had looked at it, though without any of the mirth suggesting a private joke. But the moment he realizes he's been caught, he goes back to seeing to the camp, the look evaporating as if it were never there. What was that about?
Not long after, the three sit around the strangely smokeless fire with their portions of food — Lyvia, knowing the trick from when she did it, notices that Jauffre takes less than he gives them — and quietly eat; it seems that with the stillness, the exhaustion of the past day is catching up to Martin, too, as he hides more than one yawn behind his hand. She worries about their now empty food stores, but if they need, they can send her into some town to find more food, she thinks. After all, of the three of them, she's the most expendable. She chews a piece of bread absently, staring into the fire, only to jolt upright as she feels Martin's hand on her shoulder pulling her back upright.
"I think," he says lightly. "That you should probably think about sleeping." She blinks at him for a moment, her mind feeling a bit like wading through mud, before she sets her jaw.
"I could keep watch for a while—"
"Absolutely not," Jauffre interjects. "We are not leaving someone on watch that is already almost falling asleep. No arguments." He cuts her off as she opens her mouth to argue, and she pouts, shoving the last piece of dried meat in her mouth to keep her from being tempted to push back. "I'll take the first watch since I'm the most rested. And don't sleep in your armor, you'll regret it."
Lyvia pushes herself off the log (her muscles, which she thought were finally starting to recover, revert to a tense painful mess almost immediately) and stretches, her joints cracking, stiff from her sitting. Their three horses were already asleep, or seemed to be, and oh what she wouldn't give to not realize the kind of danger that could be hunting them in these woods. She fiddles with the ties and buckles on her arm bands as she wanders to one of the bedrolls.
"Do you want help?" Martin asks, and she hopes it's dark enough that neither of them can see the way her face warms at the memory of the stop in Skingrad.
"No, no, off is easy, I can do off," she gives a nervous little laugh, then goes about it, shrugging out of the leather and metal. When she's finally in just the simple shirt and trousers, she settles down carefully into the bedroll; the initial jolt of hitting the ground hurts, but stretching out is heavenly in comparison, the even limited cushion of the bedroll a massive improvement over sleeping on bare cave floors. She balls up her cloak, ripped and bloodstained as it now is, and shoves it under her head; it does the job of a pillow well enough.
"You should sleep too," Jauffre says, presumably to Martin. "You've been awake just as long."
Lyvia is asleep before she can hear the reply.
It's dark all around, no matter how Lyvia turns her head. Not like the darkness of a forest at midnight, dappled moonlight giving everything a soft glow or even the darkness of the strange realm with the glowing mushrooms. This darkness is absolute, no soft glows or barely defined shapes looming ahead. For lack of any better description, it feels like she's being held in a cross shape, though not tightly; her hands are lifted over her head and her legs about shoulder width apart. And this place feels distinctly unfamiliar; she knows instinctively that she's never been here, even if she can't see where 'here' is.
After a moment, she realizes that the darkness is so pervasive because there's something covering her eyes. She tries to reach for it, but a jolt of pain shoots up her arm as something digs into her skin. Something sharp, and not just one something, but many somethings, like little teeth biting into her flesh. Startled, she fights against it, trying to step back away from it but discovering the same teeth along her other arm and both legs, too. She feels warmth trickling down her skin, from her arms to her chest, from her legs to her feet, and she stops pulling; this clearly isn't working. The moment she stops fighting, it's like the teeth soften; clearly whatever is holding her wants her to be still.
It's warm. Or…or maybe she's warm? It's hard to tell the difference, but she does know it's enough that she feels flushed and sweaty. The softened 'teeth' are now brushing gently at her skin and sending goosebumps up her arms. There's a cloying scent in the air, and it takes a moment to place it. Roses. It's a powerful, overwhelming scent of roses, amplified beyond anything a natural rose bush would put off. And if this place smells like roses, then it's much more likely that the 'teeth' aren't teeth at all, but thorns. Inundated as she is by stimulation, she doesn't realize she's not alone until something brushes along her jaw.
Lyvia jolts back with a yelp of alarm, pulling at her limbs with renewed fervor even in spite of the thorns suddenly becoming sharp and biting again. She can't see the damage being done, but she can feel them ripping along her skin and the renewed trickles of blood from the scratches. But even with throwing all her strength into jerking away from whoever else is there, she can't move very far, and they continue brushing along her jaw, touch feather-light.
"How interesting," a voice hums, and she doesn't think it's familiar, though she also can't seem to focus properly on it. She pulls harder, but it doesn't seem to make a difference, other than the ripping pain up and down her arms and legs. "Hush now, you're only hurting yourself."
With it being so clear that her efforts weren't doing anything to help, she stops pulling, but she can't make herself stop shaking. The…it must be their hand, she thinks, brushes over one ear, the touch still incredibly gentle, and a shiver runs down her spine. She opens her mouth she thinks to protest, but all she can manage is a pathetic whimper. There's a chuckle, and breath at her other ear as the fingers at her ear trail down her neck, her chest, her belly, and lower.
"Oh, we're going to have fun."
Lyvia jerks awake, bolting upright and clutching her blanket to her chest, heart thudding, body tense and uncomfortable in an entirely different way than when she went to bed the night before. Details of her dream are already slipping away, and she clings to the few bits she can remember; the dark, the pain, the not entirely unpleasant tingling down her spine. It makes little sense to her as the context disappears in the light of the morning, but—
Morning?!
"Are you alright?" Martin's voice shouldn't make her jump, but she's still on edge from whatever that dream had been. He looks a little tired, but more rested than the night before at least. "Nightmare?" She shakes her head, trying to collect her thoughts and chase away the lingering haze.
"No, just…weird," she dismisses; he raises an eyebrow at her. "No, really, I don't know what it was but…not a nightmare. And I don't really remember anything anyway." She pushes herself off the bedroll, stretching her arms over her head, shoulders creaking. Her muscles are more stiff than painful, thank Nocturnal, but there's no helping the stinging on the skin of her thighs. "Why didn't you wake me?"
"You needed rest," he shrugs.
"So do you!"
"I got plenty of sleep, don't worry," he pushes himself off the log, crossing to where Jauffre still sleeps; she thinks the shadows under his eyes look a little relieved, but she'd rather they be gone. She starts the slow process of donning her armor as he wakes Jauffre who, after a few stretches and gathering his own armor, takes pity on her and helps with the straps and buckles. Meanwhile, as the only one without armor, Martin goes to the horses and starts getting them ready to ride, murmuring softly at them as he does. Lyvia watches him, the gentle way he handles them, his hands sure as he buckles the saddles in place. Watching him work is almost hypnotic. She doesn't even realize she's been staring until Jauffre clears his throat.
"We'll need to replace this when we get to Cloud Ruler Temple," he says conversationally, turning her a little to peer at where the back is torn, where she had been stabbed. "I think this armor's just about done for." Lyvia looks to him in shock; replace it? He had given it to her out of necessity, since he'd needed someone to go find Martin and she just happened to be the only person he had on hand, but to also replace it?
"You would do that?" she asks before she can stop herself; even she can hear the surprise there. He glances up at her, brow furrowed.
"Of course," he says. "I can't very well send you anywhere in armor that's falling apart." Oh. That makes some kind of sense. If she were him she wouldn't want to have her own death on his conscience when he sends her away. Her chest aches in the way it had when she'd left home at the thought, but of course he will; she is a liability, untrained and incapable.
"R-right," she says quietly. Pulling her cloak around her shoulders (as damaged as it is, it's become somewhat of a comfort), Lyvia goes about the camp, rolling up bedrolls and packing up the bags and pensively taking them over to Martin to place on the horses. He takes the packs, but double takes when he must see some look on her face.
"Are you sure you're alright?" he asks, and she knows he must be thinking that it's her dream bothering her. She takes a shallow breath, to steady herself, then gives him a smile she does not feel.
"Of course," she says, as easily as she can. "Must just still be a little tired is all." He watches her for a few more moments, his too-blue eyes feeling like they're looking straight through her. She breaks eye contact first, going over to her horse to give her a pat for the sake of having something else to do, and she hears him going back to securing their bags, though she imagines that he's moving a bit more slowly than before. She can't tell him what's really bothering her; it's ridiculous after all. Why should some common nobody be kept around the future emperor, at a time when anyone could be a threat?
It's not much longer until the camp is completely broken down, even the ashes from their small fire scattered among the underbrush. Lyvia knows, despite the seeming thoroughness of the cleanup, that it won't fool any pursuers for long, but it is better than nothing and hopefully they'll move fast enough that the delay to look for clues will put any assassins far behind them. Martin helps her onto her horse again — this time without any embarrassing loss of balance, to her pride and relief — before collecting his own, and Jauffre takes the lead again, out of the copse of trees and back to the trail they had left the night before.
To Lyvia's dismay, the aching from the night before returns before long with a vengeance, though she refuses to complain for fear of being told to stay behind. She's sure that splitting off from the group now would be beneficial, that it would give the assassins another trail to consider following, but… She doesn't want to leave. Not only out of fear of the assassins, either, but also this ill-advised friendship growing between her and Martin. It's foolish, and it won't last, but… She wants to savor it as long as she can. So she swallows down the cramping in her legs and back and tries to block out the terrible chaffing on her thighs.
"So," Martin pulls his horse closer to hers. "You said your parents are merchants?" She recognizes an attempt at small talk when she sees it, but Nocturnal bless she will take anything to keep her mind off of how uncomfortable she is.
"Yeah. They have a little shop in Leyawiin," Lyvia says. "Mother's usually the one at the front desk. She's good with people, you know. She can charm you into buying half the shop and you'll leave feeling happy about it." A tiny smile creeps onto her face.
"I presume that must be where you got it then," Martin chuckles, and she feels her face warm at the comparison.
"Oh, no, I'm pedestrian at best compared to her," she tries to wave off. "She's…she's really special. Always really supportive of me, too. I…this is kind of embarrassing, but I wasn't what you might call popular back home. Mother was my best friend growing up."
"What about your father?"
"He, ah," Shit, she's going to have to tread carefully. "He's…strict. I was always a bit of a disappointment I think. More interested in chasing butterflies or picking flowers than learning how to run the shop. He's better with the back end of things, acquisitions and business deals and money. Always looking for more connections to make it big."
"I'm surprised he didn't try to marry you off to some suitor for it," Martin's tone is scathing; it's a bit reassuring, she thinks, that someone else can see the disconnect, that it's not just her.
"There would have had to be suitors for that," Lyvia grimaces. "No one was ever interested. I was…odd. Or so people said. Mother always said they were wrong, that I just needed to wait for the right person, but… After a while, I just accepted that it wasn't going to happen for me."
"You're still young," he points out. "You shouldn't count it out so soon. Leyawiin's a small town, after all." She laughs, an uncomfortable thing, because yes, Leyawiin is small. Like a too small cage for a bird that had long outgrown it. Or that never belonged in it in the first place.
"What about you?" She turns it back on him, dodging the comment. "Any Mrs. Septims we should know about? Old flames that might come knocking when they hear your father was famous?" Now it's his turn to look awkward, giving a nervous little laugh of his own.
"That's… No, nothing like that." He averts his eyes, and she feels her teasing smirk fall a little. "There was romance in my youth, but… They won't be coming to call." The solemnity of the words tells her all she needs to know. Lyvia reaches out and touches his hand in a way she hopes is comforting.
"I'm sorry," she says. "I shouldn't have asked."
"It's okay. You couldn't have known." They ride on in silence for a while. Lyvia's kicking herself the whole way. It was a dumb question to ask; even if he did have a romantic partner, he would have left them behind and quite likely they would have died in the attack on Kvatch.
"So," he interrupts her thoughts. "What brought you to the Imperial City?" She freezes, just for a moment. She can't tell him the real reason, after all. That her father all but kicked her out for daedra worship.
"…My father and I had a fight," she starts, deciding to be carefully vague on the details. "I wasn't doing things the way he wanted, and so, he told me I could do things his way, or I was no daughter of his. So I left, with just the clothes on my back." Martin is looking at her with eyes wide in alarm and shadows preserve her she wishes he wouldn't, it's not that bad. Plenty of adult children leave home without help, after all.
"What about your mother?" he asks, and she barks a harsh laugh.
"I love her dearly, but she has never been able to stand up to my father," Lyvia grimaces. "All she could do was chase after me with a purse of gold, just enough to get me to the city, small enough that my father might buy that she simply was a bit extravagant when at the market or something."
"That's—"
"Please," she cuts him off, with just a hint of apology. "It's fine, really. I wasn't happy there."
"I have my doubts that this—" Martin gestures at the horse he's riding, or maybe the blood on his shoulder, or maybe the tears in her armor, or maybe all of it, "—is better than not getting along with your parents." She hums thoughtfully for a moment.
"Perhaps the activities could use some improvement," she says with some amusement. "But the company is infinitely better, I think. This is kind of…" She flounders for a moment, searching for the words. "It sounds a bit sad but, I've never really had a friend before. So if that's all I get from this, it's still something I treasure."
"More fools them for not valuing you the way you should be," Martin says with a kind of conviction she did not expect, eyes burning like azure flames. Lyvia ducks her head a little, rubbing her neck self consciously. But before she can try to recover her composure, Jauffre interrupts them, pointing out their lacking food stores and the sun now high in the sky as he slows his horse just a little.
The next few days pass in the same manner, riding as long as they can before stopping to either cook what they had foraged and hunted or to collect more food. With Lyvia in better shape than the first night, they rotate between all three of them for watches at night. She doesn't know if the riding has gotten better or worse in terms of comfort; she doesn't notice the pain as much, but she doesn't know if it's because she's acclimating to the motions or that she's just started blocking it out. And, as they travel, she notices it gets colder and colder as they approach the mountain.
They pass Bruma on the way, and while a little voice in her head whispers how nice it would be to stop and take advantage of an inn, the softness of a proper bed and meals actually seasoned with more than the few plants she knows are edible, she is well aware it's far too dangerous now that they know that, whoever these assassins are, they must realize Martin survived Kvatch. Why else would they have gone after the amulet?
Lyvia miscalculates when they start to climb the mountain pass; her horse jolts forward and up as the mare puts more power into her hind legs, and Lyvia nearly falls backwards as her balance is thrown. But she feels a pressure on her back, pushing her forward and holding her in the saddle while she regains her balance, and when she looks back she sees wisps of magicka dancing around Martin's hand and flowing to where she feels the pressure. He gives her a reassuring smile, and she returns it before turning back to the reins, leaning as far forward as she dares to hopefully prevent a repeat performance.
They can see Cloud Ruler Temple long before they reach the gates, the walls and ramparts looming above them at this small peak. Lyvia thinks she sees people milling about the walls; of course she does, she thinks. Jauffre would have picked somewhere well defended. These must be more Blades, she thinks, with some measure of relief. Even if Jauffre is going to send her away, the assassins would have to be out of their minds to linger around this stronghold, so if nothing else she can probably get to Bruma without too much trouble. What she'll do in a city where it's bitterly cold all the time with no money or supplies, she's unsure, but she can cross that bridge when she comes to it.
As they approach the grand doors at the front of the fortress, she can sense a buzz of activity within, even if she can see little. Jauffre signals them to stop, sliding off his horse and crunching into the snow gathered on the path. Martin's next, and crosses over to offer Lyvia his hand, which she takes gratefully, realizing as she stands under her own power again for the first time since that morning that her own power doesn't exactly want to stand.
The three approach the gates, and she hears the clunking of the mechanisms keeping them closed. After several moments of standing out in the bitterly cold wind, the gates creak open, shoving aside piles of snow as a single Blade takes a hesitant step into the open. His eyes flicker over Lyvia only briefly, then to Jauffre, as if confirming she is supposed to be there, and then linger on Martin, something like awe on the man's face.
"Grandmaster, is…is this…?" The man is uncertain, nervous, disbelieving and believing all at once. He wants to believe but, perhaps, is afraid to after the Blades' terrible failure.
"Yes, Cyrus," Jauffre steps forward to clap the younger Blade on the shoulder, then motions back towards Martin. "This is Martin Septim, the Emperor's son." The younger Blade fixes his eyes back on Martin, a kind of excitement and renewed fervor there. A spark of hope.
"My lord!" he says, and she just barely catches Martin's slight wince at the title. "Welcome! Welcome to Cloud Ruler Temple! We've not had the…the honor of an Emperor's visit in years!" And maybe it's because she's grown so used to watching him over the past week or so they've traveled together, seeing his expressions and mannerisms and the way he walks and carries himself, but she can distinctly see just how uncomfortable such a welcome makes him. That he's only barely biting back denial when he answers.
"Well," there's an uncomfortable almost-chuckle in his voice. "Thank you very much. The honor is mine." It's as close as he can get to denying that he needs or even wants such honors, she knows. Jauffre waves them inside, saying that his Blades are prepared to greet him, and she wonders if she imagines his shoulders slouching, just a little, as if the weight of it all might crush him. And when they reach the top of the stairs within, standing before the temple proper inside, greeted by a regiment of Blades in orderly rows to each side of their path, she sees the tension in Martin's neck and wishes she could reach out and touch his hand in reassurance. Unfortunately, she is all too sure that, as of now, the fact that he will be Emperor would make such a gesture of comfort wholly inappropriate. And while it's not that she so much cares about his title, the men and women standing and looking at him as if Talos himself has come down from the heavens certainly will.
Jauffre jerks his head, almost imperceptibly, at Martin before stepping through the rows of Blades gathered. Martin hesitates just a moment before following, glancing ever so briefly back at Lyvia as he does. She wishes she could follow, she really does. But it strikes her, more strongly than ever, that she doesn't belong here, that the kindness that had Jauffre allow her to accompany them this far was just that, a kindness, not to be confused with welcome. However, she had resolved to see this through and she still intends to do that, for however long until she is sent away, to try her best to offer Martin some support from possibly one of the only people here that still knows him as Martin, and not just 'the soon to be Emperor'. To be his friend, the way he's been one to her. So she doesn't follow, but she stays, watching from the stairs.
"Blades!" Jauffre's voice raises over the icy wind blowing through the fortress. "These are dark times. The Emperor, his heirs, his family, all dead, on our watch! Chaos threatens the very Empire itself. But there is yet hope." He motions to Martin, who is doing a remarkable job at trying not to appear like he wants to sink into the ground. "Here is Martin Septim, true son of Uriel Septim!"
The gathered Blades all cheer and cry his name and lift their swords to the sky. Their enthusiasm would be quite catching, if it wasn't for the fact that Lyvia can see Martin's face from here, and while he's not upset exactly, she can see that he's very much not used to being such an absolute center of attention. And indeed that he would like not to be. Jauffre turns to him, expectant, maybe just a little encouraging.
"Your Highness," he says, which sounds odd from his mouth considering the whole ride here he'd called Martin by his name. "We are at your command. You will be safe here until you can take your throne." Reminders Martin likely doesn't need about his impending responsibilities, but the confidence with which they are delivered likely intended more for the listening Blades than Martin. He looks out over the Blades, and after a moment Lyvia thinks he focuses on her face. She gives him a small smile, hoping it will deliver the words of encouragement she can't voice across the courtyard.
"Jauffre," he pauses for a moment; the word sounds hoarse, like his mouth has suddenly gone dry. He tries again. "Everyone. I…I'm not used to giving speeches." His voice wavers around each word; Lyvia frowns, wishing he'd not been put on the spot like this. "But, I want you all to know I appreciate the welcome. I hope to prove myself worthy of your loyalty in the days to come." There's a slightly too long pause. "That's it. Thank you."
"Well," Jauffre says. "Thank you, Martin." The change from the title back to his name doesn't escape Lyvia's notice, not after Jauffre had gone out of his way to use the title. She doesn't know if it's because he knows Martin might just combust on the spot if he hears one more 'Your Highness', or if it's some kind of acknowledgement that he is, indeed, still just Martin right now. The Blades around disperse; despite Martin's modest speech, they're still buzzing with excitement and enthusiasm. Lyvia, no longer kept back by an expectant audience and propriety, rushes forward to check on her friend.
"Not much of a speech, was it?" Martin says sheepishly, and she gives him a little nudge on the shoulder.
"Maybe not yet, but give it time! It'll get easier," Lyvia says; she wants to say she'll teach him, teach him how to make words sing without tune and how to pull on the heartstrings of an audience, but she can't make such lofty promises when she doesn't even know how long she'll be allowed to stay. "Besides, they didn't seem bothered." Martin gives a bit of a dry laugh that says he's not sure about that.
"Saluting me… calling me Martin Septim…" He says the name like he's trying it out, and the sound of it like a too large shirt swallowing him. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to sound ungrateful—"
"Please don't do that," she says, briefly touching his sleeve. "Neither of us asked for any of this. Anyone would be overwhelmed." He takes a breath, as if to steady himself, looking out over the courtyard and the ramparts, where the Blades are once again taking their positions. The first one that had greeted them is closing the gate, another couple of blades checking over the securement and bringing their horses inside. Lyvia can't help but notice the furtive glances each Blade gives to the soon-to-be Emperor.
"Everyone expects for me to know how to act like an Emperor. What to do, how to be," Martin sounds pensive and not a little anxious. "They want an Emperor to give them orders. I don't have any idea…"
"You'll have help," she points out. "Emperors have advisors, right? So you won't just be on your own. People would be foolish to expect perfection from a man who never expected this just because he wears the Amulet of Kings."
"The Amulet…" The word is heavy, a reminder of the failures that led them both here.
"We have to get it back." We, she says, as if she'll be here for it. As if she's not just a liability.
"Yes. And we…I can take it to the Temple of the One. And light the dragonfires." Martin looks out over the ramparts, in the direction of the Imperial City, the great tower just visible through the fog around Cloud Ruler, even at such a distance. Lyvia stands a little closer to him; taking the future Emperor's hand in front of everyone would be inappropriate, she's sure, but maybe the shared warmth in the chill air would be a comfort.
"Lyvia," Jauffre interjects, hand on her shoulder. "Would you mind if I had a word? Inside?" She blinks at him blankly.
"Me?"
"Yes, you," he says, exasperated, and she swallows hard. This has to be it. She'll have to leave and—and watch Martin take his birthright from afar, only the memories of these couple of weeks of knowing him to cling to as she continues trying to make her way. She gives a nod and now it's Martin's turn to just barely brush her sleeve in a quiet show of solidarity.
Lyvia follows Jauffre inside the temple; the main entrance leads into a large hall, lit and warmed by a sizeable fire in a stone hearth built into the far wall, the hall itself filled with various tables and benches, clearly meant as a sort of casual area for the Blades to eat and take their breaks. Jauffre leads her through a door to the left, into a hall that passes a room that, at a glance, appears to be full of simple bunks and chests, likely a barracks. Up a short staircase, they take a left into what appears to be an office space, though there's a bedroll (nicer than the ones they'd used on their way to the temple) pushed up against one wall. This must be the Grandmaster's office. Which does not make Lyvia feel any better.
"Have a seat," he says, and she takes the only chair in the room, at the desk, which feels wrong but he did tell her to. The Grandmaster of the Blades takes a stance just a few paces away, expression all business. She wonders if her absolute dread shows on her face.
"Martin told me about what you did," he starts, and Lyvia has no idea what he is possibly talking about. She's done many things since getting Martin from Kvatch. What part is he talking about? The scam in Skingrad? Stopping in the cave? Hiding in the bushes from assassins?
"You risked your life to protect him. You, an untrained civilian, took on two enemies, purposefully putting yourself between them and Martin," Jauffre folds his arms. "And even before that, braving the gate in Kvatch, getting him back to the priory hale and whole. I have junior Blades that could learn a thing or two from you."
"I don't understand," she says dumbly.
"You have proven yourself loyal, dependable, and resourceful. Just as worthy as anyone in this fortress. As the Grandmaster of the Blades, it would be an honor and a privilege if you would join us." Lyvia stares at Jauffre for several moments, rolling the words over in her mind a few times before they finally make sense.
"You— You want me to stay?" She can't hide the shock and disbelief in her voice, afraid of getting her hopes too high. Jauffre can't help a snort that's almost a laugh. Almost.
"What, did you think I'd throw the woman who saved the last heir to the throne out into the mountains?" he says dryly. Lyvia tries to keep her reaction muted, but she can't help the smile stretching across her face. She doesn't have to leave! She can stay, she can help Martin, she can— she can—
"But I'm no swordsman," she hears herself say. "I know basic self defense but that's it, I—"
"You closed a gate to Oblivion. You protected the heir to the throne, again and again. With more than just swords," Jauffre's face is still business, but his eyes sparkle and it's practically like a grin from the stoic old Blade. "Everything else can be taught, and there are plenty of Blades to teach you here, including myself. Will you accept?"
"Yes, yes I will!" Lyvia is surprised to find herself standing, surprised at her excitement. She's never imagined herself a soldier of any kind, still doesn't really, but she can stay! "I should tell Martin!" Jauffre's mouth cracks in a small smile at that.
"Before you go," he stops her just as she takes a step for the door. "Your first assignment is riding lessons." And isn't that just like a bucket of cold water over her head?
"Really?" Lyvia grimaces, and she thinks she hears a small laugh in his voice.
"Your sword skills are passable enough for now," he says. "But if we're going to stop this crisis you can't walk all over Cyrodiil." She groans at the thought, and for a moment her exhausted muscles complain anew. There's far too much to do to sleep for a week like she'd wished, but she can wish for it anyway.
"Go on, we're not doing anything else today," Jauffre dismisses. "We all need some rest before we get to it, or we're not going to be much help to anyone." He says 'we', but Lyvia gets the feeling he's saying it only so that she doesn't feel like she's being a burden by needing more rest. Alas, it's not subtle enough for her not to notice, but she appreciates the attempt all the same. She murmurs a word of thanks before heading back for the main hall.
Martin's inside now, sitting at one of the tables with eyes closed for a moment, as if he's just sat down. There's no guard hovering, but she's well aware of how every Blade present seems to be situated in such a way as to have him in their sights at all times. Lyvia, relieved that she doesn't have to go back outside at least, crosses over to his table just as he blinks his eyes back open.
"Jauffre said I can stay!" she grins, and he slides down his bench a little, patting the spot next to him in invitation.
"From what I understand, it was a bit more than that!" he chuckles, and she rams her shoulder into his as she sits.
"You knew?" she demands, though the mirth in her voice ruins any offense she tries to present. "You let me worry all that time—"
"Jauffre wanted to make sure he had the chance to say his piece." Martin pushes a little plate with bread on it toward her, and she rips a piece from the loaf eagerly. "One of the Blades said they would bring more food since I mentioned we haven't eaten since this morning."
"Thank gods," she sighed around the bread she's already shoved in her mouth; it's still warm and she swears she's never had anything so good. She notices that the other Blades' gazes linger on her, on how her shoulder still just brushes Martin's, and she thinks they can shove it. She's a Blade now, unless Martin tells her to stop there's no reason for her not to stay close. If anything it makes the job easier, doesn't it?
"So, do you have any assignments?" Martin asks conversationally, plucking another piece of bread for himself. Lyvia makes a face at the reminder.
"Riding lessons," she grumbles, and he laughs, and though she feels her face flush in some embarrassment, it's nice to see him looking more relaxed than outside in the courtyard.
"Probably a good idea," he says. "Can't have you walking everywhere." She rolls her eyes, her head tilting back just a little as she does.
"That's what Jauffre said," she groans, and he makes an admirable effort not to laugh again. Before they can continue, another Blade, the one that probably he'd spoken to before, arrives at their table with a tray loaded with all kinds of foodstuffs. Stew, dried fruits, nuts, roasted vegetables, more bread— It was enough to make Lyvia completely forget about horse riding. Martin gives the Blade a gracious thank you, and the conversation devolves for some time into eating probably the best food they've had since Skingrad. Probably before that even, because as nice as that inn had been, this food is better, Lyvia thinks.
As they do, content in the quiet and each others' presence, she notices the looks from the other Blades haven't abated. Lyvia hunches her shoulders just a bit; it's not a new feeling, the sensation of being other, of being an outsider. That she is not wanted. Now that the high of being allowed to stay is wearing off, she suddenly has a sinking feeling that this will be just like everywhere else she's ever been. That this is no more a home for her than anywhere else.
"Are you okay?" Martin's voice is quiet, low enough that she's certain no one else can hear over the cracking fire and the quiet hum of the others in the hall talking and milling about. She hesitates, spinning her empty spoon between her fingers.
"It feels a bit like when we first moved to Leyawiin," she says, in hushed tones. "Like I don't belong. Like I'm not…welcome." She feels his gaze on her, but she doesn't look up. It's foolish, it's silly, she should just be happy that she's allowed to stay somewhere warm, somewhere with food and lodging and work. She should be grateful—
"I understand," he rumbles back; she feels the words more than hears them, she thinks. "It's hard to be new anywhere. But I'm sure, once they get to know you, things will be better." She glances at him, favoring him with a small smile before fighting down a yawn.
"Do you think they'll protest if we turn in early?" he stage-whispers to her, and she can't help her giggle.
"You're their Emperor, I'm pretty sure you could announce your intention to spend all day abed and they'd just say—" Lyvia drops her voice and puts on a serious expression, "'Yes Sire'." They both laugh at that, and maybe she shouldn't let her guard down so much but it's so nice to be somewhere she feels safe for the first time in a couple of weeks. Longer if she counts her stints with homelessness in the Imperial City.
"In any case," she continues. "Jauffre did say we need rest, so I don't think anyone's going to stop us." He hums his agreement just as another Blade stops in front of their table. It's the one that originally greeted them at the gate, Cyrus; the awe from before is quelled, and he's the picture of professionalism.
"Sire, please allow me to show you to your quarters." He stands at strict attention, though he does give a quick glance to Lyvia. "I can show you the barracks as well if you'd like, Knight-Sister." Knight-Sister. She's never really had a title before. Unless she counts 'prisoner', she supposes. It's a bit strange; she doesn't think she prefers it over her name, but it's not a bad feeling. Certainly better than 'prisoner', that's for sure. Martin stands first, then offers her his hand; she appreciates it when she discovers every joint she has became stiff while they sat and talked and ate, making standing more of a chore than she expected.
They follow Cyrus out of the hall, the same way Jauffre had led her earlier. This time, instead of passing the barracks, he makes a turn into them. Now, with a better vantage, Lyvia sees several bedrolls, thicker than they had used on their trip from Weynon, laid out or rolled up against the wall if not being used. There's chests, too, presumably for personal effects. Shelves holding extra armor and weapons line the walls. The temperature is comfortable, despite the lack of a fireplace, and she wonders if there's an enchantment in the stones pulling heat from the great hearth in the main hall.
"There's no specific assignments," Cyrus says. "So feel free to take whatever's open. There's chests here and also in the armory for any personal items you have." No problem there, Lyvia thinks wryly; her only personal item she truly cares about is the pick still tucked snugly in her pocket. "I'm sure the Grandmaster will schedule you for armor fitting in the next few days; you can use some of the spares in here until then." His eyes linger on the tears and punctures in her leather. She nods, looking back out at the barracks. There's a few people sleeping, or milling about getting ready either for bed or for their shifts; she notices that there's nowhere private to change, and that will be…an adjustment.
She glances back to see Cyrus leading Martin further down the hall, toward where Jauffre had spoken to her, and she thinks there must've been another door she didn't notice while lost in her nerves. Lyvia gives a little wave, and Martin looks back just in time to see and give her a little wave of his own. She can't help the small smile blooming on her face; it's a little thing, but it's a relief to have at least one person on her side. Gathering her courage, she turns back to the room and tries to tune out the other people as she picks her way to a bedroll tucked in a far corner.
"Here," a feminine voice says; Lyvia jolts, spinning to see a woman in casual wear holding a bundle of clothes, a bucket of water, and a small satchel. "Word has it you've had a long journey." She takes the few offerings; the clothes are nothing fancy, but they're clean, and presuming that the bag holds washing supplies she'll be relieved to wipe away at least some of the smell of the road. "There's a shared bathing room, but I guessed that you might be a bit tired for all that."
"That's very kind, thank you," Lyvia says earnestly; the thought of going about her business here is intimidating enough, a shared bath is absolutely out of the question, at least for tonight. The woman gives her a comforting smile, then heads back to whatever other duties she has.
Lyvia thinks for a moment; obviously she's going to have to get used to a lack of privacy, but she doesn't have to right away, right? She takes the little blanket folded up at the foot of the bedroll and carefully stretches it between a couple of shelves. She almost feels more silly doing this, but…small steps. Then she pulls off the leather armor, shoving it off to a corner to figure out what to do with it later, then her heavily stained clothes underneath. In the satchel there's soap and a washing cloth, which she happily uses to clean herself well enough to be just a bit more comfortable. She decides to wash her hair, too, which proves more of a challenge but is well worth it. There's a rolled up towel in the satchel as well, small but enough to dry off, and then she dresses in the clean set of clothes. She pulls down her little privacy blanket, spreading it over her bedroll, and…
No one, not one, looks over at her in the corner. It's a strange kind of relief—both that no one was trying to catch a peek while she was dressing and also that no one is judging her lack of comfort. She wonders if any other new recruits struggle with such things. She sets her surely-ruined traveling clothes and leather armor in a pile nearby, along with the bucket she wasn't sure where to empty and the satchel with the soap and towels. She's so tired, she can figure out what to do with them later. She tucks herself into the bedroll, relieved that it's thick enough that her shoulders don't feel the pressure of the floor beneath, and that she has a proper pillow. There's a torch on the wall across from her, and she watches the flame flicker for a while, the aches and pains from the days of riding echoing through her muscles.
Lyvia doesn't fully realize when she's fallen asleep. Her dream is a hazy, warm thing; she seemingly hasn't moved, but the barracks are empty. She's laying on her front, cheek pressed into the pillow that feels softer than it probably should, someone kneeling behind her, hands working at the knots in her shoulders and back. And where she might have been alarmed, a sense of utter peace keeps her still, her bone deep exhaustion carrying through even into the dream. The one kneeling over her bends forward, pressing a chaste kiss to the hollow just below her ear. She pretends she doesn't catch a glimpse of familiar brown hair, long and straight, drooping just into her view as she blinks lazily in the dim light.
And when she wakes, she remembers nothing at all.
Chapter 5
Summary:
Lyvia settles into life as a Blade trainee and gets to know Martin a little better.
Notes:
Sorry this one took a little bit, it was a bit of a struggle at times but I felt the character moments were really important, especially since a lot of the main story takes place away from Cloud Ruler and once we get the Xarxes, well, light hearted largely goes out the window. Thanks a bunch to those of you enjoying the fic and leaving comments, it means the world to me.
Anyway, that's enough yapping from me, enjoy!
Chapter Text
The next couple of days pass in a haze; despite retiring early and sleeping late that first night, Lyvia still feels the fatigue of two weeks on the run from every shadow and branch snapping. Luckily, it seems that Jauffre anticipated this, as the first day's training is quite limited; he carefully teaches her each piece of tack and what it's for before showing her how to put them on, what order, and how tight. Then he drills her on it, over and over again, until she thinks the only things she'll be seeing in her dreams that night are buckles and horse hair.
Then he takes her to the armory, where a couple of craftsmen take her measurements and ask her things like 'how do you like to fight' and 'what are your strengths'. Questions she has no idea how to answer; she's never fought for her life before these past weeks, and her greatest strength doesn't require armor. But she tells them as best she can; she likes smaller swords and daggers, she thinks, she doesn't have much raw strength, she doesn't want to be too restricted in her movement. They take their notes, try a few cuirasses and pauldrons and other pieces of armor she doesn't know the names of, to see what she thinks feels good. She hates almost every pair of greaves they give her—they're loud and clunky and are hard to walk in—and gauntlets and pauldrons that stop her arms from bending much. After what feels like hours, they declare they have what they need and assure her they'll have her armor ready soon.
And then she drags herself back to the main hall, exhausted mentally and physically, even the limited physical exertion of taking saddles off and putting them back on enough to remind her how long she's spent on the road. But when Martin calls her over from where he's looking well rested, a small stack of books settled on his table, the same one they'd shared the night before, she feels just a touch lighter. Lyvia gratefully takes the spot on the bench next to him, and she happily listens while he tells her about his day becoming acquainted with Cloud Ruler Temple and the Blades there. And when he asks about hers, despite feeling like she has nothing to really talk about, she finds herself talking long past most of the Blades filing out, save for a small contingent obviously there to watch Martin.
Though she's exhausted, it's hard to finally admit defeat against her own eyelids and go to bed.
The second day, Jauffre's clearly decided he's given her enough 'down time', as they start actual riding lessons once she has her horse saddled and ready. He has her on a different horse today, one that doesn't want to just follow his, and he lingers behind her as she fights to tell the horse what to do. It seems to have little interest in following her directions with the reins. She recalls a little of her old lessons mentioning using her legs to do most of the directing, but she can't seem to find a method that the horse follows. Luckily, Jauffre doesn't just leave her to struggle, and after watching her for a bit steps in to instruct. A little movement here, don't yank the reins around, and for Talos' sake stop tensing up so much is most of the feedback, and by the time she stumbles off the horse she's wobbly legged and sore. Again.
Martin looks sympathetic when she comes stumbling into the hall, collapsing at what has become their table. There's food, as if he'd been waiting for her so they could eat together, and something about that warms her heart. Her mother and father often worked late, and while they always made sure she had a hot meal to eat, they rarely ate with her. So this is…nice. The word doesn't feel big enough, but her words seem to fail her a lot when it comes to Martin. While she eats (turns out horseback riding, actively rather than clinging to a horse while it follows someone else, is hungry work), he tells her about his day, picking through books in the fort, some he's read, some he hasn't. And when she's devoured her dinner, he probes her for tales of her day, but when she's barely able to string thoughts together, he's happy to just sit in contented silence while he picks through one of the books he brought with him. Despite the lack of comfort relative to if she'd just go to her bedroll, she puts her head down on the table and feels herself drift off right there to the sound of pages occasionally being turned.
The hall is comfortably warm and blessedly empty. Well, empty of any other Blades anyway. Cozy light from the fire in the great hearth bathes everything in oranges and reds. The wood of the table and bench both is smooth beneath Lyvia's cheek, her nails catching in the grain of it. Her knees press hard into the bench, but though she expects her already sore legs to ache, the bite is dull, almost gentle. There's a sting at her scalp; her hair is gripped in someone's hand. She cracks her eyes, but she can only see fuzzy shapes through a partially opaque fabric. Somewhere, logic tells her she should be more concerned, but she can't bring herself to be. Despite what should be a horribly cramped position crouched over the table, she's far too comfortable to as much as want to move.
Fingers trail up her spine, and her skin tingles, bumps rippling up her arms at the realization that, instead of the basic shirt and pants she thought she'd been wearing, her skin is bare to the room. She tries to pull back, but the grip on her hair redoubles, downward pressure keeping her cheek crushed against the table. A pathetic whimper escapes her throat, to her embarrassment, her hands balling into fists against the wood.
There's a quiet hushing, something Lyvia thinks is meant to be comforting as blunt teeth scrape lightly at her shoulder. She thinks it might be familiar, but the sound is brief and she can't place it. The hand from her back slides around and glides along her stomach, feather-light, brushing just barely against her breast. Her breath hitches, but when she doesn't move, the hand in her hair loosens, just a bit.
The hand at her front disappears for a moment, then more feathery touches, this time along the inside of her thighs. In contrast to the stinging from the long journey on horseback, the touches send a warmth straight to her core, and she can't help wiggling just a little in place. She's not sure whether it's to ease the pressure on her knees or to try to…she's not sure, but she needs more. But the hand moves no faster, leisurely wandering up one leg and down the other, back and forth, always stopping just shy of where her instincts tell her she wants him.
…Him? Who?
The thought, the feeling that she almost grasped something important scatters as lips brush against her neck, gently, then traveling up to her ear where teeth nip at her earlobe. Soft fabric drapes over her back, warm, almost too warm with the fire both in the hearth and burning low in her. Breath against the sensitive hairs on her neck send a shiver down her spine and—
Lyvia blinks awake, vision clouded still by sleep and confusion. She's not propped up at the table in the hall (and she certainly isn't bent over it); in fact, she's not in the hall at all, but back in her bedroll in the barracks. Well, not hers of course, but the past few nights she had slept in the same one, and it seems last night was no different. But how did she get there? Distinctly she remembers putting her head down after dinner, but after that… Lyvia doesn't remember exactly when she went to sleep. She supposes it's possible she got up and walked back to the barracks and simply was too tired to recall, but two other options seem much more plausible; either another Blade got her back to the barracks, or Martin did.
The thought makes her face feel warm, and she's not sure why.
On the way out of the barracks, one of the older Blades tells her that Jauffre wants her to attend a lesson in combat; specifically to watch the lesson, and only watch, until time for her riding lesson for the day. Lyvia gives a little bow to the Blade (do they have a special salute? she should watch to see if there's a special salute) and darts for the hall to scarf down her breakfast. Martin's already there, picking at his own food while thumbing through what looks like might be some sort of journal. She plops down unceremoniously, having no time to worry about what everyone else in the hall might think, tucking into her food with barely a 'good morning'.
"Good morning to you too," he says, closing his book with just the slightest smirk of amusement. "Where's the fire?"
"Jauffre wants me to sit in on combat training," she explains between mouthfuls. "Before riding lessons."
"Ah, that would do it." He pushes a mug towards her; the rich aroma and dark liquid tells her it's coffee, and she takes it gratefully. "You'll need that more than me, I expect." She murmurs her thanks before sipping at the hot drink; it's bitter, more than she remembers from the last time she'd had the chance to drink it back in Leyawiin, but she knows it'll go a long way to keeping her awake. Martin returns to his book; Lyvia sneaks glances at him every few moments, wondering if she should ask him about last night. But then the Blade she spoke to earlier is staring at her with arms crossed from the exit to the courtyard, and she scrambles to not be late, regrettably leaving her half-empty mug on the table.
The combat training is hard to follow when not participating, but Lyvia does her best, a small notebook balanced on her lap. She intends to take notes, but ends up making poor doodles of sword fighters and no notes. It's fascinating to watch though, how the other Blades wield their swords with such grace, far more than her clumsy stumbling through the gate in Kvatch and then at Weynon. She tries to squash down the feeling that she's so thoroughly out of her depth here; she will find a way to tread water, she has to.
Jauffre taps her shoulder before the combat lesson is over, stealing her away for her riding lesson. She's able to get the tack on more easily than before, and she's quite proud of herself when she's able to (somewhat clumsily) pull herself onto her horse without needing any help. Jauffre has her do a few laps of the courtyard, to see how well she remembers what he said yesterday she assumes, then gets his own horse and directs her outside of the fortress. Together they start at a slow walk around Cloud Ruler, and Jauffre stays quiet, watching her settle into it before encouraging his horse into a trot. She struggles for a moment before her horse follows her cues, breaking into its own trot as they continue around the temple for another couple of laps.
