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Chapter Text

Prologue

My dreams are filled with the sibilant sound of escaping steam, the whir of flywheels, and the rhythmic clank of metal cogs stepping through the gears one lash at a time. The constant noises are comforting in their way, like a mother’s heartbeat, echoing through the darkness of the womb.

My nightmares are different. They are filled with the horror of artificial silence, hunger and desperation, and the acrid scent of sweaty fear. The nightmares seem both immediate and distant in my mind and I do not like to dwell upon them.

I don’t know if my eyes are open or closed; darkness envelopes me in a constant state with no relief. I am neither warm nor cold. I cannot feel my body, assuming that is, that I still have one. I’m not aware of the passage of time, a blessing and a curse that I will come to understand later.

Chapter 1

“Carefully now. We do not know what dangers may await us.” A ball of light zoomed into the middle of the pitch-black room then hovered lazily, rising slowly toward the ceiling of the cavernous space. “We don’t need a repeat of yesterday.”

Status: Initializing…

“Understood, professor,” a male stated, nervously clearing their throat.

“Dwemer ruins are notorious riddled with traps. Wards at the ready. Phinis, a little bit more light, if you please.”

Six people, five humans and an Argonian, cautiously entered the room, their eyes darting from shadow to shadow, looking for dangers. A middle-aged man, balding and with a confident stride, came first, sending globes of light up into the air. The two younger human men, twin brothers and Nords by appearance, jostled each other as they came through the door. A Redguard woman walked cautiously next to the Argonian. An elderly looking man, grey hair and beard neatly trimmed despite the unkempt look of his robes, brought up the rear.

Several more globes of light shot into the room distributing themselves into a ring, illuminating the space with a pale blue light. Smooth stone walls gleamed with collected moisture and crystallized mineral deposits. Rays of light, weak and watery, filtered down through the fractured stone. Metal glinted in the wavering light, twinkling in and out of view as the balls of light shifted on the air currents created by steam that rose from the single piece of machinery still working. 

“Remarkable, simply remarkable,” the elder stated, craning his head to look around. “These ruins are unlike any we’ve discovered previously. Carefully now.”

The room was circular in shape with only the single door they entered by. At the center of the room stood a narrow waist-high pedestal with two rows of buttons, a single button glowed with a green light. Fanning out from it by narrow metal conduits were a dozen larger tubes, circling the available space like markers on an incomplete sundial. Most tubes were dulled and broken, but one glowed like polished moonstone in the magelight.

“Never have we seen construction such as these. Remarkable.”

“Yes, Professor Tolfdir.” The younger members of the group looked at each other and rolled their eyes at the elder’s rambling. None of them had any real interest in being there but as the oldest apprentices at the college, they had the dubious honour of being farmed out for such research expeditions.

Above each tube, ominously familiar round metal hatches were pressed into the wall. They were not the usual dull gold of dwarven metal either but silver, pitted and tarnished black with age. Nonetheless, these were easily recognized by the explorers. Most were ajar and empty, their contents of sleek silver metallic spiders, lay broken and dormant on the crumbling stone floor. Several hatches remained closed despite the broken tubes, but from within one, a green gem began to glow. The gem slowly rotated within the gyroscope housing that served as the spider’s head to focus on the interlopers.

Status: Analyzing…

“Look!” one of the Nords, the nervous male, stated excitedly, “one of them is still working!” He hurried forward, tripped over one of the conduits and froze at the ominous clacking of metal on metal.

When nothing further happened, everyone gave a slow sigh of relief.

“Apprentice Rundi! Would you please restrain yourself… by the door!” The professor’s voice had slipped from its normal calm tone to something much sharper and impatient.

“Yes, professor. I’m sorry, professor.” He carefully walked back past the group, slouching his head and shoulders forward with shame. His brother shoved his shoulder as he passed, making him stagger slightly.

“Borvir! This is neither the time nor the place for roughhousing of that nature.”

“Sorry, professor.”

“Now, where were we—?” Tolfdir muttered to himself, sounding bemused, before his eyes lit up with renewed focus. “Ah, yes. It is truly remarkable to see equipment of this age still functional! You can see that even here, the walls and floor have fractured with the upheaval of the mountain at some time during the past; however, the ingenuity and redundancy of the Dwemer design has allowed the machinery to continue to function despite damages.”

“What do they do exactly?” The Redguard, Yisra, asked, cocking her head to the side as she carefully studied the steam outlet on the single working tube.

“We have no idea.” The students stopped in their tracks and turned back to look at him with an assortment of incredulous and confused looks on their faces. “We have only recently discovered two of these ruins and they significantly pre-date the oldest known ruins of Nchuand-Zel, Alftand, or Bthardamz. Those ruins do not contain these circular vaults. They are an intriguing curiosity. Perhaps it would be best to have Calcelmo join us before we proceed further.” He turned around and looked startled to find a student at the door. “Oh! Borvir…”

“Yes, professor?” Borvir replied, standing next to him.

“Oh!” Tolfdir blinked repeatedly, then realized he had confused the twins. “No, no. Rundi—please fetch Master Calcelmo from the other chamber. Tell him we have a working example.”

While they waited, the students carefully examined the silent tubes and compared them to the single working one. The tubes, slightly longer than the average Altmer and wider than a Nord, were oval in shape instead of the expected round. The surface was slightly warm to the touch, slick as polished marble in some places, pitted and rough in others with the accumulation of minerals similar to the deposits on the surrounding walls. Pairs of pipes entered and exited either end, with gauges marked with illegible figures. Only the gauges on the functional tube flickered to suggest some unknown activity within. 

“This tube is open,” Borvir said sticking his fingers under the edge of what looked like a lid and lifted. A loud creak of hinges made everyone freeze in their tracks.

Status: threat assessment pending...

The gem turned yellow and its legs flexed for the first time in millennia, the joints popping with a soft hiss of steam.

The tube was empty except from some sort of mineral deposit fused to the inside bottom of the surface that he scratched at with his fingernails. “What do you suppose was in them?”

“It’s hard to say. They could have been storage tanks for fuel or food. Perhaps fermentation…”

Borvir threw his hands up into the air as his brother returned with the Altmer mage, Calcelmo. “Dwemer mead!”

Phinis shook his head and rubbed at his temples in frustration at his students’ behaviour. He wasn’t the only one as their fellow student, Yisra curled her lip in disgust. “You and your stupid mead. One day you’ll freeze to death toasting to your own stupidity.”

“Now, now… Master Calcelmo. The students have found a working example of the Dwemer devices.”

“So your student said Master Tolfdir, although I very much doubt that,” Calcelmo said as he strode into the room, shooing the students out of the way as he entered, “but I suppose I can see what you have found. Ah!” He walked around the tube that continued to emit a jet of steam with perfect mechanical timing. He walked around the adjacent tube that had been pulled open. “Fascinating. There is no outward sign of hinges or latches, and yet they can be opened. But how? There must be some mechanism—”

“What about this?” Rundi asked, running his finger over the green light on the pedestal.

“Do not push—” Phinis called as the button depressed under Rundi’s finger.

Status: unauthorized input...awaiting bypass command...

The gem started to pulse.

The room fell abruptly silent as the methodic rhythm of the device’s gears ground to a halt and the vent of steam tapered off with a waning hiss.

 “How many times must you be told—"

“Of all the stupid—"

Status: eliminate threat...

The gem turned red as the weapons system activated.

A loud chime rang startling them all into silence. They had never heard such a thing before in a Dwemer ruin. It nearly drowned out the swish of the remaining hatches on the walls, opening and spilling out their mechanical eight-legged guardians. 

The spiders rapidly climbed over their fallen brethren, their metal legs tapping sharply on the stone floors as they advanced. Lightning arced through the air sizzling across hastily erected barriers.

Spikes of ice exploded against the spiders sending them tumbling across the floor only to right themselves with acrobatic leaps before charging back at the mages, razor-sharp edges slashing against fabric and flesh.

“Ice doesn’t work!” Rundi screamed, tripping over his own feet as he retreated.

“Then use fire, ice-brain,” Yisri barked, blasting the spider advancing on the scrambling Nord with a fireball. The spider flipping onto its back, legs kicking, then burst apart in a shower of sparks.

“Don’t panic. Work together now,” Phinis called out as he brought his conjured sword down onto a spider.

“Remember your wards, apprentices!” Tolfdir reminded them, his own glowing blue ward crackled but held firm against a bolt of lightning.

The spiders were vastly outnumbered and quickly overpowered by the mages. The final spider staggered upright again on its remaining five legs, two of which dragged on the floor from broken joints. It snapped its single functional scissor-like front legs aggressively at the intruders before being slammed back against the wall with a glancing ball of fire.

The spider’s inner workings hissed and spun in a mindless effort to fulfill its directive. The gem pulsed with red light, weaker than before.

Status: critical failure…

It burst apart in a shower of sparks and scattered legs to collapse in a silent heap.

The mages panted with exertion, sucking in gasps of ozone scorched air, all the while glaring daggers at a now-sheepish Rundi. “Sorry.”

“And that, young man, is why we do not go pushing buttons with abandon like a skooma-raddled khaj—”

A loud crack echoed off the stones abruptly ending Calcelmo’s tirade. Wards and destruction spells bloomed as they all rapidly scanned the room for new threats. Their hands slowly lowered as nothing came at them. Indeed, even the alarm bell had fallen silent.

“Oh, it’s leaking!” Yisra exclaimed, jumping back from the previously functioning device as a gold-coloured, viscous fluid started to pour out of the tube and splashed onto her shoes. The device had become hinged like its counterparts and was rapidly losing its contents.

“Quickly now,” Calcelmo darted forward with surprising agility, holding out a flask pulled from the inner folds of his voluminous robes, “get a sample before it all runs away.”

“Ew!” she protested even as she held the glass under the slowing flow of liquid. She held her hand up and rubbed her fingers together. It felt creamy, not greasy or sticky as she had expected. She wrinkled her nose; it was still disgusting. She wiped her fingers on Borvir’s shirt.

“Hey!”

“Well, I think there is no longer any harm in opening this the rest of the way, do you?” Tolfdir asked Calcelmo.

“No. I think what’s done is done. Let’s take a look inside.”

The lid opened smoothly after some initial resistance and more fluid spilled out to reveal the contents.

“Xarxes Backside!” Calcelmo exclaimed in an uncharacteristic display of shock.

“Is that—is that—” 

They stared in stunned amazement at what appeared to be a female body, coated in the remnants of the golden liquid, lying in repose at the heart of the tube.

“A Dwemer,” Calcelmo said in awe upon finally collecting himself. “This is the find of a lifetime. All my research, my work as the pre-eminent scholar—”

The body jerked once, then again; gold fluid started to bubble at the mouth.

“It’s alive!”

“Nonsense. That’s not possible.”

Phinis gestured with his hands and each one of them in the room glowed with a red light in reaction to the life detection spell he had cast. And so, too, did the body before them.

“It’s not possible. To be alive after having slept for seven thousand years—”

The body jerked again, less violently, with another bubble of fluid rising from the mouth to burst and spill over the cheeks. The lingering red glow of the spell began to flicker.

“If we don’t do something quickly,” Phinis barked at them, “it’s not going to live for very long. It’s drowning!”

Ilas-Tei, the Argonian, jumped forward, “turn it on its side to drain the lungs. Dryskins are always drowning.”

“Yes, carefully now,” Tolfdir directed them.

“It’s softer than I expected,” Borvir said, his hands were wrapped over the hip and thigh.

“What did you expect? Metal?” Yisra asked, wrinkling her nose at the draining fluid as she held the head steady.

“Well yeah,” he said with a shrug. “Dwemer made things out of metal.”

“They made things out of metal, but they weren’t constructed of metal themselves, you frost-brain.”

“Apprentices! There that should do it. Carefully now, onto the back.” Tolfdir stood up and looked to Calcelmo. “Now what should we do?”

He waved his hand at the now breathing body. “I study ruins. I don’t know anything about caring for—” he waved his hand again, “bodies, persons. You look after it. You have healers, restoration experts at the college. If it survives, I’ll have questions. Until then, it's your responsibility,” he added as he strode out of the room.

Tolfdir scratched at his beard thoughtfully. “Well then. Suggestions?”

Chapter Text

The last of the stew, if one could call it such, was scraped out and dividing evenly, at Daniel’s insistence when I tried to give him a larger portion, between the two bowls. The spoon rattled with a sombre finality in the pot. I wasn’t sure what we were going to eat next or even when. My cleverly wrought greenhouse, complete with steam vent to keep the surrounding ground and air warm enough for growth, had plenty of potatoes and wild garlic sprouts started but they wouldn’t produce anything meaningful for us to eat any time soon.

I handed him the bowl and sat down cross-legged on the bench next to him, pulling my blanket around my shoulders before leaning back against the western wall of our tiny house to soak up the last bit of radiant heat. It should have been warmer for an August evening but so many things had changed drastically in a span of a few months.

“Eat up. That’s the last of it.”

Absently spooning the food into my mouth, I considered what there was left to trade. I was reluctant to give up the spare blankets as we had no idea how cold the winter was going to get but that wouldn’t make much difference if we starved to death first. I knew that Daniel would continue to sneak something out for me from the facility if he could, but even that seemed to be dwindling along with the government issued rations distributed for those of us outside the walls providing labour. Sooner or later, I was going to bite the bullet and learn to hunt or be willing to give up something in trade to those that did.

I licked out the last bit of gravy from the bowl and looked at Daniel’s bowl, cradled untouched on his lap. “Something wrong with the stew?”

He looked down at his bowl like he was surprised to see it there. A tremor went through his body and in slow motion he seemed to collapse inward on himself. He buried his face in his hands and his shoulders shook with the force of his silent sobs.

Quickly taking the bowl of stew from his lap to set it safely aside, I rubbed his back. “Tell me.”

He lowered his hands. “They’re closing the doors tomorrow. My supervisor told me, although I’m sure he wasn’t supposed to. Anyone left outside…”

He trailed off and got a far-away look in his eyes and I knew he was thinking about Michael, his partner who left months ago to be with his elderly parents for what remaining time we had. I was still angry that he left us, left Daniel, but I understood that everyone needed to do what they felt was best at times like these.

“Okay.”

He blinked and looked at me. “I’ve seen the projections. You’re not…I mean—"

“Well, yeah. That’s why it’s called an Extinction Level Event, genius.” I nudged him playfully with my shoulder and grabbed his hands in mine. “It’s the end of the world as we know it, and I feel fiiiiiine!”

He cringed as he always did whenever I sang and gave me a watery smile. “That’s really not funny, you know.”

“Yeah, it kind of is.” I smiled at him, a tight-lipped smile belying the clenched teeth as I fought my stomach’s desire to bring up my food at the thought of my impending demise.

Apparently, I wasn’t as successful as I had hoped, and he continued to look morose.

“Look, not everyone is essential to the survival of humanity. Wicked-smart people like you; you’re going to get us through this. The new world order doesn’t need someone like me whose most impressive list of accomplishments culminated at growing hothouse flowers. Even if they are particularly skilled at shovelling shit.”

That got a hint of a smile from him. “Don’t forget your vocabulary.”

“I would never! Impressive repertoire aside, they need people to repopulate and I can’t do that either.” He gave me The Look^TM. “Yeah, well, there’s such as thing as AI and I’m not even useful for that.”

“It’s just,” he pulled his hands free and gesticulated like he did when he was agitated, “it’s not fair. I just—” He let his hands fall back into his lap, defeated. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh, Daniel. It’s not your fault—” He opened his mouth to argue but I got there first. “Nor your responsibility.” I tossed my hair over my shoulder and gave him my best saucy, come-hither look which was totally wasted on him. “Besides, I’ve just been biding my time until I can get you off my hands. Then I’m heading south. Build myself a harem of hot young men to keep me company into my dotage.” He laughed then, to my relief.

“I think… I think I’ll take a walk,” he said, getting up to brush some invisible dust from his trousers. A habit from better times. “Finish up my dinner. Don’t let it go to waste. Don’t wait up for me, I’ll be late.”

“All right.” I blinked furiously at the sudden burn of tears; I knew that this was good-bye. “Daniel…” He paused without turning around. “Take a sweater. It gets cold.”

He nodded. “I love you too, hen.”

I gathered the bowls, the spare blankets from the bench and found myself smiling fondly at the pet name as I watched him walk down the path and into the darkness. Inside the house was quite dim with only the lingering glow of the cook fire to provide any light. I was of half a mind to stir up the fire to a blazing inferno, but we didn’t waste resources on something as trivial as lighting.

Setting the bowls on the table, I crossed the short distance from the fire to the water barrel for enough water to heat to clean the dishes and put the pot over the fire to heat. The stew had become a congealed mass in the bowl; it was all that I could do to choke down another spoonful before the rest was scooped out and flung it into the fire in a fit of anger. The fire blazed up for a brief moment, a mockery of the source of this disaster, illuminating the tiny house that I was likely going to die in, from starvation or cold, within a matter of weeks.

Daniel was right. It wasn’t fair. “Important” people—yes, I could see the air-quotes around my sarcasm—politicians, lawyers, and celebrities had been trickling in and disappearing into the facility, to be saved and wait out the disaster in their shiny, technological arks. Self-absorbed octogenarian billionaires paying for a few more years while children were left outside to await their fate with the rest of us.

I dropped the bowls in the pot of hot water and left it beside the well-banked fire, then crawled into my bed, still dressed, pulling the blankets around my head. Who would care if I left the dishes unwashed until the morning? I stared into the deep red coals as my eyelids got heavier and heavier and I let myself drift off to sleep.

I don’t remember falling asleep nor any idea how long I had when I woke to Daniel frantically shaking my shoulder. “Issie, wake up! Come on, we have to go!”

“What?” I sat up slowly, blinking in confusion. I was never an easy riser and from the angle of the moonlight shining through the open front door, it was still hours to dawn.

“We have to go.” Forcing my cotton runners onto my feet then my hoodie over my head, he grabbed my hand, hauling me to my feet and out the door without bothering to close it behind us. “Hurry.”

I stumbled after him for a moment before digging my feet into the gravel in a panic. If we left the house as it was, we’d come back to find everything gone. I was certain that people would even find my little garden and rip it to shreds for whatever meager bits they thought they could take. “Wait,” I hissed. “We can’t leave the house like that!”

“It doesn’t matter. We aren’t coming back.” He tugged on my hand to get me moving again setting a quick pace. I had jog to keep up with his longer legs. “Come on, we have to go now.”

 “What do you mean we’re not coming back? Where are we going?”

“To the facility.”

I could tell we were heading in that direction simply from the downhill trajectory of our path, but he wasn’t leading us along the well travelled road but adjacent to it, weaving us in and out of the rocks, keeping to the shadows. Soon the mountain the facility was built into cast us further into shadow as we got closer to the entrance.

“Why—”

He pulled me down sharply behind some rocks and clamped his hand over my mouth. A security patrol with spotlights affixed to their rifles swung in our direction. After a few heart stopping seconds, the beam moved away from us.

“Trust me, okay?” He lowered his hand as I nodded behind it. “I’m going to sneak you in.” He urged me up onto my knees to peer over the rock. “See the door there?” A solitary light illuminating the single man-sized door set within the larger pair of doors embedded in the mountain face. “There is a deep spot hidden from the light to the left. Sneak around and meet me there.”

I clutched at his sleeve, suddenly afraid; afraid of the guards, the guns, and ironically, of being killed. “What are you going to do?” I whispered frantically.

“I have to open the door with my pass. I’m going to have to go talk to them—” He pointed to a pair of armed guards that leaned lazily against a crude set of barriers about ten or fifteen feet from our destination, their rifles tucked under their elbows. “I have to show my credentials, otherwise they’ll shoot on sight if I suddenly show up behind them to open the door.”

Even in the dark with just the light of the waning moon, I could see the tension in his face. I could certainly smell the sharp scent of sweat on both of us and prayed that the guards wouldn’t get close enough to him to notice. I nodded.

“Wait until I get their attention, then slip in.” He tugged the hood of my hoodie up to hide my pale face. “Go.”

My breaths were so loud in my own ears, never mind the crunch of gravel under my feet, that I was afraid that I’d be caught at any moment. A twig snapped, like a gunshot in the dark, freezing me in my tracks. Surely, the guards would have heard and would come to investigate? But no one did. Instead they were focused on Daniel’s approach.

He was nearly at the guards, but I was still at least thirty feet out from where I needed to be. Hurrying to get in place in time, I didn’t see the tough leathery root that effectively snagged my foot sending me crashing to my hands and knees. I clamped my mouth shut against the bolt of pain shooting through my ankle and the gravel burn on my palms. No guards turned in my direction and I released my held breath with a whimper. Back on my feet, wincing at the pain in my ankle—it wasn’t broken, fortunately, just sprained—I continued more carefully until I finally managed to duck into the deep shadows.

Daniel stepped aside for me to slip past him as he opened the door. Inside was not what I expected. I had thought being that deep within the mountain would be cold and dry and silent. Instead, it was warm, damp, and thrummed with energy. Oddly, I had the impression of a big steam engine like those you’d see at rail museums, despite seeing nothing of the sort within the stone corridor we stood in.

I wasn’t that wrong.

He smiled and took my hand to lead me through the dark. “You didn’t think your little steam vent was the only one, did you? There is a massive geothermal vent at the heart of the mountain that powers the generators; big enough to run them for thousands of years.”

We skirted the edge of a central chamber and I faltered at the strangest sight. A huge stylized head had been carved out of the rock and painted gold. Daniel made a disgusted noise when he noticed the focus of my attention, “don’t get me started on that. One of the investor’s kids has a fascination with The Hobbit and called their dad the ‘King Under the Mountain’, and the next thing we know…” He waved his hand at the monstrosity and continued to lead me through the room. “We could have saved more people with the time and money spent on it.”  

If I had to find my own way back out of the mountain, I don’t know that I could, the place was that much of a maze. The corridors twisted and turned, rose and fell; I had no idea where we were relative to where we entered. It didn’t help that lighting was minimal, casting everything into deep shifting shadows.

“Come on, down this way. We need to hurry and get you settled in.”

We entered a round chamber; fancy tanning beds arranged in a fan, glowing with a pale white light, steam puffed from the ends of each in rhythmic little jets. Daniel hurried forward without me and pressed buttons on a terminal in the center of the room. Beyond it, an empty pod with an open lid started to pulse with the same white light.

He turned back and waved me over from where I still stood at the door. “Strip. Everything off then lie down in the pod.”

“What is this?”

“They’re stasis pods.”

“Stasis—whose pod is this?” It wasn’t mine; I wasn’t lucky enough, valuable or important enough, to have been allotted a spot. I stepped on the back of one shoe and pulled my foot from it, then repeated the process with the other. The stone floor beneath my bared feet was cooler than I had expected.

“Mine.”

“Yours? You can’t do this. Where are you going to go?”

“Don’t worry about it. It’ll get passed off as a clerical error and I’ll be reassigned elsewhere.” He turned away to fiddle with some valves at the foot of the pod. “I’m sorry that I can’t do this properly.” He picked up my discarded jeans and folded them neatly on top of my runners and did the same with my hoodie.

“What do you mean?”

“Normally the passenger is sedated first, but we don’t have time. I have to get the cycle started before they discover us.”

“Sedated? What’s going to happen?” The pod seemed far more sinister suddenly and I stepped away, clutching my shirt to my chest.

“The pod is going to fill with a suspension matrix; it’s going to put you to sleep. No, that’s not a euphemism, you really are going to sleep.” He gently grasped my shoulders and led me back to sit on the pod’s bed.

“For how long?” I was beginning to think that I should take my chances outside.

“About a hundred years. Don’t worry,” he quickly reassured, prodding me to lift my legs into the pod bed, “you won’t age or be aware of the time. I’ll be here when you wake up.” We froze at the sound of footsteps. “Quickly. They won’t be able to stop the cycle once its begun.” He pushed on my shoulder until I lay down. “Stay calm, okay?” I nodded stiffly; I was not feeling calm at all. “Love you, Issie.”

The lid closed before I could reply. The seals around the edges hissed like a vacuum being drawn but there was still air to breathe. It was pitched black inside; I couldn’t see my fingers in front of my face, I had enough room to extend my elbows out at my sides, but not enough to space to bend my knees to put my feet on the bed. Good thing I wasn’t claustrophobic, although I suddenly began to feel that way when the water, matrix—whatever it was—started to gush into the pod with me.

Suddenly I understood why they would want the person within to be sedated beforehand.

I could hear the muffled sound of voices raised in anger over the rush of the liquid pouring in. It was up past my ears and over my face in seconds, I awkwardly pushed myself up onto my elbows to keep my head above the rising level to try to hear what was going on outside the pod. I could hear orders barked out, then several rapid pops. Gunfire, I realized belatedly, but Daniel didn’t have a gun. Something hit the pod with a thud, and I knew then what was happening outside.

I pushed myself up again, only to slip and flail when something brushed past my bare leg and tore my attention away from what was going on outside. There was something inside the pod with me. The horror of being buried alive with something that would consume me forever had me firmly in its grip. I scrabbled at the metal above me for some purchase to keep my head above the rising fluid but slipped again and again. I choked and coughed on the liquid that splashed over my face with my struggle. Whatever was in there with me, undulated against the entire length of my body with the regularity of a heartbeat.

My lungs were burning, urging me to take another breath, and despite Daniel’s reassurance about the process, I was afraid I was going to drown. Desperate for air, my body made the decision for me; my chest spasmed with the instinctual need to inhale and the liquid poured into my lungs on my next breath. A strange calmness fell over me as my lungs no longer burned and struggled against the fluid that filled them. My limbs fell limp as I my body complied with the urge to relax.

I floated. Lulled by the rhythmic thrum, suspended in blindness of my own little world.

I floated. The terror of the last hour and uncertainty of my fate receded into the darkness.

I floated. The stress of the last few months faded like a shadow into the depths of night.

I floated. Everything I knew, everything I was, vanished into the unending stillness of sleep.

Chapter Text

Winterhold had been a glittering jewel of the north before the Great Collapse nearly eighty years ago; a city of wealth, culture, and pride in its illustrious College of magic that brought peoples from all over Skyrim, and even further abroad, to its doorstep. Merchants, inns, and hostelers had thrived, as had the farmers, hunters and trappers, all manner of trades and sundry businesses that supported them; everyone profited from the coin of travellers. Then the great storm of 4E 122 swept in from the Sea of Ghosts and half the city vanished into ruins at the foot of the cliffs, but the College mysteriously remained unscathed. Most residents weren’t even alive at the time of the disaster, and yet suspicions against the College and its inhabitants persisted. It often made for tense, uncomfortable interactions whenever college students or faculty visited the city, but at that moment, it was a blessing as the senior mage made his way through the town without being waylaid by trivial conversations.

A woman bundled in a long, hooded cloak wrapped around her mages’ robes stepped out of the shelter of the bridged archway to meet him. “Welcome back, Tolfdir. We expected you two days ago based on your last message.”

“Ah Faralda, my dear! It is good to see you. Lend an old man your support; the last leg of our journey has been very trying,” he said, leaning on the Altmer mage’s offered arm.

“The weather has been fine. What trouble did you encounter?” she asked, helping him along the high, windblown walkway that joined the college to the town.

“Our—discovery—woke up. Well, that a bit of a stretch for her current state. She had been completely inert until three days ago when she started to scream.” Faralda’s brows rose with concern. “It gave us all quite the fright as you can imagine. The carriage driver was so unnerved that he refused to bring us any further until Phinis’ apprentice, hmm…the Argonian—”

“Ilas-Tei.”

“Yes. He was able to calm her.”

Faralda snorted, “he can’t reliably calm a skeever.”

“He’s been getting a great deal of practice as of late. Ah, here we are. Savos, Mirabelle, greetings.” The Dunmeri Arch-mage and his Breton second nodded in reply. “Mirabelle, can I entreat you to send some of the staff to assist with bringing our guest up to the college. She is in no condition to move on her own and our driver has dropped us at the city gates. Yisra and Ilas-Tei remain with her.” He turned to the doors and paused, flustered. “Colette should be brought at once.”

“Come my old friend,” Savos said calmly hooking his arm through Tolfdir’s, “let us have a pot of tea while the others get our guest settled.” Neither one spoke while Savos tipped a heaping spoonful, then another, of dried leaves into a pot of water. With a flick of his hand, he heated the water to the perfect temperature and sat down to wait for the leaves to steep. “Tell me of this discovery.”

“Master Calcelmo is convinced of her origin. The technology was astounding. We found a few pieces of literature remarkably intact which he has taken to preserve and study; they are consistent with other writings that have been found from that race. He is hoping that if she survives...” He spooned a dollop of honey into his tea and stirred it long past the time needed to melt the honey as he looked pensively toward the tower that housed the college’s infirmary.

“What troubles you?”

The tea gave off a lovely warm earthy odour that had Tolfdir lifting the cup to his lips despite his apparent disinterest in consuming the tea. After a warming sip that chased away the lingering chill from the journey, he continued to sip at the tea, lost in thought. He sighed and placed the nearly empty cup back on the table. “I’m not sure we have done her a kindness in waking her from her slumber, accidental as it was. I fear that the world she will wake to is too far removed for her to adjust.”

Savos patted the other mage’s hand. “What was the alternative? As you say, waking her was accidental; you could not in good conscience leave her to die. The only thing we can do now to make amends is try to help her cope.” 

The doors had opened and shut repeatedly letting in brisk gusts of wind and snow to swirl across the stone floors outside of their little alcove as the staff went about their tasks. A group of students hurried by with books clutched to their chest. The young altmer in their group stood out with their greater height; they were just as animated as the other students with their enthusiastic discussion that faded to whispers as they were unceremoniously shushed by Urog the Librarian in the adjacent library.

Tolfdir watched the Altmer disappear with their fellow students, then turned back to Savos. “Has the new advisor arrived yet?”

“The new…advisor? Ah, yes. Ancano,” Savos’ face twisted with distaste, “arrived a few days after you left on your expedition. He says he is here as an advisor for the Aldmeri Dominion, but we all know that is just pretense. He is Thalmor, through and through.” He straightened his posture as a thought occurred to him and he regarded the much younger, relatively speaking, Nord colleague before him. “It would be best not to mention the origin, or identity, of our guest to Ancano. Until we know precisely why the Thalmor are interested in the College, we should keep that information to ourselves.”

Before Tolfdir could inquire further, a young Imperial woman, dressed in the dull green robes that marked her as an apprentice mage studying the Restoration magics, stuck her head into their alcove. “Oh!” she sounded startled to find them sitting there despite her obvious goal in locating them. “I was sent to fetch you—” her eyes flickered to Savos, “both of you, by Professor Marence.”

They entered the hall that housed the small infirmary to find it buzzing with activity with nervous apprentices darting in and out of rooms, their arms loaded with sheets and towels, bundles of herbs, and assortments of colourful potions and other glassware. All motion paused for a heartbeat as a scream bounced off the stone walls and resumed when a glass beaker smashed on the floor startling everyone back into action. With a questioning glance shared between the mages, the two men hurried toward the source of the scream.

“Douse those magelights! What did I tell you? Get those sodden furs and blankets out of my infirmary before all that snow melts and someone slips on the wet flags. No, not that potion, the blue one. How long does it take—”

Colette Marence, a diminutive woman even by Breton standards, more than made up for her lack of physicality by her unrivalled abilities with restoration magics. The golden glow of her healing spell faded under her hand and she gently lowered the arm, flung across the face of the woman lying in the bed, back down to her waist. Pushing back a matted string of hair from the woman’s face, she frowned at the tacky golden-coloured residue caked in the hair. It was unlike anything she had encountered before, and what she had seen in the short examination, the material appeared to be everywhere over the woman’s body.

She stood up, turning from the bed, “oh, there you are! Now would someone please tell me what has been done to this poor woman? Had you waited any longer in getting her to me, we’d be calling for Falion to pay us a visit!”

“What is her state?” Savos asked patiently, ignoring the mention of the former Conjuration master. This was not the time to dredge up bad blood over the departure of Phinis’ former mentor from the College for suspicions of necromancy practice.

“Well I’d say she was dying if not for my skill in Restoration. She is severely malnourished and dehydrated, her internal organs are shutting down, her heart is weak and beating irregularly, and based on her diminished body and extreme sensitivity to light, I’d say she had been confined in the dark for ages.” As she spoke, her voice shifted from a tone of professional detachment to indignant fury. She balled up her fists on her hips and demanded of the two senior mages, “who has done this to her?”

“Perhaps it would be best if we could speak privately?” Mirabelle suggested.

“Yes, that would be best. If you would dismiss your apprentices, Colette.” Savos noted the two apprentices that had accompanied Tolfdir standing in the corner of the room. “You two may stay. What we have to discuss is relevant to you as well.”

She narrowed her eyes at Savos before sighing, “very well. Everyone out. Apprentice Vauna—” The young Imperial woman who had fetched the mages perked up at her name. “Please visit the apothecary and request a strong restoration potion for my patient, then visit the cook and have them start a bone broth.”

“Yes, professor,” she said as she and the others left the room.

“Tolfdir,” Savos said, “would you mind casting a ward so no one will overhear us?” The blue ward shimmered in Tolfdir’s hands and rapidly expanded outward to enclose the room. With a nod from the mage, he continued, “what is said in this room, doesn’t leave this room. In particular, it does not get repeated to the new advisor, Ancano.”

“Ancano?” Colette glanced at the motionless woman in the bed. “What does he have to do with my patient?”

“We’ll get to that. Tolfdir, if you would.”

“We found the woman deep inside of a Dwemer ruin—”

“Someone left her there? The poor thing.”

“Well, yes, but we located her in a previously unknown area of the ruin. She was within one of the tombs—”

Colette gasped. “Someone buried her alive?”

Tolfdir held his hands up to stop her. “Please, let me finish. She wasn’t buried so much as preserved in some sort of sleeping state.” The lines on Colette’s forehead deepened with her frown of confusion. “We believe she is Dwemer. Calcelmo hypothesized that perhaps the Dwemer knew what was happening to them and tried to preserve lives beyond whatever ultimately destroyed their race and culture. We found several vessels like hers, but none were intact. She is the last of her kind.”

“Hmm, that would explain the extreme sensitivity to light,” she commented aloud, mostly for her own benefit.

“Is that why she screams?” Ilas-Tei asked, looking nervously at the silent body on the bed.

“That’s one reason. It’s not an adaptation like the Falmer but centuries—”

“Millennia,” Savos corrected.

“Millennia in the dark, light would be physically painful. It will take time, but she should adjust.”

“What about that word she says?”

Everyone looked sharply at Ilas-Tei who cringed at becoming the focus of attention of so many august persons. “What word?” Tolfdir asked curiously.

“When she calmed, she muttered a word over and again before falling silent. It sounds like ‘dah-nyell’” Ilas-Tei shrugged, “I don’t know what that means.”

“It could be nearly anything. No one knows what the Dwemer language sounds like, although it is not out of the realm of possibility that any of our own are derivatives of it.”

“All right, but how exactly does any of this involve Ancano?” Mirabelle spoke up.

“Ancano is Thalmor.” Savos paused to let that information sink in. Anyone living in Skyrim, not living under a rock, was familiar with the dark robes of the Aldemeri justiciars and had heard stories about citizens disappearing on charges of Talos worship or other purported infractions against the Dominion’s interests. “The Thalmor have a long memory and are unlikely to behave charitably toward a surviving member of the race that built the Numidium.”

Yisra frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“With the current rumblings of a civil war on the horizon between the Empire and the Stormcloak faction, the Thalmor would not react well to someone that could conceivably provide a weapon of that magnitude into the hands of either side of the conflict and significantly shift the balance of power. It’s in the Dominion’s best interest that Skyrim remains unsettled.”

“I didn’t think you were interested in politics?” Tolfdir asked.

“The politics of Skyrim is of no interest to the College,” Savos grumbled, dismissing the comment with a flick of his hand, “but I will not hand an innocent over to the tender mercies of the Thalmor, nor that particular s’wit.”

Tolfdir blinked in surprise at the Arch-Mage’s venom.

“So we keep the story as close to the truth as possible,” Mirabelle said. “The woman was found injured and unconscious, an abandoned hostage at a bandit camp within the ruins, where she was subsequently found by the expedition. We’ll need to relay this cover story to Phinis and the other apprentices that were at the site when they return.”

Tolfdir nodded. “They should be here within the week.”

“What about all that gold stuff on her? How do we explain that?” Yisra asked.

Colette pursed her lips. “I think that will come off. If it doesn’t…”

“Could we explain it as an illusion spell gone wrong?” Ilas-Tei offered tentatively.

Tolfdir smiled at the apprentice. “Very good Ilas-Tei.” He laughed. “Very good, indeed.”

“Well, if that is settled,” Savos commented, “now all that remains is to wait for our guest to wake up.”

“I don’t think we have long to wait,” Yisra pointed to the bed.

They turned as one and looked toward the bed and found a pair of green eyes, squinting against the glare of the single magelight, looking back at them.

Chapter Text

I dreamt about fishing. Only I wasn’t the one doing the fishing, nor was I the fish. I was the worm, pinned and wriggling on the hook, bobbing up from the drowning depths into the blinding light, only to slip into the darkness again. I didn’t know which one to go toward. The light came with searing pain behind my eyes and a cold so harsh it made my skin and lungs ache. The darkness was familiar, comforting in its way, even if it was home to invisible horrors that wrapped me in their arms and dragged me under.

Eventually, both the cold lessened and the light muted, and I worked myself free from the hook to drift to the surface. I could hear voices but couldn’t make sense of the words, all harsh consonants and slippery vowels in unfamiliar combinations. Cracking my eyes open, the voices took shape; amorphous blobs slowly formed into bodies of men and women.

People.

I closed my eyes. I must be dreaming but the people were still there when my eyes opened again. A woman’s voice spoke up making all the bodies turn toward me; all but one left the room after that. I blinked. Was that a lizard’s tail?

An older woman, blond-fading-to-grey hair pulled back into braids at each temple, came into focus, hovering over me with a kind smile on her face. I didn’t understand the string of words she said, but she tapped her chest and repeated one: Colette. Some things stayed the same.

She touched her fingers to my chest and said “Dah-nyell?” Her pale brows rising to emphasize her question.

I turned my head from her but immediately needed to close my eyes against the sickening sway of vertigo from my movement. I felt drunk, like the world was spinning to fast around me. Fisting my hands into the bed covers and breathing slowly through my nose helped to calm the swimming sensation in my head but nothing could stop the hot tears spilled onto my cheeks. Had I been saying Daniel’s name in my sleep? I carefully reopened my eyes and after a moment of shifting, the room stayed where it should.

“Dah-nyell?” she repeated.

“No.” My voice came out as a barely audible croak. Moving my arm felt like dragging it through thick mud and was nearly more effort than I could manage, but I finally rested my fingers on my chest where hers had touched. “Isana.”

“Isana.” She patted her hand on my shoulder and stepped away from the bed. My eyes followed as she puttered around the small room briefly before returning to the bed with a metal cup and pitcher. The condensation beading on the outside had me licked my lips in anticipation. I hadn’t realized how thirsty I truly was until that moment. My head rolled on my neck, tugged back by the weight of my hair, when she propped me up to drink. She frowned and adjusted her grip to cradle the back of my head as she held the cup to my lips.

The water could have been the worst brackish water in existence, but I wouldn’t have cared in the slightest how strong was my thirst. It was sweet and cool and the best thing I had tasted in my life. Colette frustrated me by slowly trickling the water into my mouth, pausing frequently before resuming. My frustration must have shown on my face as she chuckled.

“Drekktu vatner heid.” Colette placed the empty cup on the side table and lowered me back to the bed.

If I ignored her accent, “drekktu” sounded like “drink”, and “vatner” to “water”. I assumed based on her actions that “heid” was “slowly” or “carefully”. A little itch in the back of my brain had me rolling the words around; they seemed Germanic—or maybe one of the Scandinavian languages—in sound, something vaguely familiar as I tried to recall my Introduction to German class from high school. What I wouldn’t give for a good ol’ translation app on a phone or even a fictitious Babel Fish to cram in my ear.

What bothered me more was why the people waking us up weren’t using English. International travel became impossible in the final weeks, so how was there an entire group of people here that didn’t speak the local language? I suppose it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that they were relocated beforehand as a recovery team per se, or technology was restored enough after the disaster to enable travel again. There were too many questions that I had no way of getting answers to, but if Daniel was alive—my mind shied away from the memory—I could still hear the pops of gunfire and the thump against my pod. My best friend was gone, wasn’t he? The little, eternally optimistic voice in the back of my head kept prodding at me to stay hopeful.

I followed her with my eyes as she moved about the room. “Où est Daniel?” No wait, that was French.

She smiled indulgently and tapped her sternum, “Colette,” then mine, “Isana.”

I had several surprises over the next few days, the first being the existence of magic. Not the sleight of hand, “pull knotted hankies out of your sleeve” variety of magic, but real magic. At first, I thought that Colette was using some sort of motion detection to turn on lights that were out of my still adjusting sight. That was until her hand started glowing with light when she came to examine me.

After satisfying my thirst on that first day awake, I quickly succumbed again to sleep. I would have thought that after sleeping for a hundred years, I’d have had enough of sleep. I certainly didn’t think that drinking a cup of water would have been so taxing. I had just woken up when Colette returned and said something before motioning for another light to come on. The room was still dim, even so the additional light made my eyes water. She sat on the edge of the bed and checked my forehead and cheeks for sign of fever; satisfied, she hovered her hand over my chest. That was when her hand started to glow. I’ll fully admit that I jumped, at least to the best of my ability from my slightly propped up position on my back.

She pursed her lips together and let the glow vanish. I wasn’t sure if she was offended by my reaction or simply displeased that I had moved during her examination.

I tapped her hand, “do it again.” I laughed much like a child and flipped her hand over, poking at her palm as the golden glow swirled around her hand. Apparently, that was as much an unexpected response to her as her magic had been to me as she had the most bemused expression on her face.

Magic. I wondered if it was a side effect or mutation resulting from the ELE; the experts did say that the ionization of the atmosphere could have long term consequences on the people exposed, although they had predicted exposure to be ultimately fatal. Daniel had told me that the stasis program had been designed to protect people from those effects, so I had to wonder if the disaster wasn’t, in fact, an extinction level event as predicted. Would that make Colette a child or grandchild of someone that made it through unprotected? Or, the pods didn’t protect as planned… in which case, did I have magic too?

My thoughts on the matter were set aside as Colette helped me sit up for the first time. The weight of my matted hair was a painful nuisance, but it was completely secondary to the nauseating vertigo. I swallowed hard against the urge to throw up. My breaths started to come in shallow gasps, and I could feel my heart pounding against my ribs like a wild bird caught in a cage.

Now was not a good time to have an anxiety attack!

The room swirled around in sickening streaks of light and dark rushing at me like sitting in the heart of a snow squall with the snow whipping past the headlights of a fast car skidding out of control. I whimpered in distress and everything faded to black.

When I came to, a very concerned Colette swum into view, her hand on my chin as she dripped a sweetly, astringent syrupy mixture onto my tongue. The flavour seemed oddly familiar in a way that did nothing to reassure me from my previous panic attack.

“Hjarta þitt er veikt.”

After a few more drops of the syrup on my tongue, her hand glowed again over my chest. Already I could read the slight tension around her mouth that whatever she was able to determine with her magic wasn’t to her complete liking, but evidently it wasn’t bad enough to stop her from wrapping her arm around my shoulders and slowly bring me back up to a seated position. She jammed a bunch of pillows behind me to keep me propped up and pulled the rope of hair over my shoulder. When I didn’t pass out like the previous attempt, she handed me a cup of water to drink for myself. It was mortifying how weak I was; I needed both hands to keep the cup still and not spill it over myself.

I watched Colette move about the room, directing a pair of young women to haul a large wooden tub into the room and then bucket after bucket of water.

“Baða sig,” she said. I nodded eagerly. I might not understand her words, but her gestures indicated washing her arms and hair were clear enough; a bath sounded divine as the gold stuff all over my skin was making me itch.   

Despite how nice it felt to be clean and tucked back into bed in a soft, warm robe, bathing had been a difficult process as I encountered my second, less pleasant surprise. I barely had the strength to move one foot in front of the other, never mind standing on my own two feet to cover the short distance from the bed to the bath. Colette’s assistants were very careful to help me to the tub and averted their eyes when the tunic was pulled off for bathing. I admit I burst into tears to see my condition. It was horrifying to see that I had become little more than bones and connective tissue wrapped in a gold-stained layer of skin. I don’t think it would have been much of an exaggeration to say that I could have been mistaken for some prehistoric bog mummy come to life. All the muscle I had from the physical labour of my former profession was gone.

I understood then Colette’s concern with my chest; if my other muscles had wasted away as badly as they had, then it stood to reason that my heart was in a similar condition. The fluttering sensation and shortness of breath, along with the fainting earlier wasn’t simply a panic attack; my heart struggled to keep the blood flowing to my brain. With that realization and my previous life as a horticulturist, which included a perhaps morbid fascination of the Poison Garden at Alnwick Castle that I had hoped to one day visit, I suspected the syrupy mixture she was giving me was some sort of nightshade tincture mixed to help my heart. I just hoped that they knew what they were doing with it.

The next surprise came a few days later. After managing to feed myself some soup that smelled like it had a good slug of gin added to it—small grey-green berries floated to the surface and popped between my teeth with a sharp, herbaceous astringency that was nearly overwhelming in its flavour—I had my first visitor other than Colette or one of her assistants. The woman that seemed vaguely familiar, came in for a visit. I assumed that perhaps I had met her in the camp before Daniel had taken me into the facility, but after introducing herself as Yisra, she mimed that I had been sleeping which I took to mean that she was here when I woke and not before. She was very cheerful and energetic, and appeared to like my new chin-length hair style I had convinced Colette and the girls to do when they couldn’t work the matted braid loose from the matrix gluing it all together.  

She chatted briskly with no apparent need that I participate, tossing a small fireball back and forth between her fingers. She finally paused when she noticed my attention was no longer on her but the person that had walked into the room behind her.

It was a huge lizard, clothed and walking on it’s hindlegs just like a person. It was Godzilla’s Mini-Me.

Yisra slapped her hand on her thigh with a loud crack startling me and laughed. “Meeneemee!”

Oh, I must have spoken that aloud.

The lizard hissed at her, baring sharp teeth with its—his—her(?) displeasure, which just made Yisra laugh even more.

Chapter Text

The lizard in question, I learned through our rudimentary gesturing, was named Ilas-Tei. He was something called an Argonian. I assumed that was his species rather than occupation or some other designation. He and Yisra came to visit quite frequently once I was able to stay awake for longer than a few minutes, and they seemed to enjoy teaching me words and phrases, laughing at my pronunciation as I tripped over the unfamiliar combinations of consonants and vowels.

Two others—twin brothers by the names of Borvir and Rundi—joined us on an almost daily basis. Their contributions to the language lessons seemed to resolve around mjöður, which from Borvir’s comical pantomime of bees, I came to understand was made of honey. It was mead. Due to my current condition, I was entirely unprepared with how deceptively intoxicating the beverage was and became violently ill the first time I partook of the drink. I didn’t understand the words, but Colette’s disapproval was patently clear as she very loudly scolded my visitors. Not that it deterred them in any way from offering me more mjöður, but I relearned my own limits. I didn’t used to be such a lightweight.

While the language lessons were a great source of entertainment for my self-appointed teachers, I had a more pressing need to learn to communicate with them. It seemed that no one—in my limited visitors list—spoke any language that I had a passing familiarity with. A small voice was screaming in the back of my mind, growing louder with each passing day; how could so much have changed in just a hundred years? My inability to ask the questions I wanted, to get the answers I so desperately needed, was a great source of frustration and did nothing to quell the sense of dread that grew in the pit of my stomach.

I finally had the opportunity to see more of my surroundings. After a few days of successfully staying awake for hours at a time without passing out upon sitting up, and graduating to thicker soups, Colette deemed it time for me to start moving around to rebuild muscle mass and stamina. Magic, apparently, could only do so much. I was getting better at reading her expressions and interpreting her tone, if not her words, and I could sense that there was some underlying worry. Nevertheless, it wasn’t enough to deter her recommendations and her apprentices were all too happy to link their arms through mine to support me for laps around what was the lowest floor of the building.

The room I recovered in was one of two larger rooms on the floor holding several beds for the injured or sick. I was the only occupant in my room, but I could see as we did laps around the central well—it looked like a well of light—that the other room had one or two occupants. I wondered briefly why we hadn’t all been in the same room. It certainly would have been more convenient, but as my eyes watered painfully at the light, I realized that my room had been and still was much darker than the rest. Several small rooms were present that I determined were for those people that were responsible for monitoring anyone in the care of the healers. There were also rooms filled with glassware, stacks and stacks of books, and a small selection of plants that called to the green part of my soul. How I missed my plants.

The building was all heavy stone with stone flag floors on the ground level and wooden floors on the upper levels; the doors were rustically finished wood plank doors held together and mounted on wrought-iron fittings. It was all very eclectic for an educational institute. And still the little voice in the back of my head niggled at me; why had no one bothered to try to restore our technology? Did the cataclysmic event knock us back to the middle ages as the experts predicted?

I tried not to dwell on these questions lest I drive myself mad chasing for answers I just didn’t have. Fortunately, I had readily available distractions.

“Colette sagðist you gengið out. Take the skikkjuna,” Yisra said entering my room and handing me a cloak late one afternoon. I was curious as to where she was taking me, but eager to be out of doors, I wrapped the cloak over my shoulders. I picked up my walking stick and stood up to join her, pausing for a moment as the faint wave of dizziness passed. Yisra said nothing but gave a slight nod while she waited for me to take my first step.

Colette’s concern had been realized; my heart remained weak and I frequently had bouts of dizziness, hence the acquisition of the walking stick that was presented to me after my first solo walk resulted in a fall.

Yisra didn’t hover around me, unlike Colette’s apprentices, as I walked beside her to wherever it was that she wanted to take me. I knew that she was keeping a close eye on me to intervene if I was in danger of falling, but her feint lack of attention was sweeter to me than I knew the words to express. I didn’t feel like a toddler taking their first steps with overprotective parents fussing around in case I ran into the furniture.

She pushed open the heavy wooden doors. Cold air rushed in taking my breath away as quickly as my eyes watered at the blinding light beyond those same doors. The air was fresh and sharp with the scent of snow and a faint tang of salt. I bowed my head and shielded my eyes with my free hand as I blinked repeatedly to adjust to the light. Slowly, the huge circular courtyard came into focus; its tall walls—nearly three stories high—loomed over us. Despite the large voids cut into the walls to provide light, the air was calm, albeit cool, even though I could hear the wind blowing beyond the walls.

Three towers evenly punctuated the perimeter, the largest to my left and before its ornate doors on a pedestal in the center of the courtyard was a carved stone statue on someone wearing long robes—I assumed that they were the founder or some other person of import to the college.

All of this I ignored in favour of the interested variety of plants that grew in wild abundance among the grey-green evergreens. There were all sorts of flowering perennials, their leaves just set and flowering buds beginning. There was a plant resembling wild raspberry canes, its fruit lingered on the canes like rosehips. Yisra plucked several of the slightly wizened fruits from the plant and handed me a few. She popped one in her own mouth. “Eat.” Despite their slightly shrivelled state, juice burst on my tongue as I bit into the fruit; they tasted like a sweet cranberry. She echoed my smile with her own.

Ilas-Tei, Borvir, and Rundi sighted and called us over to a spot set out with a circle of stone benches. I offered a few of the fruits to the others; Ilas-Tei made face I assume was of disgust but the other two gladly accepted.

“I tell Isana vaxa villtar all over norður,” Yisra said.

“Gagnlegt when you villist in snjóstormur. Is that not right, brother?”

Borvir scowled as the others laughed. An inside joke, I supposed.

