Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The ceremony is small, and Sio thanks the gods for that. Familiar faces stand out from the crowd—Abbot Durak, Sister Safia, Duke Nathaniel—but Sio finds herself ultimately avoiding them. There are only so many times she can hear the word “hero” before becoming physically ill.

The one person she dares not avoid is the High King himself. During the ceremony, he is grave and regal as ever, but once the drink begins to flow, he beckons Sio back to the dais with a small, genuine smile.

“I know I’ve thanked you publically already,” he says, gesturing Sio to the advisor’s chair near his throne, “but that was as your king. As a man capable of despair, I must thank you again, personally, for dispelling mine. You showed incredible skill and power in dispatching that daedra, but I find myself most grateful for the compassion you showed me with your words.”

Sio suddenly wishes she had a glass of wine to fidget with. Deprived of such an excuse, she takes a deep breath and tries to smooth her ruffled edges. “I did what had to be done,” she says. “I am...not generally a compassionate person, Your Majesty.”

Emeric chuckles. “Well, you can at least count modesty among your virtues. But lest you worry I intend to force another medal on you, I called you here for more than idle chatter.” He smiles and lifts his goblet as someone in the crowd waves to him, then returns his attention to Sio. “Do you know much about commanding an army?”

Sio really, really wishes she had that glass of wine. Her alarm must show, because Emeric laughs again.

“Oh, gods no! I don’t intend to saddle you with that particularly thorny responsibility. I only ask because there are distinct types of troops that any agent of the Covenant should understand.”

“I know next to nothing about military rankings,” Sio confesses.

“That’s perfectly fine; I’m not referring to rankings, anyways.” He takes a sip from his goblet, then begins to count off on his fingers. “There are four types of people, when it comes to warfare. There are soldiers—those who are taught to follow orders to the letter, and do it well. Then there are operatives—spies, agents, those who rely on networking and subterfuge. There are commanders—those who can read a situation, who can issue orders under pressure.”

He takes another sip of wine, and this time Sio is pretty sure it’s for dramatic effect. Lowering his goblet, he continues. “And then there are champions. People of such extraordinary and singular talent that they would be wasted in the traditional military, people for whom the word impossible is nothing but a challenge. They don’t always play nicely with their fellows, and they don’t always follow orders to the letter. But a well-placed champion can be more effective than an entire army.”

Sio isn’t obtuse enough to miss the obvious implication, or the way Emeric structures his praise so as not to overwhelm or embarrass her. She stares into her lap for a moment, then lifts her gaze to his.

“You want me to work for you.”

“And quick on the uptake, too,” Emeric chuckles. “I would relish the opportunity to count you among my allies, yes. Between your skill in battle and your experience with the Elder Scrolls, I would be remiss to let you leave without at least posing the question to you. You would be handsomely rewarded, of course—I daresay you’ve earned the right to name your price.”

Sio allows her gaze to drift over the throne room. Great banquet tables have been brought in, and the guests are all engaged in laughter and drink. No one here has given her fearful glances or called her witch. To the contrary, they might even respect her. And she wouldn’t be the first Vestige to pledge herself to a monarch, either—Lysandaar ended up giving his oath to Ayrenn just last month, and Speaks-Through-Ink became involved with the Pact almost the moment she left Coldharbour. They’ve all agreed it doesn’t cross a line, so long as the ultimate goal of peace is upheld.

“I’d have conditions,” Sio says after a long moment. She looks back to Emeric to see him nod invitingly, so she presses ahead. “One, I won’t contribute to the bloodshed in Cyrodiil.”

Emeric’s eyebrows rise at that. “You said before you wish to help the Covenant.”

“Not quite,” Sio reminds him. “I said I wish to help the people of the Covenant. Forgive me, Your Majesty—I hold a tremendous amount of respect for the peace you’ve brokered and everything you do to maintain it. But I have no interest in expanding your empire through conquest.”

