The second later makes me feel pretty sad. =(

Chapter 7

My choice of direction was not based on impulse, nor did it originate from any sense of foreknowledge. The simple fact was that both Fort Frostmoth and Gandrung Cavern were on the southern coast and Raven Rock was to the west. My strongest desire was to avoid places where I might encounter anyone who knew me- I wanted to lose myself in the interior of the island. I also wanted to find the source of the moon-sugar used in the poisonings, because I had agreed to do so? and for other reasons. And it seemed that a person in a white Colovian helm, singing a silly song would have generated some interest at the fort or the colony. No one besides the priest had mentioned such an individual. I felt the loss of my Legion armor acutely, and kept shrugging and twitching as I tried to adjust the fit of the cast-offs I wore in its place. Yet, despite my discomfort, I also felt a sense of relief as I passed into the tall trees. I had performed my duties to the best of my ability and had not left any unfinished business behind me. Except for, perhaps my informal and unacknowledged resignation? and Carnius Magius? and? Athynae. I loosed a sigh fit to match the wind that slid amongst the needles of the trees and wondered when my life had grown so complex.

Before long, I came to a river that flowed down from the north. If my sketchy map of the island were to be believed, this was the Iggnir, and had its origin at Lake Fjalding. The river was icy, and I decided to follow it upstream in hopes of finding?. Well, I was not sure what I hoped to find. A place to cross? The moon-sugar poisoner? Some clue to Louis Beauchamp's airship? A solution to my problems? Perhaps I mostly stayed beside the river because the fast-flowing water reminded me of the slower and warmer Odai and Samsi back on Vvardenfell. However much Father and I disagreed, on one point we were alike- nothing calmed the mind like being in the presence of moving water. Whenever I was deeply troubled, I would find my way to a quiet spot on the riverbank and consider the paradox- the river was constantly changing, yet always the same- and always perfect. The petty problems of people- love, war, self doubt-- none of those made any difference. The water flowed into the sea, providing life to the plants and animals along its course. I should have perhaps paid closer attention to that last part- and to the fact that I was on Solstheim, rather than Vvardenfell.

If you ever find yourself in a place that is home to large predators, it would serve you well to consider exactly how those predators are able to become so large. A carnivore requires a reliable source of protein, preferably protein that can be obtained with only minimal effort. One of the best such sources of protein is fish. And a great source of fish is? that's right, a river. Some people like to compare bears to big, shaggy dogs. I wouldn't know- I have never seen a dog outside of illustrations in books. However, if they are anything like the mountainous, smelly mass of fur, claws, and teeth that erupted from amongst a nest of boulders and tried to eat me- I can't imagine why anyone would keep such a creature in the house. The quick way Mistress Alfena had finished the bear we encountered on our walk to Raven Rock must have been an anomaly- I had almost as great a struggle with this one as with the Daedroth back on Vvardenfell. I blocked a swipe of the right paw only to be buffeted from my feet by the left. Fortunately, I fell on my back and was able to interpose my shield between the fetid jaws and my throat. Frustrated, the bear again rose up on its hind legs, perhaps to contemplate how to remove this tasty crustacean from its shell, or perhaps intent on crushing me with its massive weight. I rolled to one side, reaching my mace out to strike a rather weak blow to one leg. Then I kept rolling, closely followed by the hot breath of my attacker. When I fetched up against a rock, I knew that was where I would have to make my stand. In the event, it was more of a kneel than a stand; I was able to come to my knees, where I crouched beneath my shield rather like a tortoise. Unlike a tortoise, however, I had the reach and weaponry to do more than passively defend myself. It was no doubt undignified, but I really did not care- the point of a fight was to win, not to look good while losing.

When the bear at last collapsed, I dragged myself to the chill water of the river and bathed my wounds, then drank deeply. A healing spell took care of my aching head and stopped the flow of blood; the claw- and tooth-marks on my armor would have to be remedied at some later time. Although I felt refreshed, I moved a prudent distance from the river, just keeping it in sight as I continued north. My care was soon rewarded- I espied a person wandering among the trees in a rather addled fashion. As I approached, I could see that it was a Nord woman, a woman who was barely dressed in animal hides and seemed to be arguing with someone only she could see. I called out softly, asking,

"Mistress? Are you well? Has someone or some creature attacked you and left you in this state?"

Her response was to pull a huge, rusted hammer from beneath a tree and attempt to brain me with it, shouting:

"You call this fighting?"

I had no clever response, nor did I think any reply, clever or not, would have mattered. My attacker was apparently bereft of her senses. She swung the hammer wildly, spinning herself around with the force of her blows. To my benefit, the strength of her attacks was not matched by her skill. And, even though I was fighting a woman, reflex took over, and I slew her as I would any other wild beast. Only when it was over did my conscious thought catch up with the reality of what I had done, and I trembled as I stared at the broken body.

The bear I had left lying, confident that scavengers would soon dispose of the flesh. But what was I to do here? This corpse had been a person, regardless of the fact that she had attacked me. I could not just leave her out here to be squabbled over by wolves and worse. Then too, there was the problem of necromancy. A body left unburied and unhallowed could very well be reanimated and become a greater danger than when it had lived. I had only to consider the Draugrs that had beset the shipwreck to know that the possibility was all too real. I knew that the Nords sometimes sent the dead off to the afterlife in blazing ships, launched out into the sea. But I had neither the skill nor the time to build a boat for this unknown woman. Another option was interment in a barrow, an earthen mound raised over the fallen warrior. But that was generally the work of a clan or crew, not of one person. I had a disturbing vision of myself, doomed to forever drag the corpse along with me, a symbol of my bad judgment. That solution might feel like justice, but it would also have a? quelling? effect on anyone I met.

Soon enough, I reached the conclusion that I already carried a sufficient metaphorical burden of shame and guilt, and that adding a physical component was a trifle excessive. There was a crevice among the boulders that would serve as a grave, and enough loose stones lying about to cover it over. Knowing something of Nord custom, I enclosed her meager possessions with her, so that she would not go into the next life empty-handed. When I was done, I considered what sort of eulogy to give someone whose name I did not know; about whom, in fact, I knew nothing; except that she had tried to murder me. Noting the aching bruises where her hammer had gotten through my defenses, I spoke clearly:

"She was a warrior."

That should be postscript enough for anyone, especially a Nord who ran around wearing animal hides and attacking strangers in the wilderness.

Beautiful as always.

It was becoming clearer with every passing moment why some folk on Vvardenfell had referred to Solstheim as a "terrible place." Besides the usual run of smugglers and deadly fauna, the northern island had the added attraction of battle-crazed warriors and freezing cold. I had not realized how sheltered I had been while residing at Fort Frostmoth; my use of magical transport had also protected me more than I knew. But now I was truly adrift in the wilderness, with only the thin reed of my own wits and strength to keep me alive. Nevertheless, I had made my decision and must see it through. As one path seemed no safer than another, I returned to the bank of the river and followed it north. If nothing else, I would eventually see Lake Fjalding, said to be covered with ice. I was not sure if that story was true, or if it was just a tale to fool the unwary, but it was worth finding out. And I suddenly seemed to have a great deal of free time- until events changed again.

I was passing a low mound on the river bank, a snow-covered lump that appeared no different than any of a thousand other massive boulders, except that I could hear the sound of a woman weeping- and it seemed to come from inside the mound. My first impulse was to discover what was wrong, and whether I could render assistance. A second thought followed quickly on the heels of that impulse- a reminder that my most recent dealings with women had not turned out well. I spent some minutes torn by indecision, but at last considered how this episode of my narrative would look on the page:

And so, frightened by his previous experiences, the bold adventurer ignored the heart-rending sobs, and bravely slunk (slinked? slank?) off into the wilderness.

Since I had already proved that I was not wise, I would have to settle for being courageous. After all, I knew of many brave warriors who had rather face the hordes of Oblivion than the tears of a woman. Unfortunately, the sagas were notably silent on how one accomplished such a daring feat. With no precedent to guide me and unable to delay any longer, I plunged into the dark entry.

What I had taken to be a mound was actually an ice-cavern- a narrow tunnel dug into the frozen ground. The tunnel carried me to a chamber lit by a fire and a single candle. A wood platform had been raised in one corner and held a few simple furnishings. In the midst of the primitive dwelling was a slender, red-haired woman, facing the fire. When I cleared my throat to announce my presence and she turned a tear-streaked face toward me, I realized that she was hardly more than a girl- certainly not much older than I. Despite her youth and the bizarre locale, she seemed to have some desire to act the proper hostess, for she apologized, saying,

"Forgive me. You have arrived at a bad time. Please warm yourself before the fire and I will make tea."