They had brought furs and blankets to drape over the benches for comfort and warmth. Baskets of food; warm bread wrapped in cloth, cheeses, smoked meats, and several bottles of mead that the brothers immediately gravitated to unsurprisingly. They chatted, sometimes debated quite furiously, but always made the effort to include me in their conversations. Eventually though I allowed myself to retreat from the conversation to watch the darkening sky.

We had only begun eating as the colour of the sky had changed into the warm colours of evening. Another clue that I had been moved further to the north than I had been when I went to sleep was how early it grew dark here. As the darkness deepened, the skies were illuminated by the most wonderous curtain of colour: greens, blues, and purples all shifting from the palest leaf green to the deepest indigo violet. The moon rose above the walls, huge and gleaming; with the lack of pollution from before—both light and air—I could easily see the larger craters on the face. I watched the moon and the dancing aurora silently.

I sighed and realized that for the first time in weeks, I felt content even despite the unanswered questions I still had.

“Isana?”

Ilas-Tei’s voice jerked me out of my reverie. I lazily turned my head in his direction and over his shoulder I saw the most horrifying sight.

There were two moons.

Beside me, Rundi yelped as I shrieked, “there are two moons! How the fuck are there two moons?”

I could feel the fluttery sensation in my chest as I gasped between my panicked words. Someone pried open my hand and from the corner of my eye I could see Rundi stagger away, hunched over, as Ilas-Tei shifted to obscure my view. The scales of his palm surprisingly warm against my cheek as the green glow of his spell filled my sight and I gradually calmed down.

In my panic, I had forgotten the astronomers, who tracked the immense rogue comet that caused the massive solar flare that ionized the atmosphere and wiped out our technology, had predicted three possible outcomes. The first, and most likely scenario, was the comet would hit the earth wiping out all life à la the extinction of the dinosaurs. The second scenario was the very slight possibility of the comet catching orbit around the planet instead. It was so slight that they didn’t discuss it further except to add that the second moon would cause devastating geologic shifts that would be as catastrophic for life as much as a collision. The third, highly unlikely—but most hopeful—possibility had been the comet deflected away from its course and life would continue, albeit we’d still have to rebuild our technological infrastructures.

Obviously the second had come to pass but that left a rather large question. Based on the predictions of earthquakes, volcanos, and other destruction, there was no way that everything had been rebuilt within that hundred years. My friends were also far too nonchalant for this to have occurred within their parents’ or grandparents’ lifetimes. It begged the question: how long had I really been asleep?

“Isana? Look at me.”

I blinked slowly and looked toward the familiar face of Colette. Beside her was an elderly man wearing a worried expression that mirrored the healer’s own. She gathered my hands in her own and chafed them.

“What happened?” she asked.

“Two…” I said. I stopped and tried again in their language. “Two moons. Not right. How long asleep?” It didn’t make me feel any better that Colette and my little group of friends all shot worried looks to the man.

“I think, elskan mín,” he said, “we must speak.”

Chapter Text

At Colette’s bidding, Tolfdir took my arm in his and escorted me back to my room in the apprentices’ tower. I sat on the edge of the bed, still a bit stunned at what I had seen in the night’s sky, as Colette fussed and coaxed me to take a couple drops of the medicine under my tongue. Gradually my heart stopped its panicked fluttering; even if my mind couldn’t slow its racing, at least my heart wasn’t exacerbating the problem. With a final admonishment not to upset me unnecessarily, she reluctantly stepped out of the room to give us some privacy for our needed conversation.

“How are you, elskan mín?”

“I’m fine…” I snorted a shaky laugh. “Who am I kidding? I’m far from fine. There’s another moon in the sky. People do magic. No one speaks my language. There are lizard people and god know what else. I don’t know where I am or where I fit anymore. I don’t even know how long I’ve been stuck in that damned pod!”

His brows rose and rose as my tirade became more and more shrill. I pressed my fist into my chest and took a deep breath, attempting to calm the fluttering sensation within. Colette had only just got me stabilized; I didn’t need to undo her work.

“I’m sorry.” I gave a helpless shrug. “I’m usually very calm about things, but…” I trailed off with another shrug as he took my free hand in his. My emotions felt like they were bouncing all over the place and I didn’t know if I wanted to laugh or rage or cry; I was on the edge of hysteria and gripped his hand desperately like it was a lifeline tossed to the drowning.

“I understand, elskan mín. Shall I fetch Colette?” I shook my head and he patted my hand like a grandfather would comfort a frightened child. “Are you able to speak of what upset you?”

“Two moons. There was only one when I went to sleep.”

“Only one?”

I nodded. “It’s what ended things.”

“Why that’s undraverður! We always thought a conflict or your tækni—” He stopped abruptly as he realized what he had said. “I’m sorry, elskan mín. That was thoughtless of me. This must be very confusing for you.”

I shrugged yet again. “You could say that. Could you answer some questions for me?”

“To the best of my ability.”

“Are there—” I was afraid to ask the question, afraid of the answer I already suspected. “Are there any others like me? Did you find anyone else?”

He shook his head and gave me a sympathetic look as he answered carefully, “no. We have found none like you. You are last of Dwemer.”

I frowned over the word he called me. Dwemer. Was that what they called humans? He looked as human as me. “Are you not the same as me?”

He looked honestly astonished at my question. “I am Nord. Race of man but not same as Dwemer. Your race…” He gave me a small apologetic smile as to soften the blow. “Is no longer.”

I understood then. I was the evolutionary equivalent of a Neanderthal. The end of the line, in more ways than one.

“How… how long was I sleeping?”

He hesitated, “sjö þúsund”

I didn’t understand the words or rather, didn’t want to; they couldn’t possibly be what I thought. After sorting out how to communicate the math, he informed me that I had been sleeping not a hundred years, but for seven thousand. Seven thousand years. Seventy times longer than what Daniel had said was to be the timeframe. I had been forgotten, lost for seven—fucking—thousand years. My mind refused to move beyond this point. I was older than the pyramids of Egypt had been, older than the Neolithic monument of Newgrange had been, at the time my world came to an end.

A hot coal of anger smoldering in my chest bursting to life as I demanded my next question of him. “Why! Why did you wake me?”

He shrank upon himself under my glare. “It was slys, villa. We didn’t intend—”

I recoiled from him, stunned. An accident. I shouldn’t have been awake at all. I pulled my hand from him and shuffled over to the other side of the bed to lie down facing the wall. I blinked furiously at the burn of sudden tears. “I wish to be alone now.” I shrugged away from his tentative touch on my shoulder, not caring if I offended him. “Please, leave me alone.”

“As you say, elskan mín. I’ll send Colette.”

Colette came to see me after he left but I ignored her questions and flinched away from the magic glow of her hand. She, too, finally left me alone.

I’m not ashamed to admit I moped for days in my bed after Tolfdir answered my questions. In truth, I was feeling very sorry for myself; I grieved for my lost world, everyone and everything I knew. I was angry at Daniel for doing this to me, for not surviving with me, and I was terrified about what future I had in a world I had no place in.

That uncertainty of the unknown paralyzed me. I couldn’t expect the goodwill of my rescuers to extend for the rest of my life. I knew they’d have more questions for me. I recognized that hunger for knowledge in Tolfdir’s eyes, had seen it often in Daniel’s, but what then? What would happen to me when I, someone who had lived a plainly ordinary life, couldn’t give them what answers they sought? Would they cast me out into the world, such as it was, to fend for myself? Could I survive in this world? Take care of the necessities of acquiring food and shelter, or would I have to resort to begging or stealing? How long did it take for someone to starve to death or die of exposure? I resented that, once again, these thoughts consumed my mind.

My daily visitors continued to come and spend time with me, chatting and carrying on even if I didn’t acknowledge their presence or participate in the conversations. Colette tried to get me out of bed; coaxing me with encouragement some days, scolding on others when the lighter approach didn’t get results. Tolfdir also stopped by twice and as much as I might have softened toward his grandfatherly demeanour, I held onto my anger. It was the one thing that was left in my life that I could control, unhealthy as it might be.

It was into the fifth day of my self-imposed bed rest and I was beginning to get seriously bored. Had I sulked like this before, Daniel and Michael would have come and climbed into the bed with me and generally made a nuisance of themselves until I finally gave up and laughed at their antics. But both were long dead, and it was Rundi who came with an offering that did more to cheer me up than anything else. It was only his voice that identified him, turned as I was toward the wall. He mumbled some platitudes about them missing my company and wanting me to join them to go down to town for some mead. Behind me I could hear water being poured and then a thunk as the pitcher was placed on the table beside the bed. When I didn’t respond, he said that he hoped I’d feel better soon and left.

It wasn’t long before a sweet spicy odour caught my attention. Thinking to find food, I rolled over to find a haphazard bouquet of flowers staring back at me. The flowers were the most extraordinary shade of orange-gold that they didn’t look real. Reddish variegation liberally decorated the outer petals, offsetting the paler yellow ones at the center. I plucked one of the flowers from the pitcher and rubbed the waxy petals between my fingers releasing a sharp peppery scent from the bruised flesh. They appeared to be from the orchid family but not quite. Curiosity and my innate love of flowers drove me from the bed more readily than any other inducement as I sought out the source of the blooms, if not the person that brought them.

The tower was quiet, with the students and apprentices away for whatever occupied their time in the evening. I heard Colette speaking with someone but kept to the shadows as I worked my way to the door as quietly as possible, cursing every time my cane tapped on the floor. I wasn’t trying to avoid anyone and yet at the same time, I very much didn’t want company. I just wanted to find the source of the flowers. I slipped out the door and shivered at the blast of cold air that hit me. I cursed at myself for not grabbing the cloak from the peg by my door before leaving, but I had no intention of going back.

Glancing around, I caught sight of the two moons rising above the walls and shuddered. It was a ridiculous reaction to be afraid of the night sky, like a hysterical chicken running around declaring the sky was falling, but it felt so very wrong. I gave my head a shake; it was completely normal to everyone else and I had to get over my visceral dread at how wrong it felt lest they decide I was insane and lock me up somewhere. It would probably be some dark, dank, rat infested stone cell some place people gladly forgot about.

I averted my eyes from above and searched the darkening grounds for the flowers. The little mage lights bobbed at intervals around the courtyard illuminating the path and seats set around the perimeter but didn’t reveal the source of flowers. I noticed at the far side of the circle, behind a bunch of flowering trees, a building that looked decidedly like a conservatory made of stone and leaded glass. I made a beeline for it, certain that my destination was close at hand.

The interior of the building was mostly dark behind the glass but the heavy wooden door was decorated with ornately carved—hammered?—floral motif and the strange runic letters I had yet to learn. I pulled on the heavy door and was immediately hit with the old familiar scents of flowers, damp soil, chlorophyll, and the hint of rot from the mulch. The door closed behind me softly as I leaned against the door jamb with my eyes closed and took a deep breath feeling immediately at peace for the first time since waking up.

I raised my arm to shade my eyes, the flower still clutched in my hand, as a bright light bloomed on the other side of my eyelids. “Ah,” said an exasperated male voice, “so that’s what happened to the tunga drekans I was ready to harvest.”

“I’m sorry?” I blinked rapidly at the light. A very tall man with pale ochre skin and long straight hair of a similar hue stood before me wearing a faintly annoyed look on his face. I averted my eyes from the long, tapered ears that held back his hair. For some reason, I thought elves would have been shorter.

“The tunga drekans… The flower clutched in your hand. I was about to harvest them for the alchemist.”

“Oh…I…a friend…” I stopped abruptly, not wanting to throw Rundi under the bus, or whatever passed for mass transit in this place.

His eyes narrowed slightly, and he picked up a pair of wicked looking shears I hadn’t noticed earlier. “You must be the little hostage that Phinis’ little group found in those ruins.” He twirled the shears around his fingers; I pressed myself against the door and wondered how effective my cane was as weapon should I need it. “They’re very secretive about that. Too much so if you ask me.”

“I don’t… I mean, I…”

He turned slightly from me to a cluster of frilly white flowers, the shears making a soft snick as he gathered the blooms. “Curious accent you have. If you run across my… countryman… Ancano—tall severe looking fellow, not a handsome specimen like myself—I would recommend that you say as little as possible so not to rouse his suspicions.”

The shears continued their snick-snick as he moved to another cluster of flowers closer to my position. “Never trust anyone that doesn’t appreciate flowers.” I pressed myself up against the door in surprise as he suddenly whirled back around to me and brandished the little bouquet of flowers.  

“Tyerondorinildor Jaerorin, at your service,” he said while doing some sort of elaborate bow, the flowers waved and bobbed in his hand. I blinked in surprise, unsure of how to respond or how to keep all the syllables of his name in the correct order. The corner of his mouth curled up at my apparent dazed expression. “Quite so. I have no idea what my mother was thinking. You may call me Nildor.” He offered the flowers again which I took from him. “Come, let me introduce you to my little green friends. I suspect that they are, or will soon be, friends of yours also.”

Chapter Text

The next morning, energized with the prospect of doing something I loved, I was up and dressed before Colette arrived to try to cajole me out of bed. I stopped for a quick breakfast at the little alcove that was always stocked with breads, sticky buns, nuts and fruits for the apprentices and mages. I put together a little bundle of the nuts and dried fruit into a square of cloth to carry me through the day and tied it shut with a bit of string before stuffing it into the voluminous pocket of the cloak Yisra had given me. The students I passed as I walked through the courtyard paid me little mind, particularly those that pulled their own cloaks tight about themselves against the wind. Those that did not mind the cold—Nords, I’ve been led to believe—gave us all disparaging looks.

I opened the door to the conservatory and pushed my weight against it to close more quickly lest the cold air shock the plants, although as I did so, there was no obvious exchange of air that one would expect. Magic, I supposed, which at a college of magic, made perfect sense. The scent that greeted me was different than it had been the previous night; the night blooming plants giving way to those of the day. Bright blue and pink butterflies shivered as they warmed their wings in the pale morning light before they started their own daily activities fluttering from bloom to heavy bloom.

Of the welcoming elf I had met the previous evening, there was no sign despite his assurance he would be around to continue my tour in the daylight hours. I smiled to myself as I draped my cloak over a stool and picked up a small pail tucked under a workbench to start deadheading flowers; his enthusiasm for his charges was contagious and much on par with my own. Daniel had said my eyes were green because I was really a dryad and they were the only thing I couldn’t hide in my disguise as a human. I could feel my mood start to darken despite how pleasant the memory was and gave myself a shake. I knew I still had grieving to do and probably would for a long time, but I also needed to try to move forward.

I lost myself in tending the plants; the feel of the petals, leaves, and stems under my fingers was familiar and soothing, and I quickly fell into a rhythm that allowed my grief to slip into the background of my thoughts. All too soon the plants were attended to and I looked around for a place to dump out the little pail of detritus, assuming that there would be some sort of compost or method to dispose of the trimmings.

“What’s this?” I turned to find Nildor standing in the doorway, blinking muzzily at the light and his hands paused in their busy work of twisting his long hair—I hadn’t noticed how long it was the previous night—up into some sort of ornate knot. His sharply manicured brow rose ever more sharply as he looked around the conservatory. “How long have you been at this? It usually takes one of the lærlingar all day to tidy this.”

I gave a shrug looking around at the plants as I clutched the pail to my chest, “since dawn.”

“Dawn?” He squinted at the mid-morning light pouring in through the glass. “My lærlingar are lazy or you’re very skilvirkur.” I flashed him a little smile in answer even though I didn’t fully understand what he said. A faint frown flickered across his face and disappeared in a blink of an eye as I wobbled on my feet with a sudden wave of dizziness. “Did you sleep last night?”

“Some. I don’t seem to sleep very well lately.” It was true that my sleep pattern was all over the place, I slept at random intervals whenever the urge and fatigue took me. After sleeping artificially for nearly seven thousand years, my body had much to readjust. Colette said that would happen over time as I resumed my life, but I may never be completely as I was beforehand; I just had to be patient with myself.

He huffed, seemly dissatisfied with my answer. He carefully plucking the pail from my grasp so not to upset my already precarious balance and set it on a bench. “I like to start my day with a pot of tea. Join me, won’t you?” He offered his elbow with a flourish. I don’t know how much of it was just the way he was or if he simply didn’t wish to explain to Colette how I ended up in a heap on his floor.

I placed my hand on his arm and he immediately covered it with his own larger, and much warmer, hand. “Oh! Perhaps two pots of tea. And maybe some of those sweet buns that the Khajiiti like, but most assuredly not those dry, ashen things Savos eats.” He shuddered. “Is that your cloak?” Not waiting for an answer, he pulled it from the stool upsetting the little bundle of fruit and nuts from the pocket. The square of fabric burst open when it hit the floor sending the contents scattering over the stones. Nildor blinked several times in surprise then gave me an inquisitive look. “Do you usually hoard food like those rodents?”

My own brows rose in surprise; did he seriously just compare me to a rat?

“Oh. Oh no! I’ve offended you and rightly so.” He dropped my hand and started to pace before me. “My þjóð are so good at looking down and spotti anyone not Altmer, and we do athyglisverður job of lítilsháttar our own as well, if I do say so myself. And here I am, with all my pride—” his face twisted with a look of scorn, “at not being a typical example of my race, only to stumble on the first day with my new kunningi. Its no wonder my lærlingar take so long in doing their tasks; they do so simply to avoid having to deal with me!”

I had no idea how to respond to his tirade, particularly when I didn’t understand all that he said. It was clear that he was upset with himself. Did he expect me to scold or forgive him? Lost as to what to say, I remained quiet. He fell silent and stood before me, flushed with emotion which made his cheekbones stand out with burnished colour.

“Ah…” he hesitated cautiously gauging my mood, “perhaps we could start again?”

I nodded, hesitant myself in the face of his outburst. Finally finding my voice I added, “that might be best?”

As he had the previous night, he bowed toward me, “good morning Isana. Would you care to join me for a cup of tea to start the day?” When I agreed, he again he took my arm and carefully led me through to an area set to the back with work benches littered with potting paraphernalia, wooden boxes labelled with the symbols, various tools, and stacks of burlap sacks under the benches. Seedlings sat in tidy rows of containers. Plants overflowed pots set on the floor, shelves, and hanging from the ceiling. I felt immediately at home in the familiar trappings. To my surprise, tucked in the corner was an exceptionally fine pair of couches; ornate patterns of stylized flowers, twisting vines and leaves were carved into the glossy wood, thick cushions of what appeared to be silk brocade provided ample padding. They looked very expensive and wholly inappropriate for a space that came complete with soil, sap, and other debris.

“Please sit. Make yourself comfortable while I prepare our tea.” He immediately disappeared into a little alcove behind me, hidden by a great fern-like plant that swayed in an absent breeze.

I sat gingerly on the edge of one seat while I waited, listening to him muttering to himself as he clattered about with preparing our tea. Beside me, a small table was stacked to overflowing with books, scrolls, several quills and a pot of ink, and a small sculpture of a tree that was reminiscent of an Acacia bonzai but made entirely of metal. The craftsmanship was astounding. I could hear cups and plates being placed on a tray and realized that there was nowhere for Nildor to put a tray when he returned. I quickly located a dry wooden box under the table and carefully put the scrolls, quills and ink inside, then stacked the books and moved the sculpture to leave some space. One of the books caught my eye and I flipped through the pages looking at all the renderings of plants I had never seen before.

“Could you—oh!” Nildor startled me from my perusal of the book. “I was going to ask you to clear the table, but I see you have already done so. Skilvirkur, indeed.” He placed the tray and poured two cups of tea, noting the book set at my hip as he handed me my cup. “Did you get to the chapter on Summerset flora? It’s my favourite although I may be somewhat biased.”

“I was just looking at the sketches.”

His eyes narrowed as he studied me. He took a drink of his tea then declared, “you can’t read.”

“I can read,” I replied hotly. I was beginning to reconsider my opinion of him; everyone warned me that the Altmer were arrogant and I was beginning to wonder if they were, in fact, correct. “It’s just…” I stumbled over the reason, nearly making a misstep after Tolfdir had advised me not to share that they dug me up from an ancient Dwemer ruin. “Um, I’ve forgotten the letters.”

“I see.” He nodded slowly, clearly not buying my excuse. “On account of your ordeal…with the bandits.” Instead of answering, I dodged the question by burying my nose in my teacup momentarily becoming lost in the deliciously fragrant odour of the tea he had made us. After a few uncomfortable minutes of silence, he suddenly brightened. “I have a wonderful idea—I will teach you!”

I started to protest, “no, that’s all right. I’m sure you are quite busy enough…” I cast about for an excuse.

“Nonsense!” He flinched in surprise as his teacup knocked the saucer with more force than I think he intended with his enthusiasm. “I can teach you over our morning cup of tea. The lærlingar can take care of the simple chores you took care of this morning so we can spend some uninterrupted time.” He took in what must have been a very skeptical look on my face. “Do say yes! I am a very good kennari, I promise you.”  

I finally relented much to Nildor’s delight.

Chapter Text

My arrangement with Nildor received mixed reactions. Nildor, himself, was immensely pleased although I didn’t understand exactly why. It seemed to me that he would have enough to do with his legitimate students without teaching me to read but he quickly assured me that wasn’t the case.

Colette was happy that I was no longer confining myself to my bed and was up and about getting some fresh air and exercise. She mentioned in passing that she would speak with Mirabelle, the college administrator, about getting my own room assigned to me as an official student of the College. This conveniently freed up the infirmary since I was no longer, technically her patient, at least not on the daily basis.

Tolfdir informed that he was pleased I had taken an interest in learning their language and sharing of my knowledge, both personally and professionally. One of his colleagues, Calcelmo, wished to meet with me when I was strong enough to travel, to discuss what I knew of the “Dwemer”. He was also thrilled that I was putting my botanical skills to use; he hinted would be enough payment for my keep at the College. Whilst he relieved one concern I had, he introduced several new ones. Travelling in this world was a whole new worry for me to unpack for another day; however, the bigger one was again caution about sharing my origins. It confused me. He wanted me to freely share what I knew with this Calcelmo person, but refrain from sharing with others. He was rather vague about Nildor, himself, but was quite vehement about his association with this Ancano person, whom I had yet to meet, was not to be trusted. I wasn’t sure what to think of this. I did consider that the issue could have been a racial one rather than an issue of academic competitiveness, because, according to Nildor, even the Altmer didn’t like the Altmer.

I had only returned to my newly allotted space in the apprentice’s tower after my first official day as Nildor’s student when Yisra showed up. She flopped down onto the bed making the parchment tucked into my cloak crunch loudly. Pulling it out, she studied the contents with growing disbelief before dropping it onto the bed and wiping her fingers on her pants as if something had transferred to them from the dry parchment. “So its true! They can’t be trusted, you know?”

“Who? The instructors?”

“No. Them. The Altmer.” She rolled her eyes at my failure to respond appropriately. “They’re all Thalmor. Or Thalmor samúðarmenn.”

I still didn’t understand, but maybe it was what Tolfdir was alluding to when he warned me to watch my words. The only way to know for certain was to ask. “Are they really? Is Nildor a—what did you call it—Thalmor? Is Ancano?”

She hissed at me as if the walls had ears. Perhaps with magic, they did.

“I don’t about the goldenrod—think he’s chewed on one too many poisonous plants to know what’s going on—but the other? He is most definitely. You can tell from the robes he insists on wearing; all black and gold like some accursed lich.” She sighed in frustration when I again failed to respond correctly as she had expected and grabbed my cloak, throwing it over my shoulders before dragging me out the door. The parchment covered in Nildor’s tidy writing fluttered, unheeded, to the floor. “Come on, the others are waiting down at the Frozen Hearth. We need a less áberandi place to talk.”

If Yisra was worried about someone overhearing us talk about the Thalmor, she couldn’t have picked a better nor worse place to try to educate me. The Frozen Hearth was loud as any busy tavern would have been from my previous life experience, at least until getting drinks with friends became less of a priority over hoarding food for the coming disaster. Everyone vied to be heard over the clatter of mugs and plates, the crackling of the roaring fire at the center, the drone of conversations, shouts to the serving staff by the customers and owner alike. The bard played valiantly, loud enough to be heard over it all. In one corner, there was a local tough, deep into his cups despite the early hour of the evening, bellowing out challenges to a test of arms, specifically of the bared knuckles variety, to any that might glance his way.

I cringed slightly as Yisra whooped in reply to Borvir’s call over the din as we entered. It drew far too much attention for my liking judging from the sudden drop in volume of the room. I’ve never been shy, but with Tolfdir’s warning still echoing in the back of my mind, I ducked my head to avoid the gaze of the tavern occupants that paused their own conversations to see who was interrupting.

Ilas-Tei slid over on the bench making room for me while Rundi put some space between us. I supposed he was nervous that I’d grab him again if I got upset—Yisra could barely stop laughing long enough to tell me he limped for two days afterward. With my back comfortably against the wall and a mug of mead in hand, I quickly gazed about the room. The view was hazy from the smoke of the fire and multiple candelabra suspended over our heads, but it wasn’t difficult to spot the locals versus the students from the College. The locals huddled together casting looks that ranged from uneasy suspicion to downright hostility whereas the mages were much less reserved, almost cocky in their behavior. Perhaps it was the over-confidence that their abilities or number would protect them; I thought it was foolish to antagonize the locals.

“Well?” Ilas-Tei prompted.

“It’s true.” Yisra said.

The brothers groaned. “Worse decision possible,” Borvir lamented.

“Why?” I demanded.

“Because he’s one of them.”

“So Yisra told me, but I don’t understand what the problem with them, is.”

“They think that every other race is lesser than them and should only be permitted to live in service to them.” Ilas-Tei hissed in disgust.

“They want to erase any other beliefs and traditions that aren’t their own.”

“They want to force all other provinces to bow their heads in servitude to the great Aldemeri Dominion.”

“They are cruel, and dishonorable, and should not be trusted. They think nothing of torture and kill indiscriminately,” Yisra finished.

The four of them went around the table with reason upon reason until it seemed like they were trying to one-up each other with the most outlandish crime. I understood that there had been wars between the various regions and atrocities were committed—that probably could be said for both sides—but it just didn’t describe the individual Altmer I had met thus far. Perhaps I was naïve, or simply foolish, but I preferred to give people the benefit of doubt first. If that policy bit me in the ass, well, I’d just deal with the consequences then.

My life fell into a pleasant routine starting with mornings surrounded by plants. Nildor continued to scold me for not getting my rest so we compromised that I wouldn’t start until the sun had risen enough to be seen over the crenulation in the walls but I was welcome to take some rest within the little alcove if staying in my own room was intolerable. It gave me the opportunity to tend to a little project of my own, starting a notoriously difficult plant by seed, that I was finally seeing progress with.

Once Nildor was up—how that mer loved to sleep in!—we’d start our reading and language lessons over tea and pastries. He would always have some new tea for us to try and a would take great pleasure in telling me the history of the particular blend, and often forgot the time entirely to the amusement of his apprentices. More than once I caught the students sharing knowing looks between themselves, but there was nothing between Nildor and I. He was a mentor to me, and I dare say, a friend. Nothing more.

As I had most mornings, I dropped off my cloak in the little alcove and headed to my project corner. Of my ten seeds, one had finally gotten to the transplantation stage. I coaxed the fragile green seedling, three tender leaves shivered with the movement, into its brand-new pot ready for the next stage of its life. So engrossed in my task, I didn’t hear anyone enter the room until they rapped sharply on the door frame behind me. Startled, I whirled around knocking the small clay pot with the tender seedling I had just set aside. The pot shattered on the floor sending the contents spilling across the stones.

My guest took a step forward before I could intervene, intentionally bringing their foot down on top of the bare seedling scant inches from my fingers. “My—apologies—for the interruption.”

My eyes flew up the black robes trimmed with gold-coloured ornaments to the face of the Altmer before me. Unlike Nildor’s usual jovial expression, the mer had a look of perpetual disdain etched into his face. His pale shoulder-length hair was brushed back displaying a sharp widow’s peak that only emphasized his other sharp features. My anger faltered under his scrutiny as he looked me up and down, apparently finding me lacking based on the way his expression tightened.

“I fail to see what the fuss is about.”

I scrambled to my feet, grasping the edge of the bench as a wave of dizziness washed over me on my abrupt ascent. “I beg your pardon?”

“You may.”

I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of my discomfort, but some people set off that primal little voice in your head that a predator lurks in the shadows and you shouldn’t turn your back on it. He definitely jangled the alarm bells at maximum volume. I turned slowly following him as he walked around me, continuing his visual inspection, muttering in yet another language I didn’t understand. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“I doubt it. You do not appear to be someone of any significance, and yet…” He folded his arms before him and tapped his long fingers impatiently. “What is it about you that has the senior members of the College so tight-lipped? Did you know that no new students have permitted to join the college since you arrived?”

“I’m sure I don’t know.” My temper started to rise at his smug look of satisfaction. I snapped back, “apparently you are of no significance either or they would have told you.” Oh, way to go, I berated myself silently, poke the scary elf. Daniel always did say that my temper was as skilled with a shovel at digging holes as I was.

Instead of being annoyed, my guest seemed amused. “Delightful, it has teeth. Tell me, did your previous hosts appreciate them?”

I hesitated, not sure of what exactly he had been told. “They were… neglectful. I don’t remember—”

“Yes, yes,” he waved his hand dismissively before me, “your ordeal. How tiresome.” Before I knew what was happening, his hand lashed out quick as a snake and jerked my chin around. I clenched my eyes shut, willing the world to stop spinning with the sharp movement. The hand that brushed the hair back from my neck was gentle in contrast to the painful grip on my chin. I suppressed the urge to shudder as he ran a finger behind my ear and down the side of my neck, tracing the faint shimmer of gold residue that adhered to my skin that no amount of scrubbing, solvents, or solutions would budge. Colette surmised that the drying of the matrix on my skin during transport from the ruin allowed it to bond to my skin. I was fortunate that Yisra and Ilas-Tei had done a good job in getting it off but there were places—mostly hidden under clothing, in folds of skin, between my toes and fingers, and some under my hair—that still retained the sheen. “A curious look. I do not suppose you know how you came by this colouring?”

“Ancano!”

I took advantage of the distraction Nildor’s arrival created and jerked my chin out of the loosened grasp, quickly escaping to the little alcove but not before I saw look of absolute fury on Nildor’s face.

I threw myself onto one of the couches in the alcove, tucking myself out of sight from the two Altmer that continued to bicker in a language I wholly didn’t understand. I blinked as my vision started to tunnel, unaware that I had pressed my hands to my chest until Nildor’s hands wrapped around my own.

“Isana? How can I help?” He paused, and prompted when I didn’t reply, “where is the vial?”

“Pocket. Cloak,” I gasped.   

Still holding my hands with one of his own, he reached past me for my cloak and pressed the small glass vial into my hands. He pulled the stopper from it and steadied my hand to pour a couple of drops of the alchemical compound under my tongue. Slowly my vision returned to normal as the rapid fluttering of my heart slowed down to a regular rhythm under the influence of the tincture.

“Are you all right?” he asked cautiously.

I promptly burst into tears. “No!” I wailed. “How can I be all right? I woke up and everything has changed. Everyone I knew and loved is gone. My best friend is dead. My heart doesn’t work like it used to. Sooner or later the college will get fed up with supporting me, and I have nowhere to go and will probably die of starvation. Or worse. And that, that asshole purposefully squished the seedling I finally managed to start!” I looked up into his face and realized belatedly what I had said and to whom. “Oh shit!” I buried my face in my hands and cried even harder.

To my surprise, Nildor sat down beside me and after a moment’s hesitation, he wrapped his arms around my shoulders pulling me into his chest. I know I was told to be careful; I knew I shouldn’t trust him and his association with Ancano, but in that moment I didn’t care. It simply felt too good to be held to think of pulling away. Instead, I curled my fingers into the front of his tunic and held on. If the light pressure on the top of my head, either from his chin or his lips, was anything to go on, I think Nildor liked the closeness too.

Chapter Text

Sleep eluded me once again as I stared at the wooden ceiling high over my head; the little magelight, a quartz crystal no bigger than a large marble, cast a flickering light against the beams above me as I opened and closed my hand around it. A gift from Yisra when she had asked me about all the candles in my quarters. As much as light had hurt my eyes for the first weeks upon waking, I found that I could not abide the dark. It brought up too many memories of that night and the sensation of drowning never failed to press down on my chest when all the lights went out.

But it wasn’t those memories that kept me awake now. No, it was the scene from earlier in the day that bounced around in my head like a bunch of manic hamsters trying to dictate which direction to run on their little wheel.

Ancano and his interest had greatly disturbed me. I was fearful of what that interest may be. And yet, I had no proof of anything nefarious except confirmation that he was a certified asshole. One things for certain, I was completely pissed that he killed my seedling. I rolled my eyes at myself as I lay there in bed; yes, the biggest crime was a squashed plant.

But Nildor…Nildor was the greatest source of conflict and confusion. He had seemed well acquainted with Ancano, enough to go toe to toe with him in an argument and didn’t seem at all inclined to have reservations regarding the other Altmer’s status as a Thalmor. Whether that was because he had similar standing in the same organization or was simply foolishly brave to stand up for me against the other mer, I couldn’t say. It was a completely different side of him I had not before seen; he had practically crackled with energy when he returned from kicking Ancano out of the conservatory, and in a blink of an eye, that person vanished returning the attentive, deferential person I knew.

I’ll admit it put me completely off balance.

To make matters worse, I embarrassed myself thoroughly with my pity party. I could only hope that my words were too distorted by my crying for him to understand, but there was no way hide how I clung to him at the time. Or the way I brushed my hand down his chest in an idiotic attempt to wipe away the tearstains on his shirt. Or how I leaned into his hand when he pressed the compress to the rising bruise on my jaw from Ancano’s grip.

How was I supposed to go back to working and studying with him when I had made things so awkward between us? Was I deluding myself that he felt anything for me? He was kind and eager, but as everyone told me, Altmer do not mix with non-Altmer.

I threw my arm across my eyes and groaned. I am such an idiot.

Beyond my door, I could hear the apprentices start their day and I knew I should start mine as I spent far longer in bed than I should have, wallowing in my embarrassment and self-doubt. Finally, a voice in my head that sounded remarkably like Daniel’s, encouraged me to throw off the covers and haul myself out of bed. If he were here, he would laugh at me and say it couldn’t be as dire as I thought. He was, more than often, right.

When I arrived at the conservatory and slipped through the door, I found Nildor instructing a pair of his apprentices. No one paid any attention to me, to my relief. I paused briefly to hang my cloak in the alcove before heading down to the lower level where I knew to find all the supplies needed to restart my project.

Of the twelve pots I had started previously, just one had made it to the stage to be repotted for its next stage of growth, only to be ground under Ancano’s heel. I dumped a lump of chalk and a couple hands full of coarser limestone into the basin of the small mill. With a scarf tied over my mouth and nose, I took my grip on the crank handle and started the laborious task of breaking the contents down, losing myself in thought as I pushed and pulled on the handle.

Nightshade was notoriously difficult to start and establish, needing a very particular soil type that made the plant quite difficult to propagate in quantities sufficient for the alchemists. Ironically, and perhaps morbidly, one of the most common places to find it naturalized was in graveyards; however, most legitimate alchemists that desired the plant for therapeutic purposes were reluctant to harvest the plants from these areas. Something about offending Arkay by trespassing on his domain, whatever that meant. Those that didn’t fear to offend were generally not concerned with sharing the plant for its benevolent uses.

It was for its benevolent uses that held my interest, not only as a challenge to my professional skills but also on a personal level. The tincture that Colette provided me with was made from nightshade, as well as some less temperamental ingredients like blue mountain flowers and wheat which was distilled using mead. I could think of better alcohols that would have been more efficient than mead, but she and the Nord alchemist swore up and down that it was used because of the benefits provided from the honey it was made from. Frankly, I think it was simply due to the Nord obsession with the beverage.

Running the mill by hand was hard work and I soon felt sweat popping out along my hairline. The cool air of the lower level helped alleviate the warmth somewhat, but the rhythm of the mill faltered as I took my hand off the crank to wipe away a trickle at my temple.

“Let me take over.”

I startled hard at Nildor’s arm reaching around me to take his place at the crank. Over the noise of the mill, I didn’t hear him approach. I ducked out of his way and stood rubbing my arms to quiet the risen goosebumps that rose, whether from being startled or his breath on the back of my neck, I couldn’t say.

“Sorry.” He glanced at me quickly as he set his rhythm on the crank. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

I pulled the scarf from my face. “You didn’t. I mean, you did, but it’s fine. I was lost in thought.” I turned away to gather the other items I needed, thankful that lower light hid the heat in my face that bloomed as I tripped over my words.

“You didn’t stop for our morning tea.”

I couldn’t help glancing at him; he sounded disappointed.

“You were with apprentices. I didn’t want to disturb you—”

“You could never disturb me, Isana.” I didn’t know how to respond, thankfully he didn’t let the awkward silence linger for too long. He opened the mill and indicated to the ground contents. “Will this do?” When I nodded, he poured it out into a small pail. “Gather what else you need, and let’s return upstairs for our belated tea and cakes.”

I relented with a fond smile—him and his sweet-tooth.

With my potting supplies set aside on a work bench, Nildor ushered me into the little alcove before hurrying off to fetch the tea.

“Will just be a minute. The water has gone cold,” he said, ducking his head into the room, like he was worried that I would change my mind and leave. In less time than I would have thought to heat the water, he returned with a heavily loaded tray that he placed before us. To my surprise, he sat down beside me instead of his usual spot across the little table. He served me my tea and then tucked into a sweetroll, taking meticulous care to pull it apart without getting the gleaming sticky syrup all over his fingers.

I turned my teacup in my hand, wondering how to broach the subject and decided that the direct approach would be best. “I am sorry about what happened yesterday with Ancano—"

He waved his hand. “Do not give it another thought. I haven’t.”

I made a show of frowning in concern into my teacup. “You and Ancano aren’t friends?”

He snorted. “Hardly. He is under the misguided opinion that because we hail from the same area, graduated from the same academy, that we share—” I caught him glancing at me from the corner of my eye, “a certain opinion. I disabused him of the notion that he could mistreat my apprentices—any of my apprentices—regardless of what those opinions might be.”

I shouldn’t have felt disappointed by his answer, but I was. Did he really see me as nothing more than an apprentice? One that he agreed to tutor in language skills in an exchange of labour.

“I take it that neither of you are from Skyrim originally?”

“No. The Summerset Isles. We both received our training in northern Auridon. I always thought he was an arrogant prat.”

My breath caught in my throat and I pretended to take a sip of tea to disguise my reaction. Was that confirmation that he was also Thalmor, or was it some other training he referred to? I had no idea how to ask without raising suspicions. Instead I chose what I thought was a safer topic. “Do you still have family in… Summerset?”

“Yes, my parents, sister, and a mate still reside in Alinor.”

There was no hiding my reaction as I choked on my tea. He quickly wiped his fingers, turned sideways on the chaise to take the cup from me and pat my back. Hesitantly, it seemed, he withdrew his hand from my back but didn’t otherwise move away as I waved him off and retrieved my tea to take another cautious sip as I tried to adjust to this news. I could feel his eyes on me, and I wondered if he was as aware of how his knee rested against my leg as I was.

“I should say former mate; our bond has been dissolved for some time now. Our union was perfect on parchment I’ll grant you that, but the reality of living, breathing persons with their own wants and desires; we were not so compatible. Lysandryll and I gave it our best but neither of us were very happy.” A crooked smile appeared on his face as he reminisced. “The gossips in the Alinor society circles were aghast when we agreed to a mutual dissolution of our bond after only twenty-nine years.”

“Twenty-nine years?” I asked faintly. “But you don’t look… I mean…were you children?”

He laughed softly, but not in a way that mocked me. “I suppose we were. I was all of one hundred when we married, Lysandryll was not much older.”

I blinked in surprise. “Oh...”

“I’ve upset you.”

I shook the expression from my face as I shook my head. “No, not at all. I just had no idea that you—that the lifespan of Mer was so different than…” I wanted to say humans, but I suddenly realized that I didn’t know how long Nords, Redguards, or any of the other races lived either. For all I knew, they could live just as long. “How old are—nevermind—you don’t have to answer that.” I felt the heat of my embarrassment warm my cheeks as I glanced away.

“I’ll tell you, if you tell me,” he said playfully. Before I could agree to his terms, he puffed up his chest in some comical version of what was supposed to be a dashing pose and flipped his hair over his shoulder. “Still handsome for one hundred and thirty-eight.” He immediately dropped the pose and leaned toward me eagerly, placing his hands on my leg. “Your turn.”

“Umm…” The heat of his hands was highly distracting. “I’m thirty-two. Or thirty-three.” Minus seven thousand years, but who was counting?

He sat up, removing his hands from my leg. “Do you not remember how old you are?”

I looked away from his worried expression and shrugged. “I’m not sure. It’s complicated.” What else could I possibly say without giving away my origins to someone who could still potentially be a threat to my continued existence?

Chapter Text

With my expanding literacy of the language and letter forms, Nildor had migrated from providing simple books to the more technical and relevant texts to our interests such as field guides to common native plants, books on regional cultivars and their associated cultural significance, and the effects of the arcane on plant growth and habits. The alchemist eagerly supplied a book or two on plants for alchemy once he learned of my current project that aligned with his area of expertise. My current quest of reading material; however, was of a more personal nature. There were other things I wanted to know about the world I now lived in that I couldn’t easily ask of others. My curiosity led me to familiarize myself with the college’s library and, in turn, its Orcish head librarian, Urag gro-Shub, I fully admit that he intimidated the hell out of me with his gruff demeanour, his physical size, and his very present tusks. Apart from a warning to refrain from dog-earring the pages any books I chose to read (as if I would desecrate a book in that fashion!), he left me well enough alone after pointing me mostly in the direction I requested.

I had just started my way into An Explorer's Guide to Skyrim when Yisra dropped a book onto the table, startling me much to her delight, and earning us a glare and sternly grumbled warning from Urag. The book landed, front cover down obscuring the title, but the back cover was decorated with gilded vines and what appeared to be hand painted flowers.

“What’s this?” I asked, picking the book off the table.

“I thought it might interest you.”

The barely contained glee in her voice and sly look she shot my way should have been sufficient warning as I turned the volume over to read the cover. “Romantic Sonnets and Poems from the Summerset Isles, Third Era,” I read aloud.

“You and Nildor can take turns reading them to each other.”

I hastily returned the book to the table—albeit with more care than she had. “Why…why would you suggest this?”

“The epic romance going on between the two of you. It’s as sickly sweet as those pastries he keeps ordering from the kitchens.”

I shook my head with the errant passing thought to wonder how she would know of his preference for pastries. “There’s no romance, epic or otherwise, going on.”

“Are you mad? All his apprentices are talking about it. He never taken tea with any of them, just you. And you’ve been seen cozied up together in that little alcove of his.”

I huffed in exasperation. “He’s teaching me to read, Yisra! If we’re cozied up, it’s because we’re going over the same page in a book. Besides, you and the others have told me time and time again that Altmer don’t hold other races in the same regard. He wouldn’t romance someone that he felt was lesser.”

She leaned in to continue with a low voice, “if he thought you were lesser, he wouldn’t have risked what he did to stand up to Ancano, a known Thalmor agent. Everyone’s been talking about the row between the two of them. Over you.”

“It wasn’t ‘over me’ like that at all!” I protested, louder than I should have. I lowered my voice and leaned toward her at her hiss and Urag’s repeated glare at us. “Ancano was hurting me and he put a stop to it.”

“He hurt you?” she growled.

“Not like… he grabbed my chin and Nildor walked in at that point and interrupted.”

She sat up abruptly. “Does he know?”

“He who? I don’t know what either of them do or do not know. I certainly haven’t said anything to anyone.”

I breathed a sigh of relief that the interrogation would be at an end as Ilas-Tei, Borvir, and Rundi arrived, only to cringe as the Borvir scraped his chair across the stone floor with a loud screech before he dropped himself into it backwards. At this rate, I was never going to be allowed back into the Arcanaeum. Ilas-Tei picked up the book of poetry and started flipping idly through the pages as he tapped his ring against the edge of the table.

“What are we talking about?” Borvir asked.

“The budding romance of our friend here.”

“Oh that,” Rundi grumbled, looking decidedly unhappy much to my surprise. He pulled out a dagger and started cleaning his nails. “Could do better than the goldenrod.”

“Don’t call him that—”

“See?” Yisra sat back in her chair with a smug look on her face like I had just proven her point. “You’re as quick to jump to his defense as he is to yours.”

“As I would to yours,” I retorted.

Ilas’Tei bared his teeth—I still couldn’t read his expressions well enough to know if he was grinning or grimacing—as he tossed the book of poetry onto the table. “I suppose we’ll just have to see what happens tonight.”

All of them nodded eagerly much to my growing unease. “What’s tonight?”

Yisra rolled her eyes. “Don’t tell me you didn’t notice all the tables being dragged out into the courtyard or were you still besotted after your morning visit?”

“Well yes. I thought it was just spring cleaning or something.”

“No. It’s for the annual celebration of the founding of the College by the Arch-mage Shalidor,” Yisra stated, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Although no one knows exactly when the college was founded, the spring is a good enough time to celebrate.”

“And why is that?”

“Mead!” Rundi and Borvir said in stereo. To my surprise, they reached across the table and gave each other a high five. Huh.

“Respect the space or get out!” Urag barked at them. I cringed but the others seemed unconcerned.

“If the weather is warmer, people are less likely to freeze to death when they pass out—”

“Or set themselves on fire,” Ilas-Tei added pointedly looking at Yisra. Wonder what that was about.

“Okay,” I said slowly. “So what does that have to do with this imaginary romance you think is going on?”

“Everything! The apprentices said that the gold—Nildor—” Yisra corrected herself at my glare, “Nildor hasn’t once attended the celebration since joining the college several years ago. But if you go and he shows up…”

“That still means nothing. He could just have changed his mind this year.”

“We’ll see.” She pursed her lips critically as she looked me up and down. “We need to find you something to wear. You can’t go to the celebration like you just climbed out of a mine… or a ruin.” She ignored my glare and pulled me from my seat.

My cane, propped up against the chair clattered to the floor, finally drawing Urag’s ire. “That’s it! All of you, out of my arcanaeum! Mind you put those books away first!”

Yisra piled the half dozen books I had pulled out under one arm, shoved my cane and the book of poetry into my hand with a sly wink, and hooked her free arm through mine before I could protest. “Isana’s borrowing these!” she called over her shoulder as she dragged me from the library.

“Stop pulling at that,” Yisra hissed at me, adjusting the collar of the blouse back where she wanted after I had, for the fifth time, tugged it up further onto my shoulder.

Completely dissatisfied with the meagre selection of my own wardrobe, which consisted of three belted tunics, two pairs of pants, several sets of “smalls”, and a cloak, she had raided her own belongings to find something that we could adjust to fit me. She had a good four to five inches of height on me but the corset-like belt she secured around my waist held the skirt we pleated up to an appropriate length. Now if I could only do something about the bare shoulders. The bare shoulders would not have concerned me, at least not if I was still in my own time, but the faint shimmer of gold that I could see skimming my shoulder as I shifted before the mirror in Yisra’s room made me feel very self-conscious, particularly in light of Ancano’s recent interest. I shuddered; the ghost of his fingers tracing the same streak along my neck made my skin crawl. With that thought in mind, I wrapped my cloak over myself, covering my bared shoulders.

Yisra sighed. “The streaks aren’t as visible as you think, no one is going to notice in the torchlight. Here—” She reached around the back of her own neck to undo her necklace. “You can wear my necklace. It’ll give the eyes something else to focus on.”

“No, no,” I protested. “You wear it. It looks spectacular on you.” It did, too. The gleaming white stones looked fabulous against her rich coppery skin. “Please Yisra, don’t fuss. If Ancano isn’t there, I’ll take the cloak off.”

“Promise?” she asked, fussing with a long bit of my bangs that kept falling across my face instead of staying tucked into the braid she had created across the crown of my head.

“I promise,” I sighed, knowing that she wouldn’t let up until I said so.

The festivities were already well under way by the time we left Yisra’s room and headed down to the courtyard. Musicians playing from the shelter of the main doors; I didn’t see Urag in among the celebrants so I could only assume how annoyed he would be to have the music that close to his cherished space located just behind them. Tables and chairs were set up along the perimeter, groaning with food and drink, and surrounded by students grabbing a bit to eat and drink before diving back into the enthusiastic dancing at the center. Wooden platforms had been put together to extend the central walkway before the statue into a much larger surface for that purpose. Gaily decorated poles were erected around the dance area, strung with paper lanterns that bobbed in the air currents, making the courtyard look markedly different than its usual neglected appearance.

Yisra towed me to a table that the others had claimed, conveniently halfway between the refreshments and entertainment. I’d barely managed to claim a seat before Rundi had whisked me off to the dance floor despite my protests. Oh, he made a good effort to keep me on my feet but he didn’t seem to notice that I wasn’t participating so much as trying to keep up as I got dizzier and dizzier as he spun us around. He was none too pleased when Borvir took over before the first dance had hardly ended and reappeared immediately as the music started to wane at the end of the second. Neither of them took any notice of my protests, one way or another.

To my relief, Yisra came to my rescue and I made my way to a bench that everyone ignored as it was too removed from all the food, drink, and fun. It suited my purposes perfectly as I leaned back against the stone behind me and closed my eyes for a few minutes to try to regain my equilibrium.

Footsteps echoed sharply off the stone walkway behind me, then crunched on the stone pathway headed for the dancing. They paused for a moment as if the person was looking for something before continuing. I kept my eyes shut and chanted to myself: just go away. Keep moving. Nothing to see here.

“You’re not enjoying the dancing?”

My eyes popped open at Nildor’s voice. “Ah, no. It’s fine to watch but all the spinning and whirling around they like to do,” I said with a tip of my chin toward the makeshift dance floor, “makes me very dizzy.”

“Watching? With your eyes closed?”

I answered his amused question with a sheepish smile and a shrug.

“May I join you?” He raised an eyebrow and tipped his head at the empty space on the bench beside me.

“Of course. I didn’t expect… I mean I heard that you didn’t attend…”

“Asking about me, were you?” he said lightly, sounding very pleased.

“Uh… that’s what I overheard from the others. That the faculty didn’t usually partake.” I added hastily. I refrained from looking to my right where Tolfdir stood chatting amiably with Savos and Mirabelle.

He hummed thoughtfully. “I was hoping that you would be attending. I have something for you, if you permit?”

I nodded. I don’t know where he had kept it, or how I had missed it, but he presented me with a single perfect camellia bloom, snow white with streaks of deep pink at the heart, with a light scent of cinnamon. I knew, of course, that he kept camellias in the conservatory for his own tea blend, but I wondered if he knew the significance of gifting camellias, if the meaning still held true after seven thousand years. “Thank you, it’s beautiful.”

“Yes.”

I looked up from the bloom to find him staring at me. Even in the dark with only the paper lanterns to provide light, he was close enough to me that I could see the little flecks of gold in the amber colour of his eyes. The light highlighted the perfectly straight line down his nose and the slight flare at the tips of his pointed ears, ears that I had thought alien in the beginning that were now so elegant to my eyes.

My gaze dropped to his lips as they parted, and I froze as he leaned in toward me. I could feel his breath on my face before he suddenly changed direction to plant a warm kiss upon my bare shoulder, right over one of the streaks I had been trying to hide. I inhaled sharply.

“Isana?”

I blinked. He sat before me, unmoved from his original position with a slightly concerned look on his face.

“Are you all right?”

I nodded frantically, mortified. Get a grip, I chided myself. I knew I was touched-starved—bawling in his arms earlier in the week didn’t make up for millennia of isolation, even if I hadn’t been aware of the passage of time—but I was letting the others’ speculations of an non-existent romance drive my imagination. An imagination I needed to rein in before I thoroughly embarrassed myself and drove away someone who was, at the very least, becoming a dear friend.

He looked away to the dancing to give me a chance to collect myself, then to my disappointment he stood up.