For a moment, Emeric looks incredulous. Then he starts to laugh. “You are lucky I owe you such a debt, al-Selei. I suppose I appreciate your forthrightness. Very well, there is plenty for you to fix within the Covenant’s present borders. Consider your term accepted.”

“There’s more,” Sio admits. “You already know I aim to oppose Molag Bal and the Planemeld. That will always be my first priority—there can be no Covenant if there is no Nirn.”

Emeric winces slightly and takes a draught of wine. “If we could reclaim the Imperial City, I’m certain we would put an end to the Lord of Lies’ schemes.”

“Unlikely,” Sio says in a flat voice, before she remembers who she’s talking to. “I mean...that’s not how the Scrolls foretold it happening, Your Majesty.”

“But they do speak of an end to the Planemeld?” Emeric leans forward in his seat, eyes gleaming.

Sio knows she must be careful. “The Scrolls foretold many endings to the Planemeld. The threads where Nirn survives are few and far between. Please, trust that I am doing all in my power to see us to one of those eventualities.”

Emeric stares at her long and hard. As casually as she can, Sio brushes aside her eyepatch, and stares back.

Emeric goes even paler than usual at the sight of Sio’s witch-eye, bone white in contrast to the brown one opposite it.

“My duty is to Nirn,” Sio tells him. “I couldn’t care less who sits atop the Ruby Throne. This world is the only home I have. I will fight to protect her, with or without your blessing.”

For a long moment, Sio thinks she’s pushed too far. Then, Emeric breaks her gaze and takes another long drink from his goblet. “Damn you,” he mutters.

Sio waits patiently, taking the time to fix her eyepatch back in place. Eventually, the king lets out a resigned sigh. “Very well. I hardly know what to do with someone whose intentions are so— noble. But if you continue to help my people, I will continue to offer you support.” He nods to her. “Do you have any idea of where you’ll travel next?”

Sio mulls it over again in her mind. “I have prophecies for all the regions of the Covenant. It seems that all are in some form of peril, with the exception of Glenumbra and now Stormhaven.”

“Perhaps this is favoritism,” Emeric murmurs, “but I would request you investigate Rivenspire first. By last accounts, the place has overturned in a bloody civil war.” He cocks an eyebrow at Sio. “What’s Rivenspire’s prophecy? Or can you not tell anyone for fear of altering the threads of fate?”

She knows he’s joking, but she still hesitates. Then, leaning closer, she recites what the Scrolls had chosen to reveal.

To the north lies the Crag, now woken anew
And as death follows life, so darkness does too.
A Riven land sunders neath old love’s misuse
While a counting of Ravens reveals the dread ruse.
At the apex of darkness, once blood has been spent,
The Scion of Bal steals the Lightless Ascent.

To her surprise, Emeric chuckles again. “A counting of Ravens, hmm? That could only refer to my old friend Verandis. Count Ravenwatch,” he clarifies.

“I suspect there are multiple meanings to it, but that does seem a likely one,” Sio admits, pleased to glean new information. “Do you have any idea what the dread ruse might refer to?”

Emeric hums in thought. “Quite possibly. But it is not my secret to share.”

A tick of irritation forms in Sio’s brow. “The Scrolls would not have mentioned it if it was not important.”

“I won’t cloud your opinion with prejudice,” Emeric says firmly. “I could very well be wrong, too.”

Sio grits her teeth, still rankling at the thought of vital information being withheld. “As you say, Your Majesty.”

Hiding a smirk behind his goblet, Emeric leans back on his throne. “You aren’t used to dealing with nobility, are you? Don’t answer that. Tomorrow, I will brief you on the situation in Rivenspire. For now, you’ve listened to me prattle on for far too long. Go on, mingle and drink. This is your day—though I suspect you’ll have many more.”

Sweet relief. “Thank you, Your Majesty.” Sio rises from her chair and bows low before making her way off the dais and into the crowd. She will find a glass of wine, she decides, and sneak away to her guest room to drink it. Perhaps if she is lucky, she will find a sympathetic servant to run her a hot bath.