My relief at the fact that she did not attack me on sight was such that I did as she asked, moving silently to stand nearer the fire pit. An uncomfortable silence stretched as she busied herself with the kettle, and I finally blurted out a question about the woman who I had killed in the forest. As soon as the words had left my lips, I cursed myself for a fool, thinking that this poor woman would now fear that I was a murderous brigand. However, she showed no surprise at my tale, but nodded seriously and asked a question of her own-

"Did you by chance find alcohol among her possessions?"

I responded that I had, for there had been a bottle of sujamma beneath the tree where the warrior had stood. My hostess shook her head with a sad frown and explained-

"She was what we call a 'berserker.' They've been driven mad by the cold and the long darkness and roam the wilderness in a drunken state looking for someone to kill. Drink is the curse of my people. It is what caused the death of my Gustav."

She trailed off and then seemed to recall her manners again, handing me a cup of tea and identifying herself as Kolfinna. I nearly gave my true name, as well, but realized that if "Athlain of the Legion" were to disappear successfully, he shouldn't go around introducing himself. Therefore, I invented a false name and replied,

"Thank you for your hospitality. I am? Videlectus Peregrinus, a? free adventurer."

Anxious to move the conversation away from myself, I took a sip of tea and asked,

"Gustav was your husband? Did he die in an accident?"

I pictured a drunken sprawl on the ice, an attack by wild animals, or some similar misadventure. She shook her head and said fiercely,

"It was no accident- he was murdered, struck down in cold blood by Sigvatr the Strong, in a foolish argument. He was my husband's friend. Sigvatr and Gustav were drinking, and Sigvatr...he...he slew my husband where he stood! There were witnesses! I demand wergild, the traditional retribution of my people. It is my right."

Though I knew a bit about Nord customs, this was new to me, and I had an unfortunate curiosity regarding new words and concepts. Thus I asked,

"Wergild? What is that?"

Kolfinna's face took on a determined look.

"Wergild is the traditional Nord rite of retribution. When a life is taken, that life must be accounted for. My Gustav is irreplaceable, but there must be compensation for his murder. I do not wish Sigvatr dead. I only want his family heirloom, the gem Pinetear. Pinetear is rather small, and not very valuable, but it means much to Sigvatr. If I were to gain possession of Pinetear, it would serve as fitting payment for Gustav's death."

She paused then and surveyed my well-used arms and armor, clearly weighing me in some mental balance. Making a decision, she spoke persuasively,

"As you have enjoyed guest-right in my home, I will ask of you a boon. Will you help me extract wergild from Sigvatr the Strong?"

What had been an academic exercise suddenly took on an unwelcome reality as I stared at her wan, hopeful expression. But what had I really expected when I followed my conscience and investigated the sound of Kolfinna's weeping? In part it was my natural inquisitiveness, but it was more than that. What I truly sought was redemption, to make payment for the death of the berserker and for my failure in the Legion. It seemed that the farther I tried to run from responsibility, the faster it caught up with me. I did not understand at the time, but it was far easier to give a false name than to be false to my own essential nature. My answer was far less equivocal than my thoughts-

"Yes, Mistress Kolfinna, I will gladly help you."

For the first time, a smile lit the woman's tired face. It was small and still tinged with sadness, but it transformed her harsh expression into one more appropriate to such a pretty girl.

"May Mara smile upon you. Sigvatr is hunting near the standing stones called the Altar of Thrond. It is northwest of here, on the far bank of the Harstrad. Again, I do not desire Sigvatr's death, and would rather you find some other way. But be careful, for he wields the mighty hammer Rammekald. It can freeze a foe where he stands. He? he used it to murder my Gustav. Please, bring Pinetear to me, that I may have peace."

There was nothing left to say, and so I took leave of her and turned north once more. I was pleased that she did not want me to kill Sigvatr, but I wondered how he would feel about giving up his heirloom. From the sound of things, he had a quick temper and no compunction about murder, not even when his victim was a supposed friend. I only hoped my persuasiveness would be enough to avoid a fight. As events transpired, my fears were well-founded, yet at the same time misplaced.

I continued my journey north along the river, considering how to approach Sigvatr. Offering a drink was usually a good opening gambit with a Nord, but it appeared that this particular Nord became decidedly unpleasant under the influence of alcohol. That reminded me of something Father had said regarding the effects of strong drink-

You will hear people say, "Oh, it's just the matze that makes him act that way." Don't believe it. Alcohol doesn't put anything inside a person that wasn't there to begin with. All it does is release their inhibitions and allow them to act as they would like to act all the time. So a "mean drunk" or "melancholy drunk" is just being himself. He simply hides it better when he's sober.

Just at that moment, I would not have minded a drink, myself, regardless of whatever inner truths it might reveal. But I did not want it so badly that I was willing to unpack my equipage to get to it. And I also knew that alcohol was not what I truly craved.

That introspection had carried me a few miles up the river, when my thoughts were disturbed by the sound of voices carried on the wind that blew out of the north. I soon saw a band of Nords spread out along the bank, and surmised that they must be a hunting party. Thinking that they perhaps had word of Sigvatr and his whereabouts, I raised a hand in greeting and called out. For response, one of them nocked an arrow and sent it flying past my head! A closer look showed that I had been right in my guess and wrong in my conclusion- they were indeed a hunting party, but their quarry did not go about on four feet. They were reavers, Nord raiders who preyed on other men. And I had just delivered myself into their ungentle hands. All that saved me was that the first reaver had reacted too quickly, perhaps assuming that I had recognized them for what they were and that my greeting was a challenge. Or perhaps Fortune simply smiled on me, and a stray gust pushed the arrow off its course. What was certain was that I could not face so many enemies alone. My only choice was to flee.

There are so many things the stories of combat don't tell you about- the sounds of cursing, of weapons striking flesh, the peculiar snap of an arrow that passes close by. And, in their dry language about retreats and routs and defeats, they don't mention how your breath rasps in your throat as you run for your life. They don't talk about the fear that turns your legs to lead and your bowels to water; the absolute certainty that, this time, you are going to die. Most of all, they never describe how it feels to turn and run from a fight, all thoughts of glory and reputation so many ashes in your soul. In my headlong flight, I cast aside every bit of excess weight that I could. The shield went first- I wouldn't be using it. Next was the pack that carried my provisions and my precious alchemy apparatus. I let it fall like so much trash behind me. And still, I knew, knew that an arrow was about to find my back, a sword or axe bite into my neck. I had only one thought- to stay alive. And one more- I could not lead these human wolves to Kolfinna. A lonely house with only a widow inside was just the sort of place the reavers sought. Thus, I drove myself north and west, deeper into a wilderness of which I had no knowledge. At the back of my mind was the thought- this is just like the dream.

After what seemed like hours, I heard no more sounds of pursuit. They had either tired of the chase, or decided to be satisfied with the trail of possessions I had left behind me. After all, though they were certainly murderous, they were in it for the profit- and I had given them plenty. To some, it would have been a fair bargain- I had taken no physical hurt and my reputation was no longer worth defending, anyway. But there was a problem, a problem that became clearer with every moment as the adrenaline finally left my body. The exertion had burned through the skooma fog in which I normally wandered- and I was going to need more of the drug, very soon. And my flask of damnable, wonderful, necessary "tea" was now in the hands of the reavers. I could hope they would not drink the potion- their taste tended more toward known alcoholic beverages, which my gear also contained. There was nothing else for it- I would have to go back. I would have to confront the reavers and take from them either my drug or my death. But there was more than one way to do what was necessary, and I was still no better able to face half-a-dozen armed men than I had been. I was no longer a Legionnaire, no longer had any illusions of myself as a knight. Therefore I would not approach the problem as a knight or a Legionnaire, but as someone who planned to win- and to survive. The first step was to remove all my armor. And then I checked the dagger that hung in a sheath down my back inside my shirt.

Since I had been a child, I had possessed some abilities that my family never discussed. They were no doubt inherited from my father and reflected those parts of his past he most wished to forget. For one, I could walk close enough to a wild guar to touch its flank without it ever knowing I was there. And for another, although I had no ability with swords, that did not mean I could not use a blade. Daggers seemed to rest in my hands as if they belonged there; I could instantly find the balance and make an accurate throw with either hand. But a short blade was the weapon of an assassin or a thief, of one who lurked in shadows and struck his opponent unaware. So I never used them, never admitted that I had any such skill, tried to never even think about it. But I always kept one dagger with me, because it had been a gift, and because Sethyas had told me to.