And that's when she finds out they're working on speed today. Jauffre pulls forward on his horse, gives the horse she's on some kind of cue, and turns his, taking off at a canter down the trail and her horse jolting after. In her surprise, Lyvia forgets everything she's been told the past few days and tries to cling to her horse's mane, reins, anything she can grab. But this horse isn't as permissive as the one she'd ridden from Weynon; it tosses its head, almost hitting Lyvia in the face. She pulls back, but this is just as much of a mistake. Its back jolts, not quite a full buck but close, and it's enough to unseat her entirely. She falls hard on her back, knocking the wind from her and radiating pain; luckily, she just barely avoids hitting her head on a nearby rock.
For a few moments, she lays there, too embarrassed to sit up and look for her horse that she's almost certain has run off. The heavy thuds of hooves approach at what sounds like a walk, and she covers her eyes with one arm. She's hopeless, and surely Jauffre can see that and is going to tell her actually she has no place here—
"Come on, get up," there's the sound of boots, not hooves, and she moves her arm just enough to see Jauffre offering his hand from where he stands next to his horse, other hand holding its reins. "Everyone falls at some point." She groans, covering her eyes again as now the pain of the fall starts to settle in.
"I'm sorry I'm—"
"If you hadn't fallen I was going to be very surprised," he presses. She peeks at him again, and he doesn't look angry. Or like he's laughing at her for that matter. After another few heartbeats, she reaches out and lets him pull her to her feet, wincing at the pain in her spine. He passes her a potion, and she doesn't ask what it is, drinking it gratefully even through the medicinal tang, relieved when some of the pain subsides. She eyes her horse warily where it stands just behind Jauffre's before approaching. Its ear flicks back but it otherwise doesn't react as she clambers back into the saddle, stomach twisting with nerves.
"Remember, move with the horse, don't just tense up," he instructs. "Keep your posture like we talked about, and don't just blindly grab the mane." He mounts his horse, and they're off again, Lyvia fighting the urge to flatten against the horse and hold on for dear life. Before the end of her lesson, she falls twice more, though at least not to the horse bucking her off again. But she does manage one full circuit of fortress without falling, and Jauffre calls it a day there, to the relief of her aching back, sore muscles, and the chaffing that's returned with a vengeance.
There's few still milling about the hall, and she's surprised to find her and Martin's table empty. She's nearly too tired to collect her food, collapsing at the table with a modest bowl of stew. Once it's empty, she presses her forehead to the table, trying and failing to block out how much everything hurts. For a moment, Lyvia thinks she'd rather close a hundred more Oblivion gates than ride a horse anywhere. She's trying to gather her strength to get herself to the barracks when she feels a light touch at her back, and a flood of warmth over the aches along her spine. The feel of the magic is familiar, and she sighs in relief.
"What did I ever do before I met you?" she asks the table, and Martin chuckles behind her before moving to sit in his customary spot.
"Likely you didn't need all this healing before we met," he points out, maybe just a little guiltily. "Jauffre mentioned you might appreciate a little more than some potions; I take it riding didn't go well?" She groans, turning her head, ear pressed to the wood as she looks up at Martin, his face sympathetic in the flickering firelight.
"You could say that," she grumbles. "Three times I fell off the damned creature. I think it might have laughed at me after the third one."
"Oh, I'm sure it was only laughing with you," he teases, and she can't help smiling, just a bit.
"So what were you up to?" she asks, and it's his turn for a world weary sigh.
"Learning politics. I think I'd rather the horses," he leans his chin on his hand, and she tries to hold in a laugh. She wants to tell him she'd be happy to trade places with him, but unfortunately she can't take his crown and he can't close Oblivion gates.
"I didn't say before," she sits up, wincing a little at the shifted pressure on her still-sore and stinging legs. "But I'd be happy to help you with the speech-making. I'm not my mother, but I know a thing or two." He frowns, concern writ in his eyes, and she grimaces. "I'm fine, just. Chaffing."
"I can heal it," he offers, and a heartbeat of silence passes before either of them register what he's said. Lyvia's face feels hot, and she's almost certain the red on his cheeks isn't from the fire.
"S-sorry, that's not—"
"No, it's fine," Lyvia interrupts his backtracking; part of her wants to let him backtrack, let both of them awkwardly scuttle away from the suggestion, but at the same time gods is she miserable. "I honestly think I'd do anything to fix it right now." He meets her eyes, and there's something strange in his that she can't place.
"…Alright. If you're sure." He turns toward her, and she hesitates just a moment before straddling the bench; she catches him shooting a glare to one corner, and she glances over to see two Blades very pointedly looking anywhere but at their little table. Lyvia swallows and turns back to Martin, trying her best to ignore their not-so-subtle audience. They're not doing anything wrong, he's just healing her, so why does she feel like she's back at home, getting caught sneaking out after dark? His hand glows gold, and she thinks she sees him swallow before reaching out.
She notices the soothing warmth of the magic before anything else, and she can't help the sigh of relief. It's been days since her skin hasn't been rubbed raw by leather and fabric and horse movements, since walking could be called comfortable. But with her skin returning to its original softness, the irritation finally clearing and letting her feel again, came being incredibly aware of his hand on her thigh. Lyvia knows, she knows this is necessity and not anything untoward, but she can't stop the way her mind dredges up the few memories she has of her dream from the night before. She averts her eyes to the ceiling, the rafters, counting the cobwebs stretching between them just to keep herself—
"Give me your hand," he says. She looks away from the cobwebs to see him holding his out; he's not touching her anymore, and while one leg feels as good as new, the other seems to sting all the worse for it.
"Why?" she asks, though her hand is already in his; he turns it palm up, resting on his, and the magic glows again.
"I won't always be able to go with you." His voice is steady, focused. "You need to be able to take care of yourself if I'm not there."
"I'm not very good at magic," she admits sheepishly. Lyvia's father had paid for lessons when she still lived at home, but lessons in practical things: swordplay to defend herself and the shop, horse riding to transport goods, and of course every mercantile tutor he could find. Magic is a very distant thought to him, not something to prioritize.
"That's alright," he assures her, thumb running across her palm comfortingly; the fire reflects strangely in his unusually blue eyes. "You only need to be good enough to get somewhere safe. Now, focus on the spell, how it feels." She nods, looking back to their hands; the magic is just as warm as when he used it on her wounds and her aches, and she tries to feel beyond that, the strands of magicka dancing over her skin looking for hurts to heal. She knows only a little, but she tries to reach out with her own magicka; she only manages a little, but Martin's magic takes hers like her hand in his, pulling it forward and winding it into his own. Lyvia watches in surprise when her own hand glows like his, wisps of gold winding around her forearm.
He takes her hand and pulls it to her still-stinging thigh, pressing firmly, his hand still over hers. Lyvia can feel his magic leading hers, as if showing it where to search, what to heal. And while it's leading, it's her magicka that eases the irritation and soothes the aching muscles. It's several moments before she realizes, Martin's hand isn't glowing anymore. It's all her own magic controlling the spell, soothing her own hurts, and she lets out a giddy little laugh. She looks up — she's not sure why — and sees him watching her face, eyes soft and practically radiating pride.
Something hitches in her throat. Lyvia hasn't done anything particularly special or noteworthy; this is a basic spell, it probably would do little for a stab in the back or something like it. She's honestly not even sure if she can do it on her own, but he smiles at her like she's mastered something great. The magicka slips from her control, and she glances down to see the magic dissipate, slipping through her fingers like sand.
"I'm sorry," she says reflexively; the taste of the failure is familiar, the heavy feeling of coming home after seeing her tutors with a letter saying how she's not progressing, that she's not paying attention, that she's doing a hundred things wrong.
"For what?" There's levity in his voice, and when she looks back at him that look of pride isn't gone. "That was incredible, my friend!" He takes her hands in his, and despite herself, his enthusiasm is catching. She can't help her lips curling into a small smile.
"I— Thank you." Lyvia bites her tongue around the urge to argue. Part of her wants to believe he means all these nice things he keeps saying. Does believe he means them, even if she doesn't.
He's still holding her hands. It's nice, she thinks. His hands are soft in hers; he brushes lightly against the scar on her hand with his thumb, and she feels a bit like she's swallowed a moth, its wings and fluff tickling from the inside.
Lyvia stands, suddenly overcome by the desire to be anywhere else, and she has no idea why.
"It's been a long day." She knows it's a weak excuse when she's happily stayed up late before, just to sit and keep talking. "I should probably get some sleep or training's going to be awful tomorrow."
"Right, of course," he agrees without a fight, looking apologetic. "See you in the morning?"
"Yeah, in the morning," she nods, already taking a couple of steps back. "Goodnight, Martin." She barely hears his reply as she hurries to the barracks, finding the furthest bedroll from the door and pulling her blanket up over her head, only just taking the time to kick off her boots. In the dark and quiet and relative solitude (if she can just ignore the other Blades outside the cover of her little blanket), her head clears, and she feels silly. What's wrong with her?
She focuses, pulling at her magicka and trying to recreate the spell Martin showed her. It's much better than the little one she used on her hand back in those tunnels beneath the Imperial City; she has a strong feeling that, had she known it back then, that she wouldn't have a scar now. It takes a moment, but then the gold wraps around her arm again, hand glowing with the now-familiar magic. She lets it dance for her, for just a bit, before tending to aches and pains in places she would probably die if she asked for help with.
Her work isn't as thorough as Martin's, she thinks, before banishing the thought as if chasing away flies when her mind unhelpfully reminds her of her dream again.
The next few days pass in a blur of activity. Jauffre starts having her take lessons twice a day, adding her second in the morning, as soon as she's finished eating. Sometimes it's more riding (those are days she's very grateful for the spell Martin taught her), sometimes it's learning more about the Blades, how they fight, their weapons. It's almost always something practical; she knows that were they not pressed for time to find the Amulet, she likely would be learning more about the decorum of it all, maybe even their history, but they don't have the time. History won't help her close Oblivion gates or find the Amulet.
She also gets her armor, and Lyvia is quite surprised to see how thoughtfully it's crafted. It's made largely of leather and fabric, though when she holds the shirt of it, she can feel the metal woven into it, like a quilt. A little bit of chain mail pokes out over her left shoulder, under a leather pauldron embossed with the Red Dragon symbol (though it's decidedly not red here, and she's glad for that). Around her middle are the same metal plates of the armor the rest of the Blades wear, hidden under ropes and sashes and leather tassels. The pants are simple, though over top are leather straps around her thighs, holding the fabric tight to her, and greaves lower down around the shins made of metal tinted dark and matte; it's noticeably less shiny than she's seen on other pieces around Cloud Ruler, good for not being noticed as armed right away.
Down her right arm, her sword arm, is a long, decorated, metal sleeve the smiths call a kote. It also has the dragon etched into the shoulder, and decorative motifs hammered into the forearm, the two pieces connected by more chain mail. It's strapped to her arm with belts, leaving her able to move it mostly freely even if it does leave the inside of her arm uncovered. The kote ends in what she can only call an armored glove; her palm is left exposed, but the top of her hand is covered by long, metal talons. Her left hand gets a more modest glove, though there's a large gem set in it, and Lyvia can feel magic from it; when she reaches out to it curiously with her own magicka, she can feel the comforting warmth of Martin's restoration magic. She can't help how her mouth quirks up, just a little, and she thinks she sees the smiths exchange a glance.
The boots are strange. They look to be comfortable leather boots like any other, until seeing to the toe. The toe box is split into two; one smaller section for the wearer's big toe, and a larger section for the rest of the toes. Trying them on, Lyvia thinks they feel…odd, but not bad. One of the crafters explains that they're meant to improve mobility; she feels a bit skeptical at that, but perhaps once she's adjusted to the feel… A traveling cloak finishes the look. It's much larger than her ruined one had been; the clothier that had worked it helpfully explains that, in a pinch, it can be used as a tent, and by wrapping it around herself — under and over her arms and around her middle — and pinning it in place at the front, just over her chest, it covers almost all of her armor. She looks like she could be any traveler, if perhaps a well funded traveler.
Last is her sword. Lyvia had expected a stock katana like the rest of the blades, if she's honest, but the smiths present her with something shorter; they call it a wakizashi. It looks largely like the katanas, if maybe just a bit more pointed at the end and only a little over half the length of a full katana. Swiping at the test dummy near the forge, she finds it's incredibly well balanced and light, easy to swing and sharp as anything. They help show her how to tie it to her sashes and belts, and how she can hide it under the sashes if she needs to be more subtle. The blade it self is a work of art, carved with intricate symbols she can't read and etched to display its many, many layers.
Lyvia knows one thing; she's never worn or held anything so finely crafted in her life. But when she tries to thank them, to ask how she can properly return such kindness, they wave her off, saying that what she's done for the Emperor is more than enough payment. And so she leaves the armory covered in armor that suits her and her heart choking with emotions she has no words for.
A week into her stay at Cloud Ruler Temple, Jauffre gives her a morning off of her training; he claims it's because Lyvia's not used to such constant work, and while it's true, she's seen how haggard he's been looking, too. As much as he is a formidable soldier, Grandmaster of the Blades, all that, he's no spring chicken, and Lyvia expects that on top of that it's been some time since he's worked so constantly.
Martin isn't in the hall this morning, so once she's eaten, Lyvia decides to go on a stroll around the fortress; she's memorized where all the important things are, but she's had precious few chances to really poke around. As she does, she picks up a few little trinkets: a crow's feather, a large and rusty lock, a couple of tiny carved birds that can pass as crows if she squints, and a rock that is vaguely person-shaped. Each thing Lyvia places in her little box she took from Weynon Priory.
It's been nearly three weeks since she's last even had the chance to pray to Nocturnal; she doesn't think Nocturnal would hold it against her, what with how she lost her tiny statuette when she was arrested and then chased by assassins across Cyrodiil. Even so, she misses it. She misses speaking to her one other friend, the only one she had back in Leyawiin, and while she doubts Nocturnal will be able to speak back through such a meager shrine, Lyvia knows she should at least make the attempt. Maybe it's foolish to try in the middle of what may as well be a temple to one of the divines. Housing a priest of another divine. Who also is part of a royal line blessed by the divines…
Maybe this is a very foolish idea.
But when she returns to the barracks, they're entirely empty, a real rarity. For a moment she wonders if this is really what Jauffre was doing, giving her some time by herself by getting the rest of the Blades out of the barracks for a while. She places her little box on one of the bookcases, pulling out her trinkets to set together on and around it. Once Lyvia's satisfied, she closes her eyes; it's too early in the day to have any significant shadows, so this is as close as she'll get to somewhere dark.
"Nocturnal, Lady of Shadows," Lyvia starts, then heaves a heavy sigh. "Where do I even begin? Thank you, for the protection of Your shadows while I was getting Martin to safety. I know that he's not… I know he's of the divines. So thank you, for helping me to keep him safe, even still. I'm sorry it's been some time since I did this. There's—"
A loud cough interrupts her, and her eyes fly open in alarm, head swiveling even as she scrambles to shove her trinkets back in her box. Jauffre is standing in the doorway, arms crossed and looking none too pleased.
"Listen, I know this looks bad—"
"Looks bad doesn't even begin to cover it!" Jauffre snaps, storming closer. "So when were you going to tell us that you're—"
"I'm not one of them!" Lyvia speaks over him, heart thudding as, suddenly, she's back in those tunnels under the city, Baurus and Glenroy glaring at her with hands on their swords while she's unarmed, unprotected, and clinging to a lockpick. "I'm not one of the assassins, you know I'm not! If I was they wouldn't have tried to kill me! If I was why wouldn't I have just killed Martin when I had the chance?" Jauffre huffs, pressing one hand to his temple.
"Godsdammit, Uriel, of all the people you could have sent me it had to be the daedra worshipper," he grumbles to himself.
"Jauffre, I swear to you, I've never hurt anyone," Lyvia presses; her hands are shaking so hard she's struggling to get her little shrine to all fit back in the box. "I've never even stolen anything. I mean. I tried. But it was— Oh, shadows damn it all, it doesn't matter, the point is I would never hurt someone, and if Nocturnal asked me to—"
"You might want to be careful," he interrupts her gravely. "Princes aren't well known for tolerating their worshippers being conditional."
"I trust Her not to ask me to do something I wouldn't do." When Lyvia says it, she says it with her entire heart. "I know this is a lot, but please, please don't tell Martin." Jauffre watches her for several long moments, the lines on his forehead creasing deeply. She's convinced that he's about to throw her out of the Temple entirely when—
"Don't tell Martin what?" Lyvia nearly jumps out of her skin as the Emperor-to-be in question wanders into the barracks curiously. She's struck dumb; what is she supposed to say? If she lies, will Jauffre just call her out for it? If she tells the truth…is that just it? Has she thrown away the first place she's ever really felt happy? Before she can say anything at all, Jauffre reaches out and slams the box shut, and his expression smooths into something that can pass as ordinary annoyance.
"Lyvia's late for her evening lessons, again." The words are sharp, but not grave, the sound of a disappointed mentor and not of Martin's primary defender discovering a daedra worshipper in his midst. Lyvia can't help turning to stare at him, hands dropping from the little box on the shelf. She doesn't know if this is some temporary truce, but…
Memories dredge up unbidden; her father finding her devotions to Nocturnal, hidden under her bed. How he'd shouted, screamed at her. He may not have directly told her mother, but with how loud he'd been Lyvia would have been surprised if the neighbors didn't hear. He broke and burned whatever she couldn't grab from him; the little statuette she'd lost in the Imperial City was one of the only things she'd been able to save. The fear in her mother's eyes when she followed Lyvia to the edge of Leyawiin, pressing the few coins into her hand so she could at least make it somewhere safely.
Jauffre is angry, she knows. She can see it in his eyes; their conversation isn't over. But… He isn't telling Martin. He isn't throwing her out. He isn't shouting or breaking things or any of the things she feared most.
"I'm sorry," she says, to match the cover, even though she means thank you.
"Don't be sorry; be out in the courtyard in five minutes," he says, curtly, before exiting. He leaves her little box on the shelf.
"A harsh taskmaster," Martin teases, and she forces out a laugh that she can't fully chase the nerves from.
"Yes, well, maybe I should have been a better listener." Lyvia takes her box back over to her pack, where it's propped against the wall, tucking it securely away next to her lockpick and wrapping both in a little cloth. When she turns back to the door, Martin hasn't left.
"Is everything alright?" he asks, and it feels loaded. Almost as if he could see into her head, at the turmoil roiling there. She summons back up her best polite smile, the one she would use when she felt terribly alone and her mother asked her what was wrong.
"Of course! Just been a bit of a lazy day is all." She hopes the tension she feels doesn't bleed into her voice; she's trying terribly hard to sound nonchalant after all.
"If you're sure," he relents, after holding her gaze for a heartbeat longer than might be considered normal. "But if Jauffre's giving you too hard of a time—"
"Don't be silly! He has to make sure we're all ready to face whoever this enemy is, and I'm…" she doesn't know where she was going with that. New? Inexperienced? Less kind words that tell her she's not worth half of any of the other Blades?
"Maybe, but we can't lose who we are in the face of such a crisis," he says. "What good would it do for us to come out of the other side only to find we've forgotten how to be kind?" Her smile is genuine this time. He always seems to find some way to lift her spirits. Even when she's hiding why her spirits need lifting.
It almost makes her want to tell him the truth.
The riding lesson goes by without incident. Though she expects Jauffre to resume their argument, he focuses on correcting her posture and teaching her some verbal cues. It's tense, but cordial. Once they've returned their horses to the stables, Jauffre stalks off, and while Lyvia's relieved that he hasn't done anything like telling the rest of the Blades or kicking her out of Cloud Ruler, anxiety settles in the pit of her stomach. This isn't over, surely. And not knowing when it'll come back up is almost worse than just getting it out of the way now.
The twisting in her gut makes eating feel impossible, so instead of heading back into the main hall, she wanders to the ramparts, to a quiet spot away from the guards standing vigil for the night. She settles onto the stone, legs hanging over the walls. The sun's below the horizon, though its light is still just barely visible, keeping the sky a dusky purple even as the stars begin to shine and the twin moons peek out from behind the mountains. The sky is cloudless, peaceful, and she tries to let that same peace settle in her, seeking the comfort she always seems to feel in the dark.
Lyvia's not sure how long exactly she's been outside when she hears footsteps approaching, only that the dusty violet sky has darkened to an inky black, the stars and moons bathing everything in their cool, gentle light. There's a sinking feeling in her stomach, the anxiety returning at full force when she turns and sees Martin.
"Do you mind if I join you?" he asks, and she hopes he doesn't notice when she swallows the lump in her throat. She nods to the spot next to her, scooting just a little bit to make room where he can sit, their shoulders just brushing. "You never came inside, so I was a little worried."
"Sorry," she looks away, down into the trees along the mountainside below Cloud Ruler. "I didn't mean to worry you. I just… I've never really been in a big group like this. I guess I just wanted a bit of quiet." It's not entirely a lie, she just…leaves out the anxiety twisting her insides into knots. They sit in the silence; she doesn't look at him, some strange part of her feeling that if she just doesn't look then he won't see that she's not being entirely forthright. She doesn't know why it's so much harder for her to brush him off, but it's like all her skills with words just leave her every time they talk.
"I know," he finally says, and at first she thinks he means her wanting some time away from the other Blades. But when she doesn't reply, he continues. "About the Skeleton Key, I mean." Lyvia feels like the ramparts have dropped out from below her.
"…Oh." Now she's afraid to look not because of some secret dragon-blood power to sense lies, but because she's afraid of what she might see there. Betrayal. Hurt. She should have told him the truth sooner, she thinks bitterly. Whether it be because it would be better for him to learn it from her, or because it would save her the heartache of losing the only mortal friend she's ever had.
"Lyvia," his voice isn't angry, and she chances a glance at him; his expression is soft, understanding, all the things she's never seen from someone finding out she worships a daedric Prince. "I'm not upset. I wish you'd told me, but I also know why you didn't."
"How did you find out?" she asks, and she hears the waver in her own voice, a lump in her throat almost choking her. He gives her a rueful smirk.
"I recognized it," he explains. "In that first camp, when you were playing with the box. I think before then I could…sense it? But that's when I knew, for certain." A hysterical cough of laughter escapes, laughter that brings no joy with it, because now she knows just how long he's known she's been lying.
"How does a priest of Akatosh recognize a daedric artifact?" It comes out more angry than she intends it, but not at him. She remembers how the Emperor had looked at the Skeleton Key when she reclaimed it, and then the strange look Martin gave it in camp. Looking back, it's so clear to her; why had she not realized that he would recognize it?
"Well, I haven't always been a priest," Martin says, looking almost apologetic. "When I was young, I chose a different path." She stares at him. Martin, sweet, kind, quiet Martin with his healing magic? Maybe he means someone like Azura; she knows little about the Prince besides that she's considered one of the "good ones".
"Really?" she doesn't mean to actually ask it, the incredulity painting the tone. He lets out a laugh; there's a little discomfort there, but he doesn't look upset.
"Really." He looks out into the dark, leaning forward, propping his elbows on his knees. "So, I know how it can be. And I just want to know that you're safe, that you're not—"
"I've never hurt anyone," she assures. "And I never will. Well, assassins trying to kill me notwithstanding." Her mouth twists into a smirk, and he chuckles.
"Well, I'm guilty of that one too, so we'll both have to hang," he jokes, and she giggles, feeling…oddly lighter. "But on a serious note, it's not just other people. I don't want you to get hurt."
"Me? All I've ever done is have some weird dreams where Nocturnal spoke to me and prayed at her shrine." Lyvia's confused; sure there are some Princes that she knows do terrible things. She saw it in that Oblivion gate in Kvatch. But Nocturnal is over shadows and luck and thieves, what would She possibly ask that would be so dangerous as to cause that little spark of fear she can see in Martin's sapphire eyes?
"That's…good to hear," he says, and though he looks very distinctly relieved when he looks back to her, she also thinks he doesn't look entirely convinced. "That's not how many daedric followings operate, so you'll forgive me for being concerned."
"You don't have to be sorry for being worried about me, Martin," she nudges his shoulder, trying to drag him out of this strange mood he's put himself in. "It's…nice to be met with conversation instead of… Well, let's just say my father didn't take it well."
"That was why you left." It's not a question, but she nods anyway.
"Yes. He found some things I'd squirreled away under my bed: a little statue I used to have, some carvings from one of the other worshippers I would see at the shrine sometimes, drawings, a journal. He didn't find the Skeleton Key because I always kept it on me, but… It was bad." Lyvia's little smile evaporated, staring past Martin and into the dark as she remembers her last night in Leyawiin. She doesn't realize how long she's been quiet until he takes her hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze.
"You don't have to continue," he says. She shakes her head.
"I haven't ever been able to talk about it, to anyone," she murmurs, twisting her hand to take his more firmly. "I…I think I'd like to. Just to get it off my chest, you know?" He holds up his hand, looking up and down the ramparts, then he casts something. It feels a bit like a heavy winter blanket settling over them both.
"There. Now even if someone walks by they won't be able to hear," he says, and she isn't expecting how much comfort that brings. She gives him a grateful smile before she continues.
"I told you that I always felt like a disappointment. It wasn't just about the daedra worship. So this was by no means the first time his temper flared, but it was by far the worst." She's glad for Martin's hand, a warm weight to remind her she is not in Leyawiin and her father isn't raging over her. "He took everything; I tried to grab some of it back, but all I managed was my statuette. Funny since I ended up losing it in the Imperial City… Anyway, he took it all to the hearth and burned it. All of it. And there was a lot of shouting. I can't remember all of it, but there was a lot of 'you're a disgrace', 'the Nine will punish you for this', 'as long as you're worshipping that thing you're no daughter of mine', that sort of thing."
"He made a real mess, too. He threw books and pushed furniture and and I think I remember something breaking… I'll be honest, if I stayed any longer, I'm not entirely convinced he wouldn't have gotten violent. He'd…he'd never laid a hand on me before, but he was very, very upset… I didn't really think I had time, or would be allowed, to get anything else from my room. So I just…ran. With just what I had. My mother called after me but I didn't stop. She had to catch up to me when I was almost at the edge of the city. She tried to get me to come back with her, to give up Nocturnal, but…"
"After that display, I probably would've taken my chances, too," Martin assures; he covers her hand with his other hand, fingers tracing the scar there.
"When I wouldn't come back with her," Lyvia forges on, "she gave me a small handful of septims so I could pay a carriage, like I told you before. And I tried to keep the bit about Nocturnal under wraps once I got to the city, but. Somehow word got out. I guess it would have been easier probably, to just stop, but… When I had no one, I at least had Nocturnal. How could I turn my back on Her just because things got hard?"
"And I would not ask you to," Martin slips his arm around her shoulders, other hand still holding hers, and she doesn't fight him nudging her into his shoulder. Maybe she shouldn't, maybe it's inappropriate, but it feels…a bit like home. "I'll talk to Jauffre."
"No, no I should," she sniffles, grimacing. "I'm the one that's been lying. I should be the one to apologize for it." He rubs her back, and rests his cheek against the top of her head. They sit like that for a while, the moons moving slowly overhead, casting soft shadows over them, from the ramparts, from each other. His robes smell like the old books he's been digging through for the past week; it makes her think of standing in a book shop, or curling up with a good book when it's raining outside.
"So, why Nocturnal, specifically?" Martin asks, conversationally. She hums for a moment, considering.
"One night, a few years back, I started having these strange dreams of walking through a forest, and someone spoke to me… or maybe it would be more correct to say called me. I told you I didn't really have any friends in Leyawiin, so… I felt like I had very little to lose by going exploring. And when I found Her shrine, She spoke to me. Said that someone had stolen something from Her, Her Eye, and She wanted it back. Well, I wasn't popular, but I did know most people in town, so I went poking around. When I found the thieves, and they wouldn't give the Eye back… I went and found it myself. And that's why She gave me the Skeleton Key. And She told me that I 'would always have a friend in the dark'." She hears a thoughtful rumble from his chest.
"And she's never asked you to do anything else?"
"No." A gust of mountain-chilled wind sends a shiver through Lyvia, and Martin rubs her arm to ward off the cold.
"I trust you," he says. "And I just want you to be careful. I know far more about the allure of daedric magic, and how dangerous it can be." She glances up, toward his face, though huddled together as they are she can only really see part of it.
"What happened?" she asks; she wants to be able to be there for him, the way he has for her. But he looks away, pulls his arm back from her shoulders, and she can just barely see his throat bob in the dark.
"Not tonight," he says. "Maybe some other time but…not tonight." Her knee jerk reaction is to press, but she knows, she knows it's not the time. She remembers how grateful she was when he didn't press her when she didn't want to talk about Nocturnal, and she wants to do the same for him. So she gives his hand a comforting squeeze instead, and they sit and look at the stars for a little longer before they both decide to turn in for the night.
She can't remember her dreams that night, but she remembers the smell of books like a library and warmth holding her close.
The next morning, Lyvia finds that she's an odd combination of anxious and starving. She hasn't eaten since the day before, but her stomach is still twisting in knots, making everything she even considers eating seem completely unpalatable. It's clear that she can't put off the conversation about Nocturnal much longer, so instead of heading to the hall, she gathers her courage and marches to Jauffre's office.
She's lifted her hand to knock when Jauffre opens the door, just before. They stare at each other for a long moment; Lyvia all of a sudden has no idea how to even broach the subject. Jauffre gives a heavy sigh, taking a step back.
"Well, come in," he says. Lyvia ducks her head as she walks in, and he slides the door shut behind her.
He crosses his arms as he turns to face her, and she swallows hard. Whatever he does or says, it'll be better to just get it out of the way. Then she can handle whatever happens after. What's most important though is that she clears the air. Despite his stern and stoic demeanor, Jauffre's been good to her, probably far kinder than she deserves, and she just wants to try to make things right.
"I'm sorry," she fiddles with the hem of her shirt. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you right away. I should have. I was afraid but that's no excuse. And I… I understand if you don't want me around anymore—"
"You have been tiptoeing around me ever since we met," Jauffre interrupts. "And don't bother denying it. You should have been asking for more breaks on the way here, but you didn't. You were clearly under the impression that I was going to throw you out once we got here. You haven't complained once about the training schedule despite being so tired you've fallen asleep at the table after dinner. And now you seem to think, again, that I'll make you leave. Why?"
"I…" Lyvia fumbles for words she doesn't have. "I don't know."
"Listen to me," Jauffre takes a step forward, and she can't help the way her shoulders tense. "I am not going to throw you out just because you're not some perfect soldier. I don't know why you seem to think that. And you were right yesterday; if you were with the enemy, you would never have brought Martin back to the Priory, and we would not be here. You most certainly would not have taken a near fatal blow for him. Yes, I think you have made a questionable decision in following Nocturnal. But I don't think that alone makes you a bad person."
Lyvia feels some of the tension drain from her back, even as it feels like her mouth is full of cotton. Whatever she had expected before, it wasn't this, this…tolerance. He hasn't even shouted at her, not once. No ultimatums or demands or…anything.
"…I see," she says weakly through the tightness in her throat. Jauffre gives a brief nod, then crosses over to his desk. There's a heavily creased and damaged paper there that she hadn't noticed before; he lifts it carefully and turns back to her.
"Now that that's taken care of," he says. "I have your first assignment. Baurus thinks he's on the trail of the people who orchestrated this assassination plot. I want you to go to the Imperial City and investigate, see if you can't find out who took the Amulet and how you can get it back."
"The Imperial City?" Uncertainty settles over Lyvia. "Don't you think—"
"You've been doing well in your lessons," Jauffre waves off her concerns. "You'll be just fine, just remember not to overwork your horse in the name of speed. While you're in the city, if the chance presents itself, I've asked Baurus to help you practice your sword skills, but under no circumstances is it to take precedence over finding the Amulet."
"Of course," Lyvia takes a look at the paper; the words are gibberish, clearly some kind of code.
"You'll find him in Luther Broad's Boarding house, in the—"
"I know it," she interrupts. "I stayed there a few times while I was in the city." He nods in acknowledgement, and she takes a step towards the door.
"I suppose I should head out then."
"I think we can spare enough time for you to eat something first." He folds the letter and tucks it into a drawer. "Considering you haven't eaten since yesterday morning." Lyvia rubs her neck guiltily; of course he would notice, if he noticed everything else. But also, she feels a bit like a reagent under a looking glass. It's an uncomfortable thing, being known.
"Yes, I'll…do that."
"And I'll let the stables know to have a horse ready for you," he brushes past her, and she knows when she's been dismissed.
Lyvia stops at the barracks to put her pack together, don her armor, and collect her traveling cloak. The anxiety takes a different shape now; she's still not what one would call confident on a horse, but she needs to be. And if she falls in the wilderness, the only one there to patch her up will be herself. She pulls on her lighter, leather glove, running fingers over the gem set in it. Well, she supposes it's not only herself. She should probably ask how it works before she leaves.
She finds her way to the hall, pack and cloak in hand, to see Martin sitting in their usual spot, idly looking at a book that he doesn't seem to actually be reading. He looks up when she enters, and she sees relief get quickly overtaken by alarm at her clearly travel-ready state.
"Everything's fine," she says, before he can speak. "I just have my first assignment." She sees the relief return in the way his shoulders drop.
"So then, you and Jauffre—"
"Yes, we're fine. No harm, no foul, it seems," Lyvia puts forth her best nonchalance as she drops her pack and cloak next to the table and collects her share of food nearby.
"What's the assignment?" Martin asks as she settles next to him.
"Going to look into who wanted the royal family dead," she says between chewing. "Back in the Imperial City."
"That's a long way," he says it easily, but she can see the worry in his eyes. "I take it Jauffre declared you competent on a horse then?"
"Competent enough to at least get there and back," she agrees. "Hopefully that's all I'll have to do."
"Gods willing," he murmurs, and she wishes she could say with more confidence that she'll be just fine.
"So, how does this thing work?" she asks, lifting the hand with the enchanted glove, and his eyes widen.
"How did you know?"
"It feels like when you healed me," she admits, and his replying chuckle is incredulous.
"I think," he says, "that you might be better at magic than you think, if you could tell that. It enhances your restoration magic. I might not be able to be there to cast the spells, but I thought if I could help you cast them better…" He trails off, looking back down at his book that she's certain he hasn't been reading. She reaches out and takes his hand in hers.
"Thank you," she gives him a smile. "Really. It's…comforting." He glances back to her, something soft there, like sunlight diffused by white clouds. Something in her chest raises its head with a growl; whoever these people are that want him dead, she would find a way to stop them. They can't have him.
Silence falls over the two as she finishes her food, then dons her cloak. It really is huge, but loose enough draped about her and pinned in place to move easily in it. She takes her pack and heads out to the stables, Martin at her shoulder. They still don't speak; she thinks if they do she'll never make it out of the fortress before nightfall. A Blade who's name she doesn't know meets her at the entrance of the stables, a great black horse already saddled and packed. She reaches up to secure her pack to the saddle as well, then takes the reins.
Something about not needing Martin's help anymore to mount the horse makes her sad.
"I'll see you when I get back," she says lightly; she means it as a promise as much as a farewell. That she will come back.
"And I'll be here waiting," he says, and there's something else there. Like he has more to say, trapped in his chest clawing to get out. But he just smiles and says, "Be safe, my friend."
Lyvia walks the horse through the courtyard, then down through the gate and onto the path leading away from the fortress. The sun is bright overhead, and though it's not hot on the mountain, she's still grateful for the cloak covering most of her skin. As she reaches a turn that'll block Cloud Ruler Temple from her sight, she turns back, just for a moment. Among the armored figures on the ramparts, the one smaller figure in robes stands out.
She gives one last wave, then takes off down the road to Bruma.
Chapter 6
Summary:
Lyvia arrives in the Imperial City and begins the search for the Amulet of Kings.
Notes:
So the plan WAS to have the Shrine in this chapter too, but alas it was really too long already just including getting the location of the shrine so. Next chapter for that. But there's a lot of good character stuff in here I promise :3 I hope you enjoy and if you do I'd love to hear what in particular you're liking so far!
Chapter Text
Walking into the Imperial City is a scary thing for Lyvia. She thinks she can feel the eyes of every guard on her as she walks through the stone streets toward the Elven Gardens district. There's a fear in her that someone is going to come get her and throw her back in that dingy jail cell. In Cloud Ruler Temple, it had been easy to forget the dirty stones and ominous chains hanging from the ceiling, but now, standing in the city again, she feels more like she's dressed up in a bad disguise than like she's wearing fine armor bearing the symbol of the Empire, made just for her. But she has a job to do, and she's going to do it, dammit. Jauffre and Martin are counting on her.
Luther Broad's is a fairly average inn, or at the very least it was when Lyvia stayed there. The innkeep and staff were all very kind and never asked many questions; even when rumors started going around that Lyvia had a statue of Nocturnal, Luther Broad's was still welcoming, even overlooking once or twice when she didn't have the money to stay another night when the weather outside was particularly bad. She doesn't know if anyone there will recognize her, but she sincerely hopes they don't.
The inn is mostly empty, somehow dimly lit even in the middle of the day. The innkeep absently cleans a glass behind the bar, making a good show of not watching his guests. There's a strange man sitting under a window on the far wall, turning the pages of a book, but his eyes aren't moving along the pages. At the counter is a familiar face; Baurus, sitting and, like everyone else, pretending not to notice what anyone else in the room is doing as he sips at what is likely just water, if Lyvia is to guess. She wanders over, trying not to look directly at him, peering at a candle on the counter as if it's very interesting.
"Sit down," Baurus says out of the corner of his mouth. "Don't say anything, just do it." Uneasiness settles in her stomach as she follows his instructions, perching on a stool and looking the opposite direction down the counter.
"In just a moment, I'm going to get up and walk out. You saw that guy in the corner? He's going to follow me. You follow him. I want to see what he's going to do." She stretches to hide the nod she gives him, then leans her elbows onto the counter, facing the door she came in as if she's waiting for someone. The stool next to her scrapes against the floor as Baurus stands and calmly leaves the counter. Footsteps, a door opening; the only door Lyvia can't see from her vantage is the door to the basement. After a few moments, there's the sound of a book softly shutting, and more footsteps before the door opens again.
Lyvia stands from her stool and, with no one besides the innkeep to notice or stop her, hurries after the two, resting one hand on her wakizashi as she carefully creeps down the stairs. Baurus is further in the basement, pretending to busy himself with a box. The man from under the window sneaks after him, seemingly unaware of Lyvia stalking him in turn. There's a flash of magicka, and the man dons the summoned armor and weapons of the assassins from below the city, from Weynon Priory.
Baurus whirls on the man, sword drawn and focus absolute. The assassin charges, swinging his mace high. Baurus parries the blow easily, shoving his shoulder hard into the attacker. Lyvia lunges forward, drawing her sword in one smooth movement from where it rests on her hip. The assassin turns to block her strike, only for Baurus to stab through his abdomen. The man gasps painfully for air as Baurus lets him slide off the end of his blade and thud to the stone floor. Lyvia grimaces as she watches him struggle for a moment before the light leaves his eyes; she doesn't know that she's ever going to get used to all this killing.
"See if he has anything on him," Baurus commands. "I'll keep watch, just in case he has any friends nearby." Lyvia swallows hard and nods, kneeling next to the dead man. It feels wrong to go rifling through his pockets—worse than when she'd had to take Captain Renault's sword, though better than looking for the Count of Kvatch's ring—but it's not long before she finds, tucked in his clothes, a strange book labeled Commentaries on the Mysterium Xarxes.
"What about this?" she asks, holding up the book for Baurus to see from his vantage point on the stairs.
"Probably important, bring it and we'll look over it together," he waves her over, and she tucks the book in her pack. "Sorry for not saying so earlier, by the way, but it's good to see you. You just have bad timing."
"Story of my life for the past couple of months," she shrugs, taking the handshake he offers as he meets her at the bottom of the stairs. "Jauffre said you had a lead on these assassins?"
"Yeah, they're part of a daedric cult. They call themselves the Mythic Dawn, and supposedly they worship Mehrunes Dagon. I've been tracking them, but seems they noticed." Baurus looks back at the body on the floor, mouth twisted in a wry scowl. They're both quiet for a moment; Baurus turns for the stairs again when Lyvia swallows the inexplicable shame and admits—
"They have the Amulet."
"What?!" Baurus spins back around, searching her face as if hoping to see that she's just teasing. "How?" Lyvia winces, looking at the wall, the floor, the stairs, anything but Baurus.
"I left it with Jauffre before going to find the heir the Emperor told me about. It was his idea, better it be guarded than have it on the road, you know?" She feels defensive, both of herself and Jauffre; neither of them could have foreseen the attack on the Priory. "By the time I made it back, the assassins had attacked and taken it."
"Gods…" Baurus runs a hand through his hair, frustration and hopelessness writ in the lines on his forehead and the tension in his shoulders.
"But… I did find him. His heir, I mean. He's safe." The tension fades, just a little, as Baurus hangs on her every word. "His name's Martin, he was in Kvatch when it was attacked. It's a big adjustment, but if we can just get the Amulet back—"
"Thank Talos!" Baurus breathes, a disbelieving grin breaking across his face. "Well, we'll get the Amulet back and restore him to the throne, mark my words!" His positivity is contagious, and Lyvia smiles back; it's a relief to have some positivity in what has felt for some time like a doomed quest.
"So, what's our play?"
"Let me see that book," Baurus holds his hand out, and Lyvia gives him the strange tome; he turns it over in his hands, peeking at the first few pages with a frown. "I think we should probably ask an expert. There's a woman at the Arcane University named Tar-Meena. Word has it that she's a daedric cult expert. Maybe she'll know what this is. I'll keep investigating the Mythic Dawn while you do that. I'll be here in the evenings so we can meet back up and compare notes."
"Sounds good," Lyvia says with confidence she doesn't feel, worry curling in her stomach. She's unsure about going on her own — what if she messes everything up, or the guard recognizes her and puts her back in jail — but she has to at least try. If anything, this, for once, plays to her strengths; if this Tar-Meena resists helping, Lyvia is quite confident that she can convince her to help anyway. Together, she and Baurus climb the stairs back into the inn. The keeper seems entirely nonplussed, still cleaning behind the counter as Baurus resumes his place.
"You've got this, Sister," he says encouragingly; Jauffre must have told him she's a Blade now, in their correspondence. Lyvia takes a deep breath and nods determinedly, tucking the book back in her pack and heading out into the streets.
The sun is high overhead as Lyvia picks her way through the city, sticking to smaller streets where she can, glancing nervously at guards whenever she passes them. She estimates it must be maybe an hour or two past noon, at the latest. So, if she makes good time, she should make it to the University before it gets too late, and hopefully will catch Tar-Meena before she…does whatever it is mages do in their free time, Lyvia supposes. She's a few blocks away from the University, glancing over her shoulder at a passing guard patrol, when someone rams hard into her shoulder, knocking her pack to the ground.