“Ah, thank you again for the…”

He turned back to me and made a courtly bow as he had upon our first meeting. He held his hand out to me, palm up. “Dance with me? I promise I won’t spin you around and make you dizzy.”

My heart did a little flip in my chest at his delighted smile when I placed my hand in his and stood up at his urging.

“Oh, wait.” I pulled my hand from his, I wasn’t worried about my cloak or my walking stick, no one would bother with them, but I didn’t want someone to take my flower if I left it on the bench. I tried to weave it into the braid Yisra created in my hair, unsuccessfully; the flower drooped over my ear.

“Here,” Nildor said softly, his fingers meeting mine, “allow me.” He extricated the flower from my hair and carefully wove the stem through the braid securing it neatly. He brushed away strands that fallen into my eyes and tucked them behind my ear. I could feel the heat of his hands, if only in a feather-light touch, as he skated over my shoulder and down my arm to gather my hand and tuck it into his elbow to guide me to the dance.

He was wrong: he did make me feel like the world was spinning too quickly, but dancing had absolutely nothing to do with it.

Chapter Text

Despite how late it had been the previous evening when I retired, I woke very early. The light through the narrow window of my room had barely begun to turn to dawn with how far north we were. Reluctant to get out of bed, I recounted the hours Nildor and I spent together during the evening; as promised he led me through a couple of dances with care, we sat and talked when the music was too quick, and when the party was getting too boisterous, we strolled up to the top of one of the towers to watch the curtain of light dance across the sky. I could still feel the heat of Nildor’s arms around my shoulders when he mistook my visceral shudder at the sight of the second moon as a sign that I was cold and had pulled me into the shelter of his arms.

I rolled over and the little magelight sitting on my desk caught my eye. It illuminated the camellia I had stuck into a small alchemy glass at the end of the evening. The flower practically glowed in the darkness. A white camellia streaked with pink. It meant feelings of affection and longing for someone. And Nildor had given it to me.

I couldn’t deny—although I would never admit it to Yisra—that she might have been right about his interest in me. Perhaps I had been too close to see if for myself and consumed with other worries, including buying into all that I had told about the Altmer’s disregard for other races, which was obviously not true.

I also believed the stories about the Thalmor, but Ancano was little more than a puffed-up bureaucrat that Nildor has simply put in place with no further repercussions to him or myself. The Thalmor were boogiemen and nothing more.

I knew if we were going to have any sort of meaningful relationship, I couldn’t hide who I was from Nildor.

I needed to tell him everything.

I was going to tell him everything.

I sat up cautiously and swung my legs over the edge of the bed, waiting for the inevitable vertigo to pass. Happily, the spells were becoming shorter and less intense as time went on as Colette predicted, and today, I wasn’t going to let it get me down no matter how bad it was. I got up and dressed, and as I stood before the little looking glass to brush my hair, I wished that I had something pretty to wear. I stroked my fingers across the petals of the camellia and suddenly realized that I did have something pretty.

Ready for the day, with the camellia secured in my hair once more with a green ribbon Yisra had given me, I pulled open the door to my quarters and nearly ran full-tilt into someone on the other side of it.

“Oh! My dear,” Tolfdir startled and then as an after thought, hurriedly lowered his hand posed to rap on my door, or on my nose, as the door was no longer present. “I was just coming to see you.”

“Good morning Master Tolfdir. I’m actually on my way to see…to my duties,” I replied trying to politely step around him, but he wasn’t taking the hint. “I could come to see you before the mid-day meal.”

He gave me a patiently sympathetic smile which immediately put me on the defensive and remained steadfast in my path. “It would be best if we spoke first.”

Resigned, I stepped back into my room and folded my arms. “What is this about?”

“You are excused from your duties in the conservatory today—”

“What! Why?”

“You will need to pack your things,” he glanced around at my meagre belongings, “ready for the carriage tomorrow at dawn.”

“The carriage?” I frowned. “Where am I going?”

“Yes, the College needs to fulfill its obligation. Calcelmo has written repeatedly to inquire and Colette has deemed you recovered enough.”

I could feel the tension in my brow and jaw grow as I tried to understand what he was telling me. “I don’t understand what the College’s obligation has to do with me? Where am I going?”

“The dig was a joint venture between us and Calcelmo with the expressed understanding that any relics—” he winced at his own words, “would be sent to Markarth for Calcelmo’s inspection and research.”

I could feel the blood draining from my face as a wave of dizziness forced me to sit on the edge of my bed. “I’m not something to be examined and taken apart for someone’s curiosity.”

“Wha— Oh, no!” Tolfdir looked shocked himself and sat down on the only available chair. “Nothing like that, my dear. You will be quite safe. Calcelmo wishes to speak to you about your race and civilization.

“We are mindful that you are a person and have negotiated with Calcelmo into providing you with board and a small wage in keeping with a field apprentice.”

Big of them to recognize that I was a real person even if they weren’t giving me any choices like one. I thought frantically how I could get out of being sent away but I had no resources, no position to make demands. The only thing I could think of was to get Nildor to tell them that he needed me in the conservatory. “I need to tell Nildor—” I said woodenly.

“He has already been informed that you would be unavailable to continue your project for the time being.”

I jerked my head up in surprise. Nildor already knew and didn’t put a stop to it?

Tolfdir continued, oblivious to my growing distress, “speaking of which, you haven’t told him of your origins?” I shook my head. “Good, good. It would be best if you didn’t. We are aware of your growing... attachment, but in light of the unrest growing with the Empire, it would be best to remain quiet a little while longer. Until we are certain of allegiances.”

“But surely he’s been with the College long enough—”

“Normally, I would say agree with you. However, with Ancano’s arrival and the reports the administration received on…the altercation with—" he pressed his lips together and patted me on my shoulder. “It would be safer to remain quiet and remove yourself from the College for a short while. Out of sight, out of mind, and all that.”

I sat there stunned, stewing in a tumult of emotions and thoughts at my new situation.

Tolfdir, misconstruing my silence for acceptance, patted my knee. “The carriage will be leaving at dawn on the morrow to meet with the carriage in Windhelm that will carry you on to Markarth. The porter will come for your things.”

I remained seated after he left; I was scared to death at the thought of leaving the familiar stone walls of the college. I had always been up for exploring and new adventures with friends, but my current reality made me feel like I was standing on crumbling ground. I didn’t know which way the hazard lay, whether the better course of action was to remain in place or move on lest the ground beneath me broke apart. I was furious that I had become a pawn in a game, subject to the will of others simply because of my circumstances. Furious that a—douchecanoe—like Ancano had any impact on how I spent my days.

Worst of all, Tolfdir’s comment about being out of sight, out of mind struck me like a blow to the solar plexus. The relationship, if there was to be one, between Nildor and I was just beginning to bloom. Was it still too fragile, like the crushed seedling under Ancano’s heel, to survive a separation?

It was this final worry that pushed me to my feet and hurrying out the door toward the conservatory. Toward Nildor. Perhaps he could do something.

I found Nildor in the little alcove we normally took our tea. He was silently stacking the books we had been going over the previous couple of days with a slow deliberation.

“They’re sending me away,” I stated flatly. “Some place called Markarth. I’m supposed to go to see some researcher to tell him everything about my...” Tolfdir’s request made me stumble over my words.

He dropped the books at my words and whirled around taking a hold of my shoulders. “Shhh. Don’t say anything more.”

My eyes widened in surprise. Did he know? “Do you know—”

My words were cut off by Nildor pressing his fingers to my mouth. “What I do or do not know, is immaterial. If you do not tell me, then I have nothing to say if asked.”

What was that supposed to mean?

“Did the College give you a stipend for travel?” he asked, changing the subject.

“No…” I recalled my conversation with Tolfdir but he hadn’t mentioned anything apart from the carriage having been arranged.

He eyed my clothing and shoes. “What about clothing for travel? A heavier cloak? Boots? A bedroll?”

I shifted uncomfortably with the direction the conversation was headed. “No. Do I really need those? Summer is approaching, won’t what I have be enough?”

“No. Markarth might be more southerly than the College but it is a harsh place built into the mountains. Your clothing isn’t sturdy enough to last. If I know the College, and Calcelmo, they haven’t arranged for stops at inns on the way so you will be sleeping out of doors.” He shuddered. “Come on, let’s go into town and get what you need.”

I hesitated to take his offered elbow and looked away with growing embarrassment. “I can’t. I’ll have to make do with what I have.”

“Isana?” When I didn’t respond, he stepped into my line of sight and gathered my hands in his. “What’s wrong?”

“I—I can’t buy supplies. I don’t have any money.”

He slapped his palm to his forehead—I couldn’t help smiling at that—and groaned. “Of course, you don’t. I’m sorry, that was completely thoughtless of me. Come on then,” he said, offering his elbow again.

Gamily, I took his arm. “So where are we going?”

“To town.” He cast a glance at me as I made a noise of protest. “Please allow me. The College provides me with every necessity and a wage besides. I have no expenses beyond the odd courier to home.”

“But…”

“No arguments! I insist!”

Any arguments I might have had were quickly forgotten in favour of watching where my feet were placed as we made our way across the long bridge from the College to the town below. I hated that bridge with a passion and the howling wind that whipped up from the Sea of Ghosts regardless of the mild spring weather didn’t make the precarious passage any better. I breathed a sigh of relief when my feet finally crunched on solid gravel at the far end and we made our way into Birna's Oddments which was only the first of several stops we would make in town.

Nildor quickly selected a bedroll and waterskin. He explained that while the carriage would carry water barrels, having my own waterskin was a good idea in case of emergency. The bedroll would be better than anything offered along the way and would make the hard, stone beds I should expect in Markarth a little more comfortable. But when he bought a small trunk, I became a little more apprehensive; how much exactly was he planning to purchase for me?

We left Birna with instructions to send the trunk and the other purchases to the College. After a couple of other stops, I was led down a narrow path that cut between a couple of shops, including the town’s tailor, to a non-descript door set back from the path by a set of steps. Nildor’s eyes sparkled, as he rapped his knuckles against the door frame. “Best kept secret in Winterhold,” he said shooting me a conspiratorial wink.

The door creaked open to reveal an elderly looking Redguard woman. “What brings you to my door?” she asked sharply. Her eyes flicked in my direction.

He sketched a bow. “We come seeking your expertise. My companion is taking a trip to Markarth as a representative of the College and requires appropriate wear for the travel and her station.”

“The tailor’s shop is just in front,” she retorted, starting to close the door.

To my surprise, Nildor stuck his foot in the door to prevent it closing. “Now, now,” he chided. “You and I both know that if you want the best, you go to the source.”

She chortled and threw open the door. “Flatterer! Well don’t stand there chittering like a wrung out nixad; come in and I’ll make us a pot, shall I?”

Kiayin, it turned out, was the talented seamstress that supplied most of the better clothing to the shop she tried to send us to. She also made much of the jarl’s family’s clothing, although, according to her, they were not aware that their finery was made by a non-Nord. She and Nildor chuckled together over their little conspiracy which I gathered he had a hand in, but they didn’t seem too inclined on sharing how that came to be.

In any case, I was kept too busy being measured then bundled behind a screen to try on various styles until Kiayin was satisfied with the fit. The pile of tunics and pants grew at an alarming rate, to which she added several pairs of smalls and knit socks, as well as a pair of boots that somehow appeared when I was changing back into my regular clothing. Nildor stood up when I emerged and held out an understated but gorgeous shear-lined coat for me to try.

I shook my head. “Nildor, it’s too much.”

Kiayin tapped me on the shoulder with her free hand, the other burdened with the bundle of approved clothing. “Take it from me, when that one—” she jerked her chin in Nildor’s direction, “gets it in his mind to help, not even the Morag Tong—” Nildor winced, “can sway him from his course. Travelling through the mountain passes, even this time of year, can be bitter cold. Best you try that on,” she advised before slipping into a tiny backroom to package the clothing.

When we finally wrapped up our shopping spree, I was feeling exceedingly spoiled and more than a little confused at what had just transpired. Nildor apparently had a history of helping others out of difficult situations—f I had read between the lines correctly with Kiayin—which was admirable, but I suddenly found myself floundering with uncertainty. Were all his kindnesses toward me simply an expression of that same compassion; that need to help those down on their luck, or was there more to it? I had caught Kiayin’s eyes on the flower in my hair and sly smiles that followed. I chewed on my lip in thought as he proceeded me down the narrow steps to the street. I could see only one course of action before me.

“Nildor?” He stopped on the step below me and turned. “Why are you doing this?”

“You are the victim of circumstances beyond your control. I can only begin to imagine what it is like to have lost… everything. If buying you some clothes and travel supplies in any way reduces your burdens, then I’m happy to do so. And I…” His eyes flicked from my face to the flower tucked in my hair and back. “That is…”

It was rash and reckless and probably ill-advised, if I were wrong, I could apologize while drowning in mortification. I took my heart in my hands and threw myself into the abyss. Because of the steps, we were nearly of the same height; I leaned forward quickly and placed a soft, lingering kiss on his lips and withdrew to await the fallout.

For a moment, he stood there in stunned, unblinking silence with only a darkening flush across his cheekbones to betray anything had occurred. Had I made an error and embarrassed us both? Slowly—far too slowly for my liking—his face morphed into giddy delight. One hundred and thirty-eight years old and he wore the flushed grin of a teenaged boy—or girl—after receiving their first kiss. And perhaps it was, I had no idea if the Mer showed affection by kissing. The few Altmer I was acquainted with didn’t appear to interact with anyone beyond a professional level.

“Oh!” He blinked and his brows rose near into his hairline. “Oh! Does that mean you return my affection? That you… for me?” He pointed at himself to emphasize the last question.

I could feel the heat colour my own face as I nodded, suddenly feeling like a shy teenager myself, under his delighted gaze. I drew a sharp breath as he stepped closer and stroked the back of his knuckles along my jaw that, only a week earlier, he had held to apply a compress for the bruises left by Ancano’s rough handling. His eyes shifted to the flower in my hair and I could feel the flower move ever so slightly in my hair from the light touch of his fingers stroking the petals.

“I didn’t know if you understood…” His fingertips traced the shell of my ear, its round shape so unlike the sharp contours of his own. “If you would feel as I do…”

I instinctively tipped my face up as he leaned in toward me, only for him to jerk back at the sound of a shout at the end of the small alleyway we stood in. I nearly stumbled off the steps in my attempt to follow him.

“Forgive me. This is not the appropriate time or place—” He shot me a chagrined look and offered his elbow to steady myself. “I do not wish to make things difficult for you.”

“You couldn’t,” I automatically replied.

He pressed his lips together without a reply. We emerged onto the main street to find the shadows longer than I had expected. “We should return to the College.”

As we walked silently along our return path, the weight of Nildor’s hand pressing over my own resting on his arm took on a new meaning. My heart felt lighter than it had at any time in my life, and yet I couldn’t dispel to ball of dread that grew in the pit of my stomach. I was leaving in a matter of hours. I wasn’t particularly worried that he’d forget about me in my absence.

I worried about not coming back.

I had heard the stories about bandits attacking travellers, wild animals and sudden storms, disgruntled citizens attacking those suspected to be sympathetic to the other side in the growing unrest. I had heard about the Foresworn in the Reach and the crime rate in Markarth; people vanishing or being murdered in the streets. I didn’t know how to navigate those perils.

The gates of the College closed behind us as we stepped into the courtyard before the great statue. I turned and looked to find Nildor looking at me with a soft smile on his face. “Nildor…”

“Isana!”

We both jerked her heads up. Yisra, Ilas-Tei, Rundi, and Borvir came crashing out of the hall where my quarters were located. I noted with some consternation that the brothers each had a small barrel of mead tucked under their arms.

“Issie!” Rundi shouted. I winced at the pet name that only Daniel had used. “We’re having a going away celebration and you’re the guest of honour!”

“Yes,” Yisra stated, wedging herself between Nildor and I to take my hand from his arm. “We five are going to have a little party. It’s all planned.”

“Nildor…” I said quietly.

 “I’ll see you before you leave,” he replied, equally quiet. He sketched a bow to the group, but his eyes remained fixed on mine. “Enjoy yourselves. Good evening.”

“Come on,” Yisra tugged me around toward the apprentice quarters, “let’s go have some fun before you go!”

I glanced back over my shoulder but Nildor had already vanished into the darkened conservatory. I could only hope that we’d have a bit of time before my carriage left at dawn.

Chapter Text

A rhythmic tap woke me from my fitful sleep. Peeling my eyes open, I groaned at the telltale pain of a hangover headache making itself known. That was going to make for a pleasant start of my journey.

The rapping noise that woke me repeated itself followed by a muffled “miss”. The porter had arrived to pick up my things for the carriage. I sat up swiftly—a mistake—and called out “just a minute” as I battled the urge to vomit from the sudden vertigo from both the hangover, and my own condition. With the world settled back onto its axis, I hurried to the door and let the porter in. I realized I should have grabbed a cloak before opening the door as the porter’s eyes drifted down the sleep shirt I wore, widening when they got to the hem just above my knees. The nightshirt was quite modest by my own standards, but I had completely forgotten for one moment that I was no longer in a world where things like mini skirts and short shorts were a norm.

He licked his lips but didn’t move his eyes from my bare legs. “Um, your luggage?”

“Right there. By the door.”

He tore his gaze reluctantly away and glanced to his left. The trunk sat on the bench easily within his reach. “Oh. right.” I hastily wrapped my cloak around me as he turned his back briefly to pick up the trunk. “I’ll just—” His eyes traced my covered form and got stuck at my bare feet.

What the hell, creeper?

“Right,” he said, the disappointment was clear in his voice. He cleared his throat, “right. Get this to the carriage.”

I hurried to the door and shut it as soon as he had crossed the threshold. I was running out of time; if I wanted to have any chance of seeing Nildor before I left, I had to get myself organized.

I dressed quickly in the clothes I had set aside for travelling and rolled up my sleep shirt and tucked into the pack I was going to carry. Along with it were some basic toiletries I stuffed in after brushing my hair, a supply of tincture for my heart as well as a copy of the recipe for me to replenish my supply when I arrived in Markarth. The key to my trunk was hung on the ribbon around my neck hidden under my shirt. I ran my finger over the camellia bloom with a feeling of regret. I couldn’t take it with me, it would get crushed and they didn’t press well. Instead it sat in a shallow dish of sand and I hoped that it would be well dried and preserved by the time I returned. I did slip in the An Explorer's Guide to Skyrim and the book of Altmer poetry into the pack along with the small enchanted magelight from Yisra. With nothing else to pack, I grabbed my walking stick and headed to the gates of the College to wait for Nildor.

The gates were open as a slow trickle of people passed through either off to the town or into the College. There was no sign of Nildor, nor any of the four from the previous evening, although I knew well enough not to expect them as they would be sleeping off the alcohol that they liberally imbibed.

The porter, who took my trunk, returned, and spotted me standing to the side. “Driver said he’s leaving in a quarter whether you’re on or not. Won’t be back this way for another four days.”

Damn it. I couldn’t wait any longer as it would take me fifteen minutes to screw up the courage to cross the shattered bridge and make my way down into the town. With a final wistful glance back at the darkened conservatory, I headed out of the gates.

The driver was in the process of backing the horse between the shafts of the carriage when I finally arrived, windblown and slightly shaken from my solo passage. He looked my way briefly and with a grunt pointed me to the side where a couple with a young child, buttery blonde hair caught up in a pair of wispy braids, stood waiting under the eaves of the livery stable. The parents smiled indulgently as the little girl swung on their hands, chattering in an animated fashion typical of their age with all the excitement of the upcoming adventure.

It took both the child and I a few moments to realize that the demeanour of her parents had shifted, becoming stiff. The mother pulled the child to her while the father stepped before them, glowering over my head as his hand reached for the haft of wicked looking axe on his belt. Alarmed, I spun around and immediately relaxed as I recognized Nildor hurrying towards us.

“Isana! I’m sorry I was late to walk you down—” his eyes flickered to the trio behind me and hardened momentarily before returning to me. He took my hand in his and urged me away from the others.

“Don’t be going far. Mildred don’t like to stand around once she’s hitched,” the driver called to us.

He drew me around the side of the livery doors and fumbled in the pockets of his voluminous cloak to pull out a long, sheathed dagger. He pressed the weapon into my hands, closing my fingers over it, while he held my gaze with his own intense one. “Keep this out of sight but keep it on your person at all times. There are dangers…” He glanced again over my shoulder in the direction of the family. “Stay in the city and up at the keep.”

I was suddenly feeling very apprehensive about what I had already considered to be an ill-advised trip. “Nildor…”

He took a step closer, still clasping my hands, and opened his mouth to say something only to snap it shut as the driver called out, “climb in back and we’ll be off.” The springs of the driver’s seal creaked as he hauled himself up, the wood groaned and banged as the family started to climb in themselves.

I quickly tucked the dagger into the top of my pack which he took from me and held onto my hand, helping me up on the back step of the carriage. As I turned back to him, I sucked in a sharp breath as he pressed his lips to the inside of my wrist. With a coy, lopsided smile, he handed my pack and walking stick before I could react. “Have a safe journey everyone,” he said cheerfully, belying the intense look he gave me as his brows rose slightly with a subtle final nod as he backed away from the carriage.

I sat down hard as the carriage suddenly lurched forward under Mildred’s efforts putting distance between myself and Nildor before I could say another word to him.

What the hell had that all been about?

My thoughts bounced all over with everything that just transpired. As my hand drifted to my opposite wrist that still tingled with the sensation of Nildor’s kiss, I flushed as I caught the amused, knowing look from the woman seated opposite me. Beside her, her husband’s look was decidedly less than pleased. Whatever, it was none of his business.

We started off the journey in relative silence apart from the rhythmic clop of Mildred’s hooves on the road and the accompanying sounds of the harness and carriage in her wake. Far too quickly, the city of Winterhold faded from view as we started our slow descent following the road that circled around the east side of the mountain toward the wide mouth of the river, joining with the Sea of Ghosts, that I could see shimmering as a pale silver line in the distance. Without the protection of magic as at the college, the shrubs and wild plants were behind in their spring emergence, but everywhere I looked, the pale green blur of tender leaves tinted the scenery. And birds. Oh, I had forgotten how much I loved and missed the sounds of songbirds in the spring!

It didn’t take long before the child’s natural propensity for movement and curiosity reasserted themselves. She hopped off the bench from between her parents and leaned against the luggage stacked beside me, staring intently at me. “You’re pretty,” she declared.

“Thank you. So are you. I like your braids.”

I didn’t reach out to give them a tweak; I knew better. From interactions with the townsfolk and warnings from the students of the college, I knew that magic was tolerated by some, but highly distrusted by the majority of Nords. Sticking your hand out toward a stranger could be misinterpreted as an aggressive move, particularly if they distrusted magic, and the father looked like he was a very distrusting type. Didn’t matter that I didn’t have a lick of magic.

She pursed her lips together as she studied me. “My ma’s really good with braids,” she declared, “but your hair is too short.”

“I think you’re right.”

“Where are you going? We’re going to Windhelm… Good sons and daughters of Skyrim.” The last bit parroted in a deeper voice that I could only assume she learned from her father even if she didn’t know what it meant.

“Hedy,” the father’s voice came out in a rumbled bark, “don’t talk to strangers.”

In retrospect, I shouldn’t have done it. I should have read the mood better and resisted the urge, but I was already a bit short on patience with the lingering effects of my hangover and the sting of my separation from Nildor. I was irritated by his tone and my temper was always good at wielding the shovel to dig that little bit deeper into the shit as Daniel had always been fond of reminding me. “My name is Isana. And you’re Hedy. Now we aren’t strangers anymore.” I did resist the urge to stick my tongue out.

Hedy’s mother, Maygret, thawed a bit more as we travelled, I chatted with her and her daughter. Her husband, Haelin, was evidently not a fan and kept his conversations limited to his family or the driver. Our conversation was stilted as I had little that I could say about myself and Haelin shot warning glances whenever Maygret opened up about their move to Windhelm. Eventually we found what appeared to be a safe topic; vegetables and how to grow them in the harsh northern climate. At least, Haelin didn’t appear to object to it.

We ate lunch on the road, Maygret offered me some of her baked bread in lieu of my hardtack to go along with my bit of jerky, cheese and desiccated snowberries packed by the college kitchen staff. Long before the sun had disappeared over the mountains in the west, we stopped for the night on an open area along the river. Trees towered at our backs and blocked most of the wind coming from the north. It would be a chilly night camping out of doors as Nildor and the others had cautioned me, but we did have a tent packed in the carriage to sleep under.

I fished my pack and my bedroll from the carriage as Maygret did the same for her family while the men put up the tent, big enough at least for the passengers; the driver, Durgun, as he introduced himself, indicated that he’d sleep by the fire to keep an eye on the horse and the carriage. Haelin held open the tent flap for his wife and Hedy, who was bouncing around in excitement at the prospect of sleeping out of doors. The driver, smiling kindly at the child’s enthusiasm, returned to the fire to give the stew pot a stir before heading to Mildred to check on her. I shouldered my pack and tucked the bedroll under my arm and headed for the tent.

Haelin dropped the tent flap and stepped into my path with the pretense of heading to the fire. He banged into me with his shoulder as he passed, sending me staggering. If not for my cane, I certainly would have fallen. “Stay away from my family, Thalmor whore.” I reeled back as he spat a particularly gross glob of spittle at my feet.

“Haelin!” Maygret exclaimed as she ducked out of the tent in time to witness the altercation.

“She looked plenty cozy with that pointed-ear bastard in Winterhold.”

I found my voice. “I am nobody’s whore and he isn’t Thalmor.”

He shrugged. “They’re all Thalmor deep down, which makes you naïve at best, a traitor at worst.” He sneered. “You even sound like them.”

I realized that I must have developed an accent as I spent most of my time learning the language from Nildor. “I’ll have you know that I’ve been recovering from a long illness that required me to relearn to speak. He was kind enough to help.”

“Kind enough to bend you to their cause, you mean.”

His hand closed around the haft of his axe, pulling it from his belt, as he took a step in my direction. I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand up in alarm; the dagger Nildor gave me was going to be a useless defense against the Nord, who had at least a hundred pounds and extra foot of height and reach on me, not to mention the probable years of experience fighting. Durgun walked around the corner of the carriage and made an abrupt U-turn when he spotted Haelin standing in front of me with his bared weapon—no help from there. Coward. I took a step back, my eyes darting frantically to find a way to escape.

Hedy chose that moment to emerge from the tent. “Papa!” She glanced between her father and me with a child’s uncanny instinct that something was very wrong. “Papa?” 

I would have closed my eyes in relief—surely, he wouldn’t kill me in front of a child—but I was too afraid to take them off the threat in front of me.

“Haelin! You’re scaring everyone!” Maygret stepped in front of him, pressing her hands to his chest to stall him. “She says she is not Thalmor!”

He brushed his wife aside roughly and took another step toward me, teeth bared in an aggressive grin. He liked that I was scared.

Maygret pulled Hedy to her wrapping her arms around the little girl’s head and face. “Haelin, if you strike her down—and in front of our child, no less—that makes you no better than them.”

That finally gave him pause. His eyes flickered to his wife and the now-howling child before returning to mine. “Mind what I said: stay away from my family.”

To my relief he returned his axe to his belt, I jerked my chin down in a stiff parody of a nod. I stumbled back to a tree stump behind me, sitting down before my wobbling legs finally collapsed, and released the breath I didn’t realize I had held.

Supper was a tense affair and I barely managed to swallow more than a mouthful or two of the stew. I’m sure it was probably a culinary delight, but it was little more than ashes to my palate, and I struggled not to vomit with nerves. I took some of my tincture to try to calm the frantic fluttering of my heart that made dark spots dance before my eyes. The last thing I needed was to pass out in the presence of an axe-wielding lunatic. He sat honing his axe after he ate, making an obvious show to check the sharpness of the edge as he worked.

Maygret bundled up a sleepy Hedy and retired to the tent.

Durgun banked the fire and left to attend Mildred.

I sat at the fire alone with Haelin, who lingered for a few minutes, staring at me, before he too got up and headed to the tent. I rolled out my bedroll and lay down with a sigh, letting my eyes fall shut.

What if he got it into his head to cut off my head in my sleep? My eyes popped open at the horrifying thought and I didn’t dare close them again.

The last time I had camped out of doors had been with Daniel and Michael before the world had gone to shit. We’d all laugh about me bringing a separate tent so they could have some privacy but then we’d all wake up in a puppy pile wrapped up in dew-dampened blankets before a dying fire. Those were happier memories. This was not going to be one of them.

I propped myself up against a log on the far side of the fire from the tent. I was thankful for the coat and bedroll Nildor had insisted upon; I curled up with both and pulled the hood of my cloak up over my head as I clutched the dagger he had given to me to my chest. Were all Nords going to behave that way toward me? The people at the college, be they Nord, Breton, Redguard, Mer, or Argonian had been nothing but accepting of me; was that because, they too as magic users, were other?

I blinked rapidly at the sting in my eyes, telling myself that it was just the smoke from the fire. Tomorrow would be better. We’d get to Windhelm and I would never see Haelin again. Tomorrow would be better, it had to be, because today was not the most auspicious start to my journey across Skyrim.

Chapter Text

The rest of the trip to Windhelm, which mercifully lasted only another six hours behind the plodding steps of Mildred, was decidedly uncomfortable. Even Hedy picked up the oppressive mood of her father and sat quietly tucked up against her mother with only the occasional utterance for something to eat or drink. Not wishing to instigate anything with the bloodthirsty Nord, I kept my eyes averted and fixed on the countryside we passed.   

The river began to narrow gradually as we moved along toward the city, along the edges I could see clusters of large walrus-like creatures that barked at each other as they lazed in the Spring sun. They were not the only creature I spied as we travelled; numerous small critters busying themselves in the bushes and undergrowth, squirrels, rabbits mottled white and brown with their spring shed, a pair of foxes leaping on each other in a mad game of chase, and even a large wolf on the opposite bank that watched our passage before trotting calmly off into the woods.

As we followed the river road, the grey organic shape of the mountain gave way to a more linear shape of the distant city walls. I had read about Windhelm in my exploration of the college’s library. It was an ancient city with a bloody history, and if the rumours were correct about a pending civil war, more violent chapters were about to be added. I studied the high walls as they grew closer; I still struggled with cognizant dissidence that this city—that all of this world—had newly risen and aged while I slept, that I was now more ancient than they were. I sometimes wondered which had aged better.

The scream of gulls caught my attention as we rounded the final turn of the road to the city. The distinctive smell associated with docks; rotting fish, tar, and wood hit us as did the noise of a busy harbour. Large wooden ships, bigger than I had expected, rocked and bumped against the docks as Argonians hurried back and forth porting cargo between the ships and warehouses set into the walls of the great city.

This was Windhelm, the City of Kings.

Durgun slowly steered Mildred through the traffic, passing the warehouses, docks, and a large set of wooden doors through which I could see people going about their day. We paused to let Haelin and family out, much to my great relief, and then we continued. It seemed odd and of poor planning to have carriages driving through the dock area, but there were only stairs and a narrow ramp, no bigger than for a handcart or two, leading from the docks to the city proper. I quickly realized that we were an exception, rather than the norm, as we drove over a small bridge dwarfed by a much larger one overhead and finally emerged on the other side of the river where the livery stood.  

“Here ya go.” Durgun said drawing Mildred to a stop. He hopped off his seat and started unloading the carriage box of the remaining cargo, which apparently including me.

“What? Wait! This isn’t Markarth!”

“Nope, it isn’t.”

“But I’m supposed to go to Markarth.”

He nodded. “I don’t go to Markarth. Just Winterhold to Windhelm and back with supplies for my son’s forge. His missus gotta fourth on the way so I take passengers for a bit of extra coin for them.”

“But—” I looked around in alarm. The livery stable was bustling with workers moving around with brisk efficiency looking after the stabled animals, sending mounts out with riders, and accepting others as they arrived. However, there were no other carriages present besides Durgun’s. “The college arranged for me to go to Markarth.”

“Sure did.” He pulled my trunk off the cart and set it inside the livery doors. “Alfarinn will be takin’ you the rest of the way. Go on up through the city gates. Across the square is an inn, Candlehearth Hall. You can’t miss it. Tell Elda Early-Dawn you’re for the Markarth carriage. She’ll get you a room on the cheap for the night and wake you in time on the morrow.” He followed my gaze as I eyed my trunk. “That’ll be safe there. I’ll see it onto Alfarinn‘s rig when he arrives. Unless you want to pay one of the urchins to carry it back and forth for you.”

Right, Tolfdir had told me that the carriage to Markarth was from Windhelm, I had forgotten in all the excitement of the past few days.

I chewed on the inside of my cheek considering my options. I didn’t have an abundance of money to spend unnecessarily and Durgun said it would be safe. It wasn’t like there were riches contained within the plain trunk, just clothes and the odd book I wasn’t carrying on me. I nodded reluctantly hoping I wasn’t making a mistake.

Tying my bedroll securely to my pack like a good little camper and then shouldering it, I wished Durgun farewell and headed up the long-arched stone bridge that crossed the river to the city. Unlike the bridge at Winterhold, the Windhelm bridge was broad enough for two carriages or carts to pass each other and was well maintained. I passed under the guard tower, or guard house—I’m not sure what the proper term for it was—that spanned the bridge and could see the massive wooden doors embedded in the city’s walls, standing open, below a series of faded blue banners decorated with an outline of a bear’s head. Guards walked along the tops of the walls and three stood clustered together at one side of the doors watching everyone that passed by. While I knew that nearly everyone was armed one way or another, the weight of Nildor’s dagger bumping my leg through the pocket of my open coat, felt inconspicuously obvious but it drew no alarm from the guards nor anyone else.

Focused entirely on whether I was about to be arrested for my concealed weapon by the guards I had just passed, the shout in front of me drew me up short in surprise. A man, Nord by the look of him, stood aggressively in front of a Dunmeri woman hurling abuse and insults at her. His companion stood to her right, silently threatening, and cutting off her route to escape. People walked past, either ignoring them entirely or yelling a word or four of encouragement to the Nord.

It wasn’t right what they were saying. It wasn’t right that no one, not even the nearby guards, were putting a stop to it.

I veered in their direction and as I did so, my eyes caught on the weapons hung from the belt of the loud Nord. The fresh memory of Haelin standing over me with his axe reared up before my mind’s eye, cutting off my words of protest before they could be brought forth, as effectively as a hand wrapped around my throat. My feet faltered… and I turned away, bowing my head in shame. Guilt clawed at me for being such a coward, but it didn’t stop me from averting my eyes and continuing to the inn.   

The inn was moderately busy for the mid-afternoon. Somewhere behind the massive fireplace, flanked by a staircase to the right, a musician strummed on an instrument as a counterpoint to the drone of conversation and the odd bark of laughter. A long counter ran along the left side of the room, behind which an older woman moved back and forth between customers with a long-practiced efficiency. I hadn’t lingered at the door for long when she waved me over, eyeing my pack slung over my shoulder and walking stick in hand.

“What can I get you?” she asked briskly.

“I’m taking the carriage to Markarth tomorrow. Durgun said to speak to Elda—”

She interrupted with a nod. “You be wanting an evening meal too?”

“Oh. Yes, please.”

“Food’s not ready yet. Drinks available any time.” She paused for a second and looked me over once more as I shifted my weight. “I suppose you’ll want to drop your pack in your room?”

She swiped her cloth over the counter, swatted at a greedy hand reaching over the counter, and led me briskly to a closed door that she pushed open. “Dinner’s at seven. Someone will wake you in the morning.”

Without waiting for a reply, she turned and left me there in the doorway. It was a tiny room, tucked under the stairs, with little more than a bed, a chair, and a diminutive washstand. There was no wardrobe to hang my coat, but a single row of wooden pegs driven into the wall opposite the bed. While one could complain about the lack of comfort—and later in the evening, the noise—at least you couldn’t find fault with the cleanliness. I dropped my pack on the bed along with the dagger, hung up the coat on a peg, and looked around at a loss of what to do next with the three hours until dinner.

I didn’t feel all that enthusiastic about wandering around the city and chance running into Haelin, although I knew in a city of this size, it was a remote possibility at best, not to mention that he was likely too busy getting his family settled to be out wandering himself. Still, the altercation with him followed by the incident I witnessed at the gates left me feeling deeply uneasy about venturing out on my own.

I yawned; my jaw creaking with the force of it. Perhaps a nap would give me a fresh perspective. I certainly was lacking in sleep after the tense, wakeful night I just had, and I couldn’t help but get mired in the mindset of doom and gloom when I was stressed and overtired.

Upon inspection, there was water in the tin pitcher sitting in the bowl of the washstand. Suddenly a wash followed by a snooze sounded like the best plan ever. I had only just started pulling my tunic over my head when the door opened and slammed shut with a muffled feminine “sorry!”. I dragged the chair over and jammed the back under the door latch since there was no bolt or lock to be found. Feeling mostly confident in my makeshift lock, I quickly bathed and redressed, before flinging myself down onto the straw mattress, too tired to care how the dagger’s hilt poked me in the ribs.

Thump…

Thump…

Thump…

The darkness echoed with the rhythmic thrum of a heartbeat. Or a steam engine.

My eyes popped open as I jerked from my dream to find… more featureless darkness. In a panic, I slapped my hands against my pockets, searching for the little light-enchanted stone. The room appeared around me in the pale blue glow of the magelight—bed, chair, washstand, coat on a hook, not the sleek nothingness of the statis pod. I breathed a sigh of relief as the remnants of my dream finally began to fade.

Thump…

Thump…

Thump…

I flinched and then chided myself for being ridiculous. It was just the heavy tread of someone going up the stairs beyond my little room. My stomach gave a loud growl. Right, food. Elda said that there would be supper; hopefully, I hadn’t missed it by sleeping too late.

As there was no lock on the door to safeguard my belongings, I shoved my pack to the back corner underneath the simple bed. If nothing else, a would-be thief might overlook it or not bother taking the few seconds to pull it out from under the bed.

The dagger taunted me where it lay on the bed. The hilt looked like the head of a stylized bird of prey with the shoulders and wings forming the guard which tapered down into the blade; I couldn’t say whether it was an eagle, a hawk, or even some creature I had yet to encounter. I picked it up and for the first time, really examined it. There were some symbols of some kind etched into the blade. I didn’t recognize the letterforms and could only guess what they meant. The scabbard had a feather pattern inlaid into the surface. It must have been gilded at some point, but with age and wear, the gold colouring only remained in the deepest impressions of the pattern leaving the rest of the surface leather a dark, matt grey. I pursed my lips as I considered the dagger; Nildor had cautioned me to keep the dagger on me, but I was simply stepping out of my room to have dinner. I pulled the pack back out from under the bed I shoved the dagger into the bottom covering it up with my clothes and sundries, then shoved the pack under the bed again. If dinner at the inn was to be hazardous, having a dagger that I didn’t know how to wield wasn’t going to make a bit of difference.

The inn had picked up business since my arrival. I waited patiently for Elda or her assistant to become free to order my dinner. I winced in sympathetic embarrassment for the young—at least I think he was young—Dunmer, who was experiencing sticker shock at the price of a drink he ordered. He quickly changed his mind and slid off the bar stool he was occupying and disappeared upstairs with his cheaper bottle of beer.

“Want your dinner now?” Elda asked with a nod in my direction. “Got fish stew, or grilled horker and potatoes.”

“Um…”

One of the serving girls plunked down a wooden platter in front of a big Nord sitting at the counter. A huge slab of meat, which reminded me of pork belly that hadn’t been cooked long enough to render the fat out, jiggled on the plate as a potato slid off the pile and fell to the floor. The Nord leaned over and deftly skewered the potato with his eating knife and popped it into his mouth.

“I’ll have the fish stew please,” I said with a shudder, quickly looking away as the Nord pulled something from his mouth.

“Bread?”

“Yes, and a pot of tea if you have it.”

I ignored the Nord’s snort of distain and comment about milk drinkers (I was drinking tea, not milk—what an odd thing to say), agreed upon the extra fee—a silver for the bread, two for the tea—and found myself a seat away from the traffic and worst of the noise. I had considered going upstairs like the Dunmer lad but changed my mind as the volume of the raucous singing from above increased. In any case, I was still quite tired and a little unsteady on my feet as a result; avoiding stairs just seemed like a sensible precaution. On the plus side, my little table gave me a clear line of sight to my room.

I didn’t linger over dinner; the fish stew was surprisingly delicious, but I had no need to sit and nurse multiple drinks like the majority of the inn’s clientele. Dawn would come early enough and with it, bring the start of the next leg of my journey.

Chapter Text

The trip to Whiterun did much to lighten my mood. Alfarinn was a cheery, chatty fellow who was happy to keep up the conversation even if I didn’t offer very much myself. He obviously knew the pair of Nords, an older man and a younger woman—clearly warriors from their wardrobe and weapons—that travelled with us to ask about their adventures and about the well-being of their companions. They were gregarious enough and apparently quite sane, much to my relief.

The final passenger was a Breton, who spent most of his time tucked into his hooded robe, occasionally muttering to himself and gesturing within his voluminous sleeves; neither the Nords nor Alfarinn seemed concerned about him and he seemed mostly harmless, so I paid him little attention. They took my relative silence in stride, mistaking it for shyness, rather than caution that my accented speech would result in the same vitriolic response I received from Haelin.

Every evening when we stopped for the night, the woman would take her bow and disappear into the woods returning no more than a half hour later with small game—rabbits, wild birds that were bigger than a grouse but smaller than a pheasant—already cleaned and ready for the fire. It was on the second night, returning from her hunt, that the woman approached me as I gathered wild onion shoots, I had spotted not far from the camp to go with our dinner.

“You’re not a warrior.”

She huffed a small laugh as I startled at the sudden voice, no doubt confirming some opinion she held. She stood on the other side of the little stream, her hands on her hips, with a brace of rabbits dangling from her belt. The warpaint on her face made it difficult to read her expression in the dappled light of the trees.

I gave a small laugh of my own. “No, I’m not.”

She cocked her head as she considered me. “A mage, then?”

“No.” I had the distinct impression of prey being measured by a predator—and found lacking.

She shifted her weight slightly, taking on a more relaxed pose while continuing to study me as I rinsed the sandy soil from the onions in the stream. “You’re going to Whiterun?”

“Markarth.”

“Hmm, a lawless city. Do you know how to defend yourself?”

“My friend gave me a dagger…”

“Do you even know how to use it?” she asked, interrupting.

I stood up quickly as she hopped across the stream toward me, trying not to make it obvious to her that my sudden change in elevation made me dizzy. I grasped my walking stick firmly, hoping that I would not need it to fend her off.

She stopped a few feet from me and nodded. “Your instincts serve you well, but instincts will only alert you to danger. You should come to Jorrvaskr when we get to Whiterun. You’re no candidate to be a Companion but my shield-siblings could teach you how to defend yourself. Even old Tilma can protect herself.”

Without waiting for my reply, she brushed past me heading back to the camp. “Don’t linger, there are dangers in the woods that wouldn’t hesitate to take a soft morsel like you.”

I let out a ragged breath letting my shoulders slump as I leaned against a tree. Did everyone outside of the walls of the college think of nothing but killing each other? Perhaps everyone inside the walls did as well; I simply failed to ask the right questions. One thing was certain, I was not going to step foot inside of this your-something-or-other. Despite the huntress’ assurances that her friends could teach me to defend myself, I had the distinct impression that I would be little safer than a cotton-tailed rabbit walking into a den of wolves.  

Continuing our descent into the foothills surrounding Whiterun left me with an odd sense of déjà vu. I suppose it was possible that Daniel and I had passed through the area or one similar on our way to the facility. Yisra and the others said that it had taken them several days to transport me to Winterhold from where they had found me, so I was theoretically within the same region. I looked around intently for something familiar, something that persisted that I could grasp onto like a thread to my old life, not that I could really expect any landmarks to remain after the initial disaster and subsequent passage of time. I had yet to see the slightest remnant from my own time, but perhaps the researcher in Markarth would have something they found in the ruins.

In any case, the countryside; the rock studded foothills, the transition of conifers to the varieties of deciduous trees and shrubs shivering with unfurling green of Spring, and in the distance, rolling plateaus cut into farms and grazelands, made my fingers itch for paper and pencil to sketch what I could see. Unfortunately, I had no such things on me. In my mad rush to learn as much as I could about this new world that I found myself in and the constant nagging worry about survival, the simple pleasure of sketching had entirely slipping my mind. With the leisurely pace that we travelled at, I found myself with time on my hands.

We rolled down the hill, the wheels rumbling on the rough cobbled road that appeared before us, wending its way around the curves of a narrow river that followed the city walls on one side, and farms—and from the smell of fermentation on the air—a brewery, on the other. Voices called out in recognition and greeting, which Alfarinn and the two warriors returned with the same enthusiasm.

The carriage hadn’t even pulled to a stop in front of the livery outside of the walled city before the two warriors had shouldered their packs and weapons and dropped off the back of the carriage with a quick parting thanks to the driver.

“Remember what I said!” the woman called out to me.

I nodded, with no plans to follow through with her invitation.

Out of earshot, the older warrior said something to her then looked over his shoulder in my direction before bursting into laughter.

Yeah, definitely not taking her up on the invitation.

The Breton, likewise, picked up his own pack and muttered a word or two in Alfarinn’s direction before he too, followed the warriors to the city.

“We’ll leave at dawn,” Alfarinn told me as he unhitched the horse from the carriage. “There are two inns, the Bannered Mare up at the city square, or the Drunken Huntsman by the gates, if you’re looking for something cheaper.” He gave the horse an affectionate pat and turned back to me. “Skulvar, the stable owner, has a spare bed he lets out to passengers travelling through, if you prefer. Won’t cost the same as the inns, but you’ll need to get your own dinner.”

I nodded. “That’ll be fine. I’ll stretch my legs and get a meal, then return for the night.”

With that decided, I shouldered my own pack and strolled up the road toward the city. The walls weren’t nearly as intimidating as the walls of Windhelm. Layers and layers of field stone, like the fences I had seen in television shows about Europe, looked like they grew in place as part of the country-side instead of chiseled slabs of stone defiantly enforcing their presence. Wooden sentry posts punctuated the top of the walls in what I assumed were strategic vantage points. Beyond the walls, I could see the wooden tops of buildings. Simple roof lines in the lower levels of the city gave way to more ornate ones with carved central beams depicting animals, and above that, a massive balconied building that could only be the residence of the jarl. The view from that height must have been spectacular.

I was about to pass under a gateway when a most curious and colourful display set outside the walls, caught my eye. A small cart stood the side of a cluster of tents; the cart with its faded, peeling red and gold paint had seen better days much like the patched tents, but the whole scene gave off a sense of cheerful energy. But the people, the people, stopped me in my tracks.

They were cats.

Not furry little house or feral cats, but bipedal cats. They had feline faces, clawed hands and feet, and tails, but they stood on legs like the races of man and Mer—and Argonian—and were dressed and armed just as the same.

I’ll admit that I stood stock-still and stared.

The closest one, sitting cross-legged in front of a tent, noticed my attention and called out, “move along, shaveskin—we’re causing no trouble.”

They talked! I think my jaw fell open.

By this point, they had all noticed my gawking and stood watching me with various expressions that I couldn’t completely read, although from the body language some seemed nervous while others defensive. The seated one got up and moved toward me. “This one thinks you’ve never seen Khajiit,” he mocked. “Have you lived under a rock?” When I still didn’t reply, his whiskers twitched in annoyance or amusement, I couldn’t tell. “Cat got your tongue?”

His question was so unexpected considering his race that it snapped me out of my daze and I laughed at the absurdity of it. I gave my head a little shake to collect my wits. “Something like that.”

He was cream in colour with a pattern of darker stripes like a tiger throughout his coat. His broad ears were tufted, with the left one sporting three gold rings piercing the outside edge. He also had a mane of sorts, braided back between his ears and down his back. He wore a simple vest and pants, patched and weathered like much of their belongings, but the vest was liberally decorated with beads, feathers, bits of shell, and the odd coin, drilled and stitched to the fabric.

His ears tipped sharply back, and I snatched my hand back, flushing with embarrassment that that I had reached out, unaware, to touch his fur without thought or permission. “Oh! I’m so sorry! That was terribly rude of me.”

His ears perked in surprise. He folded his hands (paws?) together and bowed, “this one accepts your apology.”

The other Khajiit, apparently deciding from his demeanour that I meant no harm, returned to whatever activities they had been doing when I stopped to gawk. They continued to send wary glances in our direction.

“You said something about causing trouble?”

He hissed in disgust. “The guards will not allow our caravan in the city to trade.”

“Why?”

“They say, noble Khajiit, are nothing but pickpockets and thieves.”

I didn’t know for certain, but he sounded rather coy in his response. Risking that I’d have to offer another apology if I were wrong, I played along, “and are you?”

His whiskers twitched upwards. I think he was pleased. “Khajiit are what is needed to survive.” He repeated his earlier obeisance. “Who are we to question the talents the great Rajhin gifted upon us?”

A fair enough answer, certainly one that I had pondered often enough for myself.

“Um, I was on my way into the city…” I said thumbing over my shoulder. “Can I…is there any way I can help?”

“You were going to the merchants in the city?” I nodded. “If you have coin to spend, we’d be humbled if you considered our wares. This one’s name is Ma'dran. Please, come sit and see what we have to offer.”

Before I knew it, I was seated cross-legged on a tufted silk cushion with a cup of hot tea— sweetened enough to make my teeth ache (Nildor would have loved it)—close at hand while an array of weapons, bits of leather and metal armour, jewelry of various quality, a myriad of small bottles and vials containing everything from perfume to poison, and finally a collection of mundane items, including lockpicks—the Khajiit gave me an exaggerated wink—placed on the tanned hide for my perusal. The weapons I disregarded immediately; I already had a dagger that I didn’t know how to use, I didn’t think the sword or one of the bows to be any more help, thank you very much.

As I perused the offerings, one of the other khajiit brought over a platter of grilled meat on skewers and flat bread, crispy and tender, right from the rock they baked upon. It was a tasty meal, if oddly sweet. Did these people put sugar on everything?

“Do you see nothing of interest?”

I carefully wiped my fingers. “You have some very nice things…” I ran my fingers over a pretty blue shell necklace—cunningly carved into flowers and leaves—that had caught my eye, “but what I’m really looking for is a book, a journal—paper and pencil, charcoal—something I can sketch plants…”

“Sketch…plants?”

“Yes, I love green and growing things. I’d like to record what I find as I travel.”

“Hmm… S'bassa where did those fine tomes end up?”

The addressed khajiit scratched at his ear. “Fine tomes? Oh you mean the water-stained books! They’re in the kindling box.”

“Foolish ja’khajiit! Go watch the perimeter for wolves.” Ma’dran growled in disgust at the other khajiit’s lack of business acumen. “A moment of your indulgence.” He got up and returned a few moments later with four books in various states of disrepair, placing them before me.

The book in the best condition had very tightly written text leaving hardly any white space; drawing on the pages to obscure the words seemed a shame as well as an exercise in frustration. Two books, while the ink had faded nearly to obscurity, were crumbling to the touch, and shedding their pages like a tree shed leaves in the autumn. The final book, whilst having the fewest pages, rode the fine line of being too damaged to read the text which had faded to a mellow ochre, but not damaged enough to have the pages fall out or disintegrate with handling.

“This one.”

“A fine choice. Fifty gold.”

I choked. “Fifty gold? A minute ago it was kindling! Ten gold.”

We haggled back and forth; rather than discouraged with the transaction Ma’dran seemed pleased that I didn’t accept the first price. In the end, my pocket was thirty gold lighter but I had the book, a tiny bottle of ink and a quill pen (the feather end was broken but the nib was fine), a stick of charcoal, and the shell necklace.

“A fine deal, and well negotiated,” he said with a wink. “We’ll have a drink to conclude our business.” He pulled out a small bottle from the inside of his vest and poured a dollop of liquid into my tea, then into his own.