It was not magical, except in the way that any superbly crafted item is magical, such that it performs its designed function seemingly without effort on the part of the wielder. And the function of a dagger is to kill- quietly and with great economy. That description is also a fair summation of Sethyas Velas, yet another of the heroic figures who populated my childhood. I will say little more about him for a variety of reasons- first, he is capable of speaking for himself; second, his story is told elsewhere; and finally, because he frightens me. When I was entangled in the physically and emotionally awkward period of my teens?

I was outside of Ald Skar, being bullied by a group of visiting Imperial nobles who were only a little older than myself. I had approached them, hoping to talk of Cyrodiil and the Imperial City, but they laughed at my accent and mocked my clothes. The verbal confrontation had just become physical when Sethyas appeared in their midst and spoke one quiet syllable-

"Leave."

They looked at the tall Dunmer with a black hand tattooed on his face and scattered. I rose shakily to my feet and turned to go when his raspy voice stopped me.

"Not you. Not yet. I have a gift for you, but first you must listen to my words. I will not interfere with your father, whether I agree with him or not. He is your father and must do as he believes is right. And you must obey him, for a while longer, at least. But you are now of an age where what passes here is between you and me. There will come a time in your life when you will have to kill. Words will not save you, nor cleverness, nor honor. Your salvation will lie in the strength of your arm and the sharpness of your steel."

He reached under his tunic and handed me a dagger. The hilt was wrapped with wire for a sure grip and the sheath was plain black leather. He locked my gaze with his red eyes and said,

"Keep it with you always, but tell no one. When it is time to use it, you will know."

And then he vanished into a sudden swirl of ash.

I had kept the dagger with me, but had never used it- until now.

What is there to say about the reavers? If you are reading this, you must know that I prevailed. That being the case, are the details so important? I suppose they are- after all, I have written of other things here which are not pleasant to recall and I must continue as I began. Free of encumbrances and armor, save for a pair of fur boots, I became as a shadow on the snow, a breeze that lightly brushed the trees and moved on. As I carefully followed my back trail, I effortlessly avoided bears and wolves, feeling as one with my surroundings. I was perfectly adapted to this silent movement, to gliding from one bit of concealment to the next. And I hated it. I hated the way the dagger fit perfectly in my hand, its sharpened steel blackened to prevent any telltale glint. I hated the quiet that marked my passage in place of the former creak of leather straps and rattle of metal armor. When I had worn the uniform of the Legion, I was a part of something, an avatar of order and justice- and I had been a visible representative of the Empire. Without that uniform, I was just another shadow. If I was glad of my innate skill, it was only because I did not wish to be seen skulking beneath the trees and hiding amongst the rocks.

All too soon, the scent of a cook fire and the sound of rough voices raised in argument and song told me that I was near the reaver camp. I found a spot beneath a tree and settled myself to wait for night and darkness. Even after night had fallen I waited, listening as the songs gave way to sodden snores. The reavers had posted no guards, believing themselves to be the most dangerous predators in the forest. That overconfidence was fatal- to them. I took the first when he stumbled away from the fire to relieve himself. A second died in the chill waters of the river where he had gone for a drink. With two of the party removed, the time for stealth was past and it became a matter of controlled speed and fury. A stone pitched into the fire scattered sparks and hot coals among the sleeping men, blinding them as I stepped out of the darkness. They leapt up, only to fall again as my dagger did its bloody work. I slashed the side of a neck, the back of a knee, a throat. As they fell, I danced away, letting the shouts and thrashing of the wounded and dying further confuse the survivors. The confusion soon gave way to silence and all was still, except for the crackle of the fire. I built it back up and searched the bodies, taking only those things that had been mine. The rest I left, including the bodies. When I was done, I opened the flask of tea and downed half of it at a gulp before putting the stopper back. I needed its warm, blurry haze as much to stop the chill that had settled into my soul as to quiet the craving that sang in my blood.

I had no desire to remain in the company of dead men, especially not those I had killed, so I turned west, seeking the Harstrad River and the Altar of Thrond. The walk through forest and snow gave me more time to consider how I might persuade Sigvatr- I was heartily sick of killing, and wanted no more blood on my hands if I could avoid it. No brilliant ideas came to mind, and I finally shrugged and determined that my approach would simply depend on the man himself, assuming I could even find him. What I mostly found were wolves and bears in great numbers, along with a particularly vicious type of wild pig. I was forced to revise my opinion as to which were predators and which prey after I observed a battle between boar and wolf from a safe distance. Several times I thought I saw small, man-shaped figures, only a few feet high- and once I even imagined I saw one riding the back of a large boar. But I concluded that such visions were a result of blowing snow, a lack of sleep, and an excess of skooma-laced tea.

At least I had Kolfinna's description of Sigvatr to help me in my search. My encounters with the berserker and the reavers had taught me caution when approaching anyone in this wilderness. On Vvardenfell, frontier though it was, most travelers you met did not wish to murder you on sight. That was definitely not the case here. Still, while it was possible that Sigvatr might deal with me as he had with Gustav, he would perhaps be willing to talk first. Shortly after I crossed the river, I sighted a lone figure striding through the snow. A moment's observation convinced me that this was indeed the man I sought. He was dressed in thick fur armor and had a war hammer in his hands. My trained eye detected an unmistakable aura of ancient and powerful magic around the weapon. I stepped into the open and spoke clearly,

"Hail and well-met. If you are Sigvatr the Strong, I would speak with you."

I showed my empty hands to indicate my peaceful intent, and was pleased to see him rest the hammer against his shoulder. He did not approach me immediately, but scanned the area where I stood, making sure I wasn't the bait for an ambush. Still not moving, he called back to me,

"I am Sigvatr, called the Strong. Why do you spoil my hunting? And what speech would you have with me, Imperial, that brings you so far from home? Best you go back to your mother before you are missed. Perhaps she will give you a bowl of warm milk to ward off the chill of Solstheim."

I knew something of Nord ways and customs, and so did not take the insults seriously. They were as routine as an Imperial greeting of "good day." On the other hand, I must respond in kind, or Sigvatr would not respect me, nor listen to my request for wergild. Therefore I made a broad gesture of holding my nose and said,

"Sigvatr the Strong, indeed. Rarely have I encountered so strong a stench. You have no need of weapons to hunt- your odor must knock beasts to the ground for miles around. But you might want to clean those furs before a bear mistakes you for his mate and makes improper advances."

My reply apparently met with the hunter's approval; although he did not laugh outright, I detected a grin beneath his luxuriant beard. At a gesture, I walked up to him, opening a jug as I did so. To show that it wasn't poisoned, I took a mouthful of the raw sujamma and swallowed. It was either that or spit it out- I had never developed a taste for the vile liquor and had no desire to try. I offered the jug to Sigvatr, who sniffed it suspiciously, saying,

"This isn't any a' that thin brew you Imperials suppose passes for a real drink, is it?"

I indicated with a gesture that he should try it for himself, not trusting that I could speak just yet. The Nord took a good pull at the jug and swirled it around in his mouth for a few seconds before swallowing.

"Not bad," he allowed, then surprised me by corking the jug.

"Right then. We've insulted each other and shared a drink. The forms of hospitality are met. So what is it you want, that you come traipsing all this way after me?"

He folded massive arms across his barrel chest and waited impatiently. This was not what I had expected, and I tried to rapidly revise the speech I had planned. But it was no good- I just could not come up with a plausible story that didn't sound completely contrived. Sigvatr's countenance became more clouded with each passing second, and I finally blurted out,

"I? it's? Kolfinna sent me. She wants?."

I looked on in dismay as the huge man lifted the hammer from his shoulder and asked in a dangerously quiet voice,

"Yes? Kolfinna wants- what?"

He swung the hammer idly at his side, the massive weapon making an unpleasant sound with each pass.

The insult was A+. Nice chapter.

Time seemed to slow, and I was aware of the dagger hanging down my back and the mace at my side. Even more, I felt the weight of the dead, a long chain that stretched from Ashalmawia to Gandrung to the reavers' camp. I knew that I could fight Sigvatr, could perhaps even kill him- but that was not the answer to his question. Kolfinna had plainly said she did not desire this man's death; she knew that one death could not be washed away by another. And I did not desire his death, either. There had been too much blood spilled, and I was weary of it. So I carefully raised my empty hands and said,

"She seeks wergild for Gustav. She asked me to speak with you and convince you to pay blood price with the gem Pinetear."

The warrior grounded the hammer and leaned his hands upon the shaft, then shook his head.

"Wergild, is it? Never! Pinetear has been in my family for generations and will be for generations to come. Gustav had it coming. I did what I had to do, and Kolfinna wasn't there. Neither were you. Leave off."