And if she is very lucky, the nightmares will remain at bay.

From the desk of Idaria the Unbiased, 2E 584

ON THE NATURE OF SOULS

All souls are comprised of two parts; the vestige (form) and the principle (fulfillment). By analogy, the vestige is the skeleton, and the principle is the flesh that completes it.

 

Daedra have vestiges called "morphotypes", an immutable framework bound by their nymic (true name). Their principle, conversely, is Padomaic (chaotic) in nature. The morphotype persists unchanged after the death of the body, returning to the plane of Oblivion where it was created. There, it accretes chaotic creatia (such as Azure Plasm), returning its physical form over time.

 

Contrastingly, a mortal's soul is based upon a mutable vestige, called the animus, making them capable of growing, changing, and even altering their own destiny. They are fulfilled by Anuic (static) principle, which keeps them bound to reality despite their mutable vestige. When a mortal's body is destroyed, the mortal's soul is drawn naturally to Aetherius by virtue of its Anuic principle (there are ways to subvert this natural ascension, however, such as promising said soul to a daedra).

Chapter Text

It’s good to see Darien again, contrary to Sio’s outward indifference towards the man. Despite his never-ending talk of women and wine, Sio only had to shut down his flirting once, and he never tried his wiles on her again. At least, to her knowledge. Sio supposes she hasn’t been the best judge in the past of whether or not someone was attempting to flirt. Regardless of Damien’s intentions, he’s easy and open with his chatter and fills the silence as they ride together towards Shornhelm. And he always meets her gaze squarely, never flinching or staring at her witch-eye.

Sio long ago learned to travel with both eyes open, despite the fact that her witch-eye is blind to the mundane world. Bandits are easily spooked, and looking like a dangerous freak works to her advantage. Besides, it helps her pick up on magical creatures and auras.

As she and Darien round yet another bend in the road, the craggy terrain begins to open up before them. It’s certainly no vantage point, but Sio can see much more of the distant mountains—and something is extremely wrong.

“Darien,” she calls. “What’s that steep peak with the storm at the summit?”

He follows her finger and hums. “Locals call it the Doomcrag. It’s outrageously haunted, apparently, and sometimes it just does that.”

Sio frowns deeply. Red lightning glimmers and flashes among the distant clouds. Her witch-eye itches with how magical the storm is. From such a great distance, it’s difficult to know its nature or origin, but the idea of some kind of magical eruption does not sit well with her.

Pressing her lips together, she touches her heels to the belly of her horse and picks up the pace.

It isn’t long before the walls and towers of Shornhelm come into view, along with several plumes of smoke. Darien seems to take it in stride, so Sio tries not to worry about it. As their horses near the gates, she fixes her eyepatch back in place.

Suddenly, Sio reins in her horse. Darien pauses a few steps further, turning to look at her. “Everything alright?”

Sio is quiet for a moment, caught up in the sweet pull of nearby magic. It calls to her, stoking the cravings she’s been trying to ignore since she left Wayrest.

“There’s a skyshard nearby,” she tells Damien. He’s one of the few people she can be honest with, after the unfortunate events in Camlorn.

Still, Sio feels vulnerable beneath his gaze as she dismounts and shifts her eyepatch over her mundane eye. The world goes dark, but magical auras come into sharper focus. Feeling her way with her staff, she follows the familiar glow of the skyshard into the muck at the base of the walls. Her clothes will get filthy, but she refuses to pass up this opportunity.

Kneeling in the cold, muddy water, Sio plunges an arm beneath the surface. After a moment of groping blindly, her hand comes to rest upon the crystalline angles of the shard. Power thrums beneath her fingertips—pure, sweet divinity. Immediately, something deep inside of her rears up, stoked into hunger to rival Satakal’s. It devours the divinity of the shard, pulling power from it until nothing is left but a fragile glass husk.

Sio gasps as the energy washes through her. It soothes sharp angles inside her mind and grounds her firmly within her own body. It feels like waking up after a long, long sleep. She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. Then, rising, she fixes her eyepatch back over her witch-eye and rejoins Darien. He’s tactful enough to say nothing.