"Oh, I'm so sorry," the person says as Lyvia immediately scrambles to collect her bag. He kneels with her, as if to help her pick up the bag. She looks up and realizes she recognizes him; Armand, the man who'd recruited her for the job stealing from the guard in the first place that got her locked up.
"You—"
"Not here," he whispers, handing her the bag she's been distracted from. "Tonight. Where we first met." He stands, before she does, and continues on the path he'd been walking before. Lyvia picks herself up, slinging her pack back over her shoulder under her traveling cloak, looking over her shoulder after him for just a moment. The guild hadn't bailed her out; she had assumed that her failure had cost her the invitation. But why else would Armand want to talk to her again? She shakes off the encounter, as best she can, and continues on her way to the University.
The University is grand and beautiful, all nice stone walls and finely crafted wood and all sorts of bits and baubles Lyvia can't even begin to name or guess at the functions of. The foyer is small, comparatively. There's a bench, a few doors leading out presumably into other wings, counter tops covered in instruments for probably alchemical work, and a few mages milling about and chatting.
"Excuse me," she approaches the nearest. He stares at her like she's grown a second head. "I need to speak with Tar-Meena, please."
"Find her yourself, I'm busy," he snaps, turning back to his conversation partner; she's almost certain that whatever they're discussing, it isn't half as important as her getting to speak with Tar-Meena. Lyvia squares her shoulders, trying to channel every insufferable customer her mother has ever had to deal with as she shoves between the two and faces the mage again. She pulls back her traveling cloak, revealing the thick leather over one shoulder emblazoned with the Dragon.
"I'm here on official business," she snaps, even as inside she cringes at herself. "I need to speak with Tar-Meena, and I need to speak with her now." The two mages stare at her for a long moment.
"Fine, fine, I'll be right back," the first grumbles, sulking out of the room. The second murmurs a quiet apology, but Lyvia just sits on the bench to wait. She considers pulling her cloak back over her shoulder, but she thinks maybe if she keeps the emblem exposed that she can avoid any similar confrontations with the scholar. It's not long before the mage she sent returns, an argonian woman in tow.
"I heard you needed to speak with me," she starts, and Lyvia stands briskly, offering her hand; the woman who must be Tar-Meena shakes it. "How can I help?"
"I'm hoping you might have some information about the Mythic Dawn," Lyvia motions to the bench, and they both sit together.
"You know about them?" Tar-Meena says in that tone people get when someone asks them about something they're particularly interested in. Lyvia digs around in her pack as Tar-Meena goes on, "They're deeply secretive, very difficult to get information on. They follow Mankar Camoran and his teachings."
"Funny you should say, I found one of his books," Lyvia pulls it free. Tar-Meena perks up, and she hands over the book gladly. "I was hoping you might be able to tell me about it."
"The Commentaries on the Mysterium Xarxes!" The argonian runs her hands over the cover. "You're studying daedric cults too?"
"Not precisely," Lyvia watches as Tar-Meena thumbs through the pages curiously. "I need to find the Mythic Dawn, and this is the only lead I have." Tar-Meena snaps the book shut, glancing to her.
"Looking for them? Hmm, well, I won't ask any more than that," her eyes linger on the leather over Lyvia's shoulder. "What with your official business. I've worked with Blades before, lest you worry. Anyway, you have quite the task ahead of you. There's four books, but I've only ever seen the first two. I'm fairly certain that the key to finding them is split between all four books."
"They sure don't make it easy, do they?" Lyvia sighs.
"No, they do not, but I can at least help a little; I already have the second book," Tar-Meena smiles at her.
"Really?"
"Yes, there's a copy in the University's library," she explains. "If you can find the last two and bring them to me, I bet I could crack whatever code this is. You might check the book shop First Edition, the owner's quite good at finding rare books."
"Thank you!" Lyvia holds herself back from hugging the woman, but only just. "I should go tell… Well, I should go report. Thank you so much." She stands to go, adjusting her pack and cloak as Tar-Meena looks back to the book. But, before Lyvia pushes open the door, something tugs at her in the recesses of her mind. She turns back.
"Before I go," she says, and Tar-Meena looks up at her. "What's the Mysterium Xarxes?" She doesn't know why she asks; she doesn't need to know this, she needs to find the cult, and the sooner the better. But something, something about it prickles the hairs at the back of her neck.
"That's the Mythic Dawn's holy book," the argonian woman's face becomes grim. "They say it was written by Mehrunes Dagon himself. If it really does exist, it would be an object of tremendously evil power." Lyvia feels a strange sense of foreboding at that.
"But I thought the Commentaries were—"
"No, no, those are like…" Tar-Meena hums for a moment thoughtfully. "Think of them like a research paper on the Xarxes. A highly regarded one, at least by the cult."
"They must really think highly of this Camoran guy."
"His writings are…eccentric," the argonian's mouth twists. "The theories in his books, at least the ones I've had the chance to see, are quite…something. He's been in the cult for a long time though, assuming he's still alive at over four hundred years old. And that's likely a low estimate." That catches Lyvia off guard; she knows that some of the elven races can live exceptionally long lives, but four hundred years seems like such a long time.
"That…if I'm not mistaken, that would make their being written—"
"When Tiber Septim reigned, yes," Tar-Meena looks delighted and relieved; Lyvia wonders if it's so rare for her to find someone not only interested in her subject matter, but also able to keep up with it. Maybe that's why she works with the Blades, she thinks. Not that every Blade is some great scholar, but she assumes it must be nice to have even just the interest.
"That's…wow," Lyvia shakes her head as she tries to picture it. "I had no idea they've been around so long."
"They do an admirable job staying out of the public eye, when they want to," Tar-Meena stands from the bench, tucking the book under her arm. "As much as I could talk about this all night, I do believe you have a report to make, Blade."
"Lyvia," she realizes, far too late of course, that she'd never given her name. "You can call me Lyvia."
"Well Lyvia, you should go make your report, and we can talk again when you have the last two books," the argonian's eyes glitter with excitement; Lyvia wonders if this is the closest she's ever gotten to seeing the rest of the Commentaries. She nods and slips out of the University, ducking down alleys as soon as she's clear of the walls around it.
Despite nearly sprinting, it's almost nightfall by the time Lyvia reaches First Edition; she tries the door anyway in the hopes that perhaps it stays open late, but no luck. She'll have to come back in the morning. Looking down the quieting streets in the oranges of sunset, she considers her options. She could go report to Baurus now, though she doesn't have much in the way of new information. Or she could go see what Armand wants. And maybe get some answers for why the guild had abandoned her in that jail cell.
Turns out the decision is an easy one; she points her feet toward the Waterfront district.
Lyvia feels oddly out of place in the Waterfront now; even if her fine armor is hidden by her cloak, the cloak in question honestly isn't much better, the fabric clean and finely woven and clearly far nicer than anything someone living in the Waterfront by necessity could ever afford. Luckily, it seems most of the residents have retired to their homes, so there's not too many prying eyes wondering what such a finely dressed woman is doing standing at the water's edge. The crunch of bootsteps behind her heralds her contact before she turns to him; remembering how quietly he approached when they first met, she knows he's only being so loud as a courtesy.
"You've done well for yourself," Armand looks her up and down, and Lyvia knows that the glint of what bits of her armor peek out from within her cloak doesn't escape his eye. "Guess being a big damn hero now has its perks." Ah. Of course he's heard about Kvatch; it's been weeks, after all, word must have gotten around by now. She has yet to find anyone else that recognizes her as such, but now that he mentions, she wonders how long until she simply can't escape from it.
"I don't know about all that," Lyvia picks at the inside of her cloak. "Just right place, right time I suppose."
"Right time, right place doesn't close Oblivion gates," Armand points out with an incredulous chuckle. "But I'm glad you came back, cause the guild has work for you, if you want it. Not that it looks like you need it." She blinks at him blankly.
"But I botched the last job," she points out. "I thought that…I don't know, that the guild wouldn't be interested in me still."
"You botched your first job, and a job that I frankly should have prepared you for a little better if I'm being honest," Armand rubs the back of his neck. "I'm sorry for that, by the way. And just because you didn't succeed doesn't mean we didn't. I sent someone else in while the guard was distracted and got the taxes."
"If that's the case, why didn't you…I don't know, bail me out or something?" Lyvia can't help asking; part of her feels childish for asking when logically it would have been a days long sentence at the most for petty theft, and not even successful petty theft.
"We tried," Armand frowns. "But it was like every time I sent someone to do it, some kind of obstacle would pop up. And when we finally did manage it, you were already gone." Lyvia grimaces. It's just like that door that refused to open, no matter how she tried to pick it, forcing her to go through rat-and-goblin infested tunnels. That godsdamned fate the Emperor had gone on about. Maybe the gods had wanted her in that cell after all. It didn't endear them any more to her, to be frank. She takes a steadying breath.
"Well, that's good to know, at least," she sighs. "So what's this job?"
"There's a woman, widow of a former fence, that's lost a ring, and she wants it back," Armand says. "We take care of our own, of course, and her husband was good to the guild."
"Lost?"
"Stolen, by a freelance thief," Armand's brow furrows. "Freelancers are no good; they have no structure or code and cause problems for the guild when they don't follow our rules. Ahdarji wants her ring back, and we want the freelancer stopped."
"'Stopped', as in, convinced to give up their life of crime, I presume?" Lyvia prods, and Armand nods.
"We're not making any exceptions to the rule against killing for this fool," he agrees. "You get him to stop or come to us, and get Ahdarji's ring back." She searches his face for a moment. Lyvia's almost certain that this isn't about the ring or owing the late fence a debt of gratitude; it's entirely about getting this rogue thief off the streets and stop him from making a bad name for thieves everywhere.
Or, well, a worse name, anyway.
"I appreciate the vote of confidence, but…" Lyvia hesitates. "I have more pressing matters that have to be addressed—"
"Of course," Armand huffs a laugh. "All your heroing must come first; I don't want to be killed by daedra any more than anyone else. Just if you happen to be in the area, we ask you look into it."
"…Alright then," Lyvia relents. "So where did this ring go missing?"
"Leyawiin." She feels her stomach drop through the soles of her feet; if there's one place she doesn't want to visit, it's Leyawiin. The chances of running into her family while doing this job are fairly low, she knows, but the last thing she wants is to have to see her father again. She could simply just not do the job and cite too many Oblivion gates to be closed to get it done or something. Perhaps someone at Cloud Ruler can vouch for her if she needs proof. (Martin would do it, she knows, likely without her even asking, but that would be a ridiculous reason to reveal his location.)
"I'll see what I can do," she says; a nice, noncommittal answer. Armand nods.
"Shadow hide you, from whatever you may face," he says his farewells and heads off toward the garden where Lyvia had first met the other candidates for the guild, where this ripple in her life had begun. She watches for a moment before noting the location of the moons overhead; it's quite late, and she still needs to report to Baurus. Pulling her cloak more snugly around her, she hurries off to get back to Luther Broad's.
It's quite late when she walks into the inn; it's as poorly lit as it was this morning, with only the addition of a few more candles. In the dim light, she can see that another of the inn's staff has taken over watching the counter, and there, where she left him that morning, is Baurus. She wonders if, now that he's not being actively stalked by a cult member, he's imbibing in something better than water. He glances at the door and, on seeing her, jumps up from his stool and hurries toward her.
"I was about to go looking for you!" He sounds incredibly relieved. "I thought maybe more cultists had found you."
"No, no, was just catching up with an old acquaintance," she waves his worries off. "I found Tar-Meena, by the way. She has the book right now." Baurus steers her toward a quiet table in the corner, away from the presumably unaware barkeep.
"Did she have any insights?" he asks in hushed tones as they settle into the corner, the walls at their backs.
"Yes and no," Lyvia pulls some food from her pack; she could save her rations, but she doesn't want to call over the barkeep. "She couldn't tell me how to find them, but she thinks if we can find the other volumes, the secret might be hidden between them."
"Other volumes?"
"Yeah, there's three others," Lyvia picks little pieces of bread and nibbles them between words. "Tar-Meena already had the second one, so we need to find the other two."
"Shit," Baurus runs his hand through his hair. "Who knows how long that'll take."
"She suggested a bookshop in town; First Edition apparently has a good reputation for finding rare books," Lyvia says. "I tried to go by earlier, but they were closed for the night, so I'll go in the morning."
"Do you want me to come with you?" he asks. "I can help lean on him." Lyvia smirks, just a little.
"I'm actually pretty confident I can handle a shopkeep," and for once, she means it. "I have…experience. The bigger problem is that, even if they have the third book, apparently the fourth book is so rare Tar-Meena's never even seen it." He hums for a moment thoughtfully, looking out the window across from the table.
"Well, that's a problem for later, I think," Baurus says finally. "Perhaps in getting the third book, the way to find the fourth will present itself." Lyvia agrees, and they fall quiet as she finishes her unimpressive dinner. Baurus insists that they share a room for safety, since it's clear the Mythic Dawn knows they're on their trail, and Lyvia honestly can't agree more. And it's hard for her to argue when he insists she take the bed and he use a bedroll on the floor. It's been far too long since she's been able to sleep on a proper bed. She settles into the somewhat threadbare blankets gratefully and lets herself drift off to sleep.
The familiar dark path lined with bioluminescent mushrooms stretches out before her once more, forest detritus crunching under her feet. A large moth flits by her head, almost close enough to brush against her hair. It glows too, a soft green, fluttering ahead of her down the path, and something tells her she must follow it. Her steps are slow at first, but as the moth seems to just get further and further away, she picks up speed, first jogging, then all out sprinting after it. She doesn't know why, but there's something about it, something important, and she can't leave without it. She doesn't know where she's running — she can't stop to look around without losing the moth, and the idea of losing it is intolerable. For a moment, it seems she's gaining on it, arm stretching out, fingers just about to close around its flittering wings—
And then she wakes, early morning light chasing away the dark and the moth and the urgency as she sighs and rolls out of bed to face the day.
She approaches the door to First Edition with some amount of confidence. She's lightened her pack quite a bit by leaving some of her road preparations at Luther Broad's (along with a tiny tome on how to write in shadowmarks, which must have been slipped into her pack by Armand when he ran into her), and today she's decided to go without her cloak, letting the hallmarks of her Blades' armor show for anyone to see. When a guard walks by, she holds her head high. That morning, she'd voiced her concerns about being thrown back in jail. Baurus had assured her that she didn't need to worry about the guard, that he'd cleared her name, likely before she'd ever even made it to Kvatch. She has to admit, it's a relief to take at least one worry off her plate.
The bookshop is quiet and tidy, surprisingly free of dust despite the massive amount of tomes adorning the shelves, everything from common fiction novels to heavy looking magical theory books. And, if she's not mistaken, a treasure trove of incredibly rare and valuable books in the shelf behind the counter, carefully guarded by an unassuming Redguard in fine clothing. He gives her the polite smile of a merchant to a guest.
"Welcome in!" he greets smoothly. "Anything in particular you're looking for, my good lady? Perhaps something romantic to pass the time?" Lyvia scowls; the assumption that she can only possibly be interested in light reading grates on her a bit.
"I am looking for something specific," she says, turning to face the counter fully so he can see the emblem on her shoulder and kote. "I'm looking for the Commentaries on the Mysterium Xarxes, specifically volumes three and four, if you have them."
"Three and four? Those are impossible to find, ma'am," he says incredulously. "Not something I just keep on the shelves." Lyvia searches his face; the rebuke she finds there is almost over exaggerated. She's almost certain he's hoping she'll take it at face value.
"Impossible, you say," she raises an eyebrow at him. "You're telling me that the fabled First Edition can't obtain a book just because it's rare?" She puts as much doubt in her voice as she can, making sure she arranges her face into something that could be called unimpressed. His jaw drops open, offended.
"I'll have you know, we are perfectly capable of finding Volume Three; I have a copy in fact," he crosses his arms. "But it's already paid for by another customer. I'd be happy to look for another copy, but it could be months." Months? Lyvia — Tamriel — doesn't have months to spare.
"And there's no way I could convince you to part with it, I suppose?" She knows better than to ask; no merchant worth their salt would betray a well paying customer, especially one that had made what was most likely quite the expensive purchase. Even if he gets paid twice for one purchase, he'd lose far too much business to make it worth it once the word got out.
"Afraid not. You could speak with the customer yourself if you need it so badly," his eyes pass over the dragon emblem hammered into her armored sleeve. "His name's Gwinas, he'll be here soon to pick it up."
"I think I'll do that, thank you," Lyvia says graciously. "While we wait, what about Volume Four?"
"That I truly have never seen," he says. "I wouldn't even know where to start looking for it. I wish you luck in your search; maybe when you find one you can tell me where to look!" Lyvia gets the feeling that, wherever the fourth book is, this shopkeeper wouldn't want to go looking for it. He shouldn't at least, anyway. There's probably a reason no one's ever seen it.
She mills about in the shop for a while, wandering among the shelves and idly looking at the spines of books she has no intention of purchasing. The smell of the books makes her what she can only describe as homesick; she didn't think after spending only a week there that she would miss Cloud Ruler as much as she does. She's thinking to herself how she should have paid more attention to what Martin likes to read, so that she could get him a souvenir of sorts, when she hears the door to the shop open. She creeps a little closer, through the shelves, and sees a wood elf in fancy robes approaching the counter, asking for his order. He doesn't linger once the shopkeep hands the book over, and as he slips back out into the street, Lyvia follows.
He takes a winding route through the city, but she's familiar enough to know where he's going; the Tiber Septim hotel, a very nice inn that she'd done a few jobs for before she'd been imprisoned. Lyvia needs to speak to him somewhere without so many prying eyes and ears; the hotel would be terribly compromised and she certainly doesn't want to have to fend off more Mythic Dawn members on her own. So, as the wood elf passes an alley, she speeds up, grabbing his sleeve and dragging him into the dim space between buildings.
"Excuse you, how dare you lay—" but the man cuts off as he sees her armor, eyes lingering on the wakizashi hanging at her hip.
"Look, Gwinas," she starts, and his eyes flash when she uses his name. "I need that book you purchased. It's of the utmost importance to the Empire." He bursts out laughing at that.
"So important that the Empire's sending armed thugs to threaten me for it?" he taunts. "Leave me alone, it's my book."
"Fine then, tell me about the Mythic Dawn," she pushes harder, standing between him and the open street.
"Th-the Mythic Dawn? I haven't the faintest—"
"Don't play dumb," she snaps, and he crumbles.
"Fine, fine, I can see you're familiar with the Commentaries," Gwinas straightens his robes. "I know daedric cults are not exactly welcome in most social circles, but that's all just superstition. For the open-minded, daedric worship is quite rewarding!" Lyvia feels her eye twitch. This man cannot be lecturing her on daedra worship when he clearly has no idea what he's doing. She'll admit that she's a bit naive when it comes to other daedric Princes, but she's not stupid, and anything devoted to a Prince of destruction can only be no good.
"I need you to listen to me," she says, quietly, as she pulls the Skeleton Key from where she has it tucked in the sashes about her waist, lifting it just enough that he can see it, trusting that someone acting so high and mighty about daedra worship will recognize it. "I'm no stranger to daedra, and I'm telling you that you're being a fool. This cult murdered the Emperor, is that really who you want to be associated with?" His eyes are trained on the Skeleton Key at first, but then snap to her face.
"What?" The horror in his voice is unmistakeable, a sharp turn from the smug superiority from before. "They were the ones— Listen, you have to believe me, I had no idea! Here, take the book, I don't want anything to do with—" He stammers over more words that barely string together as he shoves the book in her hands. She takes just a moment to breathe, relieved that at least this has gone well, but throws her arm out to block him as Gwinas tries to scurry away.
"Before you go," she says. "How do I get volume four? I need it."
"You have to get it from a member," he says shakily. "Here, they gave me a note with instructions. That's it, that's all I know. I'm getting out of here." He shoves a folded piece of paper into her hands and brushes past her brusquely, straightening his robes as he goes. This is fine; Lyvia's got what she wanted, and she takes off for the Luther Broad's.
She reaches the inn in record time, breathing hard from pushing herself as quickly as she could down the streets, sprinting when she could and jogging when she could not. Baurus looks up as she enters, and quickly excuses himself at the look on her face and the book shape wrapped up in the sash around her waist. He ushers her upstairs to his reserved room, closing the door and using a scroll to cast something — likely a muffle spell of some sort — on the door before turning to her.
"I'm guessing you got the book?" he tilts his head at the book shape, and she grins, pulling the book and the note out and passing them to him.
"Better," she says. "The book and a note on how to get the fourth one."
"Excellent, I knew I could count on you," he smiles as he unfolds the note, and she feels something like pride bloom in her chest. "I know how to get to this part of the sewers. I'm the senior Blade here, I should be the one to talk to this Sponsor."
"No," Lyvia surprises herself as she speaks up. "I'm good with talking to people. If you let me go in, we might not even need to fight." He's already frowning though.
"Obviously you're quite persuasive to have done all this," he acknowledges. "But what if something were to happen to you? That's not a letter I want to write to Jauffre."
"You can wait out of sight," Lyvia suggests. "Let me do what I do best, and if I mess it up, you can come in and do what you do best." He's still frowning, but now there's a thoughtfulness there.
"…You'll need something else to wear," he relents. "You won't get anywhere with the Sponsor while wearing the symbol of the empire on your shoulders."
"The man I got these from was a noble," she mentions, folding her arms. "If we can get some fancy robes or something that'd probably be enough to convince them."
"We'll hide your sword in the fabric," Baurus is nodding. "That way you're not totally unarmed." Lyvia suppresses a shudder as she thinks back to her first encounter with the assassins, and wonders if Baurus too is remembering how he'd had to save her that day.
"I should probably go find an outfit then," she mumbles; she had packed a little gold, courtesy of the Blades, for her trip, but purchasing finery will probably take most of it. At this point she's no stranger to traveling on a shoestring budget, but she would really rather not…
"No need," Baurus interrupts her thoughts. "I have some clothes stashed; the Blades have to go undercover sometimes, as you're finding out, so we keep some things on hand. And…well, Renault doesn't need hers anymore." He looks at the floor for a moment, and Lyvia wonders if he would accept comfort.
"I'm sorry," she decides on, hoping it's enough. She thinks about taking his hand, like she does with Martin when he's bothered or he does with her when she's upset, but it feels…out of place here, somehow. Baurus shakes his head.
"Thanks." He takes a steading breath. "It's an occupational hazard, I'm afraid, but she was a good soldier." He says good soldier, but it sounds like he means friend, and Lyvia wishes she could offer more than condolences. Alas, she doesn't think even daedric Princes can restore life to the dead. Baurus goes digging through the trunk in the room — she wonders if he's been living here ever since the prison — and pulls out some nice silks: a shirt, a long skirt, and a corset that looks none too comfortable for fighting. It'll have to do.
He helps with the metal bits of her armor, then steps out to let her change. She sets her wakizashi, sash, and lockpick on the bed before slipping into the long sleeved shirt and skirt; the skirt is long enough to hide that her boots are a bit outside the norm. It'll get filthy in the sewers, but it just adds to the visuals, she supposes. Even if remembering having to clean silks for wealthy patrons makes her frown at the thought. She calls Baurus back in to help with the corset, which she isn't expecting him to do up quite as deftly as he does, or as skillfully; it's snug enough to not give away the game, but loose enough that she can breathe quite easily, even if her spine is being held uncomfortably straight. As he takes up her sword and sash, she looks down at her folded gear next to her pat, and the glove sitting on top.
"You don't think this would stand out too much, do you?" she nudges the glove with her boot, not certain she can bend down to grab it while laced up, and Baurus stoops to grab it for her.
"It's a little odd to only have one," he muses. "But I don't think anyone would notice. Some nobles are quite eccentric, especially ones interested in daedric cults I would imagine." He slips it onto her hand for her, and she adjusts it as he asks, "What is it, anyway? If I'm not mistaken, there's an enchantment on it."
"Martin enchanted it for me," she smiles at the glove. "It enhances my restoration spells, so if I get hurt I can heal myself a little better." Lyvia looks up at Baurus and notices him giving her a smug kind of look. "What?"
"Nothing, nothing at all," he sounds amused, and she opens her mouth to demand what again when he picks up her sash. "We can probably make this look like part of your getup so we can hide your sword." She thinks about insisting he tell her what he was smirking at her for, but decides that ultimately, they have more important things to worry about. She clips the sword around her waist, and Baurus wraps it up in her sash. Lyvia tucks her lockpick as well into the folds; while it's not likely that the Skeleton Key will be important for this mission, she'd rather have it and not need it than need it and not have it. Even if it's come back to her once, she isn't sure it would do so again.
Once's Lyvia's dressed, she and Baurus head for the sewers together; he insists on escorting her, not wanting her to dirty her disguise any more than she needs to, as a foolish noble wouldn't be tussling with rats and other undercity denizens. So she lets him walk ahead of her and cut down beasts as they encounter them, trying not to feel like she should be protecting herself. It's not long before they arrive at the room detailed in the note. She stares at the door in trepidation; if it goes wrong, will Baurus be in time to stop her from being skewered? What if the Sponsor doesn't believe her? Perhaps this is actually all a trap and she's walking into it unarmored and only barely armed—
"You good?" Baurus interrupts her spiraling thoughts, and she's glad for it. She's not going in alone, and despite what happened with the former Emperor, he's good at his job. And beyond that, she's good with her words; she's watched her mother charm plenty of traders out of stock over the years, she can sweet talk one book off of one man who isn't even a trader.
"Yeah," she says, taking a deep breath. "Yeah, I'm fine. Gods willing, I'll see you in a few minutes with that book." Lyvia squares her shoulders and, reminding herself that her wakizashi is tucked securely in her sash, walks through the door.
It's an empty room, with only one table and one chair. On the left are stairs up to a walkway; if she were a betting woman, she would say there's probably a way out to the main tunnel up there. Perhaps a good escape route if things go sideways. Lyvia takes her seat, sitting uncomfortably upright in the ridiculous corset. She runs her thumb over the gem set in her glove, letting the feel of the magic calm her racing heart.
A door to the left opens, and an unfamiliar high elf walks through, wearing the same robes as the assassins she's encountered. His hair is tied back into a tight bun, and his features are severe, even for an elf. She forces her face to remain blank, unimpressed even, as he approaches the table. A feat made more of a challenge by two more cultists appearing after him, moving to flank the table and block the stairway. She swallows her nerves and gives a placid smile.
"So," the elf begins. "You want to become one of the Chosen of Mehrunes Dagon? It is a difficult path, but the Path of Dawn's rewards are great." There's a heartbeat of silence; she feels the expectation of response and summons up all the haughty superiority Gwinas had shown when she'd cornered him in the alley.
"Maybe difficult for the average seeker," she sneers. "But rest assured, there's nothing average about me."
"Indeed," he says; out of the corner of her eye she sees one of his compatriots move, though she can't see what he's doing without turning her head. "If that's the case, then I have the book you seek. With all four volumes, you possess the key to enlightenment, if you've the wits to use it." Lyvia feels a presence behind her, and feels a sinking feeling. Every instinct screams at her to move, run, do something, but if this is a test, she won't give the game up so easily. She pretends she doesn't notice.
"You need not worry," she promises, and in this, she's not lying. "I will find it."
"So confident," a voice says behind her, and one of the cultists, the one she'd noticed moving, leans over her shoulder. "But when were you going to mention that you're the Septims' lapdog?" Her heart leaps into a gallop in her chest as the sponsor's eyes narrow at her, and she feels magic gathering around the third. The game was over before she'd ever sat down.
"Baurus!" She no longer cares if they know she has backup because she needs the backup; Lyvia tries to stand and pull her sword, but the cultist behind her grabs her arm as she goes for it. Her head whips back hard, and the satisfaction of hearing his grunt of pain and feeling his hand loosen almost overrides the sharp pain in her own skull. Ripping her arm free, she reaches again for her sword, unsheathing it as she kicks the table into the sponsor, buying her just enough time to duck beneath the third cultist's mace, the bones of the corset biting into her hips.
She looks up to see Baurus charge the sponsor, blade held high, but they're outnumbered three-to-one. Lyvia wants to get this fucking corset off but there's no time as the cultist that outed her lunges, bound dagger in hand. She lifts her sword to parry, and up close she recognizes him; this is the assassin that murdered the Emperor, the one she had feared would follow her to the Priory. Pushing hard on their clashed blades, a battle cry rises in her chest as she buys herself enough room to drop down and drive her blade into his gut.
He staggers back, clutching his abdomen as blood gushes, but Lyvia has no time to savor victory or act on the nausea rising at the pouring blood. His companion lets out a roar of rage and rushes her, and she's too slow to fully dodge with how her movement is so restricted in her noble's attire. The mace crashes into her shoulder, spikes and sharp edges digging into her flesh as she falls onto the hard stone floor. She manages to roll out of the way before the mace can come down on her skull, and she grabs it just below the head before her assailant can pull it back. They struggle over the mace; with it being bound, she's not even sure what will happen if she manages to get it away from him, but if nothing else it's buying her time. But just as the assassin pulls his mace free of her, just as she's sure this is the end of her journey, the mace looming like a headman's axe, the assassin jolts, a rough gasp escaping him as Baurus drives a blade through his heart.
"You should really be more careful, Knight-Sister," he teases, even as the worry is writ plain on his face. Sheathing his sword, he kneels down to help her up. Her shoulder burns as he sets the chair, having been knocked over in the struggle, upright for her to sit. Lyvia takes a breath, reaching out to the enchantment in her glove, letting the strands of Martin's magic within dance with hers before directing them both at her torn flesh. The muscles and skin begin to knit together, and while it's isn't as smooth or soothing as when Martin does it himself, it's much better than she's managed on her own hurts before.
"That one was the one that killed the Emperor," she jerks her head toward the dead cultist with a wound in his stomach. "He recognized me." Baurus curses, then wanders over to the now-dead sponsor, peering at his face.
"Well, how interesting," he mutters. "If my intelligence isn't mistaken, this is Raven Camoran."
"Camoran? Like the author of the books?"
"Yes," Baurus kneels down to search through the dead man's robes. "He's apparently related, though I haven't found enough about the author to know exactly how yet." He stands, a triumphant smirk on his face as he wobbles volume four at her. Lyvia finishes healing her wound, tucking her sword back into her sash as she stands. It's so unimportant in the grand scheme of everything happening, but she can't help but feel bad about the silks now ruined by blood, dirt, and the filth of the sewers.
"Sorry about the clothes, I—"
"Don't apologize," he cuts her off. "This kind of thing is what they were meant for, and even if things didn't work out like we wanted, Renault would have suggested it herself if she were here." He gives her a reassuring smile, and though she still feels bad for it, she does feel at least a little bit better. He hands her the book, and she runs her fingers over the spine. The last piece of the key to finding the Amulet. For a moment, she lets herself imagine riding back with it clutched in her hands, triumphant.
She chases the image away; she can't let herself get complacent. Even if these books lead her to wherever the cult has hidden itself away, there will be far more than three cultists to protect it. Maybe they'll all have their bound weapons and armor, or perhaps, in the safety of their own shrine, they'll use other magic, magic she can't even imagine. It makes her feel like her guts are all tied up in knots to think of it, but she reminds herself that she doesn't have to fight. If she can just trick her way inside somehow, she can steal the amulet. If it remembers her — hopefully it does — then hopefully it won't do anything to give her away.
Lyvia can't help to huff a small laugh; she never thought she'd be hoping that a piece of jewelry remembers her.
"Let's get back to Luther Broad's," Baurus interrupts her thoughts. "So you can change back, and then we can go drop off the last book with Tar-Meena."
"We?"
"Just in case anyone gives you trouble," he says. "Two Blades are harder to tell 'no' than one, and we need her looking into these as quickly as possible."
"That probably won't be a problem," Lyvia can't help smirking a little, remembering how eager the argonian woman had been at just the potential of seeing the final two books. "Tar-Meena will be delighted to see this."
The two make their way out of the sewers; the path is still clear, littered with dead rats and other such pests likely warning away any more from moving into the tunnel for the time being. Baurus insists she go up the ladder first, in case she slips, saying she still looks a bit faint from her fight. She tells him that's nonsense, only to nearly slip on the ladder and be grateful that he was there to stop her fall long enough to scrabble back onto the rungs.
At Luther Broad's, she quickly changes back into her armor, taking just a moment to be a little in awe at how second nature it's become in only a couple of weeks. Once she's back to looking more like a Blade than a noble that took a dip in the sewers, Lyvia collects the third book along with the fourth, shoves them into her pack, and joins Baurus to hurry to the University, not bothering with her cloak; she wants to be recognized as a Blade.
Tar-Meena is predictably delighted to see Lyvia again, and more delighted to see the two books she brings. They sit together on the bench in the foyer as Baurus plays the muscle, chasing out prying eyes so they can speak with some measure of privacy.
"I can't believe you found them!" the argonian exclaims, mouth stretched in a toothy grin as she thumbs rapidly through first the third, then the fourth volumes. "This is delightful; this is a pretty common tactic among cults, to hide clues to their secret shrines or hidden messages within their texts. It really is quite fascinating— Ah, but that's a conversation we can have another time," she glances up to where Baurus had crossed his arms and looked to be ready to interrupt. "You have a shrine to find. Give me a few days to look over the books; I'll find that clue, you'll see."
"Thank you so much, Tar-Meena," Lyvia says earnestly. "We couldn't have done this without you." Tar-Meena laughs at that.
"Maybe wait until I've figured it out to thank me," she teases, gathering the tomes in her arms. "I'll see you in a few days, and I'll make sure my fellows know to let me know as soon as they see you. Whatever time it is."
For the next couple of days, Baurus borrows Luther Broad's basement to drill her on her bladework. It's clear he's very good at what he does, making every attack look clear, purposeful, even graceful, while Lyvia always feels like she's flailing aimlessly and messing up every trick he shows her. He repeatedly assures her that, for her training being so rushed (or even nonexistent) that he's impressed with her abilities, especially her instincts for avoiding danger in the middle of a fight. Lyvia points out that she's been caught off many times, but he argues that, from what he's seen, it's more likely that she simply had two bad options, and had to pick the worse one, like letting her shoulder take a blow instead of her head. She doesn't fully buy his argument, but it does make her feel a little bit less hopeless.
It's the third day when she wakes to find Baurus packing a bag.
"I told Jauffre I'd give you some training," he says, "And I have. But now I should go to Cloud Ruler Temple; my place is protecting the Emperor, and if that's Martin, then that's where I need to be."
"But…" Lyvia stares at him for a moment, feeling not unlike when she left Cloud Ruler, alone on a horse for the first time. "But what if I still need help? What if I can't get it back on my own?" He stops his packing, crossing to where she stands anxiously, resting his hands on her shoulders.
"Jauffre trusted you with this mission," he says, carefully. "Not me, not anyone else. So we should trust his judgment, don't you think?"
"You're so much more skilled though," she protests, and he huffs a laugh, pulling back and resting one hand on his hip.
"Maybe I'm a bit more practiced, but two Blades are always going to be harder to hide in a crowd than one," he says. "And besides, from what I've seen? You're much better at the infiltration side of it than I am." Lyvia blinks at him. Her, better than him? That can't be right. She's only been a Blade for…she supposes perhaps close to a month? He was on the Emperor's personal guard.
"Look, Lyvia," he continues, slinging his pack over his shoulder. "I didn't get where I am by second guessing every time someone paid me a compliment. If you think I'm wrong, then write to Jauffre and tell him to find someone else. But you've proven me right plenty already. I'll see you back at Cloud Ruler Temple."
And then he's gone.
With nothing better to do, and feeling a bit cast adrift, Lyvia wanders toward the University to see if Tar-Meena's made any breakthroughs. Maybe if she hasn't, she can visit Armand and see if there's any local jobs that need doing. Or perhaps she can visit that book shop again if she needs to kill some time; maybe there's something there that might be helpful to their mission. She can't imagine what, but it's better than sitting in her inn room waiting for something to happen.
Luckily, she doesn't end up needing to do any of these things.
"Ah, Lyvia, I was just about to send for you!" Tar-Meena meets her at the entrance of the University this time, rather than inside; it looks more like she had been about to come find her than send for her. "I think I've cracked it!"
"That's great news!" Lyvia sighs in relief, then pulls her to a quiet corner of the courtyard. "What's the key?"
"The 'key' is a message," Tar-Meena says. "Here, I've written it down for you. 'Green Emperor Way Where The Tower Touches Midday Sun.'"
"'Where the tower touches'— There must be something that appears there at noon," Lyvia muses. "The Shrine can't be in the city, can it?"
"I don't know," Tar-Meena's eyes glitter. "But it certainly is exciting! If you ever get a moment, you should come tell me all about it." Lyvia smiles at her, and when the argonian tries to give her back the stack of four books, she pushes them back towards her.
"Keep them," she says. "I have what I need, and I do think they'll be helpful for your research, won't they?" Tar-Meena's eyes widen.
"Are you sure?" she asks. "The Blades don't need them?"
"The only thing I needed is this," Lyvia lifts the little slip of paper. "And if we need anything else, we know where to find you." Tar-Meena hugs the tomes to her chest, eyes bright and lizardlike features stretched in a wide grin.
"I can't thank you enough," she says, and Lyvia waves her off.
"If this takes me where I think it does, it's all the thanks I need," she smiles, then turns toward the entrance to the campus with a wave goodbye. Tar-Meena calls her farewells, and Lyvia hurries down the road, pointing her feet to Green Emperor Way; if she's fast, she can make it there before noon. She doesn't want to miss whatever it is; every day that passes without the Amulet, the worse this whole situation will get, she knows.
She skids to a halt in the gardens surrounding the palace; her first instinct is nerves, that someone will see her there and tell her she needs to go. But no one does, whether because of the symbol of the Empire all over her armor or because the gardens are more public than she would have expected. Either way, she cranes her neck to look up at the White-Gold Tower looming over her, and the sun moving in the sky behind it. Lyvia looks around, at the shadows on the ground moving, and moves with them, watching where the sun falls until—
She stops in front of a tomb, a tomb to some forgotten prince from a time long past. As the sun crosses over the stone, the weathered carvings begin to glow a bright, bright red, not unlike the horrible luminance of an Oblivion gate. For a moment, the scrawling lines make little sense, but then she realizes, it's a map. She pulls the map she'd packed from her pocket, smoothing the wrinkles and holding it up next to the glowing lines. The sun is still moving, she knows she only has a little time to figure this out, so she peers between the two, looking and looking.
There. Where a bright glowing cross is on the stone map, she sees a lake on her paper map. She sincerely hopes the shrine isn't under the lake, but if she peers a little closer at her paper map, it seems that there might be some caves near the lake. This is precisely the lead she needed. And it's not too far from Bruma, all things considered, so once she has the Amulet, she can go straight back to Martin with it. She fumbles in her pocket for a little piece of charcoal, unwrapping it from the little cloth that keeps it from marking up the map while she travels, and places a dot roughly where the cross is on the tomb, just as the glowing map fades from sight.
She has no time to waste. It's no short ride to the lake from the Imperial City; she needs to set out right away if she wants to make good time. She can't squander the time she's gained by making it here before noon. Hurrying back to Luther Broad's, she quickly packs up the few things she's left around the room, donning her traveling cloak. Downstairs, she speaks to the innkeeper to purchase some food for the trip, things that will hopefully not spoil along the way. She pays more than she normally would; she doesn't know if the man knows the kind of danger he was inviting to let Blades stay there, but he deserves compensation for it.
By the time she gets to the stables at the entrance of the city to collect her horse, it's getting late; it takes a moment to get the attention of a stablehand from where he's eating to show her to her horse's stall. She assures him she can prepare her own horse, and within the hour, she has the beast saddled and ready to go.
Lyvia mounts her horse and starts off down the road, toward the Amulet of Kings.
Chapter 7
Summary:
Armed with a map and sheer determination, Lyvia descends into the Shrine of Dagon and makes some very questionable decisions.
Notes:
Hey everyone. o/ I really enjoyed writing this one, we've got some wild action in the first half and then Martin trying to convince me, the writer, to speed up the slow burn in the second half so. I really hope you all enjoy it just as much. ^-^
Chapter Text
It takes several days to reach the lake on Lyvia's map, Lake Arrius. It's not far from Cheydinhal, a beautiful piece of nature if she did not know what lay beneath the scenic view. She stops on the shore to let her horse drink as she surveys the land around her. If Lyvia was looking to hide the secret base of an incredibly dangerous cult, she would put it beneath the lake; clearly the cult isn't lacking for magically talented members, after all. But she remembers Gwinas, just a foolish noble with no outward appearance of being any kind of talented mage. If they're recruiting anyone, then the entrance has to be at least somewhat easily accessible.
Once her horse has had his fill, she mounts up and takes off at a slow trot around the edge of the lake, searching for any kind of sign. It would be easier if the books had told her what she should be looking for in the way of landmarks, but that would be too easy of course. There's a reason they took even the Blades by surprise, after all. There's piles of rocks that barely count as caves alongside full size caves and there's so much she's about to grumpily give up for the evening and make camp when—
The spark of a fire catches her eye inside one of the caves.
She guides her horse closer, slowing to a walk. In the fading sunlight, she can see the light of torches from inside. There's little else to mark the cave, really, though she does notice something scratched into the rock. There, shallowly engraved, is a little half-sun, peeking out from behind a line meant to be a horizon. She thinks it looks more like an Oblivion gate than a sun, truthfully.
Lyvia trots a little ways away from the entrance; not so close as for the horse to be immediately in the line of fire from any cultists that might take offense, but close enough to be within distance of a comfortable sprint, should she need to make a speedy escape. She will likely need that speedy escape. Hopping down, legs only a little sore from riding all day (a far cry from the horrible aching and chaffing when riding to Cloud Ruler Temple the first time), she considers how best to approach this. Going in with her armor and a sword on her hip is out of the question, and she's certain the traveling cloak won't fool them. They're too careful, too clever. Going in unarmed is terrifying, but worst case scenario, perhaps there's weapons inside she can steal. It's a shrine to a Prince of destruction, so there must be something she'll be able to use.
Shedding her armor is the best choice, so she strips it bit by bit from herself and folds it inside of her traveling cloak, tying it as securely as she can to her horse. Staying so close to the enemy once she has the amulet to put on her armor would be unwise, so she'll just have to ride for safety. She remembers what Jauffre said about not pushing her horse too hard for the sake of speed, but she might not have a choice if they pursue her. Lyvia pulls her sleeping clothes from her pack, a simple shirt and pants, and changes, deciding the less descript she is, the better. She considers her boots for a long moment. The week she's spent wearing them almost exclusively has proven them quite comfortable and very agile, but they're also incredibly odd. She can't risk them realizing she's a Blade based on her shoes, so she trades them out for a set of silken shoes she found on the side of the road along the way.