A haunted look had come to his face and his hands opened and closed on the hammer spasmodically as he spoke. There was a story there, known only to Sigvatr, and it was gnawing at him. I held my words for a few minutes, watching his eyes, and then nodded.

"What you say is true. Neither Kolfinna nor I was there. If you will not pay wergild, can you not at least give her a true accounting of how Gustav died? Does she not have the right to know?"

His head dropped until his chin rested on his chest, and he muttered words almost too low to hear:

"We argued, Gustav and I. We had too much to drink and got into a foolish disagreement. Heated words were spoken, but it was just words until I saw him reach for his blade. I was only defending myself from his treachery, so there is no obligation, no wergild. I owe Gustav nothing!"

His final statement caught my ear and I swiftly replied,

"Again, what you say is true. You owe Gustav nothing. But what about his widow? She was not the one who held the knife? nor the one who dealt the fatal blow. She is simply the one who is left without a husband, without means to support herself."

And then I was quiet. A man will often persuade himself, if you give him time to do it. At last Sigvatr looked up with tears in his eyes.

"I thought he meant to cut my throat, but what if I was wrong? What if I did murder my friend?"

With a convulsive motion, he reached into a pocket and produced a dark green emerald and handed it to me. In a hoarse whisper, he added:

"Take Pinetear and give it to Kolfinna. Perhaps it will ease her pain. But my guilt will never end."

When he turned away, I again had the good sense to remain silent, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

I secured the gem inside my shirt and turned to the south, moving quickly and silently back to Kolfinna's dwelling. The return journey was faster because I knew the way, but my steps were also lighter because I at last carried a burden that would ease pain rather than cause it. I was even content when I used my inborn skill to avoid the wild creatures that I encountered on the way. If a talent for moving unseen could help me avoid bloodshed, why should I find fault? Of course, I was also without the burden of the steel armor to which I had grown accustomed. Therefore, my appearance was much changed when I entered Kolfinna's house, and she did not recognize me until I spoke. Even then, she took my lack of armor as a sign of bad news and sank into a chair with a sigh.

"I am sorry, master Imperial. Had I realized that you are still but a youth, I would not have sent you on such a perilous quest. But at least you have returned with your life, so that burden will not be on my conscience. On Solstheim, success is often a matter of survival, even if one fails otherwise."

I lifted Pinetear from its hiding place and held it to the light, replying:

"Perhaps so, but I prefer more tangible signs of success."

She straightened in her seat and reached a trembling hand for the stone. Lines of care disappeared from her face, and a smile lit her too-thin countenance.

"You have brought me Pinetear! How did you manage it? No, never mind- one should not question good fortune. Now that I have wergild, Gustav can rest peacefully."

She raised her eyes to mine and spoke with great seriousness,

"You have acted as a man of my family would have done in this matter. Therefore, I name you 'brother.' You are welcome in my home and may treat it is if it were your own. If I can aid you in some way, speak, and I will do what is in my power to make it so."

Her words and even the reddish tint of her hair reminded me of my own sisters, left behind on Vvardenfell, along with my former life. Almost, I told her the truth- my true name, my desertion from the Legion, my loss of honor and hope. But I would not cast such a shadow upon her happiness. The secrets I carried were my own, and she had no part in their making. It would be unwontedly cruel to ask her to share them now. So instead, I smiled and spoke carelessly, as if regarding a matter of small consequence:

"Now that you mention it, there is one favor I would ask- have you ever heard of a fellow who goes about in a white, pointed hat? And might you know where he makes his dwelling?"

She looked at me strangely, but answered quickly enough.

"Yes, Gustav spoke of such a man. He saw him once, wandering through the woods and singing a funny song. It was odd enough that he followed him to see what might be afoot. The fellow has a cabin north and a little east of here. It rests at the base of a hill and has red and green lanterns hanging from the eaves."

She paused and then added,

"If you are determined to seek him out, please be cautious. A man who sings to himself in the wilderness is likely not completely sane, and could even be dangerous."

I promised to be careful and politely refused her offer of a warm drink. What I needed was not tea, at least not the sort of tea Kolfinna could provide.

Much as I wanted to stay in Kolfinna's house, I knew I could not. I had made up my mind that I would exile myself from the warmth of human companionship, for a time at least. Where I had before worn the uniform of a Legionnaire, I now armored myself in solitude. The cold wind that blew upon my face was as nothing beside the cold that filled my heart. I was alone, outcast, nameless. I crawled across the snowy landscape like a wounded beetle on a plate. Following Kolfinna's directions, I crossed the river and turned somewhat east of north. I studied the shape of the land, looking for a place where the terrain began to rise. Again, I avoided confrontations with Solstheim's wildlife, slipping past bears and wolves unnoticed. When I smelled wood-smoke, I knew my destination was near. I followed my nose to the source of the smoke and soon beheld a well-built cabin nestled against the snow-covered base of a hill. As Gustav had told his wife, the cabin was brightly lit with red and green lanterns hanging from the eaves. The sight stirred something inside me, sparking memories of stories Mother and Father had read to me when I was a child- stories of the Jerall Mountains or of Skyrim, home to the Nords. I remembered how they struggled to explain snow to me- what it was, how it came to be, what it felt like. At the time, I was not absolutely sure it was not a joke at my expense- frozen water, falling from the sky? But not exactly like ice- softer and lighter. When I had first seen the snow-laden trees of Solstheim, I had delighted in them, had gone immediately to examine this phenomenon for myself. I had even written to Athynae about it, knowing she had been as doubtful as I. And none of that mattered. My musing on snow was simply a way of distracting myself and delaying whatever was next.

As I approached the cabin door, I noticed a dark shape off to the right and veered that way to investigate. A Khajiit lay crumpled in a deep drift. As I watched, a few snowflakes settled on his open, unseeing eyes. My Legion training asserted itself, and I searched the body, looking for clues to his identity and how he had died. In one pocket of his robe I found a crudely printed bit of doggerel entitled The Song of Uncle Sweetshare. There was also a small moon-sugar packet, missing most of its contents. I knew that moon-sugar was almost irresistible to the Khajiiti, and that they would indulge the habit without regard for property, health, or even life itself. As there were no marks of violence on the body, nor any signs of the more common plant poisons, I was fairly certain that this poor fellow had fallen victim to his weakness for the drug. The irony was not lost on me- and it made not the slightest difference. I straightened and walked to the door. From within, I heard an off-key voice singing. I put my hand on the door latch and stood for a long moment with my eyes closed, waiting for? something. Perhaps I hoped to feel a hand on my shoulder and to hear a kind voice telling me to come away, that what I sought would not be found within that particular door. But all I heard was the wind, and all I felt was the cold against my skin- and the need within. I shuddered and pushed the door open.

The interior of the cabin was as neat and well-made as the outside. It was a single large room, the walls lined with work tables. A fire burned on the hearth at one end, and a hammock hung nearby. The tables held rows of alchemy apparatus and an assortment of vials and jars. I saw all of those things peripherally, as my eyes were drawn to a brown-robed figure wearing a tall hat- a white Colovian fur helm. At the sound of the door opening, he turned toward me and I saw that he was a smooth-shaven Nord. He smiled a somewhat distracted smile and spoke a cheerful nonsense verse akin to the doggerel I had found on the dead Khajiit. Then he tilted his head to one side and regarded me, saying:

"Can it be? A visitor to my workshop? How can I help you, young fellow? I have candy treats to spare, if you are in search of happiness. And I don't mean to criticize, but you look as if you could use some happiness, my friend."

I had been prepared for an evil alchemist, prepared for a fight- but this?. I had no answer to this ridiculous figure from a children's story. I latched onto the one comprehensible thing he had said and asked,

"Candy treats?"

The Nord's smile grew broader, and he waved a hand at the small, colorful packets in front of him.

"My candy treats are tasty, they are! And filled with special sugar and love! They bring happiness! Happiness to everyone on Solstheim! That's what I do, you see! I give out my special sugary treats and spread happiness throughout the land! It's difficult work, but oh so very rewarding! M'nashi certainly thought so. Ahh, M'nashi, the dear lad...."

His smile faded and he looked sadly toward the door before continuing.

"M'nashi was my assistant! He helped me make my candy! He so loved his sugar, M'nashi did. Loved it a little too much, I'm afraid! He died, you see. His, ah, sweet tooth got the better of him. I buried him, just outside. We had a lovely little ceremony. The horkers came and sang for him, they did! He he he! Ha ha ha ha ha!"

His manic smile returned and he danced around the workshop, stopping in front of me with a bow.