“What is it?”

“A distillation of moon-sugar. Very beneficial before bed for a good night’s sleep.”

I gave it a sniff, noting the sweet fragrance of sugar and alcohol, not unlike Cachaça or even a light rum. It just went to show that no matter how many times civilization rose and fell, someone always found ways to make alcohol out of pretty much everything and anything that grew.

I took a sip and nodded to myself; the flavour was unusual but not unpleasant. I took another sip enjoying the pleasant warmth that curled through my limbs leaving me feeling content and relaxed.

My khajiiti host raised his cup in a toast, “may you journey to walk on warm sands.”

I don’t recall my short walk back to Skulvar’s house nor collapsing onto the hard pallet set aside for me. I do recall vivid dreams of tea parties, starring Nildor as the Mad Hatter and Khajiit, blinking in and out of view, grinning at me from the tree branches, while the two moons sailed through rippling colours in the sky.

Chapter Text

Whether the khajiit had truly been honorable or I had simply been lucky, I found myself no lighter for coin in the morning when I readied my things to continue my travels than I had been after negotiating with Ma’dran for my few purchases. In fact, I appeared to have a surplus of goods as I found a carved amulet, made from shell and tiny bits of silver, stitched to the cover of my pack. I don’t know what it meant, why or even how it had appeared, but I couldn’t imagine that the khajiit—for who else could have put it there—would have meant me any ill will by it.

We set out from Whiterun under fair weather; Alfarinn, me, and a half dozen young chickens along with a selection of supplies all destined for a farming community we would be passing along our way to Markarth. No other passengers joined us. Too busy, Alfarinn said, with getting crops sown and livestock birthed to be travelling, which was why his services were often pressed into transporting goods instead of passengers during this time of year.

That didn’t mean that the roads were empty, by any means. We swung to the north as we left Whiterun, hugging the foothills of the mountains there to keep to the ancient paved roads, that were frequented by hunters, travelling merchants, and occasionally soldiers, first dressed in faded blues and cobbled together armours, then later in red with polished and matching armour. Alfarinn didn’t say anything to me to indicate his allegiance but I travelled with him long enough to notice the easy way he would acknowledge the Stormcloaks versus the stiff nod and averted eyes when we passed Imperials.

But he positively seethed over the Thalmor.

We came across a small escort party—if one could call it such based on how they handled their prisoner—just before we turned south to our destination of Rorikstead. He spotted them at a distance and drew the horse to a halt.

“Why are we stopping?”

He hopped off the carriage and went to the horse, checking the harness then picked up a foot as he answered me. “Thalmor. Probably headed to Northwatch. Poor bastard.”

“Northwatch?”

“They say its just a small garrison for the Thalmor but it’s more than that. No one that enters there is ever seen again.”

“Can we do something? Help in some way?”

He barked a sharp laugh, climbing back onto his seat, “how and with what? Don’t be daft, girl.” He shook his head. “No, he’s in Arkay’s hands now, Oblivion take him.” He picked up the reins, gave the horse a cluck and a light tap with the reins to encourage it into a brisk trot. “Hopefully, they’ll ignore us but if not… keep your mouth shut.”

They didn’t ignore us. The poor horse nearly fell in the traces with the weight of the carriage behind him as his hooves skidded and sparked over the uneven cobbles in an effort to stop before running down the armoured soldier that had stepped abruptly into our path. One wore the dark, ornamented robes like Ancano’s, two others like the one holding the horse’s bridle wore gilded armour, and the final person was most definitely not an Altmer and was unquestionably their prisoner.

I couldn’t take my eyes off him with his bound hands and a gag tied over his mouth so tightly that the skin was pale above and below the cloth cutting across his face. That he had resisted at some point was evident by the bruises on his face and knuckles, and the blood stains on his filthy, torn clothing. But his eyes; they blazed with a fury that shouldn’t have surprised me knowing what Nords thought of the Thalmor. One of the soldiers shoved the prisoner to his knees roughly earning himself a growl from the man, and drew his sword—blue green like it was made of finely polished sea glass—holding it casually on the prisoner’s shoulder. I’m not sure if the threat display was for the prisoner’s benefit or ours.  

The robed one stepped alongside the carriage box, his hood pulled up shaded his face making little visible except for the grim line of his mouth. “State your business on these roads,” he demanded.

Alfarinn rested his elbows on his knees in a casual pose that belied his earlier tension. “Making my regular delivery of farm supplies to Rorikstead, Justiciar,” he tipped his head back in my direction, “then my passenger to Markarth.”

The hooded head of the Thalmor justiciar swivelled deliberately in my direction. For a moment, I had an uncanny sense of horror like the Ghost of Christmas Past was about to reveal my fate. The mer’s gaze finally settled on me. “What is your business in Markarth?”

My first inclination was to tell him that it was none of his, but I caught the cautionary look from Alfarinn from the corner of my eye. “I’ve been sent to assist Master Calcelmo with his research.”

The mer’s eyes narrowed. “Sent by whom?”

“The College of Winterhold.”

He pulled out a scrap of paper and writing implement from somewhere in the sleek folds of his robe. “Your name?”

I hesitated. What business was it of the Thalmor who I was?

“Your name,” he repeated impatiently.

 “Isana—hey, what are you doing!?!” The chickens squawked as the soldier at the end of the carriage pulled two from the cages. “Those aren’t yours!”

The soldier looked me dead in the eye and wrung the necks of the chickens, letting them dangle lifelessly from his gauntleted fist.

“How dare—” Alfarinn gripped my shoulder and pulled me roughly back down onto the bench as I started to rise, silencing me.

“You object to a small donation of dinner to those that keep you safe from the rapid dogs that would tear this province apart?” The Thalmor asked with a soft, silky voice that did nothing to cover the threat beneath it.

“Not at all, Justiciar,” Alfarinn answered calmly, his hand clenched more tightly on my shoulder. “You’re welcome to the poultry with our thanks.”

The justiciar nodded, satisfied with the appropriate response, and waved the soldier at the horse’s head away; my own interrogation forgotten or dropped. Alfarinn didn’t hesitate to urge the horse forward into a smart trot to put as much distance between us and the Thalmor before they had any thought to resume the questioning.

It was a good ten minutes at a brisk trot until the group was out of sight and out of earshot before he slowed the horse back to a steady walk and turned his attention back to me. “What were you thinking?” he hissed over his shoulder. “Of all the foolish… reckless…”

My shoulders crept up around my ears as he continued to scold me.

“They could have easily taken us into custody and then where would my family be?” he finished with a growl.

“I’m sorry. The theft caught me by surprise, and I protested before I thought about it. I didn’t mean…”

“Where you are going, you better ‘think about it’ before you wind up with a priest of Arkay praying over your corpse. Markarth is a dangerous place and not just because of the Thalmor presence there. Just keep your head down and your mouth shut!” He swivelled back around and clucked to the horse to pick up the pace again.

I sat on my seat, shaking and blinking back tears, as I came down from the adrenaline from the confrontation with the Thalmor and the blistering tongue-lashing Alfarinn handed me. Ever since leaving the college, I seemed to be constantly putting my foot into my mouth or stepping across lines of social convention that I wasn’t aware of. Not for the first time, I wished that I were back in the conservatory working side by side with Nildor rather than traipsing across the country into the unknown without a friendly hand to guide me.

It wasn’t until we turned off the main road and the town of Rorikstead steadily grew on the horizon that Alfarinn broke the silence once more. “Look, I’m sorry I shouted. You seem like a nice person, if… naïve…” I winced as his words echoed those of Haelin. “I’d hate to hear that something happened to you.

“Just remember that while the jarl rules Markarth, his strings are pulled by the Thalmor and the Silver-Blood family. Cross either of those and you’ll end up dead or in Cidhna mine—” his eyes glanced at my cane propped against my pack, “which would amount to the same thing in the end.”

“Doesn’t it bother you?”

He shrugged. “’course it does, but that’s the way of the world, isn’t it? The powerful will do whatever they need to maintain their power. Not much to do for it by people like us.”

I didn’t know how to answer him; I remembered the protests and rallies, hundreds of thousands of people calling out for the same thing during our final weeks and months. It started the slow turn of the wheel toward change, toward hope for all of us not just those with money and fame to buy their way to salvation. When the EMP hit, it silenced our voices, isolating us from each other, stripping away the gains we had made. Those with power retook the ground they relinquished during the protests, and then, they took even more.

Apparently, some things never change.

We spent the one night in Rorikstead after delivering the supplies—minus the two chickens—to the farmers there. With their evening chores attended to and children tucked into beds, the residents of the village gathered at the inn to hear what news Alfarinn brought to them.

A few suspicious glances from the older members of the village were thrown my way, but I was quickly forgotten, which suited me just fine. The innkeeper’s son handed me a mug of mead and platter of food with an open smile. He seemed inclined to stay and flirt with much of the same rushed eagerness of Rundi, but he too, was quickly distracted in favour of listening to the news. It was quite evident that there was no love of the Thalmor nor the Empire to be had by the folk of Rorikstead based on the grumbling and posturing I observed as Alfarinn shared what he could.

In the morning, we backtracked along our previous day’s passage, heading north through Karthwasten instead of Alfarinn’s preferred southern route. I gathered from his grumbling that the peoples living in the mountains around Markarth had been whipped up into a murderous frenzy over the theft of sword that had some cultural or historical importance to them. The theft perpetuated by some unknown party with “grandiose ideas of destiny”—the innkeeper’s words—had resulted in several travellers being killed or left for dead on the roads through the mountain passes. Guards had been dispatched from the city to deal with the problem, but the few that made it back alive told fantastical stories of attacks by men with their hearts carved from their chests.

I obviously still struggled with parts of the language because they must have been speaking in metaphor; they must have meant the ruthlessness of the attackers, not the absence of the essential organ. I had witnessed some remarkable things done with magic whilst at the college but surely, it couldn’t keep a man alive when his heart had physically been removed? My continued difficulties with my own heart would suggest otherwise.

Our diversion through Karthwasten cost us nearly three days putting us well behind schedule for the time of year, much to Alfarinn’s disgust; he did pride himself on his punctuality and got paid the same whether the trip took ten days or fourteen.

I was just relieved to be at the end of the journey.

Every bone and muscle in my body ached from the combination of sleeping on the ground and sitting on the wooden bench of the carriage as it bumped and jolted over every uneven bit of the road travelled.

Markarth appeared almost abruptly as we followed the bend in the road through the mountainous valley. Before us, pale grey stones emerged, cutting a swath across the valley floor, and behind that, I could see the same grey stone of the city climbing the mountain face. The city, Alfarinn said, ran on blood and silver, but all I could see was the dull golden colour of the rooftops; curiously tiled with rounded tiles of what looked to be brass or some similar metal. Very odd.

A man wielding a pitchfork piled with dirty straw stepped out from the shadow of the livery, lifted a hand to shade his eyes as we rolled to a stop before him. “Well met Alfarinn,” he called out. “We expected you days ago. Thought mayhap the Reachmen might’ve got you.”

Alfarinn scowled as he hopped down from his seat. “Nah, Mralki warned me. Went round by Karthwasten.”

Another man, with a pair of large hounds, stepped out from the building next to the stable at the commotion. “Got a passenger with you this time,” he nodded in my direction.

“Yeah, she’s here as an assistant to Calcelmo.” He lifted her small trunk from the carriage box and placed it on the steps.

“Huh,” the first said, eyeing the trunk and the walking stick in my hand. “I suppose you’ll be wanting that brought up to Understone Keep?”

“Oh, that would be helpful, thank you!” I was pleasantly surprised as I hadn’t honestly expected them to offer and thought I’d have to find someone to carry it for me.

“That’ll be two gold,” he said holding his palm out. Well, so much for that. He nodded, satisfied when I dropped the coins into his hand. “Head on up. Banning, here, will bring it up for you after we’ve had our lunch.” He turned away and called back over his shoulder, “Alfarinn, you joinin’ us?”

“I’m coming.” Alfarinn turned to me and tugged on his forelock. “I’ll be back this way in about a month’s time if you’re planning on returning to the college.”

“A month?” I was a little shocked, although if I had thought about it, I shouldn’t have been surprised. Of course, he wouldn’t just sit in Markarth cooling his heels until I was ready to return; he had a family to feed that depended on his business and I didn’t have the coin to pay him to wait. “Right. A month.” I swallowed hard at the prospect.

He gave me a sympathetic smile. “Good luck. And remember what I said.”

Right. Keep my head down and my mouth shut. I smiled stiffly to him before we parted ways. I made my way across the scrubby yard worn flat from traffic and made my way up the steps. Two guards in full armour, long polearms resting against their respective shoulders and swords at their waist, their faces obscured by closed helmets stood at the top flanking a huge set of stone and brass doors. I could feel their eyes on me, assessing the threat I posed and finding none, one spoke up:

“Welcome to Markarth.”

Chapter Text

The doors of the city closed behind me with an odd metallic ring, sending a shiver through me at the ominous tone. It sounded like a death knell. I shook my head at my own melodramatic thoughts; if I went looking for trouble, I would surely find it.

Before me was a large open market set with multiple vendors selling everything from foodstuffs to weapons. The market was quite busy despite the midday hour or because of it, I really didn’t know what was normal for these cities but it was evident that the citizens took the opportunity to mingle with their neighbours before heading back to their occupations. The people didn’t look at me with the same suspicion as those in Rorikstead had, which also meant that it was harder to get anyone’s attention to seek directions.

It wasn’t difficult to determine what the main industry of Markarth was. The stink of burnt metal lingered in a blue haze over the lower level of the city. It seemed odd to have the mine and smeltery situated inside the walls trapping the pollution amongst the residents instead of outside where the mountain winds could blow it away. But then, Alfarinn did say that the mine was also the city’s prison, perhaps having the added security of the walls made sense to the city planners.

A loud voice declaring “the bloodiest beef in the Reach” startled me and I turned toward the source. Slabs of meat in peculiar cuts for beef were laid out on a wooden counter. True to his words, blood ran in rivulets from the surface, pooling in the grooves of stone below to the bloated delight of the flies. I recoiled at the sight. I’m not squeamish and had, by necessity, learned alongside Daniel to dress wild game and fowl, but there was something about the beef that just didn’t seem right. I looked up from the meat to the stall’s proprietor.

“Fresh meat, finest in Markarth,” he said with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Thank you, no,” I said with a shake of my head, quickly backing away.

I hurried across the market, making my way through the traffic of people that had started to thin out as people returned to their tasks, looking for a street sign or some indication which way to go with no success. The edge of the market opened into a nonsensical view of paths and set of stairs that seemed to go off in all directions with no rhyme or reason. Stunted junipers clung to the edges of the stone and a small—well I wouldn’t go so far to call it a river, but it was bigger than a stream—tumbled noisily down the mountain between the slabbed walkways.

I huffed a sigh. I supposed I could go up, but eyeing the rows and rows of stairs, I hated to waste the effort. Wouldn’t a place called “Understone” be lower in the city? I just didn’t know which way to go.

I spotted a small girl running through the market with a small bundle in her hands to a tidy stall occupied by a Redguard woman. The woman smiled fondly at the girl who had the same thick dark hair; a mother and daughter likely, and someone that looked safer to approach for directions.

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, hello! Are you looking for some jewelry, perhaps a silver necklace or a silver ring? Easy to wear and soft against the skin.”

“Uh, sorry, no. I was wondering if you could tell me how to get to Understone Keep?”

She appraised me with new eyes as the little girl circled me.

A light tug on my pack had me quickly looking over my shoulder; the last thing I needed was to get robbed, instead I found the little girl fingering the pendant the Khajiit had left me with.

“Is that silver?” she asked curiously.

“I don’t know.” As quick as a blink, she stuck her tongue out to the pendant.

“Adara! We don’t go around—licking—people’s possessions!”

Unfazed by her mother’s scolding, the girl looked thoughtful for a moment then declared, “silver, but sweeter than ours.”

The woman sighed and shook her head. “I apologize for my daughter. She will be a wonderful silversmith when she grows up, much to her grandmother’s delight… if her manners do not drive away any prospective customers first.” The girl grinned unrepentantly at her mother’s stern look and accompanied gesture to leave. “But you were asking about Understone Keep… it is at the top of the city where the rich and powerful can look down upon the rest of us.” She nodded her head up the stairs.

Surprised by her cynical remarks, particularly addressed to a stranger headed in that direction, I nonetheless thanked her and adjusted my pack, eyeing the stairs.

“Here I was apologizing for my daughter’s manners, and mine are no better,” she said with chagrin. “My apologies, the mood of the city has been… trying… as of late. Are you staying in the city long?”

“About a month, I think.”

“Well I hope you consider taking a piece of jewelry home with you; Markarth silver is second to none in all of Tamriel.”

She then proceeded to give perfect directions that placed me before the doors of the keep, once again guarded on both sides by armoured men. Unlike at the city gates; however, these guards were not so welcoming.

“What business do you have here?” one of the guards snapped out as I reached the top of the stairs, puffing from the exertion of the climb with sweat prickling along the back of my collar. My heart, too, was giving the odd little flutters that left me with a feeling of breathlessness. “Well then, speak up!”

“Rolf, give her a minute,” the other guard commented, eyeing me as I fumbled in my coat pocket for the tiny vial of nightshade tincture.

“Thank you,” I replied after a couple of moments had passed and the tincture had time to steady my heart. “I’m here to see Master Calcelmo.”

“He’s not accepting visitors,” Rolf barked. He adjusted his stance and looked past me to the city beyond; apparently, I had been dismissed.

“He’s expecting me.”

He turned his head and glared at me.

“I’ve been sent by the college, from Winterhold…”

His lip curled with a sneer on mention of the mages’ college as he advanced on me. “I don’t care if you’re the queen of the elves, go back…”

“Wait,” the other guard put his hand out to stall him, “you said you’re with the college?” I nodded. “Rolf, Aicanter had been back and forth from the stables earlier in the week about a visitor from the college. Supposed to have arrived three days ago.”

Rolf looked at me, “you’re late.”

“Yes, we had to go to around to Karthwasten…”

“Ah, Forsworn.” The guard waived me past Rolf and pushed open the door. “Don’t mind Rolf, city’s been a bit tense because of the upheaval with those folks,” he said quietly. “Go down that hall—mind the loose stones—and take your first right and up the stairs. You should find Aicanter and Calcelmo in their museum.”

I nodded my thanks.

“Hey, name’s Thaegen. If you ever need an escort into the city or just some company for the evening…” he gave me an appraising glance and eyebrow waggle, “come find me in the barracks.”

Mercifully, before I could come up with a reply, the doors fell shut between us.

He wasn’t kidding about the footing. For a place that was supposed to be home to the jarl and other esteemed visitors, the keep seemed in a perpetual state of disrepair and decay. The stone floor heaved and buckled in places with broken stones stacked haphazardly against the walls. Large cracks raced up the walls and broken pillars lay where they fell. There were no signs of any work being done to try to shore the place up. I don’t know if it was necessarily a blessing or a curse, but the halls were very well lit, shockingly by what appeared to be brass lamps fueled with gas jets. It was the most advanced bit of technology I had seen since waking up.

I followed the directions given and found myself before a set of carved brass decorated doors. A guard stood outside with his pike resting against his shoulder, more interested in picking at his teeth than my presence.

“Is this Master Calcelmo’s museum?”

The guard grunted in the affirmative. “Hey, you can’t go in there!” he protested when I pulled on the doors.

“I’m expected—”

“I don’t care; the wizard said no one goes in.” He leaned toward me, “you don’t want to annoy someone that can turn you into a skeever.”

I folded my arms and counted silently in my head. Why did everyone have to make it so difficult? “What do you suppose he’d do if the person he has been expecting for the last two weeks is turned away? A skeever might be a blessing.”

The guard looked at me then at the door. He shifted his stance and looked back to me, weighing his options. He growled. “Fine, sit there—” he pointed to a stone bench, “and don’t move.” He disappeared into the museum.

A few minutes later, the doors burst open for a tall, robed Altmer, followed by a chastened guard. The Altmer’s robes weren’t those of the Thalmor, but those like the mages within the college. His sleeves were ragged along the cuffs, stained with dust and machine oil judging from the odour.

“You’re here! You’ve arrived!”

“Are you Master Calcelmo?”

“No, no, I’m his nephew, Aicantar. I assist my uncle with his research, make sure he eats and rests when he forgets. And I’m conducting my own research into automatons,” he added defensively, like his own research was something that was always over-looked. “You must be Isana, the…” his eyes flicked to the guard who had resumed his place opposite the door. “The assistant from the college. We’ve been expecting you. Come, come,” he hooked his hand through her elbow, “my uncle will want to meet you immediately!”

Aicantar led me at a brisk pace back down the stairs and across the keep. If not for his hand on my elbow, I might have tripped over the rubble we skirted around. As it was, I had to remind him three times to slow down as his much longer legs outpaced my own tired ones.

We passed an area to our right that, from my quick glance, contained a throne sitting upon the top of a dais. Above it, a large banner with a stylized set of rams’ horns depicted in knotwork hung between shields and crossed weaponry. A few people mulled around the room, but they looked to be servants from their attire.

The corridor we followed dimmed significantly as we moved away from the central hall and I shivered with déjà vu. Before I could dwell on the prickling unease I felt, we exited into a huge cavernous space that echoed with the sound of water tumbling down the rocks somewhere out of sight.

“Uncle.” Aicanter called out to a robed figure bent over a work bench. Lanterns were set strategically to light the area set up on a balcony over the underground river. “Uncle! She’s arrived!”

The elder stood up, blinking in the gloom to refocus as we approached. He blinked once, twice, and a look of surprise crossed his face. “Oh! Did you get Arkay's blessing as I suggested? Did it work?"

Aicantar heaved a long-suffering sigh; I could practically hear his eyes rolling in his skull with his exasperation. “No, uncle. This is…” he waved his hand at me like it explained everything, “her… from the college.”

The old man grabbed my chin and turned my face to the light, squinting as he searched for something. “Are you certain?"

“Yes, uncle.” The younger pinched the bridge of his nose. “She’s the…” he glanced quickly over his shoulders, “Dwemer.” He hissed the last word as if the stones were listening.

Calcelmo continuing to clutch at my face, jerked his head forward like a chicken eye-balling a bug in the grass, and staring at me far too close for comfort. “Hilloo, oo ur vell coom hur.”

I didn’t want to be impolite with these people I was going to be staying with, but I had had it with people grabbing at me. I jerked my chin out of his hand and took a step back, rubbing the impression of his fingers from my skin. “I don’t understand what you are saying.”

His face underwent the most interesting array of contortions from a severely furrowed look of confusion to the most rapturous delight and I realized that, subconsciously, I had recognized his words and had automatically replied in my own language.

“Doomer nuh are,” he said.

It was my turn to parse out his meaning, unaware that my hand had moved to grasp my ear. The elder mer chuckled—much to the apparent surprise of the younger—and drew my hand away. “Doomer,” he touched his fingertip to my mouth, “nuh are,” he repeated give a little tug and wiggle on his own ear.

It suddenly clicked: Dwemer no ear. He’d never heard the language spoken before!

“Can you read?” he asked eagerly. Without waiting for my reply, he grasped my wrist and started to tow me toward another table where broken fragments of stone and scrolls were laid out.

“Uncle? Isana has only just arrived, perhaps we should get her settled in before putting her to work?”

“Hmrph, I suppose so.” He grumbled, dropping my wrist, and waved his hand at the other mer. “I have too much to do to stop now. Nephew, get her settled in. We can continue after the evening meal.” We had been dismissed.

“I must apologize for my uncle,” Aicanter offered as we returned to the museum, “he doesn’t mean to be so… rude. He has a single-minded focus from which his reputation as the premiere expert on the Dwemer has grown, but it doesn’t always make him the most congenial person; that puts people off. He has in truth been quite excited about your arrival.”

I didn’t get a good look at the museum when I arrived, only short glimpses when the door had opened to admit the guard in and Aicanter back out. Now, as we walked through, there were glass covered display cases with bits of machinery, broken stones, corroded metal plates, and other paraphernalia. It all looked rather steam-punkish and I had the disquieting realization that I didn’t recognize any of it.

“Is that all you brought with you?” he asked, eyeing the pack on my shoulder.

“No. I have a small trunk that Banning is bringing up for me.”

Aicanter wrinkled his nose at mention of Banning. “I’ll inform the guard. We don’t need that man bringing the stench of his dogs into the museum.” He pushed through a door at the back of the museum. “We thought it best to put you in a spare room within our quarters. It’s not much…a servant’s…”

Noise from the museum side of the door interrupted him and he hurried away leaving me to investigate my new quarters. “Not much” wasn’t an exaggeration. The room had a stone shelf that served as a bed. At least, that’s what I assumed based on the stack of blankets and a thin pillow left there and no other viable option for sleeping other than the stone floor. I silently offered up thanks to Nildor’s suggestion of purchasing my own bedroll as I would undoubtedly be using it as an extra layer under the other bed covers.

The grand tour of my room resumed and concluded with several shelves carved into the wall for storage, a bowl and pitcher on a wooden table, and a cut metal oil lamp hung on a chain from a hook.

“Fugh! Remind me to speak with Raerek about replacing the guard,” Aicantar complained as he returned. “Far too permissive just because he covets one of Banning’s mutts.” He deposited the trunk on the end of the stone bed and headed to the door. “I’ll leave you to get settled. There’s a water box down the hall on the left if you want to freshen up. Oh! Before I forget,” he spun around and fished some slightly crumpled parchment from his pockets, “several letters have arrived for you.”

Letters? Who would have written to have had them arrive ahead of me?

I looked down at the small, neatly folded squares of parchment and smiled with delight upon recognizing the writing.

Chapter Text

It wouldn’t be until later in the evening that I was finally able to sit down and read the letters. I unpacked my little trunk and then succumbed to curiosity as to what the water box Aicantar mentioned was. I was keeping my fingers crossed in anticipation; I was looking for a chance to have a wash that didn’t consist of a rag in a cold mountain stream or cramming myself into a washtub that, despite my lack of height, was still too small to stretch out in.

I was surprised and beyond delighted to find out that the water box was, in fact, a working shower, big enough for a party of four. The ceiling was a sheet of brass punctured in perfectly tidy rows to create the largest rain shower head I had ever seen with deliciously hot water and enough pressure that it nearly swept me off my feet when it started. Luxury boutique hotels would have wept in envy.

I stayed under the water for as long as I dared, letting the water pound down upon my head and aching muscles, muscles that seemed to tremble to some unheard rhythm. I had no idea how much of a reservoir it had and didn’t want to be the one to deprive the rest of the keep of water, but I stayed long enough to prune my fingers. It’s amazing how something as simple as a good, hot wash can make you feel so much more yourself. Thoroughly clean for the first time in nearly two weeks, with fresh clothing in place of the road dusty, crumpled clothing I arrived in, I felt better equipped to handle whatever was before me.

I headed out of my tiny room and followed the sounds of meal preparation and the low murmur of voices to find Calcelmo seated at the table with a parchment unrolled across his empty cutlery, and Aicantar ladling out bowls from a pot hung over the fire. He looked up at my arrival, noting my still damp hair.

“Settled in? How did you like the water box?”

“It was wonderful. I really didn’t want to leave the shower.”

Calcelmo looked over at me with interest. “Shower? As with rain?”

I smiled, “yes. That’s what we called it.”

“Of course! It’s so obvious. And you had one of these… showers… yourself?”

“Yes, although mine wasn’t nearly as big.”

“Fascinating.” The scroll he had been reading rolled up, forgotten. “Did all Dwemer have these ‘showers’?”

Aicantar place a bowl of stew in front of the elder. “Uncle… perhaps now is not the best time to discuss Dwemer bathing habits,” Aicantar admonished with a weary voice.

“Hmm? Oh yes, yes. After dinner.” He dug into his bowl with barely a glance or offer of thanks.

Aicantar placed a bowl and pushed a platter of bread toward me. The stew, if one could call it that, was a grey and homogenous paste in appearance as I stirred the provided spoon through it. It looked like someone had boiled the crap out of a piece of meat then overthickened it with flour. I took a cautious taste and stilled my expression; it tasted much as it looked, lacking any seasoning, including salt. My throat suddenly closed on unshed tears as the memory of my final meal with Daniel jumped to the forefront of my mind. At least our final meal together had been tastier.

To distract myself from the memory, I glanced with hooded eyes around the cooking area and didn’t see any signs of herbs, no mortar and pestle for grinding spices, no fresh vegetables. “You don’t eat with the others in the keep?” I asked as innocently as I could; I didn’t wish to offend.

Calcelmo wrinkled his nose. “Nord food is unpalatable.”

I looked at the gluey paste before me with some irony and thought of the pastries, both savour and sweet, that Nildor enjoyed. If this meal was typical of Altmer cuisine, I could understand why his sweet tooth came to be.

“Perhaps I could introduce you to some of my favourite dishes while I’m here?”

“Dwemer cuisine? You remember this?” Calcelmo said excitedly, his spoon clattering loudly against the bowl.

“Yes, I would be happy to make some of those for you. If Aicantar doesn’t mind my presence in the kitchen,” I added. I really wasn’t offering for any other reason than self-preservation. Across from me, Aicantar looked faintly relieved.

The elder waived away my concerns. “He’d be fine with it and will help you get what you need.” He looked up from stirring his stew with a sudden thought. “Don’t buy from Hogni; his beef… is suspect, at best. Nephew, you’ll make sure?”

“Yes, uncle,” he replied with a huff. “I’ll make sure.” I was already beginning to recognize his tone of frustration as being considered little more than a housekeeper to his uncle.

Calcelmo said nothing further on the subject and the meal continued in relative silence except for a constant low-level thrum I could feel in my bones. The two mer didn’t seem to notice or pay any attention to it—perhaps it was something normal within the keep.

As much as I wanted the meal to come to its bland end, I dreaded when it finally did and he urged me to join him in the museum waiving off my offer to help clean up with a careless remark that Aicantar would take care of it.

The museum was filled with glass topped display cases, wooden tables and stone shelves, filled with miscellaneous pieces of metal, most of which looked like a very coppery coloured brass; gears, cogs, struts, and various pieces that I had no idea of their purpose. Weapons: bows and arrows, swords, daggers, were spread out of tables and hung in stands.

And then there were body parts. Not of the flesh and blood variety, but limbs, an arm here, a leg, even a head, of some sort of robot made from the same coppery brass as the weapons and pieces of minutia.

There were also gemstones the size of my fist encased in gyroscopic spheres, and long crystals that seemed to come in two varieties: milky white and a strange purply-black. I don’t know why, but the dark crystals made me feel very uneasy, like something crawling across my skin trying to get in. I stepped away from that display in favour of another filled with scraps of parchment.

“Ah, yes, come look at these diagrams and tell me what you make of them.”  

There were scraps of parchments, mostly what looked like engineering schematics for unknown equipment I had no clue as to their purpose. The writing on the parchments was faded to illegibility but I suspected that they had been mathematical formulas; they had the general flow of what I had seen Daniel write and there was something else vaguely familiar, something else niggled at the back of my mind when I examined them. There were also diagrams of orbits—what else could all the concentric circles be? There were no sketches or diagrams of anything botanical, so I moved on quickly with nothing to really keep my interest. I must have had da Vinci floating in the back of my mind when I stopped at the next display case and saw Vitruvian Man, or well, Vitruvian robot.  

“Ah, you recognize that!” Calcelmo said excitedly.

I looked up from the parchment to find him watching me very closely, eagerly. “No. Well yes, but it’s not right. It’s supposed to be a person, not a machine. This—” I pointed my finger at the parchment, “I don’t know what this machine is.”

“This is a Dwemer Animunculus, a Centurion, to be precise. Perhaps you had another name for them?” He frowned when I didn’t respond in the affirmative. “Come now, you must know this?”

I rubbed at the corner of my eyebrow. “I don’t. I don’t know what that is.”

He pulled himself upright and gripped the fabric of his robe by his shoulder like he was some proselytizing politician. The kind that, while we still had mass media, tried to convince all the little people that our sacrifice of working to death in shitty conditions with subpar resources to ensure the salvation of mankind—in other words, the lives of the rich and famous—was a noble task and would not be forgotten. It was forgotten the moment the cameras turned off.

“Dwarven military machines also range from the man-sized ‘Sphere’ warrior, which patrols the interiors of the ruins as a harmless ball only to emerge from it as a fully armed and armored automaton fighter,” Calcelmo recited, rapping his fingers against the glass above the diagram, “to the justly feared ‘Centurion’—”

“I’m sorry.” I rubbed at my temple again. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to go lie down…”

“Of course, Isana. You must be very tired from your journey,” Aicanter said, joining us. “Wouldn’t you agree, uncle?”

“What? Oh yes, fine.” He waved me away, already dismissed as he headed toward the door exiting the museum. “We can continue tomorrow.”

“Apologies for my uncle.” Aicanter said quietly as he led me back towards the living quarters. “He can be… rather zealous with his research into the Dwemer and has been very eager to speak with you.”

I frowned. “I’m afraid I’m going to disappoint him.”

A sad smile settled on his face as we stopped at my room. “He’s used to it,” he said with a sigh. “Have a good night, Isana.”

I read Yisra’s letter first, not because I was most eager to read hers, rather I wanted to enjoy the fuller conversation of Nildor’s letters uninterrupted. I unfolded her letter and immediately smiled with my first glance; her hand writing was big and bold with a lot of swoops but as it proceeded down the small page became tighter and tighter with less swooping as she ran out of space—some lines even turned at their ends to continue along the margins perpendicular to the rest of the letter. The letter was also smudged in places like someone had dropped water on the page. It was chaos, just like the writer.

Is—

Found out that the goldenrod Nildor was sending letters and since he was already footing the expense for messenger birds over the usual courier—

I smiled as I could picture that conversation between the two of them, I just hoped that she didn’t make things uncomfortable for Nildor.

I hope you return soon and not just because we all miss you. I’ve never seen that mer so glum! Did you kiss him before you left? He keeps drifting into this far-off gaze and brushes his fingers across his mouth! Rundi thinks it's just sugar from all the pastries, but I know better. His apprentices are greatly amused and are enjoying their reduced workload with his distraction.

Of course, it goes without saying that we’ll be ready to celebrate when you do return. The boys are already working on a new mead recipe in your honour. Borvir said that if you make it to the tavern there (some horrid name about blood and silver), see if you can steal their recipe. Don’t do it. The last thing you need is to end up in prison!

I shook my head with some amusement as I could entirely imagine the brothers hanging over Yisra’s shoulders making their suggestions for the letter as she wrote. And no doubt, spilling their mead onto the page based on the faint alcoholic scent rising from the parchment. The letter continued:

Try to have some fun in the city if they let you out at all. If they do, find me a pretty silver bracelet of that famous Markarth silver as a gift when you return home.

Yisra

I laughed as I folded the letter back up, it was so like Yisra to make a demand like that. How fortunate for her that one of the first people I ran into was a silversmith that made jewelry. I’d have to make a trip back down to visit Adara and her mother before the month was up.

Nildor’s letters, by contrast, were impeccably tidy in script, although I did see the odd smudge of green or soil along the edges. I could quite easily imagine him bent over one of the workbenches, surrounded by the trappings of our work as he wrote.

Isana,

I must confess that while I realize it is foolishness on my part—you would only be at Whiterun at the writing of this letter and weeks away from receiving it—I can not prevent myself from putting pen to parchment to write to you. Words written are a poor substitute to our daily conversations and your company, but one must make do as one must.

I do hope, upon your arrival at Whiterun, that your journey has not been too arduous for you to take a walk through the city, in particular, up to the Cloud District and view the Gildergreen tree there before the Temple of Kynareth. It is a remarkable tree, blessed by Kynareth, in a constant state of bloom. Some say that it was cut from the Eldergleam tree purported to be the oldest living thing in all Tamriel. I dare say, as biased as I am to the lush canvas offered by my own country, that I have not seen anything more beautiful. That is, to say, until I met you.

Be safe and well, returning to me as soon as you can.

Respectfully,

Nildor

I flushed with the compliment and quickly opened the next letter. His second letter was of a similar nature; recommendations of plants and sights on my journey west, progress reports on my little project in the conservatory, as well as more personal notes that hinted further as to his feelings toward me. By contrast, his third letter laid his feelings bare.

My dearest Isana,

I confess my thoughts of you of late have turned heated. I may be over bold in saying so and more than a little presumptuous—we have shared words and gestures of affection which I guard closely to my heart to savour in these dull days—but I profess to hope for more.

I drew in a sharp breath as I read his words. I had hoped that he might be inclined to feel that way about me after the few less-than-chaste kisses we shared before I left. A flush of desire curling low in my belly as I thought about him writing those words, as I thought about him acting upon those words when we were reunited.

I pray my words do not dismay you or cause you distress; please be assured that my continued affection and devotion are not contingent on the physicality. To bask in your presence does as much to uplift me as the sun coaxes the flowers to turn their faces to its warmth.

You must think me the fool with my clumsy words and gestures, but the memory of your lips on mine, the soft touch of your hand, renders me giddy and weak in the knees that I gladly play the fool to earn another such boon.

Write to me please when you have the opportunity. Tell me if I’m the fool, or if the Divines have blessed me and you feel the same.

Yours always,

Nildor

I grinned to myself; his letters seemed so proper, much like the book of Altmer poetry that Yisra had jokingly given me, or long-lost books written about Regency romances. What would it look like to have that decorum slip, for that tempered passion to ignite? Would it take just an encouraging word, or would a more hands-on approach be required? To slowly peel the clothing from his body to reveal the golden expanse of his skin to my gaze for the first time. To have him moaning and gasping under me as I explored every bit of his body with my hands and mouth, until finally he begged me to take him, or his control finally snapped, and he took me…

I shifted restlessly under the bedclothes as the thought made me ache with longing; I might be over seven thousand years old, but I wasn’t dead.

I closed my eyes as my hand drifted down to the juncture of my thighs and my imagination filled my head with slow languid kisses that grow bold and heated with the sweep of a tongue; the scrape of teeth across the clavicle with just enough pressure to excite but not hurt; the contrast of cool air and a hot, wet mouth as it trailed kisses over my breasts; his firm hands continuing to explore as he travelled down my body, slipping a dexterous finger, then two inside of me in anticipation for what’s to come, curling and stroking that place that makes me see stars. Always touching, always tasting, and then, finally, the weight of his body over mine as he moved within my own… I growled in empty frustration even as I came on my own fingers.

Seven thousand years, indeed.

Chapter Text

My dreams were strange: picnics with clouds of butterflies and droning bees rolling in orgasmic delight among the fields of flowers—Linnaes and Freud would have their own field days with that—which gave way to a thrumming darkness like a heartbeat of some great creature lurking in the deeps. I awoke with a jolt, my heart racing from a mixture of pleasure and fear. I blinked into the inky darkness of my room and unfamiliar shapes in the dark stared back. I could still feel the subterranean thrum from my dreams echoing in my bones. Unnerved, I scrambled under my balled-up pack I used as an extra pillow for my magelight to push back the shadows into the stone forms of my quarters.

I took a drop of the tincture and laid back upon the stone bed, waiting for it to take effect.

I dozed fitfully, waking suddenly, time and time again.

Eventually, I gave up trying to sleep and since I couldn’t hear any movement from either of my hosts, I grabbed my journal, finding a usable page to write to Nildor. I winced at my penmenship—blobs of ink included—as I scratched his name on the page. I needed further practice at writing with a quill and ink, but no matter, I’m sure he’d overlook the messy letters in favour of the content. I pondered whether I should mention my altercation with Haelin and decided against it; it would only worry him, and it was done and over with. There was nothing that he or I could do about it now.

Nildor,

I was delighted to find three letters waiting for me when I got to Markarth. And Yisra’s too (I do hope she didn’t give you much trouble with her demands). The journey was arduous at times but having your letters has lifted my spirits immensely.

I did not make it into Whiterun itself as I found myself entertained for the evening by the lovely folk of a Khajiiti merchant caravan. You would think after meeting Ilas-Tei, that cat people would not come as a shock, but it was. I think I found some people that have a more developed sweet tooth than you! They shared their dinner with me while we traded and were very sociable. I liked them very much.

I paused again in my writing; I didn’t really want to tell him about the Thalmor we came across either on their way to Northwatch or the uprising in the Reach. Instead, I skipped to the subject of his third letter.

Your latest letter brought me great… pleasure. You are not a fool. If you are, we are fools together, but I say that we are both blessed.

Since waking at the College after my ordeal, I have been uncertain of many things—who I am now, my place in the world, who I can trust—but one thing is certain, I’m drawn to you. I’m drawn to you, intellectually, emotionally, and yes, physically. I’m blushing now as I write my confession to you, that should please you. I can picture your smile as you read this—as easily as I pictured you coming undone beneath me…

I chewed on the ragged end of the quill absently as I considered what I just wrote. Was it too forward or blatant for him? He was worried about offending my sensibilities, but would I offend his? I wrinkled my nose in disgust as I realized what I was doing; both the chewing on the feather that had been god-knows where, and second guessing myself. I wasn’t going to pretend to be something I was not and to that end, I was going to tell him everything about myself and my origins. I put the pen nib to the paper:

There are things I need to tell you about myself—

I lifted my hand. Perhaps that was something best discussed in person when I returned to Winterhold. Tolfdir had urged caution and it was probably best that I didn’t put it into a letter that someone else could read. I scratched the line out.

Beyond my door, I could hear shuffling footsteps down the hall followed by a clatter of metal against stone.

I must sign off now to start my first full day with Calcelmo, and I eagerly count the days until I can return to Winterhold. Until I can return to you.

❀ Isana ❀

I smiled, doodling little flowers around my name to quickly finish off the letter, setting it aside to dry as I dressed, before folding it into as small square almost as tidy as Nildor’s letters had been. I was certain that Calcelmo or Aicanter could help me send it back to the college, I just hoped that it wasn’t going to be prohibitively expensive to send it by bird and get it into Nildor’s hands all the more quickly.

The clattering and banging in the kitchen grew louder as I approached until I could also hear a single voice, Aicantar’s, muttering apparently to themselves.

“Ah, good morning Isana. I trust you slept well?”

“Well enough, thank you. Calcelmo isn’t up?” I looked around the room ostensibly for the mer in question but really I was trying to determine what horrors were on the menu for breakfast. I noted with some relieve that there were ordinary, thick slices of bread sitting ready for the toasting fork and the nutty scent of millet rose from the pot hung over the fire that he was stirring.
He waved his hand vaguely towards the door as he continued to to stir. “Hours ago. He’s already down directing the workers clearing the first hall in Nchuand-Zel.”

“Oh, should I, um, should I go there now?”

“What?” He raised his head abruptly and I winced at the near miss between his skull and the granite mantle. “Why would you… Oh, no, you’re not here for that!” He went back to stirring the bubbling pot. “Uncle would be most upset if his grand discovery was lost in an accident. Besides, there are plenty of Nords and others—” he wrinkled his nose and gave a dismissive wave of his spoon-wielding hand, flinging a glob of millet porridge into the fire as he did so, “down in the warrens that will take the risk for a copper or two.”

Before I could ask what he meant, he changed the subject. "Would you mind?” he asked, thrusting his chin toward the toasting fork. “I'm frankly relieved that you offered to cook some dwemer recipes. Uncle asked me to try the ones we found." He paused for a moment to pull a sheaf of parchments that were rolled and tucked into a box and passed them to me, dangerously close to the open flame, and went back to stirring. "But none of them seem to turn out well."

I pulled the now toasted slice of bread from the fire to set aside as I flipped through the parchments slowly with dawning horror.

"That's the one I tried last night," he said pointing to the one I stopped at. "There weren’t any specific instructions as to how long to cook it—" he shrugged.

I swallowed hard against the urge to be ill and pulled that parchment and a few others from the rest and handed them to him. "That’s because they’re usually served raw.” His nose wrinkled in disgust and I clarified further, “perhaps these are better suited for Banning's interests."

His brows pulled together in confusion, then slowly rose as my meaning dawned on him. "You mean..."

"Yes."

He clapped his hand over his mouth, and I looked around desperately for a bucket in case he was going to be sick, but my eyes were drawn back at a high-pitched wheeze escaping from him. His shoulders shook and tears welled up in his eyes.

"Aicantar? Are you okay?"

He shook his head then snorted, no longer able to contain his laughter. "Do. Not. Tell my uncle I've been feeding him food fit for the hounds. Although—" He snorted again then cleared his throat. "I'll give these to Banning, but perhaps I'll hold onto this one for safekeeping..." The corner of his mouth curled up with a sly smile.

I stared at him with some surprise at this revelation into his personality. No matter what else happened over the next month, I was going to make sure I stayed on his good side.

After our breakfast, Aicantar informed me that he liked to take some air before starting his research for the day. This usually consisted of a hot cup of tea at the top of his uncle’s tower, or on the odd occasion that the winds turned and blew from the north, a stroll just outside of the doors of the keep. That was, if one could tolerate the jibes from the guards, which was still preferable to the annoying attentions from the citizens in the lower part of the city. However, today, he was willing to risk the beggars in favour of seeking the ingredients I needed to make them a proper dwemer meal and send my letter to the college. He brushed aside my questions about Calcelmo stating that while he was busy directing the preliminary excavation of Nchuand-Zel we would be lucky to see him any earlier than dinner time. I wasn’t sure I liked the sound of that…how long would I be kept waiting?

I hurried back to my room and gathered my cloak and a small purse of coins to pay for the letter; I spotted the dagger and hesitated for a moment. I was certain that I would be perfectly safe with my host at my side, nonetheless I threaded it onto my belt and tucked it at my back under my cloak. I meant to uphold my promise to Nildor. I grabbed my walking stick and hurried from the room to find Aicantar waiting by the door. He held out a basket toward me but upon spotting my stick, huffed and hung the basket from his own elbow.

As we made our way down the winding paths and stairways into the city, I wondered what I could possibly cook that they would consider a “dwemer” meal—there were so many cultural options that I was paralyzed with indecision. I knew what the Nords liked; grilled meats and fish, cheeses, breads, and thick stews. From my reading, the Altmer diet, at least for those residing in Summerset, consisted of a variety of fish, fruit, grains, and leafy greens. We stopped at the general good store to send my letter to Winterhold. It seemed an odd place initially to send my letter from, but in retrospect, a busy merchant would have a network established to contact their business partners and suppliers. We left with a small selection of dried spices (and salt!) to continue my search for something to make for dinner.

I was still considering my options when we arrived in the market. I cast a quick glance around the market; the meat stall was empty and the rain that had apparently fallen during the night had washed away the evidence of the previous day’s products.

“Hoggi’s stall is empty, thank Stendarr,” my companion echoed my own unspoken thoughts. “What would you like to get?”

“Um, can we look around first for what is available?”

“Of course.”

I wandered from stall to stall looking for inspiration. Before the world had gone to shit and everyone scattered to the winds to spend their last weeks as they may, Daniel, Michael, and I, shared kitchen duties to cook meals for each other. Daniel had been a whiz at baking; it appealed to his precise engineering mind. He made the most wonderful sweet and savory steamed buns from a recipe handed down from his great, great, great-grandmother, or so the story went. Michael was a grilling machine; if it could be cooked with fire, he was the one to go to. Unsurprising, if it grew by root or vine or branch, that was my strength. I liked nothing better than to experiment with edible flowers and herbs. With that thought in mind, I was suddenly struck by inspiration, not by any merchant’s offerings but by a riotous spill of large yellow flowers overgrowing a planter outside of a house. I hurried over and examined the flowers, thrilled to discover that they were what I had hoped. I rounded the planter and knocked on the door behind.

“What are you doing?” Aicantar hissed at me.

“I want some of the flowers.”

“What for?”

“To eat, of course! Oh hello!” An elderly Nord stood in the doorway, blinking at me with a wary glance in Aicantar’s direction. I pointed to the flowers, “are those yours?”

His head slowly pivoted to follow my gesture. “My wife’s. Maisie.” He stepped back and closed the door with a thud.

“Well, that was rude.”

Before I could respond to Aicantar’s complaint, the door swung open again revealing a diminutive woman swathed in a flour-dusted apron. Her eyes darted to the mer and settled firmly on me. “My husband said that a woman was asking about the flowers. What do you want with them?”

“I was hoping that I could take half a dozen of the flowers.”

Her eyes narrowed, “why?”

“To eat.”

“You don’t eat the flowers. You eat it when its done growing,” she explained slowly like she was speaking to a child or a particularly dimwitted person.

“For most fruits and vegetables, that is true, but these are an exception.” She still didn’t seem convinced. “I won’t hurt your harvest, I only want a few of the extra males. There’s more than are needed and they’re of no use once they’re done fertilizing the other flowers.”

The corner of her mouth twitched upwards. “You can tell them apart?”

“Yes. Let me show you.”

She was fascinated as I pointed out the difference between the flowers; showing her the small fruiting body at the base of the female flowers which were tucked in the center of the plant, compared to the skinny stems of the males on the outer bounds. In the end, she was more than happy to give me a full dozen of the blooms that she snipped from the plant with a bit of vicious glee before returning to whatever task we had interrupted. Her raised voice as she scolded her husband echoed through the door as we left.

“She seemed to have taken rather a lot of pleasure cutting those flowers once you told her that they were male,” Aicantar observed. He seemed a bit disturbed by it.

I bit back a grin and shrugged. “Perhaps. Does she have a large family?” She wouldn’t be the first person to express some frustration towards a partner with a bit of redirected violence, if only by trimming the greenery with an extra measure of zeal.

“Who’s to say. Nords...” he waved his hand, neglecting to continue whatever it was he was going to say. “What do you intend to do with these flowers now that you have them?”

“Stuff them. The rest of the ingredients shouldn’t be hard to find.”

Indeed, the rest of the ingredients were simple enough to acquire and a lump of lard to melt into oil to fry the flowers. The squash flowers were stuffed with minced pork, millet, and fresh herbs, finally dredged in a light batter fried to a crispy golden brown to be served with a green salad. While Aicantar wasn’t nearly as much fun in the kitchen as Daniel and Michael had been, for a few moments, my life seemed almost normal again.

I was quite pleased with my menu, which I had plenty of time to prepare as Calcelmo stayed down at Nchuand-Zel until the evening meal. He arrived and sat at the kitchen table without a word, having returned from the dig to wash up without either Aicantar or myself being aware that he had done so. I quickly dropped the stuffed flowers into the hot oil to serve immediately. The meal proceeded silently; I had read that Altmer diners did not normally converse as they ate, usually a bard or musician was employed to fill the silence. We didn’t have the benefit of such and silence felt uncomfortably awkward as we made our way through the meal with only the sound of the crackling kitchen fire and the occasional plink of cutlery on the plates.

“That was a fascinating meal. Quite Colovian-inspired. I look forward to the next.” Calcelmo pushed himself back from the table. “Nephew, don’t bother with the tea, I’ll be late returning from the site.

Startled by his sudden speech, I stumbled over my own words. “Um, what about your research?”

“I’m going back to it now.”

“No, I mean—your questions for me?”

“Yes, yes, we’ll get to that.” He waved me off and left the room without another word.

Once again I was left wondering how long I would be kept waiting. Why had he demanded that I come to Markarth if he had no intention of talking to me about my world?

Chapter Text

A week passed and still I cooled my heels waiting for Calcelmo to have time for me. He was gone when I woke in the morning and returned to the living quarters for an evening meal only to vanish again with a hand wave and vague comment along the lines of “as soon as they breached the first hall”. However long that was supposed to take. 

I tried to find things to do to keep myself occupied. Aicantar had relinquished his evening culinary duties by passive aggressively remaining in his own workshop, tinkering with the scraps of metal limbs. I didn’t entirely mind as it gave me something to do in the mornings—a bit of shopping and exploring the lower part of the city, although I stayed well away from the western side of the city closest to the mines—then cooking in the late afternoon. Both mer seemed to find this an acceptable situation and slipped into their own routines quickly, but it was not something I wanted to encourage at all. I was not there to be their housekeeper! The sooner Calcelmo asked his questions, the sooner I could hop back onto the carriage to Winterhold and back to Nildor. I was impatient to find out in person what he thought of my written confession.