Lyvia can't go in entirely empty handed, so she takes a smaller pouch from her gear and loads it with a couple of scrolls of chameleon (a spell she's never used before and is almost certain Armand slipped into her horse's saddle bags while she was in the city), her glove, and the Skeleton Key. It's…not much, much less than she'd prefer to go in with, but she's afraid anything beyond that will give her away. Everything in the pack she can explain as things she utilized to get to the shrine in the first place. Her sword she secures to the saddle, low enough that if she's being chased, she can draw it quickly. She loosely ties the reins to a nearby sapling and hope it's enough to keep the horse there while she does what she needs to do.
Taking a deep, steadying breath, Lyvia says a prayer to Nocturnal to protect her in this most dangerous of heists, and hopes that She spoke true of finding a friend in the dark.
Her first steps into the cave are terrifying; she expects for cultists to pour from the walls, crush her with their summoned maces and then go on about their day. But they don't. She makes it all the way through the entrance and into a larger, open chamber, guarded by a single, relaxed cultist in front of a rickety wooden door, flanked by banners with the same red-and-gold sun imagery as the cult's robes. She swallows hard, remembering a little extra note on the scrap of paper Tar-Meena had given her; a password.
"Dawn is breaking," the guard greets gruffly, and she hopes her voice will remain steady in her reply.
"Greet the new day."
"Welcome, sister," the doorman greets with a smile; the word sounds worse than when Baurus or any of the other Blades say it. "Tis late, but the Master still has use for willing hands. You may pass; Harrow will escort you to the Master for your initiation. Do not tarry, Preparation is almost complete." Lyvia swallows hard and nods, turning to pass through the rough door. No turning back now, not without the Amulet.
"Greetings," a dark elf greets her, messy hair brushed back out of his face and red eyes friendly enough. "I am Harrow, Warden of this Shrine to Lord Dagon. By following the Path hidden within the Master's writings, you have earned your place among the Chosen. You're in luck; the Master is about to speak, and you may have the honor of being initiated by him directly!" He says it like it's a treat, and she forces a smile like she couldn't ask for anything more, even if it makes her feel sick. "Here, take this robe, and leave your possessions with me."
"M-my possessions?" Lyvia can't quite keep out the stammer, but she hopes it sounds like surprised curiosity rather than the panic it is.
"Yes; everything you need will be provided for you from the Master's bounty," he explains calmly; she gets the feeling she's not the only one to have been surprised. She also gets the feeling it will be the only warning she gets. Biting her cheek, Lyvia undoes the belt at her waist, handing him the little pack she'd brought, suddenly wishing she had left the Skeleton Key and the glove with her horse. But there's nothing to be done for it. He at least has the decency to avert his eyes while she dons the robes she wishes she could burn instead.
The cave interior is largely unchanged, the walls and ceilings appearing to be naturally occurring. Here and there she sees floors made level with placed stones and each chamber is lit by simple torches. More banners, like the ones at the entrance, decorate the walls as she follows Harrow. Lyvia dares not wander too far from her escort, lest she attract unwanted suspicion, but she tries to listen in to conversations among the other cultists as she passes. Most are talking about the impending invasion of Tamriel, apparently by Mehrunes Dagon Himself, not just the smaller daedra she'd seen in Kvatch. She can't understand it; what do any of them stand to gain by handing their world over to a Prince of destruction?
Harrow leads her into the grandest room yet; this one's floor is almost entirely paved over with stones, a large pulpit atop a grand altar commanding the room's visual space. Toward the back is a massive statue of Dagon, standing over a smaller altar atop the first. She thinks she sees a figure on it, but Lyvia's afraid to look too closely. If it's someone dead, it will only upset her and throw off her focus, and if it's someone alive… She tries to tell herself they are only a distraction, that she has to focus on finding the Amulet, at the cost of all else, but the thought of leaving someone to these maniacs hurts. That could have easily been her, had the assassins under the city captured her instead of trying to kill her.
There's a man, a high elf, standing atop the altar, behind the pulpit, and she realizes she doesn't need to search for the Amulet after all, because it's hanging there, around his neck. Terribly close and impossibly far and she feels like the world has dropped out from beneath her. It's wrong, all wrong; how can he be wearing it? She thought only the Septims could wear it. Every plan she'd made as she rode toward this doomed pit may as well be set alight; how is she to steal the Amulet when he's wearing it?
"The Dragon Throne is empty!" he's saying to the room at large, and the cultists hang on his every word; despite him not looking as old as she'd expect, this has to be Mankar Camoran. "We hold the Amulet of Kings! Praise be to your Brothers and Sisters, for great shall be their reward in Paradise!" His words are followed by a smattering of cheers and praises from the gathered audience. What is he talking about, Paradise? Mehrunes Dagon's realm is the Deadlands, so what realm is he talking about?
He continues on, speaking praises for Dagon and words that sound like they might be found in some holy book and while the cultists eat it up, Lyvia's glancing about, looking for some solution to this. She can't just charge the altar; it'd be suicide, even if Camoran were completely helpless. There's just too many other people and she has no weapons, no scrolls, nothing to help her. Perhaps he's only wearing the Amulet for his presentation, and she can steal it when he takes it off?
"Your reward, my Brothers and Sisters!" he declares, and she realizes he's reaching the end of this strange sermon she's only barely been listening to. "The time of Cleansing draws nigh! I go now to Paradise, and shall return with Lord Dagon at the coming Dawn!" He turns, and with a flick of his wrist, a portal opens before the statue of Dagon, and her heart stops. No, no, he can't leave with the Amulet!
But there's nothing Lyvia can do but watch him disappear into it, the portal flashing shut behind him.
She tries to calm her racing heart, feeling a prisoner in her own body as she fights to keep blending in with the cultists around her, to not let the horror she feels show. She failed, she failed Baurus and Jauffre and— and Martin. Shadows, how is she to face him now? But the meeting hasn't been adjourned, and now Harrow's speaking, and eyes are on her as he introduces her as a new Sister, seeking entrance to Dagon's service. She's not and she wants to run but that would be just as deadly a choice as charging the altar had been. A woman calls her forward, a woman she thinks she heard someone else call Ruma, and Lyvia distantly thinks she's seen the name before. But there's no time to ruminate on it, and she steps forward on legs that feel as unsteady as a newborn foal's.
"You have come to dedicate yourself to Lord Dagon's service," the woman says, and Lyvia's mind is screaming no no I haven't even as she gives a wooden nod. "The pact must be sealed with red-drink, the blood of Lord Dagon's enemies. Take up this dagger and offer the sacrifice to Lord Dagon, as a pledge of your own blood, which shall belong to Him in the end." Ruma motions toward the pulpit over which Camoran had been standing previously, and as Lyvia looks to it, three things run through her mind:
There's a dagger on the pulpit, bright silver and sharp enough to do damage; they don't know she's a Blade and they're giving her a weapon. A weapon she can defend herself with, potentially fight her way out with. A shining silver dagger of hope.
There's a white book next to the dagger, and she knows without knowing what it is. The Mysterium Xarxes. If she has to return without the Amulet, maybe she can at least make it back with something to show for her efforts. She doesn't know if it will help, but it can't hurt.
The man on the altar is alive.
As she approaches the pulpit, Lyvia knows she can't leave the man tied to the altar — he must be tied, they wouldn't leave him loose. She remembers what Martin had said, when she wanted to go in to unlock the gates to the castle in Kvatch alone: How do you suppose I would sleep at night if you didn't come back? Lyvia hadn't understood at the time how he could feel so strongly for a stranger, but knowing the man behind her will die if she does nothing…she thinks she understands a little better now.
The dagger is light in her hands, terribly well balanced, the edge so razor sharp that she thinks even checking it as she might another weapon could cut her skin as easily as butter. It's decorated with ornate curls and sharp edges in equal measure, and she thinks she can make out daedric runes, though she can't read a single one. The book next to it feels heavy, even before she's ever touched it, a horrible gravity to it as if calling to her. Lyvia looks out at the gathered crowd. No, no she can't take it yet. The man behind her still breathes, and she knows in her very soul that the moment she touches that book, he won't be.
Harrow's there, not far from the altar, looking as eager and reverent as the rest of them, clutching her little pack in his hands still. It's not much, but she'll need that glove and she definitely needs those scrolls. If she takes the book first, will she be able to find him in the throng that will be howling for her blood? Will she be crushed under the weight of so many cultists before she can cast even a single scroll? No. No she has to get her scrolls first, but he's down there and she's up here. How?
The answer is as obvious as it is reckless as it is stupid.
She flips the knife in her hand, blade extending from the bottom of her palm rather than the top, steps up onto the pulpit, and prays for Nocturnal to carry her as a crow's wing as she leaps over the crowd and drives the dagger through Harrow's eye.
For a moment, no one moves, a heartbeat she can't afford to waste by looking around. Lyvia rips open her pack and pulls her glove on with her teeth as she scrabbles for the scroll. The crowd has just started to move when her fingers close around it; the magic is the wrong kind for Martin's enchantment to help her with, but she pulls on it even still in the hopes it might do something anyway. She shoves her magicka through the paper and it burns away as the spell envelopes her, skin rippling as it reflects the cave around her.
When the first bound weapons begin to appear, she runs.
She sprints back to the altar at the feet of the statue, where whatever has kept the argonian tied there passive seems to be wearing out. Lyvia rams hard into the stone, all thoughts of grace scattered like feathers in a wind as she clumsily grabs for the ropes holding him down. She won't leave him there.
"Wha—" He starts to stammer, but as she cuts him free she shoves her second scroll into his hands and drags him off the stone.
"Go!" her voice scratches on the way out with the panic suddenly rising as she realizes the crowd gathered is converging on her; they can see the sacrifice moving and must realize that's where she is. Lyvia barely manages to roll out of the way as Ruma sends a blast of lightning her way. The woman's standing between her and the Xarxes.
Lyvia already lost the Amulet. She's not leaving without the Xarxes.
She charges Ruma; the woman raises her staff to block, but Lyvia's veins are humming with a kind of fear that makes her strong. One hand wraps around the staff, wrenching it to one side as she brings the dagger down hard into Ruma's throat. She staggers back, clutching at the wound, but Lyvia doesn't wait to see what happens next. She ducks around the woman, cultists on her heels as she reaches out and her free hand closes around the Mysterium Xarxes.
It's as if she's seized raw lightning, pain lancing up and down every inch of her skin and bones and everything. For a moment, if she can see she certainly doesn't register any of it. She only doesn't scream because she can't even move, that terrible gravity she'd felt rooting her to the spot. She has to move, she has to or she's going to die, but she can no more move her legs than she can reach through reality and reclaim the Amulet.
But the glove on her hand burns hotter, a golden flame like the concentrated heat of a summer day and then she can move again; it doesn't negate everything but it's like the magic of the enchantment is twisting with her own and giving her the strength to step, and step again. Every cultist is behind her, breathing down her neck; she thinks she feels something wet on her arm but she can't stop to look. The path back to the entrance is clear; she jumps down, a little less dramatically this time, legs shaking under her as she scrambles for the entrance, bouncing off the walls of the tunnels as she staggers through.
When she emerges — cultists scream and shout back in the cave, though they don't seem to realize she's slipped their grasping fingers — the sun has almost fully set, the outline of her horse just barely visible among the trees in the dusk. Lyvia stumbles toward him, legs shaking with the twin fires, hellfire and sunflare, burning through every muscle as the chameleon spell dissipates. She looks down, almost expecting to see her skin charred as the book burns, but the Xarxes seems so unassuming in her arms. There's blood trickling down her skin, though, the sleeve of her robe torn; some of the cultists must have gotten lucky with their swings. She should heal it, but when she tries to, the magicka recoils harshly on her, like she's placed her hand on a hot cooking pot.
She hears the shouting get louder; they must have realized she's not in their cave anymore. Lyvia hauls herself onto her horse, the Xarxes clutched so tight to her chest it hurts, not the pain of whatever magic it holds trying to gain a foothold on her soul but the very physical pain of shoving the spine of a hardback book into one's sternum. The beast bellows loudly; she wonders if he can feel the book like she can, but it's too late to second guess bringing it. There's the flash of light from probably a torch — it's still so hard to see clearly — and she kicks her horse harder than she should, yanking the reins in her panic. He doesn't hesitate, breaking into an all out sprint, and she knows she should be more careful, but terror has made its home in her heart.
She realizes as trees whip past too-fast and night gathers around her that she has no idea if the sacrifice she'd fought to rescue made it out.
Minutes and hours and days all blend together in a fog of time; Lyvia's horse never seems to slow or tire or want anything but to run, and she hopes he's running to Cloud Ruler Temple because every moment she holds the Xarxes she feels like she's losing touch with the world around her as it claws at her mind and magic. One moment she sees the green fields giving way to mountains, the next a bloody battlefield, or the lava and towers and fire she'd seen in the gate at Kvatch, or Cloud Ruler Temple burning and littered with bodies she's afraid to look too closely at, all the while the book whispering wordless promises that if she just gives in it'll give her all the knowledge and power she needs to stop these terrible visions.
The only thing keeping her grounded is the feel of Martin's magic; the soft, familiar warmth of it like a lantern in the night. She clings to it even as she mutters senseless prayers to Nocturnal that she's not even sure the Prince can hear, that she's not even sure are sentences. She's drowning in fire and it doesn't matter if it's a priest or a Prince that saves her, she just needs saving. However out of her depth she had believed she was before, it was nothing compared to how helpless she feels now.
Lyvia only realizes that they're on the right track when the world tilts a little as her horse storms up a slope; she shakes her head hard, and for a moment she sees the trail leading from Bruma up into the mountains before everything unfocuses again. She's almost home and it makes her want to cry. Home home home.
Her horse skids to a halt, rearing back and roaring a noise she didn't know a horse could make. Lyvia knows they must have reached the fortress and pulls hard on the reins, trying to keep the animal from turning and continuing his flight. The gate's closed, why is it closed? Bright red catches her eye, and she looks down at her arm and realizes that she's still wearing the initiate's robe she'd been given by the cultists. She's almost certain that the only reason she hasn't been shot down is someone must have recognized her horse.
"It's Lyvia!" she calls out, as loud as she can, and she hopes it's not the garbled mess she thinks it is. For several moments, she's left outside the gate, and she wonders if she's simply standing at a cliff that the Xarxes is making her believe is Cloud Ruler. But then there's a loud scraping sound and the gate opens and her horse charges in, doing circles around the courtyard. He needs to stop so she can get off and…and…
What is she doing? What was she thinking, bringing this book here? Did she ever have a reason or has she just played into the Mythic Dawn's plans? Maybe she should—
Someone's stopping her horse. Between blinks it shifts between being a fellow Blade, one she knows the face of but not the name, and a cultist, somehow followed from the cave and book singing to her that she can eliminate them all if she just lets go—
She falls gracelessly from her saddle, dragging herself upright and brandishing her dagger as the courtyard twists again and again from peaceful and friendly to burning and bloodsoaked and she needs to find Martin. The gem on her glove is warm like sunshine and suddenly it's the only clear thought in her head: find Martin.
"Lyvia," the voice is familiar but it takes her a moment to place it; she turns and sees Jauffre, but his armor morphs between conjured and real and— "What's happened? Where's the Amulet?"
The Amulet The Amulet The Amulet.
"I don't— I tried—" The words fight her as she tries to tell him what happened, as she fights the claws digging their way deeper into her mind and the way everything inside feels like it's been seared away. Jauffre reaches for her, she thinks, and she jolts away, back toward the temple. "Don't touch me!" She hears a loud thud somewhere nearby and she can't reason what it is but she knows she knows she can't let anyone—
She's on the stairs and she thinks she's going to be sick as rapidly as her vision shifts between the sane and insane and of course this fucking thing is going to destroy her from the inside out, isn't it? Hollow her out for its own use. She shouldn't have come back. She shouldn't have because the Xarxes is going to win and then it's going to go for Martin and the thought makes her sicker than anything else the book could do.
There's a door opening and it's Martin there and she's as relieved as she is terrified because she hasn't thought this far ahead. She doesn't know if it's her or the enchantment or the fucking book that wanted her to find him and that's as terrifying as anything she's seen in the hellish ride here. She stumbles back a few steps; her foot slips and she crumples, aware just enough to lean forward instead of back so she won't tumble down the stairs.
"M-Martin, I—"
"Lyvia," the name from his mouth is steadying, like an anchor in a storm and she clings to it. "I need you to give me that book." The fear returns with a vengeance and she scrabbles backward along the top step, gripping the Xarxes so tight she thinks stone might have crumbled by now.
"N-no, you can't—" she's never found speaking so hard before, the words vanishing before she can grab them, but he needs to know. "It'll hurt—"
"It's okay," he kneels before her, and the tiny part of her clinging to what safe-harbor she has left thinks he looks as if trying to calm a flighty animal. That's what she is, isn't she? Little more than an animal; the sudden clarity stops her more effectively than any spell. "Give it here. I can handle it." He sounds so confident and she remembers as if trying to peer through a dream something about daedra and magic.
She can't seem to move any closer, but she doesn't fight him as he carefully takes the Xarxes from her.
Exhaustion weighs heavy on Lyvia's shoulders as all at once the panic and fear and fire that's kept her going all this time drains from her. For one dizzying moment she thinks she'll fall back down into the courtyard, but Martin's arm is around her shoulders, pulling her close and leaning her against his shoulder. He barks at the surrounding Blades not to touch the book he's set aside for the moment, and she thinks she's never heard him sound quite so commanding before. She remembers the thud she'd heard earlier, and suddenly realizes what it must have been.
"The horse…" Her throat feels raw, the words scraping on the way out. She tries to push herself up, to look for the poor animal she had hurt with her rash decision. But her body won't cooperate, and Martin gently uses one hand to keep her from trying to lift her head from where it's pressed into him.
"Just worry about yourself right now, my friend," his voice is soft and comforting and…and she needs to tell him about the Amulet.
"Martin, the—"
"What happened can wait," he assures her quietly. "You need rest and healing." As if the words reminded her, she feels a horrible heated stinging along her arms where she must have taken blows during her escape. A deep guilt settles into her stomach.
"I'm sorry," she mumbles, but thinking is getting harder—not because of magic this time, but because she didn't think it was possible to be this drained of…just everything. "I tried to heal it but—"
"I know," and the gravity in his voice says he does know. He calls over some Blades, and he's giving them instructions, but she can't keep her eyes open any longer. And she falls into the blissful darkness of sleep at last.
Lyvia's laying on something impossibly comfortable, plush and fabric and warmth wrapping around her like a hug. She should…get up, perhaps, or at least open her eyes, but she's so, so tired that she can only lay there. The terror and pain of her desperate flight from the shrine feels so very distant, washed away by a flood of complete and utter safety.
Sunshine glows along her arms; she can see the light behind her eyelids, though what it truly is escapes her. The answer dangles just out of reach, but she doesn't much care. It's such a relief from the agony of the last…days, week, she doesn't know, but she's happy to just let whatever's happening happen. It's gentle and comforting and everything the Xarxes had not been.
Then fingers run along her arms and across her collarbone and she thinks she leans her face into someone's palm. A thumb brushes across her lips and she wants, but she can't put words to what precisely she wants, so muddied is her head still. The hand brushes back her hair and lips press an open-mouthed kiss along her jaw, then more down her neck. Another hand runs fingers down her chest, across her ribs, being ever so gentle, like she's something precious.
The lips leave her neck and press against her own, soft and careful, a quiet hum of contentment slipping from her throat. He — he? — smells like aged books and incense and something she can't quite put a name to and undercutting it all is the ever so faint scent of roses. His tongue pushes past her teeth and brushes against her own; she thinks his groan sounds familiar, but everything is still so fuzzy. A hand runs along her thigh, then hooks behind her knee, pulling her leg up and over his hip or so she presumes.
As he kisses back down her neck, something feels off. Everything feels like it's being pushed away from her, or…or maybe fading is a better term. She's still too tired to reach out and grab it, aching muscles suddenly making themselves known in a way that had been muted before. She makes a frustrated noise.
A dream. It's a dream, and it's slipping through her fingers like sand. She refuses to open her eyes, as if by just keeping them closed the dream will go on and—
And it all falls away like rainwater down a hill, leaving her laying on something much less soft than her dream with her eyes closed like that will somehow bring it back. She hears someone move nearby, and Lyvia wonders if she'd made some face that got the attention of whomever is watching over her. She guesses it's too late to pretend to still be asleep now.
The room is small, not one of any particular note; Lyvia's sure she must have seen it in her exploration of Cloud Ruler Temple, though she doesn't recall where it is clearly. It takes her a moment to realize she's laying on a table that's been padded with multiple bedrolls. A couple of thin blankets have been tucked around her, and an incredibly soft and plush pillow props up her head; it smells like incense, and she wonders if that's why she'd smelled it in her dream.
"Oh, good," a voice says; Lyvia rolls her head to the side to see Jauffre standing from a rickety chair set in the corner. "You're finally awake." She opens her mouth to ask a hundred questions — where's Martin, what happened to the book, how long has it been — but her throat is dryer than the inside of an Oblivion gate, and all that comes out is a wordless rasp. He brings over a cup, helping her sit up so she can drink; the water's lukewarm, but even so feels like heaven on her throat.
"How long?" she manages after she's drained it dry and still feels she could drink more.
"Two days," he says; he takes the empty cup and leans her back against the wall at the head of the table-bed. "Martin will be relieved to see you; he hardly took any time to sleep once you left, and it's only become worse since you got back with the Xarxes." For a moment, just the name of the book is enough to make it hard for her to breathe.
"Where is it?" Lyvia barely manages the question, but fights to not ask a hundred more; has it hurt anyone else, is it any use to them, has she put everyone in danger by bringing it here?
"Martin's keeping it close, and heavily warded," Jauffre crosses to the one door into the room (now that she has a better view of it, it appears to be a repurposed office of some kind). He cracks the door and says something Lyvia can't make out to someone on the other side, then closes it again. He turns back to her, and she swallows hard.
How is she supposed to explain? She'd been sent to find the Amulet of Kings, she had the leads to find it, and yet she came back with an incredibly evil artifact and no Amulet. And she'd taken a terrible risk anyway to get the book, so if she'd done that, why hadn't she just taken the risk to get the Amulet before Camoran left? She knows she had no weapon at the time but surely she could have thought of something…
"Jauffre, I—" Lyvia starts, but he cuts her off.
"Not yet," he says. "Let's wait for Martin, so you don't have to tell the story twice." She thinks there might be concern in his gaze, but Jauffre can be so hard to read. Turning her attention back to herself, she glances down; it's still hard to fathom that, despite the burning in her veins, the Xarxes hadn't left any visible marks on her. The cultists had though; she's collected more scars, faint though they are, up and down her arms. She doesn't remember taking so many blows, but she remembers so little after grabbing the Xarxes from the pulpit. The memory of sunshine glowing under her skin from her dream is growing faint, but she realizes it must have been her sleeping mind making sense of being healed. And she can only imagine how bad her wounds had been if even Martin's impressive healing skills have left marks.
It's not long before the door opens again, revealing a disheveled Martin looking some mix of relieved and incredibly cross. But he looks well, at the very least, like he's simply short on sleep and not like he's been tortured by dark magic for two days. Her own joy at seeing him unharmed is somewhat dampened though by the realization that…she's going to have to tell him why she's back without the Amulet. That she failed him, failed them all, and now—
"Thank the Nine you're alright," he breathes. "I told Jauffre he shouldn't worry—" Jauffre cuts an unamused glance at him, "—but Akatosh preserve me what were you thinking?" His voice raises and turns harsh and Lyvia winces; her throat and chest feel tight, the weight of disappointment laying on her shoulders and making her feel so, so small. She averts her eyes, but the sight of the scars on her arms serve as a reminder of how badly she's messed up.
"I'm sorry," she barely gets the words out; they don't feel enough but they're all she can manage. There's a heavy silence for a long, long moment. Footsteps come closer and she fights the urge to shrink in on herself, eyes trained firmly on her lap.
"No, I am," Martin says, and she manages to look up at him as he rests his hand over hers, the apology writ all over his face. "I shouldn't have— I'll admit you frightened me quite badly, but it's not an excuse."
"But I did mess up, I lost the Amulet and—" Lyvia tangles her free hand into her hair in frustration, teeth grit together as she breaks their eye contact; she doesn't deserve his apologies or his concern. She doesn't deserve her place here. Jauffre clears his throat.
"How about you start from the beginning?" he suggests, seemingly all business; she swallows hard, anxiety twisting in her stomach, but then nods, and begins to speak.
She tells them everything, from the moment she left the Imperial City. Finding the cave, having to give up her belongings to get inside. When she mentions Mankar Camoran wearing the Amulet of Kings, Jauffre's face darkens, something tight in his jaw. She tries her best to explain her thoughts when presented with the dagger, and she wants to plead with them to understand that she couldn't just leave the man meant to be a sacrifice. And she certainly couldn't kill him by her own hand. But Martin's hand tightens around her own when she mentions cutting the man free, and she knows she doesn't need to say any of it.
Her escape is harder to explain; in the intervening days since she'd finally let go of the Xarxes, a lot of it became muddled it seems, until now everything from when she first picked it up to letting Martin take it from her seems to blur together into a haze of action and pain and fear. Still, she tries anyway, giving them pieces and hoping that perhaps they can put them together into the picture of what happened. Martin frowns when she mentions how her glove had given her the strength to power through whatever it was the Xarxes did to her in those first few moments.
"You didn't mention that it had any other abilities," she says, and he shakes his head.
"It doesn't," he insists. "It only enhances restoration magic, though now I think I probably should add some wards to it. It's possible you could be remembering wrong, and it was your own magic that gave you the strength you needed." Now it's her turn to frown, because even with the weight of the Xarxes' aura bearing down on her memories, that one stands tall like a stone pillar, a glowing alabaster even in the dark of it. She knows what she felt. But if it wasn't Martin's magic, why did it feel like it?
"More importantly," Jauffre cuts in, "The Amulet is beyond our reach." He seems more held together than the last time it had been snatched from them, but she's not still so exhausted as to not see how one of his hands clenches into a fist.
"…Maybe not." Martin seems deep in thought. "The Xarxes was there when Camoran opened the portal to his 'Paradise'; it's possible it was made using the Xarxes. Perhaps if I looked through its pages—"
"No!"
"Absolutely not."
Lyvia and Jauffre speak at the same time, and she would think it might be funny if the memory of lightning in her veins and terror on her soul weren't still so fresh. Martin looks between them in something like surprise.
"I understand your concern," he says, almost too formally at first. "But it's our only chance to get the Amulet back. It's become clear to me that this is why the royal family was targeted, why the Amulet was taken. The Dragonfires, the Amulet, and the Emperor's blood all worked together to protect us from the daedra for thousands of years. Without an Emperor, without the Dragonfires, there's nothing to stop Dagon's invasion. But if the Dragonfires could be lit…"
"Then it would stop the invasion," Lyvia finishes, a sudden and foolish spark of hope in her chest. "Then we have to get the Amulet back!"
"The Amulet will do us no good if the only one capable of wielding it," Jauffre's voice is sharp and brooks no argument, "ends up destroyed by the Xarxes before the fires can be lit."
"Well then," A hint of smugness creeps into Martin's voice; if she weren't so familiar with him she might have missed it. "It's a good thing for us then that the only one capable of wielding it is also quite well versed in safely handling daedric artifacts, isn't it?"
"You are?" She knows the question is stupid the moment it leaves her mouth; had he not mentioned that he's familiar with daedric magic? But even still, it's hard to picture anything being able to contain the Xarxes.
"I have some experience in it, yes. If I did not, the Xarxes would not be doing its best impression of an encyclopedia at the moment. I have ways to protect myself, wards and such. Unlike some present—" a wry smirk takes the bite out of the words before Lyvia can take them too sharply to heart, "I have no intention of picking up the Xarxes with my bare hands, so to speak." Jauffre crosses his arms; his scowl's only deepened.
"Well, I certainly hope you know what you're doing," he grumbles. "For all our sakes. I have some things to address, so we can talk more about this later." And he stalks out; the door is closed with a kind of precision that tells Lyvia exactly how much control it's taking Jauffre to not do so with force.
"That went well," Martin sighs. She runs her thumb over his knuckles.
"It could have been worse." She tries her best to squash down her own anxiety over Jauffre's protestations. "Do you really think the Xarxes can help us get the Amulet back?"
"I think it's our best chance at it." He pulls over the chair Jauffre had been keeping vigil in, sitting next to her makeshift table-bed. "Even if he did not use the Xarxes to build his Paradise — which is frankly unlikely — it still holds many secrets about Mehrunes Dagon and his realm. We can assume that Paradise must be some kind of offshoot of the Deadlands; therefore—"
"If we know more about the Deadlands, then it could lead us to the way into Paradise," Lyvia says, and he nods. "You said, before, that you were 'no stranger' to daedric magic, but…how do you know how to use the Xarxes of all things?" He lets out a dry imitation of a laugh.
"That's not quite what I said," Martin frowns, and she knows it's not at her, but rather at something that's either someplace or sometime far away. "I said I have experience with daedric artifacts. As far as how I know these things… I had set all of this aside when I became a priest." He runs his free hand through his hair with a little chuckle that has just the faintest note of hysteria creeping into it. "But I suppose that's all been fate, too."
"Surely that's a good thing?"
"That's what I would tell those that sought my advice. 'The gods can turn anything to good.'" Martin shakes his head. "If this goes on, I might even start believing it." Lyvia doesn't know what to say; she knows possibly better than anyone that words only go so far when it comes to faith. She thinks for a moment about brushing his hair back, but the moment's broken by her stomach grumbling loudly. Martin's small laugh is a light thing, something easier that seems to chase away the shadows in his face.
"We should probably fix that before any more plotting," he stands from his chair, holding on to her hand for just a moment more before letting go. She opens her mouth to protest, but he cuts her off. "The plots can wait, I assure you. Even not knowing how long since you last ate, it's been at the very minimum two days. And, to be entirely honest, I'm certain it's been much longer than that." He's right, she knows he's right. Lyvia can't remember even thinking about food after picking up the Xarxes, and she still has no idea how long she had held it for.
"At least take me with you?" she asks. When he raises his eyebrows at her, she continues, "I just… I want to see that everything's okay. Please." Her heart feels tight at the memory of the fortress covered in blood and overrun with cultists; even if she knows it was all a twisted vision given to her by the Xarxes, she needs to be able to replace it with something good. He hesitates for a moment, then sighs.
"Alright then," he relents. Lyvia tries to swing her legs to the edge of her makeshift-bed, but she severely underestimates just how weak she is, barely managing to turn at all. Martin doesn't hesitate, stepping forward to help with a methodical air about him, carefully adjusting her legs over the edge, slowly so that she doesn't lose her balance. Then he takes her hands and lets her lean on him as she stands…and nearly collapses right there.
"Are you certain—" he starts, but she grits her teeth, shaking her head.
"Absolutely," she hisses, and she wonders if he realizes that, if he doesn't help her, she'll end up just trying to crawl her way out of the room herself, because it's not that she has cabin fever or wants fresh air or is struggling with restlessness. The vision of the courtyard filled with cultists haunts her, and she can't guarantee sleep will spare her of it twice.
Of course, she thinks, this could all also be a vision painted by the Xarxes, to lower her guard. But if that were truly the case, then at this point it's far too late to do anything about it. Lyvia doesn't think so, though; she distinctly remembers the constant burning beneath her skin every moment she held the book, and she doesn't think she would just stop feeling it.
Martin pulls her close, one hand held out for her to cling to, the other arm wrapped around her shoulders, she imagines so he might catch her if her legs give out. His hands glow with some kind of spell, and it's that same feeling, like a gentle touch from the sun, he said she must have imagined, or done herself. And she's certain he's wrong, because she would recognize the feel of his magicka anywhere, and whatever spell this is just proves it to herself.
"Just a little fortification spell," he says. "I think we'd both rather you didn't fall along the way." And she can feel it, somewhat, a little trickle of strength returning to her muscles, even if Lyvia knows logically that magic can't fully replace the rest she really needs. It'll do for now, though.
They slowly make their way out of the little office-turned-recovery-room, Lyvia leaning heavily on Martin even if it feels like maybe she shouldn't. But he only encourages it, keeping her tucked close to him, keeping her steady. And she's in no state to argue, non-verbally or otherwise, so she lets him, and besides, he's warm and comforting and his robes smell nice, like—
Like old books. And incense. And something she doesn't have a name for.
Except she does, doesn't she?
Suddenly Lyvia thinks she would like to be back in her sickbed. At least then no one would see how her face turns a terribly bright red.
Lyvia at least thinks some of the heat has left her face by the time they step into the main hall; she sees Jauffre standing near the great hearth at the head of the hall and scowling at her, though she's almost certain it's because he doesn't approve of her being up and about. Martin steers them toward their customary table, and as relieved as she is at the thought of sitting, it also brings up memories — faded though they are — of the dream she'd had at that very table, and the heat in her cheeks redoubles.
Dreams don't always mean anything, she thinks firmly to herself. People don't have any control over their dreams, after all, and the only dreams she'd ever had that did mean something were sent by Nocturnal. And she knows Nocturnal didn't send these. So it's much more likely that her mind was simply making up nonsense, and with Martin not only being most of her social interactions, but also her closest friend…
Everyone gets these kinds of dreams, right? Shadows, she's heard of people having dreams about sex with people they've never met, like emperors and empresses or even Princes, and those clearly don't mean anything. She's just been stressed and on edge and most recently homesick, for lack of another term. And then she'd been so messed up by the Xarxes that she's frankly surprised her dream was even coherent.
Yes. Yes, that's all it is, and there's no point in making anything awkward by bringing it up. He's her dear friend, and she his, and that's all.
Their bench has been replaced with two chairs with backs, and that's an incredible relief when she's almost certain she'd have never been able to stay upright on her own. (She knows Martin would happily have helped her but Nocturnal preserve her she doesn't think she could have withstood it right now.) Someone pats her on the back, softer than she feels they might have normally, and Baurus walks into view, a tray of food balanced in one hand and a wide grin.
"You really gave us all a scare, Knight-Sister," he says lightly as Martin carefully helps her sit. "Maybe next time don't pick up a daedric artifact with your teeth?" If Lyvia was in any better condition, she might have smacked his shoulder, but as it is, she just makes a face at him. He laughs, sitting across the table from them. "I told you you could do it, by the way."
"Do what? Nearly get myself killed while failing to get the Amulet?" she grumps; Martin pushes a bowl of considerably thin soup in front of her, and her stomach rumbles loudly again. She wishes she could poke moodily at it, but she's far too hungry for that.
"You infiltrated an incredibly dangerous cult and made it out with something," Baurus takes a moment to shove some of the food from the tray toward Martin. "You should eat too, sire." Baurus gives him a pointed look and she knows without looking that Martin rolls his eyes.
"But not the right thing," she mumbles around mouthfuls of broth, and she feels Martin's hand on her back.
"It's going to help us find the Amulet though," he reminds her, and she wants to believe him. Wants to hold on to that little spark of hope he'd ignited, but the reminder of her failures suddenly make it hard. "So perhaps it is the right thing." Lyvia glances at him, and the look he's giving her is so incredibly soft and kind that she can't help but smile a little at him in return.
Then she notices Baurus smirking at them.
"What?" she demands; maybe she sets her spoon down with a little more force than strictly necessary. "Why are you looking at me like that?"
"Nothing, Sister, nothing," he waves off with a chuckle, and she's considering throwing the spoon at him. "Anyway, Jauffre wanted to talk to me about something, I just wanted to see how you've been getting along first, so I'll see you later." And he stands, giving a brief bow to Martin (that she just notices him flinch from; seems Martin hasn't gotten much more used to the idea of being Emperor since she's been gone) and heading back toward the fire behind them.
"He did that back in the Imperial City, too," Lyvia pouts at her soup. "I don't know what he's on about—" She hears Martin chuckle a little and cuts a glare at him. "Oh don't you start."
They fall into a comfortable silence, listening to the murmurs and sounds of movement through the hall as they eat; Lyvia knows she's eating far too much for how long she's likely been without food, and will be paying for it later, but she's just so relieved to see life going on as normal in the temple instead of those horrible visions she'd had. She vaguely remembers flashes of thoughts as she'd approached the gates, a chant of home that had been so soul-deep that she still feels it. It's hard for her to believe that this place has already started to feel like that, but it has, a place where she feels safe and comfortable. A place she missed dearly while so far away. The place she instinctively sought when she was afraid and in pain.
Somehow, it's freeing. To feel such about the fortress means she can stop longing for a place that doesn't want her. She can stop wishing she could go back to Leyawiin and see her mother and hope maybe this time, she would be good enough for her father, just as she is. Not to discount her own fears, she's still terrified of doing something that will have Jauffre and Martin putting her out to find her own way again, but for the time being… She'll treasure this.
"—been skulking around Cloud Ruler for several nights now," she hears Jauffre saying, and something about it catches her attention in a way the other idle conversations in the hall don't. "I'd like you to find them and eliminate them."
"With respect, sir, I should be here protecting the heir," Baurus says back, and Lyvia feels an itching beneath her skin. Had the cultists followed her back? No, no Jauffre said they've been here for several nights, and she's only been back for two. Were they cultists, or were they some other unknown, also seeking either Amulet or heir for their own purposes?
"I'll go," she doesn't know what possesses her to say it, knows it sounds mad when she couldn't even walk under her own power less than an hour ago. But if Baurus needs to protect Martin and the other Blades can't leave the fortress, then it only stands to reason—
She's met with a chorus of emphatic refusals.
"You need rest," Martin says, his voice firm and low. Lyvia squares her shoulders and sets her jaw; she will not crumble under his pleas this time!
"But you need protection, and if Baurus needs to stay here to do that, and no one else can leave Cloud Ruler then it stands to reason—" She turns herself in her chair (with only a little difficulty, thank you) to look to Jauffre and Baurus to back her up.
"—That we send you off like a sacrificial lamb when you can barely hold a dagger?" Baurus raises his eyebrows at her incredulously. "You might be lucky, Sister, but I don't think even you're that lucky." Lyvia draws back, just a bit. Lucky? She's not lucky. If she were lucky, they'd have the Amulet right now.
If she were lucky, she never would have been in that fateful prison cell at all.
"Baurus is right," Jauffre speaks up, crossing his arms at her. "The only thing sending you would achieve at this juncture would be losing me a good soldier." And something about that catches her breath in her throat. Because she's not a good soldier. She has a portion of her mother's silver tongue, borrowed when she was too young to use it, and a talent for breaking through locks, but a soldier? When dead bodies still turn her stomach and she still can't win a fight on her own? When she makes stupid decisions that almost get her killed, over and over again?
"You're just saying that," she murmurs, averting her eyes.
"Do I really strike you as someone who just says things?" Jauffre challenges back, and that's worse, because he's not, she knows he's not, and she doesn't know what to do with that kind of belief that she knows she can't live up to.
"If one needs to go and one needs to stay and we truly can't spare anyone else," Martin cuts in thoughtfully, "Then of course Baurus can go if you're staying here." Lyvia looks back at him, and his eyes are bright in a sort of way she might expect from someone who's just won a game.
"If you're all so insistent I need rest," she gripes back, "Then I can't be counted on as a guard can I?" Now Jauffre hums for a moment and she's going to need more spoons for throwing.
"If you're here, you're getting the rest you need to recover," he says. "It's highly unlikely you'll need to handle an attack in the middle of Cloud Ruler, and if you did, you'd be far from alone. It's much more acceptable than—"
"Alright, alright!" she turns back to the table, letting her forehead thunk down next to her now-empty bowl. "I'll stay here." She doesn't voice her deeply seated fears that she's not good enough to protect Martin, that leaving her as his guard even for a few days will somehow end in disaster. How she fears that the lurking strangers are here because they followed her here while she had the book and that she has to somehow fix that herself. There's a hand on her shoulder, the wrong shoulder to be Martin.
"Hey, don't worry, Sister," Baurus' voice says, and she doesn't look up at him. "I know His Majesty is in good hands with you."
"It's settled then," Jauffre's voice comes from behind, back toward the fire, and she's too tired to turn back again. "Baurus will handle these possible spies, you'll stay here and cover his position as Martin's personal guard until he returns." She grumbles a wordless acknowledgement, and two sets of feet walk away.
"Why were you so set on going yourself?" Martin asks, but she just shakes her head, turning her head to lay her head cheek-down on the table.
"It's nothing," she mumbles, and for a long few moments, they're both quiet. Then, "Could we go back?" Lyvia's tired, which doesn't make any sense with how she'd slept for two days, and upset, which makes more sense because these spies should be her responsibility, and would really like to take advantage of temporarily having her own place to sleep. Martin nods without pressing further, then with the utmost care helps her up out of the chair and then back to her sickbed.
Ah, yes, a very good guard she makes. Can't even cross a room on her own.
Once she's settled back on the converted table, he says he'll be right back and leaves, and she almost says something smart about she's supposed to be guarding him, but it doesn't quite escape her throat before he's out of the room. She stares at the ceiling, the room itself almost too quiet; she wonders idly if he'd cast some kind of spell to keep out the sound of the usual bustle around Cloud Ruler. It's not terribly long before he's back, a pile of books tucked under one arm, the Xarxes clutched in the other.
"Don't worry; it's heavily warded," he says, and Lyvia wonders if her face had betrayed the way her stomach had lurched at the sight of the white cover. "I'd not take such a risk otherwise." He pulls the little chair over to a desk that had been shoved out of the way, dropping the pile of books a bit haphazardly.
"You don't have to stay in here," she says, but he smiles at her.
"Of course I do," Martin settles in the chair. "You can't very well guard me if I'm halfway across Cloud Ruler, can you?" She grimaces at him, but goes back to staring and the ceiling as he — worryingly, terrifyingly — opens the Xarxes and begins to flip through the pages. Lyvia drifts in and out of consciousness to the sounds of paper rustling and the occasional creaking of the chair and the scratching of a quill.
It's very late when she blinks awake again; the small windows toward the top of the walls are dark, and Martin's working by candle light. If she were a better guard, perhaps she would tell him to go to bed, because she doubts he's been getting any rest himself while she's been barely conscious. But she just lays on her side and watches him scribble notes as he stares at the pages of the Xarxes, the frown lines on his forehead looking even more deep with the flickering shadows of the candle dancing over them.
"It's my responsibility." She doesn't know why she says it; it's been hours since he'd asked why. The scratching quill stops, and he looks back at her. She thinks his eyes might be brighter than the candle. "The spies. They…they probably followed me, so it should be me that—" He stands, shutting the Xarxes before walking over, and her mouth snaps shut around the emotion that wants to spill out.
"You heard Jauffre, they've been skulking around for days, before you ever got back," he takes one of her hands in two of his and it's something like a hug. It's almost too much. "And even if they did, dying for it is not taking responsibility."
"I wouldn't—"
"My friend, you can barely walk right now, you certainly wouldn't be winning any fights, with anyone." He brushes a strand of hair out of her face. "I wouldn't sleep any better if I lost you now than I would have back in Kvatch." And why is it that that breaks her? She hadn't cried once when fleeing the Shrine of Dagon, not even when her whole world had narrowed to nothing but pain, so why now? And she doesn't realize she's coughed out that one word, why, until he replies.
