» Sat Feb 19, 2011 12:30 am
Thank you, everyone, for reading and responding. Obviously, I love the characters I am writing about, and I would continue to do so under any circumstances. But having the support of so many talented writers makes it so much more rewarding. Stories are made to be shared, and I am glad I can share this one with all of you.
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The Mantle of Woe lay at my feet, crumpled and torn, but still pulsing with a magicka that made my teeth ache. My Breton blood was drawn to the evil garment; its power calling to the magic within me. But I had seen the effect it had had on Tymvaul, so I very much wanted to avoid physical contact with it. If it could call to someone through so many feet of ice and soil, it was too dangerous to be left lying about, waiting for another victim.
At last, I retrieved a sword from one of the skeleton warriors I had defeated and used the tip to raise the robe from the floor and stuff it into a bag. Even that indirect contact allowed me to "read" the magical properties of the aptly named garment. It would give the wearer a vast reservoir of magicka upon which to call, as well as significantly improve his skill as a conjurer. At the same time, its evil nature made the user vulnerable to standard weapons and unable to endure direct sunlight. In other words, it was the perfect apparel for someone who wanted to become that darkest of all mages- a necromancer. And now it whispered its insidious song to me.
After I had pulled myself from the icy water at the bottom of the well, I had been cold and angry. The fight with the skeletons and the emotional battle to free Tymvaul from the robe's influence had drained the anger out of me, and now I was simply cold- and frightened. It was all very well to say "destroy the robe," but accomplishing the task would be more difficult. An artifact, especially a powerful one, stored unimaginable amounts of magical power. It also absorbed something of the nature and the desire of its creator. Destroying the artifact released all of that power and will in a cataclysmic instant.
Had I been on Vvardenfell, I would have dropped the thing into a lava pool, trusting the elemental fires of Nirn itself to unmake it. But I was not, and did not know when I might return. Perhaps Korst Wind-Eye could provide some guidance. For now, I had saved Tymvaul from the robe, and that would have to be enough.
I followed the passage the young Nord had taken and found an opening onto the east bank of the Isild. The slope of the land told me where the Skaal village stood, and I turned towards it and the warmth of the half-timbered dwellings. Lassnr opened his door at my knock, a guarded hope in his eyes. His expression clouded as he looked past me and did not see anyone else.
"He is not with you, then? I had hoped?."
I interrupted, reassuring the old man: "He lives, and he is? well. He had a- ah, difficult time, but is much stronger now. He has decided that he would like to study magic and said he was going to Vvardenfell- and perhaps to the Imperial City after that. He wanted me to tell you that he would not have survived if not for your love. I think that he will do well."
Lassnr's face cleared and years seemed to drop away from him. He even smiled, though the expression was tinged with regret.
"Well, I will miss him?. He always was mad for anything to do with magic- or with books. He lives, and he knows that I love him. It would be selfish to ask for more."
He stood for a time then, lost in thought, perhaps remembering the past or envisioning the future. But then he shook himself and took in my condition. He placed a strong hand on my shoulder and guided me to a seat near the fire.
"Forgive me, Athlain. Warm yourself and I will make us some stew."
He paused and added. "If it is not too much to ask, would you guest with me? You could have Tymvaul's bed. It would be pleasant to have company."
I considered his words. In truth, I had no better place to stay, saving perhaps the great hall. Thirsk was too far to walk, and I did not wish to return to the fort until my task was done. And then a wave of loneliness washed through me, an awareness that it had been many months since I passed a night in anyone's home. Except for the weeks in Uncle Sweetshare's cabin, I had rarely been alone, spending my sleeping hours in Legion barracks and at Thirsk. But those places were transient, somewhere to wait until moving on, soon or late.
So I found myself hanging up the damp furs that had kept out the worst of the cold and unbuckling my armor. When I stood in my quilted under-tunic, Lassnr handed me a wolf-fur robe and a mug of mulled cider. Waving me back to my seat, he busied himself with a pot, which gave off a wonderful aroma.
"It's just fish stew," he said apologetically. "Venison comes from Skyrim or Tamriel, so we don't see much of it. And it has to be dried or frozen for shipping, anyway. But fish we have in plenty, and carrots and leeks travel well enough."
He tossed some feathery green leaves into the mixture and gave it a gentle stir, then carried the pot to the table. As we ate, he spoke of his son and their life together in the village.
"His mother, bless her, taught him his letters, and he read every book he could find. Mostly, he liked stories of magic and lost treasures. He was never interested in being a hunter, like the rest of us. He only brought in enough furs to earn coin to send off for more books. Maybe if we had been able to give him brothers or sisters, things would have been different. But he's a good boy for all that, and even if he's not like me, he is still my son. But what about you? Do you have any family?"
And so I found myself telling this man who I hardly knew about growing up near Ald'ruhn with two sisters. He laughed when I described some of the elaborate pranks Mae and Cai had played on me, and smiled when I spoke of Mother and her garden. If he noticed that I did not mention Father, he kept it to himself. We settled into a comfortable silence, each lost in our own thoughts.
At last, Lassnr spoke quietly, his eyes on the jumping flames in the fireplace.
"We always hope our children will turn out better than we did. And we try to keep them from making the same mistakes. Sons have a hard way to go, trying to live up to their fathers. But you know, fathers have a rough path as well, trying to be everything their children think they ought- fair and strong and brave. Good night to you Athlain- and thank you for saving my son."
He turned down the lamps and rolled himself in his furs, from whence there soon issued a gentle snoring. I tried to follow suit, but sleep would not come. As I tossed and turned, I recalled Tymvaul's request that I "remove some items" from the house. Moving quietly, I arose and went to examine the bench and shelves where Tymvaul's possessions were stored. What I found was chilling: a copy of Darkest Darkness, several human skulls, and a ghoul heart. Anyone with the slightest knowledge of magic would know these items indicated a study of necromancy. And I was also certain that I must get rid of this evidence.
While I considered how to do it, a voice spoke from behind me:
"I knew what Tymvaul was doing, but I feared driving him away, so I said nothing. But then, I'm about as magical as a lump of mud, anyway."
It was Lassnr, who had obviously heard me moving around in the dim cabin. I should have realized that such an experienced hunter could move quietly at need. I turned to look at him and explained:
"We need to be rid of all this; it would not do for anyone to find it. The ingredients and the book can be burned, and I will place the skulls inside a barrow when I can. Tymvaul has taken a different road now, and he should be allowed to follow it."
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