The guards don’t hold them up long, and soon Sio finds herself once again immersed in civilization. The closely crowding grey stone buildings are familiar by now, as are the pale faces they pass. Unlike the people of Wayrest, however, Shornhelm’s population seems gripped by a collective unease. People scurry from place to place, never remaining on the streets for long. What little conversation Sio overhears is either terse or filled with forced levity.

“A cheerful lot, these Shornhelmers,” Darien comments blithely, now leading Sio towards a towering cathedral. “You’ll fit right in. Here we are.”

They come to a stop in the plaza leading up to the cathedral. Darien gestures to the great wooden doors. “You’ll find the nobles in there, since they’ve been evicted from their castle. For now, let’s get to the inn. You, uh, might want to clean up before your big meeting.”

Sio glances down at her filthy robes, then up at Darien. “Isn’t the city under siege? Should I not get to work as fast as possible?”

“Hey, it’s your call,” he says. “Time could be of the essence, I suppose. Still, first impressions matter.”

“Not to me,” Sio mutters. She dismounts, then casts a quick charm to dry out her clothes. Still dirty, but at least she won’t leave muddy footprints on the floor of the cathedral.

“Want me to stable your horse?” Darien asks. “It’s right by the eastern gate, not too far from the inn.”

Sio worries her lip, more concerned with the building in front of her. The stained glass depicts the Eight-Spoked Wheel and the Eight Divines, colorful and fanciful in the setting sun. Arkay is depicted the most prominently. Sio sighs.

“Yes, thank you,” she says at last, tearing her gaze from the windows. “I’ll introduce myself and meet you back at the inn when I get the chance.” She pauses. “Before you leave, is there anything I should know about the nobles? You work with Countess Tamrith, is that correct?”

“Yep,” Darien says. “The lady herself. She’s on the cautious side—her sister Janeve got all the fire in the family. Baron Dorell is a bit of a hot head, and quite stubborn to boot, but he inspires a great deal of loyalty in his people.”

“What about the Count?” Sio asks. “Ravenwatch. I’ve heard he knows High King Emeric well.”

Darien’s mouth twists to one side. “Hmm. Well, his house isn’t one of the ruling families, but it’s true he has Emeric’s ear. He’s a bit...” He trails off, then shrugs. “Strange.”

“Strange in what way?” Sio’s hands grip her staff a little tighter as she remembers her talk with the High King. Hadn’t Emeric implied that the dread secret belonged to the Count?

Darien rubs the back of his head. “Well, for one thing, he’s remained a bachelor all these years, but by report lives with several ‘wards’ he treats as family. Some beautiful young women number among them, I’m told. To be perfectly candid, I haven’t spoken with him much, but the few times I’ve heard him talk he’s been very cryptic.”

Sio frowns again. “...I see. Thank you, Darien.”

“No problem. And hey—if you get back before last call, drinks are on me!”

A small smile tugs at Sio’s lips as she passes Darien the reins of her horse. With a brief wave goodbye, he sets off to the east. Sio is left to face the cathedral.

Inside, what remains of the sunlight streams through the stained glass and refracts in pools of color along the walls, pillars, and floor. The air is thick with incense, and Sio shivers as the building’s wards roll over her. She knows her presence here is profane.

At the end of the main aisle, three figures stand near the altar—arguing, Sio notices as she approaches.

“—need them here, protecting our citizens, not galavanting off in search of some rumor! You weaken our defenses while the enemy is on our doorstep!”

The speaker is a Breton man, stout and muscled with a mustache and tuft of beard. Immediately protesting his words is the woman, bearing a circlet on her brow beneath a bob of blonde hair.

“We need more information if we’re going to break this stalemate, Baron. My father would have told you the same. Captain Janeve will return in short order with something we can use—more than I can say for your men.”

“Baron, Countess, please. Personal attacks resolve nothing.”