"I've lost too many friends. This once, I'd like to keep one."
Chapter 8
Summary:
In search of a daedric artifact, Lyvia meets with a Prince and pays a visit home.
Notes:
I have been WAITING for this section. I have so much planned before heading back to Cloud Ruler so please look forward to it. And it's not long after getting back that this slow burn is going to pay off so even MORE looking forward to it if you please.
Anyway, please enjoy. Also I like to hear what you think so far, I promise I don't bite if you want to leave comments even if it's just incoherent yelling. <3
Chapter Text
The next several days pass quietly and uneventfully. Lyvia's strength slowly returns, and once she no longer winds herself walking to the great hall to eat, she and Martin start taking walks around the ramparts to rebuild her strength, and to get Martin to take a break from the Xarxes. While it's clear it hasn't been doing the same kind of damage to him that it had to her, she can see the shadows under his eyes darken, and it worries her. And so while she's feeling quite a bit better as the days go by, she might…play up some of her lingering aches and pains, just to get him to look away from that accursed book for an hour or two. Because Jauffre's right. It won't do them any good to get the Amulet back only to lose Martin to the Xarxes.
Once she's able to move around completely independently again, Lyvia returns to sleeping in her bunk in the barracks. It seems it really is hers at this point, since there's no sign of anyone else having used it while she was gone. She's not sure if it's because the other Blades missed her, or if they heard about her Nocturnal worship somehow and consider her bedroll tainted. But a few of the Blades make a point to welcome her back, so she optimistically believes it's the former.
She won't admit it aloud, but she misses falling asleep to Martin's note taking and page turning.
She also won't admit that the dreams she tried before to write off as being just because of Martin's healing while she was in early recovery haven't abated. If anything, now that she's realized, they're only escalating. And as frustrated as they leave Lyvia, in a place with almost no privacy no less, it's far worse that they're making it difficult to spend time around Martin without thinking about them.
But it's not enough to make her sacrifice their friendship or betray Jauffre's trust in her, so from the moment she wakes up to when she goes to sleep, Lyvia stays by him. Sometimes she can't help her curiosity and finds herself peeking over his shoulder at the Xarxes, only to feel like the runes there swim before her eyes and refuse to make anything resembling words. She can't imagine how it makes any kind of sense to him, but when she mentions it, he just says he has ways of making them behave, and doesn't elaborate further.
Her and Martin's table has become stacked with books, so many books it's hard to make room for him to eat anything. He occasionally cross references his notes with them, making more notes in the margins of the notes he already has, and she has no idea how he makes sense of any of them; they may not float out of order like the Xarxes text but they are nearly as nonsensical to her eyes. Lyvia occasionally pokes at the books herself when the day is particularly quiet and she is particularly bored. He has several books on the various daedric Princes, so she uses this as her chance to broaden her knowledge; considering the limited information contained about Nocturnal, though, she's skeptical about how good this information actually is.
Baurus returns after a week and a half, reporting directly to Jauffre before so much as a 'hello'. He seems unharmed, at least from a distance, and she waits impatiently for him to reemerge from Jauffre's office and tell her what happened. She doesn't realize how her leg is bouncing anxiously until Martin rests his hand briefly on her knee.
She gives him an apologetic smile, then chews one of her fingernails instead.
Maybe a half hour later, Baurus reemerges and joins their crowded little study table, eyebrows high on his forehead. He tells of how the spies had been entrenched in the Bruma guard, that they'd had a missive about opening a gate in Bruma hidden in their basement. The spies are dead and the plan is temporarily thwarted, but something about it still makes Lyvia uneasy, even if the guard's now on alert for suspicious activity and the cultists presumably are now aware that they've been caught out. It'll take them time to regroup and think of another strategy, so for the time being, Bruma, and by extension Cloud Ruler, are safe.
"I have some news too," Martin says as Baurus excuses himself to get some rest before resuming his guard duties. "I think I've made a breakthrough with the Xarxes."
"You have?" Lyvia frowns at him. "Why didn't you say so earlier?"
"I wanted to wait until Baurus was back, for reasons you'll understand." He pulls out his notes, and points at parts she's sure are supposed to help his explanation, though Lyvia's almost certain that at least parts of it are written in script she can't read. "I was right, Camoran did use the Xarxes to make his Paradise, and the ritual is in here, though trying to translate it is…challenging."
"Challenging?"
"You saw a little of how the text behaves, even spelled and warded." He turns the pages of his notes. "I think I have the first part of the ritual figured out though. We need the blood of a Daedra Lord."
"A Daedra Lord? Like a Prince?" Anxiety grips Lyvia; Nocturnal may tolerate her, perhaps even like her if she is so bold to say, but she doubts she can just ask Her for some of Her blood.
"Exactly like a Prince. More specifically, I think we could make do with the artifact of a Prince rather than having to get the actual blood of one, since they are made from the very essence of the Prince that creates them."
Lyvia hesitates. She has one and he knows she does, but the thought of giving up the Skeleton Key, the precious gift that Nocturnal trusted her with, is almost unthinkable. But…if it's what's needed to save Tamriel… Would Nocturnal understand having to give up Her gift to save the world she lives in?
"I don't want the Skeleton Key," Martin rests his hand on hers, where she realizes it's curled into a fist against the wood. "We can find another one."
"Do we have the time for that?" She can't quite hide the misery in her voice, not from him. "The longer this goes on—"
"I only have this first part deciphered," he reminds her gently. "I'll need more time to decode the rest anyway, so… So it only makes sense." He doesn't often stumble over his words, so the brief pause catches her ear. And when she glances up at his face, there's something strained there, no matter how he tries to hide it.
"What's wrong?" she carefully pries, keeping her voice low so no one walking by will get too nosy. He lets out a heavy sigh as the carefully neutral expression falls into a kind of quiet fear.
"I hate that I must ask this of you," he murmurs back, staring down at the Xarxes. "If we're to open a portal to Paradise, we must have an artifact, but to have to send you…" He trails off, and there's something there, something he's not telling her, and he's doing his best to keep whatever it is in but it terrifies him, she knows it.
"Why not send someone else then?" she suggests; surely fetching an artifact wouldn't be too much of a task for another Blade, but he's already shaking his head.
"You alone know what it's like to deal with daedric Princes," he says ruefully. "You both know the care one must take and how to treat with one without paying insult. Who else could I send and be assured they will succeed?" And there's that earnest belief in her again, when she's fumbled every task she's been set so far. But he is right, she thinks. She tries to imagine someone like Baurus approaching the shrine of Nocturnal, or any other Prince, only needing an artifact as a tool and not paying proper respects, and just how badly that might backfire.
"If you're so certain I will succeed," she asks, "why are you so afraid?" He grimaces at being called out, but doesn't flinch from the question.
"Just because I know you will succeed," he says, "doesn't mean that you won't get hurt in the process. And I hate that I have to keep asking you to get hurt for my sake."
"Wow, what happened to having a little faith in me?" she teases, nudging his shoulder with hers, and a ghost of a smile graces his features, just for a moment. "Like you said, compared to everyone else, I'm practically an expert. And besides, not to speak for Her but wouldn't having Nocturnal's favor deter most Princes from doing anything too bad? I don't imagine anyone really wants to start a fight with Her, from what I've read." She barely believes anything she's spouting, but his eyes soften, just a touch, and it's worth a little bravado.
"Maybe so," he relents, then reaches for another book on the table. "Here, I don't know where any specific shrines are myself, but this is a pretty decent book on cults. There might be some clues inside. Even if not a location, how each Prince might be coaxed into working with you. I don't think I have to say to be careful which you decide to seek out."
"Don't worry, I'm well aware that there are Princes I'd rather chew my own arm off than work with," she says bluntly, flipping through the pages for a moment; the spine cracks open to an article on Sheogorath, and she frowns. "Like this one. Far too many tales of deals with him going wrong, frankly."
"Probably for the best," he's also frowning at the page. "We have enough madness with Mankar Camoran around to be thinking of adding any more, I think you'll agree." He reaches out and nudges the book closed. "Maybe eat first before you go getting lost in that?"
"You're one to talk!" she laughs, and so does he, and it's enough to banish the shadows. For a little while, at least.
Later that night, Lyvia settles into her bedroll, book on daedric cults in one hand, a mug of tea in the other, and a little ball of light hovering at her shoulder. When she'd asked him to cast it for her, Martin offered to teach her the spell instead, but it was late and they both had research to do, so he gave her the little shining wisp in the interest of her not accidentally setting the barracks on fire with a poorly placed or forgotten candle. She scoots her bedroll closer to the wall so she can lean her back against it, cracks open the book, and begins to read.
Azura would probably be the smart choice, if Lyvia's to be honest with herself. Tales of the lengths Azura has gone to for her followers are well known even among those who shun daedra; she vaguely remembers news of some sort of drama related to Azura and some saint-figure coming out of Morrowind, though having grown up in a pious, Nine-fearing household, she'd never learned much more than that. She turns a few more pages.
Meridia might also be a reasonable Prince to approach, she thinks. The Prince is well known for her distaste for the undead and her affiliation with light, and while she's just as dangerous as any Prince, her focus is often not on mortals. However, Lyvia reminds herself, she has to consider that she carries a token of Nocturnal's favor; Meridia might not be open to working with someone already blessed by one of her enemies.
She flips through more pages, past more Princes that are absolutely beyond the realm of reasoning or working with (she makes a face as she quickly skips the section on Molag Bal; she'd rather fist-fight Mehrunes Dagon if she's quite honest), and then the pages flop awkwardly, as if something's stuck in them. There's a little folded scrap of paper, thin enough she hadn't noticed while the book was closed, but thick enough to make the pages around it stay open. She picks up the paper, turning it over in her hands as she looks at the page it was bookmarking; the first page of the chapter on Sanguine.
She'll admit she doesn't know much about Sanguine, besides the obvious; to hear it told, he and his followers treat life like one big party full of sex and drink and gods-know-what-else. Not the first Prince she'd pick, but there are most certainly worse ones out there. She takes a sip of her tea as she clumsily opens the folded paper with one hand. There's hand-written notes completely covering the sheet, edge to edge. Each line of each letter is carefully placed, as if by a scribe making a new copy of a book. If the page weren’t the wrong size, she might believe that it'd been ripped from the tome itself.
Despite being a single page, it has much more practical information about the Shrine itself. The text mentions it's north of Skingrad, but she doesn't remember any roads going that direction when she and Martin stopped by Skingrad on the way back to Weynon. It makes sense, Lyvia supposes, that it's a bit of a hike into the wilderness, if the cult would prefer not to be interrupted during… Well, she guesses they would probably call it worship. There's also notes about preferred offerings, mostly alcohol, which she can probably find easily around Cloud Ruler before she leaves. There's more detailed instructions on where exactly the shrine is in the woods, how to approach the cultists, and lots of warnings about not accepting anything they offer.
Anxiety churns her stomach; Lyvia may have parted on bad terms with her parents, but it's hard to set aside their constant warnings about protecting her virtue. It would be easy to joke about how what's the worst that could happen, I get a little drunk? Except she's well aware that that is not the worst that could happen. And while there are many things she would do to get the Amulet back, to fix her blunder, there is a line she would really and truly rather not have to cross.
She sips at her tea again, letting the warmth ground her a bit. Yes, it's dangerous, but it will be no matter which Prince she chooses, even if she chose Nocturnal, should she approach with the gall of asking for another gift. And considering the many Princes with worse domains out there, this is rather tame, all things considered. As long as she keeps her wits about her (which means definitely no drinking while she's there) and doesn't do anything to interrupt the cultists' fun, she's sure everything will be fine.
And if what the Prince wants is over her line, then she'll just have to find another Prince, won't she?
She doesn't tell Martin which Prince she chose. She doesn't know precisely why, but she supposes she worries about what he would think. That, somehow, he might think she chose Sanguine because he sounds fun, when quite honestly she would really rather not have to approach him at all. Martin doesn't ask, either, and maybe it's because he'd rather not know until whatever happens is over with. While one of the Blades that usually tends to the stables disappears to fetch her a horse, Martin pulls her glove from his pocket.
"Here, I've added a few more enchantments to it," he says, and he doesn't try to hide the worry in his gaze as he takes her ungauntleted hand. "Hopefully this time it will be a little more effective in keeping you safe." He slips it onto her hand, and she feels great relief at having it back; she'd worried that it had been irreparably damaged when she couldn't find it that morning. The familiar magic hums against her skin.
"What did you add?" she asks, lifting her hand and splaying out her fingers as she looks at the gem nestled against the back of her hand.
"Mostly some wards," he says. "Nothing you need to know how to use. There's also a small fortification enchantment, though I was pushing it a little with that one. That little gem wasn't really made to hold so much magic; it's not much, but I do hope it'll help on your journey."
"I feel safer already," she smiles at him as the Blade returns with a horse, the paint mare from when they had first arrived at Cloud Ruler. Martin steps in to help her strap her traveling gear to the saddle; she doesn't need the help, but it's nice to have someone there with her when she's about to spend a not-insignificant amount of time alone on the road. Once everything's secure, she mounts the horse.
"Please try not to forget to get some sleep while I'm gone," Lyvia raises her eyebrows at Martin, and he chuckles a little. "And eating! That's just a little important."
"Don't worry, Sister," Baurus calls from where he's leaning against the stone walls of Cloud Ruler. "I've got my eye on him."
"See, Baurus will tell me if you're not taking care of yourself," she says, threatening but with a levity in her voice that she hopes covers how much she doesn't want to leave.
"I will, I will," he laughs. "As long as you do the same." There's still something tight in his face, like he's on the verge of saying more, but he just waves, and she turns her horse away, nudging it towards the path out of the fortress and down the road that will lead her past Bruma once more.
She resists the urge to look back.
The days on the road are quiet and lonely; Lyvia finds herself talking to her horse just for an excuse to break the silence at times, when the sun is high and her fears of being followed by the Mythic Dawn are quiet and easy to ignore. Jauffre had approved her taking gold for the trip, and so she stops at inns along the way, to avoid camping in the woods as much as she can. The first inn she rides past, she dithers outside long enough for the sun to fully set before deciding to stay; at least if assassins come for her, she'll have the warning of a door being broken or screaming of other patrons.
But she can't make it to another inn every single day, and she gets to test the craftsmen at Cloud Ruler's claims that her traveling cloak can act as a tent. It works surprisingly well; a week into her trip, it rains. She's too far out from any inn to take shelter, but the cloak tied between two small trees does an excellent job at keeping her dry, combined with some gathered twigs and branches stacked to keep her off the wet ground.
At Skingrad, finding the way forward gets more difficult; Lyvia hadn't been wrong in her assessment of the directions from the note, the major roads all heading away from where she needs to go. But there are faint dirt paths leading off into the brush. She thinks back to the path leading to Nocturnal's shrine; it's more defined, almost mistakable for an official road, but it's still mostly maintained by Her cultists. Assuming the Sanguine cult is even a little bit similar, these unmarked paths could lead her to the shrine.
Her easy tempered little mare doesn't fight her when she points her into the tall grasses and sparse trees. It might be idyllic if she weren't so afraid of what the fronds of grass stretching far enough to brush her feet in the stirrups might be hiding from her, sky clear other than a few fluffy white clouds and sun still high in the sky. Lyvia hopes there won't be anyone at the shrine, but that's a foolish thing to hope, she knows. Even for Nocturnal, a far less generally popular Prince, the shrine would still have the odd visitor or two during the day.
She sees the shrine a while before she reaches it, the statue to Sanguine standing out in the plains stretching around it. To Lyvia's disappointment, there are people there, and she just hopes they're…well, not too friendly, but friendly enough to not take offense to an outsider.
Even as she thinks it, she knows that's absolutely silly. The Prince of basically parties isn't going to have worshipers with hair trigger tempers or anything, surely. It would be foolish to not treat the place with respect — anyone could be violent when their beliefs are insulted — but she doesn't think she needs to worry about getting a dagger pulled on her right off the bat.
…Unless the Mythic Dawn somehow extrapolated where she's going and are lying in wait, of course.
The shrine itself has the brush and grasses mostly cleared away; there's only a few worshipers present, and Lyvia says a silent prayer of thanks that there doesn't seem to be any events going on. She slides off her horse but doesn't quite bring herself to drop the reins. Maybe it's silly, but she feels just a little safer with her nearby, even if she suspects all the horse is likely to do in her defense is chew on some nearby grass.
"Welcome to the Shrine of Sanguine!" A wood elf approaches her; he seems friendly, but she's wary of dropping her guard. "Are you here to join the revelry?" He glances her over, almost too quick for her to catch, and she wants to pull her cloak more tightly around herself.
"N-no," Lyvia puts on her best business voice, but stumbles a little over her words, anyway. "I need to speak with—"
"Who's the new girl?" Another woman walks up behind him, leaning her folded arms on his shoulder and taking a much longer, slower look at Lyvia. She grimaces, really not enjoying how everyone here seems to want to undress her with their eyes.
"Here on business," she says curtly, or she hopes it's curtly, shrugging her cloak a little more snugly around her. "Now if I could just—"
"Well isn't she just precious?" a third person drapes themself over Lyvia's shoulders, arms wrapped loosely and face close enough that Lyvia can feel their breath on her ear. "Can't be any more than eighteen summers, I bet she hasn't even—"
"Twenty-two, actually!" She jolts away from the cultist, slipping around her horse to keep the paint between her and the strangers. "And I'm not here casually, I need to talk to Sanguine." The three glance at each other, a mix of annoyance and suspicion there. She hopes her knee jerk reaction hasn't offended too much.
"It's polite to offer your host a gift," the first man says, politely, almost overly so.
"I've brought one," she assures, reaching into her saddle bags and digging out the brandy she'd found at Cloud Ruler. The man holds out his hand, and she hands over the bottle for inspection. He turns it over, peering at the label and the cork. "I mean no disrespect. I… I can't explain the details, but I need a favor from him." The man hands the bottle back.
"Very well," he says, still with that strange, too-courteous tone. "You may approach and make your request." She takes the bottle with a nod, then hesitates before dropping her horse's reins. The beast doesn't move, just leans her head down to nibble at the sparse grasses in the little clearing. Then Lyvia approaches the statue, back straight and shoulders square despite the uncertainty still hovering over her.
"Prince Sanguine," she starts, assuming the somewhat formal tone she once used when she was very new to her worship of Nocturnal. "Lord of Revelry, please accept this gift; I would like to speak, if I could be so bold."
"I would actually like if you'd be a little more bold," a smooth voice answers back; Lyvia keeps her face carefully neutral, despite a strange feeling of anticipation and…familiarity? "What brings you to me? Looking to spice things up?" She swallows nervously. Though she's still very clearly alone at the statue, she can feel eyes on her, and power.
"I come to beg a boon of you," she says carefully, and he laughs.
"Most ladies that beg me do so a little less composed than that," the Prince taunts, and she grimaces. She's not used to having to be so choosey with her wording. Lyvia sighs and tries again.
"I need a favor," she says, deciding the name of the game is blunt and exactly what she means, and the presence of the shrine seems to draw closer. She feels not unlike a mouse being stalked by a cat; a breeze blows by, carrying with it the scent of wine and sweat and something cloying underneath that she can't quite name.
"A favor, you say?" She can almost picture the statue's head tilt to the side from the curiosity there. "Color me intrigued; what can old Sanguine do for you?"
"I seek a daedric artifact," Lyvia straightens her cloak that didn't need straightening. "I am aware to ask outright is not the usual way this is done, but I would not were it not a matter of utmost importance."
"Yes, yes, I'm well aware of the mortals' latest plight," he sounds bored with it, and why shouldn't he be, it's not his realm getting invaded. "And I suppose you didn't want to part with the trinket in your pocket?" She shrinks a little; she guesses she should have expected he would have noticed the Skeleton Key. "Oh, don't give me that look, I'm not surprised, Nocturnal is not one to trifle with, but… Hm." The presence shifts again, circling as if it's a bird of prey; then there's a pressure under her chin, like a finger tilting her face up.
"And what would you do for it?" His voice drops lower, almost sultry in its rumble. "If I asked you to debauch yourself with my followers for forty days and nights, would you?" Lyvia doesn't respond, jaw tight as she awaits an answer and not more questions. To lose her composure now would be playing into his games, and those aren't games she would win. The voice scoffs, lightening in its annoyance. "Oh, you're no fun. Well, how about this: there's a countess who throws the most terrible dinner parties you can imagine. I want you to go make things a little more…exciting."
"Exciting how?" she asks warily.
"Oh, nothing too crazy, wouldn't want to make you too uncomfortable," he sneers the last word, and she doesn't like that at all. "Here, take this spell. Make sure you get the Countess and all her guests. Don't worry about hitting the guards, though if you catch one it would be quite funny." Her mind goes foggy for a moment, and then the spell settles there, as if it'd always been there; something called Stark Reality, though when she tries to think of what it does, there's just…nothing. As if the page of a spell book had been ripped out, leaving only the title. She's concerned about his not telling her what it does, but surely sneaking into a party and casting a spell is better than his…other suggestion.
"And where is this party to be held?" she questions, and though she can't see him, she gets the distinct impression of a wide, wide grin.
"Leyawiin."
It's as if her heart dropped all the way to the soles of her boots; of all places, Leyawiin? She knows the Countess there has a bit of a questionable reputation, especially amidst the argonians that live there, but to do something that will almost certainly land her in the local papers, where her father will see? And what will her mother think? Of course, this couldn't be as simple as just ruining a countess's party, could it?
But if it gets the Amulet back…
"I'll do it," she finally says, and the feeling of the hand under her chin disappears as he barks a laugh. She backs away from the statue before spinning on her heel and retreating to where her mare is still happily munching.
"Do enjoy yourself!" he calls after her.
The trip to the Imperial City is uneventful, more quiet roads and lonely travel. Lyvia thinks long and hard before she arrives about how best to approach this, ultimately deciding that it would be smarter to take a boat rather than riding all the way to Leyawiin.
Leyawiin… Lyvia can't help but turn the idea over and over in her mind as she arranges for her horse to be cared for in the city while she's gone. She didn't think she'd be going home already; it hasn't even been a year since she'd left, and she's certain she doesn't want to see her father, but it might be nice if she manages to catch her mother without him. Although, depending on what this…prank entails, she might not want her mother to know she's in town. Well, she'll have the whole boat ride to figure it out, she supposes.
Despite Leyawiin being next to the river, and then the Imperial City being on a lake, she's never been on a boat herself, her father having done most of the necessary business trips outside of town. And she can safely say she's not a big fan, either. The rocking motions do strange things to her stomach and, no matter how she tries to keep herself dry, her skin and clothes and hair are just constantly damp in a way even growing up in the middle of a swamp didn't accomplish most of the time. The one positive is the trip is much faster than taking her horse, comfortably measured in days instead of the not-quite two weeks she remembers the carriage taking when she first fled to the city.
When she finally stumbles off the vessel, she pays the captain in advance to pick her up in four days; one of the other passengers had been loudly bragging about being invited to a prestigious dinner party by the Countess of Leyawiin, and if Lyvia heard right, it'll be taking place in three nights. And considering she still has concernedly little context for what this mysterious spell in her mind actually does, she would much rather make sure her way out of the town is secure now rather than having to figure it out later.
Nocturnal must truly watch over thieves like the legends say, she can't help thinking as she starts to ask around after Ahdarji. What could have been the chances that the very ring Armand had asked her to find would have gone missing in the same town Sanguine asked her to visit to get the artifact Martin needs? That it's also the town she's been desperately avoiding is a spot of bad luck, of course, but at least she doesn't have to make any extra stops. If she works fast, she might be able to find the ring before duty demands she leave; if not, then she'll just have to tell Armand he'll need to find someone else.
A few well-donated pieces of gold into the hands of beggars gets Lyvia the information she needs; Ahdarji can usually be found at either the Three Sister's Inn or the Five Claws Lodge. Or, failing either of those, that she lives on the west side of town and could probably be tracked down there. Strictly speaking, she probably gave more septims than she should have to get the information, but she remembers well the nights she didn't have enough to buy a hot meal. Or even a cold one. In any case, it's early, and apparently earlier in the day Ahdarji spends her time at the Five Claws Lodge, so that's where she heads.
The Five Claws Lodge is really nothing to write home about compared to other inns she's seen at this point, but she knows the owner is a reasonably nice argonian woman; she remembers as a child, when she'd sneak out of the temple to escape the heavy expectations of her father once in a while, that she would sneak her sweet treats before her parents could track her down again. But it's been years since she's pulled such antics, and given her change in attire, she's not surprised when the woman doesn't recognize her. Just as well, all things considered.
The dining area is quiet, nearly empty save for just a couple of guests; given that she knows Ahdarji is a woman — specifically a widow — Lyvia quickly narrows down her prospects and approaches a khajiit woman with spotted, golden fur sitting in a dark and quiet corner of the dining room. It's hard to tell, but Lyvia thinks her eyes look a tad bloodshot, and the longer fur around her face matted in places.
"Excuse me?" she begins politely, stopping a couple of paces away. "Are you Ahdarji?" The khajiit's ears go flat back and her eyes narrow suspiciously.
"Why does prey approach me?" she hisses, as if speaking to someone else. Lyvia stands firm; she's dealt with worse than a spitty cat in the past months.
"The guild sent me," she explains, maintaining the polite tone. "I understand you've lost something."
"Yes! A filthy argonian stole my ring!" Ahdarji spits on the floorboards. "My mate…he gave me that ring. Before. It's greatly important to me. I will pay handsomely for its return."
"You know who took it?" Lyvia tries not to snap about Ahdarji's obvious distaste for argonians, or how the establishment they're standing in is run by a lovely argonian.
"Yes, yes! The stupid lizard hunts by the name Amusei," the khajiit snaps, and that gets Lyvia's attention; she remembers Amusei from that first night, when she raced the other Thieves Guild potentials with the promise of a safe place to sleep if she won. "He'll have my ring! Find him and kill him!"
"I will not," Lyvia frowns at the angry woman. "The guild doesn't murder. I'll get your ring back, but I won't be killing anyone."
"Stupid rules!" Ahdarji hisses, clenching her fist on the table. "If you must spare him then, at least be sure he suffers."
"I have to find him before I can promise anything of the sort," Lyvia dances around the demand. "Do you know where he is?"
"If we're lucky, Countess Caro has been showing him her hospitality." The khajiit's tail swishes behind her chair, and Lyvia grimaces. Clearly she is getting nowhere questioning Ahdarji; she murmurs a few more bland assurances before excusing herself and leaving the inn.
"Oh, Amusei, what have you gotten yourself into?" she muses quietly, wandering along the streets for a while before spotting another beggar. The woman is thin and dirty — Lyvia hears her saying she needs money to feed her kids, and even if it's a scam, her septims will still be feeding someone hungry.
"Pardon me, ma'am," Lyvia asks politely as a fairly well dressed man looks down his nose at the beggar before storming away. "I was wondering if you might help me."
"Help you? Can barely help m'self, miss," she says dejectedly, and Lyvia gives her what she hopes is a reassuring smile.
"I have more septims than I need, and you possibly have some very valuable information," she explains, pushing a few pieces of gold into the beggar's hands — at least enough to buy a few meals with, and maybe a night out of the rain. The woman's eyes go wide at the sight. "I'm looking for a…friend, Amusei. I'm afraid he might be in trouble, do you know him? He's an argonian, his scales are kind of reddish and—"
"Yes, yes I know him; he was trying to blackmail Alessia Caro," the woman scoffs. "Foolish boy; she's liable to lock up an argonian for looking at her wrong on a good day, trying to swindle her was never going to get him anywhere but the dungeons."
"Blackmail? With what?"
"Couldn't tell ye, miss," the beggar tucks the coins away. "Wish I could, but ye'll have to ask him; if ye're…generous with the guard they'll look the other way while ye talk to him." Lyvia perks up at that; bribable guards and her target stuck in one place for her to interrogate. With what she's heard about the Countess, she's sure she won't be leaving him to her whims, but if he thought she might, it might serve to loosen his tongue without her having to do any more strong-arming. No matter that he had paid her great insult at their first meeting, she remembers well the feeling of being trapped, and won't subject someone else to it.
"Thank you, that's a great help!" Lyvia pats the woman on the shoulder. "And…I hope that helps." She nods at the small fold of fabric where the woman had tucked her earnings away.
"It does, it really does, divines bless you, miss!" the beggar gives her a grateful nod before heading off down the road; Lyvia wonders if the Nine would heed such a wish made toward someone who spurns them. Well, it doesn't really matter, does it? She has a job to do.
She turns away and hurries toward Castle Leyawiin.
No one stops her as she approaches the entrance to the dungeons; Lyvia doesn't know if it's because she's trying to walk as if she belongs, if her cloak and armor looks just formal enough to mark her as official, or if the guards simply don't care. Whatever the case, she makes it to the entrance unaccosted, and approaches the front desk. The man looks bored, scribbling on papers by torchlight with a worn old quill that looks as if it's only just this side of still functional. He looks up at her as she steps close, one eyebrow raising.
"How can I help you?" he asks, uninterested as he absent-mindedly continues his scrawling.
"I need to speak with one of your prisoners," Lyvia puts on her best imitation of that no-nonsense tone Jauffre often takes. "Amusei. It's very important." She's barely finished her request before the guard's looked away again.
"Dirty lizards aren't permitted visitors," he drones. "Countess' orders." She fights down her annoyance; losing her cool isn't going to help. Slipping her hand into a small pouch at her belt, she pulls out a few more coins; she's sure Jauffre's going to wonder where all the money he gave her for this trip went, but this is important. Even if it's not exactly Blades business.
"I think you may have misheard me," she leans closer, so they can speak more quietly and not just anyone walking by will hear. "I have very important business with one of your prisoners." She drops a small pile of gold on the paper he's scribbling on, and that gets him to pause as he looks over the money, clearly doing some quick estimates of how much is there.
"Ah, yes, quite right, I must have misheard you," he takes the gold and replaces it with a key. "Head on in." And he goes back to working on his…inventory or reports or whatever he's working on as if he didn't just give away a key to his jail. Lyvia gives a quick nod, taking the key and heading for the dungeons without another glance at the unenthused guard. She runs her thumb over it soothingly — though with the Skeleton Key she was never in danger of being trapped herself in the dungeon, having the key is a comfort.
She finds the red-scaled argonian hunched in a cell not far into the dungeon. Amusei's seen better days; he's wearing similar drab hempen sacks that pass for clothing that Lyvia remembers from her brief stint in the Imperial jail, his scales are dull, and a few of the little rings he wears around the spines of his fringe seem to be missing. Sharp eyes flicker to her with distaste.
"What do you want, Imperial?" he snaps, glancing at the symbol on her shoulder, just exposed from under her cloak. "Paid off the Countess for a turn?" She flinches back in disgust at the suggestion.
"What? No! Don't you remember me?" Lyvia says, drawing a little closer, hoping the guard isn't listening. "I thought you might have remembered the daedra-fucker." She says it teasingly; she's not still mad about it, even if it is still incredibly rude. Recognition dawns on Amusei's face.
"That…still doesn't explain why you're here," he mopes, but wanders to the bars. "I wouldn't think you'd want to come back here, what with your reputation."
"Yes, well, there must be a higher power that really wanted me to visit home, I guess," her mouth twists. "Why are you back here?"
"The guild didn't give me another chance to join," he explains. "It's the only reason I went to the Imperial City. So when they denied me…I came home. Not like I had anywhere else to go. But I've gone and messed that up too." Lyvia sighs quietly, not in frustration but pity. Shadows if she doesn't know how that is.
"Look, Amusei, I might be able to help you, but I need you to tell me what happened to the ring you stole." The words have hardly left her mouth when he visibly clams back up, eyes narrowing in distrust.
"Why should I trust you?" he hisses. "Even if you weren't worshipping daedra, you come in here wearing the symbol of the empire and expect me to sing?" He has a point; if their roles were reversed, would she trust him? She remembers well how the Blades and Emperor had so suddenly intruded on her cell and how she'd expected for them to, at any minute, cut her down and continue on their way. She needs to offer him something to buy his trust, something tangible — a way out. Lyvia reaches into her pocket and pulls out the Skeleton Key.
"You see this?" she asks, but of course he does — his eyes had cut to it the moment she'd drawn it out. "This is a very special lockpick. I can open that cell for you, but only if you tell me how I can find that ring."
"Give me the pick and I'll tell you," he counters, but she's already shaking her head.
"Tell me and I let you out, or don't and you can stay there," It's a bluff, she knows it's a bluff, but he doesn't have to. Either way, she's not leaving him to Alessia Caro's whims, but she needs that ring. He's quiet for a long moment.
"I did take the ring," he finally confirms. "When I went to sell it, the fence wouldn't take it. See, there was an inscription inside: To Alessia. It had to be the Countess. So, I…thought I could ransom it back to her."
"And ended up in jail anyway for your efforts," Lyvia finished for him, and he nods. "Does she still have the ring?"
"Yeah, she kept it when I was arrested. It won't be easy to steal, if that's what you're thinking. Word among the staff is she only ever takes it off when she's sleeping." She frowns as he says that; if she couldn't even steal some unattended taxes, how is she supposed to steal the ring right off her finger? The answer is obvious, that she has to take it while she's asleep. But if she's asleep, that means Lyvia'll need to break into the castle itself, sometime before the dinner party, and hope that the Countess doesn't cancel the party because of it.
"Alright, got it," she says, even if she very much doesn't have it beyond just knowing where the ring is, and kneels down next to the bars. It takes only moments to break the poorly maintained lock on the door, but she takes Amusei's hand and puts it on the bars. "Don't let it open yet. Wait until I'm gone and watch for an opening. Then get the hell out of town."
"Don't have to tell me twice."
"Go back to Armand, see if he'll—"
"Armand made it clear," Amusei's voice is hard and he grits his teeth. "I'm not worthy of the guild. I'll leave, but I'm not going groveling back to him." And of course he won't; she wouldn't either if she's being honest, if Armand had said similar things to her. She thinks for a moment, and she's just going to have to apologize for running the funds she was given dry when she gets back to Cloud Ruler. Or count on Ahdarji actually paying as well as she claimed she would. Lyvia pulls more septims from her pouch and slips them through the bars.
"Here, this will get you passage upriver, as far as the Imperial City," she whispers, not willing to risk the guard overhearing. "Wherever you decide to go, please be careful, okay?" He takes the coins in one clawed hand, frowning.
"Why do you care?" It's not outright suspicion anymore, but he seems confused. "I've never done anything for you." And that's a good question, isn't it? She can't quite put her finger on it, but…maybe she just knows what it's like not having anyone to look out for you. Or maybe it's Martin and his constant kindness to her rubbing off on her.
"Just paying it forward," she settles on, then turns away. "Take care." And she leaves the dungeon, tucking the Skeleton Key away and dropping the guard's key back on his desk as she leaves without another word.
It's nearly night as Lyvia leaves the castle, sun just barely visible in what horizon she can see between the buildings and trees, sky darkening to inky purples and vivid reds. Too late to run any more reconnaissance tonight; as much as she'd like to go looking for maybe a map of the castle or interrogate some of the servants, doing so this late will only draw more suspicion. And so she goes back to the Five Claws Lodge instead, making a mental list of things to do tomorrow.
The room is modest but the bed comfortable, softer than her bunk at Cloud Ruler. (Though she still would prefer to be back there, even so. Soon, she tells herself, soon she'll have her artifact and she can head back home.) She's paid for the next three days at the inn, so she strips off her armor and sets it on the dresser; yes, the Empire's Dragon insignia goes a long way to letting her throw her weight around, but Jauffre would not be pleased if he found out she was using it to steal from countesses.
She keeps her glove on as she settles beneath the sheets. It's comforting, warmer than the blankets and the magic of it familiar. Familiar enough to feel a little less alone as she drifts off, light of the twin moons shining through the window and washing everything in pale light.
Lyvia is wandering through Leyawiin; darkness surrounds, and there's no sign of…of anyone. Not even the beggars that normally sleep in bedrolls tucked into the shadows of the walls and buildings or cats that chase rats from the larders of the inns and shops. It's all just quiet and dark and very, very still.
She doesn't know where she's going, but she needs to go somewhere. So she walks, and walks, and then she's leaving the safety of Leyawiin's walls. Suddenly, the world seems to tilt around her, the sky turning blood red and that horrible heat she remembers from Kvatch enveloping her, choking her on ashes and flame, and there's someone screaming but she can't see, she can't breathe—
She jerks awake, sitting bolt upright and reaching forward for…who? Someone had been screaming, but as Lyvia takes a moment to fill her lungs with thankfully clean and cool air, she realizes there is no screaming. It had all been just a dream; a horrible, disturbing dream that she can't seem to chase away, the heat still stinging her eyes and the feeling of soot on her skin. She runs her hand over the gem on her glove; apparently the new wards don't do anything for nightmares, but it feels warm, as if it's been laying in the beam of sunlight streaming through the window.
It's of no consequence, she decides. It's honestly surprising she hasn't had more nightmares of that gate, but perhaps her travel weariness combined with her vivid memories of the Xarxes is getting to her. Lyvia pushes herself out of bed, pressing her palms tight into her eyes for a moment before stretching and readying for the day.
She has two goals: find a map of the castle, and steal the ring. The ring has to be stolen tonight, because tomorrow is the dinner party, and she cannot in good conscience put off getting the artifact to Martin for the sake of Ahdarji or the guild. So, her first stop is the castle, naturally, and she just has to hope no one gets too nosy about her snooping.
For once, she gets lucky. Lyvia finds an older servant cleaning near the kitchens who gives her a look not unlike the ones the Sanguine cultists had favored her with, so she swallows down her instinct to snap and instead flutters her eyelashes and pays him a few compliments. It works far better than it should; it's not long before she's walking away with a map of the servants' passages in the castle, with the Countess's quarters helpfully labeled, and all it took was promising to have dinner with the man in a few days.
Of course, she won't be here in a few days, and she should feel bad about it, but it won't hurt anything but his feelings as long as no one finds out where she got the map.
Lyvia waits around a few streets away for night to fall; she figures that the moons will need to be quite high before she can chance breaking into the Countess's quarters with any confidence that she'll be asleep. The last thing she wants to do is get caught and locked up the night of the dinner party, after all.
There are many nice places she could wait until nightfall — she can even return to her inn room in the absence of anywhere else to go — but instead she finds herself lurking in an alley near her parents' shop. She really shouldn't, she should stay far away and avoid her parents at all costs (particularly her father), but she can't help herself. It seems, though, that all her worries about running into her father are for naught; the shop is dark, and there's a sign on the door that says 'Closed until further notice'. Her brows knit together at the sight — her parents never close the shop for longer than a weekend at best — but maybe with her gone, her mother hadn't wanted to stay home alone while her father went on a business trip.
She has to admit, though, that she's a little disappointed. Not for missing her father — she'd be plenty happy to never see him again — but for not getting to see her mother. As much as Lyvia wishes her mother would just stand up against her father for once in her life, her mother has also always been her biggest supporter, and best friend when she had none, even before Nocturnal called to her. On the way to Leyawiin on the boat, Lyvia couldn't help imagining seeing her mother again, even if just through the shop windows. In her wildest imaginings, she thought about having tea with her maybe while her father was out, telling her mother a bit about what she's been up to. Maybe once this crisis is all over, she can bring her mother to meet Martin and Jauffre and Baurus and—
But bringing her mother would mean bringing her father, and the last thing she wants is her father trying to leverage her for his damned business ventures. And she knows he'd only see Martin as a means to further his monetary gains. No, as long as her father's around, she can never bring her mother to meet the people she finally feels like she belongs with.
She doesn't realize she's dozed off, sitting on a crate in the alley, until the whiskers of a curious cat brush against her cheek and startle her awake. Lyvia looks up as the cat whips around and sprints away at the sudden movement; Masser and Secunda are high in the sky. It must be close to midnight, if not later. She needs to get moving.
The darkness is on her side as she slips quietly into the castle courtyard, holding her breath as she carefully sneaks between two guard patrols. They don't seem to notice her, and Lyvia breathes out, sending a silent prayer of thanks to Nocturnal for the cover of Her shadows. She watches her feet almost as diligently as she looks for more guards, padding quietly around leaves and sticks along the path until she's at the castle doors.
But she's not going in the main doors. She crushes herself up against the wall and crouches as she slips around to a small, almost invisible door off to the side, hidden behind some decorative bushes for the staff to use. It's locked, of course, but the lock is disappointingly easy to crack through. A few moments of twisting and jiggling the Skeleton Key, and she's in.
The corridors are dimly lit by torches placed along the stone walls, though Lyvia doesn't bump into any other servants. It's so late, she can't imagine very many are still working, but she keeps her eyes and ears open for any potential witnesses she might accidentally bump into. The corridors are tidy at least, or tidy enough that she doesn't have to worry much about stepping on anything loud. She mostly just has to worry about accidentally kicking the odd bucket or broom left haphazardly along the walls.
To get to the Countess's room, Lyvia has to go through a chamber labeled 'torture' on the map. At first she thinks that maybe it's a euphemism for something unpleasant the servants don't like doing, but she quickly finds out, no, no this is an actual torture chamber. There are terrible implements, both sharp and blunt, scattered around and a table she certainly wouldn't want to be strapped to and suddenly Lyvia doesn't feel even a little bit bad about any of the things she's been asked to do to this Countess. What kind of horrible person just has a room like this set up at all times? And judging from a few of the unsavory splatters on the floors that haven't quite been cleaned up, it's used often.
Leaving the awful room behind, she creeps through a few more corridors and a couple of crawl spaces before finding herself at a grandly painted and carved door with an ornate lock that has to be the Countess's chambers. Lyvia takes a breath and kneels down, drawing the Skeleton Key from her pocket once more. This lock is…tricky. She fails a few attempts, but luckily the mechanics inside are quiet enough that she doesn't think anyone notices. Closing her eyes, she focuses on the feel of the tumblers inside the lock and listens to their clicks, and it's not much longer before the lock audibly clacks and the knob turns freely.
The Countess's quarters are incredibly dark, only the light of the twin moons leaking from behind heavy velvet curtains giving Lyvia anything to see by. A barely visible lump of blankets tells her that the Countess in question is sound asleep, to her great relief. She doesn't know how early she wakes, though, so she needs to move quickly. Lyvia's boots are nearly silent on the plush rug taking up most of the floor space as she creeps to a large, dark shape — a dresser, she would guess, even if she can only barely see it. She probably should have let Martin teach her that light spell after all, she can't help thinking as she slides her hands across the top. The wood is incredibly smooth, as expected of a piece of furniture belonging to nobility. But her reaching fingers feel nothing but the smooth wood, even the grain of it smoothed over by the craftsman.