For the first couple of days when I wasn’t exploring or cooking, I perched myself on a stool at one of Aicantar’s benches. He eagerly shared his theories about the chunks of metal he was trying to reconstruct. He seemed disappointed that I had no interest or inclination to help him reassemble whatever the device was, despite his insistence that I should have an aptitude for it. “All Dwemer did”, according to him. He concluded that I must have been a strange anomaly to my kind, implying that I was a defect, I suppose, for not having the desire to build things with the metal. It didn’t help that the thing he was try to construct, or reconstruct, looked like a huge metallic spider. I liked my spiders in the non-threatening garden variety, thank you very much, not ones with two to three foot lengths of leg ending in sharpened points. I’m a horticulturist, not an entomologist.

After that, I started to avoid him a bit, spending more time out on the tower balcony sketching the view and writing notes to Nildor. When the weather was fair, I left Understone Keep and went down to the market for fresh ingredients to supplement a new “recipe” to present the two mer. Really I just needed to get out from under the oppressive stone and equally weighted stares from Aicantar. 

I returned to the museum after yet another trip down into the city, this time to send another letter off to Nildor, to the sound of a grumbling male voice complaining bitterly about my absence. 

“Ah! There you are, finally!” Calcelmo exclaimed as if I had been the one repeatedly walking away his requests for my time.  “Come, come—I have some things to show you.” 

He turned without a further word and led me, with Aicanter following, through the museum to his personal workshop. I had no time to stop at the slab of stone standing in the middle of the room, curiously draped in a swath of coarse fabric, as he whisked us along to another set of the massive brassy doors ubiquitous to Understone Keep. 

“Just a moment…” He muttered, turned his back on us and rolled his shoulders around to shield our eyes from whatever it was he was doing. The slow, dull sound of stone grinding with movement echoed behind the large doors before they slowly swung open with an ease that belied their size. “Quickly now,” he chivvied us along to enter the room, like someone was snapping at our heels or was intent on stealing whatever secrets and treasures that lay beyond the doors. 

The room was pitch dark as the doors swung shut behind us and I slapped my hand to my pocket in panic, searching for my little glowstone, which of course, was in my quarters. I could feel the presence of Aicantar behind me, but it gave me little comfort, faced with Stygian void before me making me feel untethered in the darkness. Calcelmo’s footsteps echoed in the dark as he moved away to some unseen point.  Without warning, blue light flared to life with a sharp, gaseous hiss before settling to the normal golden haze of the heavy brass braziers, and my eyes watered at the sudden change. 

I wasn’t aware of what was being said, my attention was wholly focused on the gleaming tanning bed in the room. There are no words for how creeped out I was at the sight; I tried to remain calm but all the fear and anxiety of that night came rushing back and I couldn’t tear my gaze from the stasis pod. Memories of lying in the dark with only the sound of fluid rushing in and my only friend, who had put me in that predicament, dying just outside. A hand landed on my shoulder and I startled with a shriek, immediately clapping my hands over my mouth. We weren’t supposed to be here. 

“Isana?” The hand on my shoulder carefully turned me around until I was staring into the wide amber eyes. “Isana, are you all right?”

My breath was locked in my chest. I was going to drown. I was drowning.

“Isana!” 

I blinked. Aicanter’s hands were on my shoulders and he looked agitated. I lowered my hands slowly. “I’m sorry, I—” my eyes darted to the side to stasis pod but it remained silent and dark. I shuddered and dropped my hands. “I’m sorry. The memory of being in that…”

“You aware the whole time? How are you not mad?” He looked horrified and mortified all at the same time. “I’m sorry, that was thoughtless. It’s probably not something you want to think about.”

“I don’t remember anything after the pod filled. I remember thinking that I was going to drown and then nothing.”

“That’s barbaric! We know that the Dwemer were a cruel race but to their own—why would they torture you in that manner?” 

I stared at him incredulously. We were the cruel race? More barbaric than the peoples of this time? They chopped the hands off starving orphans for stealing bread, for god’s sake—they were no better than we were! I suddenly didn’t have the energy to argue with him and slumped against the stone bench behind me. “It wasn’t meant as torture, at least that wasn’t my friend’s intent. Most people weren’t aware as I was when they were put into the pods. I wasn’t supposed to have been placed in one at all but left to die with the rest.”

“Left to die?”

I shrugged. “I wasn’t rich enough to buy my way in when I failed to meet the other criteria.”

“Yes, of course,” Calcelmo nodded his head in thought as he rejoined the conversation, returning to where we stood bearing a wooden box in his hands. I tried not to be offended that he apparently agreed that I would not have been worthy of saving.
Aicantar, on the other hand, argued, “what criteria could they desire more than youth and, um…” He flushed and looked away. Well then, I could see he shared his uncle’s opinion.

“The ability to reproduce, for one,” I replied dryly. 

He looked back at me with a confused expression. The implication finally dawned on him as his eyes dropped to my belly. “Oh. I’m sorry,” he mumbled as his earlier flush grew to encompass his ears.

“Bah, offspring are immaterial if immortality was realized.” 

“Immortality? No.” I shook my head at Calcelmo’s statement. “We were trying to survive as a species and not go extinct like the dinosaurs.”

“Speeszees…Die…no…” Calcelmo frowned at the unfamiliar words, then waived his hand, dismissing my explanation entirely. “No matter. Here. We located this from the dig site.” He pulled a book from the wooden chest and held it out to me. It looked like it would crumble into dust if I breathed on it, nevermind dared to open it. “We’ve never encountered any writing by the Dwemer this old; an obviously a rudimentary precursor to the more developed runes. Open it. Do not worry, it’s been preserved with magic to prevent it from degrading further. Can you read it?”

I carefully opened the stiff cover of the book, holding my breath that it wouldn’t disintegrate despite the elder Altmer’s reassurance. It was not much bigger than a paperback and filled with the untidy scrawl of someone who had probably been more accustomed to typing on a tablet than writing on paper. Of course, with the EMP knocking out all electronics, we all had to resort to paper and pen to record anything. The pages were covered with sketched diagrams of the engineering variety, to-do lists, and technical notes in a personal shorthand that I couldn’t understand. I relayed that to Calcelmo and started to hand the book back.

“Look at the entry near the end,” he said impatiently. “It is unlike the others.”

I flipped to the back, passing several empty pages before stopping on one in particular. I noted with some shock the date at the top. 

“Would you translate it for us?”

I started to read the page aloud, slowly translating so they could understand:

My best engineer did something very foolish today. I should have noticing his distress when I told him that the facility was closing its doors. I knew his partner had left but I hadn’t considered that he’d have anyone else with him... 

He smuggled in a woman, Isa—

The rest of the name was smeared but it was too much of a coincidence that it was anyone other than me. 

into the facility. Had her situated in stasis before security could stop him.

Took a bullet to the shoulder. Fortunately for him, the drones interrupted the guards from getting another shot off. Unfortunately for the guards, the drones are far more effective than we had anticipated—one, at least, will not survive his injuries. 

The pod was damaged during the confrontation. The suspension flow valve is jammed in the open position. We don’t have the spare resources nor means to replace it while the pod is active—there isn’t time... We’ll just have to see if the damage was detrimental to the passenger once the revival process is initiated as scheduled.

My engineer was patched up and space reallocated for him. Looking forward to seeing that reunion—barring unit failure—in a hundred years’ time.

[Memo: adj. sec.seq. agro resp lmt param]

By the end of the report, I was mumbling through the fingers pressed to my lips. I couldn’t believe it. Daniel survived! He didn’t die that day like I thought. I looked at Calcelmo and Alicanter hopefully, barely containing my excitement and already planning in my mind, a trip back to wherever it was they found me to wake up Daniel. “You found others? Other working pods like mine?” 

Calcelmo shook his head. “No, just ruins.” He heaved a sigh. “Very disappointing.” 

I let the brittle pages slip from my numb fingers onto the table and pressed my knuckles against my mouth as my own crushing disappointment and grief broke free with a sob. My initial excitement, dashed with his blunt statement, crashed down on me; I had lost Daniel again in the passage of time. The older mer patted me awkwardly on the shoulder and retreated to the other side of the room without a word. I think he was uncomfortable with my emotional outburst, but I really didn’t give a damn. 

Alicanter glanced after his uncle, then picked up the pages I had carelessly discarded, scanning them even though he couldn’t read them himself. “I don’t know if it is a comfort to you, but the damage to your pod is likely what saved your life.”

I sniffed and wiped at my nose, frowning as I considered his reasoning. “What do you mean?”

“Of the intact vessels that were found; each had a solidified mineral deposit where the pipe entered. They were sealed shut.” He placed the pages on the table again. “Yours was the only one that wasn’t.”

“They all failed?”

“One way or another, yes.” He shifted on his feet, refusing to meet my eyes as he continued his explanation. “A good majority that were found in earlier chambers looked to have been intentionally damaged.”

“Intentionally damaged?” I echoed.

“The pods were severed from the rest of the machinery. The damage was old, very old. It likely occurred within the same century that they were put into use.”

I couldn’t wrap my mind around what he was telling me. The survivors tried to murder us in our sleep? Instead of waking us to rejoin society, we were deemed expendable, unwanted. I suppose on some level, I could understand why, particularly considering that some people made a big to-do and were only put into stasis due to their own greedy self-interest, not for their contribution to the survival of the species. People more worthy were pushed aside in favour of those with financial assets. But to kill everyone regardless of why they had been preserved? It was wanton destruction of some the best minds the human race had at the time. I shook my head at the revelation to find that Aicantar had continued to speak, oblivious to my own inner turmoil.

“It took an immense amount of work to remove your pod from the facility; the metal piping does not cut easily even with the magical resources at hand.” He scratched his chin thoughtfully as he came to some sort of realization. “That would explain why the chambers deeper within the mountain were otherwise preserved! The halls were simply collapsed making them impassable to any potential rescuer or sleeper alike.

“Based on the reports of your physical condition upon waking, its highly likely that any survivors would have succumbed to drowning before they ever manage to extricate themselves from the pod lacking any outside assistance.” He looked at me and flushed at whatever horror he read on my face. “I’m sorry…um, sorry we didn’t find your…” he said quietly, with a slight nod to the pages

“His name was Daniel. He was smart and funny, and he was the best friend I ever had.”

“I’m sorry we didn’t find your friend.” He came around the table and carefully wrapped his arm around my shoulders after some hesitation. “Come. Let’s leave this behind.” 

I was only too glad to comply.

Chapter Text

The fact that I could read the pages of the journal so easily, thrilled Calcelmo to no end and he had me spend several days transcribing what I could for his own use. Aicantar’s enthusiasm was reignited when they realized that the journals belonged to someone who had been involved in the building of the facility and he did his best to help me translate concepts that I didn’t know the Tamrielic equivalent for. Whether I had explained a concept correctly or not was an entirely different matter—I didn’t have an engineering background or any significant mechanical knowledge—beyond my university entry level physics courses so there were more than a few instances that I couldn’t provide any useful translation. Didn’t help that the journal’s author had a bit of a personal shorthand going on. 

Spending time with our heads bent together as we worked through the fragile pages of the journal reminded me of the mornings Nildor and I spent together as he taught me to read and write my new language. It was pleasant enough with Aicantar, I suppose, but I missed Nildor all the more for it. 

I was beginning to feel a bit anxious waiting to receive a reply from him. He expressed concern that he was being too forward and yet I took my response another step beyond his. Was it too much? Did it shock him? Should I write to him again and backpedal? I went to sleep in a world that hadn’t come to grips with the loss of instant communication and woke up in a world that resorted on bird carriers, traveling merchants, or “Pony Express” riders; the delay in receiving a response made me more than a little anxious. My anxiety sent me to Arnleif and Sons Trading Company, which also handled couriers for the city, on a daily basis. My anxiety was something that Lisbet, the wife of one of Arnleif’s sons—I’m not sure which—noted with some amusement when I checked in with her for the fifth time that week.

“Nothing yet!” Lisbet’s voice echoed over the stone as I stood in the doorway shaking the rain out of my shawl before it soaked through and soaked me. “Come by the fire before you freeze!” 

I skirted the heavy stone counters and pillars that delineated the shop and headed toward the back. She took one look at me and tossed me a linen rag for my hair and took my shawl spreading it across a chair back close to the fire. 

“Oof, it's pouring harder than Kynareth’s tears out there! You should have stayed up at the keep; the river’s dangerous  in storms like this, overflowing its banks and sweeping people away to break on the stone at the bottom!”  She handed me a clay mug that I gratefully wrapped my cold hands around and inhaled the herbaceous scent of the tea. “Don’t often get spring rains this heavy. About eight years ago—hmm, maybe it was one-ninety-two,” she shrugged, “rained for nearly two weeks straight. The Warrens, the mines flooded, most of the lower city in fact, as did the Karth Valley. We didn’t see hide nor hair of any caravans for nearly a month afterward.”

I looked toward the door as if I could have seen or heard the rain through the thick stone and metal. “Do you think they’ll be delayed with this rain?” I was no longer simply worried about a delayed letter but my ride back to the college.  

She shrugged her shoulders. “Hard to say until it stops.”

I stayed long enough to be polite and finish my tea, taking my leave when some other intrepid souls braved the weather to come to the shop. The river was lapping right at the top edge of the cut stone canal. As Lisbet had suggested, I took the safer, upper path by way of a back staircase. It was a longer route but did have an advantage of being more sheltered from the rain and I arrived back at the keep less damp than I would have been otherwise. 

The ever present guard outside of the museum was in his usual location, except he wasn’t lounging against the wall like he normally did but standing stiffly with his hands clenched at his sides. Perhaps he was feeling cold and damp with the current weather; there was a draught coming from down the hall making the gas light waver in the gloom. I gave him a little nod as I passed and caught the nervous flick of his eyes at the closed museum doors. Weirdness. Giving it no further thought beyond the mental shrug, I shoved the heavy door open only to be brought up short by a wall of gilded armour stepping into my path. I stepped back so not to have to crane my neck to look up at the Altmer before me. Both looked at me with cold amber eyes but said not a word. 

“Excuse me,” I murmured, stepping around one of them.

The one I tried to pass stepped into my path again. “The museum is closed to visitors.”

“I’m not a visitor. I’m a guest of Calcelmo’s.” I stepped the other direction to pass by them. A hand wrapped around my upper arm halting my movement. “Hey!”

They spoke over my head, words in a language I didn’t understand, then the guard gripping my arm all but dragged me by it to Calcelmo’s workroom, giving me a slight shove ahead of him when we arrived. 

“Pardon the interruption, Justiciar, but this ephem claims that she’s a guest here.”

The black robes turned in my direction. His hands were hidden in the voluminous folds of his sleeves, heavily decorated with fine golden embroidery—much higher quality embellishments that those that I had seen Ancano in.   

“I am Ondolemar, head Justiciar of Skyrim.” He paused waiting for me to respond; when I didn’t, he clarified further, “You have the honor of addressing a member of the Thalmor. Bask in it.” I must have let my distaste show on my face as his gaze hardened and lips thinned in annoyance when I failed to grovel or show any indication that I was going to kiss his ass. “And who exactly are you?”

Calcelmo replied for me, although not as I would have. “This is the Dwemer.”

“Dwemer researcher,” Aicantar jumped in quickly. “Isana is visiting us from Winterhold.”

Calcelmo scowled and grumbled something unintelligible. 

Ondolemar looked down his nose at me from his lofty height. “And what is your area of expertise?”

“Plants,” I said at the same time that Aicantar replied with “translations”. I quickly amended my answer, “I’m helping with translations, but my real interest is in plants that the Dwemer may have cultivated or gathered.”

“Whatever for?” he sneered, clearly unimpressed. “Such a pointless line of research.” He turned his back on me before I could reply. “Calcelmo, why have you not reported the presence of this—” he waved his hand in my direction, “if purely for security purposes? You are aware that any progress in your research must be reported to the First Emissary.”

I didn’t hear Calcelmo’s reply as Aicantar took the opportunity of the justiciar’s turned back to hustle me from the room before either of the other two Altmer could question it.

“Avoid Ondolemar,” he hissed at me as we made our way back to his workroom. “He is devoted to the Thalmor mandate and truly believes.”

“Drinking the company kool-aid,” I muttered. He looked perplexed. “Nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

“As I was saying, if he didn’t believe my—interjection—I’m not sure what the Thalmor would do if they came to believe that you are Dwemer.”

“What could they honestly do? They can’t just lock me up because I had sleep issues!” I didn’t like the look he gave me.

“Just… be careful. The Thalmor can and will justify any action in the name of protecting the interests of the Dominion in accordance to the White-Gold Concordat. With the political situation with the Nords, they wouldn’t need much pretense.”

The rain continued to fall heavy enough that the steward had declared it unsafe for anyone to traverse the steps into the lower part of the city due to flooding of the river. No one could go down to the city and no one came up to the keep. That meant that there was still no letter from Nildor and I was becoming more and more worried that my ride back to Winterhold, due to arrive within two weeks, would be delayed if the flooding was as bad outside the city as Lisbet had said had happened in the past. With Aicantar’s warning buzzing in the back of my mind, the keep had taken on a foreboding air that I just couldn’t shake. It was like there was someone watching me even when there was no one around. 

I managed to avoid running into Ondolemar as I made my way back and forth from the museum to the Nchuand-Zel dig site over next couple of days. Calcelmo insisted I go with him as his crew had finally cleared the main doors to the inner chamber and I didn’t have any excuses to offer to prevent myself from going. It was largely a frustrating ordeal for us both.

It was on my third day to the dig site, the fourth after my introduction to Ondolemar, that I overheard a particularly disturbing conversation. I had just gone through the last archway before I had to turn right to Calcelmo’s work space when I spotted the dull gleam of the golden armour of the Thalmor guards. I had only ever seen the pair in Ondolemar’s company. I quickly ducked into an alcove, squeezing myself into the shadows. From my vantage, I could see Calcelmo but not the other mer nor his other guard.

“Has she told you anything about the legendary weapon? It’s construction? Its original purpose?” 

“No, nothing. My nephew has tried to engage her with his animunculi project but she shows no interest or aptitude for the work and has offered nothing at all about the technology. Indeed, she spends more time with charcoal and parchment, and her gathered bits of plants.”

“Your nephew is incompetent.”

There was silence between the two mer for a few moments, moments I waited for Calcelmo to defend Aicantar. I was to be disappointed. He shrugged, “perhaps she truly knows nothing. I am coming to believe that she was lost due to a previously unknown timebreak. The evidence suggests—”

“Or perhaps she exhibits the deviousness of her race and requires a more directed motivation.” Ondolemar stepped into view, leaning in toward the other mer. I found myself leaning forward to hear his lowered voice. “I’m certain I don’t have to remind you of the strategic importance to the Dominion? The Stormcloaks are rallying support. Our asset has become uncooperative. The Dwemer weapon would safeguard our success.”

I gasped. Both Altmers' heads jerked up and I covered my mouth with both hands, withdrawing further into the shadows as they scanned the entrance of the corridor. I didn’t dare move or even breathe. What the hell did Calcelmo mean about a timebreak? That was something I would have to investigate later, but the more pressing concern was Ondolemar. Now I knew for a fact that he hadn’t believed Aicantar’s attempt to cover my identity, and the question now, was whether he was going to act on it. How much danger was I in? I knew one thing for certain, they couldn’t find me here, lurking and eavesdropping on their conversation. 

The moment he turned his head, I slipped out of my hiding spot and hurried back down the hall to the front doors of the keep. Shoving them open, I stepped out into the rain. My heart was pounding painfully in my chest and I fumbled in my pocket for the small vial.

“Hey,” a guard barked from his spot tucked under the upper balcony. “No one’s to leave the keep. Jarl’s orders.”

“I’m not going anywhere. I just needed to get out and see the sky.” I tipped a little of the vial’s contents onto my tongue and tried to get my breathing under control.

He looked at me skeptically and then at the grey sky. “Looks the same as it was yesterday.”

“I know. Just… five minutes for some fresh air? I won’t leave the landing.”

He grunted, “see that you don’t. I’ve no interest in dragging your corpse from the river.”

I turned my back on him, closed my eyes and tipped my face up letting the rain cool the heat of my skin as I considered my situation.

One: Ondolemar hadn’t bought Aicantar’s cover and knew my origin, but hadn’t made a move against me. Yet. 

Two: Calcelmo hadn’t reported my existence to the Thalmor despite having months to do so. Why he hadn’t, I couldn’t say. He was either not as devoted to the Thalmor cause as his nephew feared, or he really was that absent-minded. 

Three: I still had two weeks, maybe more, depending on the weather before I could put Markarth behind me. Being “out of sight, out of mind” as I had been at Winterhold might be beneficial—the Thalmor may shift their focus to other interests. I grimaced. If I could also stay out of sight of Ancano. I could say, with absolute confidence, that Nildor would keep the other Altmer away from the conservatory; I would have a safe haven to spend my days. 

“Stendarr’s mercy!”

My eyes popped open at the guard’s exclamation to find him and the other guard standing beside me staring off over the city walls to the mountains beyond. I followed their gaze expecting to see something unusual on the horizon when I realized it had stopped raining. In the distance, the clouds had broken to let the late morning sun peak through and a huge double rainbow spanned the Karth river valley. I drew a long, slow breath and felt the tension in my shoulders ease slightly at the sight. Rainbows couldn’t solve any problems, but in that moment, I felt like everything was going to be all right.

Chapter Text

“Tell me about the Dwemer’s fascination with Aetherius?”

I lifted my head off my arms and mulled over the unfamiliar word; since Ondolemar’s accusation that he wasn’t trying hard enough, the daily discussions with Calcelmo seemed more like interrogations and less like scholarly discussions. We were both becoming frustrated with each other and I was counting the days remaining until I could return to the college. Until I could return to Nildor. Calcelmo huffed impatiently, waiting for my reply.

“I don’t know this word ‘Aetherius’.”

Calcelmo huffed again, then replied with exaggerated gestures, “Mundus is all below us, Aetherius is that above beyond where any mortal can travel.”

He was asking about space?

“Did the Dwemer travel to Aetherius?”

“Yes.”

“They did?” He blinked in surprise, obviously not expecting a positive response based on all our previous discussions. “How? With portals? Or vessels of some kind? A staircase?”

I snorted at the last one. “With ships. Rockets.”

He continued to look puzzled.

“Um, engines with immense power generated by controlled explosion, combustion of some kind.”

“Ah! Yes, we have encountered these!”

It was my turn to be shocked. “You have?” Thus far, I hadn’t seen anything remotely similar to technology from my own time besides the inert stasis pod I had slept in. That they found the remnants of rockets either from buried missile silos or discarded space shuttles was astounding.

“Yes, yes.” He hurried over to one of the other tables and rifled through the stacks of parchments and books, shoving them aside roughly until he found a rolled scroll. “Here, take a look. This is what they used to power these… rockets?”

The parchment he unrolled before me had a very detailed blueprint but it was very obviously, by the cross-sectional diagram, a turbine of some kind. It was not that dissimilar to what Daniel created for me to pump geothermal heat into my little greenhouse, but not something that would have produced enough power for launching a vehicle beyond the atmosphere.

“This isn’t a rocket engine.”

He pushed a fresh sheet of parchment toward me. “Show me.”

Exasperated I drew the stick-person equivalent of one of the last space shuttles. The wide set back wings of the shuttle sitting on top of the big fuel tank—did it have two booster rockets or three? I pushed the drawing back to him.

“You know how this was made? How it works?” He asked studying the drawing.

I snorted. “No.”

“But this is your technology! You should know this! Why will you not share your knowledge?”

I had had enough of his attitude and accusations. “So what if it is? Just because technology and I co-existed at the same time doesn’t mean I know anything about it! Is every Altmer citizen a scholar in Dwemer history? Is every Nord a jarl? No!” I rubbed at the start of a painful fluttering sensation under my sternum. I blew out a shaky breath, trying to calm myself. “I know plants. That’s what I did, that’s what I know.” I pushed myself away from the table. “I can’t help you.”

I stormed away from Nchuand-Zel and shoved my way out the large brass doors. I seemed to be making a habit of leaving the keep and sitting under the upper balcony for a break from the increased badgering; so much so, that the guards gave me the barest of nods as I passed their alcove. I sat on the edge of one of the massive granite planters, picking away at the little weeds that sprouted like—well, weeds—among the low juniper shrubs gone leggy from neglect. I always marveled at how some warmth and light after a good soak produced so much life.

I concentrated on breathing, drawing in the comforting sharp green scent of the juniper and lingering petrichor of the soil, trying to will the fluttering, anxious feeling buzzing under my skin. I let my hands grow still, my eyes shut, and turn my face toward the sun. Below me, the city has started its return to normalcy. The distant ring of a hammer on metal, the whooshing roar of the silver mine’s forges, and drone of chatter from people going about their business is oddly soothing. Closer at hand, there is a fibrous crackle that I mistake for a bird investigating the junipers before a feminine laugh makes me open my eyes.

“You remind me of an old Baandari peddler we used to trade with. He’d sit under the edge of his wagon, sunning himself—of course, he was nearly almost always out of his mind with skooma—but he wore the same contented look on his face that you are.”

“This one is glad to amuse you,” I replied, cracking one eye open to look her way.

Lisbet barked a laugh. “I have something for you.” She held out a slightly stained square of parchment; my name, slightly smudged from moisture, was clearly written by a familiar hand. “Courier made it through the valley.”

I took the letter from her with thanks and resisted the urge to break the wax seal to read it immediately.

Lisbet placed her hands on her hips and tipped her own face up to the sun to bask for a moment, humming contentedly herself.

“Did the courier bring any other news?” I tried to ask casually.

“More Imperial soldiers come up from Cyrodiil headed to Solitude. No sign of the Stormcloaks trying to stop them from coming over—maybe Ulfric doesn’t have enough support yet from the southern jarls. Cost of silver’s gonna be going up again.” She pried an eye open and looked at me. She quirked a smile and took pity on me. “The caravan is going to be delayed, probably only a week if the weather stays fair. Roads are pretty deep but the bridge remained sound.” Her eyes flicked down to the letter in my hand. “I won’t keep you from your letter. Just make sure you come down to the shop to say farewell before you leave to be reunited with your paramour.”

As soon as she left, I headed back into the keep, skirting the museum and Aicantar’s workshop, to my own room, closing the door softly behind me. The wax seal, embossed with the College’s symbol, broke with a sharp crack as I bent the parchment gently. A sprig of blue salvia, still vibrantly scented like it was just plucked from its stem, spilled out as I unfolded the letter. The petals felt fresh and velvety despite the duration spent folding in the parchment of the letter; it had to have been preserved with some sort of magic. Twirling the sprig in my fingers, I turned my attention to the letter:

My dearest Isana,

I waited with trepidation for your correspondence. Knowing that you wouldn’t have the means to send a response with the same haste as my own letters, I nevertheless suffered bravely through the wait and anticipation of your reply. Your words did much to uplift my spirits. Indeed, my very being fills with joy that you feel thusly, and I too, eagerly await your return.

I must include an official report, thereby avoiding the accusation that I abuse the college’s resources, that your project continues apace. I’ve started another dozen following your method. They do well enough under my own inadequate attention but I am certain all shall come to their full potential under your guidance upon your return, rising and spilling forth in full bloom under your exquisite touch.

I saw a butterfly, one of the deep purple ones, sunning itself today. I thought of you as I watched it unfurl its wings, streaked with golden pollen, to the heat of the sun. It struck me then how envious I was of the flowers that she had visited them so intimately to have evidence of the visit upon her wings…

I felt my cheeks getting warm and reread the letter again carefully, certain I had misread something.

Nope, the innuendo was most definitely there, written between the lines. I was not the only one having lustful thoughts for the other.

My eyes fell on my small trunk that I had never really unpacked, always anticipating my return to the college. The caravan would be delayed by one week. Based on the information I had from Lisbet, I only had thirteen days left before I could leave.

Despite going to sleep that night with pleasant thoughts after reading and rereading Nildor’s letters, my sleep was fraught with disturbing dreams of dark places and confined spaces, shadowed watchers and things that moved just out of sight. I couldn’t recall anything from my time in stasis, but sometimes I wondered if the overwhelming sense of dread I experienced in my nightmares was a product of my subconscious memories more than anything else. I woke with a start from the latest nightmare, gasping at the painful tightness gripping my chest. I drew a shaky breath and slowly exhaled, pressing my knuckles against my sternum, and attempted to talk myself into a more calm state of mind and body.

It wasn’t working.

Blindly, I reached out to the little bedside table for the vial that was always there and carefully removed the cork, tipping a few drops under my tongue. The cork went back in and vial returned to the table, only for me to hear the tinkling sound of glass breaking the stone floor. Damn it.

I sat up slowly and found, much to my relief, that the vertigo and lightheadedness passed within a few minutes. My heart slowed down to a more normal rhythm, and I could get up without risk of fainting. I swept up the shattered vial with a sigh; I would have to get more tincture immediately. Colette had strongly suggested to keep the tincture on me at all times in case of such sudden incidents, waiting until I returned to the college was not an option.

I dressed for the day and found that both Aicantar and Calcelmo were already gone from the museum. I didn’t feel too inclined to rush over to the dig site and had a leisurely breakfast instead of the nutty, grainy bread toasted over the open fire, instead of whatever unidentifiable glob of grey that was left in the pot from earlier. Aicantar still hadn’t managed to learn anything from my culinary examples. I mulled over going down into the city right away to restock my tincture rather than deal with Calcelmo’s bullshit—better to ask forgiveness than permission—however, I didn’t know where to find an alchemist or apothecary that could make up my tincture. I was certain that a city the size of Markarth would have one, probably multiple, but I had no clue as to where. I certainly hadn’t seen any on my way to and from Arnleif’s & Co. and Lisbet didn’t carry anything beyond the most basic supplies.

Reluctantly, I knew I was going to have to ask Calcelmo or Aicantar for directions and set out to Nchuand-Zel munching on my third piece of toast. Passing the steps that led up to the throne room, I could hear raised voices, people arguing about being denied to visit their honoured dead. I slowed down to eavesdrop but immediately changed my mind about doing so as I caught the telltale glint of gilded armour of the Thalmor guards. Where they were, Ondolemar could be guaranteed to be lurking nearby, watching like a vulture looking for carrion. I had no wish to draw his attention.

Calcelmo was pouring over the same old stack of books as he had been the previous day and immediately, upon my arrival, launched into the day’s lecture-slash-interrogation. This time the subject was something called the Numidium and time-travel. He was convinced that the survivors of the ELE had somehow created this giant robotic construct run on steam and “tonal frequencies of soul gems” and in doing so, broke time to try to undo the disaster. It was patently absurd; something that Hollywood screenwriters would come up with for a “B-movie” plot device. And yet, the way Calcelmo carried on about the subject made me pause. 

What if it did happen? What if the survivors did find a way to undo time to try to save the world?

All attempts failed to prevent the meteor from slamming into the Earth and the stasis pods were a last gasp attempt to save the human race. Was it possible that people had survived and a second attempt to prevent the disaster resulted in the world being what it was now?

I couldn’t say yes or no with a certainty. When I went to sleep, magic was a thing of fairy tales but the world had altered and now magic was real. By that logic, how could I say that traveling back or undoing time was an impossibility?

That led to more disturbing questions. If it was possible, why wasn’t I aware of it? Why didn’t I relive it? Unless… A thought niggled in the back of my mind: what if those of us that were in stasis or those that had died were outside the timeline? Aicantar had said that the pods had been damaged intentionally within the same time frame as they were put into use. What if the survivors that traveled back had tried to murder us to eliminate a paradox? I shook my head; the whole idea was very, very disturbing and it made me feel very anxious. I didn’t want to think about it.

“Are you well, Isana?”

I jerked out of my dark turn of thoughts. “What?”

Aicantar thrust his chin in my direction and I realized that I had been rubbing the heel of my hand against my sternum.

“Oh. I need to visit the apothecary.”

He hummed thoughtfully. “Most get what they need from Arnlief & Co.”

I shook my head. “Lisbet doesn’t carry what I need.”

“Then you’ll need to go to The Hag’s Cure. Bothela—”

“Bah, that woman is little better than a hagraven.” Calcelmo spat. “Just as likely to poison you as cure you.”

Aicantar drew me aside from the elder mer’s continued grumbling.

“Don’t mind uncle, he and Bothela had a difference of opinion some years ago.”

“Years?”

He shrugged. “Some things uncle doesn’t let go of.

“The Hag’s Cure is on south side of the city by the mines.” He wrinkled his nose. “I… could go with you. If you wanted,” he added reluctantly.

“No, that’s fine. I can go myself if you give me directions.” I wondered if his reluctance was really due to the area of the city, or like his uncle, a dislike for the woman, herself. 

He nodded, looking faintly relieved. “Be careful. It’s rough down there and the guards are more often paid to look the other way.”

I returned to my room and grabbed the piece of parchment that the college alchemist had written the ingredients and proportions for my tincture, a small amount of coin, and grabbed my shawl from the chest. Nildor’s dagger rolled out of the folds in the fabric with a thump against the wooden trunk. I had forgotten that I had tucked it into the shawl, but now seeing it and Aicantar’s warning fresh in mind, I paused in consideration. I hadn’t had time nor the inclination to learn any real defense with a knife, but it might deter someone from trying anything if I had it. With the dagger tucked into my waistband against the small of my back, the parchment and coin to pay in a secure pocket, I draped the shawl over my shoulders and made sure that it fell low enough to hide the dagger, and headed out to the part of the city I had not yet ventured into.

Chapter Text

Getting to The Hag’s Cure wasn’t all that difficult; I didn’t even need to go down the lower part of the city where the forge and smelters were pumping out the heat and smoke that lingered over the market area of the city. The wooden sign over the door was well weathered and discoloured but I could easily make out the stylized bundle of herbs that accompanied the faded name. Pushing the door open to the dim interior, my nose was assaulted by the mingled scents of all kinds of green things, as well as the earthiness I attributed to fungi, and some others, perhaps mineral in nature, that I couldn’t place. 

“Hullo!” called a female voice from somewhere deeper in the shop. “Mind the boxes!”

I wove my way through the obstacles toward the voice. The granite and wooden counters were littered with blown glass jars, wooden boxes, and other containers obscuring my view of the shop and created almost a maze as I wend my way through carefully as instructed.

The voice belonged to a woman I would have guessed to be in her mid-twenties. Her chin length light brown hair was tidy without a sign of grey, and pale blue paint—perhaps a tattoo—traced across the smooth skin of her cheekbones. This couldn’t be the “hag” that Calcelmo had such a vitriolic hatred for.

“Are you Bothela?”

She shook her head and giggled, then jerked her chin in the direction over my shoulder. The woman that emerged from a room behind me was much older, with long silver white hair and deep set eyes that sparkled with mirth from within her painted, wrinkled complexion.

“I be Bothela, girl. That one’s Muiri, my assistant. What can I do for you?” She gave me a quick appraisal from head to toe and narrowed her eyes with speculation. “I don’t make love potions to draw a man’s eye, but I’ll make a purgative if he’s not true.”

I blinked as I processed the words with her lilting accent. “Ah, no, neither of those things.” I reached into my pocket for the parchment, handing it to her. “I have a tincture for my heart—my actual heart, not—” I waved my hand around as if that explained things, “but I broke the vial this morning.”  

She took the parchment and studied it in the light of a nearby lantern. Her brows rose as her gaze shifted from the parchment to me, then she frowned and looked at the parchment again. I’m not sure what that all meant. “Nightmares you be having? Wake up with yer heart racing and feelin’ the terror creepin’ down yer spine?” I nodded. She grunted and started to pull jars from the shelves. “Dartwing’ll do it—who mixed this for you?”

“Ah, the apothecary at the College—”

“The Imperial, Cratis Vinad? Bah! You din’t mention the disturbances?”

“Um, I’ve never spoken to him. Only Colette Marence, my doct—healer. I haven’t been taking it long and didn’t connect the nightmares with the tincture.” She glanced at me as she pulled what appeared to be a piece of leather from a wooden box and proceeded to hold it over an open flame. With her eyes still on me, I found myself speaking non-stop about the newness of my condition and reluctant haste in leaving Winterhold to come to Markarth at Calcelmo’s request.

At mention of Calcelmo’s name, she scowled and turned back to the now charred piece of leather; the smell made my stomach growl in an embarrassing fashion. She smirked. “Charred skeever hide. Just as effective as the dartwing without the darkness on the sleeping mind. Cheaper too.” 

My appetite died on her words and I tried not to gag as she pounded, what was essentially, scorched rat hair and skin in her mortar and pestle. I chided myself silently for being squeamish about it. It was just protein after all, really no different than the bug parts that were in it before. But rat hair… well, if it was any conciliation, at least it wasn’t rat turds. She dumped the contents into an alembic along with other ingredients and a healthy splash of some sort of alcohol that was so potent, I’m shocked it didn’t ignite when she set it over an open flame.

After several cups of tea and more gossip about Markarth residents than I really cared to know, courtesy of Muiri, Bothela presented me with three small vials and my now-annotated “prescription”. With payment rendered and my purchase safely tucked away inside my clothing, I left the shop. It was later than I expected when I stepped out of The Hag’s Cure to the waning light of early evening; there was a golden glow from the gas lamps in the upper part of the city, but below me the lower part of the city was sliding into the gloom. No expensive gas lights for those working the mines or the forge. As I stood there on the step getting my bearings, the sound of a heavy bolt being drawn echoed against the stone behind me prompted me to get moving. 

I began to retrace my route back to the keep following the higgledy-piggledy steps as they cut through the mountain face in some place, looped around in others, and spanned the river back and forth seemingly at random. I was a third of the way back up when loud and angry words from multiple voices bouncing and echoing against the stones. I paused, tucking myself into the shadows, and peered over the edge of the next set of steps to see what was going on. A large group of people, the majority being men and mostly well-to-do judging from their cloth; had formed a tight arc around a set of brass doors. Apparently the earlier argument in the throne room about the Hall of the Dead had not been settled and the families of the dead were now confronting the priest directly on the door step.  

I debated whether I could safely make my way past the group. I had enough run-ins to think twice about getting too close to a group of angry Nords, especially with their penchant for sharp, pointy weapons. A clay urn came tumbling down the steps to shatter on the landing in front of me made up my mind and I quietly retraced my steps back toward the shop and then down through the smith’s forge and back up on the other side. The smelting furnaces never went out even in the worst weather and glowed a deep red through the soot and smoke at the bottom of the city giving it a hellish, eerie appearance that did nothing for my peace of mind as I crossed the smith’s area and into the the unfamiliar paths and stairs on the other side.

After some twists and turns, a couple flights of stairs up and down, I came out at the top and… Understone Keep was nowhere in sight. Somehow I had gotten myself turned around and was at the opposite side of the city with a view over the city walls and into the Karth River Valley. Retracing my steps took me to a landing with a set of stairs leading down the left, a jog to a set of stairs leading up opposite me and a dark corridor to my right—none of it looked familiar! The dark corridor made the hair on the back of my neck stand up so I opted for the stairs in front of me and found myself at a dead end with a view of the keep’s front doors but no way to get there. Damn it. I doubled back again heading down the steps and to my relief, spotted a person heading into the corridor I had previously dismissed.

“Hello!” I hurried after them and called out again since they hadn’t appeared to have heard me.

I hesitated momentarily at the mouth of the corridor. It was unlit and quite dark, but I heard the echoing sound of a door opening and forged onward in the hope to catch them. The door was recessed to my right half way along the corridor and was unlocked to my relief. I yanked the door open expecting to find the person on the other side but no one was there; however, I could faintly hear the echo of footsteps on stone and the murmur of voices ahead. I let the door close behind me and followed the ramp downward toward the sounds and a pale, flickering light. 

“Hello!” I repeated as I stepped out into the light. 

A half dozen people, give or take, turned as one toward me and froze. 

“Um, hello. I was hoping someone could help me? I appear to have gotten—” Several people shifted nervously and I suddenly wondered if I had walking in on something I shouldn’t have. “—lost.” My eyes darted around while I tried to decide if I should make a note of the faces or not, for my own protection. 

“What’s she doing here?” one of the men hissed. He looked more nervous that most.

“I’m, um, I saw someone come this way and wanted to ask for directions.” I replied, twisting my body to thumb toward the door over my shoulder and jumping with fright at the person standing behind me. I must have passed them in the hall somehow and didn’t hear them approach.

“She shouldn’t be here. She puts us all at risk.”

“Look I don’t know or care what you’re doing…” I tried to sidle around the man standing at my back, but he shifted slightly blocking my escape route. My voice trailed off as I finally noticed the statue in the center of the room:  an armoured man standing with his sword thrust into a serpent at his feet. Before him was a small shrine with an stylized axe, not dissimilar to a Viking axe, adorning the top. Shit. I was in a temple dedicated to Talos. How the hell this was still standing with the Thalmor presence in the city, I had no idea. “I just want to get back to the keep…”

“I know who she is. She’s up there with those elves. She’s conspiring with the Thalmor.”

“What? No! I’m—”

“Just cut her throat and dumping her in the river!”

“She’s a traitor!”

“No!” I hastily backed up , holding my hands out in front of me and watching the nervous men warily. “I’m not with the Thalmor! The Thalmor can rot in hell, the Void, whatever. I don’t care what you’re doing, why you’re here—I just want to go home!”

Foolishly, I lost track of the person that had come up behind me as I backed up right into their grasp. I’m not embarrassed to say that I squealed in fright when he shoved me roughly against the wall, his arm across my chest and a dagger pressed against my throat. My eyes felt like they were going to jump from their sockets.

“Why are you here?” he demanded.

“I said—”

“No, why are you in Markarth?”

“The college sent me—”

His brow furrowed. “Bard’s College?”

I started to shake my head and stopped abruptly at the keen edge of the dagger. “No, Winterhold.”

“Bah, mages,” someone spat.

“I’m on loan, to help Calcelmo with research,” I continued. “I’m going home on the next carriage…”

He studied me closely, eyes narrow with suspicion. “And your role with the Thalmor?”

“None.” Despite the dagger still at my throat, I lifted my chin slightly, which I thought was way more ballsy than I really felt. “They’re fucking assholes.”

The tension in the room snapped like an aged rubber band with a smattering of chuckles. 

The knife withdrew from my throat. “You saw nobody.” I shook my head as the pressure across my chest was removed. “You were never here.” I shook my head again. “Leave the temple, turn right, and don’t look back. At the end of the corridor, turn left. The keep will be visible from there.”

The moment he stepped back, I bolted up the ramp to the door. I hurried out of the temple and turned right as I was instructed. I hastened down the alley to put as much distance between myself and the others in case they changed their minds about letting me leave. Thoroughly shaken by my close call, I hazarded a glance back over my shoulder as I rounded the corner. And ran full tilt into a body. “Oh, I’m so sor—” My apology trailed off in horror as the swath of black that I ran into sharpened into black with golden embellishments. Of all the people to run into—what rotten luck!

“As you should be!” a sharp voice replied. He paused as he calculated my trajectory. “What business do you have down here? Meeting with your conspirators?”

“Conspirators? What? No! I was on my way back from The Hag’s Cure for a treatment of my heart… I took a wrong turn and stopped to ask for directions.”

“In the temple of Talos?” His mouth twisted in distaste. “You are aware that worship of that usurper is banned? I could have your head for this.”

I shook that same head vigorously. “I didn’t know what the place was. I thought I saw someone come this way. I followed to get directions, but they must have turned—I don’t know where they went.” 

One of the guards stepped past me and into the corridor. 

“Did you find anyone to help?”

“No.”

“No one at all in the temple?” he demanded.

“No,” I lied.

“Why then the mad rush that sent you so rudely into my person?”

“It’s silly,” I flashed him a self-deprecating smile and pulled my shawl more closely around my shoulders to make him think I was trembling from the cold, “but I got spooked. I don’t care for the city; dark shadows and echoing corridors. I wanted to find my way back to the keep before the streets were empty.”

“Indeed.” He appraised me coolly. As discomforted as I was with the guard somewhere to my back, I dared not turn to find them. It seemed more prudent to keep my eyes on the justiciar in front of me.

I jumped at the guard, closer to me than I had thought, said something—in the elvish language, I assume—and Ondolemar nodded sharply. Before I knew what had happened, the guard had gripped the back of my neck in one hand, my shawl ripped away and the pointed edges of a gauntleted hand scraped carelessly across my lower back. 

“Get your hands off me!” I was already running on adrenalin from my first confrontation and a surge of anger had me struggle briefly, foolishly and ineffectively as it turned out. I realized too late what the guard was up to as Nildor’s dagger, withdrawn from where it was tucked into my waistband, was presented over my shoulder to Ondolemar. 

Ondolemar barely glanced at the dagger and leveled his gaze on me. “You are not a graduate of Auridon. Where did you get this, hmm?”

“A friend…” I sucked in a hissed breath as the gauntleted hand on the back of my neck tightened uncomfortably. I hesitated, not wanting to draw the attention of the Thalmor in Nildor’s direction. “A friend,” I repeated, “gave it to me. For protection.”

He sniffed disdainfully and turned to examined the dagger with interest, flipping it over and then drawing it from the scabbard to reveal the etched markings on the blade. His brow rose sharply. “Does this friend have a name?”

“Yes.”

His lips curled like he was amused by my attempt to be defiant. “Indeed? I think it is highly more likely that you stole it from its rightful owner.” He moved to pocket the dagger.

“Give that back!” I lurched forward only to draw up sharply as the grip on the back of my neck tightened from uncomfortable to painful. “I promised Nildor—” I snapped my mouth shut, simultaneously cursing my stupidity for saying his name while praying that the Thalmor didn’t know of every single Altmer in the country.

He looked at me with an expression akin to a cat that had just gotten the canary. “Tyerondorinildor Jaerorin? That is unexpected.”

Well, shit—so much for that faint hope. I held my hand out for the dagger. “Please. He gave it to me when I left the college. I wish to return it to him when I get back there.”

Appraising me from head to foot and back again, his face twisting into clear distaste. “I think not. One can hardly trust the word of your kind.”

The justiciar jerked his head sharply and the hand on the nape of my neck let go with a rough shove in his direction. “Be on your way and give thanks to the eight Divines that I’m not writing you up for theft… or heresy.” Fast as a snake, his own hand came up to grip me by my throat making me balance on my toes to keep the pressure bearable. With his other hand he traced the shape of my cheekbone with his fingertips and then my ear with a touch as light as a lover’s caress. “Shame... Your head would be a rather fetching decoration to the city walls. As an example to all those that would defy the Thalmor, of course.” He released me and brushed his hands together like touching me had soiled his fine leather gloves. “Begone, before I have a change of heart.”

I hurried away, my legs shaking as if the bones had been replaced with overcooked spaghetti as I mounted the steps to the keep. Any terror I felt at the threat that the Talos worshippers had made against my life paled in comparison to those Ondolemar uttered; they might have threatened to kill me but I didn’t doubt that he would follow through. The thought of having my head chopped off.. I shuddered and my heart felt like it was going to leap out of my chest. I had to stop and take a sip of the tincture as I leaned against the door of the museum.

“There you are!” Aicantar’s voice echoed off the stone walls. “I thought you were just going to see Bothela?”

I turned my face away, discreetly wiping the tears that had fallen and tucking the vial into my pocket, before flashing him a bright smile that I hoped he would buy. “I did. She had to make my tincture from scratch so it took a bit longer than I had expected.” 

“Oh, very well. We’re about to sit down for dinner if you wanted to join us?” he said, pointing over his shoulder with his thumb.

“Uh huh,” I said with a nod. “I’ll join you in a minute?” He muttered something behind me as I hurried to my room. I took a couple deep breaths to calm myself and gave my face a quick wash, then took a couple more breaths. 

I could do this. A few more days, then I could go back to the safety of Winterhold. I could certainly stay away from the city and I could keep my head down to remain off of Ondolemar’s radar. A few more days, then I could go back to Nildor.

Chapter Text

I spent the next few days on tender-hooks, looking over my shoulder and keeping out of sight in case either life-threatening party decided to change their minds. In truth, I avoided leaving the museum as much as I could, not even to take my daily respite outside to weed the neglected stone planters and get some fresh air and sunshine. Calcelmo was conveniently distracted with an incident involving his expedition crew within Nchuand-Zel. It also gave me a ready excuse to make myself scarce from the site claiming my recent incident with my heart made me wholly unsuited to render assistance to any wounded and utterly useless to provide any defence against whomever—or whatever—had attacked his hirelings. 

If Aicanter noticed a change in my behaviour, he refrained from saying anything and left me, for the most part, to my own devices. 

At least, temporarily.

“What have you done?” 

I looked up sharply from the book Calcelmo had given me to read, with a little flush of guilt. “Nothing. I was just—” I glanced at the book with all my little gleefully malicious annotations, closing it with the still-wet pen between the pages, “making some notes.”

“No, not that,” Aicanter said with an agitated wave of his hand.

“Then I don’t know what you are referring to.”

“Ondolemar! He’s been pressuring uncle to have him petition the college to allow you to stay longer.”

“What?” The book slid unheeded by both of us to the floor with a thump.

“He doesn’t normally have much patience for uncle but for the last couple of days, he’s been visiting on a daily basis. Asking questions. About you." He frowned suddenly as he considered me anew. “What did you do? Ondolemar said that he caught you conspiring with heretics and he had confiscated stolen property from you.”

“That’s a lie. If anything is stolen, he is the one that stole it! From me!”

“So you were conspiring with the rebels?”

“No! You know I went to see Bothela? When I left her shop, there was some commotion on the stairs above—”

“Ah, yes. Brother Verulus had mentioned that something—or someone—was eating the dead.”

My stomach lurched at his words. “What!” I shook my head to clear the distraction; I didn’t want to examine that revelation too closely. “I didn’t want to get caught in the middle of whatever was going on so I went the other way. I got lost. All the stairs and corridors looked the same in the dark.

“When I quite literally ran into Ondolemar, I had just come through the corridor that apparently shared the same location as the temple entrance. It was coincidence!”

He massaged his temples then ran his fingers through his hair with a sigh, “well it’s all a ruse, anyway.”

“It's bull— what?” I frowned in confusion.

“It's a ruse. Today, I overheard him order uncle to inform the college that you’d be staying on for a few more weeks to assist with his research, but it was because he needed more time for an authorization from the First Emissary.”

“For what?”

“He wants to detain you. Officially.”

I could feel the blood draining from my face as I slowly sat up. “Detain me? He can’t do that.”

“He can, if he has evidence that you are involved in any activities that contravene the White-Gold Concordat. Activities that would paint you as an enemy to the Dominion’s interests.”

“But I haven’t done anything,” I insisted.

“And that’s why he needs time. The First Emissary will grant authorization, I have no doubt about that. With what uncle let slip about your origins, Elenwen—” his nose wrinkled slightly, “will be slavering like a welwa to get her hands on anything that could give the Thalmor an advantage over the Empire and the Stormcloaks. It goes without saying that she would not want either party to know about you and that’s why he needs time. To build a case against you so the Empire will turn a blind eye and the Stormcloaks will bemoan yet another citizen caught up in the cogs, but look no further.” 

It was a fortunate thing that I was already seated as I could feel my muscles tremble and I doubted that I would have remained standing. “But… why?”

“There has been no known record of another Dwemer since Yagrum Bagarn vanished with the destruction of Vvardenfell, and prior to his reappearance, not since the First Era. He had a vast knowledge of Kagrenac’s engineering plans and profane tools. For there to be another such individual…”

“But I’ve told you that I don’t know any of that!”

“Whether you do, or do not,” he added slowly, “the Thalmor will not be satisfied until they have determined that for themselves. Whatever reasons you may have in keeping your knowledge to yourself, the Thalmor… they will not be so patient.”