"So, what brings you to my happy home? Do you want some of my candy treats- for yourself- or?" he winked conspiratorially, "for someone special who needs a little happiness?"

I shook my head to clear it- his obvious insanity seemed to be infectious. Adopting a serious tone, I responded,

"Actually, Severia Gratius of the Legion asked me to investigate a case of moon-sugar poisoning at Fort Frostmoth."

At the mention of the Champion's name, the Nord's smile turned into a petulant frown. He muttered,

"That Severia Gratius is so grumpy! Maybe I should visit her next! Because that's what I do, young fellow! I visit the sad and miserable and spread all the happiness I can! It is the way of Uncle Sweetshare, you see! Now that Jeleen, there's a sad, sad boy. His true love has disappeared, don't you know. Very sad, very sad. That's why I sang to him! He needed something extra, something special! Sugar and a song! It cures all!"

His smile came back and he began dancing around the room again, singing in an uneven voice:

"That's me, you see! Uncle Sweetshare! Just like in the children's rhyme! When I found that old song the lyrics moved me like nothing else in my life! I knew at that moment who I truly was, and what I was meant to do! So I had this workshop built! I make treats here, you see! Delicious treats with the special sugar! Moon sugar! He he, ha ha! Then I spread my cheer throughout the land!"

He stopped in mid-whirl and looked around, placing a finger to his lips-

"But it's all a secret! Shhhhhhhh...."

His rapid changes of mood and his crazed dancing were making me dizzy- or maybe it was the moon-sugar residue that coated every surface and hung in the air?. I simply had to plow stolidly ahead, keeping myself focused on the task at hand.

"It would be a bad idea to 'visit' Champion Gratius. She is anxious to solve this case and return to Cyrodiil. Your description has been circulated and she has placed a bounty on you. If you want my advice, I would recommend you give me your helm- it is quite distinctive, after all- and then you should slip quietly away and cease this business."

I paused as I contemplated my own bleak future and added quietly, "People are generally only as happy as they chose to be- you can't give happiness to them as a gift."

He grew silent and sat for a time on a bench, resting his chin in his hands, then removed the fur helm and turned it round and round in front of him.

"Give you my helm? Stop sharing...stop sharing my sugar? He...heh...ho...hmmm.... Distressing...most distressing.... But you WILL let me live? I do so love to live! All right, then. We have a deal! Here's my white helm, and you have my promise I will not spread any more cheer! And I will get to live! That won't be so bad, will it? He he he he! Ha ha ha!"

'Uncle Sweetshare' was as good as his word. He placed the helm on a table and stuffed some clothing in a satchel, humming happily as he did so. I pretended not to notice the packets of moon-sugar that found their way into his pockets- after all, who was I to judge? With a happy wave, he strode out the door and disappeared into the gathering darkness. And now I had the cabin all to myself. The cabin- and its contents.

I have little to say of my time in the tiny cabin- descriptions of squalor are rarely uplifting for either the reader or the writer. More to the point, it is not a period I remember with any clarity- nor do I wish to. I slept a great deal, rising only long enough to convert moon-sugar into skooma and skooma into tea, which I then drank. When my hunger became unbearable, I stumbled outside and stalked wild beasts or gathered edible plants. A few times, I ventured as far as the seaside, where I watched the hypnotic succession of waves breaking on the shore. I looked across the water, thinking of Vvardenfell lying out of sight below the horizon- Vvardenfell and home. I wondered if it might not be better to simply walk into the water and swim until I reached a familiar shore- or until exhaustion took me. But I always returned to the cabin. My hunting forays were frequently unsuccessful and I went without. My clothing hung loosely on my frame and I allowed my hair and beard to grow into a tangled mat. Time lost any meaning and days blurred into an endless parade of misery and befuddled self-loathing. I wanted to die, but lacked the will or strength to do anything about it. Even so, death would have come- from exhaustion, from starvation, from animal or accident- except that something else happened first.

Here Ends Chapter 7

I seriously cannot understand why this isn't getting more people commenting on it. It's one of the finest stories on the forums, hell it's one of the best TES fanfics on any forums. When I first joined the forums, the two predominant reasons for doing that were The Story of Trey and Rumple's fanfic. I'd spent so much time lurking, reading and enjoying, that I wanted to join so I could tell you how much I enjoyed reading it.

Years later...

My two favourite author's are still here, still posting, and I'm still getting as much enjoyment as ever. And, as I mentioned once before I believe, I'm enjoying Athlain's company even more than his fathers. It sounds stupid to say about a fanfic character, but...oh, I worry about that boy! I just want to shake him, and say, pull yourself together lad! Testament to the author's undoubted skill in drawing me so deeply in.

I only have one criticism...

These updates don't come around quickly enough for me to devour them!

As we used to say at Chorrol,

SGM! :goodjob:

Interlude 8

A letter from Louis Beauchamp, Ald Skar Inn, Ald'ruhn, Vvardenfell (a portion):

To: Athlain Treyson, currently resident at Fort Frostmoth
Re: Our Arrangement

?not heard from you for several weeks. I understand that you are in the Legion now, and your time is not always your own. However, we had an agreement- a contract, as one might say. I would prefer not to involve your Legion superiors- or your parents?.


Excerpt from the Prophecies of the Hunter-

Fate ordains, blood calls, the meeting delayed
Cannot be denied

Rescued, restored, the child of the blood finds
Solace granted, a deadly gift


A note from Tel Fyr to Indarys Manor, Ald'ruhn (a portion):

Of course, without direct examination, I cannot speak with absolute certainty. Nevertheless, I believe your surmise may be correct. As to how to proceed with this information, I cannot advise you- as you know, my own familial relationships are?unique.


A note left at Sarethi Manor, Ald'ruhn, Vvardenfell (a portion):

?has gotten himself in trouble; I just know it. And he needs help to sort it out. I am asking forgiveness rather than permission, because I would rather not defy you if you forbade me to go. Please understand that this is something I need to do- you cannot keep me at home forever.

P.S.

I borrowed a sword from the armory.

Oh God, awesome. Athynae is gonna kick some ass.

I <3 your work, treydog.

Chapter 8

The days blurred one into another, and I rarely left the cabin. Food had become increasingly difficult to find, but the skooma suppressed my appetite to the point that I was no longer bothered by hunger. I melted snow for water and used the firewood already stacked against the walls. I made no attempt to replace what I burned- it would be too much work- and besides, I could not be bothered by thoughts of the future. Much of the time, I was in a waking sleep, a condition defined by the most vivid dreams- dreams that seemed real, but which then vanished beyond recall. Many people and creatures came to me in that dream state- my parents; my sisters; even the ghost of Dagoth Ur, demanding to know what I was doing. So, when the snow-spirit came into the cabin, I was not surprised; in fact, I was somewhat relieved that death had finally arrived.

A cold gust disturbed my fitful slumber in the hammock, and I turned my head to see a figure dressed in white pushing through the door. I could not see the face inside the hood, but saw a large blade strapped to the figure's back. So, I thought, Death grew tired of waiting, and has sent someone to collect me. Good. Some befuddled part of my brain reminded me that it was good manners to stand when a guest entered the room? or was that when a ghost entered the room? Either way, I really should get up- the spirit had come all this way, after all. So I flopped out of the hammock and staggered to my feet. The spirit had not yet moved from the door, and I frowned as I noticed something. I took a hesitant step forward, mumbling,

"I thought you would be taller."

Before the spirit could reply, a wave of dizziness washed over me, and I fell in a heap.

* * * * *

When I next became aware, I was still sprawled on the floor, but some things were different. The fire, which I had allowed to die down to coals, was now blazing with fresh logs. The clutter from my uncertain housekeeping had been straightened- including the removal of the bristle-back bones that I had taken to tossing in a corner. Beyond that, there was no sign of the spirit that had visited me. Perhaps, I mused, it was not an envoy of Death after all, but one of those helpful spirits- the sort that mend shoes. But if that were true, why did the spirit carry that great black sword? I would have to be sure and ask if it returned. But for the moment, the warmth of the hearth was an invitation to sleep, and I was only too glad to accept.

* * * * *

Eventually, thirst overcame my weariness, and I struggled upright. Hard on the heels of my normal thirst came the craving that clenched my abdomen and fired my blood. How fortunate, I thought, that a cup of tea will quench my thirst as well as my need. The shallow pan I used to melt snow should still hold some water, so I would not even need to venture outside. When I shuffled over to the table I used for the only alchemical process I still performed, I saw that my helpful visitor had straightened and cleaned that area, as well. The apparatus was carefully arranged, and all the haphazardly strewn ingredients had been returned to their drawers or paper packets- all except one. With increasing panic, I pulled open every drawer and cupboard, shook out every packet in the cabin, and went through the pockets of all the clothing. At the end of my frenzied search, I had returned the room to its previous state of disorder, but I had found not a single grain of moon-sugar.