Just as she's about to give up on it, though, her fingertips brush something metal. Lyvia's eyes barely manage to focus on another small lump of dark as her hands clutch it close — a box, it's a box. A jewelry box? She tries to open it, but of course it's locked. No matter. Lockpicking is much more about feel and sound than it is about sight. It takes her a moment to slip the Skeleton Key into the little lock on the front, but once she does, it's trivial to break the lock on the box. Clearly it wasn't built to keep out determined thieves, but rather too-curious servants. She scrabbles around inside for a moment; it only takes a few moments to find a few rings, and instead of trying to figure out which ones are which in the dark, she takes them all. Then the box clicks closed, and Lyvia oh so carefully sets it back in place before slipping back into the servant's passage.
She looks over her shoulder nearly the whole way out, jumping at every little sound with the rings clenched tightly in her fist. It had been easy to convince herself that getting out would be easier than getting in, since she at least would have somewhere to run, but getting caught with hundreds of septims' worth of stolen jewelry would be almost as bad as being caught in or on the way to the Countess's chambers. Lyvia's breath comes shallow and quick until she clears the surrounding walls, and even then she doesn't dare stop to even look at the rings until she makes it back to her inn room.
Three of the rings she grabbed are entirely mundane, shaped metal and gems that are plenty valuable but not her target. The last ring, however, has a tiny thread of magic wrapped up in the metal; Lyvia's no expert, but she can tell that much, at least. And on the inside, a little inscription, 'To Alessia', just like Amusei said. She shakes her head a little to herself, hoping that maybe he'll have a little better luck (and better sense) wherever he decided to head next. Tucking the three ordinary rings in her pack, and the enchanted one in her belt pouch, she makes a mental note to sell off the extra rings before she gets back as she settles back on her bed, hoping to get at least a few hours of sleep.
And then, then she just needs to ruin one dinner party and she'll be home free.
Chapter 9
Summary:
A dinner party ruined, a father scorned, and a Prince amused, all at Lyvia's expense.
Notes:
Hey everyone! So the next chapter after this is also pretty much done because ummmmm it was all going to be one chapter but then I blinked and it was almost 16k words. ^^; And it covered a lot so. Two chapters. I am still giving that one an editing pass so if you're seeing this in the brief amount of time between the two, just sit tight. Anyway, enjoy Lyv's massive amounts of sudden trauma!
Chapter Text
Ahdarji is just as unpleasant as before, though she is grateful to have her ring back and pays just as well as she claimed she would. Lyvia gives her the well-wishes of the guild, in the absence of wanting to give her own, and excuses herself with her belt pouch significantly heavier than before. Once she sells the other rings, she'll have nearly the same amount of funds as when she first left Cloud Ruler. More importantly, she's achieved something, for once, without stumbling out half dead. It's…nice. It's a small thing, yes, and she has so much more to do, but it's proof that maybe she is more capable than she believes. That maybe Jauffre and Baurus's belief in her is not misplaced.
But stealing rings from nobility does not stop the Mythic Dawn, so what's more important is that she not fail this Prince while trying to dance to his tune. There had been something in Sanguine's voice when he'd given her the task; it sounded not like it was something difficult he thought she would fail, but an eagerness to see her succeed.
She's not really sure that's a comfort, but it's something.
There's time to kill before the party, even accounting for packing up her things and donning her armor; once whatever the spell does happens, Lyvia has no intentions of sticking around, having already mapped out and memorized one of the servant passages that will take her outside the walls. (Sleeping out in the swampy land around Leyawiin while she waits for morning to come and the boat she'd paid to be ready isn't ideal, but she doesn't want to take any chances. Whatever this spell does, she has a feeling the Countess isn't going to like it.) And so that's how she finds herself standing outside of her parents' shop again, staring at the sign on the door. She's not sure if she's imagining the sign having moved ever so slightly since yesterday, but it still declares the shop closed, and the windows are still dark.
The shop stocks potions from time to time, and scrolls very rarely. If she leaves a few septims, it's not really stealing from her parents, right?
Lyvia creeps around to the back of the shop; the second story of the building is where her family lived — lives — and she happens to know she jammed the latch on the window to her own room years ago so that it never closes quite right, and is easily opened from the outside if one knows where to push. She glances up and down the alley and, deciding she's as alone as she's going to get, carefully pulls herself up a few well placed bricks and ledges until she's face to face with the window to her room. With a little effort, her nails slip into the tiniest crack of the window, and just the right amount of pressure on part of the frame jerks it open.
Her boots are near-silent as she steps foot in the room she thought she would never see again.
The room is pristine, untouched, like a mausoleum. Even the bed, which had been a mess in the aftermath of trying to keep her various bits and baubles for worshiping Nocturnal from her father, has been righted and made, the sheets crisp the way they always were when she came home after a long day of trying to succeed in the ways her father wanted. Lyvia wonders if her mother had hoped that she would come home after a couple of days, contrite and just saying whatever she needed to be allowed back in. It stings that her mother isn't here for her to see, even if just a stolen few moments before she gets back to her mission, but it's probably for the best that she isn't tangled up in this Oblivion mess.
The living space is as dark as the shop, which only reinforces her assumption that her parents must be out of town. The door into the shop from the house is never locked; she easily wanders in, sticking to the shadows as she approaches the shelves her mother stocks with potions when she has them. They're well stocked with potions of all kinds, healing and burden and magicka and there's even some she's never heard of. Toward the back, though, are what she was hoping to see — a couple of invisibility potions, each holding just a small dose. Yes, that would be for the best, she thinks. Whatever Sanguine's up to, guards can't catch someone invisible. The people can't see someone invisible. She can get out with no further humiliation or ruined reputation.
But it feels wrong to just take them, never mind that her mother would refuse to take any of her coin if she were here, so she takes a small pile of septims from her earnings and leaves them in place of the potions. Then she scrambles through a small drawer she knows her mother stores random things she might need around the shop, finding a quill, some ink, and a scrap of paper. Doing her best to write neatly, but recognizably, Lyvia carefully pens Love you, stay safe. Then she leaves the note with the gold and sneaks back through the shop, into the living quarters, and down the hall to her old room, tucking the little potion bottles away in her belt pouch as she goes.
As Lyvia makes her way through her immaculate room, treading lightly across the rug and wood, something catches her eye. There, on the shelf, is a small chunk of metal; she doesn't immediately recognize it, but upon creeping closer (thanks to her curiosity getting the better of her), she sees a metal lock about the size of her palm, and she knows it. Long, long ago, maybe days after she was given the Skeleton Key, her parents had received a shipment, and this particular lock had caught her eye then, too. She'd never picked a lock before, but she wanted it, and so she took it when her parents weren't looking and the crate it had secured was fully unpacked. And now, with it laying there and no eyes on her, it's all too easy to slip it into her pouch too, the rough metal familiar, like seeing an old friend again.
She carefully scales the bricks back down to the street, closing her window behind her, and heads back to the inn to get as ready for the party as she possibly can.
The passage she's chosen to sneak in is as quiet as her trip through to steal the ring had been; Lyvia had been very careful to choose a passage that doesn't lead to the kitchens, to hopefully avoid being found out by the staff. She does her best to time her infiltration so that she's not lingering too long, but at the end of the day she's entirely at the whims of when Alessia Caro decides to grace the party with her presence. One vial of invisibility potion is clutched in her hand, ready for her to take it as soon as the Countess takes her seat. And the second on standby in her belt pouch, in case whatever this spell does breaks the invisibility magic. She cautiously watches through a crack in the entrance of the passage, waiting for her chance to strike.
There's a few guards milling around the party, rotating to watch the entrances and exists for any party crashers, including the one she had bribed in the dungeon when she freed Amusei. Hopefully she can get out of here before he sees and recognizes her. The guests are various nobles she mostly doesn't recognize, except for the one that had taken the boat with her. They're all in stuffy formal wear and making incredibly dull small talk; she's starting to see what Sanguine meant about terrible dinner parties. This has the feel of one of her father's business meetings, not a party.
But she doesn't have much more time to idly watch the party as the Countess enters the room. Alessia Caro looks to the untrained eye like she's completely at ease and glad to be there, but Lyvia notices how heavily her makeup is applied, the slight bloodshot to the whites of her eyes, and the slightly unsteady gait to her step that gives away that the Countess has not been having a good day. Lyvia would feel bad about making it even worse, except she remembers the torture chamber she'd seen in her quest for Ahdarji's ring and decides, no, no she doesn't feel bad about it at all.
As the Countess moves to her spot at the head of the table, her guests rising politely to greet her, Lyvia adjusts her pack and cloak, uncorking the little potion bottle in her hands. A terrible anxiety churns her stomach; she's sure whatever this is, it'll be fine, but until she does it she won't know. Maybe the trick is that the Prince wants her to get caught, maybe even executed for paying insult to the Countess. If the spell doesn't do something even worse. But she's in too deep now; who knows what the Prince will do if she returns to the Shrine with her end of the deal undone. Worst case scenario, she has her second invisibility potion, and the way out memorized. As the Countess and her guests take their seats, Lyvia downs the bitter potion in one gulp, watching as what she can see of herself disappears entirely.
Creeping from her hiding place, she takes one quiet, calming breath, summons up every ounce of bravery she has, and casts the spell.
Chaos erupts through the dining room. The first thing she registers is that the spell absolutely broke her invisibility, her hand stretched out toward the table in the aftermath of her cast. Almost immediately after that, she realizes what the spell did: the Countess and everyone sat at the dining table are no longer wearing their finery. In fact, they're not wearing anything at all. And when she reaches for her second potion, she realizes her spell didn't just catch the party goers when her hand meets only empty air where her pouch should be. Where her anything should be.
Lyvia faces the guards, alarmed, helpless, and torn between the most stark and bitter embarrassment of her life and the fury filled desire to find out if a daedric Prince can be murdered.
The Countess is screeching for her to be thrown in the dungeons and the guests are scrambling for cloaks that had been taken at the door while trying to not actually go outside the door. For a moment, Lyvia thinks about running, but she has nothing and her feet are frozen in mortification anyway, even if she thought she could somehow survive a night out in the swamps around Leyawiin without any gear or weapons. For a moment she kicks herself for not leaving her gear in the inn room, before realizing she likely wouldn't have been able to get back to her inn room. Before her racing mind can settle on a course of action, she's already flanked by guards, their gauntlets rough on her bared arms. They don't bother trying to find anything to cover her, and she wishes she could melt into the floor as visitors and servants of the castle openly stare.
She's earnestly not sure if this actually is better than sex with the Sanguine cultists after all. At least that wouldn't have had her paraded in front of an entire castle's worth of people. She ducks her head, the only small blessing that the leather tie holding the top half of her hair back also disappeared, letting the dusty brown strands fall in her face and hiding at least that from the gawkers. It feels like an eternity before they finally reach the dungeons, and she can hardly believe the relief at being given a cell away from any other prisoners and scratchy burlap clothes. She hadn't counted on the phrase 'better than nothing' to be quite so literal.
"Hey," a voice makes Lyvia look up; the guard from before, the one she'd bribed, is standing there. She hunches her shoulders defensively.
"What?" she tries to say it like a demand, to hold on to what little dignity she might have left to her, but her voice cracks at the end.
"You're the woman from the other day, right?"
"Who wants to know?" She stares him down, and he sighs, a little irritated, a little tired.
"Look, I'm not trying to start a fight," he says. "I don't care what business you had with that prisoner. But you were wearing the symbol of the Emperor."
"There is no Emperor," she says reflexively, instinctively. Yes, there's Martin, but he's not crowned yet and in any case the fewer people that know about him right now, the better. And it's still hard for her to think of him as the Emperor and not just. Martin.
"I'll let you out in the morning," the guard forges on, as if she hadn't spoken. "I don't know what any of this could have to do with the Empire or what's going on with these Oblivion gates but damned if I'm going to be the reason a response to it is too late."
"Then let me out now," she turns fully toward the door, but the man shakes his head.
"Not while the Countess is still up. You, ah, did a real good job pissing her off," he rubs his neck. "I'll be here early, before she wakes up. You might want to get gone pretty quick after that." They both stare awkwardly at each other for a long moment. Well. She had known she wouldn't have been able to leave until morning anyway, and as embarrassing as it'll be to board her boat in prisoner's rags, it's better than potentially getting eaten by something out in the swamp.
"…Thank you," she finally says, and the guard gives a wooden nod before retreating back to the front office; she hears the door click behind him just as she slides down the wall and hugs her knees to her chest. She should sleep, she knows she should sleep, but every time she blinks she pictures the dining room again and wants to melt into the stone in shame. Of course, of fucking course Sanguine just wanted her to make a fool out of herself. All things considered at least she isn't hurt, other than her pride, but the thought of this getting back to her parents makes her want to shrivel up and die right there on the floor.
She nods in and out of consciousness, even with the horrible embarrassment still weighing heavy on her mind. And she's almost certain it's the spell's work on her mind when every time she nearly gets good and asleep, her dreams paint a picture of a dinner party where the guards are less professional and the guests less disgruntled and she jerks awake every time wanting to bury herself in the straw bed left in a corner of the cell.
The sound of the door to the front banging open jerks her awake from another entirely inappropriate dream; Lyvia casts a glance at the nearest tiny, barred window and frowns. It's still dark outside, and the guard said he wouldn't be back until morning. Did someone else get arrested? Or maybe the Thieves Guild sent someone to spring her out. Or—
A man with her same dusky brown hair stops at the bars to her cell, hands clasped behind his back and severe features drawn into a deep, disapproving glare. Lyvia staggers to her feet, ignoring how one leg tingles from her awkward sleeping position; if she thought she couldn't feel any lower before, this just proves her wrong.
"Father." Her voice is distant, hesitant, with all the welcome of a stray dog too scared to lash out at its tormentor.
"What have you done now?" his voice is a scathing growl, and Lyvia only barely manages not to flinch, clenching her jaw instead.
"I—"
"More of this daedra shite, I'm sure," he snaps, not letting her finish. She glances away; she can't even argue that when the entire reason she's here is, indeed, to perform a task for a daedric Prince.
"Yes, but not because—"
"I knew it." Her father's face is cold and distant. "I told you then that you need to turn back to the Nine and leave that foolishness behind, but did you listen?" Fury and anger and pure frustration boil in the pit of her belly; more of this Nine-riding derision that was the very reason she didn't beg harder to stay.
(She did beg though, she cried and pleaded and begged for him to please understand but in the end he burned her holy things and she left the home that would never love and accept her the way she so desperately wanted.)
"Listen to me!" Lyvia snarls over him. "Yes it was because of a daedra but it's not for me, we needed a daedric artifact to stop the Oblivion gates!" Her father scoffs.
"A likely tale," he sneers. "Who is 'we' supposed to be, you and your pet Prince?" And she hesitates, not just because letting word about Martin get out could be dangerous but also because she doesn't want her father anywhere near him. Not that she thinks Martin can't defend himself, but her father's like a poison, somehow able to twist even the people that care most about her into turning against her.
"I'm working with the Blades—"
"Ha! And you expect me to believe that? Next you'll be telling me Tiber Septim told you to close the gates." Her father's eyes are cold, dark chips in an incredulous face and she knows this is all pointless but she desperately wants him to understand, for once in her life.
"Not…not him, no," she says carefully, haltingly. "…Uriel Septim did." And he laughs, but it's not a kind sound, something harsh and mocking instead.
"The dead emperor? That's the story you're going with?" He's getting angrier and more incredulous, but, suddenly, she has a realization. That he can do no more than shout at her with bars between them, and that realization gives her the clarity to see something. Something missing. Someone missing.
"Where's Mother?" she asks, and something flashes across her father's face too quickly for her to catch, something dark and deep and painful, before settling back into the mocking mask he's been wearing this whole time.
"Back at home. She couldn't bear to see what you've done," he snaps, and this time she recognizes the defensiveness in his tone, the way his eyes dart away for just a heartbeat, the way he shifts his weight. She stomps closer, close enough to grab the bars if she wanted.
"No she's not!" Lyvia growls back. "I was just at the shop earlier today, and yesterday, and it's been dark and there's a closed sign. I thought she was just on a business trip with you but clearly not, and now you're lying to me about her!" He flinches back, eyes wide and incredulous and quickly shifting to fury.
"How dare you!" His voice raises higher, and her instinct to shrink away wars with fear driving her forward. "Your mother has been sick with worry ever since you left—"
"Ever since you made me leave!" She's never shouted at him like this before, but something about the bars holding him back, something about knowing she has somewhere to go home to, something about having people that care about her, even if they are very far away right now, makes her brave. "But you're lying, I can hear it, so tell me where she is."
"She's dead!" he roars, and it's like all the air is drawn from her lungs at once. She pulls back from the bars, the anger that had been driving her dripping off her like water as she struggles to find her voice again. "She's dead and if it weren't for you—"
"I don't understand," Lyvia's voice is flat, empty; her mother can't be dead, it's only been a few months.
"Of course you don't," her father snarls, incredulous, scathing, pained, all in one. "You've never understood anything. But it's because of you, and people like you, worshiping creatures that would rather tear us apart—"
"What do you mean?" The words strike true, right to her heart, but she doesn't understand, why is it her fault? What did she do? The Oblivion gates have been opened by a cult to an entirely different Prince, how could this possibly be her fault? The deadlands are as horrific to herself as anyone.
"She went outside the wall," he says, carefully, measuredly. "I didn't ask why. Didn't even know that's where she was going. But then that fucking Oblivion gate—"
"What. Happened?" Lyvia's nerves have stretched to their breaking point; this doesn't feel real, and he's not making sense, and part of her tries to say he's just saying things to make her hurt but she knows, she knows the pain she's hearing is real and knows he's not talented enough with his words and countenance to fake it.
"The gate opened. One of the guards said she was nearby when it did. But all they were able to find of her when they got through the daedra was a blood covered shawl," her father's shoulders slacken, just a touch, his voice dull. But there's the tiniest spark of hope, even smaller than the dagger in the Mythic Dawn shrine; a shawl is not a body, and people can bleed without dying.
"Maybe she's still alive!" Lyvia knows, somewhere inside, that she's deluding herself, but she had feared Martin lost at Kvatch, and she'd saved him. "Bail me out, I can go in the gate and—"
"No," he says. "No, you've done quite enough. It has been weeks, and the last thing we need is you going on a fools errand and just making it worse on Leyawiin."
"But I've done it before, in Kvatch, I can—"
"And now you're claiming to be the Hero of Kvatch?" His eyes flash dangerously, and even safely behind bars, she feels a tiny twinge of fear, darker even than when he found out about Nocturnal. "And I thought you could sink no lower, daughter."
"I'm not lying!" she begs; her breath catches roughly and her cheeks are damp with tears she hadn't realized were falling. "Get me out and I'll go, I'll find her—" she cuts off with a sharp yelp as he suddenly grabs the neck of her shirt through the bars and yanks her close, her face crushing against the metal.
"I have seen what the daedra do to the guards," his growl is low and harsh. "She is gone, and if you still insist on worshiping those creatures then you might as well be too."
"Nocturnal isn't doing this," she doesn't know why she's trying to reason with him, but it feels like the last thing left to her, a single rope she's reaching for as she's stranded in stormy waters. "It's the Mythic Dawn, they're opening the gates!"
"One Prince is as bad as another," he hisses at her, and lets go of her shirt.
"Father, please, just get me out and I'll go get her, I'll show you…" She knows she's barely making sense, clinging to the bars to hold herself upright. It feels like the whole world has tilted around her, like nothing's real.
"Goodbye, Lyvia."
"Father—" The stones are hard against her knees as the weight of everything settles across her shoulders and pushes her down and down and down.
"Don't come back."
"Papa, wait!" She's angry, she hates him but her mother is gone and she doesn't want to be alone. She reaches for him, metal bars biting into her collarbone, but he doesn't even look back. And when the door to the front of the prison clicks shut, the dam breaks, horrible scratching wails clawing out of her chest. But they're not for him.
No, she cries for her mama, the one that brushed her hair and taught her how to get what she needs with pretty words and loved her even when her tutors wanted to give up on her. Her mama who chased after her to make sure she had enough to get safely to the city, who would never have asked her for coin for the potions she took, who she left that note to stay safe, who she so dearly wanted to introduce to the friends she had inexplicably made in the past months.
She cries and she cries until she thinks she can't possibly have any tears left, and then there's still more. Still, still more.
When the guard comes in the morning, Lyvia's finally fallen quiet, though she hasn't slept a moment. No, she leans against the wall and stares into space because what could possibly be the point now? The stone scratches her face a little when she turns her head to look at the now-open door to her cell, and the guard raises his eyebrow at her.
"Don't you have important business to get back to?" he asks her, an echo of her bribe from what now feels like a lifetime ago. She stares for another several moments with stinging eyes before pushing herself up. It would be polite to offer a proper word of thanks, maybe even some kind of promise to put in a good word for him for what he's done, but she can barely manage a thank you before stumbling out of the jail.
Now that she knows to look, she sees the Oblivion gate in the dawn's light, between the trees just outside of the walls, and for one moment almost throws her senses to the wind to go look for her mother. But she has no armor, no weapons, and after weeks it feels certain that her father must be right. And if she falls here, trying to retrieve the remains of a woman likely long dead, who would get the daedric artifact for Martin? And he'd asked her, so earnestly, to take care of herself as she left; throwing herself unarmed against the armies of the Deadlands isn't taking care of herself.
Even if she can't bring herself to have the proper fear of it, she will make it back for his sake, if nothing else.
The boat ride back to the city is quiet and awkward; the captain doesn't ask why she's in prisoner's rags and Lyvia doesn't see fit to tell him either. She sleeps fitfully on the way, the churning of the waters beneath her mixing with the grief making her sick to her soul and keeping her from getting any real rest. When she reaches the city, it's morning, and she knows she must look terrible from the way people glance at her, including Armand, who has inexplicably come to greet her as she lands.
"We have a problem," he murmurs. "My place. One hour." It must be urgent if he's not sticking to his usual rules of only speaking of the guild by night. Lyvia's not sure she has the wherewithal to handle more guild business, but she also doesn't have the energy to argue, so she points her feet toward his shack at the waterfront right away. It's not long after she makes it there that he arrives, letting himself into his hut without a word. She follows him, the door left unlocked clearly with the intention for her to follow.
"Are you doing okay?" Armand asks without preamble as she clicks the door shut behind her. She doesn't know if he's asking because of her face or because of the prisoner's garb but she just mumbles a quick 'fine'. He gives her a look that says he doesn't believe her, but continues anyway. "We sent an agent to Skingrad not long ago by the name of Theranis. He was meant to steal a book from the castle, but we haven't heard from him in quite some time."
The concern catches her ear. At worst, he should only be in jail, right? Lyvia has to go to the shrine first to find out what Sanguine's done with her things, but once that's done, breaking a man out of prison seems almost child's play.
"I can't compromise my mission," she says hesitantly. "But it is on my way back. I'll see what I can do."
"Good, good. Make sure to get the book too, whatever's happened to Theranis."
"Sure."
"Are you sure you're alright? You should maybe rest in town before you head out," Armand frowns at her, and she knows she's not going to escape the scrutiny a second time.
"I had a…tough time in Leyawiin. My mother…" Lyvia can't get the words out, as if saying them makes it more real. Armand's expression shifts to pity as he rests a hand on her shoulder.
"If you want to rest here instead of an inn, you're welcome to it," he says. "I'm going to be out tonight so you'll have the place to yourself." She murmurs a word of thanks; it's probably for the best if she doesn't want to fall off her horse. She'd rather get to the shrine as quickly as possible, to get back her things if Sanguine didn't just destroy them for fun, but she won't get far exhausted and unarmed.
When the sun sets, she's left alone in the shack. She helps herself to a little food she doesn't feel like eating; she thinks about leaving some gold for Armand to restock his pantry, then remembers that got taken too. Lyvia wishes she could muster up that righteous fury she'd felt before, when she was certain she was going to storm up to the statue and really give Sanguine a piece of her mind, but she just can't find where it came from anymore. It just doesn't feel important.
Once she's made sure she won't starve, at the very least, she settles down on a nest of blankets on the floor, like the first night she'd joined the guild. She doesn't need to, she could take the bed since Armand is out, but it feels wrong, so she huddles into a corner after checking it for any pests, and settles in for another fitful night of sleep. At the very least, she doesn't have the restless waves in the lake making it worse, so she can only hope she can get a little rest before she heads out at dawn.
Her dreams are strange and dark and twisted. Lyvia finds herself sprinting through the Deadlands; she searches desperately for her mother, screaming for her with little regard to her own safety. And when the daedric hordes fall on her and tear her apart, she's still calling for her, screaming and crying and only fighting to try to find her sweet and kind mother who gave too much to needy patrons and deserved better than this.
As though it heard her cries, the ground falls away, and she plunges past a lushly planted fountain into a pool far deeper than it looks. She claws for the surface, choking on the water, and as she looks up she sees a figure with a staff. They're distorted by ripples and darkness; she can't make out any features save for their eyes, burning like flames in the dark. Like a predator, hunting her footsteps. Just as she thinks maybe she should take her chances with the water, they reach down and grab her arm, pulling her up and—
Now she stands in a quiet, empty temple. She recognizes it, somewhat, though she's never gone inside; the Temple of the One, she's fairly sure. But the roof has crumbled, or been ripped away maybe. Either way, it's gone, open to a gray, gray sky. She stands alone on a dais, and rain falls on her, heavy rain that feels like tears, falling and falling. And though she's free of the choking fountain water she thinks she might drown anyway.
Lyvia wakes then, finally, after feeling like she's spent an eternity under the rain that feels like more than rain. For long moments, she lays there; maybe it's a sign, that she should go back to her father, try to explain everything. That she should turn back to the Nine. Anger boils in her; her father will not speak to her again, she knows, and if the Divines can't do the simple task of caring for a kind and devout follower then they're not worth worshiping. They can take their signs and give them to someone who cares.
She heads out while it's still early, her horse seeming pleased to finally be out of the stables and trotting delightedly over open ground back toward Skingrad. Luckily, the traveling gear she'd left on the mare was still in her stall at the stables, meaning at the very least she has some proper underclothes and a small dagger that isn't much, but it is sharp and in a pinch, she can probably use it to warn away highwaymen. There's also food, which is good because this small dagger will get her nowhere hunting and she hadn't left any gold in her saddle bags.
The days traveling are uneventful, outside of one miserable day where it rained and she realized she had no way to get an inn room or set up a tent with both her gold and cloak gone. Once she gets her glove back — if she gets her glove back — she'll need to set aside some time to heal the chaffing making itself known as her wet fabric rubs against the skin of her thighs.
She doesn't sleep once she leaves the City, stopping only to let her horse rest while she stares at the stars and wishes she had… She's not sure. That she hadn't left Leyawiin, back when her father kicked her out. That she'd convinced her mother to come with her. That she hadn't lost the Amulet so this crisis could have been ended before it took the only person that loved her away. The horse herself isn't a great conversationalist, but one night, when Lyvia cries too loudly and wakes her, she wanders over and lays down behind her, and maybe the horse doesn't know why she's so upset, but the comfort is appreciated nonetheless.
When she finally approaches the shrine, it's somewhat reassuring to see those cultists present goofing off in fine garb that was definitely magically filched from the dinner party. (Lyvia averts her eyes when she realizes a few are doing a little more than 'goofing off'.) The elf that first greeted her grins widely when he sees her, approaching and politely offering her a hand.
"Well, if it isn't Lord Sanguine's newest champion!" he teases lightly, but she can't seem to muster anything but indifference as she slides off the horse. His face falls a little in concern. "Is everything alright?"
"No, but thank you for asking," she mumbles, dropping the horse's reins; just as before, the mare dutifully stands in place, leaning her head to nibble at nearby grasses. Lyvia approaches the statue, empty handed this time, and the delight she can feel from the presence there is palpable.
"What a rousing success!" Sanguine's voice is thrilled. "And you even took part yourself, how delightful."
"You could have asked first," she grouses. The last week has left her in no mood for teasing or games; she just wants this errand to be done with so she can get back to Cloud Ruler. Even knowing the chances that she will get to stay for any significant length of time are slim, she desperately longs for the familiar and the companionship.
"You need to lighten up," he says, tone still easy. "Relax a little! You worry far too much." She fixes the statue with a dull stare, and he scoffs. "What, it's not my fault that—" That angry fire tries to roar to life in her chest again; this is the last — second to last — daedra she wants even thinking about her mother, let alone speaking about her.
"My equipment," she interrupts, and maybe it's rude but she's so far beyond caring. "Where is it?"
"Safe in a chest just over there," the presence pushes her chin to look around at a chest nearby. "Don't worry, no one's touched it." Lyvia hates the feeling of his hand on her chin, even if it's just a trick of magic. She doesn't want him touching her, doesn't want any of them touching her, she just wants to be done with the errand so she can go home and grieve in peace.
"Oh," he goes on, releasing her face, "And lest you think I forgot, here's something for your efforts. As per our deal." The cloying scent she struggled to identify before swirls around her for a moment, then solidifies into a large staff in her hands, topped with an elaborate rose. She blinks at it for a moment.
This is the smell she couldn't place when she and Sanguine spoke the first time: roses. But not one or two or even a bush; during her first visit it had been potent enough to have been a whole garden of the flowers, crushed and condensed into a vial and waved directly under her nose, the smell so strong that she might never have placed it had she not laid eyes on the rose-topped staff.
But more importantly, she's taken back to the last time she'd had one of her…inappropriate dreams about Martin. The undercutting smell of roses though there wasn't a single flower to be seen, though she's never seen Martin with a rose or smelled anything like it around him in waking hours. And that first dream, the thorns cutting into her skin. And where the sound of the voice that had spoke at the time had faded, suddenly it comes back to her with a crisp clarity.
"You!" Lyvia should probably be a bit more eloquent or maybe even consider some respect but suddenly she's angry; the bonfire of fury has roared to life in her chest once more, as she'd longed for, and she clings to the blaze. "You're the one that's been fucking with my dreams!"
"I believe you're the one that—"
"Oh you know what I mean!" she snaps over him, and she might be worried if the presence around her didn't have the distinct feeling of amusement to it. "Why? I'm no worshiper of yours!"
"Perhaps I wanted to give you a little courage for your waking hours so you could make your move?" he purrs at her, and she feels slimy, like she wants to take a dozen showers and even then it might not be enough. "It's been painful to watch you struggle, dear."
"What do you mean?"
"You and Martin! Watching you together has been agonizing, just kiss the man already and be done with it!" The suggestion is enough to disrupt the fire burning, just a touch, like a splash of water. Lyvia frowns at the statue in confusion, doing her best to ignore how the presence at the shrine brushes against her still-loose hair.
"We're just friends," she says, puzzled. "Why would I kiss him?" A loud groan resonates around her in exasperation.
"You really are hopeless, aren't you?" The drama and despair in his voice is frankly ridiculous.
"What is that supposed to mean?" Lyvia crosses her arms. Hopeless about what? Most people don't go around kissing their friends, not even their best friends.
"Oh, did your parents never tell you about the birds and the bees?" Sanguine sneers at her. "You see, when two people like each other very much—"
"I know how sex works, thank you." Her lip curls a little in annoyance to cover the way her face suddenly feels very, very hot. "Look, sorry to ruin your fun, but we're just friends." The presence draws closer, brushing over her shoulders, and she starts to pull away only for it to pull her back, pressure squeezing around her jaw to keep her in place.
"Maybe you're just too nervous, hmm?" his voice drops low, a sultry note creeping in. "If you spent a few days here, we could fix that." Lyvia's skin crawls; she hasn't thought much about having sex to be honest, and she most certainly hasn't thought about doing so with strangers. A familiar feeling, like the trailing of fingers down her stomach as if her clothes simply aren't there, traces down her abdomen. She starts and tries to pull away again, and this time she stumbles as he lets her go, nearly falling against the statue. "Alright, alright, if you're not interested, you're not interested. Pity, but maybe some other time."
"Or not," she grumbles under her breath, straightening the hem of her shirt, and he laughs.
"Give my regards to Martin, will you?" he says, and her skin prickles at the implication as she storms to the chest with her things. It's all stacked neatly inside, clean and untouched. Lyvia digs for her belt pouch, reaching inside and feeling her shoulders relax at the feel of the Skeleton Key, safe and sound. Not wanting to risk getting dressed in the middle of a sex cult, she collects the gear in the chest in her arms, shifting the rose-shaped staff to awkwardly balance in the crook of her shoulder, and crosses back to where her mare is still peacefully grazing.
"You could stay," the elf startles her, the jolt of surprise almost knocking the gear from her grip. "I heard what Lord Sanguine said. I promise you'd have a good time." Lyvia's jaw clenches. He's nice, but she most certainly is not interested and she kind of wishes they would all stop asking.
"Look, I appreciate that this is how you choose to worship and I respect it," she says, stiff and proper as she fights to stay professional. "But it's not for me. I'm sorry." He shrugs at her, face unperturbed.
"It was worth one more ask," he says simply. "Safe travels, friend." The word itches, coming from his mouth. She doesn't want to be his friend. But she knows he means it innocently, or as innocently as anyone at a Sanguine shrine can mean it, so she gives him a polite nod, shoves her gear into her saddle bags, and heads back toward Skingrad. Probably a little faster than she might have normally.
As she travels, she can't help wondering, how does Sanguine even know Martin? Maybe just from her own dreams? But he seemed awfully invested in their friendship for only knowing him from her own sleeping thoughts. She remembers reading that Sanguinites are particularly invested in…convincing the inexperienced to join their revelries, and she wonders if it's just part of that strange desire. To push someone like her to try to…what, seduce an older man? She scoffs at the thought; as Emperor he can have any Empress he wants. She's not going to be seducing anyone, even if she wanted to.
And it's all moot anyway, because they're just friends. Like she told Sanguine.
(And if her chest gets a little tight at the thought of Martin marrying, it's probably just the fear that he'll find someone jealous that won't want her around, and she'll lose the closest friend she's ever had.)
The further she gets from the shrine, the more she settles back into the melancholy that's made its home in her heart ever since Leyawiin. If she's honest, it's almost enough to turn around, if only because arguing with the Prince had brought some feeling of being alive again. But her annoyance at the insistence on sex is enough to keep her heading into Skingrad, just as night falls.
The stablehands are happy to let her settle her own horse for the night, which is great because it gives her a moment of privacy to slip on at least the base layer of her armor, shirt and pants and then the leather shoulder guard with the Imperial dragon on it. She has gold this time, but she is concerned she might be recognized from the scam she'd pulled with Martin. It's not like it had been for a bad reason, but she'd rather not have to explain. For a moment, she's nostalgic for that first trip, when things were still relatively simple. But then she gives herself a shake, gathering up the rest of her gear in her cloak and heading out to rent a room for the night.
If she didn't want a bath so badly, Lyvia wouldn't risk the inn she'd scammed in the first place. Luckily for her, either her change of armor is enough to mark her as a different person or all the scars she's gained over the past several weeks are enough to throw off anyone that might recognize her. She pays extra anyway, even on top of the extra for the bathing room, if only to make herself feel better about swindling them before.
Once she's washed and dry and wrapped in a nondescript robe she found in the cabinets, she heads for her room. It's plush and comfortable and well decorated, plenty worth the gold she spent. She drops her cloak and armor with a loud clank on the floor, then sheds the robe around her shoulders, leaving her in a simple nightgown as she crawls beneath the blankets. Lyvia's unsure if she'll be able to get any real sleep, even now, but this will be her best chance at it until Cloud Ruler.
And so she closes her eyes, and she sleeps, and instead of uncomfortable dreams about Martin or nightmares about drowning and darkness, her dream is simple. She's in her parents' shop; her mother is there, and they're just quiet together, her mother stocking shelves while Lyvia works at a lock in her hands. They say no words, and the sun never sets, and when she wakes, she feels rested like she hasn't since the night of the dinner party.
Chapter 10
Summary:
Lyvia saves a friend from a terrible fate, then returns to Cloud Ruler with a wound that just won't seem to heal.
Notes:
Welcome to Chapter 10, or as I like to call it, Chapter 9 Part 2 Electric Boogaloo. We get some more thieves guild stuff going on in here so bear that in mind, and we're also getting back to Martin! :D I'm guestimating two more chapters-ish before the payoff finally arrives but we'll see how much he and Lyv yap for the next couple chapters before I say for sure.
I hope you all enjoy the hurt/comfort. <3
Chapter Text
Lyvia decides the best place to start looking for the missing Thieves Guild agent is probably the jail. The guards in Skingrad are a little more lax in their patrols, it seems, than the ones in Leyawiin; it takes only a few moments of one's back being turned for her to crack the lock, and she creeps inside. What greets her there is truly disturbing; there's blood on the floor, smeared in places like something had been dragged, though there's no body.
There is a living prisoner, though. He looks quite pale and also quite relieved to see her.
"Are you here to rescue me?" he asks hopefully, and she blinks. Rescue? From what? That's not how she'd expect someone to ask about being broken out of jail, typically. And the fear in his eyes…something has this man spooked, and it's probably whatever left the blood everywhere.
"Maybe," she dodges the question. "First, I'm looking for a man named Theranis, have you heard anything about him?"
"The thief? Yeah, he was being held in that big cell over there—" he points at the cell with the most blood, "—with an argonian. But the Pale Lady took him days ago." Lyvia frowns at that.
"Who's the Pale Lady?" she asks. Unease settles in her gut as the prisoner's face darkens.
"I don't know her name," he says. "But she comes every few days and takes a prisoner. Some make it back, some don't. If you're taken three times, you don't come back." Her stomach twists; this is no average noble or jailer.
"Theranis has been three times, hasn't he?" she asks, and he nods. She looks back at the big cell with its bloody stains, and something tugs at the back of her mind. "Wait, did you say there was an argonian?"
"Yeah, big guy with red scales—"
"And rings around the spines in his fringe?" The prisoner nods again, and she grits her teeth. "Dammit, Amusei! I told him to be careful. Where does she take them?"
"I don't know," the man shakes his head. "But it's been less than an hour since she took your friend. He put up a big fight too, that's what all this blood is. Maybe you can follow it?" Lyvia looks back to the blood with new eyes; the smears all lead in a specific direction, toward a wide, empty wall. Hmm. Empty indeed. She turns back to the prisoner and quickly picks the lock on the door.
"The moment you see an opening, go," she tells him as the door creaks open. "I may not come back this way, so I won't be able to get you out again."
"Duly noted," he claps a grateful hand on her shoulder. "Be careful, I don't know what she does to those prisoners and, if I were you, I'd hate to find out."
"Me too," she murmurs, giving him a brief nod before heading for the blank wall. Lyvia tilts her head this way and that as she tries to see if maybe some of the bricks form a pattern, or maybe one of the cracks in the stone is actually a lock, or…
Or a sconce has a hinge on it that doesn't belong. Glancing over her shoulder to be sure no guards have come to surprise her, she grips the candle tightly and pulls. There's a loud scraping noise, louder than she'd like, as the stone slides obligingly out of the way, revealing a long, dark passage, and more of Amusei's blood to lead the way. She turns to pull the lever from the other side, closing it against any nosy guards that might wander by, then following the dim light of more candles onward.
She follows the blood on and on, through passages and a wine cellar, the trail slowing from large patches to small splotches to barely drips, harder and harder to see. There's a tightness in her spine from anticipation and fear, for herself and for Amusei, and she draws her wakizashi in anticipation as she delves into a hidden passage behind the cask.
The passage doesn't go very far before opening into a larger chamber; Lyvia peeks around the corner, crouched and careful. The room is stone and lit by torchlight, with a cell built into an unfinished wall of rock. There's a table with…well, she'd like to believe the bottles contain wine, but the gory splats around them suggest otherwise. The sight turns her stomach and she has to look away. There's a woman in a fine, red dress with blond hair fussing with the bottles. Her dark skin tone and pointed ears mark her as a dark elf, though her skin has a chalky pallor, and when her face turns, Lyvia can see deep, dark bruise-like shadows beneath her eyes, as if she hasn't slept in weeks. A well made, decorated dagger is tied at her waist.
She should leave. Lyvia told Amusei to be careful, and if he hadn't heeded her warnings, that's not her fault. Not her responsibility. But how could she leave him here? How could she possibly go back to Cloud Ruler knowing she chose her own life over a man who's only crime was petty thievery and bad luck? Her father's harsh words, laying the blame for her mother's loss on her shoulders, ring in her ears. She can't say she would have stopped what happened at that Oblivion gate if she walks away from Amusei now.
And, besides, she had made it out of the Dagon shrine, with the Xarxes, and lived. She can take on one woman with no armor and a dagger, surely.
Lyvia grips her sword tightly, and charges the room, battlecry building her throat.
The Pale Lady whips around and hisses before rushing her, lips pulled back tight from her teeth, shining bright white in the torchlight. The woman draws her dagger as Lyvia swipes with her sword, parrying and seizing her left arm, the one armed only with her enchanted glove and her embossed shoulder guard. Lyvia tries to pull back, but the woman's fingers clench tight like a vice. She lunges for her arm, and Lyvia can't help her cry as pain lances up and down, bright red dripping down her fingers and onto the floor.
Did she just bite me?
Lyvia tries to yank her arm back, but the woman's grip is unyielding, and she shudders when she thinks she feels the Pale Lady's tongue on her wound. She tries to raise her sword, but the woman's other hand has that wrist in a grip like a shackle. She twists and pulls but she's getting dizzy; if she doesn't stop the bleeding soon neither she nor Amusei are getting out of this dungeon. From far away, she thinks she hears Amusei shouting. Magicka burns in her veins and she doesn't know how to use it to fight but she's desperate. If she can just get the woman to let go—
She reaches for the glove's enchantments again; Lyvia doesn't know what she's doing but she imagines a bright light, bright like the sun, blinding enough to make someone flinch back. (She should have let Martin teach her that light spell, she swears she's going to learn it before she has to go anywhere else when she gets back. When she gets back.) And suddenly, it's like the sun itself flares in the room, warm like summer and terribly bright, so bright she has to close her own eyes. She hears a horrible screech, and when the light fades enough for her to look again, the Pale Lady is writhing on the ground, her skin scorched almost black.
Lyvia has no idea what she could have possibly cast, or if the glove's enhancement had just gone a little wild in lieu of her having any direction over whatever spell she'd forced out of it, but whatever it was, it did a real number on the woman. But even as she watches, the Pale Lady tries to get back on her feet, wild red eyes fixed on Lyvia with a kind of fury and hunger that gets her heart racing again. She lunges before the Lady can steady herself, putting her whole weight behind her sword as she drives it through the woman's chest.
The Pale Lady doesn't move again.
Blood is still dripping down Lyvia's arm and onto the stones as she staggers over to the gate, sheathing her sword to draw the Skeleton Key instead. The stinging in the wound, an open gash in her forearm the shape of two crescent moons facing each other, is concerning, but they need to get out before the guards find her both breaking out a prisoner and standing over a dead body. Somehow, she doesn't think the dragon on her armor will be getting her out of a murder accusation.