I was so fed up with this line of conversation. I huffed and said through clenched teeth, “I can not tell you what I do not know.”

He considered me, thoughtfully, and then appeared to come to some decision. “You must leave immediately.”

“And go where?”

“I wasn’t to tell you; the merchant caravan arrived yesterday. They will be departing for the return trip to Windhelm on the morrow.”

“What! I have to pack my things right now!” I started to stand but sat again with the weight of Aicantar’s hand on my arm.

“No, listen closely. We have to sneak you out. Ondolemar must not get wind of your escape until you are well on your way to the college. Staying within reach makes things easy for him, but he’d end up tipping his hand chasing after you.

“You must make haste. Pack only what you can carry, just the essentials. I will ship the rest of your belongings behind you. I will go and speak with the driver and pay him extra to leave before first light. I’ll send word ahead of you to the college to have someone meet you at Windhelm.”

Aicanter left immediately and I headed to my room to pack. I debated leaving the notebook that I purchased at the beginning of my journey to Markarth; it had nothing of import, filled with sketches and notes of plants, little observations about the world I now lived in. It had no value to anyone and was an extra weight that I could do without, and yet… I didn’t want to give the Thalmor any opportunity to learn anything about me through something as personal, albeit trivial, as my scribbled notes. Out of sheer spite, I packed the notebook into the bottom of my pack along with Yisra’s and Nildor’s letters, my little magelight, a pretty silver bracelet I had purchased for Yisra, and my freshly restocked vials of medicine carefully rolled into some extra clothing. Nildor’s dagger, was of course, missing from its usual spot and I could only hope that he would not be overly upset at my loss of it.

I was terrified that Ondolemar would find out what we planned and I jumped at every little sound beyond my door. I risked a quick trip to the kitchen, grabbing bread rolls, fruit, and chunks of cheese that I bundled into a clean cloth to tide me over until Aicanter returned, and a few days on the road if needed. 

And then I waited.

Hours passed. I had no idea how many as I sat in my room with the subterranean thrum of the city as my only company. My head drooped at the hypnotic rhythm the echoed through the stone, lulling me into an uneasy doze.

My head snapped up, smacking the stone behind me, as the door burst open without warning. 

This was it. 

Ondolemar found out about my escape plans. 

“Come on.” Aicanter paused when I didn’t move, took in my wide eyed stare and stiff posture. His gaze flicked to the door. “Uh sorry for startling you. We must go. Now.”

I scrambled off the bed, pulled on my sturdy shoes and grabbed my pack and the thick coat Nildor had purchased for me. Aicanter looked momentary confused but didn’t comment. The coat was far too warm for the weather, but a bed roll was too cumbersome; the coat would serve instead. He led me along the corridors from the museum and I noticed that the usual gas sconces were dark, having not been lit or purposely extinguished. For whatever reason, there were a greater number of shadows for us to slip through as we made our way out of the keep. 

I had a moment—thinking that my escape was thwarted—when we exited the keep doors. The two guards that were usually stationed there, the same ones that were frequently present when I escaped Calcelmo’s interrogations for fresh air and weeding, stepped out of their alcove. They took one look at me and Aicanter, and turned their backs on us without a word. I let out a heavy breath with relief.

Aicanter led me down through the city along paths I had not been upon before, occasionally pulling us into dark alcoves as the tread of feet, and glimmer of armour, passed us by. Finally, we slipped through the city walls by way of a small, recessed postern door. 

It was the same driver that had brought me to Markarth, waiting for us, atop the wagon when we arrived at the stables. Alfarinn took one look at me and what little I carried and pressed his lips in a grim line, jerking his head sharply for me to climb in back. “Get under the tarp behind the seat until we clear the guard towers,” he muttered, and with a nod in Aicanter’s direction, he clucked to his horses sending the wagon forward. 

I lurched off balance but quickly scrambled forward to tuck myself where he indicated. The space was cramped and uncomfortable, barely enough space for me to lie on my side between the crates and the wagon box. My hip and shoulder quickly began to ache from the bare wood as the wheels bumped over the broken stone road, and my head from the hot, stale air trapped under the greased tarp above me. With the terror of being caught by Ondolemar and his goons, I was reminded uncomfortably of the night Daniel smuggled me into the facility. All I needed to replicate that now was something slithering into the dark space that confined me. I bit down hard on my lip to stifle the scream that clawed its way up my throat.

The tarp suddenly flipped back letting in a rush of air.

“You can come out now, we’re clear.” 

I sucked in a lungful of cool night air and then another before I began the process of extricating myself from my hiding spot. 

“Didn’t keep yourself out of trouble, huh?”

I huffed, “not due to any fault on my part. Ondolemar is full of shit.”

“The head justiciar?” He sucked air in through his teeth with a whistle as he handed me a canteen I gratefully accepted. “You stepped up to your neck in it. No wonder the elf paid me so much to leave before I had all my cargo.” I opened my mouth to protest. “Nope, don’t wanna know,” he said, interrupting me. He clucked again to his horses. “Get settled, we’ll only be stopping to rest the horses.”

My mood began to lighten with every mile we put between ourselves and Markarth. Alfarinn didn’t follow the same route on our return; said the roads were dry and easy to navigate so there was no need to use the roads further north. It went without saying that staying off the main roads—the expected roads—also kept us out of sight from the Thalmor and any Imperial patrols that may have been erroneously informed to keep an eye out for our passage. 

With every mile that fell behind us, I wasn’t simply relieved to be away from Markarth. I looked forward to my return to Winterhold, despite the chilly temperatures and perpetual winds off the Sea of Ghosts I knew awaited that remote location, I knew that there was someone there that would be welcoming. I couldn’t wait to see Nildor again. I hadn’t realized how much I enjoyed his company until I wasn’t able. Working side by side with him was a genuine pleasure that I missed dreadfully. My months away were surely nothing from the point of view of someone that lived as long as he had, and would still live, but I hoped that he might have missed me just as much. 

I was eager to find out where things would go between us based on our mutual correspondence.

The conservatory was dark when I finally made it through the gates of the college. I was certain that he would still be there, likely working in one of the lower levels as he had been in the habit of doing before I had left for the city of stone. As I contemplated walking over to let him know I returned, a wave of dizziness washed over me. Damn it. I knew I was tired, probably over-tired if I was to be honest with myself, with the continuous travel and less than ideal sleeping conditions. He would be upset if I took a tumble down the stairs. A big yawn caught me off guard and forced me to reconsider my trajectory across the college courtyard. First thing in the morning, I would go and see him, but for now, my bed awaited. 

It was later than I had intended when I finally woke but I felt so much better it. I had a quick wash and dressed in the freshest, least rumpled clothing I had before hurrying to the conservatory, briefly waving hello to people in passing. The conservatory was quiet, no apprentices tending to the plants, no one to interrupt our reunion. I smiled to myself hoping that it meant he was anticipating my arrival as much as I was and didn’t want the students around. The silenced stretched out and for a moment, I thought I was in fact alone, but at the sound of the door falling shut, Nildor emerged from the little sitting area where he had in all likelihood been preparing our morning tea as we had oft shared in the past.

“Nildor!” Without over-thinking it, I hurried forward and grasped his shoulders to steady myself as I raised up on my toes to close the difference in our heights. I pressed my lips against his.

After a slight hesitation, his lips softened, moving over mine as his hands traced their way up my back. Being surrounded by him, the warmth of his lips on mine, the flex and shift of his shoulders under my hands, and the scent of green and growing things that always lingered on his skin, I felt the spool of tension that sat within me for the few weeks release with a rush that made me feel almost giddy with relief. I was back at the college, back with Nildor. I was safe. 

Lost in the moment, I didn’t notice his hands had moved from my back until he gripped my wrists, tearing my hands from him and pushed me away.

I blinked in surprise. “What’s wrong?” 

I stepped forward and reached for him, but again he caught my wrist with a hard hand and held me off. He let go of my wrist with a little shove and reached behind his back to pull out a sheathed dagger that I recognized all too well. 

Ondolemar must have sent it on ahead once he had learnt I had left Markarth. 

“Oh! He returned—”

“You need to leave.” 

I had a sudden horrid thought: did he think I gave it to Ondolemar willingly? “Please let me explain…” I wanted him to know my side of the story, not whatever Ondolemar had said to turn him from me like this. 

I snapped my mouth shut on my explanation when I spotted movement over his shoulder. From the darkened recess of the alcove, Ancano slid out into the light wearing the smarmiest expression of self-satisfaction I had ever seen anyone wear.

“I believe you have been told to leave. I suggest you take heed before you are ejected—forcefully—” A flicker of lightning arced across his knuckles. “And come to any unfortunate harm of your own doing.”

I ignored him and focused on mer before me. “Nildor, I thought that we… that you…”

“You poor delusional creature!” Ancano barked a cruel laugh. “You are sorely mistaken; that an Altmer, someone of Tyerondorinildor Jaerorin’s renown, would demean themselves in such a manner! Absurd! Remove yourself at once.”

How I resisted the urge to slap the sneer from his face, I have no idea, but the cold mask that graced Nildor’s face drew my attention from the asshat’s remarks. My eyes stung with rising tears and I blinked furiously to stop them from spilling over. I wouldn’t give Ancano the satisfaction. 

“Nildor?” I searched his face, looking for some sign that everything I thought, everything I felt for him was not built on a lie. 

His face looked as if it were carved from stone with not so much of a flicker of his eyes in reaction to the evidence of my distress.

“Leave. Now.”

I reeled back in shock and confusion at his tone, pressing the heel of my hand against the pain in my chest, underneath my heart fluttered erratically with my distress. 

It was not possible that I could have misread his actions that badly.

I hadn’t imagined his delight when I kissed him that first time, all the thoughtful little things he had done for me, nor his letters…

His letters…

A hot tear slid down my cheek and I spun away from him, jerking the door open with more force than I intended, sending it careening into a stand of potted plants. The sound of smashing clay echoed behind me as I ran from the conservatory. I didn’t know, nor cared, if anyone took note of my flight as I hurried up the stairs of the closest tower, exiting onto the roof into the howling wind. 

Chapter Text

“Isana?”

I took a deep breath and gave my cheeks a quick wipe to hide any tears. My skin felt stiff. When did it get so cold? I shot a smile at my Redguard friend, hoping that she wouldn’t notice how forced it was.

“I’ve been looking for hours.” Yisra sat down beside me, sliding her arm behind my shoulders. “Gods, you’re freezing! How long have you been here? ” 

“Not long. I came up after going to see…after leaving the conservatory.”

“You’ve missed the midday meal.” 

I didn’t respond beyond a blink of surprise; I didn’t think I’d been up here that long. 

“What happened?” she asked softly.

I pursed my lips as if refusing to say the words out loud would change what had happened. They came rushing out any way. “Ancano was there. I kissed him. And then he told me to leave.” 

“You kissed Ancano?!?”

“No! And ew.”

“I’m confused.”

“Before I left, Nildor gave me a dagger. To defend myself. But the Thalmor—” 

She sneered in disgust at their mention. 

“—in Markarth, took it from me. They…” I paused, unsure of how much I should really say. Yisra knew who I was and where I came from, but I didn't know if that knowledge would put her in danger. “They were trying to accuse me of conspiring with the rebels. And theft! They sent the dagger ahead of me to try to discredit me. I tried to explain to Nildor that I didn’t give it away, I didn’t give it to another man… mer,” I waved my hand to erase my malapropism, “but he wouldn’t listen. Then Ancano came out and said that an Altmer—” I finally managed to stop, not wanting to repeat the words that made the lump in my throat ache.   

“I did warn you.”

I rolled my eyes at her. “You were the one pushing romantic poetry at me and convinced me that he did feel something.”

She heaved a sigh, her lips twisted together in chagrin. “Yeah, he had us all convinced. At least you aren’t in love.” 

I blinked rapidly, glancing away, but it didn’t help as the tears spilled over anew. 

She made a small sound of sympathy and pulled me into a tight hug. “I’m so sorry.” She cocked her head to the side, giving me a look. “Do you want me to…?” She made a wet noise with an aggressive gesture. 

“No.” I cracked a slight smile. “Well, maybe Ancano.”

She laughed and hugged me again. “So what are you going to do now?”

I huffed. “I have no idea, but honestly, right now I’d just like to get drunk.”

She slapped her hand on my leg startling me and stood up. “That, I can help you with, my friend. Come on,” she said, tugging me to my feet. “I know where the boys hid their mead.”

“Wait, the terrible twosome aren’t here?” I was faintly relieved at this development because I was not in the mood to dodge renewed overtures from Rundi once the news of my rejection by Nildor became known. He was sweet but so not my type.

“Nope. All apprentices are expected to present a practical arcane application of each one’s area of study and interest,” she recited like she was mimicking one of senior mages, although I couldn’t picture Phinis speaking like that. It sounded more in keeping with Mirabelle parroting Arch-Mage Savos. “Those two are probably out there trying to figure out how to turn the Sea of Ghosts into mead.” I could practically hear her eyes rolling as she explained, leaning us back down the winding staircase of the tower. “But never fear, Ilas-Tei is still here to be the life of the party with his bad jokes.”

“Hey, I like his dry wit.”

“Ha! Don’t tell an Argonian that they’re dry in any form!” She shoved open the door and led me across the college courtyard to the apprentice’s tower.

“What about you? Are you leaving?”

She shrugged. “Probably. In a few weeks. I’m still working on a few things.” She concentrated on her hand, unfurling it from a fist as orange flames harmlessly coated her hand like a glove.

“That is just…beautiful,” I said watching the show. How amazing would it be to have the elements of nature available at your beck and call to keep you warm on a cold winter’s night, to provide light without any additional energy, all without introducing pollution into the world? It was remarkable.

She clenched her hand closed and the flames disappeared. “It’s not just supposed to be pretty!” she snapped. “Graduates from the college are not to be a glorified jester suitable only for entertaining in the court of some small-hold jarl. I will never live down the shame my parents will heap on me if I can’t make a name for myself. They wholly disapproved in my desire to study magic in the first place!”

“I’m sorry,” I mumbled.

“No, I’m sorry, Isana. It’s supposed to have a practical application: keep you warm and dry in foul weather. Useful for non-mages—” she winked at me, “but I’m having difficulties finding a suitable method of application. It’s vexing me. I need something small and easily carried that has enough arcane potential to carry an enchantment beyond a single use.” She huffed again as she seated me in my own room and disappeared, I assumed to fetch the mead from the boys’ room and invite Ilas-Tei to join us.

“What about something like your necklace?” I asked when she returned, eyeing the iridescent white stones, thinking of the little glow stone she enchanted for me.

“Hmm, it's a thought,” she replied, rubbing her thumb over the biggest stone. “But enough of that now! Here’s our scaly friend come to entertain us—” 

Ilas-Tei gave an exaggerated hiss—I wasn’t sure if he had overheard her outburst regarding be a jester—as he sat cross-legged on the bed with his tail curling around his knee, 

“—while we get utterly drunk and forget all our troubles!”

We did get drunk. I forgot about Yisra’s necklace and her fire charm. But no matter how much I drank, I couldn’t forget the look on Nildor’s face when he told me to leave.

I was adrift for several days. With no routine to fall back into—I didn’t know if I was permitted into the conservatory or not, but I had no intention of being kicked out if I wasn’t—I took to spending my time in the Arcanaeum continuing my education on the flora, fauna, and peoples of Tamriel. I avoided all topics pertaining to the Dwemer and the Altmer. The Orcish librarian, Urag, apart from reminding me to be respectful of the books and space, left me to my own devices.

It was here that the college administrator found me and ushered me to the Arch-Mage’s quarters where not only Savos Arven awaited me, but so too, was Tolfdir. I looked from one grim face to another; dread crept up my spine, chilling me. Did they believe the lies told by Ondolemar? Where they going to turn me out of the college?

“It has been decided that you will leave the College of Winterhold,” Mirabelle stated. “There is no place for you here any longer.”

“What! Why? Where…” The rug had indeed been pulled out from underneath me and I trailed off as my mind whirled with the implications. I snapped my jaw shut when I realized that it was gaping like a drowning fish.

“No need to be so harsh,” Savos chided gently. “Please have a seat,” he directed at me even as Tolfdir guided me to a chair. “As Mirabelle said, we have been discussing your situation and feel it would be best for all involved that you leave the college.”

“This is because of what happened in Markarth? Or the fight with…”

“In part.”

“I had nothing to do with the rebels. And I didn’t steal anything!”

“No one thinks you did,” Tolfdir said, patting my hand. “But the Thalmor are aware of you now and it would be best to remove you from their focus.”

“But can’t I stay here? My project…”

Tolfdir winced. “Ah, no. That is no longer possible, my dear.”

“We are a College of mages; you have no magical aptitude,” Mirabelle added.

“I can earn my keep. Cleaning, cooking…”

“We do not have any openings for housekeeping.”

“It isn’t safe for you here. A single Dwemer in the world might have passed unnoticed, in less turbulent times, but that is not where we find ourselves,” Savos said. “With your presence, the reemergence of dragons which interfered directly with the capture and attempted execution of Ulfric Stormcloak, the Thalmor will be paying very close attention to determine if all of these events are related.”

I was trying very hard not to freak out about the revelation of dragons, but now was not the time for that. I argued, “but doesn’t it make it all the more sense for me to be within the college away from prying eyes?”

“The Thalmor are already within our walls. You can not stay here,” he said, sympathetically. 

“I see.” All the anxieties I had upon waking and finding myself displaced in time, about how I’d survive in this new world, came surging back to the fore. I raked my fingers through my hair. “I will… um…” What the hell was I going to do?

“Do not fret.” Tolfdir patted my hands. “We have a solution. The college has recently come into possession of a small farm in the Rift that is particularly well-suited…” He trailed off with a confused look at the other two mages.

I frowned picking up the threads of his uncertainty. “This was from a former colleague?”

“No but that is immaterial,” Mirabelle waived away the question. “From time to time the college becomes the beneficiary of an estate that is not always from someone that has a direct relationship with us, such as this instance. The property belonged to an elderly alchemist who expressed that it continue to be used as such rather than fall into ruin.” 

“It is more temperate in the Rift, perfect for you to continue your project there,” Tolfdir said eagerly, continuing to pat my hand. “A most fortuitous opportunity for you!”

Savos rolled out a parchment with a rudimentary map. He traced his finger from the college to the southeastern portion. “The Rift is quiet with sufficient distance from those cities that are under direct control or interest by the Thalmor.” He tapped several areas to emphasize his point: Windhelm, Solitude, and Markarth. 

“You will, of course, pay a rent to the college for use of the property,” Mirabelle stated. “A percentage of the proceeds from the sale of your alchemy crops to cover the rent and pay back the initial investment in getting you settled.”

“But no one expects you to begin paying that until you have established yourself,” Tolfdir added, quickly earning himself an exasperated look from Mirabelle. “We’ll write a letter of introduction to present to our colleague in Riften. She’ll be able to help you in that city.”

Mirabelle didn’t even disguise her snort of derision and crossed her arms impatiently. “Be that as it may, the hired cart will be leaving before dawn tomorrow, with or without you. You best get yourself organized.”

My mind whirled with everything that had just been dumped upon me. I was leaving to parts unknown, again, to start my own little farm and expand my project into a working—oh! My project! “Wait! What about my project? I’d rather not start from scratch—”

“The apprentices have already been directed to package up all your plants. You may also obtain supplies you feel necessary to get started on your farm. They will be added to your debt.”

Savos levelled an exasperated look in Mirabelle’s direction.

“Oh. Uh, there won’t be any objections by Nil—by…” I trailed off awkwardly, catching my lip between my teeth.

“Master Jaerorin will not be present, if that is what you are asking,” Savos answered. “He’s taken a leave to deal with some business outside of the college.”

“I see. Does he…um, know?”

The three mages responded differently with my question; Mirabelle pressed her lips together and recrossed her arms, Tolfdir shifted uncomfortably and passed an uncertain glance in Savos direction, Savos held my gaze with a grim expression of his own. “No,” Savos said, firmly. “That is one of the reasons for our haste.”

“I see.” Did they suspect that Nildor was also Thalmor? Or were they simply making sure that the fewest number of people knew to avoid potential leaks to the Thalmor? I just didn’t know what to think. “I guess I’ll… go and get packed.”

Mirabelle’s posture eased with my words. “That would be best.”

“I’ll see you off in the morning,” Tolfdir added with a final gentle squeeze of my hands.

I left the Arch-Mage’s quarters and headed directly to the conservatory on auto-pilot. My thoughts jumping around in a frantic manner and I paused at the door of the conservatory to take a deep breath and calm myself. Leaving the college yet again to parts unknown, with a sword of Damocles in the shape of a Thalmor blade dangling over my head, was nerve racking to say the least, but I wasn’t in position to dig in my heels and refuse to go. I didn’t know all the players, nor all the rules of the game; I had to rely on those that knew better than I and heed their council. I would go, make the best of the situation, and try to make a new life for myself with the opportunity the college was giving me. 

Before the end of the world, before Michael abandoned Daniel and by extension, me, the three of us had talked about a place in the country for a simpler life. After the EMP, Daniel and I had lived that way for a while; cooking on wood fires, carrying water from the community hand-pumped well, my little garden to grow our veg, and foraging in the foothills around the mountain facility. I knew I could manage, but I never contemplated that I would have to do so in a new world, all on my own. The prospect was both exciting and terrifying.

I took another deep breath and headed inside. My eyes automatically glanced to the empty place by the door, but of course, the shattered pots and plants had been cleaned up days ago. I wasn’t going to stop in the alcove that Nildor and I shared our morning tea and reading lessons, but an acrid scent caught my attention and compelled me to investigate. I stood on the threshold stunned by what I saw. The room was in shambles; shattered pots and broken plants strewn across the floor, the lovely green couch scorched with the fabric torn, and in the center of the still-upright table stood a pot of camellias blackened and dead, like they had been struck by lightning. The arc of lightning across Ancano’s knuckles crossed my mind. Had he caused this wanton destruction or had Nildor? 

Heartsick, I turned away and that was when I spotted it. On the floor, beneath one of the work benches, a tied bundle of wilting Dragon’s Tongue lay on top of a book, the “Complete Compendium of Flora in Tamriel”. The very same flowers that brought me to conservatory and the book that initiated our morning routine. I clutched them to my chest, inhaling the waning peppery scent of the flowers, as my mind whirled with questions. Had Nildor left them to remind me of our first meeting as a secret token of apology? Or was it a malicious dig that I had been deceived right from the very start? That they had been left there intentionally was obvious, but the reason, less so. No one but Nildor and I would understand the significance of those particular items paired together. 

There were too many conflicting messages for me to filter through to determine his true message. My experiences with him had been polar opposites; he had been exceedingly caring and warm, then viciously cold in equal measure. The destruction wrought in the alcove could have been an out lash of grief, or an attempt to erase the memory of our shared time. I just didn’t know him well enough to read between the lines.

Steeling my heart, I dropped the flowers on the ruined couch. The book I kept. It would likely come in handy in my new home.

I was awake, or rather still awake, when Tolfdir came scratching at the door. Wordlessly, he took one of the two packed bags and I followed him silently out of the apprentices’ tower, and out of the college along the long, windblown bridge. The town itself still slumbered; the only sign of life was the smell of a freshly stoked fire coming from the chimney of The Frozen Hearth readying for the day’s bread. 

The driver looked disapprovingly at the three crates, two bags, and much to my surprise, the trunk that had remained back in Markarth, being loaded into his carriage by the porters who vanished without a word back to the college and I was certain, back to their beds. I wasn’t sure if he was more critical of the quantity of my luggage or the people handling it. He didn’t look any more amused when, upon Tolfdir’s bidding, a little aged pony was led out by the hosteller's blurry-eyed stablehand and tied to the back of the carriage to follow along. Its saddle added to the load in the wagon.

“A pony is necessary to travel from the farm to—” Tolfdir’s stopped abruptly from stating my destination in front of the current company, his eyes darted from person to person, “in a reasonable time” 

Grumbling, the driver shot me a look, “well get on if you’re planning on leaving. Didn’t get paid enough to dawdle.” He climbed onto the wagon seat and picked up the reins.

I glanced back once toward the college. It was mostly obscured by town and only the top of the main tower, glimmering in the waning moonlight, remained visible over the line rooftops. I gazed, wistful that someone would come to see me off, but Tolfdir had done his job well; no one was around to witness my departure. I know that there was no cause for it, but I couldn’t help the feeling that I was being hurried off in disgrace, that the college was wiping their hands of me (rents notwithstanding).

I turned to Tolfdir and surprised us both by giving the old man a hug. “Thank you.” I could only manage a whisper around the lump in my throat. 

He returned the hug awkwardly and stepped back. “Be safe,” he said quietly, giving my cheek a gentle pat. “Find happiness, my dear.” He turned abruptly and strode off back into town without so much as a backward glance.

Yeah, that didn’t reinforce the feeling of dismissal one bit.

The driver cleared his throat impatiently. 

I muttered an apology and climbed on board, plunking myself down with my back against the crates as the wagon lurched forward before I had even gotten myself seated. 

Once again I was venturing out into this strange world. This time there was no one waiting for me at the other end. No one to return to if things didn’t go well. No one that would know me at all. It was an opportunity to start afresh; leaving the danger of my origins behind me. My life was now in my own hands for the first time in, well, millennia, and it was up to me to determine how I lived that life. How I started that new life. Whatever else may come, I was determined to make it a good start.

Chapter Text

The first part of the journey was not that different from the first time I left Winterhold, minus the bigoted, murderous, axe-wielding Nord. Jerlod was a gruff man of few words and I quickly got the impression that he’d prefer to drive in silence than make idle chitchat. Whether that was the way he was or was influenced by who had paid his fees, it suited me just fine as I was still a little bit numb over my expulsion from the college. He did marginally warm up to me after he discovered that while I could eventually manage to light a fire with flint and steel, I could absolutely not accomplish the same task with magic. That scored some points in my favour, but not enough to offset the inconvenience of carting me and my wayward pony (I have no idea why or how the pony managed to eat his spare shirt) to our destination. 

For four days we travelled, at what I thought was a fairly leisurely rate, from sunrise to sunset, keeping to the road as we headed southeast. After bypassing the small town of Kynesgrove, we didn’t come across any other settlements; nothing larger than the odd farmstead or two. We passed the occasional scars of larger settlements, reduced to nothing more than stone foundations, reclaimed by nature, to marked the passing of that village. I knew from the time spent in the Arcaneum that the new world’s history had not been peaceful and calm after it was reset by the ELE that wiped out my world. Wars—civil or otherwise; magical, cataclysmic events; time warps; daedric portals (whatever the hell those were), had left their marks on the land and its people, but nature was nothing but resilient and silently reclaimed what was borrowed from it.

My mood gradually lifted with every mile that passed by. The tundra and wind-stunted vegetation of the north gave way to thick coniferous forests which, in its turn, gave way to deciduous forests of aspens, birch, and poplars. Oh the foraging I could do for wild herbs, berries, nuts, and best of all: mushrooms! The foothills rippled with leaves and long grasses, and I caught glimpses of rabbits and fox, deer and the odd bear, and a plethora of birds. It certainly seemed like I was going to somewhere rich with life that I could hope to make a decent one for myself without the stress and constant threat of the Thalmor. 

We had stopped travelling on the fourth day, setting camp for the night hours earlier than normal. I was puzzled by this but Jerlod explained in his concise`  way that it was so we would arrive at the farm in the daylight and he could carry on to Shor’s Stone before nightfall. I was both relieved and suddenly anxious for the coming day and slept fitfully as a result. In the morning, we packed up camp and I tied the pony to the cart after taking it to the stream for water. I perched myself up on top of the crates and craned my neck around trying to memorize the terrain for when I had to travel it on my own.

He turned the cart off the southerly road for the first time in our journey and headed due west along the foothills. The reality that I would soon be dropped off, alone on some remote farm, sent a spike of adrenaline skittering up my spine and butterflies fluttering in my chest. I hazarded to start a conversation with Jerlod before I no longer had the opportunity to converse with another.

“Are we in the Rift now?”  

He shook his head. “Nah. Northwind Peak,” he jerked his chin toward the high snowy peak to our left, “marks the border. Y’er still in Eastmarch.” 

I must have looked unconvinced. “But the farm?”

He shook his head again. “Is on the border ‘tween the two. Ya go back to the southerly road and follow yonder until you reach the mountain pass. Then you’re in the Rift.”

“And Riften—”

He grimaced. “Best you be stayin’ out of that lawless place. Nothin’ better than cutpurses and harlots.”

“I have a letter of introduction to the court mage there…”

He muttered something I didn’t catch which was probably just as well as I had a pretty good idea how he felt about magic users. He looked back over his shoulder, eyeing my deceptively placid pony skeptically. “Set out at dawn, you’ll make Riften ‘fore evening. Stay on south road through Shor’s Stone, past the fort. City’s not far after that. If you’re smart…” he paused, “you’ll keep away.”

I could only imagine the pause was due to his poor opinion of my intelligence.

We fell to silence as the cart lurched off the cobbled road degraded to packed dirt. The packed dirt too vanished under encroaching vegetation. The road less travelled. I hoped he knew where he was going because I was beginning to wonder if we were driving out into the great beyond. Before I could give voice to my misgivings, a small brownish lump appeared on the horizon and swiftly grew to be recognizable as a structure set within the aspens and birch at the foot of the mountains. A gust of breeze rustled the leaves, bringing with it the scent of the trees but also a hint of sulphur. I sniffed again.

“Hot springs. To the northwest.” He pulled the horse to a halt in front of the house.

The farm was… not what I expected. 

The house was a long wooden building with a layered thatched roof that swooped up at either end giving the impression that the house was collapsing in upon itself. Thick beams arched toward the walls as if to hold the structure up from falling on its face, furthered this impression. A pair of latticed windows, dull and grey with accumulated dust, flanked a door set under a small arched, thatched porch. A small stone lean-to abutted the house on one end; I wasn’t sure if that was intended for livestock or not but there did appear to be a rudimentary fence around it.

Opposite the house lay a small field surrounded by a low stone wall; dashed in sections by wooden fencing, like a morse-coded message left by the previous owner. Whether to welcome or warn away, I couldn’t yet determine. The wooden boards were weathered, some broken, and a good many simply crooked as they sagged in defeat. The field itself looked like it hadn’t been in production for a good many years; grasses and weeds, all sorts of opportunistic vegetation, were doing their best to obscure the ghost of orderly furrows. I sighed, this was going to take a lot of effort to restore before I could think of establishing my plants.

Jerlod set the brake, looped the reins, then hopped down from the cart. Without a word, he untied my pony and handed me the rope as if I knew what to do with it. I hesitated long enough for him to sigh. “Yonder shed should be secure enough for the daedra-bedamned beast.” 

I looked over my shoulder to where he indicated. Ah, the lean-to.

The pony followed me gamely enough until we got to a large patch of some dandelion-esque looking plant at which point he sharply veered in its direction nearly yanking me off my feet. I tugged on the pony’s head repeatedly. “You are a walking stomach! Is there nothing you won’t try to eat?” I tugged again, and the pony finally complied in raising his head. A huge chunk of the plant ripped from the ground and was jammed in his mouth; yellow flowers sticking out one side bobbing and swaying as he chewed, and a ball of roots dribbling soil out the other. I tried to grab the flowers but he jerked his head aside quickly, spraying me with chunks of dirt and pebbles as he did so. “Fine. Keep the damn thing,” I grumbled, giving him another tug in the direction of the shed. 

I wasn’t confident that the wooden fence would keep him in but an iron ring set in the stone wall of the house looked sturdy enough to keep him somewhat contained. I tied the rope to the ring, leaving enough length for him to crop the grass in the shed and a bit beyond, but not long enough for him to get a leg over the rope. On the side of caution—in case, god forbid, he decided to eat the rope—I wedged the loose fence boards across the gap we entered. If it accomplished nothing more than to slow down his escape, it would suffice. I turned back toward the house just in time to see Jerlod slap the reins on his horse’s rump and set it off in a brisk trot out of the farm yard.

“Wait!” I shouted, hurrying toward the front of the house.

Jerlod didn’t pause or even look back; he simply raised his hand over his head with a brief wave and kept on going.

I stood there, stunned, my mouth working like a fish out of water in silent protest as he and the cart disappeared over the horizon. He just ditched me and left! I snapped my mouth shut and waved a way an insect that buzzed near my face. I took a deep, calming breath. At least I had a roof to go over my head, even if said roof was on the ram-shackled side, while I figured out what to do next. I forced myself to turn away from the road and found that every crate, trunk, and bag was sitting in an orderly row along the path to the house. 

Well. 

I guess that was something.

I pulled the big iron key that Tolfdir gave me and slid it into the lock. I held my breath as I started to turn it as I had no idea what I was going to do if I couldn’t get into the house. I needn’t have worried as the lock turned with ease and the door swung open silently as if the hinges had been oiled yesterday. With the two windows caked as they were with grime and dirt, the interior of the house looked dark and gloomy so I left the door open to let in some light. 

The house consisted of a single room with a fireplace opposite the door, and a loft space on one end accessed by a ladder. I briefly contemplated using the loft for a sleeping space when I realized that the rising heat in the house would make it a perfect place to dry flowers and herbs for market. The previous owner must have thought similarly as there was a wooden bed frame pushed up against the wall on the opposite side of the house, and a kitchen-slash-work area below the loft. To my surprise, I discovered that there were a pair of windows flanking the fireplace that matched those flanking the door, and there was a single window at either end of the house. I would have natural light all through the day, at least, once they were clean. It made me positively giddy to think about the light and how I could keep plants in the house, fresh herbs and greens throughout the year, seedlings started for the spring, and flowers. So many flowers! 

There were a couple pieces of furniture in place besides the wooden bed. The kitchen area had several wooden counters and there was a square table with a pair of chairs and a wooden bench stacked on top of it like some poltergeist-inspired artwork. On the stone floor, there was a large rug that looked threadbare and frayed, and crunched under foot. I hoped it was just some dead leaves that had blown in at some point, but didn’t want to think about it too much; I’d be dragging it outside later to see if it was salvageable. 

The fireplace was massive, taking up at least a quarter of the available wall space on that side of the house. Certainly big enough to heat the space in winter and provide the means to cook my meals. I ducked my head cautiously under the stone edge of the fireplace and looked up the chimney to assess if it was usable and frowned when I saw nothing but darkness. Not a good sign. I rolled my eyes and tutted to myself; the flue was probably closed! I recalled seeing a metal lever embedded in the stone face but didn’t give it anything more than a cursory thought. I ducked back out of the fireplace and pushed on the lever. Unsurprisingly, it was stuck. Retrieving a chunk of firewood from a pile set outside the front door, I returned, gripping the wood like a baseball bat and swung it at the lever. It was awkward as the lever needed to move in the opposite direction that I was naturally inclined to swing, but it worked. With a protesting squeal of metal, the lever shifted an inch. I swung again. Nothing. I whacked the lever from underneath and then from above, trying to jostle it from its jammed state. I blew my hair out of my eyes and swung the wood with all my strength. 

Several things happened in quick succession.

The lever jumped with an ear-piercing squeal and slid to the other end of its track. A large bundle of debris comprised of sticks, leaves, and one supremely enraged, screeching grey rodent the size of a small dog came tumbling out of the chimney. I shrieked at the rodent, tossed the chunk of firewood into the air, and launched myself on top of the stacked table and chairs that wobbled precariously at my assault. I don’t know if the rodent was rabid but it didn’t seem too deterred by my presence, instead seemed determined to hold its ground. At least, until the chunk of firewood descended and hit it square on the head. Discretion being the better part of valour, the rodent took the available escape route straight out the open front door.   

I carefully climbed down the wobbling mountain of furniture and considered the pile of debris on the hearth, wrinkling my nose at the musty smell of rat, raccoon, or whatever it had been. I didn’t have a shovel and the thought of scooping up the mess with my hands revolted me. I fetched my flint and steel, several chunks of wood and bits of kindling from the pile outside, and shoved the lot back into the fireplace. I didn’t look up the chimney again before I lit it, in case something else was lurking up there; if there was, they better take the hint that it was no longer a safe place to stay.

With a roaring fire in the hearth, I finally got enough light in the house to see what was there. It wasn’t as bad as I thought. There was a thick layer of dust on the floor, recently disturbed by my own feet and the rodent interloper. There was more dust and debris than I would have expected for the previous owner to have been recently deceased, but then, perhaps they had left the farm before their demise. 

The rug was dusty and scattered with leaves as I suspected—I hauled that out to the yard and flung it over the fence to beat the hell out of later. I returned to the house and noticed for the first time that there was second set of tracks in the dust. They were bigger than mine and hadn’t been there long enough to have the slightest layer of dust to settle back into them. Ice skittered up my spine; Jerlod never came into the house, the door had been locked. The tracks led to the kitchen area: it was empty beside the counters. I carefully climbed a few rungs of the ladder to peer over the edge of the loft. No one there, just a few crates pushed up against the back wall. I climbed back down and eyeballed the cabinet by the door. It was too small for someone with those feet but I jerked the door open nonetheless. A few woven baskets tumbled out but nothing more. There was no one under the bed. Then I realized with growing trepidation that there was a privacy screen obscuring the one corner of the house and the tracks also led back there. I picked up the iron poker from the fireplace and held it before me, carefully tiptoeing my way around.

There was no one but a large crate, almost big enough to pack all of what I brought with me inside of it, sitting there silently. 

I laughed half-hysterically in relief as the room swooped before my eyes. I sat down on the edge of the bed frame and pulled out my vial, dripping a couple of drops of tincture under my tongue as I stared at the crate and worked on regulating my breath. Too much anxiety and excitement for one day, no wonder my heart was protesting. I sat there letting the tincture do its work, staring at the crate. Of course, I still needed to open it. Make sure that no one was hiding inside. Or had hidden a dead body. 

Stop trying to freak yourself out! I chided myself with a shake of my head. 

I didn’t have a crowbar but the poker did well enough. The lid popped up with the screech of loosened nails and the smell of clean linen, lavender and rosemary, wafted out. I carefully poked around in the crate, not wanting to pull out clean linens onto a dirty floor, but didn’t find anything nefarious. It still posed a bit of a mystery as I was told by Tolfdir that I would only have what I could take from the college and would have to go to Riften to purchase the rest. That it had been brought into the house fairly recently was obvious, but who had brought it and why? Leaving that mystery for the time being, I spent several hours sweeping the floors then washing down the stones as best I could with nothing more than bucket after bucket of well water and a stiff bristle brush I found in one of the kitchen boxes. The six windows got the same treatment which made a drastic improvement in general to dispel the gloom, and then I hauled the freshly beaten rug and my luggage from the front yard into the house to the sound of distant rumbling thunder. The evening sky was clear of clouds with no scent of rain in the air, but who knew how quickly that could change?  

After checking on the pony, who was oblivious to my labours and happily munching his way through grass up to his eyeballs, I left him with the big wash tub filled with water and headed in for the first night in my new home. I dropped the bar across the door and leaned against it, closing my eyes against the view of unpacked boxes, crates, and bags waiting for me. I was beyond tired by this point and wanted nothing more than to curl up in bed and go to sleep. But before that could happen, I had to unpack and make up said bed. My stomach gave a loud growl.

Alright, food first.

With a quick dinner of jerky and a thick slab of bread, I tackled the large crate found behind the privacy screen. The first layers were two pairs of linen sheets for the bed, a woollen blanket, and a fur throw. Below those, a half dozen silk cushions in vibrant shades of purple, blue, and scarlet with hand embroidered flowers and leaves, and gold trim. The silk was flawlessly smooth and had to have been worth a fortune. They were the most unexpected things to find in the farmhouse of an elderly farmer. The rest of the furniture was plain and utilitarian; the cushions were the oddest bit of luxury.

The last item in the crate took me nearly ten minutes to extricate. Smelling faintly of lanolin, it nearly knocked me off my feet as it unfolded into a thick stuffed mattress. I wrestled it on top of the bed frame and collapsed on to it, exhausted. 

I should get up and put the sheets on the bed before I sleep. 

My eyes drifted shut and I drew a deep, slow breath, inhaling the comforting scent of lavender and rosemary. 

Morning would be soon enough.

Chapter Text

I woke to silence. Such a different silence than I was accustomed that it took me a few minutes to remember where I was. There were none of the undercurrents of other people going about their day as there had been at the College, none of the subterranean thrum as had been in Markarth, no rustling of the breeze through leaves and grass as when I had slept outdoors travelling between. Nothing but the silence of my wood and stone house nestled up against the mountain foothills; not even the crackle or settling of the fire I had laid the night before and neglected to bank before surrendering to my exhaustion.

I rolled away from my view of the wall to the open room. The sunlight slanted at a sharp angle through the front windows, creating a diffuse pattern of leaded diamonds upon the irregular stone flags. A sliver of light breached the window in the kitchen that faced south. Mid-morning then, at best.

Thud, thud.

I jerked upright at the unfamiliar noise and held my breath. It hadn’t come from someone knocking on the door.

Thud.

I slipped off the bed and grabbed the poker from the fireplace.

Thud.

I peered out the window then cautiously opened the door, poker at the ready, in case I had to defend myself.

Thud.

There was no one there. 

No sign that anyone had arrived at the farm. 

I pulled the door open and looked down the path that led back out to the road. There was no sign of anyone or anything. What the hell could be making that noise?

The wash tub sailed over the fence and came to a gentle rolling stop among the weed crowding the opposite fence. I sighed and lowered the poker. 

Apparently someone was thirsty. 

I hauled a bucket of water along with the tub back to the lean-to and paused to wonder how the pony had managed to send the tub over the fence in the direction it did. 

“You untied yourself, didn’t you?” I said to him when he met me at the fence, rope dragging in the trampled grass. 

He bobbed his head up and down with impatience, but I chuckled at the uncanny resemblance that he had answered my question in his own way. 

I picked up the rope to tie him up again, wondering how I was going to thwart his efforts, noting the squished wet end that he had obviously mouthed to get it loose. He hadn’t tried to escape, had he? There was plenty of grass still in the pen and he was unlikely to leave while there was, regardless of “the grass is greener on the other side of the fence” proverb. I removed the rope from his halter, gave him a pat on the neck and paused to pull some bits of grass, flower petals and other plant material from his forelock. I pulled a yellow flower from the long white mane; it looked like a miniature daffodil. “Daffodil, huh?” I twirled the flower in my fingers. “Guess you just earned your name.”

With the pony tended to, I returned to the house. My stomach growled, but first things first, I needed to get my seedlings unpacked and into the sunshine. I popped the wooden crate open and gingerly lifted out the first tray. “Oh look at you beauties,” I crooned to the plants, running my finger over the tender green leaves on one of the twelve seedlings. I pulled the second tray out.

Apart from looking a little wilted, there were twenty-four nightshade seedlings grown to four inches in height with an abundance of pale green, oval leaves. “Let’s get you some water and sunlight,” I said, carefully scooping water from the bucket with my hands so not to flood them, then set them under the eaves of the house to soak up some sun.

I coaxed the fire back to life for a pot of tea and toast smeared with a bit of snowberry preserves, lightly sweetened just enough to temper the sharpness of the berry. Nildor would—I huffed, adding another spoonful to the toast. It no longer mattered what Nildor liked or disliked for our morning tea, did it?

I washed my hands and finally made the bed properly. It was too warm now for the fur but I left it folded up on the foot of the bed until I figured out how I was going to organize everything for the seasons. The silk pillows, which still seemed so out of character for the house and what I knew of the previous owner—granted, that was very little—were tossed onto the bed in an “artful” pile. There were a few other linens in the crate, small pieces for household chores, larger pieces for towelling, and a modest bolt uncut that could be used any other need that could arise. 

I was about to start dismantling the crate as it was too large to haul up the ladder to the loft and the wood was too good a condition to use as kindling—perhaps makeshift shelving or drying tables—when I discovered a false side in the crate. There was a gap about an inch and a half wide that ran the whole width of the crate. Puzzled, I slipped my fingers into gap and found something that felt like fabric covered wood. Carefully pulling straight upward, a very fine painting emerged from its protective hiding spot. The painting depicted a building of pure white stone, with tall spires and elegant arches, crowning a hill adorned with lush trees, and a sky that looked like an evening after a thunderstorm. It was like something out of a fairytale, too fanciful and elegant to be real, but I could see how an Altmer living in Skyrim might long for something resembling those elven islands I had read about. I flipped the painting over and in the bottom corner was a bit of faded scripts “College of Sapiarchs, Second Era”. Not so fictional after all. Figured. The previous owner must have loved the painting judging how carefully it had been packed, so I placed it on the mantle of the fireplace, a place of prominence, in remembrance to them. 

It took no time as all to unpack my meagre belongings; clothes into the single cabinet, Yisra’s enchanted glowstone on the bedside table, the preserved camellia flower I placed in a vase on the table. I couldn’t make myself throw it away despite being tempted repeatedly to do so, but Nildor gave it to me in a moment of sweetness that I just couldn’t cast aside. The few books I pilfered from him and the Arcaneum were placed onto the narrow bookcase, the kitchen set up and organized, and a back bench in the kitchen set aside for my horticultural pursuits. 

I left the trunk at the foot of the bed and the crates were hauled up the ladder to the loft. There were nearly a dozen pots and baskets in a variety of sizes and styles that I knew immediately that I was going to fill them with all sorts of plants to green up the house. There was a crate filled to bursting with more books on all sorts of topics of horticulture, plant identification, and the finer points of alchemy, as well as what appeared to be novels. A plain wooden lap desk with an empty pot for ink and a small box with several quills was next; the feathers on the pens disintegrated to dust when I ran my finger along their lengths. Those were easy enough to replace but I was surprised that they had become so fragile in such as short passage of time. 

There was one more crate that I pulled out into the light. It wasn’t as heavy as the box full of books and I could hear a faint clinking from within as it bumped over the uneven floor boards of the loft. I carefully pried off the top and found a mound of straw, within the straw were many small glass jars. They looked hand blown—well, I imagine all glassware other than sheet glass was now in this time—but the jars didn’t have the uniformity that one would expect if someone went to a glass producer and asked for three dozen jars. There were jars that fit in my hand as if they were an apple, tall cylindrical jars, and square jars, in a myriad of colours. In each and every jar, stopped tight with a glass lid and sealed with crumbling wax, there were seeds, many of which I didn’t recognize. Alongside the dozens of jars, was a leather bound book.

I sunk to the floor, cross-legged; the volume set on my lap and a small round jar filled with the prettiest purple-blue seeds that made a soothing, melodic sound as they swirled around the glass. With the leather tie holding the book closed, undone, I flipped it open to the first page to find florid handwritten text that took me a few minutes to decipher:   

Kalariil Grayal
Master Alchemist and “Alt udhendra av polis, nile, ae aciai”
Formerly of Lillandril, Summerset. 

Herein lies the record of my endeavour to catalogue the previously unidentified plants from the uncivilized reaches of Tamriel beyond the blessed shores of Summerset; their potential for propagation and improvement for alchemical utility of both beneficent and destructive properties.

“Nice to meet you, Kalariil,” I murmured to the author. I could almost picture him standing before me, hands grasping the lapels of a tweed jacket, as he lectured—I snorted a laugh—I doubted very much that any Altmer would deign to wear wool tweed, but the impression his words awoke was a memory of one very pompous guest whose lecture I had attended during my university days. Fortunately, the lecturer became much more approachable to those students that expressed their enthusiasm and I hoped to find the same depth of shared knowledge within Kalariil’s pages.

I skimmed the next few pages, sympathizing while I skipped over the more mundane notes of the discomforts of sea travel, sleeping out of doors in foul weather, travel rations, and the horrors of personal hygiene—or lack thereof—when journeying cross country without the luxuries of home. He not only wrote about his travels but also the plant life he encountered with detailed sketches that I truly appreciated. The sketches were coded and with a glance at the jar in my hand, I saw that the lid was also coded. I flipped through the pages and found the same code—

Thud. Thud.

I huffed with frustration at being interrupted, then blinked in surprise at the deepening gloom; I had spent far more time organizing and then getting lost in journal’s pages than I had thought. I could almost hear Daniel’s voice, lovingly chiding me for trying to ruin my eyes by reading in the dark. I smiled at the memory and I tucked the leather tie into the pages to continue reading later. After I dealt with the demanding pony.

Daffodil perked up his ears at my exit from the house and banged the wash tub against the fence to make his point. 

“Yes, yes! I’m coming.” I pulled the washtub out of his paddock temporarily out of his range and started drawing up a bucket from the well. “I’m going to have to get you a bigger tub that you can’t toss, you little bugger.” I dumped the bucket of water and drew another. “Too bad I don’t have a hose to make this easier,” I said, eyeing the distance between the paddock and the well. “Or a water pump. Or a generator.” 

I dumped the fourth bucket of water into the tub and wandered over to the field to take a look at where I would start to work the next day and give the pony a few minutes to drink so I could top up the tub before heading in for the evening. The surrounding fence wasn’t in as bad a condition as my first impression had led me to belief. The soil, on the other hand, was quite settled with an established layer of grasses and opportunistic plants including some patches of very tenacious creep cluster. That was going to require some serious digging on my part to eradicate. I pursed my lips as I considered the largest specimen. Or, I could see if it could be cultivated espalier along the fence to conserve space by taking advantage of its tendency to crawl. The rest of the field wasn’t going to be all that much better if it had been left dormant as long as I suspected, but I wouldn’t be certain until I could get the hoe into turn the soil.

As I stood there, the moon—I don’t know if the people called it Masser or Secunda now, but I could clearly see the familiar craters on the surface to know that it was my moon—started to peek over the hills and through the treetops. Glowing yellow torchbugs winked in and out of view broke me from my rambling thoughts and I returned to the pony. I glanced in the tub; it looked untouched. “What’s wrong? Don’t like the water?”

The pony wandered over, touched his nose to the surface and gave a hard snort spraying water over my pants without actually taking a sip before wandering off again. 

“Opinion noted.” Well, the proverb did say that you couldn’t make them drink.

I shifted in the saddle uncomfortably; as much as Daffodil turned out to be an easy pony to ride, I was unaccustomed to riding and was looking forward to getting my feet back underneath me. He slowed to a walk at the slightest suggestion as the first watchtower came into view on our approach to Riften. We left the farm at dawn at Jerlod’s recommendation and made good time with still some hours of daylight remaining as we started our descent through the hills to the city below. The golden green leaves of the trees fluttered in the breeze that carried the scent of water. I could see the glimmer of reflected sunlight of a large body of water in the distance beyond the hazy shapes of man-made structures. 

In my saddle bags, I had packed the broken pieces of my hoe I broke the handle on trying to chop through the roots before I resorted to sending Daffodil around in circles at the end of his rope as I walked us both up and down the field. His hooves were more effective than my efforts, accomplishing more in a single day than I had done manually in the same time.  

As well as the hoe, I had a couple of knives and shears that needed some attention from a smith and my letter of introduction to the court mage, Wylandriah. Mirabelle had rolled her eyes when Tolfdir suggested I meet with the mage, but then Mirabelle didn’t seem to hold a high opinion of most people other than herself and Savos Aren. 

Nevertheless, I remained optimistic that my meeting with Wylandriah would be fruitful. With the nightshade seedlings planted, generously spaced for ease of weeding and allowance for the plants to grow into their mature size without crowding, they took up less than a third of the cultivable space. There was room for me to try to establish more plants. I had already started a preliminary list from Kalariil’s notes on plants that may have valuable alchemical properties and would thrive in the environment available. I was hoping to pick her brain and get some insight as to which plants would have a market in the local community, or failing that, be pointed in the direction of someone that could advise me. 

The pony ambled down the hill, past the guard towers that appeared to be more used for watching for bandits or fires based on the nonchalant attention sent my way as I passed, toward a set of long low building abutting the city walls. His ears perked up eagerly, and I, too, got the scent of horses.