Sio draws up short. The third speaker’s voice is low and ornamented with an accent she’s unfamiliar with. Taking a few steps further, she sees why.

Count Ravenwatch is an Altmer, with a complexion akin to white-gold and long, loose hair just a few shades too dark to be called red. Unlike the other two nobles, he’s armed, carrying a mage’s staff. As Sio approaches, the Count turns to regard her, and a tiny thrill races up Sio’s spine. For just a moment, the light had caught strangely in his eyes—but no, there’s nothing amiss. The Count’s eyes are hazel, flicking over her and lingering briefly on her eyepatch. He offers a polite smile.

“Ah, a visitor. Please, excuse the enthusiastic discussion. Would you happen to be Siovha al-Selei?”

The two other nobles also turn to look Sio over, their argument briefly forgotten. Their scrutinizing gazes both land on her dirt-crusted clothes. Neither of them looks particularly enthusiastic about Sio’s approach.

Deliberately turning her attention back to the man who’d addressed her, Sio nods once. “I am, in fact. I take it you were anticipating my arrival?”

“High King Emeric sent word ahead of you, yes,” Count Ravenwatch says.

Baron Dorell clears his throat significantly. “Care to enlighten the rest of us, Ravenwatch? Or is this another of your spies, come to undermine our attempts to reclaim the city?”

Countess Tamrith exhales sharply in irritation. “Oh, for Light’s sake, Alard! Stop throwing around unsubstantiated accusations!”

Dorell scowls, stabbing a finger at Count Ravenwatch. “He’s friends with Montclair; he has been all along! My concerns are hardly unsubstantiated.”

Sio blinks, taken aback by the hostility. She glances at the Count to find him still regarding her, not looking the least bit troubled at being accused of treason. As she watches, he turns to the bickering Baron and Countess with only mild concern on his face.

“Please, let us focus on the matter at hand. Even now, the High King rides for Shornhelm—and he has sent reinforcements ahead. Baron, Countess, allow me to introduce Siovha al-Selei, the hero of Glenumbra and Stormhaven.”

Taking her cue, Sio bows to the gathered nobles. “I can assure you, I am here to help. I understand the Upper City has been taken by the traitor Montclair’s forces?”

“Yes, and I seem to be the only one worried about it,” Dorell snaps. He crosses his arms, as though daring the others to contradict him. The Countess rises to the bait immediately.

“We’re all on the same side, Baron. You would do well to remember that, and act accordingly.”

“Are we on the same side?” Dorell demands. “Because frankly...”

Sio watches the nobles argue until her impatience grows greater than her restraint.

“If I may,” she interjects in the tone of voice that suggests that she will regardless of whether or not she may. The nobles fall quiet, and the Baron shoots her a rather nasty look. Sio swears she sees Count Ravenwatch smile. “This is a circuitous debate that could be easily resolved. We all wish for the same thing, do we not? Montclair defeated, Rivenspire united? The path forward is clear. We will kill the traitors who remain in Shornhelm and search their base of operation for any evidence of what brought about this sudden attack.”

Baron Dorell huffs and crosses his arms. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell these two. We need to rally the guard and make a coordinated assault on—”

“That could take days!” Countess Tamrith interrupts. “And we’d have no idea what we were walking into, either. We can at least wait until the High King’s forces arrive.”

Dorell levels a finger at her. “You’re unwilling to act because something might go wrong. I say it’s already wrong! We need to send in the guard!”

“ If I may, ” Sio repeats through grit teeth. “I clearly misspoke. I should not have said ‘we’. I will go to the Upper City; I will kill the traitors; I will search for clues.”

Dorell scoffs, waving a hand. “Have we not made the situation clear to you? Montclair’s men are swarming the place. You don’t even have bodyguards.”

Sio’s lip curls, and she’s about to respond with vitriol when a soft laugh comes from Count Ravenwatch.

“I believe you’ve explained the situation quite well, Alard,” he says. “I would further point out that you are speaking to the woman who faced Angof Gravesinger in open combat and walked away the victor.”