"That looks pretty bad," Amusei points out unhelpfully, and she ignores him; luckily picking a lock is a one handed affair anyway. "How did you know I was here?"
"I didn't." The gate lock tumblers click free, the door swinging open. "A guild agent went missing and Armand asked me to look into it. I guess I know what happened."
"Theranis…" Amusei looks away for a moment. "He was my cellmate. He gave me a message to deliver to the Thieves Guild if I got out and he didn't."
"Well, I'm right here," Lyvia smirks as she rips a strip of fabric from the Pale Lady's dress, using it to bind up the wound on her arm. "What's the message?"
"Not here, not until we're out," his jaw's tight, and his hands clench and unclench anxiously. "If we don't get out then it doesn't matter." Lyvia glances him over; he doesn't look badly injured, and he doesn't seem to be trying to be difficult, but it's clear to her that Amusei is very, very afraid. She ties the fabric around her arm as tight as she dares, then takes his hand in hers.
"We're getting out of here," Lyvia tries to drum up some of that false bravado from when she was insisting to Martin that she would be just fine going to get the daedric artifact. "I promise you that." Amusei scoffs.
"You're confident," but he doesn't take his hand back as she drags him to the passage out.
"I made someone a promise I'd come back, and on Nocturnal I'm going to keep it," she whispers over her shoulder. What happened to having a little faith in me? The memory of teasing words by the fire, huddled at Martin's little study table, is all the motivation she needs to try to believe it herself. She's so close to being able to go home, she can't fail now because of a few guards.
Nocturnal seems to be looking out for them; wherever they go, the path is clear of guards. Lyvia's heart leaps into her throat when they finally reach the courtyard, but the sun is setting (how long had they been in those passages?) and the guard are changing their stations; with eyes and thoughts elsewhere, it's simple to creep through to the gate that leads directly out of Skingrad, even with Amusei's brilliant red scales catching far too much of the fading sunlight for her liking.
And then they're home free, dirt roads and trees and undergrowth stretching out before them. Amusei lets out a breath Lyvia's not sure he realized he was holding, a wide grin stretching across his lizard-like features.
"I can't believe it," he murmurs to the wind and sky and trees. "I thought I was going to die down there." Amusei turns to her, eyes bright. "You're a true friend, I— I don't know how I could ever repay you."
"We could start with the message?" she prods lightly, and he chuckles.
"Right, right," Amusei rubs his neck. "Theranis told me he was after this book for the Thieves Guild. He said if I got out, and he didn't, to take it. Come on, it's not far, I'll show you." Lyvia nods and follows him up the road; he's right, it's not far before he crouches down near some brush and boulders. The sound of rocks clacking together and dirt being sifted fills the air, then Amusei re-emerges, a dirty but in tact book clutched in his claws.
"Here," he holds it out to her. "It's the least I can do considering all you've done for me." She looks down at the dirty old book, then up at Amusei. She has plenty of clout with the guild now, and not only that but somewhere else to go home to even if she didn't. Amusei… He has nothing, said as much back in Leyawiin. How long before desperation drives him into another prison? What if the next time, fate doesn't put him in her path to save?
She pushes the book back towards him.
"No," she says. "You take it. Go back to Armand with it; he can't turn you away then. Tell him you helped me retrieve it when the Pale Lady killed Theranis. If he doesn't believe you, I have no doubt he knows where to find me to verify." Amusei blinks at her, then looks down at the book before looking back at her again.
"I— Are you sure?" His claws flex against the cover. "You did all the work, not me."
"Amusei, I was — am — nobody. I've been making all this up as I go, I just…" Lyvia searches for the right words. "If they kick me out because you got the book and I didn't, I'll still have somewhere to rest my head at night. You need it more than I do." She doesn't say that she knows Armand will know what she did immediately, because she also knows Armand will do exactly what she wants; take in Amusei, show him the ropes, teach him to at the very least stop ending up in every dungeon he walks past. Amusei stares at the book for another long, long moment before hugging it to his chest as he looks back to her.
"Thank you," he says. "I don't know that I'll ever be able to repay you, but… You can count on me. Anytime. And…" he gives her a sheepish grin. "I'm sorry I called you a daedrafucker." Lyvia can't help the laugh that bursts from her chest at the memory, and he looks worried for a moment when she doesn't stop.
It's silly, it's not that funny, but it's good to laugh after the week she's had.
"Don't worry about it," she wipes her eyes on her glove as she catches her breath. "Just get back to the Imperial City and try to stay out of jail this time, okay?" A wry, toothy smirk crosses his face.
"No promises."
It's late, but no one questions when Lyvia enters the stables, claiming her horse and the ridiculous staff she'd hidden under the hay. She decides she doesn't like the feel of the rose staff in her hands; it's like temptation made solid, like the feel of Sanguine's voice when he purred in her ear. That crawling under her skin that makes her want to be done with the thing. She ties it to her saddle, and still no one stops her to ask where she's going so late at night as she leads the mare out of the stall and into the stone cobbled streets, the horse huffing moodily at the late hour. Mounting the saddle, she takes off into the night before anyone can ask about the strange staff or what happened to her arm.
A couple of hours down the road, Lyvia stops to tend the wound properly and set up camp until sunrise. She winces as she unwraps her arm, the cloth pulling at the bite where blood had clotted to it. The wound isn't actively bleeding anymore, at least, but the very edges of the torn skin are an angry red. Pulling on the enchantment in her glove, she runs a healing spell over her forearm. The magic seeks out the damage, and she thinks it's trying to knit it together, but when she pulls her hand away the bite is still red and open. Lyvia frowns; maybe her healing skills just aren't good enough, even with Martin's enchantment helping. She digs out some mundane bandages and a poultice from her supplies. Once it's packed and wrapped, she leans back against a nearby tree and closes her eyes, hoping she can get at least a few hours of rest.
Her dreams aren't as kind to her tonight, full of blood and pain and terrible screams that wake her before the sun. Worse, her arm doesn't feel any better; in fact, she thinks it feels worse, a hot, throbbing pain pulsing under the wrappings. Lyvia struggles to pack up her camp with effectively only half-use of her left arm; it's concerning, but maybe the magic and poultice are just taking some time to start the healing process. Or so she hopes.
When it doesn't feel any better the second day, she pushes her horse a little harder than before. If she pushes the mare she can get back to Cloud Ruler probably in just few days from where she is, depending on the weather and how tolerant the horse in question decides to be. Maybe, she thinks, she should find a village or fort to stop at and see if they have a healer, but there's very few between where she is and Cloud Ruler Temple.
It's late in the day when she stops at a stream to let her horse eat and drink, and also takes a moment to change her bandages. Lyvia grimaces as she peels off the dirty cloth; the bite hasn't healed, not even a little, and it stings in the open air, hot where the sun falls across her skin. She tries again to heal it with magic, but, while some of the stinging eases a bit, it seems to have almost no effect. Just as she's digging out more bandages and her poultice, there's footsteps in the brush, and she whips around, hand flying to her sword.
A small, unassuming woman in a priest's robe appears from the direction of the road, cheeks pink and hair sweaty. Her eyes are big as she takes in Lyvia's armor and hand on her sword, but then visibly relaxes when her eyes glance over the dragon symbols on her armor.
"Sorry to disturb," she says; her voice is quiet and if the stream were any louder Lyvia might not have heard her. "I just need to refill my waterskin."
"Go ahead," Lyvia lets her shoulders drop, taking her hand from her sword as the woman cautiously walks around the horse and crouches next to the water. Lyvia looks away, into the forest, as she listens to her horse happily munching on some nearby plants and the gurgle of the stream running over rocks. Once the horse is satisfied, she can probably ride for another couple of hours before she'll want to make camp. She hasn't been sleeping well, so it's tempting to ride though the night, but her mare needs rest if she's going to keep riding at this pace. And she needs to keep the pace up; the sun's bright and hot today, but she can feel a chill in the wind that hints at potential storms soon, storms she doesn't want to get caught in—
"Is your arm okay?" the strange woman asks as she straightens and stoppers her waterskin. Lyvia only then remembers that she hadn't finished re-bandaging the wound.
"Got in a bit of a fight a couple days ago," she says, dismissively, as she reaches for the poultice jar in her saddle bag again. "It'll be fine, I'm sure." She hopes. The woman comes a little closer, holding out her hand with eyebrows raised in a question. Lyvia hesitates, then lets her take her arm in soft hands.
"What did it?"
"Who, actually; there was a woman that took a friend of mine captive and, when we fought, she bit me," she explains, and the priest hums thoughtfully.
"I see," she finally says, letting go of her arm. "That poultice won't do it any good, it's already infected."
"What do you mean?" Lyvia pauses, hand on the jar's lid. The priest sighs.
"I fear that that bite is slightly more…magical in nature," she says. "It's likely that this woman you fought was actually a vampire."
"What?" Lyvia almost drops her little jar. "That can't—I mean, I would have—" She glances up at the sky, where the sun is shining brightly and certainly not hurting her. But she remembers the way her skin stung when the sunlight fell across her wound. "Is there anything you can do?" But the woman's already shaking her head.
"I'm still learning," she says apologetically. "You'd do well to get to a more experienced healer, and quickly. Porphyric Hemophilia can progress very fast when left untreated." Lyvia's stomach turns.
"I know someone." She wraps her arm; even if it does no good for the wound, it'll at least keep it clean. "But he's a few more days out."
"Then go, go as far as your horse will let you before stopping," her voice is calm, but insistent. "And…I know it's going to sound strange, but don't sleep."
"Don't sleep?"
"Right. Porphyric Hemophilia progresses more quickly when you're asleep," the woman nods. Lyvia looks back at her horse; she knows the mare must be tired, and she doesn't want to lose Cloud Ruler's stables another horse after what happened with the Xarxes, but if it really is that serious…
She needs to get back to Martin.
"Alright." Lyvia packs up her supplies, taking the horse's reins in hand. "I should get going now, then."
"I'll pray for your quick travels," the priest says, placing her hand briefly over Lyvia's on the reins. "Be safe."
"You too." She mounts up, with some difficulty thanks to her bad arm, and heads back to the road, leaving the helpful woman and the stream behind.
Lyvia rides and rides, pushing the horse late into the night, even when she tosses her head or takes a moment to stomp a hoof. Finally, though, when the twin moons are high, the horse stops with a snort and refuses to continue. Camp that night is miserable; she's at least glad to have a lock to fiddle with, to try to keep herself from nodding off. But the motions are almost too soothing after a while, and she puts both lock and pick back into her belt pouch before she can doze off. She stands and paces and does stretches she's learned from the other Blades and manages to stay awake until dawn, though only just.
She's glad the horse is smart and seems to realize she's not fully awake because Lyvia fears, if she wasn't, she may have run into several trees by the time the sun is setting. Again they push late into the night until the horse declares it's time for camping, and then the song and dance of trying to stay awake while her horse gets sleep begins again. Her arm is nearly useless at this point — it hurts even just to hold the lock as she picks it — and the redness she'd noticed around the wound has spread nearly to her elbow. She lets her horse sleep as long as she can, but wakes her at the first sign of sunrise; the mare's grouchy but Lyvia has no time to waste.
Halfway through the third day, as the ground becomes more uneven and they pass more cliffs, it starts to snow. Light flurries, at first, but then heavier and heavier, winds gusting harder, until Lyvia can hardly see her horse's neck in front of her. On the bright side, the stinging cold seems to help the pain in her arm…but only because it's hard to feel pain when her skin is numb from the bitter chill. By all logic, she should find somewhere to hide from the weather until it passes, but if it lasts for more than a day…she doesn't know that she can keep herself awake through another night, the way her eyelids droop and her vision — what of her vision she has in these conditions — blurs.
The storm's made the sky so dark by the time she feels her horse's balance change, the slight tilt of the path to Cloud Ruler familiar and welcome, that Lyvia can't tell what time it is, though she's near certain it must be close to sunset at the earliest. The snow in the dark makes visibility even worse than it already was, and she's half-afraid the horse will walk right over a cliff if she goes too fast. So, despite her desperate desire to make it to the fortress where it's warm and surely Martin will know what to do for her arm, she slows the mare's gait, taking the path slowly and carefully.
It must be fully night by the time she makes it to Cloud Ruler Temple. At first she things the gate is closed, obscured as it is by the howling wind and snow and darkness, but she manages to find where it was just barely open. She has no doubt that there's someone watching it from somewhere, but she must not be the only person outside the fortress if it was left open. She mumbles some quiet thanks for the good luck and trots her horse inside, making for the stables, relying almost entirely on her and the horse's memory.
Even the stables are an improvement over outside, though only just enough for the animals not to freeze; she thinks the walls must be enchanted to bring heat from the main hearth inside, since she can't see any fire keeping it warm. She walks the horse into the first open stall she sees, hoping if it's the wrong one that the stablehands will forgive her. Lyvia struggles with the saddle's straps as she tries to remove it with one arm. Eventually, the buckles come loose and she drags the gear wholesale off the animal; for a heartbeat, she thinks she's made a terrible mistake when it looks like everything is going to land on the rose staff, but instead it just knocks free and rolls near the wall. The bridle is a little easier in one way — it's much smaller and so easier to manipulate with one hand — but harder in that the horse is tall enough to make her have to strain to reach everything she needs to.
She knows throwing the gear in a corner for someone else to deal with is both rude and probably bad for the gear, but Lyvia doesn't have much choice. Her muscles ache from persistent shivering, she's exhausted, and her left arm is completely unusable at this point; she can't waste time doing things the right way and she'll just have to ask for forgiveness later. The mare settles down in the hay almost immediately, and Lyvia's almost certain the animal's asleep before she's even left the stable and stepped back into the gusting winds.
One shaking hand reaches out to pry open the large, heavy door of Cloud Ruler Temple, and, even at such a distance from the main hall's fireplace, the relief from its comforting warmth is nearly enough to make Lyvia forget the wound on her arm. One last vengeful gust blows from behind her, though, driving a chill up her spine and disturbing the papers scattered over two tables where, when she had left, there had been one. Said tables' occupant glances up, the barest hint of annoyance on his face melting away at the sight of her.
"Lyvia!" Martin stands quickly, grabbing the papers that had flown askew and weighing them down with various books and inkwells. "I didn't think you'd ride in this storm. Come closer to the fire." He picks his way quickly around the benches and tables, reaching for her, and she lets him guide her by her good hand closer to the intoxicating warmth. She shuts her eyes, just for a moment, to enjoy the heat and familiarity and brief joy of finally being home again. Now she only wishes that her arm would stop throbbing, pain rearing its head again as the numbing cold is chased away.
"I wouldn't have," she mumbles, "But I got hurt and I didn't know how to heal it…"
"You're pale as death!" Martin takes her by the shoulders, and she blinks her eyes back open to see his deep blue ones scanning her face. "You should have stopped until the storm blew over—"
"I know, I know, I wanted to but—" Lyvia tries to explain, but the exhaustion and cold and pain seem to make themselves known all at once as her legs buckle beneath her. Martin barely manages to catch her before she falls, pulling her tight to his chest. She sets her jaw and tries to stand under her own power again, but he holds her close, guiding her carefully to a nearby bench.
"Easy now, I have you," he murmurs to her, helping her as gently as he can into her seat. But, he had unknowingly tried to brace against her bad arm, and she hisses at the pain lancing up her arm at his touch. He flinches back, pulling his hand away in alarm when he finally notices the bandages wrapped tightly there. "What happened?!"
"On the way back, I stopped to help out the guild — you remember the Thieves Guild — and someone I knew was in trouble. A lot of trouble. Prisoners were going missing and—" Lyvia cuts off with a pained yelp as Martin peels the bandage back. He shoots her an apologetic glance as he also pulls her glove free, giving him a clear view of the wound. The bite is an angry, bright red, the skin around it puffy. Other than the excessive swelling approaching both her elbow and wrist, the wound still looks fresh, like it happened just hours ago rather than days. He looks back to her face, eyes flickering to her cheeks and her lips, analytical, before peering at her eyes.
"Lyvia," he says with a kind of quiet calm that says he's not feeling calm at all. "What bit you?"
"…The prisoners called her 'The Pale Lady'," Lyvia swallows the dryness in her throat as Martin presses his hand to her forehead; his skin feels cool in comparison, even after the chill of the mountains outside. "She would take the prisoners away and they'd never be seen again. She took my friend, Amusei, and I couldn't just leave him."
"I know you couldn't," his voice is still smooth and low, as if trying not to spook her — as if trying not to spook himself. "But I do believe that this is—"
"A vampire bite?" she beats him to it. "I ran into a traveling healer on the road; she said as much. It's why I rode through a blizzard."
"Thank Akatosh for small miracles," he mutters, almost to himself, and there's something she can't parse in his eyes. "How long has it been?"
"A little under a week, I think?" Lyvia frowns as she tries to remember through the haze of exhaustion. "But I only slept once. The healer woman said sleeping would make it worse."
"She's right," he agrees. "As much as I hate to encourage riding in such conditions, it's good you got here so quickly. If you hadn't—" There's something tight in his jaw for a moment, and he starts again. "I wish she'd healed it there."
"She said that she was still learning," Lyvia doesn't know why she feels defensive of the young woman who's name she hadn't even gotten. "That she didn't know how." He sighs, quiet enough that she thinks she wasn't supposed to notice.
"Well, lucky that I do, then," he says in a tone that's clearly meant to be light, but she knows him too well; he'd sent her on this errand afraid of her coming back hurt, and here she is, in terrible shape and possibly hours from becoming a blood sucking monster. He stands, straightening his robes, and offers his hand. Lyvia doesn't hesitate to take it, but she stumbles when she tries to stand, clearly not as steady on her feet as she thought she'd be. Martin holds her close, letting her lean heavily against him.
She can hear his heart where her ear is crushed against his chest, and she's not sure if the fluttering in her belly is a side effect of her addled senses.
"Here, you can hold onto me. I'm plenty capable of carrying you," he assures, pulling her good arm around his shoulders; she can't help but be reminded of when she'd brought back the Xarxes. One day, one day she won't be slinking back from a mission in desperate need of medical care, surely. "I have some scrolls and potions in my quarters that can fix this up." Lyvia knows this time that the heat in her face has nothing to do with the fever raging through her.
"The barracks are closer, I could wait there."
"Lyvia," he scolds gently, "I am not treating my dear friend on a glorified bedroll." And she can hardly argue with him when the idea of a proper bed is so enticing. (Although, with the way exhaustion weighs on her eyelids she thinks she could even sleep on the bare floors of the main hall, if pressed.) They shuffle together to the stairs, Lyvia grimacing at the way her legs don't seem to want to cooperate much, though Martin doesn't seem bothered. She stumbles up the stairs, with his help, and knows she's made it just in time from the way her knees shake under her.
By the time they make it to the Emperor's quarters, she's (almost) past caring that it's his bedroom, so desperate is she to finally be allowed to rest. The room is surprisingly modest, for an Emperor's room; there are plenty of bookshelves (many half empty, likely what's been supplying his studies), a comfortable looking reading chair, and of course a plush bed far nicer than anything anywhere else in the fortress. Candles around the room blink to life as he leans her against the footboard, waiting until she seems steady before letting go and starting on the straps holding her kote to her right arm. He's businesslike, methodical as he helps remove the bits and pieces of her armor that would keep her from getting full rest, or hurt her in her sleep.
See, her mind holds up the professionalism like a standard. Sanguine's full of it, if there was anything there—
He leaves her there once she's down to just her cotton shirt and pants, busying himself with adjusting the bed. Lyvia glances down at her arms — covered in dirt and sweat and, in the case of her left, blood. Even without touching them, she knows the sheets and duvet are fine fabrics from the silken sheen of them, and is struck by a pang of guilt at the idea of ruining them. Nails catch on the grain of the wood as her hands clench on the footboard.
"I should clean up first…" she muses quietly; her voice is raspy and weaker than she expected. She looks up and sees Martin frowning at her; clearly he emphatically disagrees.
"I am not worried about the sheets," he says firmly, rounding the bed to take her hands from where they shake on the footboard. "I am worried about you." And her gut twists at that, her mind dredging up the disdain with which her father had looked at her before he left her there in that jail. Unwanted, a disgrace. It's such a contrast with how Martin fusses over her that she can't stand it; she's tempted to try to go back to her little bunk in the barracks so she can let some of these emotions out where he won't see, but the way her knees almost buckle with each step tells her she'd never make it there. So she swallows hard and lets him guide her over to the bed, where he carefully arranges her until she's settled into a nest of pillows and blankets.
The bedding is incredibly soft and as silken as it looks, easily the most comfortable bed she's ever laid in. And it's as effective as any spell, tempting her to close her eyes and give in to the sleep she's been fighting off for three days now. She knows she shouldn't, she's not safe yet, and the radiating pain in her arm is a distant reminder of that, but she's just so, so very tired.
"Stay awake just a bit longer for me," Martin's voice is gentle, his hand squeezing hers and Lyvia opens eyes she didn't realize had closed. She looks up at him and she thinks it must be the fog cloaking her mind making him look so soft and lovely by the candlelight. He gives her a reassuring smile before going to rummage among the bookshelves around the room. She watches him quietly, pondering the little speck of warmth blooming in her chest.
They're friends; unlikely ones, even. The runaway daedra worshiping nobody and the Akatosh worshiping Emperor-to-be. She's deeply grateful that he sees her as worth being friends with, even if she can't see why. Even when she fails him, again and again at every turn. When she's not the noble, honorable, respected type of person one expects to associate with an Emperor. She would be foolish to wish for anything more than what they have.
And yet.
"Here we are," Martin returns with a bottle in one hand and a somewhat-weathered scroll in the other. "I'm afraid this potion isn't going to taste very good, but it's important you drink it all, alright?" Lyvia eyes the bottle with as much trepidation as she would an oblivion gate, but relents easily. She takes it with her good hand, carefully noting it's already unstoppered, and begins to drink. The liquid is hopelessly bitter on her tongue and she grimaces deeply, but refuses to do something so childish as trying to spit it out. As she fights her battle against the potion, Martin turns his attention to the wound on her left arm, drawing the magic from the scroll and applying it far more skillfully than she's ever managed, even with spells she knows well. By the time she finishes the bottle and he's finished applying his spell, the pain in her arm has nearly vanished, and even in her exhaustion notices her skin has already regained its color.
More importantly, there's no pain when he lifts her arm from where it rests on the duvet, turning it slightly in his hands this way and that as he looks over the place the bite had been. Her skin tingles a little as his fingers brush where, before, her flesh had been red and swollen, and she stares determinedly at the ceiling. She is not going to let Sanguine—
"Oh!" Lyvia jerkily tries to sit up as she remembers the whole reason she did this in the first place. "The artifact, it's in the stables, we need—"
"It's not going anywhere," he soothes, a light pressure on her shoulder pushing her back into the pillows; his hands still on her arm and the warmth of it tells her it was a quick spell, likely the same one that saved her from falling off her horse the first time they made it to Cloud Ruler. "I'll go tell the Blades to keep people away from it, don't worry." He pulls back from her, turning to leave, and she doesn't realize she's grabbed his wrist until she's done it.
The spike of…it's not quite fear, but something close, is sudden. Unexpected. Memories of nightmares full of blood and death and screams fill her exhausted mind and she knows, she knows they're waiting for her again once she gives into the haze. She almost wishes she'd fallen asleep before, when she hadn't remembered them. Now that the emergency of her impending vampirism has passed, the crushing grief returns with a vengeance, waiting to tear her heart apart once her eyes close. She doesn't know how his staying might help, but she desperately and painfully doesn't want to be alone with it again.
"Don't leave," it rasps out of her throat. "Please." She doesn't know if the shadows she thinks she sees in his eyes are a trick of the light or not when he stops, for just a heartbeat frozen to the spot. "Even before I wasn't sleeping very well and—and if I wake up I don't want to be—" Nocturnal preserve her, she sounds pathetic and she kind of wishes she could just crawl into a hole and—
"I'm not leaving," he takes her hand in his, and she doesn't think she's imagining the worry in his eyes. "I'm just going to let the guard know, and they can let the rest know. Just one moment, I promise." She swallows before nodding, forcing her grip to loosen. Now Martin's the one hesitating before letting go to cross to the door, closing it quietly behind him.
The only way she's able to keep her heart from racing out of control, her mind from remembering how her father had left her alone with her pain and grief, is hearing him and another Blade talking outside of the door. After a moment, there's a third voice, and more murmuring. She can't tell what they're saying, but she's not alone, and it's almost enough to lull her to sleep before the door opens and Martin reappears. A sigh escapes before she can stop it.
"There, no one's going near that stall until morning," he says quietly, crossing back to the bed and adjusting her little nest; it didn't need adjusting, but she lets him fuss over her. It was already hard to keep her eyes open; now it's nearly impossible, each blink lasting longer as she gives a tired nod. "Rest, my friend, you're safe here." Yes, safe, safe and incredibly comfortable. And the past week of disrupted or avoided sleep is more persuasive than any fear of nightmares. She feels more than hears the candles around the room being extinguished.
She's not entirely sure if she imagines the lips pressed to her forehead, but she remembers no more after that.
Lyvia wakes with great difficulty come morning, the drowsiness clinging to the corners of her eyes even as a bright, late morning sun falls directly into them. She glares at the offending window curtain, pushed just enough out of position to allow the rays to interrupt her much needed sleep. It's incredibly tempting to pull the blankets over her face and go back to sleep, but it takes only a moment for her to remember where she is.
The room is still dim, despite the offending beam of light; she hadn't noticed the heavy curtains the night before. Plush pillows sink under her hands as Lyvia pushes herself into a sitting position. It's so incredibly tempting to ignore her better sense, but it is incredibly inappropriate for her to be sleeping in the Emperor's quarters. In the Emperor's bed, and shadows she can just imagine the rumors. (In fact, she probably doesn't have to imagine them, since at least one Blade knows where she ended up last night and that one Blade's assignment was literally…telling the rest of them. Baurus is going to be insufferable.)
Some part of her expected to find Martin using the other half of the bed — it's certainly big enough to easily sleep two without either person having to touch the other — but she's alone, save the mountain of pillows and blankets. If Cloud Ruler weren't so cold, she very likely would have overheated in the night for all the fabric tucked around her. It's possible he'd just gotten up early to return to his studies (or, despite her and Baurus and Jauffre's best efforts to get him to rest, just simply didn't go to bed), but it takes only a few heartbeats for her to realize the chair she'd barely took notice of the night before is now occupied.
Martin's face looks soft and peaceful in sleep, the lines on his forehead and the corners of his eyes relaxed. He took only one blanket, draped loosely over him and half hanging off his lap. One of the soft pillows, as well, is shoved under his neck, slightly askew. He hasn't changed out of his usual robes, and she wonders how long he's been asleep. Less time than her, at least; a book dropped on the floor next to him tells her possibly quite a bit less time. She carefully stands, doing her best not to make too much noise, and steps around the bed.
What she's doing, Lyvia can't say. She's seen him asleep before, after all; this is nothing new. But…he stayed. She asked, and he stayed, when he easily could have returned to his hastily left research once she'd fallen asleep — she wouldn't have known the difference, after all, especially since her sleep had been so blessedly dreamless that she can't help wondering if there had been some magic involved. But she thinks she recognizes the book from the shelves rather than his table (tables? she remembers seeing a second when she arrived last night); he hadn't even left long enough to get whatever he had been working on before she'd so suddenly interrupted.
Stooping down, she lifts the fallen corner of his blanket and tucks it around him. Martin shifts a bit; Lyvia freezes for a moment, but he goes on sleeping soundly. Once again, she feels that terrible feeling that she doesn't deserve a friend like him, someone that treats her so kindly even when she's just keeps making mistake after mistake. It reminds her, in a way, of the children's stories her mother would sometimes read her when she was young — some down on their luck commoner meets a too-kind and noble prince. She would have loved you.
The thought stops her in her tracks. Not because of the idea of her mother and Martin meeting — she'd considered that back in Leyawiin, before she knew it would never happen, but in the context of introducing her mother to everyone at Cloud Ruler, all the people that had treated her kindly and with a welcome that she had been so unused to. But now, when she imagines it, she imagines a more private affair, with tea and her mother shooting knowing glances between them. She would be just a little too polite to Martin, sneaking Lyvia away to the kitchen to demand all of the details and…and…
Gods, she does love him, doesn't she?
If she were braver, she might wake him, tell him then and there. But she's not brave; Lyvia's throat is thick at the thought of trying to say it and her heart feels tight at the idea that she has this all wrong, that she only imagined the kiss to her forehead and all those worried glances she thought she saw were only tricks of the light. Besides, why would an Emperor who could have any Empress he wants choose someone like her — someone less than nothing special — anyway? A lump of emotion chokes her; if there's one thing Lyvia's absolutely certain of, has been certain of all this time, it's that she could never be good enough to deserve Martin.
She gathers her gear as quickly and quietly as she can, bundling it in her discarded cloak and carefully padding, flat-footed, out of the room, sliding the door oh-so gently shut behind her.
Chapter 11
Summary:
Martin isn't used to the truth being so hard to admit, for good and for ill.
Notes:
So I've gone ahead and bumped the rating to explicit due to some implied content regarding Martin's past in the Sanguine cult. Nothing is outright said yet, however in a couple of chapters we'll also be doing some explicit smut so, just getting prepared. :) We're almost to The Payoff, hang in there.
This chapter is entirely from Martin's POV, and I had a lot of fun writing it, so I hope you all enjoy. <3
Chapter Text
Lyvia is not where Martin left her.
He wakes with a painful crick in his back from where he'd fallen asleep in the reading chair, the one thin blanket he'd grabbed when he knew he wasn't going to make it to morning without some sleep tucked around him. It takes him a moment to pull himself up, joints stiff and uncooperative, but when he does, the first thing he notices is that the nest of pillows and duvets and coverlets he'd left Lyvia in the night before is empty, blankets and pillows askew and her armor missing from where he'd left it on the floor.
For a moment, he's struck by terror that she'd, for some reason, left the temple again, despite her exhausted and surely still sleep deprived state. That maybe someone had told her about some other job needing doing (or that she'd simply overheard) and she'd grabbed the first fresh horse she could find and gone to… It's not 'playing hero'. He knows she's the first one to tell everyone that she's no hero. But Lyvia carries herself like a stray dog brought in from the streets, still expecting any minute to be put back where they found her and desperately trying to convince them not to. No matter how Martin tries and tries and tries to convey to her that he would want her there even if she could never lift a sword again.
Rubbing his face, he wanders over to the large, wooden wardrobe (that really seems too large, too luxurious, too much, but the Blades all look at him like he personally put the sun in the sky so trying to convince them he doesn't deserve such niceties always falls on deaf ears), taking a moment to calm his nerves and change into something fresh for the day. Last night he'd told Baurus and Jauffre that she'd been injured, that she wasn't in half as bad of shape as when she'd scared the life from all of them bringing back the Xarxes but needed rest for the night, and asked them to keep an eye on whatever she's brought back from her mission until he can come take a look. Neither of them would allow her to step foot out of Cloud Ruler so soon, surely, even if her arm is back to how it was before.
If only the haunted look in her eyes was as easy to cure as that vampire bite.
He doesn't know what Prince she'd decided to approach. It's almost a certainty that it wasn't Nocturnal — he doesn't think she'd be able to bear parting with anything her own favored Prince gave her. He wants to be optimistic, that she'd sought out someone like Azura, known for showing care and compassion to her followers (or at least more than most other Princes do). He knows she'd not approach any Prince known for their outright violence or disregard for mortals, she has more sense than that.
He'd regretted leaving his extra notes on how to find Sanguine's shrine the moment he gave her the book he hid them in. Even if they need an artifact desperately, Martin deeply fears what that particular Prince would have asked of her. Either because she's far too innocent in his domains for him to not take advantage, or simply to get back at Martin himself for leaving all those years ago. He intones to himself that, if they do not stop Mehrunes Dagon, Lyvia will be subject to far, far worse, as will all of Mundus, but it still ate at him the entire time she was gone, and he hopes that she found some other Prince to appeal to.
(The fear she'd held of her own nightmares only reinforces his dread.)
She's not in the barracks, or the main hall, at their table or otherwise. Jauffre is talking to some other Blades near the fire, so she's not with him either. The unease makes the thought of eating almost intolerable, so Martin skips the idea altogether and heads into the courtyard to continue his search for his misplaced companion.
It's a great relief to find Lyvia, still wearing only simple cloth rather than her full armor, facing off with Baurus. Both are wielding wooden training swords and they don't seem to be doing anything too strenuous, both their sword arms relaxed at their sides. Lyvia's hair is clean and brushed back into it's usual half-up style, the faint red in the dusty brown made bright in the sunlight. The sickly pallor from the night before has gone, a reassuring rosy tint to her face from the chill morning gusts. There's worry in her expression, brows carving lines into her forehead, but it doesn't seem serious; Baurus looks amused about whatever it is. His eyes flicker over to Martin for a moment, and he says something to her Martin can't quite catch over the mountain wind. Lyvia glances over her shoulder, and the way her clear, ice-blue eyes light up almost makes him forget the shadows that haunted them the night before.
"Martin!" She tosses her sword at Baurus, who barely catches it before the pommel can hit his face. "Sorry if I worried you, I woke up and couldn't go back to sleep so I came out here." It sounds like an excuse, and not a very good one; there's still circles under her eyes that betray her, though they're not nearly as deep as they were last night. In the corner of his eye, Martin sees Baurus cross his arms.
"Are you feeling better, then?" He decides not to call out the obvious lie for what it is; she'll tell him what's bothering her when she's ready, surely, just as she always does.
"Much," Lyvia holds up her arm as proof, the skin back to being clear and only bearing the scars he'd failed to heal fully when she'd returned from the Mythic Dawn's shrine. "Good thing you knew what to do or Jauffre would've had to find a supply of blood for Cloud Ruler." She says it like a joke, but under the words he knows lives a very real fear. The joke makes it tolerable, so he laughs a dry little laugh, as if it's funny, if only to make her feel better about it.
"Yes, that would have been terribly inconvenient," he tosses the joke back at her. (That he would have found a way, if that had been the case, he leaves unsaid. That he would gladly have scoured Tamriel for a cure or a way to live with it, whatever she wanted, whatever she needed — it's all dramatics that get crushed down before he can say them out loud and make a fool of himself.)
"Oh, speaking of inconvenient—" Lyvia turns back to where Baurus is still standing in the little training area, walking past him to a little pile of supplies and what looks like pieces of Blade gear and a bundle of bright red fabric that he recognizes as Lyvia's cloak. Metal clanks together as she shoves the pile around, pulling at something determinedly before it finally yanks free. She turns back, hurrying back to him, and his stomach clenches at the sight of what's in her hands.
Oh, yes, he does know that staff.
"Here," she holds it out to him, the cursed thing looking for all the world like an overgrown rose twisted around a tree branch. "And good riddance to it." Good riddance indeed, Martin can't help but agree, though he also can't help but notice the way she glares at the flowery staff, something dark and uncomfortable in the tension in her shoulders.
He's not going to assume the worst. He's not. (He is, and if he were younger and more reckless he might go straight back to the shrine and find out how much magic it takes to break it.)
"I won't ask what you went through for this," Martin takes the staff, carefully, like if he moves too quickly it will draw on its own power, but of course it does absolutely nothing other than feel slightly warm in his hands despite the chill in the air. "But… Are you okay?" He can't help the one question; despite knowing that there's hundreds of things Sanguine could have asked, some downright mundane even, he can only imagine the most graphic and terrible of them.
"Yes, yes I'm fine, I just…" Lyvia crosses her arms, brow still furrowed at the Rose as she trails off. The moment stretches for longer than it should, then she gives a little shake of her head and her smile's back, though it doesn't quite touch her eyes. "Just a bit of a hassle is all, but it's worth it if it gets us the Amulet." He doesn't agree, he doesn't agree at all; she's very clearly not telling him something and, despite his resolve to let her talk to him in her own time (if she does at all; he couldn't possibly blame her if she doesn't), his mind can only paint for him pictures of the darkest debauchery he knows the cult is capable of. The rose at the top of the staff draws his eye; the memories of the fear and pain wrought by it each time another petal fell—
"Hellooo, Martin, are you in there?" He blinks for a moment as Lyvia's voice cut through his grim imaginings. "Did you hear me?"
"I'm sorry," he sheepishly smiles his apology. "Could you say it again?"
"I asked if you'd come get lunch with me?" There's a note of amusement in her voice. "I…might have forgotten breakfast and I'm starving." That's a good sign, he tells himself. Wanting to eat is good. It's a shame he doesn't share the sentiment, the presence of the Rose alone being plenty to sour his stomach, but he agrees anyway. She excuses herself to collect her pile of gear, Baurus having already reclaimed the bits he'd removed for the relaxed sparring session. The more experienced Blade in question moves to stand just behind Martin's shoulder.
"Are you alright, sire?" Baurus asks quietly, quiet enough that Lyvia probably can't hear from across the little training area. Unfortunately, Martin has learned that this particular Blade is far too perceptive for his liking (but he makes up for it by being good company).
"Yes," is the only answer Martin gives, because any other answer would be far too complicated. He can feel Baurus' eyes on him still, and knows he isn't buying it, but Martin doesn't offer any further explanation. And Lyvia's back before there's time for Baurus to ask any further. (Though perhaps he wouldn't even if there was; Martin's still not used to being Emperor first and anything else second to most Blades. Maybe that's why Lyvia's so much more comfortable to be around, because she's never treated him as anything but just Martin.)
Lunch is normal. Normal excepting that the Xarxes has been joined by the Sanguine Rose and between the two Martin is finding his tables more and more uncomfortable. (Tables because he found himself running out of space for his piles and piles of books and notes and ink; a second has saved him from Jauffre's dirty looks when knocking something onto the floor. For now.) He tried to put the Rose under one of the tables — out of sight, out of mind, after all — but it took minutes at best for a passing Blade to almost trip over the end that wouldn't quite fit. So now it's leaned against the pillar next to the first table, right in his peripheral; he's tempted to go throw it in that too-large wardrobe, but having it so close when he's sleeping would be worse, he thinks.
It's quickly apparent, though, that the clutter and the extra table has made it impractical, if not impossible, to fit a second chair anymore. Lyvia seems to deflate a little at that as she realizes the same thing. She murmurs something about sitting somewhere else, but, before Martin can say anything, Baurus steers a second chair to the other side of the table, across from Martin's. He then steers Lyvia into it, pushing aside the books and things to clear a space on the table. Martin almost laughs at the look Lyvia gives Baurus, somewhere between cross and sheepish, but with her already trying to make herself small, he doesn't want her to retreat any further into her shell.
Martin squashes down his own disappointment at the new arrangement; he has no business getting worked up over a little extra space between them. No right, even. If anything, he should have been maintaining a more professional distance the whole time, but…
Lyvia's quiet, moreso than usual, so he fills the quiet with telling her about the comings and goings of Cloud Ruler while she's been away. She listens and occasionally makes small comments, but adds little herself. And he shouldn't be over analyzing her like this but, Gods preserve him, he's worried. Probably more worried than is strictly appropriate, quite frankly. So when she stares off at nothing and stops adding her little comments, he forces himself to just carry on as usual until she blinks back into focus and rejoins the conversation.
It's some time later, when their food is long finished and Martin's trying to focus enough on the Xarxes to make any meaningful progress when Lyvia gets up, excusing herself with no real explanation. He squashes down his first instinct, to ask where she's going, and instead gives her a smile and a wave as she goes. For the next several hours, he doesn't see her, and if it weren't for the fact that he ensured Jauffre knows she needs rest (and let him believe it was for the vampire bite rather than confide his true fears) he would again be afraid she left Cloud Ruler Temple.
Turns out the Xarxes is much harder to make sense of when half of his attention is taken over by worrying, and the other half keeps getting interrupted by the Rose occasionally catching his attention and reminding him of years he wishes he could forget but keep coming back to the forefront of his mind. Even before now, the fact that his years devoted to Sanguine could be of use, let alone be vitally important to their success, chafed. He is endlessly grateful that Lyvia hasn't asked for more details on why he knows how to handle daedric artifacts, but he fears what she will do when — and it is surely a when — she finds out about the last time he owned this particular artifact.
Night has fallen by the time Martin sees her again, the main hall empty of all but a couple of lingering Blades who took over on guard when Baurus finally retired for the evening. Her hair is damp, the top left out of its usual tie to hang lankly around her face, and she's dressed in a plain, off-white cotton shirt and matching pants. The small pouch she normally wears on her belt is instead clutched in her hands; her bare feet barely make a sound on the stones as she pads over to his tables. Instead of grabbing another chair to join him, she sits on the ground behind him, leaning against one chair leg. And all the while, Lyvia says nothing, to him or anyone else; the look in her eyes is familiar in its distance, lingering on something a long, long way from here.
Martin turns his attention back to his notes and books, deciding that, if what she wants is just quiet and company, he can provide that for her. It's not long before he hears the almost-too-quiet-to-hear clicking that he now knows is the sound of a lock being picked. He glances back, just briefly, and sees her half-curled against his chair, lock in one hand braced against her knees and the other fiddling with the Skeleton Key. As he watches, the lock springs open, and she deftly resets it before starting again. Worry has its claws in his heart; he knows she just likes lockpicking, even with no reward behind it, but there's a focus to her actions that speak to distraction. A glance around tells him that the second Blade had retired for the night at some point, leaving just the one, a woman named Jena. It takes him only a moment to catch her attention and wave her over.
"Yes, sire?" she's the picture of professionalism; she only glances at Lyvia on the floor once.
"Take the rest of the evening off. Don't worry," he insists when Jena frowns and tries to interject, "I have a Blade right here, and if Jauffre gives you trouble, let me know." She hesitates for a few moments more, glancing back at Lyvia again, very unarmed and unarmored.
"Are you certain?"
"Yes. I'll send a message if I need you, I promise," he assures the woman, and, after just another heartbeat, she finally gives a bow and heads for the barracks. And, without bothering Lyvia, he turns back to his notes and continues as if nothing's happened.
With just the two of them and the fire, the hall is incredibly quiet, enough that the scratching of his pen and the clicking of Lyvia's lock is far, far louder than it ordinarily might be. He hopes he was right to send Jena away, that he has not judged wrong that Lyvia wants at least some privacy. It's tempting to tell her to just take his private room; it won't kill him to sleep at his tables for the night (his back disagrees) and it's the least he could do when—
A soft sound interrupts his thoughts. It takes him just a moment to identify it; the clicking sounds have stopped, and there's a quiet sobbing coming from the floor behind him. It's enough to tear at his heart; he hates when she cries regardless, but that it's directly because of him this time…
But she doesn't move, nor does she ask him to leave. He glances back to see her hugging her legs tight to her chest, face buried in her knees, lock and Skeleton Key abandoned at her sides. And oh how he wishes he knew how to help her, how to know without being told why. All he can do is reach back and rest his hand on her shoulder and hope that's enough. For a moment, Lyvia doesn't react. Then he feels soft skin against his hand; she's reached back, taking his hand in hers and gripping tight. She rests her cheek against where their hands are joined, and the tears don't stop, but she doesn't let go.