“All right, all right,” I said, stroking his neck to calm him. “We’re almost there. Steady…” He jigged a step or two but I needed have worried as he was too tired to make a big fuss and fell back into his sedate walk. 

A young Redguard, pushed himself off the wall of the stables and away from a brunette woman, dressed in dark leather, he had been speaking to, catching Daffodil’s bridle as we halted in the yard. “Welcome to Riften, miss. Be staying in the city long?” he asked, giving my pack an appraising look.

“A day or two, I should think.” I dropped from the saddle to the ground and gasped at the sharp pain that shot through my feet and legs when I landed. The stable hand waited without comment as I found my footing while removing my pack from Daffodil’s back. 

“That change, you just let me or the stable master know.”

“Her?” I jerked my chin in the direction of the woman. She didn’t seem all too keen on the horses as she waved an inquisitive nose away from herself. 

“Sapphire?” He snorted slightly. “No, not her. The big man, Hofgrir Horse-Crusher.” My concern must have been plain on my face. “Don’t worry, it’s just a—well, your pony will be safe enough. I swear it. If you haven’t got a place to stay, recommend the Bee and Barb. Tell ‘em Shadr sent you.”

“Thanks.” I scratched Daffodil on his forehead. “See you later. I hope.”

Shadr shot me a little lopsided grin and led the pony away into the shelter of the stables as I started making my way carefully down the slope to the gates, skirting around a carriage that just arrived with a couple of passengers. I gave silent thanks to the forethought to bring my cane. I seldom needed it any longer but I was thankful to have it now judging how my legs wobbled.

“Hold there,” a helmeted guard, wearing a tabard with the city’s emblem—a set of crossed daggers—emblazoned on it, stepped out from under the shadows of the city walls and planted himself in my path. “Before I let you into Riften, you need to pay the visitor’s tax.”

“A visitor’s tax? What’s the tax for?”

“For the privilege of entering the city.” He crossed his arms over his chest belligerently. “What does it matter?”

I almost bought it, that was until his last statement which made it completely obvious that the tax was not legitimate. “This is obviously a shakedown. I won’t pay—” I raised my voice, “and I’ll be informing the jarl of this little scheme when I have my meeting with her and her court later today.” I waved my letter of introduction, with its official wax seal and ribbon, under his nose to emphasize my point.

“All right, all right,” he hissed at me. “Keep your voice down… you want everyone to hear you?”

I raised a brow at him.

He huffed and shoved his partner aside, stomping to the gate. “I’ll let you in, just let me unlock the gate.”

“Thank you,” I said flashing him a false smile, stepping past him through the open gate.

“You’ll keep this between us? Can’t have everyone thinking they don’t have to pay the tax.”

I shot him a dirty look. I wasn’t going to play that game. “I’ll bring up your recommendations with the jarl.”

“…gonna have my balls for this…” he muttered as I continued out of earshot.

Chapter Text

I liked Riften immediately. 

The aspen trees that clustered the surrounding hillside spilled inside the city walls and brought with them other undergrowth plants that crept along the foundations of the buildings and stone walkways softening the edges with organic stubbornness. The houses looked inviting; balconies overlooking the streets, climbing plants decorating the walls, and small yards tucked behind wrought-iron garden gates. 

The city felt more alive and welcoming in contrast to the other cities I had visited thus far. It wasn’t just aesthetic reasons but the simple fact that there were so many different faces and races—Dunmer, Argonian, Redguard, Nord, and even the odd Khajiit—going about their business without the underlying hostility and suspicion I encountered in both Windhelm and Markarth. Jerlod said that Riften was a lawless city of thieves and whores, but on my first impression, I couldn’t help wondering how much of that was the typical Nord bigotry I had already encountered in abundance. 

I drew a deep breath, wrinkling my nose at the scent of fish—to be expected from a city sitting on a lake with a thriving fishing industry—and felt a bit of the tension I carried, no doubt due to trepidation about what sort of reception I would find, slip away. With a nod in passing to someone’s private guard lounging outside of a house, I made my way to the nearest bridge crossing the canal to the heart of the city. A large homey looking building stood directly on the other side. Its wooden sign, with faded paint, depicted a bee alight a fish hook; it could be none other than the Bee & Barb that Shadr had recommended. 

Although the day was getting long and I needed to secure a room for the night, I took a quick trip around the market to stretch my legs after so many hours in the saddle. The shopkeepers were already in the process of closing for the night, but I located the blacksmith to visit in the morning, to see about repairing some of my tools and acquiring a few other items for the farm. 

“Falmer blood elixir!”

My eyes were drawn to the merchant standing on a small podium, holding a rather garishly painted bottle up in the air. He fit the part of a merchant at first glance, but something about him rang false. His outward appearance was fitting with his trade: shoulder length hair tucked behind an ear, a day or two of stubble on his chin, a quilted long coat belted at the waist. All perfectly normal and consistent with what I had seen on countless other Nords, and even other merchants around the Riften market, except that it didn’t look right on him at all. 

I think it was the coat that made me suspicious. Good quality cloth, but cut tight in the shoulders and the sleeves were a bit too short to cover his wrists; it looked like he might have filched it from someone’s clothesline instead of something that was made for him. He was certainly too old to have outgrown it.

And then there was the way he watched the crowd, eyes sharp and always moving, but certainly not with the intent to capture a customer based on they way he practically ignored the Dunmer that stood before him asking questions. His eyes caught on mine and I wasn’t flattered by the way he seemed to strip me bare in a heartbeat. I averted my own gaze and slipped passed his stand.

“Falmer blood elixir!” His voice rang out again. “Guaranteed to cure what ails you!”

I snorted. Yeah, snake oil salesman.

I skirted the well in the middle of the square giving a brief nod to an Argonian as I passed and shot a sympathetic smile in the direction of a young woman herded a half dozen unruly children into a long low building on the edge of the market. A stone bridge arched over the canal to the north side leading to the largest building: the jarl’s residence and my ultimate destination for the next day to meet with the court mage, Wylandriah.

I paused in front of a stall that had an assortment of weapons and armour, miscellaneous tools, and the odd bit of clothing. The merchant was briskly packing it all away. I spotted a pair of leather gloves on the counter and gently rubbed the healing blister on my left hand. Those would be useful. 

“I’m closed now,” the woman snapped without pausing from her task, swiping the gloves I was eying to toss them into a box. “Come back tomorrow if you want to buy something.”

I murmured something, rather surprised and taken aback by her rude manner, and turned away running straight into the snake oil salesman standing much too close to me.

“Running a little light in the pockets, eh lass?” 

“I beg your pardon?” I stepped back to put some distance between us and found myself up against the merchant stall.  

“I said: ‘running light in the pockets’.” His eyes skated over me again, appraising me with an uncomfortable intensity. He leaned forward and said in a low voice, “could help you with that if you’re interested.”

Excuse me, what? Pretty sure I didn’t want anything to do with whatever he was offering.

“I don’t think so.” I leaned away awkwardly and planted the end of my walking stick into the stones before me like a barrier since he seemed not to take the hint about personal space.

His eyes flicked down and something shuttered in his gaze. “Hmm. Pity.” With a final cursory appraisal, his lips twisted—in disappointment or speculation, I couldn’t say—he spun away without a further word. 

I blinked, taken aback at the whole incident. What the fuck was that about? I gave my head a shake and glanced around to see if anyone else had observed the conversation. The merchant whose stall I had leaned up against shot me a dirty look but no one else was paying any attention; indeed, most of the market was shut away at that point so I headed to the inn. 

The inn was welcoming on the inside as it was on the outside. The sound of friendly chatter and clink of dishes met me when I pushed through the doors, as did the cheerful greeting from an Argonian as he hurried passed with a well-balanced tray loaded with drinks. The Argonian behind the counter was more reserved but warmed considerably upon my request for a room for two nights as well as a meal. 

I slept late; over-tired, I suppose, unaccustomed as I was for traveling on horseback for so many straight hours. I washed my face in the provided pitcher and dressed in the tidiest clothing I had. The court mage was affiliated with the College and would not likely turn me away considering that I had a letter of introduction and Tolfdir had promised to send a letter ahead of my arrival to request their cooperation, but it wouldn’t do to turn up to the Jarl’s palace covered in dust from my travels and smelling of horse. With Kalariil’s book and my letter of introduction tucked safely into my small pack, I gathered up the few items I had to take to the blacksmith and headed out for my first day in Riften. The innkeeper, Keerava, served a delicious breakfast and beamed when I told her so, promising that I’d enjoy dinner as well if I had plans to be back for the evening meal. 

The market was bustling with merchants, customers, and the odd beggar from what I could tell, when I emerged from the shelter of the inn. The snake-oil man wasn’t around; his stall stood empty, much to my relief. I really didn’t want to have another interaction with him as I had the previous day. A man, younger than I had expected to be running the city’s blacksmithing business, took my various bits and pieces to be sharpened and took down my request for a few new tools for the farm, blushing the entire time.

With my immediate errands attended to, I headed over the bridge. Mistveil Keep was an imposing structure constructed like other building within the city from the abundant hardwood of the Rift forests and local grey field stone. The keep loomed over the surrounding stone walls that had to have been at least my double my height. Heavy iron gates stood open before a long set of steps up to the keep, flanked by a pair of guard wearing the maroon tabards bearing the crossed daggers of the city. Unlike their brethren at the city gate, they did not try to extort any fees but simply waved me through with a cursory glance at my letter addressed to the court mage.

“Good luck with that one,” one of the guards muttered as I made my way past. I guessed that magic users weren’t regarded well even this far south of the College.

Inside the keep, long banquet tables and benches lined the room on either side of a central aisle that led to the foot of a raised platform upon which a throne sat, occupied by a woman who could not have been anyone other than the jarl. Beside her sat a diminutive mer, I assumed was one of the Bosmer, or Wood Elves, but I couldn’t be certain as I hadn’t met any elves other than the Altmer and Dunmer at the college. Behind them stood an armour-clad warrior with a massive greatsword hung from a baldric across his back. The bodyguard, obviously. There were several other people either seated at the tables eating and drinking among themselves, or listening in to the debate that was ongoing at the foot of the dais. I had no intention of interrupting that discussion. I scanned the room, my eyes alighting on a servant moving between the tables.

“Excuse me.”

The servant stopped, giving me an impatient look for interrupting her task. “Yes?”

“Can you tell me where to find the court mage?”

Her brows rose. “Wylandriah?” I nodded. “She’s in there,” she jerked her chin toward a door to the side of the hall then hurried off without another word.

I skirted the tables, stepping tentatively over a very large dog that seemed quite content to remain with it’s head resting on one of the benches ever watchful for any tidbits of food the diners cared to toss its way, and ducked through the tapestry draped doorway indicated by the servant.

If I had a word to describe the court mage’s space, it would have been unbridled chaos. Unlike the main hall with it’s tidy rows of tables and benches, straight hung banners, and clean floors, Wylandriah’s space was cluttered with boxes and barrels, books were stacked in piles on counters, the floor, and on top of the aforementioned boxes and barrels. The counters and almost every other horizontal space was filled with various unidentifiable tools, large crystals—as big as my hand—of some purple quartz were scattered across a bench interspersed with glassware, and a mortar and pestle. Tucked in one corner was an ominous looking table with glowing runes and a skull of some creature I couldn’t identify. The ceiling was hung with bunches of herbs, papers tacked on strings with simple clothes pins, and bits of hair, fur, and feathers hung in streamers moving gently with the air currents fragrant with some incense. 

I was caught gawking by another woman who came hurrying in from the entrance to a back room I had missed. 

“Oh, by the Divines! Don’t touch anything!” she exclaimed upon spotting me. “You just never know what she has left laying about. Last week I came down with a case of Astral Vapours, and the previous week it was Collywobbles.” She paused with a frown. “At least, I think it was Astral Vapours… maybe it was Witbane.” She shook her head and peered at me. “What do you want?”

“I’m here to meet with the court mage. I have a letter of introduction from the College of Winterhold.” She recoiled from the offered letter like it was laced with anthrax.

“She’s still abed. You’ll have to wait.” She scanned the room and pointed to the only available barrel that didn’t have a precarious pile atop of it. “There. Sit. Don’t touch anything!” she admonished and disappeared back the way she came.

I had assumed that she had gone to inform Wylandriah of my presence, and perhaps she had, but I ended up sitting—and fidgeting—on the uncomfortable barrel for several hours to wait. I debated leaving at one point; the smell of roast meat being served at the tables in the hall for lunch had my stomach grumbling, but I didn’t dare move in case I missed the mage. That’s not to say that I was bored in my wait; I could see the comings and goings from my vantage point without being directly viewed by those in the hall. It was disconcerting to say the least to hear that people were disappearing from the lower areas, below the main streets of the city, without a trace. There was also apparently a skooma ring running in the city and I couldn’t help wondering if the disappearances were related. 

My speculations were interrupted when a cloaked person, a woman by her voice, bustled into the room. She hurried past without acknowledging my presence, muttering to herself the whole time about setting wards before summoning, the thermic reaction of tertiary alchemical reagents in the presence of a catalyst, and then, disturbingly, about the cutting off of hands. I had no idea if she was aware that I was present and was half of the mind to leave when she strode directly at me to pluck one of the strange quartz crystals from a basket beside me. 

I leaned out of her way. “Hello?”

She shrieked, tossing the crystal up into the air. It didn’t break anything fortunately when it bounced of the work bench and fell to the floor. Her hood fell back a bit and I could finally see that she was another elf.

“I’m sorry,” I said as she stood motionless, staring at me. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

She reached out and poked me in the shoulder hard enough that I rocked back on my feet. Her eyes widened in surprise. “Oh, you’re here! Now!”

“Um, yes? The college was to have sent word of my visit…”

She cocked her head to one side, then the other. “Fascinating. I thought you were a dimensional manifestation… but that occurrence has never previously been auditory or”—she poked me again—“corporeal.” She blinked rapidly several times. “Your harmonic resonance is so… very old!”

“Ah… Thank you? I think.”

She picked up my hand turning it over to inspect the back and then the palm, tracing her fingertip along one of the faint gold marks that stained the base of my little finger. “Do you think I could take a scraping for further study?”

“I guess so,” I replied, after all what harm would there be of a little scraping of skin cells?

She held my hand and reached over to a shelf to grab a pair of what appeared to be tin snips. I jerked my hand out of her grasp suddenly afraid that her scraping was going to be a little bit deeper than I was willing to offer. She had been speaking of cutting off of hands earlier; a finger was probably not out of the realm of possibility. She blinked again and her face dropped in disappointment. “Oh. Well maybe next time.” She turned away, accidentally kicking the crystal under the wood bench. “Oh bother,” she muttered, dropping to her hands and knees to fish it out from underneath. “She knows not to touch my experiments! Now where did those spiders go?”

I glanced around hastily in case a wild herd of spiders was suddenly to appear at her behest and when nothing did manifest, stepped forward cautiously. “Excuse me? You are Wylandriah, aren’t you?”

“Yes, of course!” I wasn’t sure if she was answering my question or one of her own. She stood up quickly, turned around and spotted me. “Oh! Hello! Did we have an appointment?”

What the hell? “I’m Isana. The horticulture associate”— I handed her the letter of introduction.

“Oh, did you bring the Greenmote I requested?” she asked as she read the letter. She frowned and then blinked at me. “Horticulture?”

“Ah, I’m developing improved cultivation methods for select alchemy ingredients. At a farm just north of the Rift. Tolfdir suggested that you might be able to advise me on additional plants that might have a market…” I trailed off as her eyes shifted their focus and she panned her head like she was watching something pass between us. I shivered at the frisson that ran down my spine. What was she seeing? Did I really want to know if there was something there? 

“So you didn’t bring the Greenmote,” she stated, disappointed.

“I’m sorry, no. What is Greenmote?” Perhaps it was something I could cultivate.

“It is… it is… it is green.”

That was hardly a useful description to work from. An ache was starting to build behind my eyes, partially due to hunger for the missed midday meal but also frustration with trying to follow the meandering mind of the mage before me. 

Oh! Kalariil’s journal. It was filled with detailed sketches of plants and fungi. Perhaps if she saw a diagram that would give me a clue. Heaven knows that plants often went by regional names!

“Would you take a look in here for your Greenmote?” I offered the journal to her.

She flipped through the pages, furrowing her brow as she read. She flipped to the first couple of pages and the furrows of her brow rose toward her hairline hidden under the hood. “Kalariil Grayal?” 

“Yes. That—” I jerked my chin toward the journal, “was among the supplies left for me at the farm. It was recently bequeathed to the College.”

She blinked at me. “Not possible,” she muttered. She flipped through a couple of pages again then gave herself a little shake before handing the book back to me and wiping her fingers on her robes. “He passed decades ago—boiled in his own bath water. Around the time of the Great Collapse, I think it was... I warned him the vents in those pools would be unstable.” She blinked some more. “Maybe it was later… or was it earlier? What year is it?”

I rubbed my fingers across my forehead and tried to will the budding headache away. What she told me about Kalariil and by extension, the farm, didn’t make any sense at all. The Great Collapse she was referring to I had read about in the College library; it occurred in the fourth era in the year one-twenty-two and it was the main reason the people of Winterhold were so resentful toward the college inhabitants. How could the College only have come into possession of the farm, bequeathed by someone that had died possible as long as eighty years prior? A farm, that apart from some dust and the chimney interloper, looked as if it had been abandoned months, no more than a year, earlier? It didn’t make any sense at all.

She poked me in the shoulder and looked surprised. “Oh! You’re still here! Can I help you?”

“No...” I lowered my hand quickly, “but thank you. Would you please excuse me, I’m suddenly quite tired. Perhaps we could speak later?”

“Yes...if you like.” She turned to her workbench muttering something about calipers and arcane resonance, whatever that meant.

With our interview concluded, I tucked the journal securely into my pack ready to head back to the inn. Wylandriah spun around and grabbed my shoulders, startling me so with her sudden movement that I nearly jumped if she hadn’t been holding me in place. 

“Don’t open the door!” She gave me a shake when I didn’t respond and stared into my eyes. “The door. There is danger beyond!”

“Okay,” I agreed slowly, too startled to ask questions.

Satisfied with my answer or whatever she saw in my face, she released me and turned away. I took advantage of her distraction to make a hasty exit, ignoring her mumbled parting words about “blind arrows and steam”.

It was much later than I had thought as I emerged from Mistveil Keep. Evening had fallen and overcast weather had rolled in, clouds largely blocked the light of the two moons making the evening darker than it should have been. The small city was quiet in anticipation of the storm and lit with the occasional lamppost and wander guards bearing torches, leaving inky dark shadows stretching its fingers between the cramped pools of light. I paused on the steps of the keep to get my bearings; I didn’t particularly want to go stumbling into dark alleys in a city reputed for housing a notorious guild of cut purses. 

Whatever my intentions were to go directly to the inn were waylaid by an unusual fragrance coming from the graveyard. Normally, any thought of smells from a graveyard would have had me speeding up in the opposite direction, but this fragrance was definitely of botanical nature, and if I wasn’t mistaken, of the nightshade variety. I paused on the threshold; there was a city guard just on the other side of the market area, within shouting range should I need them. Reassured, I slipped through the open gate and into graveyard to find the nightshade, hoping that it would be a different variety than what I already had. 

It didn’t take me long to find the plant and I pulled the little enchanted glowstone from my pocket to examine it. It was a nightshade all right, but it was too dark to properly identify the varietal. With a handkerchief from my pocket to protect my skin, I carefully broke a stalk off, leaves and all, to take back to my room to examine further when the sound of grinding stone made me freeze, crouching alongside a gravestone. I shoved the little light back into my pocket so not to announce myself to anyone that might be there peering into the dark, and shifted until I was well into the shadows, listening hard for any further noises. Nothing stirred in the graveyard beyond the odd leaf rustling in an errant breeze. Beyond the gate, I could hear the water in the canal slapping against the stones and wooden walkways, and the echo of the guard’s footsteps. An owl hooted in the tree behind me and I jumped, then laughed under my breath at my over-active imagination as I stood up. With the stone walls around that part of the city, an echo from someone opening a gate in one of the nearby yards would be a perfectly reasonable explanation for the noise. Certainly not someone rising from a grave. I laughed silently again at the silliness of it as I stepped away from my hiding spot.

A pair of hands grabbed me from behind, covering my mouth before I could scream and trapping my arms against my side. Desperately I tried to remember basic self-defense techniques; I stomped my foot on theirs, jerked my heel up to try to kick them somewhere tender, and whipped my head back only to crack it against my assailant’s chin which did more to hurt me than them. I wish I could say that my efforts had any effect but they easily evaded all my attempts to escape. 

Their hand tightened over my mouth and nose, drowning me in the mixed scents of leather, oil, alcohol, and faintly, of sweat.

“Stop fighting. I won’t hurt you…” the very much male voice growled. My protest was muffled behind his hand; I attempted to free my foot wedged between his knees from my failed attempt to kick him, “unless you give me no choice.” His arm tightened painfully around my waist.

I stilled at the warning; my heart hammering in my chest. I recognized the voice.  

“Most people don’t go skulking around in graveyards…” He spoke quietly, his lips nearly pressed against my ear so not be heard by the patrolling guard, caused goosebumps to erupt over my skin, “unless they’re looking for trouble. What are you doing here?”

As he had my arms clamped against my body and his hand still over my mouth, I had little means to reply. I raised my hand as best I could and waved the nightshade stem to my side. He shifted without loosening his hold on me to look.

“You’re picking flowers? Here in the dark?” he asked incredulously, loosening his grip over my mouth in his surprise. “You’re an idiot, girl. I could have killed you.”

“I’m not a girl… nor an idiot,” I amend quickly, but not quickly enough judging from his huff of laughter. 

“No, you are not.” His grip loosened further and I swear he brushed his arm across my breasts intentionally as he pulled away. With a parting squeeze over my hip, he spun me around. The clouds parted letting some moonlight fall on us; his brows shot up with surprise. “You!” 

He grabbed my elbow and dragged me deeper into the shadows, away from the approaching torchlight of the guard. “What are you doing? The truth now.”

“What about you?” I asked, raising my chin defiantly. “Any luck pickpocketing ghosts?”

“Better than you might think.” He smirked opening his hand and the little magelight Yisra gave me glimmered in his palm.

“Hey!” He held the enchanted light out of my reach as I lunged for it. I was not amused. “Give that back!”

“I’ll give it back when you answer my question. What were you doing out here, lass?”

“I already told you.” I waved the stalk of nightshade in his face.

His bafflement gave me the opportunity I was waiting for. I shoved him in the chest, catching him by surprise enough that he stumbled back over a broken stone. I scooped up the magelight dropped into the grass at my feet and dashed past him out onto the boardwalk crashing straight into one of the city guards. 

“Oi, what are you doing dashing around the graveyard at night? Up to no good?” His hand tightened on my arm. I was going to have bruises from everyone grabbing me like that.

“No, I just came from the jarl’s table and stopped to pay respects at the shrine.” 

His eyes narrowed, “then why were you running from the graveyard?”

“I took a flower for the shrine.” I waved the flower still clutched in my hand. I gave a helpless shrug and put on a sheepish look, “got spooked by a noise in the dark. It was probably just a skeever, but I was already running.”

“Hmm.” The grip on my arm relaxed. “Perhaps you would be better making your offering in the daylight. And with something better than one of those weeds.”

I looked at the nightshade, feinting surprise. “Oooh, you are so right.” I sidestepped around him pulling my arm from his lax grip. “Thank you! Uh, Divine’s bless you!” I called as I hurried toward the inn.

Keerava wasn’t wrong about how good the supper would be. After that meal, I would never hesitate to accept a meal of fish prepared by an Argonian. 

The dining room was busy but not so much that I couldn’t remain at my table to leisurely sip my glass of Talen-Jei’s concoction called “Cliff Racer”, and continue to study Kalariil’s records for plants that might be viable to grow at the farm. It was frustrating that Wylandriah had been unable to provide me with any direction and I pondered who else I could consult with. Around me, conversations flowed among the other customers; nothing that particularly interested me in to eavesdrop but it was nice to around other people, having the distraction of noise for a change from the silence of my farm. I missed my friends from the College. I missed—nope, not going there. I gave my head a little shake, took a sip from my glass, and turned the page. 

My attention snapped from my reading with the sudden jerk of my chair beneath me to find the man who had accosted me in the graveyard sitting opposite. “Don’t really pay attention to your surroundings, do you lass?” he said with a smirk. He picked up my nearly full drink, and without checking to see what was in it, turned it in his hand before putting it to his own mouth—right where mine had just been— and took a long swallow.

I think we were both a bit surprised: him at what I was drinking, and me that he managed to drink it like that without choking. It was very strong.

“Hey! I was enjoying a quiet supper with my book. Alone,” I added firmly, hoping that he’d take the hint to leave. “As in, without company.”

“Not very hospitable, wouldn’t you say?” He placed my cup back on the table and studied me. 

“That was the point.” I picked up my cup and replaced it, annoyed to find it empty. “You owe me a drink.” He grinned and I suddenly realized that I had neatly stepped into his trap. “You know what, never mind.” I snapped my book shut and stood.

He grasped my hand and book together in his hand, clearly with the intent of stopping me from leaving. “Come now, sit and have a drink with me.”  His thumb rubbed gently across the bare skin of my inner wrist. “It’s the least you can do for trying to mortally wound me.”

I blinked at him, I couldn’t believe that he had the audacity to demand some sort of restitution when he was the one that assaulted me in the first place. 

“Tell you what, I’ll even pay for your company this evening.”

What? Did he just say—imply—what I thought he did? 

The slap of my free hand against his face brought the entire tavern to a standstill with every set of eyes turned in our direction. Ugh, I hated making a scene.

“Is there a problem here?” Talen-Jei’s eyes darted between myself and the annoying man that still had a hold of my wrist. He twisted his own hands nervously wrapping the rag he used to wipe down tables into a knot between them. “We don’t want any trouble, Brynjolf.”

“Don’t get your spines in a twist. Just a little misunderstanding between friends.” He released my wrist and leaned back in the chair, draping an arm over the back with a casual air like getting slapped in the face was a normal daily occurrence. Perhaps it was—for him. He raised a brow in question at me. “Isn’t that right, lass?”

Talen’Jei’s eyes fell on me and while Argonian expressions were still a bit of a mystery to me, the pinched eyes and slight lifting of his lip told me enough that he wasn’t too pleased with the news. I had no intention of jeopardizing my ability to stay at the Bee & Barb on future trips to Riften by souring the Argonian proprietors’ goodwill. 

“There is no misunderstanding. We are not friends.” I stepped away, chased up the stairs to my room by the sound of Brynjolf’s laughter.

Chapter Text

There was a message waiting for me in the morning. A scribbled note on a ripped and stained scrap of parchment directing me to a place called Elgrim’s Elixirs to speak with the proprietor of said shop. I could have done a little jig right there in the middle of the dining room; Wylandriah came through after all. Keerava gave me directions and cautioned me to watch my footing as the planks down on the canal would be particularly slippery after the rainstorm that had rolled through during the night. 

The walkway below the city bordering the canal bobbed, floating up and down on pilings as the lake water moved with the lingering winds. The boards were slippery with algae and mosses clinging to stonework and steps alike. There were no railings to speak of, and the precarious lengths of wood cobbled together to form bridges from one side of canal to the other at seemingly random intervals creaked and wobbled as I gingerly made my way across. Keerava wasn’t kidding when she warned me to be careful.

The shop was tucked in at one end of the canal, almost directly underneath the Bee & Barb. If I hadn’t the note to direct me here, I probably would have missed the place; the little sign bearing a mortar and pestle—one that appeared to be on fire or giving off noxious fumes—was so faded and stained with lichen and other plant life to almost be illegible. Inside was considerably better with the flagstone floors and stone walls scrubbed to the dull gleam of raw hewn stone but no amount of scrubbing could take away the pervasive scent of moisture that permeated the stone. 

“Ingun! If you want to remain in my shop as an apprentice I expect you to act like one.” An older man, dressed in a faded tunic and pants with a slightly ratty hat perched over his thinning grey hair, scolded the young woman standing at a counter with a mortar and pestle in hand. 

“Yes, Master Elgrim,” she replied automatically, like the scolding was a common occurrence that she didn’t have any intention of taking seriously. She was dressed more finely than I would have expected for someone learning such a trade.

“No exceptions! Or I’ll find myself an apprentice that will take heed!" He suddenly appeared to notice that I had stepped into the shop and whirled around. “Are you here to learn alchemy?”

“No, but I was hoping to make use of your expertise. I—“

He thrust his hand out and beckoned impatiently. I fished the journal out of my pack and handed it to him. He frowned in confusion; his frown deepened as he flipped through the pages. “What’s this?”

“I’m working with the College of Winterhold to set up a farm to grow plants for—“

“Are you versed in alchemy?” he interrupted, pulling out my own prescription that was tucked between some pages.

“No, although I benefit from it personally.” He nodded even as he frowned at the script. “My expertise is in the growing of the plants. My main project is propagating nightshade—“ the apprentice shot me a speculative look, “but that book—“ I jerked my chin at the journal still in his hand, “was at the farm along with a large selection of seeds. I was hoping that you would have some advice on what would be useful and have a market.”

“Nightshade, eh? Not an easy plant beyond Arkay’s blessed grounds.”

“So I’m to understand, but I am having some early success propagating it and I have two dozen plants that are thriving.” The pestle paused before continuing its slow grinding. “I have additional land to start other plants. If I know which ones will be sought after.”

He thrust the book out at me and rapped his knuckles against the cover. “Why would I help you, hmm?” he groused.

“Elgrim! Be charitable!” an older woman, his wife I assumed, chided him.

“Bah! What has charity got to do with it? I already have an apprentice that uses up my stocks willy nilly, and now this stranger wants me to set her up as my competition!”

“No, no, I have no interest in competing against you. I do not wish to become a practitioner; I only wish to grow the plants to supply to the alchemists.” 

His expression morphed from what was probably a habitual scowl to one of shrewd businessman. “And what would that cost me?”

“Well my prices would be discounted for a bulk purchase, in order for you to still make your profit margin on the individual sales, of course—”

“Of course.”

“As for your cost, some of your time and expertise. I don’t know what is in demand. Whomever is willing to assist me in identifying those plants will get priority in purchasing what I produce.”

“Well why didn’t you say that in the beginning?” he scolded. From the back of the shop I heard an exasperated “oh Elgrim” from his wife. “Come on then! Let’s see what you have. Hafjorg, put on a pot of tea.”

After an hour or two going over the plant specimens in the journal, I had a fairly good idea of what else I could produce; lavendar, borage, sage, dragon’s tongue, jazbay, and perhaps something called scathecraw that grew in the ashy soils on the northeastern island of Solstheim. I studied the notes on the burgundy-hued, aloe-looking plant.

“You think you can grow that?”

I nodded slowly. “Possibly. I will need to do some tests first, but I should be able to amend the soil with wood ash and sulphur from the hotsprings.”

“You be careful around those springs. Wouldn’t want you to end up like the elf,” Elgrim cautioned, “or smeared to paste by aggravating the local wildlife.”

“The elf?”

He hummed affirmatively, flipped the journal open to the first page and stabbed his finger at Kalariil’s name. “He used to forage at the pools, even bathed in them. Said the springs were good for old aches. Until they weren’t.”

I frowned in confusion; he couldn’t have known Kalariil, he couldn’t be old enough unless I badly underestimated his age. “You knew him? Forgive me, but I didn’t think you were old enough.”

He held his hand up and I realized that the noise from the front of the shop had fallen silent. The scrape of his chair across the stones as he got up made the sound of the mortar and pestle resume.  “Ingun! That’s enough for today. Go pester your kin.” He returned after his apprentice left—grumbling the entire time—and sat back down in his seat.

“You take me for a decrepit old fool?” He snorted with amusement. “Kalariil used to come visit my father when I was still an apprentice; came every month without fail, talked about his travels and exotic plants, and brought what he had to sell. Never missed a visit.

“Then one month he did. Then it was two. Da got worried so we rode out to his farm. Could smell him before we found him. Pulled what remained of him out of the pool—“

My stomach rolled at the thought of the scavengers, but morbid curiosity made me ask anyway, “what remained of him?” 

“Strangest thing to go bathing fully dressed without one’s head.” He looked me in the eye and ice skittered up my spine. “Da and I pulled him out and buried him right then and there. Turned right around and come on home.”

I thought about my arrival at the farm and frowned, “you didn’t pack up the farm. Pack his belongings?”

“Nope,” he sucked his cheek in on one side, “wasn’t going to step into whatever skeever pit was waiting there. Come home and said not a peep to no one about it. And no one’s mentioned it until you, nigh on forty years later.”

“Forty years? Wylandriah said it was during the same time as the Great Collapse—“

He tapped two fingers against his temple. “The elf has a brilliant mind—if she wasn’t scrambling it with all that nonsense. Magic warps reality, especially that Daedric-bedamned conjuration and illusion. The world is as it is; twist it with magic, abuse it, and the mind breaks. Can’t keep now, then, and what’s to come straight.” He dropped his hand to the table with a thump and glared at me, almost daring me to defy him. “If you were wise, you’d keep your distance from her and don’t go seeking answers to questions that shouldn’t be asked.”

I tore my gaze from him and stroked my hand over the worn leather of the journal. “How sad,” I muttered to myself. “No one noticed he was gone? How can that be?”

“Kept mostly to himself. Folks probably thought he moved on,” he shrugged, “if they noticed him at all.” He slapped his hands on his thighs, startling me as he stood up. “Well you be off now, I have a business to run and you’re starting to waste my time.”

“Elgrim…” his wife chided.

"No, he’s right, I’ve used enough of your time.” I stood up quickly. Too quickly, as the room twisted and warped before my eyes, and I had to grasp the edge of the table until the world stabilized. “I must be going back to the farm to tend to my crops and get the new ones started.”

Elgrim pursed his lips as he studied me. “Very wise. Do let me know if you get those plants going and if you need more of your tonic.” He handed me my script that I didn’t even realize wasn’t still in the journal. “The revision is an improvement but I can do better. At a fair price.”

The door thumped unceremoniously behind me as I made my way back topside. 

Nothing of what I knew about the farm made any sense, nothing added up to what I knew. If Elgrim was correct as to what had happened to Kalariil, then he must have been murdered. But why and by whom? The farm had been tidy with no signs that I could see of the place being looted or ransacked even if that had happened forty years prior. Kalariil’s possessions had been packed away with care; surely the person or persons that killed him wouldn’t have done that. And it still didn’t explain how the college only came into possession of the farm recently. Who gave them the deed to the farm? I had more questions than answers.

“What brings you to Balimund today? Repair? Purchase?" 

I startled, finding that my feet had brought me to the forge. A big Nord, blonde hair caught back with a braid at each temple and a smudge of soot across his forehead, stood before me with a hammer and faintly glowing length of iron held in his hands. “I left some tools with…” I looked around and couldn’t see the person I spoke with previously. “Um, day before last?”

“Ah my apprentice. He mentioned a beautiful stranger new to town.” His mouth curled beneath his heavy horseshoe mustache as he placed the length of iron back into the coals and wiped his hands on his apron. “I think my son is smitten.”

I looked away hoping that he would mistake the flush of embarrassment that was creeping up my cheeks for the heat of the forge. “I’m flattered, but I think he’s a little young for me.”

“Like ‘em a bit older eh?” He studied me as he waited for the my answer but without the lecherous gaze than I had encountered from others. 

Nildor’s one hundred and thirty-eight year old face flashed across my mind. “I suppose so,” I muttered. He nodded his head without further comment, and ducked into the shop to gather my order. 

I paid his fee, picked up my bag from the Bee & Barb, and headed to the livery. The guard at the gate was the same one that was on duty when I arrived; he scowled in my direction and turned his back to me. I couldn’t help smirk. I didn’t say anything to anyone about our altercation, but I guess someone did and he must have been reprimanded by whomever it was he reported to. I strode over to the livery and was nearly run down by Shadr who exited in a hurry. 

“My apologies,” he blurted as he halted in his tracks. He spotted my bags. “Oh, you’re leaving?” He wiped sweat from his forehead and planted his hands on his hips, glancing back over his shoulder.

“Yes. Is everything all right?”

His head snapped around to me. “What? Oh yes, yes, everything is fine,” he replied too quickly to be convincing.

Behind him, Daffodil came wandering out of the livery dragging his lead rope. I could see that it was frayed and darkened with saliva at the end, and there were wildflowers stuck in his mane and dangling out of his lips.

“I should go saddle your—“ Daffodil nibbled on his shirt tail, startling him. “Oh you wicked little daedrat!” He grabbed the halter, dragged the unrepentant pony back to the hitching post, and started hastily tacking him up, ranting the entire time. “I tied him and secured the stall but somehow he got out and has led me on a merry chase around the hills for the last day and a half!” He paused for a moment between tightening the girth by increments. “If he hears about this…”

I had clamped my hand over my mouth but I couldn’t stop my shoulders from shaking with the suppressed laughter.

“I humbly beg your forgiveness. I swear I was not careless. Please miss—“ he turned to me and his look of misery turned to confusion.

I shook my head and pulled my hand from my face. “I should apologize to you. I don’t know how he manages it but he gets away from me all the time. He’s a little Houdini—escape artist," I corrected quickly at his look of confusion. I handed over one of my bags to be secured to the saddle when prompted. “I’ve even gone so far as to buy nails and hinges to reinforce his pen at the farm. Tying him or his gate shut just doesn’t seem to work!”

Shadr’s eyes widened. “That was an expense! I hope it works, otherwise you might need to seek a priest to drive the touch of Sheo from him.” He drew his brows together as he secured another bag on the other side of the saddle. “If you don’t mind me saying so, you would be better off getting a small cart for the pony. There’s a small one out back—“ he jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

“Well that’s convenient,” I replied, drily.

He flushed. “I didn’t mean anything by it.” I waved away his protest. “There’s a cart that was left months ago. Too small for most horses that come here, but light enough for your pony and big enough that you could ride in it along with your goods. 

“The owner of it left on his horse in the middle of the night, leaving it behind. Haven’t seen or heard from him since. It’s just taking up space; I’m sure that Hofgrir would be happy to see it go for a nominal price, certainly would be more than he’d get by storing it indefinitely for free. I could tidy it up for you for the next time you come to Riften?”

I chewed on my lip thoughtfully. The pony was already burdened with the original sack I brought my tools for repair, plus the sack with extra nails and hinges, a few items I purchased from some other merchants in town, and my pack with clothes and the journal. If I had to transport any kind of container of plants for Elgrim or others, I was going to need a way to do so. Tying them to the pony’s saddle wasn’t practical. “All right. Take a look at the cart and see what Master Hofgrir will sell it for. I’ll be back to Riften in about four weeks. Will that be enough time?”

“Absolutely!” I paid him the livery fee—plus a little extra for the trouble Daffodil caused him which earned me a grin—and he gave me a leg up into the saddle. “Safe travels, miss!”

I passed a couple of merchants, several farmers, and a few militia-looking people—probably out of Fort Greenwall—on the road between Riften and Shor’s Stone, but once I was north of latter and across the border into Eastmarch the traffic dwindled away. For several hours, I saw and heard only wildlife among the trees and undergrowth that lined the road, and the ambling clop clop of Daffodil’s unshod hooves on the cobbles of the road. There were low stone fences in some areas, with aged posts that likely held a lamp or other marker at one point indicating the way to a village or camp, long since abandoned to be reclaimed by nature, leaving no more than a small game trail to vanish into the woods. With nothing more exciting than the occasional fox or raven, I pulled out the journal to read, trusting that Daffodil would follow the road towards the farm. 

For my lack of attention, I didn’t notice the men on the side of the road until I was nearly on top of them. There were six in total; one holding onto the head of a scruffy cart horse, another holding two riding horses, two standing around while another couple appeared to be attending to a broken wheel on their cart. The horses looked a bit thin and in need of a good grooming, and the men, themselves, looked a bit worse for wear with dusty clothing and questionable person hygiene. Daffodil nickered at the other horses and halted on his own volition. 

I was a bit startled, tightening my grip on Daffodil’s reins making him jig, by the drawing of axes and a bow from the group before me—after all, there was just me, a woman traveling alone. How much danger could I really pose to them?

“Do you need help?” I offered, warily eying the weapons. I still wasn't used the sight of naked blades and cudgels worn by all and sundry.

One of the men, the leader, I assumed, waved the others to lower their weapons and took a step forward, shooting me a smile between a thick mustache and curled beard; he appeared to be the only one of the group acquainted with a comb. I nicknamed him “Blackbeard” on the spot (original, I know). “Thank you, my lady, just a cracked wheel. An easy fix; not the first time it’s happened.” The two working on the wheel turned back to the task. The others put away their weapons but still seemed uneasy by my continued presence.

I shifted in the saddle toward my pack. “I have, um, well, nails…”

“Not necessary but I thank ye' for the offer. We’re nearly at our destination.”

“Been on the road long?”

“Aye—“

“Been to else—“ the teen, holding the two riding horses, piped up. An older man standing beside him thumped him hard in the chest with the back of his hand.

Blackbeard shifted to my right drawing my attention from the wheezing kid; he smiled again and spread his hands, “been here, there, and elsewhere. All part and parcel of traveling merchants, you understand?”

Something in his smile, perhaps the way it didn’t include his eyes, made my lizard brain start waving red flags. I nodded mutely letting my gaze slide away from his. “Well, you look to have everything under control, so I’ll—“ My eyes landed on a pile of brindled fur in a cage on the back of the cart. It was breathing. Barely. “Ooo, is that a cat?”

Blackbeard’s eyes didn’t leave my face. “It’s already spoken for.” His tone made it clear that there was no room for negotiation but as I took in the dirty matted fur lying in a lump in the cage, I couldn’t just leave it alone.

“Was your client looking for a dead cat, then? Because that one doesn’t look long for this world.” His smile turned to a scowl. “Tell you what, I’ll buy it off you,” I said, quickly calculating how much coin I had left and when I could expect more from selling my plants. “Twenty septims.”

“No. Got a contract worth hundred septims.”

“Alive or dead?” I repeated. He continued to glare at me. “I’ll give you twenty-five septims; more than you’d get for a scrap of matted fur which is all that will be available if you don’t get to your client in a few hours. If it dies before then, you’re out the money and your client’s goodwill; if you sell it to me, you’re the richer for the coin and I risk the loss.”

“And just what do I tell my customer?”

I tamped down my excitement that I was winning him over. Instead I shrugged, “tell them you couldn’t get the cat. Better no cat than disappointing them with one you let die in your care.”

He didn’t say anything but his beard bobbed up and down like he was grinding his teeth. “Fine,” he spat. He stomped over the cart and yanked the cat out of the cage. One of his underlings appeared to disagree, but before they could argue, Blackbeard shoved them aside. He grabbed the cat by the scruff and hind legs, he stomped back over to me and flung the cat over my lap; I tightened my hand on Daffodil’s rein to stop him from shying at the aggressive move. He grabbed my right thigh in a tight grip I was sure was going to leave bruises, and held out his other hand. “Twenty five septims.”

I fumbled within my cloak and pulled out the small coin pouch. I knew there was a bit more coin inside than the agreed upon price but getting away from these particular merchants—and I was using the term lightly—seemed like a prudent idea. “Here,” I said, dropping it in his hand. “Do you want to count it?” 

He gave it a little toss, and seeming satisfied with the weight, released my leg. “No. Pleasure doing business with you.”

I jerked my chin down. “You too.” I put my heels to Daffodil’s sides a little harder than necessary, startling him into a canter. The cat bounced on my legs letting out a pathetic mewl. “Sorry,” I murmured, pulling it closer to my body to keep it supported as we clattered down the road.

Daffodil drifted to the left of the road in anticipation of our turn; the men where still in view and the suspicion I had that they weren’t honest merchants whispered in the back of my mind that I shouldn’t lead them to where I lived. I redirected the reluctant pony to continue down the road that would eventually lead to Windhelm—at least until we were over the ridge and out of sight. I slowed him to a walk and directed him into the bushes along side of the road. The trees thinned out where the hot springs took over, but it would give us cover to double-back to the trail to the farm. 

Upon arriving at the farm and getting Daffodil settled in his paddock, I turned my attention to the cat. It was still breathing, but was otherwise still and unresponsive as I ran my hands over it. My fingers bumped over every prominent rib under the matted coat. It stunk of urine, blood, and an odd sweet, metallic note that I hoped didn’t mean the cat was rotting somewhere. I carefully laid it out on a thick piece of cloth on my dining table; I could see that it was muzzled and it’s paws tied together with leather thongs. 

Apparently it wasn’t enough to cage and starve the cat.

I slipped the muzzle off and it immediately gasped for breath before settling into a shallow pant. “You poor thing. Let’s get these ties off you.” The leather thong came off the hind legs easily enough without any reaction by the cat; there didn’t seem to be any wounds or anything more serious than dirty, matted hair so I moved on to the front paws. The fur around the front legs was matted worse than the back and here I noticed that the fur was sticky in places; wet in some places and dried to stiff twists in others. “Shit,” I muttered as I drew a bit closer to figure out how to get the leather cord off. This was the source of the smell I noticed earlier. I grabbed the smallest pair of scissors I had and slowly worked the knots loose. I pulled one bit of leather away, it tugged at the skin leaving a vivid red line below it. 

The cat cracked open an amber eye and growled. 

“Sorry, sorry,” I muttered, eying the cat for any retaliation. “Please don’t bite me. I’m not trying to hurt you but I have to get this off before you lose a foot.” 

It might have been a mistake taking the muzzle off so soon, but it was done and I wasn’t about the torment the cat further by putting it back on. Eventually, after some growling by the cat (but no biting!), and flinching on my part, the cords were removed from the wounds. I cleaned them the best I could and applied honey, before wrapping the legs with small pieces of cloth. All I could do now was carefully reintroduce food to help recover its health and strength, and hope that my intervention was in time.

Chapter Text

For the first few days, the cat remained on the table barely responsive enough to swallow the bone broth I dribbled into her mouth. I cleaned her and gently working out the mats from her fur a bit at a time until it was smooth from ear to the tip of her tail. I wasn’t entirely sure whether she was going to make it or not, but if not, at least she could be comfortable and dignified at her end. 

One morning I woke up and found that she moved under her own power and was dozing in the classic loaf position with all the fabric she had been laying on pulled around her into a nest. 

“Well, I guess you’ve decided you’re going to stick around.” I sat down at the table and reached out to pet her but she recoiled with a low growl. “Okay.” I sat back on the bench and studied her. “I’m not going to hurt you, cat. But I suppose you don’t really know that, do you?” 

I got up from the table and started working on some breakfast for the both of us. The hunters had been by the day after I returned from Riften and I was able to get some bones from them to make the broth, as well as some dried meat, and one of the partridge types of fowl I dined on during my trip to Markarth. 

“Here you go,” I said, placing the bowl of shredded meat and broth in front of her. I was hoping that food would be a good way to make friends. It could work with a wild or feral animal—at least, I had managed to tame a small group of chickadees that way once upon a time—so I had hopes it would work with her too. 

I sat in the chair with my own food and watched her sniff at the bowl suspiciously. “I’m eating the same thing,” I replied, wagging a piece of meat before popping it into my mouth. “I’m not about to poison you after rescuing you from those… whatever they were.” 

Slowly she inched toward the bowl, still sniffing it cautiously. She looked at me as if to consider whether my demise from eating the food was imminent or not. Evidently she was convinced that I wasn’t about to keel over dead and started picking at the food. After a few mouthfuls, she ate with more enthusiasm.

“Good cat.” I finished my meal and continued to watch her as she finished her own and started to groom. “I always wanted a cat. Couldn’t have one when I was a kid because Mom was allergic and after the accident… Michael didn’t like cats—“ The cat looked at me. “I know, right? No accounting for taste. 

“After he left, Daniel and I were going to get one but then everything started to go to hell in a hand-basket. Food was getting stockpiled into the facilities for the 'designated' survivors—" I still couldn’t say that without sarcasm, even though I ended up being the only survivor, “and rationed for the rest. Then when the government started cutting that back, people started to get desperate. Pretty sure the neighbours’ dog didn’t disappear under happy circumstances. Didn’t want to have to make a tough decision about who got fed or who became food. So!” I took a deep breath, pulling my shoulders to my ears and let them drop on the exhale, blinking the sting from my eyes. “That was then, and this is now. No cataclysmic, world-ending disasters coming. No death falling from the sky. And no eating our friends.” I added for good measure, wagging my empty bowl at the cat. “You need a name, because I can’t keep calling you ‘cat’, can I? Especially if I keep rambling on at you like I expect you to answer.”

I studied the cat, and the cat studied me. Bright amber eyes focused on me as if she was waiting for my pronouncement of her name. She was a beautiful cat. Large, or she would be, once she regained her proper weight and condition. I imagined that she might have been a descendant of one of the Forest Cat or Maine Coon breeds; she was that large and had a long coat that, while currently rather sparse, still had a luster despite the rough condition. She wasn’t quite black but very dark, rich brown brindled like coffee beans and dark chocolate. 

“Coco!” The cat perked up. “Oh no, not food. Hmmm, oh, I know. Kara! I heard that name once; thought it was very pretty. What do you think?” 

The cat closed her eyes and purred. 

Well, okay then, we’ll take that as a win.

We fell into a routine, Kara, Daffodil, and I. Waking in the morning to the pony’s percussion on the wall of his lean-to with his empty water bucket, morning tea with toast and jam (who knew cats liked toast and jam!), and then most of the daylight hours in the yard tending the plants, before a quiet evening with a book and a dozing cat. 

I was nervous at first to let Kara out of the house; I didn’t know if she would take the first opportunity to bolt. While I didn’t have to worry about her being run over in the streets by cars, there were other dangers about like wild animals that would take her as a meal. 

I needn't have worried. 

She didn’t venture further than the space between the front step of the farm house and the fence line around the small field where I worked all day. She would also venture to Daffodil’s paddock and I would often look up to see her sitting on one of the fence posts to sun herself, swatting away Daffodil’s inquisitive pokes and nibbles at her tail with her paws.

In the garden, the nightshade I had transplanted before my trip to Riften had taken root and shot up at an amazing rate. The plants looked like they had been established for many months, and not barely a handful of weeks. They looked as though someone had come around in my absence and waved a magic wand over them to speed up their growth. I chuckled to myself; magic maybe real in this iteration of the world, but a botanically-minded fairy godmother was stretch. 

Bippity-boppity-boop, indeed.

Still, I marveled at their progress as I carefully pruned some leaves to prevent any blight to the young plants. The leaves would be more potent when the plants were in bud and blooming, but the young leaves still had their use and I fully expected that every little bit I could offer the alchemists would be to my benefit. 

My other cultivation efforts were having mixed results. Many of the common herbs I started directly into the freshly turned soil were starting to sprout. The creep cluster was making its best effort to thwart my attempts at espaliering it. Most any plants could be trained in this manner, including those that propagated by rhizomes, but the creep cluster seemed determined to die off the moment an arm was lifted from the ground. Fortunately for us both, the plant immediately sent out a new node when a branch started to wither so I had plenty to work with. I could out-stubborn a plant!

The scathcraw was also proving to be difficult. The native soil left the seed dormant, whereas the alkaline soil I used to start the nightshade had the seed rotting soon after germination. Upon further investigation, Kaliiral’s notes did say that the plant was native to Solstheim. His notes didn’t provide any further clues but my pilfered “Complete Compendium of Flora in Tamriel” made mention that the island had an active volcano that spewed ash constantly. If that was the case, I theorized, then the soil fertilized by volcanic ash would be acidic. That acidity would be further compounded if the region was subject to acid rain. There wasn’t much I could do about the rain, but hopefully the thermal vents that created the hot springs to the north could provide me with sulfur, or even, if I was very lucky and very careful, sulfuric acid. 