* * * * *

The next several hours were difficult in the extreme. The cabin became too hot, so I threw open the door to let in cold air. Within minutes, the icy draft chilled my sweating body, sending me into uncontrollable shivers, so I slammed the door shut again. My stomach cramped fiercely, feeling as if some live thing was struggling to escape from within. My thirst seemed unquenchable, no matter how much water I drank down. I even went so far as to sprinkle salt from my small store onto my palm and lick it off. Racking hunger pangs were interspersed with bouts of nausea. Physical exhaustion soon overcame my weakened body, but blessed sleep refused to come. Instead, I was unwilling witness to a parade of waking hallucinations, visions that frightened and shamed me. I saw red-eyed Draugrs prowling the room, sniffing and growling as they sought living prey, but somehow ignored me. Senior Trooper Carbo stepped out of the wall, drew his sword, and reversed it- offering the hilt to me. He shook his head sadly and said,

"You have to do the right thing, kid. Everyone is depending on you."

He turned and gestured at a horrible scene behind him- Mae and Cai were bound and laid upon the altar of a Daedric shrine- Ashalmawia, I realized. The Daedra-worshipper I had fought, the first man I had ever killed, stood over them with an ebony dagger poised to strike. Carbo looked at the scene, then at me, and finally at the sword he had offered. His face took on an apologetic look as he re-sheathed the blade and said,

"Sorry. I forgot you can't use one of these. I guess they'll just have to pay the price."

He vanished, and the dagger plunged downward. My sisters weren't looking at it- their pleading eyes were fixed on me. I reached out a weak hand, seeking comfort more than offering it, and the scene changed again. The altar became our dining table at home, and the whole family was seated around it. Someone sat in my chair, but I could not see who it was until Carnius Magius turned to leer at me as he pulled a skooma flask from his robe and offered it to my mother. That scene melted away to reveal Father leaning tiredly against his workbench, holding a sheaf of papers. The papers shifted and became one of Mother's prize flowers; the petals wilted and fell away, revealing a Dwemer mace. The mace grew into a daedroth, which turned and sank its teeth into his throat. His thoughtful expression never changed; he simply gave me a probing look and asked,

"What are we going to do about this?"

Blood spilled from his mouth and a chill even worse than before came over me, a cold wind that blew away the vision and the mist that had surrounded it. The wind seemed to waft a familiar perfume to my nostrils and I thought I heard Athynae wailing,

"But I just cleaned this room!"

It was then that I knew for a certainty that my mind was truly gone. Athynae, of all people, could not be here. She was lost- lost to me, anyway- for all that she was safe at home in Ald'ruhn. When I had left my life and my name behind, I had resigned myself to never seeing her again. The only comfort I took from that knowledge was that she would not discover the depths to which I had sunk. She would be sad for a while, no doubt, but her last memory of me would be untarnished by the reality of what I had become. So? this must be another hallucination, a dream that sprang from my addled mind. I would turn around, and there would be no one there. I would turn around, my heart and my mind in conflict. I would turn around, pitting logic against hope. I would turn around, and face the disarray of the cabin and the ruin of my life. But I would face it alone. A lifetime passed between one breath and the next. And then I turned.

A quiet voice, a bit breathless and with a hint of humor, said:

"It would probably work better if you opened your eyes."

It was Athynae. She was real, and she was there, not five feet away from me, looking like a creature of the Aether in the midst of the wreckage. I could find no words; my heart was too full. She stood there, and it was as though every good thing in the world had entered that door with her- family, home, love. My weary eyes drank in the sight of her, and the skooma-thirst that had burned within me momentarily abated. She looked much as when I had last seen her the day after the party- slender, athletic, and altogether beautiful. Her violet eyes seemed shadowed with anxiety, but her smile lit the room. I took in the white armor she wore, and the katana hilt that rose over her right shoulder, and I understood that the path which brought her to me had not been straight or easy. Still the silence stretched as we stared at one another, until I finally broke it with a mind-numbing inanity:

"You're here."

With those two words, I proved once and forever that my sister Mae had been correct- I would make an absolute hash out of things when I encountered an elven princess.

But Athynae did not seem to care. She threw herself across the space between us and grabbed me in an embrace that was anything but ethereal. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she held me tightly and her words came in a rush:

"I was so worried. You got sent off to Fort Frostmoth, and I didn't have a chance to see you. And then your letters stopped, and I was afraid you had met someone else. But you stopped writing to Aunt Baria, too. So I sent a letter to the Legion, but nobody knew anything. The only thing to do was come and find you myself."

She finally relaxed her fierce grip just a bit and leaned her head back to look at me. There were questions in her eyes, questions I knew I would have to answer. But for now, it was enough that she was here, in my arms. She backed up a pace and dried her tears, then resumed her story in a slightly more coherent fashion:

"I stopped at Fort Frostmoth first. They weren't even worried about you- just said you were 'on assignment' for Severia Gratius, and that you would come back when it was done. Well, that nice young trooper Saenus seemed a little concerned, but he wouldn't say why."

My heart lurched at the thought of my Athynae alone amongst the dregs of the Legion at Fort Frostmoth. It was no place for a young woman. And then my brain caught up with my ears and I felt a stab of jealousy- "nice young trooper Saenus" was it? I started to launch into a withering lecture on how foolish she had been to come here unaccompanied, how dangerous Solstheim was, how frantic Serene and Athyn must be?. And then I closed my mouth, leaving the words unspoken. The hypocrisy would have choked me. I was in no position to condemn anyone for foolishness, for leaving their family to go out into the wide world. At least she had left home for a purpose greater than herself; out of concern for someone else, rather than out of boredom. And there was something more, a realization that brought with it an infinite sadness- seeing that slender girl bearing a sword on her back should have been faintly ridiculous- but it was not. The katana seemed a part of her, as if it had always been there and I had just never noticed it before. Meanwhile, she continued:

"But Saenus wouldn't tell me anything- said it 'wasn't his place,' and that I should talk to the Captain. And Captain Carius wasn't there- he had to go to the mainland for something. I got tired of waiting and went to Thirsk- that's the Nord village up north. Mama has friends there. Anyway, I got Brynjolfr to make me this armor from snow wolf furs. It's a lot warmer than chitin or glass would be."

As always seemed to happen, Athynae's rush of words and sudden changes of direction left me dizzy. I had a feeling she had left some important information out of her rapid-fire narrative; for example, I had noticed a slight catch in her voice when she mentioned Serene's friends at Thirsk. Somehow I doubted that her parents had approved this unaccompanied trip into the wilderness. I also noticed that she made no mention of how she had gotten the fur for the armor- and I knew that you couldn't just buy it. But before I could raise that issue, Athynae had a question of her own:

"Speaking of armor, what happened to your Legion uniform? I didn't see it anywhere in the cabin when I cleaned up."

The way she crossed her arms and the look in her eyes when she mentioned her housekeeping efforts told me that was a topic that she planned to come back to- probably in the very near future. Meanwhile, she tilted her head inquiringly and asked,

"Well?"

A full answer to that question would lead to other questions, many of which I was not ready to have raised. Therefore, I decided to respond literally- to the letter of the question, rather than the intent. With a vague gesture to the south, I mumbled:

"My uniform, it's?. I left it? back there. I resigned."

There was a long silence, which I rushed to fill:

"I left a note?."

Athynae gave me a look of exasperated affection.

"You left a note. How thoughtful. What did you say- 'Dear Emperor Septim, I quit. Respectfully, Athlain'?" She shook her head. "You always did have an overdeveloped sense of the dramatic."

This from the girl who had seen every performance of The Terror of Castle Xyr when the traveling company came to Ald'ruhn. And who had then insisted on going to Balmora to see it again. For just a moment, I was back in school, where we had argued endlessly with one another about everything. But the illusion was fleeting- we were neither one of us in school any longer, and my problems were not the problems of childhood. Whatever we might have once meant to each other, whatever future we might have had, my failures had destroyed for all time. My initial surprise at seeing Athynae had passed; so too, my clouded thinking. And, just to add emphasis, I felt a familiar cramping of my midsection. Whatever she had experienced in her search for me, I could not let her see this; she could not see the addiction overcome me. I knew what I must do, and steeled myself for the task. I looked into her smiling eyes and said,

"Athynae, you shouldn't be here."

Trey...