Martin's not sure how long they sit like that — long enough for his shoulder to start to ache from the awkward angle — but, eventually, she falls quiet, and not long after he feels a slight pressure on his thigh. When he glances down, she's leaned against his leg, eyes shut and breathing slow. His hands brush strands of hair from her face before he can think better of it; Lyvia sighs in her sleep at his touch.
Oh so carefully, Martin stands from his chair, doing his best to not jostle her too much. She doesn't seem to notice the small amount of movement, even as her head flops into the now vacant seat at an awkward angle. He knows she'll be sore if he just lets her sleep in here, so the gentlemanly thing to do would be to take her back to her sleeping place in the barracks. (The not-so-gentlemanly thing would be to just take her back to his room to sleep in a proper bed, but tonight he doesn't have the excuse of a very serious magical injury. He won't subject Lyvia to those sorts of rumors when she's not even awake to agree.)
She's not exceptionally light, thanks to the muscle she's built in her Blades training, but she is small enough that it's not too difficult to lift her. Warm breath brushes against his neck as her head lolls onto his shoulder. It is embarrassing how his thoughts scatter at that one sensation and he almost loses all his resolve. He's reminded of the night before when she was so scared and exhausted and, for a moment, he was overcome by the desire to press her into her nest of blankets and pillows and kiss her until the shadows were gone and she could sleep and gods what is wrong with him?
Such thoughts shouldn't even be something he's entertaining at all, let alone in regards to a woman probably half his age. Especially a woman who he sent off to be traumatized, no different than he did for the cult all those years ago. He loves her, he's long since accepted that he loves her in a way that she doesn't (shouldn't) return, but he just keeps hurting her, over and over again. And more than that, she needs a friend — the first one she's ever had, so she told him — not a lecherous old man padding after her. He'd managed to reign in his desires the night before, allowing himself only one, chaste kiss to her forehead, but what of the next time? Can he really trust himself to only be her friend?
The barracks are mostly quiet, the occasional snore the loudest sound in the room. The corner bed she'd claimed as her own is still empty; it makes him smile a little, that the Blades have accepted Lyvia as she is, little quirks and all, enough to even leave her favored sleeping space for her. (Granted, he and Jauffre have kept her worship of Nocturnal between them; neither of them feel that she's actively endangering anyone with a few prayers and a magic lockpick, and so long as Nocturnal doesn't hurt her, Martin isn't going to go out of his way to disrespect the practice.) It feels wrong to settle her on the standard bunk with the thin little blankets used by dozens of Blades if not more before her. He squashes down that urge again to take her back to the bed that's really too big for just him anyway, to let her enjoy softness and comfort before he inevitably is the reason it's taken from her again.
Once she's settled, he heads back to his tables, gathering up the lock and Skeleton Key where they lay on the floor and setting them on one of his piles of books. He should sit back down and get some more work on the Xarxes done — he feels so close to a breakthrough — but he's incredibly tired for not having done much today, last night's cramped sleep in his chair lingering in the way his joints have ached all day. And it would make Lyvia happy to know he went to bed at a decent (mostly decent) hour, so he refreshes the wards on the book and throws a few on the Rose, to be sure, then heads toward the Emperor's quarters for the night.
Piles of rubble lay strewn about the Imperial City, chunks of building ripped apart like some beast tore them asunder. The city is eerily quiet, almost like it's deserted, though Martin thinks he can hear sobs and pained groans just out of sight. Above, the sky stretches on and on, dreary and gray and heavy, like the world itself is mourning. It weighs on him as if the clouds were not out of reach, but rather laid right on his shoulders.
He's not sure what draws him through the city. It feels like maybe he's following someone, though there's no one around to be following. But something, something, draws him onward, as if by a string. And though the sorrow is heavy around him, it's like it's concentrated somewhere further. Just a bit further. He follows and follows, stepping around rubble and cracks and buildings in questionable condition to follow the feeling like a beacon.
Then he stops and blinks; why is it bringing him to the Temple of the One?
The temple is just as ragged as the rest of the city, the roof crumbled away and the remnants just…gone. Where, he doesn't know. The pure anguish he'd followed is most intense here, for all that the temple is empty, centered on the dais that should be encircled by columns but isn't. Martin draws closer, stepping onto the dais to search for the source, and it feels heavy. Like a powerful current drawing him in.
Something greater lands with an earth-shaking thud above him, accompanied by a blinding flash of light that makes him raise his hands in an instinctive attempt to shield his eyes. The presence seems to tilt closer from above, and though the light is still so bright he can see it even with his eyes closed, he's called to look.
Leaning down to look Martin in the face is a great, golden dragon, all light and flames and power, bright as the sun. Everything around seems to be anchored to it, an overwhelming pull as if keeping the whole of Mundus from simply falling away. And though, by all rights, he should be entirely blinded by such brilliance, Martin holds the dragon's gaze and doesn't look away. There's a touch of familiarity there, within the awe and dazzling strength and blazing brightness.
"Bearer of the Amulet," the dragon's voice is bone deep and speaks with the very fabric of time itself in a way that Martin couldn't explain if he had a thousand years to try; it speaks not in the common tongue but a language of short, booming syllables that he doesn't know, that resonate in his soul clear as day anyway. "Keeper of the Covenant. Heart-of-my-Soul." The last part doesn't sound like normal words, but rather a name, calling to him just as his own name does. And the pieces seem to fall into place, in that moment.
"Akatosh," he says, and it's not a question. The dragon doesn't directly answer, but the sense of approval briefly overwhelms all.
"You hold the fate of Tamriel in your hands," it—He—says. "You must stare into Oblivion, undaunted. Reclaim your destiny."
"I'm trying," Martin says, and it sounds weak in comparison. "We're trying."
"Fate's prisoner fights what would be wrought, bites the threads that bind," the strange Tongue carries through the very firmament. "Doom's hounds snap at your heels. But in saving one, all would be lost to their hunger."
"How do I stop it? How do I stop this?" And Martin knows the Dragon understands he means not the superficial damage to the temple or the rubble in the streets, but that echoing ache of agony reverberating through the stone. He bows His head, a gesture of pity and regret and sorrow all in one.
"You cannot." The Dragon begins to dissipate, bits and pieces disappearing in wisps of light. "For these tears are not shed for Fate or Doom. They are shed for you."
His golden fiery power flickers into the gray sky, flames devouring His form as Akatosh disappears. Martin is left alone, alone in another ruined temple, in the midst of the rubble and sorrow. In the silence left behind, the rain finally begins to fall.
It feels like tears.
Martin wakes, the bed as warm and soft as when he went to bed the night before. For a long moment, he doesn't move, running over the details of his dream in his head as he tries to cling to them in the morning light. It weighs heavy on him, the vision of wrought destruction and that terrible pain all around. And the Dragon…
Could it have actually been Akatosh, or something his mind had invented in the quiet moment between stress and more stress? As much as he wants to believe that he had simply imagined it, or that maybe the Xarxes was using the vision to taunt him…he's never dreamed of Akatosh before. Not even back in Kvatch, before the attack, at his most devout. So…why now?
He's loathe to believe that it is Akatosh; the Dragon is not known for being particularly verbose among the Nine. And…part of him can't help but feel a little angry; why would He speak now but not during the attack on Kvatch, when he was tired and afraid and desperate? Is it just because, then, he was not Emperor, and now he is (or will be rather)? For a brief moment, he understands Lyvia's skepticism about the Divines.
And that name He called Martin, Heart-of-my-Soul… What did it mean? In waking light, he realizes the Dragon must have been speaking the esoteric dragon language, studied only by a few, and is unsettled by how naturally he had understood every word. Fate's prisoner, He'd mentioned too; is he Fate's prisoner, or is it referring to someone else? What did He mean by fighting what would be wrought? Is it speaking about their fighting to stop Mehrunes Dagon, or the Mythic Dawn trying to stop them from doing just that?
Martin runs a hand over his face, then rolls out of bed to grab the nearest journal. The details are clear, now, but he doesn't want to chance forgetting, so he writes down every word the Dragon spoke. It doesn't make his words any more clear. He lingers on the last sentence: They are shed for you. There's a deep, crushing ache that accompanies the knowledge; something is going to happen to him. And he knows enough of the Dragon to know that He sees all of time, every alternative outcome. The certainty of that terrible sorrow that permeated all settles as a dread in his bones. If it's something He can speak on with such certainty, then it must be something that happens in every timeline, mustn't it? And yet it still felt like a warning — not for him, but for someone else he thinks, this Fate's Prisoner, someone seeking to undo…something. This Doom supposedly hunting him.
If this…prophecy, if that is what it is, is meant for someone else, why give it to him?
Sitting here fretting about it isn't going to get the Amulet back or stop Mehrunes Dagon, though, so Martin tucks the little journal back on the bookshelf and readies for another day of trying to get the Xarxes to give up its secrets. At the door, though, he's greeted by Baurus, who, from the looks of things, is barely hiding his frustration.
"Sire, did you dismiss your guard last night?" he asks, and when Martin nods, he heaves a sigh. "Do you realize how much danger you could have been in—"
"Lyvia was there, it was fine," Martin tries to shrug off the scolding — gods, he swears he hasn't been scolded so much since he was a child — but Baurus crosses his arms, eyebrows raised.
"You and I both know she was not there on duty," he points out, and Martin sets his jaw.
"On duty or not, she never would have—"
"Sire, if someone attacked you when she was not prepared, how do you think that would have gone?" Baurus presses, and Martin doesn't have to imagine it, because he lived it, in those few heartstopping moments when she took a knife to the back for him outside Weynon and he feared his healing would fail her. But it didn't, and she's here, and, more importantly, Martin isn't helpless and he'd really like for everyone to stop treating him like he is. Like he couldn't have protected her just as well.
"Just fine, actually," he responds coolly. "Do you really think the Mythic Dawn would have been able to get to me in the middle of Cloud Ruler with the whole of the Blades a couple of rooms away?"
"We didn't think they could get to the Emperor in the Imperial City, in a secret tunnel meant for his safety, either," the words are carefully measured, polite in a way Martin knows he doesn't want to be but is because Martin is his Emperor. Martin takes a breath to steady himself; as frustrated as he is with his situation, his new title he didn't want, his sudden distance from normal people, it's not Baurus' fault, and the Blade is just trying to keep him alive, and Martin should really try to be grateful. (Even if sometimes it feels like the Blades as a whole think he's harder to keep alive than one of those fancy fish from distant lands.)
"I'm sorry," he says, finally. "It was careless of me, you're right. I'll keep that in mind." And where the Baurus that arrived a few weeks ago and stood stiff-backed and stony-faced at his shoulder might have been horrified at his apology, Baurus now smiles his relief, though there's still more formality in the air between them for Martin's liking. Gods, he misses just being a normal person.
"Good," he nods, and the two begin to walk for the hall, Baurus dropping back to stand just behind Martin's shoulder. "Now I think there's something else we need to talk about: a certain Knight-Sister—"
"Is she okay?" Martin tries to ask nonchalantly, but knows he's utterly failed by the way Baurus quirks an eyebrow at him.
"She's fine; she's asleep," the Blade doesn't bother hiding his amusement, and Martin thinks he might just sink into the stones of the floor. "So would you like to tell me why you wanted her alone last night?" There's a suggestion there Martin doesn't like; as if he'd ever take advantage of her like that! (He's not that person anymore, he's not, no matter what Sanguine likely told her.)
"I didn't want her alone," Martin grimaces around the words. "It's not like that." He doesn't know if he should tell Baurus about how hurt she was last night, that something was so painful she wouldn't even speak of it. He certainly knows he can't possibly voice his fears of what it is.
"She'd like if it were, I think," Baurus prods lightly; Martin hopes his face isn't as red as it feels like it is.
"She needs a friend, not…" he searches for the right words that don't feel quite so vulgar to say out loud.
"Not the favor of the Emperor? The security that she'll never have to worry about being on the streets again? Acceptance of her the way she is and not the way people want her to be?" The Redguard stops and folds his arms at Martin, eyebrows raised.
"She can have all of that anyway," Martin insists, frowning. "She doesn't have to sleep with me for it."
"Sire, with all due respect, I think you're selling yourself short," Baurus's voice is serious now, the levity set aside. "Do you really think that's all there is between you?"
"Of course that's all there is," he mumbles. "That's all there should be." Baurus sighs, clear frustration there that he's not voicing and Martin wishes he would because it would be nice to have at least one person outside of Lyvia to speak candidly with. Maybe someday he'll convince Baurus that he really is just a normal person that just happens to be able to wear an incredibly picky piece of jewelry.
"Why? It's clear you care a great deal about her, so why do you insist on keeping her at arm's length?" Baurus demands, and though he seems to be attempting to maintain composure and courtesy, it's slipped just a touch. And when worded like that, it sounds reasonable, doesn't it? But then he remembers the night before and how pained her sobs had been and it's because of him, he knows it, his decision to give her the knowledge to reach the Sanguine shrine.
"Because…" How is he supposed to explain this? How can he? When it will only shatter this view the Blades have of him, of this perfect Emperor that's just been hidden away all these years, ready for the Ruby Throne. But he needs someone to understand, to know why he can't possibly encourage these feelings. Maybe if it's just Baurus, just one person he can confide in… "Not… not here."
"A morning walk then?" Baurus proposes, eyes sharp. "You've been cooped up with those artifacts too long, I think." The words are loud, loud enough to explain where they're going without demanding anyone follow them, and he can see why he had been placed in the Emperor's guard so young.
(A vicious little voice inside whispers that Baurus would be much better for Lyvia than Martin is. Baurus is a good person, who hasn't been tempted by daedric Princes and their wiles, capable and loyal and—and this isn't helping anything.)
The morning air is brisk, the wind harsh even against the cloak Baurus reminded him to don before they stepped outside; one would think Martin would be used to living on a mountain after the past few months, but it still surprises him at times how cold it can get. More importantly, the wind is loud enough that no one more than a couple meters away will hear them, even without magic muffling their words. Baurus takes point, which Martin knows he'd rather not do considering it leaves his back open, but it's not for long, just until Baurus can lead them to a secluded corner of the ramparts. (That it's the same secluded corner he and Lyvia had first spoken of daedric Princes and their whims does not escape him.)
"So, what's holding you back?" That Baurus doesn't accompany it with an honorific does not go unnoticed or unappreciated. Martin quickly casts that muffling spell over them anyway, just to be sure.
"I…" His voice catches in his throat; it feels wrong for him to not to be telling this to Lyvia first, when she'd confided so much in him, but, with how she'd had to deal with Sanguine, how could he possibly tell her now? "I'm why Lyvia knew where to find the Sanguine shrine."
"Forgive me, but didn't you give her a book of all the Princes? I don't see the problem—"
"Not the book," Martin runs a hand through his hair in frustration. "There was a note in the book. Detailing where to find the shrine and how exactly to approach and treat with Sanguine. And I wrote it." Understanding dawns on Baurus's face.
"I take it that wasn't just academic knowledge," he says, and Martin looks out at the sparse forest around the Temple so he doesn't have to see the blame or disappointment.
"No. It was not." The silence is heavy, and more than ever he hates this Emperor business, hates that it's just one more way he has now to let people down. For a while, the loudest sound is the wind over the stone walls, before Baurus finally speaks.
"Are you still—?"
"No. No, not for many, many years," Martin sighs heavily; it's good to tell someone, but there are things he still wants to keep to himself. "But if that's why she's—"
"Has she spoken to you about it?" Baurus interrupts, and the fact that he interrupted catches Martin a little off guard. He shakes his head, and Baurus continues. "Then you should stop assuming you know why she's upset, I think."
"She doesn't know," Martin's hand balls into a fist. "She doesn't know that I wrote the note, that I was the one sending her into the lion's den—"
"Martin," Baurus's use of his name, not his title, breaks him of the spiral, if perhaps only temporarily. "Whatever happened is not your fault. Give her a little credit; she's an adult and she can make her own choices. You didn't lure her anywhere, if that's what you're afraid of. And besides, don't you think Nocturnal would have intervened if Sanguine tried anything?" That catches Martin's ear; had she told Baurus too? The question must have painted across his face because Baurus quickly continues. "I was there when a magic lockpick appeared in the middle of a secret tunnel only the Blades and the Emperor were supposed to know about. It's not exactly difficult to put the pieces together."
It's logical. Princes are territorial creatures, after all — if Nocturnal really did call out to Lyvia in her dreams, there must be some level of possessiveness there, and while that's terrifying normally, it very well could have kept Lyvia safe. And…and Baurus is right. He needs to remember that Lyvia is an adult that can make her own choices, and his giving her the knowledge to do so is not the same as tempting someone too young to know better into…
(Gods, he can tell himself that all he wants but it doesn't change that pit in his stomach that says yes it is the same, just like back then.)
"You should talk to her," Baurus presses a little further. "Really. It's better than stewing over it." Martin leans against the ramparts with his elbows, burying his head in his hands.
"And that she deserves better?" Better than an old man guilty of so, so much?
"Let her decide that," Baurus's voice is quiet and kind and, for at least this moment, exactly the kind of friendship Martin's been missing. But before they can say anything else, they're interrupted.
"Martin, there you are!" Lyvia approaches almost too suddenly for him to drop the muffle spell. "I was so worried when you weren't at the tables but the other Blades said— Sorry, am I interrupting?" she glances between him and Baurus, and there's a touch of suspicion when she glances toward her fellow Blade, who in turn does his best impression of innocence.
"Not at all, Knight-Sister," his smile is mischievous, and Martin doesn't know if it's because he's trying to cover for their real conversation or if somehow whatever she's suspicious of had to do with their conversation.
"Was there something you needed?" Martin asks, hoping the lingering guilt isn't showing on his face. Hers softens when she looks back to him, so subtly he wonders if she realizes it.
"I, ah, wanted to know if you could teach me that light spell? Turns out it would have been really useful before I went to get the staff." She looks sheepish, and it takes him a moment to remember the spell in question; he'd wanted to teach her the night before she left, so she could read in the barracks, but it'd been so late and Jauffre and Baurus were all but shooing him to bed.
"Yes, yes, of course," he perks up, glad for anything to think of besides Sanguine. "It's a little bright out here for it, though. We could practice in the library?" Baurus in the corner of his eye opens his mouth and then closes it again, and before Martin can so much as glance at him Lyvia shoots him an open glare.
Somehow, he doesn't think his own guilt about Sanguine's cult is what they're keeping secrets about. But who is he to demand her secrets?
"Library sounds good," Lyvia agrees, and falls into step next to him as they head inside. Martin notes with some relief that she looks significantly better than yesterday; her hair is soft and half-pulled back, eyes bright, and the color's returned to her skin. She's dressed partially in her armor, leaving off the metal bits probably in the interest of comfort. More importantly, she's smiling and relaxed and talking, and that more than anything puts him at ease.
Baurus stations himself at the library door, and he and Lyvia exchange an…interesting glance Martin can't quite parse before she goes inside. He follows close behind; Baurus gives him a meaningful look before the door closes behind him. And then they're alone; she turns to him with a bright smile full of trust he does not deserve.
"Right," it's as much to himself as her, steeling himself against the longing rearing its head again that he should not be feeling. "Have you ever cast anything like it before?"
"Well…" she glances down at the enchanted glove he gave her. "When I fought the Pale Lady, I… She had a hold on my arm and I couldn't get her off, so I thought maybe if I could shine a light in her face she would let go to cover her eyes. It was quite a bit brighter than I meant for it to be though. And it seemed to actually hurt her, too, though now that I know she was a vampire…"
"You must have replicated sunlight," he tilts his head thoughtfully; for all that Lyvia claims she's no good at magic, being able to brute force creating sunlight while under stress, without knowing the spell, is quite impressive. He raises a magical shield around himself, just in case he's wrong, as he asks, "Could you do it again?"
"I can try." There's the uncertainty again, the doubt in herself born of a lifetime of being told and shown she was a disappointment. It's not the first time the memory of their discussion on the ramparts has made his blood boil, and he's sure it won't be the last. She raises her left arm, her gloved hand spreading as if to grasp something, and she frowns as he feels magicka gathering, and then—
And then he can't see, so bright is the light she produces, filling the whole library like a miniature sun. Regrettably, it seems his ability to look at impossibly bright things did not carry over from his strange dream, and he lifts his hands to block some of the light as he squeezes his eyes shut. The brilliance lasts only moments, quickly burning through Lyvia's magicka before flickering out. Martin's shield is still in tact, undamaged by the flash; it seems his suspicion about sunlight was correct, and it was the brightest spell like it he thinks he's ever seen.
"And you did that while you were being attacked?" he can't help asking incredulously, dropping his shield, and she seems worried when she nods. "Lyvia, I don't know who told you that you're bad at magic but they're wrong." He says that even though he thinks he has a pretty good idea of who put such ideas in her head. But she perks up a bit at that, a nervous smile peeking from the shadows.
"Not very useful for anything but fighting vampires, though," she shrugs, the smirk playing at the corner of her mouth showing the attempt at humor. He wishes she wouldn't downplay herself so much, but he supposes when she's spent most of her life having to apologize for being exactly the way she is…
"But it's extremely useful for that, specifically," he points out. "There are lots of spells with very specific uses; that doesn't make them bad. Anyway, we just need to focus that and make it smaller for something more broadly useful." Martin crosses over to her, holding his hand out. She hesitates, just a moment, but lays hers, palm up, in his. His magicka flows through where they're connected, coaxing hers out of the anxious little ball it's become over however many years of people telling her it's no good. And, just like when he taught her the healing spell, it follows his easily, as if it had just been waiting for permission all along. He shows it the shape of the spell, how to let out just enough light and maintain it with a trickle of power before backing off, leaving only her magicka to hold the little ball of light that's formed over their hands.
She stares at it for a moment, like she's never seen a light spell before, before a wide grin spreads across her face. Giddy with her success, Lyvia does it again, forming another and another until they're surrounded with roughly a dozen little glowing balls of light, scattered around them like stars. And she maintains them easily; there's no sign of her straining with the effort, and a quick check with his own shows that her magicka is still strong and unfaltering, having uncurled from that tight ball and flowing freely. She looks up at him with pride and delight playing across her features and…
She's beautiful in the starlight of her own making, glowing with pride at doing something she didn't think she could, eyes sparkling in delight. And, just like when he taught her to heal, he's overwhelmed with the desire to press his lips to hers, to find out if they're as soft as they look, what sounds he might coax from her with gentle touches and whispered nothings in her ear. If he could love her enough to make up for her years of loneliness. He's almost, almost convinced himself to actually go through with it when Lyvia's face falls, a nearly imperceptible amount.
"Can… can I talk to you about something?" she asks, hesitantly, worry shadowing the joy she'd shone with, and something in his gut twists when he nods. Carefully, Martin leads her over to a pair of reading chairs not far away, and she drops down into one. It hurts his heart to see how she deflates when she'd been filled with such joy just a few moments ago. (That he dreads what she wants to talk about is less important, but no less present.) He takes the other chair, turning it so he can look at her more directly; he takes her hand again in both of his, setting aside his desire to withdraw for the sake of comforting her. For several agonizing moments, Lyvia's quiet as she gathers her thoughts.
"…When I was in Leyawiin," she starts, and he crushes down again the urge to ask why she was in Leyawiin. "I…I got in some trouble. It's not serious, or important, but…" He wants to insist that of course it's important, but she's not done, so he bites his tongue and waits.
"I had to spend a night in the jail there, and…my father visited." She stares determinedly at where their hands are joined, and Martin's jaw clenches; the way Lyvia curls in on herself, even if it's subtle, tells him it was not a pleasant encounter. "He…he said…" Her face twists in a grimace, eyes shutting tight. "He said my mother's dead."
"What?" It was so far from what he thought she was going to say that the question falls from Martin's mouth before he can stop it; the strange relief that floods him that this is what has been tormenting her rather than his own darkest fears is quickly chased by a deep, deep shame. "What happened?"
"She went outside the walls. The guards saw her, said an Oblivion gate opened too close and there was a lot of blood and—" her voice chokes off on a sob, her teeth clacking together as she fights it back and he wishes she wouldn't because gods know he knows how much worse it is to keep it in. "He said it was my fault." Tears drip down her face despite her efforts. Martin has to take a breath, before he can decide to do something truly foolish like riding to Leyawiin to give this man a piece of his mind. And maybe forget his conviction to be a better person than the young man that fell in with Sanguine so long ago.
"He's wrong," he says when he's composed himself enough. "Even if Nocturnal was involved with all of this, it's not your fault. Princes will do as they will regardless of their worshipers' actions. Even if they have no worshipers at all." She looks up at him with reddened eyes through lashes wet with tears and that anger boils again; the thought of Lyvia left to grieve in a jail cell alone infuriates him, but he swallows it down for her sake. He runs his thumb over her knuckles, white with how hard she clings to his hand.
"And…and yesterday, I was thinking, and—" her hands shake with something more she's holding in. "What if…what if her soul's still there? In the Deadlands. What if…what if she's hurting still and I—" She can't continue; the dam breaks and folds in on herself, pulling her hand back to wrap her arms around her middle as what he now recognizes as helplessness wracks through her. But, luckily, this once he thinks he knows exactly what to say.
"Lyvia," he calls her name, and she looks to him even in her grief and panic; he hesitates just a moment, but he can't stop himself from taking her face in his hands, cradled around her jaw. "That's not how it works. I promise you that's not how it works." Her head is heavy in his hands, like she can't bring herself to hold it up on her own.
"How does it work then?" she asks between wheezing breaths; she holds his gaze like it's the only thing keeping her anchored. And, for just this, he's really and truly grateful for his failures in his youth, because without them, he couldn't have given her the answers she really needs.
"Just because someone dies in Oblivion doesn't mean their soul is trapped there, any more than a soul is trapped on Mundus when they die," he speaks low and quiet, the same tone that had seemed to calm her when she'd returned with the Xarxes, frantic and pained. "The only way a Prince can keep a soul like that is if it's given to them, or is sacrificed to them in a ritual."
"The ritual to open the gate wouldn't have been enough?" she asks, still tearful, but some of the light's returning to her gaze. He shakes his head; unless her mother had been sacrificed to open the gate, then no, and it doesn't sound like that's the case, if it's known she was nearby when it opened. Lyvia slumps a little, the tension releasing from her shoulders and he's fairly certain the tears this time are from relief. He knows it won't help the grief — losing a parent, especially when the other one is such a piece of work, isn't easy — but at least she doesn't have to be tormented by the feeling that she needs to do something she can't.
"I'm sorry," her voice is barely louder than a whisper, still cracked around the pain of it, and he blinks in confusion.
"For what?"
"For putting this on you," she sniffles, and he thinks she moves a little, like she wants to pull away but doesn't have the strength to. "You have so much to worry about already and the last thing you need is to have to deal with…" Me hangs unspoken between them, her eyes dropping from his face finally. And he wants to tell her that it's not dealing with her and he will always choose to be there for her because he loves her dammit.
But the declaration catches in his chest on all the thorns of reason telling him that he will never be anything but bad for her, too old, too flawed, with too much of his own darkness that he can never tell her about. That she would be better off keeping her distance even if, again and again, he can't bring himself to do it. It would be painfully easy to break her faith in him so that she never sought him out again, but he just can't do it. So he walks this line wishing and wanting and never having and maybe it's his punishment for all he's done. Decades are nothing to the gods, after all.
(Maybe that's why Akatosh only spoke to him to deliver a warning for another, and not when he needed Him most in Kvatch.)
"You have done so much for me," he says instead. "It's the least I can do for you." Lyvia favors him with a tearful almost-smile at that, though it doesn't quite reach her eyes; he wishes so that there was some way he could convince her he means it. But, for now, this will have to be enough.
The rest of the day passes uneventfully, and Martin's dreams that night are the usual fare, a mix of mundane dreams and attempts by the Xarxes to disrupt it. He's so exhausted by its attacks on his psyche that sometimes he wishes he could throw it from the ramparts, but as every morning, he simply sighs, rubbing his face before getting back to work, searching for the next terribly dangerous thing he'll have to send Lyvia to find.
His guard today is not Baurus, and that's strange, because Baurus seems to look at time off of guard duty as a personal offense. On top of that, he hasn't seen Lyvia at all since the night before. Martin spends most of his day anxiously glancing up from the Xarxes, inevitably losing the letters he's bullied into staying put while he worries. One of them being missing, he could explain away, but both? There's either danger or they're plotting something.
When he sees them reappear late in the evening, sweaty and breathless in their armor, he realizes it was training. So, plotting then. A few words he can't hear over the chatter of Blades on break and the fire in the hearth pass between them, and then Baurus peels off, probably to get food before taking up his usual position at Martin's shoulder. Meanwhile, Lyvia seems to steel herself, then makes her way to his ever-more-cluttered tables.
"Would you walk with me later?" she asks; he pretends not to see how her eyes glance at the Rose before flickering back. "When the moons are up. I think you need a break." She nods at the Xarxes, and despite not getting much work done today, how is he supposed to tell her no? So they eat, and she watches him work for a while, dismissing his guard for him (where did this confidence come from?). He's not sure how long it's been when he feels her hand on his shoulder.
"Come on, you've had your nose in that book all day," she teases, but the haunted look she gives the Xarxes betrays how she's never forgotten what it put her through. Martin doesn't fight her on it, closing the artifact carefully (open or closed, he's going to lose his place, so he doesn't bother trying to mark the page) as he stands and follows her.
It's dark outside, only the dim light of a waning Masser lighting the courtyard. He waits for a moment, expecting Lyvia to use her new trick to light the way, but instead she confidently leads him across the courtyard and around the ramparts; for all that she suggested an aimless walk to clear his head, she now moves with purpose. Before he can ask what she's up to, they stop behind the stables, in a small space between it and the walls of the ramparts littered with crates.
"Could you put up that spell so no one can hear us?" she asks, and he obliges, though now he's truly confused. What's she up to? She glances around, probably looking for any lights approaching, then takes a breath.
"I…I want to talk about what happened. With Sanguine," she says, resolved.
"You don't have to do that," the words are out without him even thinking about them; everyone is entitled to their secrets, and Martin doesn't want to pry. She smiles an exasperated half smile.
"Give me a little credit, Martin," she fidgets a little with the hem of her glove absentmindedly. "I know it's been bothering you. If you'd worried any harder I think the whole of Cloud Ruler would've heard it." He's glad for the dark suddenly as embarrassment heats his face; had he really been that obvious?
"Only if you're—"
"I'm never going to be comfortable, but I'd rather tell you than anyone else," she says wryly, and he'd be flattered if it weren't for the topic of discussion. But it's not about him, it's about her and what she needs, so he only nods, and he can only hope it really will settle this roiling in his stomach that hasn't abaited ever since he saw the Rose again.
"So," she nods to herself, as if encouraging. "I got to the shrine. There were a few cultists there and they were…weird," she grimaces, and he knows exactly what kind of weird she means, "But they backed off when I told them I wasn't interested. And I spoke to Sanguine and he…no, he wasn't weird, he was an ass." Martin almost laughs, because he's never heard someone speak so candidly about their dislike of a Prince. It's…weirdly validating to hear. He wants to agree but that would be admitting his involvement with Sanguine, so he just lets her continue.
"He wanted me to… Well, he wanted me to do things I had no interest in doing," her voice is scathing. "So he settled for asking me to crash a dinner party hosted by Alessia Caro."
"The Countess of Leyawiin," Martin murmurs, pieces suddenly starting to click together. "That's why you were there." He barely sees her nod in the dark.
"Yes. Sanguine gave me a spell, but didn't tell me what it did—" of course he didn't, why would he, "—just that he wanted me to hit all the guests with it. I, very unfortunately, did not realize that all the guests was also going to include myself." He thinks she makes a face, and there's that anxiety again. "It…oh, this is really embarrassing, I had potions of invisibility but they don't do much good almost a week by boat away. The spell, ah, vanished everyone's clothing. And belongings." And that doesn't help the anxiety; Martin is well aware that not all guards are trustworthy.
"Divines above, please tell me you did not sit in jail all night—"
"No, no! The guards were fine, they… I was given clothes… Shadows preserve, can I skip this part? It's so embarrassing, if I'd known what it was going to do I could have—" Her head is tilted back, staring determinedly at Masser through the frustration.
"That's why he didn't tell you," for a moment, Martin forgets he's supposed to be trying to pretend he knows nothing about Sanguine.
"Yeah, yeah I figured that out," she deadpans. "Anyway. Turns out all my things were back at the shrine. He seemed pleased with my performance and gave me the staff and…" Lyvia stops then, trailing into silence in a way Martin doesn't like and he's so, so sure this is where it happens. Because there's no way Sanguine let her off with just a fairly tame prank on a countess. Not for the Sanguine Rose of all things. She heaves a heavy sigh.
"Ever since we left Weynon," she says, tone stiff in that way that says she'd rather not be saying any of this. "I've been having these…dreams. I don't normally have dreams like them, so they were weird for sure and I knew they weren't coming from Nocturnal but I just figured it was something wrong with me and—" She stops then, as if she's fighting with the words. Fidgeting, she opens her mouth, then closes it again; it's like what she wants to say is stuck in her throat. Finally, she buries her face in her hands and mumbles something muffled that Martin can't quite make out.
"I'm sorry," and he really is; he doesn't want to ask her to repeat herself when it causes her such discomfort. "I couldn't quite hear…"
"Sex dreams," she blurts out, louder, and he doesn't need light to know her face must be burning. "They were sex dreams. About…about you."
Oh. Well. That wasn't what he expected. He supposes, though, that it makes sense. That Sanguine might try to manipulate her to get to him. Either to torment him or to…what, convince him to come back? That would also make some sense; a young, pretty daedra worshiper might have worked like a carrot on a stick when he was younger. That fate just so happened to lead Lyvia to seek out Sanguine for an artifact meant little, it seems, when he already was targeting her even before they knew they needed it.
(Martin manages, but only barely, to not ask if they were good dreams, even if the sudden curiosity almost eats him alive.)
One thing is clear; he can't keep his time with Sanguine from her anymore. It's not her fault she was targeted by the Prince, and she needs to know that. That it's not some failing on her part. (Knowing that Sanguine used Martin's own face to potentially hurt her makes him feel sick.)
"That's…very likely my fault," he confesses, and he can feel her confusion even if he can't quite see her brows knit together in the dark. "He was probably trying to use you to get to me." There's a long moment of silence, but then Lyvia sits up a little straighter, and he thinks he sees understanding flit across her face.
"That's why he knew you," she says. "He told me to give you his regards, and he spoke like you were familiar. That's where you got all this daedric knowledge, isn't it? You've had dealings with him before." He barks a harsh laugh.
"Dealings, yes, I suppose you could call it that," he scoffs at himself. "I was a fool, and it's a blessing you are wiser now than I was then." She glances away for a moment, just a moment.
"I don't know about that," Lyvia gives a nervous huff of not-quite laughter. "But…if you're comfortable saying, what happened?" And that nervousness passes to him now, his stomach roiling, but she deserves the truth, all of it. She's trusted him with so much. She should know who exactly she's trusting with her secrets and fears.
"…By now you've probably guessed I once studied with the Mage's Guild," he begins, matter-of-fact, as if it was something that someone else did; he'd like to think that person was someone else. "I excelled, but there was always the knowledge that there was more beyond what the guild would allow. And I wanted to know everything, no matter how forbidden. I thought I was strong enough, talented enough, that the rules shouldn't apply to me. So I, and my friends, went in search of another source of arcane knowledge, in search of secrets the guild was, in our minds, keeping from us."
"And you found Sanguine," Lyvia guesses, and he nods.
"At first, it wasn't all bad. I'm sure you've heard plenty about the benefits of Sanguine worship," his mouth twists wryly. "The common man only ever thinks about the drink and the party. But that's just how the cult draws you in, of course. I would like to say it didn't work on me, but… Anyway, even still, I was there primarily because I still wanted to learn more, more of magic and its secrets. And Sanguine was only too happy to provide it, at various prices."
"Well, as detestable as he is, it's been of use," she points out, and he knows she's trying to provide comfort. He wishes he could take it.
"Maybe so, but the prices became far too high. In some cultures, Sanguine is revered as a god of blood, and there's a reason for that. There was also that—" His voice catches; the ability to pretend this was all something a stranger did is breaking down around him. "I was often tasked with going out and…convincing the young and inexperienced to…participate."
"Martin, it's—"
"Don't," he stands and turns away from her, taking a few steps away like just being close to her might poison her goodness. "Don't say it wasn't my fault. I did all those things completely willingly, eagerly even. I—" He cuts off as her arms wrap around his middle from behind, squeezing tightly, her forehead resting between his shoulders. He should pull away, he doesn't deserve such comfort, but it's impossible.
"We are not our worst mistakes," she says into his back. "You are not just an ex-cultist any more than I'm just a petty thief." The words are thick, and suddenly he wants to cry for another reason; Lyvia values herself so lowly that even this small acknowledgement makes his heart sing for her. They stay like that for a few moments before she speaks again. "So how did you end up worshiping Akatosh instead?"
"My worst mistake," he murmurs into the dark, and despite feeling like even just touching him might taint her, he's glad for Lyvia's arms holding him steady. "It was just like any errand we were ever sent on, but you know how Sanguine doesn't like to tell what his tricks do. He thinks it's funny. The lives of mortals mean little to him, aside from when they give their souls to him."
"The friends you lost…" Martin can hear the realization in her voice, and he nods, not sure if she can see it in the dark.
"I should have known better long before that point," he says bitterly. "Their deaths were pointless. And I couldn't stand it anymore. I left, and a priest found me in a sorry state just outside of Kvatch. The rest, as they say, is history."
"If we stop the Mythic Dawn," she says, carefully. "Their deaths won't be pointless. They'll at least have meant something. The gods can turn anything to good, you said."
"And now you see why I have a hard time believing it." He hopes she can't see the tears on his face, no matter how many times he's seen hers. "But maybe you're right. Maybe we can honor their loss by turning the knowledge they died for to good."
"And then after we can go smash Sanguine's dumb shrine," she quips, and he does laugh this time, because it's absurd, because of course he's not going to pick a fight with a daedric cult right after stopping one, because she's not telling him to get away from her. Because when he turns to finally return the hug, she's not looking at him in disgust, but the same fondness she always has, and he doesn't deserve it but she gives it to him anyway. He clings to her probably too tightly, but Lyvia doesn't complain, just rubs comforting circles into his back and murmurs reassurances into the dark for him.
"Lyvia!" Baurus's voice sounds in the nearby courtyard, urgency clear in the tension there, breaking the moment like a vase tipped from a shelf. Lyvia's head whips around, and he loosens his hold even as he wishes he could hide her away from whatever's coming to threaten them now. She slips free and heads for the courtyard, and he follows after just a moment of wiping his face on his robe's sleeve.
"I'm here, what's wrong?" she asks, and it's strange to see her so…willing. Ready to act against whatever new danger has arisen. He still remembers well the uncertain and under-prepared woman that had come to rescue him from Kvatch, in so far over her head but swept along by Fate's currents all the same. Now it feels like she's ready to seize the oars of a raft to navigate them.
"Jauffre's received word that an Oblivion gate was opened, just outside Bruma." Baurus says, eyes flashing between them.
"I'm going," Lyvia doesn't hesitate, face hardening into determination, and it's not a far reach to presume she sees this not only as the danger to Cloud Ruler that it is, but also a chance at some small amount of vengeance for the mother taken from her. A jolt of fear shoots through him; the last thing he wants is for anger to make her reckless.
"It's the middle of the night!" he tries to argue, but he knows by the look she gives him that it's pointless. "Wait until morning, at least."
"Bruma might not have until morning," she shoots back, free of vitriol but as unmoving as the mountain they're standing on.
"And if Bruma falls, Cloud Ruler'll be in trouble," Baurus agrees, unhelpfully. Martin shoots him a glare of frustration, and the shrug Baurus returns is so tiny he's not sure Lyvia notices. Without further argument, she tries to brush past him to the stables.
"Wait!" Martin catches her arm, and she stops, though he knows she's more than capable by now of breaking his grip. "Please, I can't lose you too." His voice drops low, and her eyes soften a bit. She takes his hand from her arm and holds it in both of hers; he wonders if she can feel it shake.
"Figure out what else we need to get to Camoran," she says, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. "When I come back, I want to be a little closer to ending this, once and for all." The emphasis is not lost on him; she has no intention of going out in a blaze of glory, it seems. But he had not intended for so many to be hurt all those years ago, either.
"She won't be alone," Baurus cuts in. "The messenger says the guard is standing ready to assist."
"Well then, it'll be practically a walk in the park compared to Kvatch," Lyvia says with a smirk. Then she takes one hand and rests it over Martin's heart. "I promise, I'll be back. We're going to beat this, and I want to be there for it." He covers her hand with his own, taking a steadying breath.
"…I'll be waiting for you," he says, but he means I love you and he wants so badly to tell her but that little rumble of doubt stops him again. She smiles at him, and it would be reassuring if he could get the image of fire and ash and daedric blades cutting down hapless townsfolk and guards alike out of his mind.
"Help me get my horse ready?" she asks, and how could he possibly say no? So he follows her into the stables (which she's quick to illuminate with her new starlight magic, and for a moment his worry is cut with pride for even this small amount of confidence in her own magic), collecting supplies as he does. They work in near silence, her brushing down the horse she's chosen, him preparing the gear as she does. Once the (rather grumpy, given it was awoken while it's still dark) animal is prepared for travel, he stops Lyvia with a hand on her shoulder before she can head back outside.
"Before you go," Martin takes her one gloved hand in his own, channeling his magic through the gem set in it. "Something to keep you going, for a little while at least. Just make sure you rest as soon as you can, please." It's the same spell he used when she'd been so fragile after returning with the Xarxes, when she'd barely been able to stand. Back then, he'd been afraid to give her too much of a boost, lest she hurt herself from feeling normal, but he's so much more afraid of her jumping into a gate without sleeping that he pours as much as he can into the spell.
"I went into the last gate sleep deprived, you know," she teases, and it doesn't make him feel better. She rests her hand on his. "And I'm much better prepared this time."
"I know. I just…" Martin swallows the lump in his throat. "I'm so afraid one day your luck's going to run out."
"Not today it's not," she says in that confident tone he knows she reserves for making him feel better. He drops her hand, offering a weak smile; he believes in her, he truly does, but he's also seen even greater men and women fall to fate. And as she rides out into the night, it's all he can do to not follow.
Instead, he returns to his tables and the Xarxes, staring at the pages of swimming runes until his sight blurs and all he can think of is Lyvia facing the fires of the Deadlands.
Pestiset on Chapter 1 Fri 13 Jun 2025 09:02AM UTC
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