With a couple small glass jars recently emptied of their contents, I set out for the hike toward the plateau beyond the trees. I got the impression from Elgrim and Kaliiral’s own notes that the hot springs weren’t far from the farm. I didn’t bother with the pony; indeed, with Daffodil’s penchant for mischief, he was likely to be more of a nuisance than a help. Ultimately, I didn’t intend to bring back gallons of water on this first trip, but to do a bit of reconnaissance to see if there was anything useful to me at all. If there was, I could plan ahead and employ the pony and cart that Shadr was restoring.

The hike took me a little more than an hour over mostly level ground. It probably would have taken less time, but I paused frequently to leave my “bread crumbs”—strips of plain cloth tied to tree branches—to guide my way back. The aspens and birch gave way to pines that thinned out as I continued. A hard packed road running east to west sharply delineated the edge of the forest with the silty soil and bared rock that was pockmarked with springs. Some springs were dormant, long gone black from ancient decomposed organic matter, and others were vivid blues and greens from thermal-loving bacteria. What I was looking for, was a spring with a milky appearance that indicated the presence of hydrogen sulfide. The whole area had a distinctive “eggy” odour so I knew that there had to be such a hot spring nearby.

There were bones; old bleached white with age and weather, scattered around some of the springs, as well as signs of more recent predation. Elgrim’s tale of Kaliiral’s suspicious end, decades in the past, was fresh enough in my mind that I chose not to inspect any remains too closely. Sometimes ignorance is bliss. 

I followed a dirt trail between the springs, following it as it started up a low hill of rock slabs and dirt. At first I thought it was a natural phenomenon until I reached the top. From there I could see that the hill was in fact a circular mound ringed with slabs of stone cut in such as way to form concentric circles tightly fitted one on top of the other to form three great rings. The top of the mound continued from the stones with soil and, over time, had allowed some scrubby vegetation typical of the area to grow. At the center I found another circle of stone—a single slab—over the heart of the mound. The surface looked gouged, perhaps it had been carved by someone long ago and the ravages of time had erased their story. There were some other bits of stone, perhaps broken monoliths or even an altar, scattered around the top; I couldn’t tell for certain if they were intentional or coincidental, of spiritual significance or simply brought to provide a place to sit and admire the view. 

And quite the view it was. 

The mound lifted me high enough to see the scoured environment around the hot springs, the treed foothills and mountains to my north that would eventually lead to Windhelm, and beyond, to Winterhold. Not so far as the southern edge of the forest, large shaggy brown shapes moved slowly between the pools. At first, I thought that they might have been bears, but they were far too large. I realized, with excitement, that they could be mammoths. My suspicions were pretty much confirmed when I spotted the tall, lanky form of a giant. I had read in the Winterhold library that giants kept herds of mammoth and now I had seen it for myself. 

To the northwest, a dark cloud clung to the top of the mountains on the distant horizon. It seemed odd that there would be a solitary storm cloud, and as I watched, it appeared to be growing and moving in a way unlike any cloud. Perhaps it was a large flock of migratory birds? I shaded my eyes from the sun and watched as the cloud continued to grow and appeared to solidify. 

It wasn’t a flock of anything but a single winged creature. It was one of the fabled dragons! 

I hadn’t believed the tales about dragons the people had whispered between themselves in the taverns, but I couldn’t deny what I saw before me. I watched, completely fascinated, as the dragon’s form became more clear; the sun glinted off the black form giving a glimpse of the scales and edges of its wings and horns. 

I realized with horror, as it grew larger and larger, that it was coming straight in my direction at a very rapid pace. And here I stood up on a mound, gawking, with no place to hide from the massive predator! 

I spun around and ran, ignoring the original meandering path that led me up the mound for the more direct route to the tree line. I skidded down the mound, slipping and sliding on the loose soil and stones; behind me, the dragon roared, and every hair on my body stood up with terror as I pushed myself to run faster to reach the trees. I charged through the scrub, ignoring the tug and tear of the branches at my clothing and hair, and practically threw myself behind a large tree. I froze there, waiting, with my heart pounding so hard that I was sure that the dragon would hear it and know where I was even if I had managed to evade its gaze.

I waited. 

The trees groaned and the smaller vegetation whipped around in the wake of the great shadow that flew directly over my head. 

Shit! Do I run? Do I stay put?

Frozen with indecision, I pressed my back against the tree and held my breath. 

The trees bent and branches snapped sending a shower of twigs, leaves and needles, and last years’ pine cones down upon my head as the dragon came around for a second pass.

What do I do? Even if it can’t see me, it could light the woods on fire and I’d be toast. I huffed a laugh at my terrible pun and immediately slapped my hand over my mouth, only to slap them over my ears, as the shadow passed overhead a third time with a deafening roar. 

I’m screwed. 

I kept my hands over my ears and my eyes closed, clenched tight so I wouldn’t see my end coming, but then… miraculously… nothing happened.

The dragon roared again, but I could tell even with my ears covered that it was more distant than the previous. I cautiously opened my eyes and carefully lowered my hands to peak around the trees as the dragon roared again. It had turned and was heading east.

I breathed a huge sigh of relief as I slid down the tree into the leaf litter at my feet. My heart was still jumping in my chest and spots were flashing before my eyes. I fumbled with my pocket, pulling the vial of tincture from it—it took a couple of tries to get the stopper out and several drops under my tongue. My heart gradually settled into a more comfortable rhythm and I was able to regain my feet. 

I patted myself down and found, much to my amazement, that none of the glass jars I had brought to fill at the hotsprings had been broken. They remained empty and would remain so as I was none too keen on venturing out onto the open ground again after my near-miss with the massive predator. Even if it had flown away, I was all too aware of how quickly it could appear and cover ground. 

My other ventures to explore my new environment were more successful. The woods bordering the southern side of the farm yielded a stand of nut trees, some edible mushrooms, a bee hive in an old rotting log, and one very startling find. A door set into a hilly outcropping. At least, I suspected it was a door. It was so overgrown with vines and other brush that I could have passed it by, within mere feet, and never have spotted it if not for the flash of sunlight on the crystalline diode or whatever it was.

There were no hinges that I could see around the perfectly inset rectangular slab and it was made of some sort of aggregate that had pitted and weathered with age until it was almost indistinguishable from the surrounding stone common to the area. After hacking away the worst of the brush around the foot of the slab, without removing the overhanging vegetation that obscured the view of the same, I picked out the soil and mosses that clogged the seams; it definitely seemed like it was a discrete slab set into a frame, but how to open it? I pushed on the right and left sides of the slab with no effect. There were no knobs, handles, or levers to pull the slab, nor any hinges to indicate which way it would open. 

I looked around under the plants and mosses along the flat face of the structure but couldn’t find anything that would indicate a method of opening the door. Certainly nothing that would open it accidentally should someone stumble upon the location. I walked around and over the outcropping and found absolutely nothing. 

Frustrated, I pondered the door to what I was beginning to think may have been a bunker, storage or munitions building such as was being built towards—well, the end. We expected an EMP so the door wouldn’t have been activated with electrical or electronic means, likewise radio was out, as was any type of reader or scanner. I stared at the green diode. Light could be a possibility. Sunlight wouldn’t be sufficient because then the door would be unlocked to all and sundry during the daytime hours, but a specific wavelength of light might be more specific. But what and how? It’s not like people wandered around with a bunch of battery powered holiday lights!

The green diode twinkled in the sunlight.

Wait! Green battery powered lights! Most controlled locations were guarded by military or hired security that were issued guns with laser sights. The vast majority of those were green as the wavelength of that colour was the most powerful over long distances.

I couldn’t replicate a laser but maybe, just maybe I didn’t need that much power… I had an inspiration! Excitedly, I whipped my backpack off my shoulder and rifled though the small selection of containers I carried for horticultural samples. I was sure I had spotted a small bottle of green glass—and I had. I pulled out the bottle and from my pocket, pulled out the little enchanted magelight, dropping it into the bottle. I held it to the diode, but nothing happened. Perhaps the light was too disperse?

I pulled out a piece of cloth from my pack and wrapped the bottle until it was entirely covered except for it’s concave bottom. Holding my breath, I pressed the bottom of the bottle over the diode.

From deep within the earth, the sound of gears slowly moving and grinding into action echoed through the stone. The stone groaned, dust and bits of debris popped away from the crevices around the slab, and the door opened.

He stepped out of the carriage and shivered at the brisk northerly wind blowing over the tall, iron-spiked walls. Despite the brightly lit glass lamps that dotted the interior walls and railings, and the pleasant music spilling from the manor house to welcome the guests, the compound was harsh and oppressive. A guard stood at the bottom of the stairs to check the invitations of the arriving guests. Checking the invitation for authenticity was largely theatrical and for the benefit of the non-Altmer guests; a vacuous gesture to play on their inflated senses of superiority and importance. But no one in their right head—if they wished to keep their head attached—would dare attempt to infiltrate a gathering hosted by the First Emissary and head of the Thalmor contingent in Skyrim. 

Handing his invitation to the bored looking guard, his eyes rapidly scanned the area picking out the glimmer of burnished gold and glint of sea-green glass of Elven armour of the numerous patrolling guards. Their presence was meant as an assurance of safety for the guests while provide a distraction to the unwary. He spotted the darker shadows of black robes that marked the presence of the Thalmor agents—powerful mages to the last— and the true hazard in Elenwen’s guard.

Truth be told, he didn’t particularly wish to be there either, invitation notwithstanding.

The guard inspected the invitation and referenced a parchment in hand. Satisfied, he handed back the invitation. “Ceruval Jaerorin. You are expected.”

Nildor nodded, tucking the invitation back into his cloak and proceeded up the stairs to the doors. Once inside, he relinquished his cloak and accepted a glass of Alto wine from the attending servants. He drew a breath, squaring his shoulders, and schooled his face into an expression of bored disinterest as he entered the main room. 

He quickly noted the presence of Elenwen, their hostess, and several Thalmor agents, although none of significant rank. Also present were several prominent merchants and members of regional nobility circulating within the room casting glances in the direction of the black clad Altmer in their midst. Only those that showed support for the Empire’s claim were ever invited to these receptions so he took note of the few faces he had not expected to find in attendance currying favour with the Thalmor, and by extension, the Dominion.

How he loathed these events. He hated them in Auridon. He hated them in Skyrim. 

He drifted to the outskirts of the room and found himself running his fingers over the delicate feathery fronds of a native Summerset fern. Poor thing—it was quite literally blue with the inadequate sunlight and cold Northern air despite the blazing fire in the hearth to drive away the chill. In its natural environment, the fern would be a marvel of shimmering golden green. What would Isana— He stopped the thought before it could fully form, ruthlessly nipped her from his mind as one would a winter-blighted bud on a coveted cloud tree. She would not cross his mind, nor her name across his lips.

He steeled himself as he noted Elenwen excusing herself from speaking with a couple of her guests before heading in his direction. 

“Ceruval Jaerorin. Welcome. I hope the journey from the College was not too taxing for you?” 

“It was quite bearable. I thank you for your concern.”

“Might we speak momentarily?” she asked, ushering him away from the rest of the guests to a private office. The question was a mere formality as they were both aware that he did not have the option to say no.

With the door closed to separate them from the lesser guests, she looked him over and curled her lip in annoyance. “Your manner of dress is most disagreeable. Where are the accouterments of your station?”

He gave her a bland look. “I can hardly fulfill my purpose if I blatantly flaunt my affiliation to all and sundry.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, weighing his response for disrespect. “Nevertheless, I expect that you will be adorned appropriately when you are in my presence,” she reprimanded.

He swallowed his irritation and bit back the retort on of his tongue, instead tipped his head in acquiescence hiding the look in his own eyes. “As you say, First Emissary.”

She studied him for a moment or two, and finding herself appeased, changed tact. “How fares your father?”

He refrained from rolling his eyes at her barely veiled threat. How she had managed to rise as far as she had within the Thalmor with such blunt tactics was beyond his comprehension. “I hear he is enjoying his retirement; although, I have not been in contact with him in decades.”

She made a noise of understanding. “He was a talented healer, was he not?” He nodded. “It was fortunate that he had such influential advocates to stay his execution. Fortunate for you too, I suppose.” 

He gritted his teeth but replied pleasantly enough, “indeed. His… actions… were before my birth.”

“It is good to see that treason did not pass to the fruit of that tree.” 

The door opened behind her; several Thalmor entered including the odious Ancano and Head Justiciar, Ondolemar, from the College and Markarth, respectively. 

“Let’s move onto official business. What can you tell us about the woman the College found in the ruins?” 

Of course, that was why he had been summoned to Elenwen’s gathering. 

Opposite, Ancano stared at him, the corner of his mouth curled up with smug satisfaction.

“She is no one of consequence. Certainly of no interest to the Dominion.”

“It is not your place to determine what is, or isn’t, of the Dominion’s interest.” Elenwen’s words were clipped and hard. Unlike her previously conversation, she was no longer tempering her words with platitudes. “You are to do as you are commanded, hilyava-cey.”

He could argue the point and correct her on the chain of command, but it was neither the time nor the place. 

He started to divulge what he knew with all the emotion attachment one would have reciting a grocers’ list: “she is of unknown parentage; Breton by her physicality, but lacking any of their redeeming capacity for the arcane. 

“She has an affinity for getting dirt under her fingernails. Her mind is addled by the trauma that left her insensate and she retains no memory of her life before her rescue from the same. 

“There is nothing notable about her at all.”

“Breton! Absurd!” Ondolemar huffed impatiently. “Calcelmo reported that she was recovered from a Dwemer device in a previously unexplored ruin. What do you make of that?” he argued.

He scoffed, “I hardly think being stuffed in a Dwemer sarcophogus by her captors makes her any more Dwemer than your residence in Markarth makes you a Reachman. Or perhaps the First Emissary should be questioning where your loyalties lie?” 

Ondolemar scowled in response but offered no further argument.

“Are you aware of her location now?” Elenwen asked.

“No. She disappeared from the college when I was absent on another task. The administration have not been forthcoming.”

“You two were close! A budding romantic entanglement if the rumours were to be believed,” Ancano sneered with open disgust. “How could you not know where she ran off to?”

“Had you not interfered—no less than twice—repudiating that same relationship, I could have maintained the façade and remained in her confidence. As it were, the college felt it necessary to intervene and…” he spread his empty hands before him. “she is beyond my reach.”

Elenwen glowered at Ancano. “What of the apprentices, those reported to be friendly with her? Surely she confided in them?”

“Certainly to the extend that they are aware of what happened between us and refuse to speak with me regarding her. Or at all, for that matter.”

She shot another glare in Ancano’s direction. “Very well. Apply your skills and endeavour to find her. We can not so easily dismiss the possibility that she is what Calcelmo claims and has the knowledge of what we seek.”

“As you say.” He tipped his head slightly acknowledging her orders. 

He had resources, some that not even the First Emissary was aware of, such was the nature of his occupation. If the Thalmor were so intent on finding Isana, he would ensure that he got to her first.

Chapter Text

I was more or less correct regarding what was behind the hidden door in the hill. It was a cache of sorts but I didn’t find what I was expecting. The concrete floors were pitted and cracked and were coated with an undisturbed layer of reddish powder. I guessed it had come from the metal shelving that all but corroded or rusted away except for a few stubborn lengths of metal determined to remain upright as they poked out from the jumbled piles of trash along the walls. Whatever had been stored there had also vanished, either to time or the hands of looters, leaving nothing usable behind. 

With an excess of caution, I jammed a large chunk of stone in the entrance to prevent the door from falling shut and locking behind me as I could not find any sort of locking or opening mechanism on the inside within easy reach. With my trusty magic flashlight in hand, I explored. At the back of the room, there was a stone pillar standing before an opening led into a downward sloping hallway. I eyed the opening with some disquiet noting the crumbled edges of the frame and header; it looked like something had ripped its way through. That impression was further reinforced when I found the twisted wreckage of a heavy metal gate, similar to what I had seen in Understone Keep, laying on the floor beyond. I couldn’t tell if the damage had been caused by something hitting it from the outside or pulling from within. 

I carefully climbed the warped gate, freezing as it rocked and clanked loudly against the floor. I frantically scanned the walls for the metal hatches as described by Aicantar; I remembered all too well the injuries of the Nchuand-Zel workers I had the misfortune to see and the defunct constructs that he had said had come out of other ruins. The last thing I wanted was to run into something like that—or bigger, judging from the inflicted damage—while I explored. I blew out a sigh of relief when I found the walls to be bare and the only thing I could hear was my own breathing. 

Past the door, the hallway descended at a gentle slope and disappeared into the darkness below. My little magelight provided a pool of light in the inky dark, illuminating the hewn stone walls, ceiling, and floor as I descended. There were a pair of gouges along one side of the hall flooring, spaced about four feet apart. It wasn’t until I reached the bottom that I realized the purpose of the tracks and the pillar at the top. A mining cart of sorts sat at the bottom. The cart and wheels appeared to be of solid brass, and the bottom frame had holes for hooks on either end to pull the cart using the pillar for an anchor. I couldn’t imagine it was as heavy as it looked; it didn’t make sense to have a vehicle to move cargo that required a great deal of effort to budge when empty. I gave it an experimental shove and failed to move it an inch. Perhaps the wheels were seized.

The room beyond was cavernous and filled with rows of stone and metal shelves that had survived the ravages of time that their brethren in the previous room had not. There were a few braziers scattered about. Many were empty or tipped over spilling their contents across the floor but several had some sort of brick-like fuel in them that lit easily with my flint and steel. The light bounced off of the metal shelving and what appeared to be strategically placed reflective surfaces lighting the room to a comfortable level for my exploration. 

Most shelves were vacant, but there were small stacks of metal ingots, gears of various sizes, metallic struts, lengths of pipe, and oddly, an assortment of dishes. I pulled one such dish off the shelf and gasped in shock at the glint of white, red, green, blue, and purple within. The bowl contained a good two handfuls of gem stones. There were a few in the raw state, but most were cut, and none were smaller than the end of my pinky finger. I wasn’t sure if diamonds were still the more valuable gem in this era but there were enough stones here to give myself a comfortable financial safety net should the farm not work out. Provided that I could find someone trustworthy to buy the gems.

There were two possibilities that I could immediately think of: one was a thief, and the other was the Argonian merchant, Madesi, who sold bits of jewelry in the Riften market square. Brynjolf,  based on my previous interactions with him, was likely to rob me blind or request too high a fee—monetary or otherwise—for his assistance. Madesi, I knew nothing about, but he still seemed like the better choice. Failing that, I could always ask Balimund for a recommendation. He didn’t do the intricate work himself, beyond some of the finer knives and a small items like nails, but he had always treated me with courtesy and would surely be able to give me some honest direction.

I tucked the gems away securely in my pack and continued to explore, eager to find more if I could. There were some stone chests tucked along a wall. Most were empty and a few others were still locked. Unfortunately, I had no skill whatsoever to pick the locks. Again, the thief popped to mind, but the potential riches weren’t incentive enough to invite Brynjolf to join me in the warehouse alone or anywhere within proximity of my home.

I continued exploring and located another door recessed into the wall at the far end of the vault. It was locked similarly to the outside door. I replicated my trick on the diode and heard the echoing grind and thump of the locking mechanism opening. The door popped open towards me and with no visible handles or pulls, I gingerly wrapped my fingers around the edge and pulled it toward me.  It was very heavy but opened quite smoothly until it was open to about a foot at which point there was some popping at the hinges and the door halted. Rather than fight with it, I peaked my head around to see what there was beyond. 

It was not what I expected. 

At first, I couldn’t see anything in the pitch black. I cupped my hands around my eyes to shield from the light behind me and peered into the dark. The air was cool and moist on my skin and as my vision adjusted, I discovered that the space beyond was not totally dark. There was a faint glow in places from luminous fungi, that appeared and vanished as the mist shifted with the air currents. There is a faint sound of dripping water, and other subtle sounds that I became aware of: the sibilant sound of escaping steam, the whir of flywheels, and the rhythmic clank of metal cogs stepping through the gears one lash at a time. The constant noises are comforting in their way, evidence of life beyond the self, like a mother’s heartbeat, echoing through the darkness of the womb. 

My skin erupted with goosebumps with an eerie sense of déja vu.

“Come on, down this way. We need to hurry and get you settled in.

“I’m sorry that I can’t do this properly.

“Stay calm, okay? Love you, Issie.”

Daniel.

How I missed Daniel. 

There was a sharp hiss like a pressure cooker releasing its steam, followed by a whir which effectively snapped me out of spiral of memories; I immediately jerked my head away from the opening. Something flew through the narrow opening and slammed into the wall beside me sending small shards of rock flying in all directions. I threw my body against the door, giving it a great shove to no avail. It wouldn’t budge. An odd crunching noise echoing from the darkness, not discrete footsteps but continuous, like something rolling across gravel, and it was getting louder and closer with alarming speed. My feet feet skidded on the floor as I tried to get purchase. The door screeched as a hinge popped and it finally started to move as another object whistled past sending more stone shards flying. The mechanism that locked the door tumbled automatically and I slumped forward in relief only to jump backward and land on my ass as there was a great clang from the other side.

Something metallic hit the door once. Twice. Then a third time before falling silent again. 

I sat still holding my breath, waiting to see if the assault on the door would resume. My heart was pounding in my throat and little sparks of light flashed in the periphery as my vision started to narrow. Wylandriah’s warning came whispering back to memory: “Don’t open the door. Blind arrows and steam.” Fine time to remember that now.

I could feel my eyes were painfully wide as I stared at the metallic sticks—arrows—that were firmly embedded in the stone next to the now closed door. Shards of shattered stone lay on the ground below where the arrows still quivered with the force they were fired. Thin strands of what appeared to be my hair wavered in the light from where they were wrapped around the shafts; I instinctively reached up to my head and winced as my fingers came into contact with a narrow cut. 

I fumbled with the vial managing to take some of the tincture, then held a bit of fabric fished from my pack against the cut, as I coached myself to finding some calm despite the adrenaline racing through my bloodstream from my scare. The cut, judging from the small amount of blood on the cloth, wasn’t as bad as I feared and quickly stopped bleeding. I am so stupid to go fumbling around here on my own. A few centimeters over or a moment’s hesitation and I’d be dead. With a growl at myself, I wiped away the tears that had unknowingly streaked my cheeks and hung from my chin, and got up from the floor grabbing my pack from where it lay. I stomped up the ramped hallway to the first room and to the exit, pulling the stopper from the outer door letting it close up behind me. I didn’t bother camouflaging the entrance but let the natural vines fall back into place. It was doubtful anyone would find it and if they did, unlikely they’d have success with the diode locking mechanism. 

I was forced to squint at the light as I exited the vault, wincing again at the cut as it tugged with the movement, and found that I had been in there longer than intended. The sun had moved well past midday and I hadn’t yet made the planned stop to the wild bee hive I had found on a previous exploration of the forest. The hive was located not far, only a couple hundred feet down and around the hill towards the farm. I should have headed directly back but the honey would be good for treating my new injury. I picked some fiddlehead ferns, a few late morels, mountain flower leaves, chickweed, and early thistles as I went. The morels I would dry for the winter season, the ferns for boiled greens, but the others made for delicious salads or teas to be enjoyed now. At the hive, the bees droned lazily in the late day sun and were unconcerned about my petty vandalism when I removed a bit of comb and wax that was in danger of falling from the log and into the leaf litter below. No point wasting what could be used. 

A squirrel scampered nearby, likewise unperturbed by my presence as it look for fresh grubs or a lost winter cache. No sooner did I finish wrapping the comb in a bit of waxed cloth and tucked into my pack, a rumble of thunder drew my eye to the sky through the up-stretched branches of the trees. It was the clear blue of early summer, without the haze of pollution or even a single cloud, giving no hint to a change in the weather. The thunder rolled again with what sounded like a single word spoken by many voices followed with a sonic boom that shook me to my very bones. My hands reflexively clapped themselves over my ears as I crouched close to the ground—too late, as the boom had already passed. 

What the hell was that? Maybe an earthquake somewhere? Certainly couldn’t have been an actual voice—ridiculous. Around me, everything else was eerily silent and still, waiting; the bees outside the hive were sitting on the log and exposed combs without moving, the squirrel on the opposite stump sat like a taxidermy model with a bit of nut clutched in its frozen paws, the leaves on the trees didn’t rustle nor did the grasses shiver. Everything stood as if caught in stasis, waiting for some unknown signal to resume life.

Unable to bear the tension any longer, I slowly lowered my hands from my ears and stood up warily, glancing around. As if taking a cue from me that it was safe to move, the squirrel scampered off into the brush leaving its half-chewed nut behind and the bees retreated en masse into the hive. Yeah, maybe they had a point; time to go home. Entirely enough excitement for one day.

I hurried along the faint trail I had made, keeping an eye out for my markers, until I emerged above the farm on the ridge that overlooked it. Nothing looked out of order or in any way different than it had before I left. Daffodil stood looking over the fence to the northwest, the clean sheets fluttered in the breeze on the clothesline, the house stood as I left it; everything seemed perfectly calm and normal. 

I shrugged my shoulders, releasing the pent-up tension, and slid down the short span of rocks at the tree line into the clearing of my farm. That’s when I noticed that something was indeed different. A dark hooded figure stepped out of the shadow of the house upon my emergence from the forest. Shit, did Brynjolf find out where I live? I thought immediately, but the figure was too slight and wiry to be the Nord. The tail was also a dead giveaway.

I adjusted my pack and surreptitiously palmed my little gathering knife, keeping it tucked against my arm and hopefully out of sight of my unannounced guest. I was conscious of the blood that was probably still on my face but there was nothing that could be done about it for the moment. Instead, I squared my shoulders and made my way across the field. “Hello!”

“Bright moo—er, hello!” He pushed his hood down to reveal a pair of brilliant green eyes that almost glowed in the jet black of his fur. “You are the green paws that grow these flowers?”

“Yes, I am.” I glanced around quickly and noted that he didn’t appear to have a horse, nor did he appear to have been accompanied by anyone else. Daffodil had resumed grazing calmly and was not looking to beg food from someone hidden behind the house. I turned my attention back to my guest. The khajiit wore a simple pair of leather pants and the hooded vest, tanned almost as dark as his own fur, and in good condition. His feet were, surprisingly, bare. A bow and quiver were slung over his shoulder and I spotted a sheathed knife on his hip. He tossed a bag back and forth between his paws—hands!—that jingled with coin. As I drew closer, I realized that he had long hair braided back against his skull in tight rows of tiny braids that coiled up in his hood, the few visible ends glinting with bits of gold. He was almost entirely black, but curiously, his whiskers and the tips of his sharp ears were snow white like he had been limned with frost. His eyes were also rimmed in white which made the green of his eyes appear even more luminous.

His eyes suddenly sharpened in focus and he reached toward my face. “You are injured!”

I pulled back. “It’s nothing. A scrape. Caught a branch in the woods,” I lied.

He dropped his hand. “Beg pardon,” he said with a slight bow, “this one is known as Do’Sashaa. I come on behalf of another to buy some of your plants.”

I shook my head, “I only sell to alchemist shops, not individuals. I suggest you try Elgrim’s Elixir’s in Riften.”

His whiskers twitched in amusement. “If only that were possible. This one’s employer is an apprentice of Elgrim, and they have been tasked to replenish the stock they have used up.”

I was aware that Ingun Black-Briar was the only student of Elgrim’s, and from his constant grumbling, that she had a very heavy hand at using his reagents. “I see. How much does—“ I stopped myself from saying Ingun’s name since Do’Sashaa had not mentioned it himself. “How much is needed?”

“Twenty stalks.”

My eyes widened at the amount. What the hell had she been making? Nix that, I don’t want to know. “It’ll be one hundred sixty Septims,” I warned him. No point harvesting if Ingun had no intention of paying my price. He squinted at me and I steeled myself for the anticipated haggling. “I promised I wouldn’t compete with Elgrim so the price is the same he’d charge.”

He chuckled and handed me a sack of coins. “In that case, here is two hundred. The buyer can afford it. Perhaps they will learn not to be so wasteful? Or perhaps not.” We shared a smile. 

“Give me a moment to—“ I waved my hand vaguely in the direction of my face and my pack slung over my shoulder, “and I’ll be right out.” I ducked into the house before he could reply. “Hi Kara,” I said in passing to the snoozing cat. She answered with a sleepy mewl. I dropped the sack of coins on the table, dug out my foraging and laid the plants aside, stuck the honeycomb in a bowl before the honey could completely saturate the wrapped cloth, and then my hand closed on the bundle of gems. I couldn’t leave them out in view; not that I thought Do’Sashaa had nefarious intentions—he had just handed me two hundred Septim after all—but being cautious was just being smart. I quickly climbed the ladder to the attic and stuffed the bundle in the bottom of a stack of baskets, cut a length of cloth to wrap up the nightshade stalks for safe transport, and scurried back down the ladder. I didn’t want to keep the khajiit waiting too long so only stopped for a moment to clean the wound on my forehead, wincing at the tenderness of it. It wasn’t terribly deep, otherwise it would have bled like fury, but there was going to be quite the bruise. I gave Kara a quick scratch, moving the bowl of honey from her inquisitive nose, and exited the house with my cloth and snips.

Do’Sashaa was scratching Daffodil on the forehead when I exited, and followed me to the field to lean on the fence as I selected the blooms to cut for his order. He watched silently for a few minutes before breaking the silence to inquire, “you do not ask their intended use?” 

I continued to bundle the freshly cut stems of nightshade as I watched him from the corner of my eye. He gingerly prodded at a deep purple petal; cautiously, as if he was poked a dragon on the snout to see if it was sleeping or dead, and was preparing himself for the worst while hoping for the best. 

As one does.

“You know these plants can be used to kill?” he prompted.

I suspected that the rumours of Ingun’s experiments ran to that usage. One heard a great many nefarious things about the Black-Briar family; reading between the lines of what people whispered, if they were careless or foolhardy enough to say them at all. What I hadn’t figured out yet was if they were the figurehead of the Thieves Guild or the guild was under their thumb. Either way, there seemed to be a thriving crime syndicate in the Rift that I didn’t want to draw the attention of. Beyond the one person that had, unfortunately, already expressed interested. 

“They can also be used to help. It’s not my business to inquire. Here—“ I handed him a rag with a jerk of my chin toward the yellow pollen sticking to his fur. “You need to wash that off.” All parts of the nightshade were hazardous to the unwary and the last thing I needed was to find out that he poisoned himself. “An arrow can be used to feed or defend a family, or it can be used to harm. The fletcher doesn’t ask and neither do I.” 

He cocked his head in consideration and followed me to the house.

“Look, I don’t know you,” I said, carefully nipping off any damaged bits from the gathered stems so the lot wasn’t spoiled before delivery, “but I prefer to give people the benefit of the doubt. You said they were to replenish Elgrim’s inventory and I’m going to take you at your word. I don’t ask questions I don’t want to know the answers to. It’s safer that way. In more ways than one. Ultimately, not my responsibility to be someone else’s conscience.” I opened the door, waving a hand at him to follow while I did a final packaging of the nightshade.

Do’Sashaa paused as he entered the house and stared at my cat with a puzzled look on his face. At least, I thought that’s what the expression was, based on the few limited interactions I had had previously with khajiit. Kara’s tail started to twitch with feline agitation as she stared back at him from her spot in the middle of the dining table. She let out a low growl and I looked at her with sudden concern. Did she think that the khajiit in front of her was a predator looking to eat her or perhaps she was picking up on my guest’s discomfort? I moved closer to intervene. “I’m sorry, is it offensive to the Khajiit to… uh, keep house-cats?”

“No. Particularly when this one can see how well you care for it. However, there is something you should know.” He pointed at the cat. “Your cat—”

Kara’s warning growl escalated into a loud spine-tingling yowl I didn’t know she was capable of making, interrupting him, as effectively as the swat with her paw—claws fully extended—did. She took off out the open front door like her tail was on fire.

“Oh! I’m so sorry! I don’t know what—” I grabbed a cloth from my stack of clean laundry and thrust it into his hand for the wounds. “She’s never done anything like that before.” I stepped toward the door, then back to my guest. “Um…”

“Go. Go, see to your… cat,” Do'Sashaa said pressing the cloth to the wound on his cheek. I hesitated again. “This one can take care of the scratches.”

I hurried out to the yard to search for Kara. I looked under the newly planted shrubs, checked the woodpile, and the laundry basket sitting under the line ready for the drying sheets. I even checked the lean-to, only finding Daffodil placidly munching on his hay. But no Kara. She had never wandered farther than the edge of the garden but I didn’t see hide nor hair of her, and with my guest sitting in my house, I couldn’t really go off to search further afield. Still feeling concerned, there were wolves and other larger predators around, I headed back to the house with the intent to go searching once he left.

“Oh,” I paused on the doorstep, surprised to see Kara sitting on the table once more, still staring at my guest but looking less agitated than she had earlier. “When did she return?”

“Just a moment ago.”

I hurried over and scooped Kara off the table, surreptitiously looking her over for signs of injury, before depositing her on the chair by the fireplace.

“She is uninjured.”

I flushed at being caught. “And what of you? Did she injure you badly?”

He waved his paw—hand!—with a dismissive air. “Think nothing of it. It is no worse than a scratch inflicted by ja’khajiit playing at being fierce.”

Behind me, Kara gave a growl. I answered her with a disapproving hiss as I continued to wrap the nightshade. 

“Can this one inquire,” Do’Sashaa asked, with a wary glance in Kara’s direction, “where did you get her?”

“I came across a merchant caravan a while ago, broken down on the road north of Shor’s Stone. I spotted her in a cage; she was in poor shape, so purchased her from the merchant not knowing if she’d survive or not. Fortunately, she did.” 

As if she knew we were speaking of her, Kara jumped onto the counter. Carefully skirting the flowers, she head-bumped my arm, then sat staring at Do’Sashaa.

He narrowed his eyes at her. “Was it a Khajiiti caravan?”

“No,” I shook my head. “They were human. They looked, well… rather rough to be merchants to be honest.”

He made a curious noise; half hum, half growl. “Where were they from?”

I opened my mouth and shut it again as I tried to recall where they had said they had come from. The boy. What did the boy say before the older shushed him? “One of them said they had come from elsewhere,” I shrugged, “but if they weren’t very forthcoming and I wasn’t going to insist.”

His whiskers turned upward with his smile. “Elswyer, not elsewhere. Elswyer is the ancestral home of the Khajiit.” He shot a glance at Kara. 

“Oh! Is that your home?”

He tipped his head forward, “yes, but not for a great many moons.” He glanced around the small farmhouse, his eyes stopping on the fancy silk cushions scattered over my bed and the elvish painting on my fireplace mantle; all of which were rather incongruous for the humble farmhouse. “And you are from afar?”

“Yes. Long time ago, not worth talking about,” I mumbled. I hurried to wrap the nightshade to get my customer out the door. The conversation had stumbled into an area I didn’t want to get into and I felt the need to send him on his way. I was so focused on my task that I didn’t notice that the preserved flower on the mantle under the painting had caught Do’Sashaa’s eye. 

“An interesting flower,” he said, picking up the fragile bloom. “It still lives?”

“No, it’s just preserved so it doesn’t decay.”

His brows rose and whiskers quivered in what I assumed was surprise. “With magic.” He turned in one way then the other, then brought it to his nose giving it a delicate sniff. “It must be significant to have gone to such lengths. A lover’s token, perhaps?” he said with a sly, mischievous look.

“It… well… I thought it might have been. He didn’t feel the same way.”

“Ah. Shall this one dispose of it for you, then?” he asked, starting to turn to the door.

“No!” I lifted it carefully from his grasp. “I’m not… I‘m not ready...”

“You still have feelings for him?”

I drew a breath to answer him and paused. Why was I hesitating? It was simple question with a simple answer, or at least it should have been. My relationship with Nildor was over before it began so why did I linger on it? “I suppose I still do,” I said slowly. “He made it very clear that the relationship was over. But for a time—“ I stroked a fingertip over on of the petals of the camelia. “He was very kind, until he was not.” I sighed and placed it carefully back in its place on the mantle. 

Do’Sashaa scowled, flattening his ears and pulling his whiskers against his face in agitation. “He hurt you?”

I could see the tip of his tail flick back and forth sharply behind him before it abruptly stilled. Why was he so concerned? “Oh, no, not like that…” I said, even as I remembered the bruising grip of Nildor’s hand around my wrist as he pushed me away. “His words were cruel but he didn’t…” I trailed off with a shrug. “My friends warned me that he wouldn’t—couldn’t—feel that way about me, but I had hoped nonetheless. The flower is a reminder to not to be foolish again, I suppose.” 

He gave me an odd look that I couldn’t parse. “This one thinks the other was the fool, not you.”

I smiled awkwardly and handed him the packaged nightshade. 

“Moons guide you,” he offered with a slight bow to me. “And you also, madame cat,” he said with a bow to Kara.

I didn’t watch Do’Sashaa leave beyond the edge of the farm, instead continued to clean up my counters before sorting my day’s foraging. But Kara did: sitting in the open doorway, swishing her tail back and forth as he vanished down the trail.

Chapter Text

I frequently went to the storeroom, as I had begun to call it, when the demands of the farm allowed. I never attempted to open the inner door again and stayed as far from it as I could so not to draw the attention of whatever was beyond—I wasn't confident in the resilience of the door to put it to the test again. I snooped through all the shelves, cataloging the bits and pieces that hadn’t dissolved to dust over the passage of time. On the shelves, I found an abundance of scrap metal that looked to be spare parts of the constructs that Aicantar was fond of tinkering with. I was of half a mind to write to him to let him know what I found, but the fear of drawing Ondolemar’s, and by association, the Thalmor’s attention in my direction, kept me from doing so. There were other items that I thought I could sell for additional funds. It didn’t hurt to have some other income should difficulties arise with my farming endeavour. One heavy hail storm or early change of season could wipe out a year’s harvest leaving me with diminished income and a difficult winter season, and I now had three mouths to feed. It was just a matter of finding the right buyers.

My best creation with the treasures from the warehouse, and one which I was quite proud of, was my water wheel. Well, it was more of a glorified bucket chain as it was still a work in progress. From the gears and other salvage, I had been able to cobble together a winch to crank a pulley system consisting of four water buckets. As I cranked on the winch, one bucket at a time would fill at the bottom of the well and rise to the top where I dumped it out. I could only manage four buckets, mostly because I was limited to using rope to attach the buckets to, and any additional buckets were too much strain on both my diminished strength and the rope. My ultimate plan was to set up a pulley with chain to attach more buckets, and then build some sort of pedal system to power it. Unfortunately, whatever chain had been used to pulley the cart in the storeroom was long gone but I knew that chain was available as I had seen it on some of the towns’ massive gates. I certainly didn’t need anything on that scale, but it was still likely to be horrifically expensive since each link had to be hand forged and shaped. What I wouldn’t give for the cheap convenience of a modern (ancient) hardware store to go and buy a length of chain!

Of course, I still had other problems to solve that were unrelated to lifting the water, such as creating a reservoir to deposit the water and then how to deliver the water to the plants. For the last part, I had an idea to create a trickle sprinkler system with the abundance of thin pipe I was currently hauling lengths to the farm. The tedious part would be hand drilling the holes for draining the water but that could be done bit by bit in my spare time or even over the winter when I couldn’t be outside working the soil. Perhaps I could ask Balimund if he had any ideas to make the task less onerous.

It had been over a month since my first visit to Riften; my stock of tincture was just about out, there were a few bits and pieces I could use for the pantry, and Shadr said he’d have the cart mended for me. Daffodil stood placidly, for the moment, tied to the fence in front of the farmhouse, all tacked up and the saddle bags packed with the items I had to sell and those in need of repairs. But before I could even head out on my trip, I had to herd the cat indoors. Of course, Kara was no where to be found.

“Come on, Kara,” I called, looking in the hay manger then inside the vacant chicken coop for her. “You can’t stay out here on your own for two days. The wolves, bears, or—dragons—will get you.”

I checked the wood stack, and the little shelf under the roof-line she liked to sit on out of the rain, with no luck. Back into the house; no cat on the bed, nor on the bench by the window. ”I’ve set out both the dried fish and partridge you like so you won’t go hungry," I cajoled. "I even added a bit of honey to the water for you.” Weird cat was weird. I tapped my fingernails against the dish, hoping to lure her out with food. “Kara! Where are you?”

Up the ladder to check between the tables, storage boxes, and drying racks—no cat there. I walked out onto the front steps of the farmhouse, and there she was: sitting as happy as could be on Daffodil’s rump.

“Kara,” I sighed. “You can’t come.” I scooped her up despite her protested yowl, carried her to the house. Kicking the door behind me with my heel, I quickly crossed the room and deposited her on the bed. No sooner did I let her go, she shot off the bed, shoved her face into the crack of the door—I really should have made sure it was closed tight—and out she went! “Dammit cat! I don’t have time for this!” I stomped to the door and flung it open.

The cat was sitting on the horse’s rump again.

“Kara…”

I grabbed a hold of her and tried to pick her up but she clung onto the saddle pad like a burr.

“Mrr-ow!”

I let her go. “You can’t come. You’ll get lost. Or hurt.”

She shook herself out and groomed the spots where I held her, happily sitting behind the saddle.

“Fiiiine,” I relented. Arguing with cats was just as effective as herding them it seemed.

She chirped a happy sound.

I closed up the farmhouse, untied Daffodil from the hitch—just in time too, as the rope was suspiciously wet—and hopped up into the saddle. The weather was fair so I took my coat and rolled it into a nest and plunked it down in front of me before maneuvering Kara into it. It was a bit awkward but it would do until I could procure a basket that could be strapped behind the saddle or placed in the cart that Shadr had promised to complete for us. Kara grumbled and chirped as she plucked at my jacket until it suited her, and settled down. I smothered my amusement and side-eyed the clear blue sky. “Don’t go complaining to me, Miss Kara, if you get wet when it rains. You insisted on coming.”

“Meow.”

“Well don’t forget it.” I nudged Daffodil into a brisk walk to discourage his current vector into the long grasses aside of the road. The trip would take forever if I allowed the buffet stroll.

“Mrrrrrm,” she trilled.

I shook my head. “Having a conversation with my cat, like she’s going to answer me back. Daniel would say that I was riding the crazy train to Cuckoo-ville.” She blinked at me. “The nerve, right?”

“Mrrrp?”

“Aaaand, I’m still doing it.”

The trip to town was quicker than the last. I knew where I was going and wasn’t worried about getting lost, and both Daffodil and I were fitter and more accustomed to each other so could keep up a more sustained pace without difficulty; trotting long lengths of time before taking a walk break.

I didn’t see any merchants—legitimate or otherwise—on the road to divert my passage this time, but did come upon a small squad of Imperial soldiers heading south. I don’t really have a horse in the race, politically speaking, but wasn’t too keen on providing anything to those that aligned themselves with the Thalmor. I didn’t want to dawdle, in case they had any thoughts about conscripting my pony, or anything else, for that matter, nor appear in a suspicious hurry. I followed Alfarinn’s example and simply nodded politely as we passed them at a steady business-like trot.

Less than a half hour later, I came upon the Stormcloaks. They were heading north.

I debated just riding past as I did with the Imperials. I really did, but would I then have blood on my hands for not warning them? They outnumbered the Imperials. However, the Imperials were better equipped, and on higher ground, I realized. Would my warning even the odds? I scanned the group as the distance closed between us, spotting one Nord dressed in the familiar blue but with shoulders draped in fur with bear claws hanging down his chest. I steered Daffodil to the side of the road to let them pass.

“Captain!” I didn’t know how the Stormcloaks organized their ranks so I hazarded a guess. “There are Imperials ahead of you,” I said, twisting in the saddle to indicate the way behind me.

The soldiers immediately broke from their clustered grouping and fanned around, weapons drawn. So focused on the soldiers moving around to flank me, I didn’t notice the captain’s approach until Daffodil’s aborted shy at the heavy hand grasping the rein.

“What’s this about Imperials?” he demanded.

“There is a party of six Imperial soldiers, mostly armed with swords and shields, but at least two had bows.” That I could recall. “They’re heading this way.”

“She’s trying to lead us into a trap,” one Stormcloak stated.

“And how would I manage that?” I shot back. “I didn’t know to find you here and they are behind me!”

“She even sounds like ‘em,” another said.

“How’d you know what they sound like?” a third asked.

“My da served in the Great War. He said—“

“Your da was a camp cook! He’d’n’t talk’d to one of those yellow skins from the Isles t’know what they sounds like, ne’ermin' you.”

I rolled my eyes. For fuck’s sake. If that was how all Stormcloak soldiers behaved, it was amazing that the Imperial legions didn’t just steamroll over the entire province and put an end to the civil war before it began.

“Hold your tongues!” the captain barked. Apparently he was losing his patience as well.

“Look, I don’t care what you do with the information. Continue on as you were, lay an ambush, run away and hide—” Several shot me dirty looks at the last option. “I’m telling you in good faith. Now release my pony and I’ll be on my way.”

I held the captain’s gaze as he appraised me, trying to impart my good intention with the information provided. He considered me for a very long time. Finally when I was just about in despair that I was going to get caught in the middle of the road between the two hostile groups, he let go of the bridle.

“Very well. Thank you for the information.” He stepped back from Daffodil’s head. “Talos guide you,” he offered.

I jerked my chin down sharply in acknowledgment and jabbed my heels into Daffodil’s sides startling him into a rough trot. Kara yowled in protest but I spared no time in soothing her as I just wanted to put distance between myself and whatever was about to happen on that road. The skin between my shoulder blades itched like it was anticipating an arrow. I hazarded a glance behind me before I headed down the hill to Shor’s Stone; the Stormcloaks had disappeared from sight. Just in time, too, as the sunlight glinted off a metal helmet appearing over the rise.

I didn’t stick around to see what was going to happen and instead, put my heels to Daffodil’s side. We didn’t pull up until we were both huffing and puffing from exertion and the first watch tower of Riften came into view.

Do’Sashaa leaned against the tavern wall; sheltering from the bitter winds that blew constantly from the north regardless of the season, and from the attentions of townsfolk and travelers alike. Days like these, he missed the warm sands and tropical forests of Tenmar. For that matter, he even missed the brackish stench of Riften; at least it was more temperate than the current heap of rock he found himself lurking. He glanced around the little town again, watching for his contact, and couldn’t help at ponder at the town’s fall from grace. Kynesgrove was barely a footnote on the way to and from Windhelm. It had very little to recommend it; a mine, a saw mill, and a sorry excuse for an inn that travelers only stopped at if they didn’t have the energy to make it the extra distance to the great northern city beyond. And yet, generations earlier, Kynesgrove had been a place of pilgrimage and celebration at the beginning of every new year. Clearly, Khenarthi turned her fair gaze from the town when the sacred forests were harvested, and it fell into decline as a result.

His ears perked to attention as a figure dressed in black arrived at the tavern; they were too slight to be his contact, but their furtive behaviour piqued his interest. The bitter wind gusted, tearing the hood back from the figure revealing a head of grey-blonde hair pulled back in a severe ponytail. He was surprised to recognize the innkeeper’s wife from Riverwood. What would she be doing so far from her home and why did she keep looking so nervously over her shoulder? He glanced about cautiously, careful not to give away his own location, but saw nothing of immediate concern to drive him out of cover. His employer would not be happy if they were revealed by someone else’s mischief. And speaking of which, where was his employer? Sitting on his bottom in some warm pillowed carriage while he, the most loyal and under-paid jahkradi, froze his whiskers from his face waiting upon his t'har's leisure? It wasn’t likely but it was an amusing game to entertain himself as he waited.

He tucked his hands under his arms, puffing up his fur in defense against a gust that whipped itself around the edge of the building, twisting the stubborn grasses and weeds that refused to die in the inhospitable terrain. A chicken, that had the temerity to squat on his foot for warmth, he sent squawking in protest into the road with an indignant hiss.

As he contemplated the risk versus reward of stepping inside the tavern for a hot drink liberally laced with honey, an old beggar appeared on the road shambling toward the inn. Hunched in back and shoulder, his walking stick thudded into the road with every other step. His long cloak dragged in the dust and held a collection of leaves and thorns along its ragged edges like its occupant had just spent the night sleeping in the privet.

And perhaps he had, Do’Sashaa chuckled to himself, and the illusion would be better for it. He made a slight gesture and slid back under the eaves to make room, wholly confident that his signal had been noticed.

The old man tucked himself into the shelter of the building and with a final glance at the road, released the illusion with a sigh, revealing a much younger and sturdier Altmer.

Do’Sashaa looked over his plain, road-worn clothing and asked with a teasing glint in his eye, “what? No insignia? No flashes of gold to ease your passage?”

“Not you as well!” Nildor gave him an exasperated look. “This deep in Stormcloak territory? I might as well deliver my head on a platter to the bear, himself, and be done with it.” He picked off some vegetation from his sleeve, sniffed it, then slid it into his pocket. “What do you have to report?”

Straight to the point, then. “This one has made contact. The youngest dark bramble—“ Nildor made a moue of distaste at the reference, “provided the means with a simple errand to purchase nightshade to replenish the alchemist’s own stocks.”

“Nightshade? What is that fool girl doing?”

Do’Sashaa pinned his ears and whiskers back in distaste. “Learning to poison. Mostly vermin in the Ratways, while perfecting her art.” He shivered, setting his fur bristling again. “That one is strange, bent. Her mother is not amused.”

“Hmm. That thorn likes to keep the family name clean and pay for the killing. Still—“ he speculated, then shook his head. “It’s not our concern until it becomes one. Back to the matter at hand,” he prompted.

“She’s been to the city once to acquaint herself with the court mage, stayed at the inn while in town attending to business—two nights—before returning.”

“She’s residing at the farm?”

“Yes.”

“Alone?”

“Yes…” Do’Sashaa answered slowly.

The altmer’s eyes sharpened on the khajiit. “Why do you hesitate? Is she or isn’t she?”

“She has her pony and well… a cat.”

Nildor snorted, “you mean it’s Alfiq. Have I kept you from homeland so you no longer recognize your own peoples?”

The khajiit snarled at the jest, “this one recognized them as one of the Azurah’s own, but they did not speak, and protested with claws and snarls when I tried to reveal them to the greenpaws.”

Greenpaws, Nildor repeated silently, the corner of his mouth curled up into a glimmer of a smile before it dropped in favour of a concerned frown. “So she’s unaware. A spy, do you think?”

“This one is uncertain. If the story of their meeting is true, it was entirely by chance.”

“Unless it wasn’t,” Nildor supplied, reading between the lines.

Do’Sashaa tipped his head in agreement.

“And what of the presence in the city? Anyone showing interest in her?”

“No eagles to be found watching for prey. As for others, well,” he shrugged, “she doesn’t seem to be receptive despite the expressed interest.”

“What do you mean?”

“There was a scene in the inn with the veth dariit,” he replied.

Nildor scowled, well acquainted with that particular person’s reputation.

Do’Sashaa pondered his employer’s reaction. He had not bothered with or shown undue concern with any attention to the previous targets, beyond the eagles' gaze. It was a curiosity that begged for scratching and he knew just the thing to cause an itch. “Greenpaws keeps a preserved flower on her mantle? Do you know—“

“She kept it?”

The khajiit hummed the affirmative to cover his surprise at the wistful expression to cross the elf’s face; never before had he seen his employer so emotionally embroiled. “She said it was a reminder to not be so foolish again,” he offered, carefully watching Nildor’s demeanour crumble. His eyes narrowed. “What did you do?”

“What was required.” Nildor raised his head and pulled his shoulders back, taking on the habitual façade of his profession. “Befriend her if you can, and watch for the others. Inform me if there are any developments.” He pulled a palm-sized sack from under his cloak, gave it a little heft in his hand causing the heavy coin within to clink dully, and dropped it into the khajiit’s palm. He pulled his hood up and invoked his illusion. The hunched, old mer reappeared in his place.

“Who is she?” Do’Sashaa asked, one more attempt to scratch at the mystery.

“A woman… angua—simply a woman.” Without another word, he hobbled from the shelter of the tavern and back down the road leaving the khajiit to shake his head in puzzlement.