Take a katana and bonk me one over the head with it, for I have gained an inestimable amount of joy and excitement from this beautifully polished narrative of yours since I started reading it ten days or so back, and yet I have been so inexcusably remiss as to have delayed posting a reply in your thread until now. Oh, the usual excuses abound, most of them even valid. I was really sick and and I have, actually, just recovered. A ton of obligated replies to catch up to. And so on, and so forth...

None of which really excuses my tardiness.

Your story is one I look up to for its smoothness of construction: the type of story that is like the construction of a katana itself. It looks very simple and elegant and fragile, but anolyse it deep and prepare to be amazed by the intricate layers upon sublayers reinforcing each other.

This really demands a two to five page reply, which I cannot do at present since Beth cuts me off if I try to type for more than five minutes.

So for now I will say this. GET ATHYNAE TO GIVE YOUR HERO A GOOD OLE WHACK ON THE BOKO. I suspect you had planned to write that already anyway! Then you could write something like

"...my mind whirled. First my mother slapping me, before kissing and hugging me fiercely. And now the sting of Athynae's hand on my cheek melting into the sweet delight of her kisses, wet with her tears, on same....

Women. I appeared to have found out exactly how to say the wrong things to them at every time. Perhaps I should write a book on that, and retire from adventuring..."

:lol:

:thumbsup: :thumbsup: :thumbsup: :thumbsup: :thumbsup: :thumbsup: :thumbsup: :thumbsup: :thumbsup:

*Bonks D. Foxy on the head with the flat end of a Katana* Now he can write more, and you got bonked, everybody wins!

I don't think a two to five page response is fitting for this story, or anything that's truly good. Generally, I find that the fewer words the better.

I love this story.

Ah, out of shame and a misguided idea of nobility, he's going to...well. Maybe not. The daughter of Serene may be a stronger opponent - in terms of sheer will at least - than he suspects. It's nice that you'rs showing him actually growing, and letting him make his own mistakes, as well as dealing with the consequences. Makes a change from so many fanfics, with their already fully grown heroes acting alll...well, heroic. It's also kind of rare to have the hero of the story provoke such emotions in me. I want him to succeed, I worry about him, and oh dear God, I want to slap him senseless at the minute.

I suspect someone may end up beating me to that though

Terrifc update - as always - and looking forward to seeing what happens next.

Keep it comin'!

Thanks, everyone, for your continued reading and your kind words. They mean a great deal to me, especially with all the really good fan-fics that are on offer these days....

D.Foxy, you must have had a peek at the flash drive I carry with me everywhere that contains the draft for the next installment.... Which installment I hope to post sooner rather than later. I have somewhat written myself into a corner and need to plan how to write my way out of it-- as has happened every time, my characters have wrested control of the story away from me, and insisted on doing things in their own way.... So now I must simply learn what poor, silly Athlain is about to discover- do whatever Athynae tells you to do; you'll end up doing it eventually anyway, and giving in now will save everyone a lot of trouble....

Without a word, Athynae ducked back out the door. I closed my eyes and cursed myself for my clumsiness. Why was it that I could speak with anyone from a Redoran Councilor to a nomad guar-herder with ease and confidence, but I always said the wrong thing to this girl? Although I had meant what I said, I had not intended for her to go immediately back out into the cold. She could have stayed for a short time- an hour, perhaps two- maybe even until the next day. And I would have managed an explanation, preferably one that did not involve drug-addiction, as to why she needed to leave, rather than a rude dismissal. As I looked for a solid surface against which to bang my head, my bout of self-loathing and self-pity was interrupted as Athynae pushed back through the door, bearing a massive pack and a silver longbow. She eased her burden to the floor and took up the conversation again, apparently misunderstanding my meaning:

"Well of course not, silly. You can't stay here, either. I only have enough food for a few days; then we will have to go somewhere else. I think Thirsk would probably be best. Don't stand there gawping; help me hang some blankets to make a curtain so I have a place to sleep."

She was staying! That was wonderful- no, that was terrible. This was not working; I had not made myself clear. I ruthlessly stamped on the thrill I felt at her nearness, and moved to where she was sorting through her pack. When she turned with a stack of clothing, I grasped her shoulders and made sure she was looking at me. I spoke slowly, as if to a child,

"No. You should not be here. You cannot stay with me. You have to leave. There are reasons, good reasons. Listen, Athynae, I?."

That was as far as I got before she shook off my hands, dropped what she held, and shouted,

"No, you listen! I don't want to hear about your 'reasons.' I don't want to hear what a terrible person you are and how you're only trying to protect me! I have had people 'protecting me' all my life and I'm sick of it!"

Her eyes flashed fire as she stared at my face as if daring me to speak. Even if I had been foolish enough to try, I was too stunned. I had never seen Athynae in this mood before, and I dimly realized that she possessed a strength, a?dangerousness? whose depths I could not calculate. She shook her head and looked around the cabin before turning that burning gaze back to me. She spoke in a low, angry voice,

"I know, Athlain. All right? I know about the moon-sugar. I found it when I cleaned this place up, and I got rid of it. I dumped it in the sea, every last speck. I know enough of alchemy to recognize what you were doing, and I know enough about healing to recognize that you're addicted. And I am not leaving until you are cured."

Her eyes lost their fury and she lifted a tentative hand and touched my cheek,

"Let me help you. Please? If I left you like this, I could never face your family again."

Of course she knew; I should have realized that the drug had not just magically disappeared. And of course she would want to heal me- she was Serene's daughter, after all. I stumbled to a bench and sat down heavily. Unable to face Athynae, I put my head in my hands and sobbed.

"I have been so lonely and ashamed. I've let everyone down. All because of Carnius Magius and his accursed 'tea'."

The thought of the man who had enslaved me was a flash of lightning through my fogged brain. I sat up and muttered,

"No more. I can make sure he pays for what he has done to me."

I looked to the corner where I had dropped my mace when I took over the cabin and stumbled toward it. Athynae placed a restraining hand on my arm and pulled me back to the bench, saying,

"I knew it had to be something like that, that someone must have tricked you; you would never take the drug willingly. But please wait. First, because you are not strong enough- in your condition, you probably wouldn't survive the trip to the fort. And besides that, there may be a better way." The smile that came to her face would have given a Daedroth nightmares. She continued, "He's a money-man, yes?"

At my nod, she sat down beside me and took my hand:

"Once, when Mama was talking about the Hlaalu and all that business with the Caldera Mine, she told me- 'The way to hurt them is to take their money. They don't value life, but they love making money.' So that's how you deal with this Carnius- find a way to take his money. And if you can find a legal way to do it, so much the better. You can only kill him once, and then it's over. But if you beat him financially, he'll have to live with that forever."

I reminded myself- again- to never really provoke Athynae. I knew from growing up with two sisters that girls were far more devious than boys ever thought of being. But this plan was absolute vengeful genius. I nodded my enthusiastic agreement and then doubled over as a spasm racked my whole body. I felt Athynae's arms around me and gasped,

"Gods, I think I'm dying. Wish we had had more time. Love you?sorry I never said before?. Hold me, please."

The next thing I felt was the back of my head thumping against the bench as she dropped me.

WOO HOOO!!!

One of the things that I, who love the craft of the writer, look for in a story is the same thing I look for in a well fought martial arts match...

The 'escape'. Or the 'twist'.

The cliche in the situation you've written would be the hysterical yet spunky female who would throw a hissy fit while proclaiming her undying love for the hero, who would then go on again about him not being worthy of her, da da dee dum dum...

And here not only have you elided smoothly out of the cliche, but yet you've done so in a way that does NOT strain the reader's credulity on the psychology of the female.

Especially THIS female.

Athynae is the Athena made flesh: the goddess of victory through wisdom, counsel, and cunning. In retrospect it seems so natural to have found the drug and gotten rid of it, and then matter of factly get to the business of ridding her love of his addiction...yet before we read this it wouldn't have seemed natural at all. This is how a good writer works: he makes the crafted seem spontaneous and natural, and we who say 'of course!' only find out how hard it is to create such a work when we try to do the same ourselves.

One point though. Would it not be a nicer touch to have Athynae get a reaction from her rage, and tremble a bit as she says

"Let me help you. Please? If I left you like this, I could never face your family again."

... for this is a natural reaction for women: they cannot hide their love, and it will come out even through the rage.

(At least, that's IMHO. Ladies, feel free to disagree. But somehow I think you won't .)

The touch of Athynae's cold and cunning rage against the Hlaalu could, perhaps, have been expanded a bit - just to show the power of fury stimulating the Michiavellian instincts of a woman's mind. But that's my personal preference: just like all the guests at a fine dinner may agree that the cooking was superb, and yet still have some fine areas of disagreement on just how much better things would have been if something was just a touch over or undercooked or spiced, so too readers will do the same to any good piece of craft.