“With an army at her disposal,” Dorell sniffs. “As accomplished as she may be, I don’t believe for a second— Where are you going? You haven’t been dismissed!”

Sio, halfway down the aisle already, turns and makes a deep bow. “With my most gracious apologies, I would remind the Baron that I serve at the pleasure of High King Emeric, and recognize no other employer at present.”

Dorell and Tamrith both scowl at her words. The Baron especially looks like a tomato placed under too much pressure. Sio smiles blandly, then turns and continues down the rows of pews.

“A moment, if you would,” a voice calls just as Sio reaches the door.

Sio pauses, glancing over her shoulder to find the Count standing in the shadow of one grand pillar. Sio hadn’t even seen him move from the altar. Turning, she approaches with a nod of acknowledgement.

“If you’re going to warn me against a direct assault, you needn’t bother,” she says.

Count Ravenwatch smiles, less of a courtly mannerism this time and more the genuine article. “I wouldn’t dream of telling you how to perform your role. However, I do offer a word of warning. Montclaire’s troops may be more than they seem.”

Sio glances back to where Dorell and Tamrith continue to argue up by the altar. “They mentioned the two of you were friends,” she says slowly. Her gaze flicks back to Count Ravenwatch’s hazel eyes, and again she feels there’s something strange about them. “...You know more than you’ve told them.”

The Count inclines his head in admission. “I know a little bit about the circumstances surrounding Baron Montclaire’s sudden change. Not everything, mind you, but some. I also have reason to believe that he now counts vampires among his forces. Have you faced such creatures before?”

Sio exhales heavily, mind springing back to the bloodfiends she’s put down in the past, and the cannier vampires, the ones that disguised themselves as mortals and played dead when struck down. Vampires also trace their lineage back to Molag Bal—perhaps the Scion of Bal from the prophecy is one of Montclair’s allies, or even Montclair himself.

“...I have, yes.” Sio hesitates, then offers a hand. “Thank you for trusting me with this information. It would have been...unfortunate to learn in the middle of a fight.”

Only belatedly does she realize she has dirt beneath her fingernails. Still, Ravenwatch clasps the offered hand in a firm shake. “Think nothing of it. Pardon me for saying so, but I am already finding myself glad that Emeric placed his trust in you. I hope you’ll consider me an ally moving forwards.”

Another surprise. Sio can count on one hand the number of nobles who have positive opinions of her. “Only if you will consider me the same. I may not be from Rivenspire, but I will do everything in my power to protect her people.”

Ravenwatch bows his head in thanks. “You cannot know how much I appreciate your determination. Go safely, then.”

Sio nods once, then turns and pushes out of the chapel. The pressure seems to lift, as do her spirits when she at last takes a breath of fresh air.

Turning towards the Upper City gates, she pulls her staff from her back and gives it a loose twirl. Her other hand rests on her spirit tome, strapped to her belt. The souls within murmur softly, restless.

She hopes Darien doesn’t wait up.

From the desk of Idaria the Unbiased, 2E 584

ON SOUL TRAPPING

Soul trapping is the process whereby a soul's principle (Anuic and/or Padomaic energy) is siphoned away, usually to be stored within a crystal whose matrix mimics that of a blank vestige (frequently, a soul gem).

 

Contrary to popular belief, soul trapping a mortal does not destroy the vestige (consciousness, memory, and identity) of the mortal, but instead sends it to the Soul Cairn, a realm of Oblivion ruled over by the Ideal Masters. However, being relieved of its principle means that the vestige will slowly wither and degrade.

 

The use of Sigil Geodes is unique in that they trap the whole soul, vestige and principle, without splitting it. The soul within the Sigil Geode remains conscious, and wears down the Sigil Geode as though it was a mortal body, necessitating the soul to be moved to a new crystal matrix or else it will be released back to either Aetherius or Oblivion, depending on the type of soul. Since Sigil Geodes do not split the principle from the vestige, they cannot be used in enchanting any more easily than one could use a living, breathing creature.