A final word.

I hoped Athynae would bonk your hero one on the head... and I got my wish, only I never suspected she'd use a bench to do it.

:P

"The chair, hit him with the chair!" Or to put it another way, "First you have to get the mule's attention."

Many thanks for your kind and thoughtful remarks. I had planned the "rescue" for some time, but struggled with the actual writing. Sometimes, I fear that I push the pace- I have to agree that the idea of how to hurt Carnius most deeply might have been better if it had marinated for a time.

It is an unintended consequence that the "hero" of the piece is mostly silent- resulting from the fact that, in my mind, as well as in the story, Athynae shines so brightly as to wash out any other star. At least that is Athlain's perception, and as he is the one telling the tale....

Treydog,
I'm what seems to be an oddity here; That is I play Oblivion like a madman, but know nothing of Morrowind. It therefore took me a bit to overcome my disoriention. I am now more than a bit hooked (on your story, not Morrowind). Your characters, writing and story are wonderful!

Athynae put her hands on her hips and gave me a critical look.

"Oh, grow up. You aren't dying." She sniffed disdainfully and muttered, "As if I would let that happen anyway."

I was so surprised that I nearly forgot the pain that cramped my belly. I was never going to understand this girl. She came all this way to "save" me, and then dropped me on my head. If she planned on becoming a healer like her mother, her bedside manner definitely needed work. Still, given my previous disastrous attempts at conversation, I decided that silence was my greatest ally. She looked me over clinically and continued in a brisk, detached tone:

"So it's your stomach, right? Lift up your shirt. Oh, don't look at me like that- Mama says that direct contact is best for healing spells- you wouldn't bandage your greaves if you had a leg wound, would you?"

I meekly obeyed and she pushed up her sleeves and flexed her hands. As she prepared herself, my eyes fell on the bracer that she wore on her left forearm- the bracer I had given her all those months ago, before things went to pieces. She took in several deep breaths, and her face seemed to change, to become far older and more majestic and yet hauntingly familiar. Her hands began to glow the blue of the dawn sky and she placed them on my stomach. I had been healed before- like any active child on Vvardenfell, I had experienced bumps, bruises, knocks on the head and even broken bones. So the sensation of mingled warmth and cold radiating through me was nothing new. But Athynae's touch was different. There was an intimacy to it, a sharing, that I had never felt before. It was at once thrilling and disturbing, and my body reacted in a way that made me glad I was wearing heavy trousers. The sensation passed and Athynae lifted her hands and stood slowly. Her face was her own again, although drawn and streaked with perspiration. I recognized the signs- it had been a difficult healing. She sat wearily and drained a flask of water, then shuddered as if taken by a sudden chill. She was silent for some minutes, then finally looked at me and asked,

"How do you feel?"

I felt alive, invigorated, intoxicated. I felt better than I had in years- as though I could race from Ald'ruhn to Suran without stopping. I wanted to pick Athynae up and whirl her around the room. What I said was somewhat more subdued; perhaps if I stuck to polite civility, I would manage not to put a foot wrong. Again.

"I feel much better. I think I am completely well now. Thank you."

Athynae frowned thoughtfully and stoppered the water bottle. Unable to completely contain my energy, I stood up and stretched luxuriantly, trying out the little smile that usually worked on Mother. Athynae appeared to be immune to it; she nodded her head once, as if coming to a decision, and replied,

"That's good. Because?."

She rose lithely to her feet and with the same motion threw a punch that started somewhere around the floor and ended on my chin. It was no girlish swat- it was a serious blow with plenty of muscle behind it. I flew backwards and crashed to the floor, watching stars burst behind my eyes. When my vision came back into focus, I saw Athynae standing over me, her face pale with anger.

"Just tell me how you could be such an idiot. Explain to me how it is you managed to survive on Solstheim for two minutes when you also managed to forget that you know the greatest healer in all of Morrowind. Enlighten me as to why you thought Mama wouldn't help you and wouldn't keep your confidences if she did. I could understand you joining the Legion, although you might have at least told me about it first. But this? this?."

She searched for words sufficient to convey her assessment of my monumental stupidity as I huddled on the floor at her feet and contemplated the idea that I should always wear armor in the presence of the women in my life. Unfortunately, I knew of no way to armor my heart. Nor did I want to. Her rapid breathing turned into sobs as she continued,

"Whatever possessed you to think you should just run off into the wilderness, as if you had no friends, no family? no one who loves you?"

She dropped to her knees and cradled my aching head in her arms, whispering the words of a healing spell that took away the pain her punch had inflicted. She bent her head to mine, and the salt of our tears mingled as we kissed. Fireworks burst behind my eyes again and I reached up to hold her close. What might have happened next, I do not know, for the soporific effect of the fire combined with the exhaustion that follows a major healing spell overcame us both and we fell asleep in each other's arms.

Some unknown time later, a nightmare came stealing and I-

Found myself standing alone in a snowy clearing. Broken clouds alternately covered and uncovered the full moon and the wind carried the voices of wolves howling their hunting calls. I heard the soft pad of paws amongst the trees, and a deep, throaty howl sounded close behind me. But when I turned to face the source, there was nothing there. There came another howl, from a different place. Every time I turned to look, I saw nothing but shadows. The sounds and shadows seemed to be all around me, except to the north. There, through a break in the trees, a path gleamed in the dappled moonlight. I cautiously stepped that way, eyes straining to discern if it was really a way out, or simply a trap. I saw nothing, and the pack fell silent. I took another step, and another, and I was on the forest path. I turned once more to look behind me and perceived the hunched shapes that had crept into the clearing. Just at the edge of the trees, I sensed rather than saw movement- a darker shadow against the dark trees. It walked like a man, but was far taller, and seemed to have antlers on its head. Hands rose to hidden lips and a howl louder than any before shattered the night and shook the limbs overhead. I felt as though I was being driven by a high wind, and broke into a panicked run. The pack took up the call, and I ran faster, coming to a stop at last against a cliff of ice. The first wolf leapt, and I felt its jaws close on the arm I threw up to block. The antlered figure rose behind the wolves and called my name.

"Athlain! Athlain, wake up! You were having a bad dream."

Athynae's voice called me back and I struggled up out of the depths of sleep. She loosed her grip on my arm and her concerned gaze sharpened.

"Your eyes," she murmured, "that's odd."

"What about my eyes?"

She did not answer, but frowned with concentration and firmly grasped my head, turning it back and forth like a housewife examining a doubtful melon in the market. She at last relinquished her grip and shrugged.

"It was probably just a trick of the light. They're bloodshot, which is no surprise. A little more rest and a compress of bittergreen leaves will fix that."

Her words were dismissive, but there was something in her tone that sounded almost like?fear. Before I could frame a question, her gaze moved to a point behind me and it looked for all the world as if she was listening to a voice only she could hear. She frowned and shook her head, then rose to her feet and spoke firmly.

"But that will have to wait. It's morning, and I've changed my mind. We should start for Thirsk as soon as we can finish packing."

I responded carefully, watching her hands in case I needed to duck or dodge.

"Could we eat something first? It has been some time since I really enjoyed a meal?. And I'm sure the healing took a lot out of you, as well."

She considered my appeal and relented slightly- "I suppose we can have breakfast first, but after that, I don't see any reason to stay here any longer."

I could think of several, but the memory of getting knocked to the floor the previous night was fresh in my mind, so I wisely said nothing.

This is the story that was old when the world was new,
that you know - children - I would not say were it not true -
This is the love that's always fresh whenever renewed,
This is the smile that breaks through hearts frozen blue -

Ah, the cynics, they'll sneer and say "A kiss is just a kiss"
Of course. And a smile is also just a smile, as well,
But from here to Casablanca know these fundamentals well -
Into every life and story dances the touch of love's bliss!

When you were young, children, you heard tales of happily-ever-after,
When you grew old, children, you despaired and made cynic your master,
And all the time you sneered at love it remained quiet and deep and true
For just one touch, one word, one whisper and it leaps straight out of the blue...

And I ask, what is man? And indeed, what is woman as well?
That is the mystery that every story yet struggles to tell,
Love is the paradise that is reached by many a mysterious way,
Found in dark in secret and yet completely hidden by light of day...

Trey, my three of Kings, speak to me of love wild and true:
Speak of the turns and surprises it carries to all the crew,
that sail the ship of time across the ocean of mind in search of this -
the island found on no map, hidden deep in mist of myst...

Speak, then, Trey. Tell me how we shall sail the seas,
And finding that mystic isle, seach true through the trees,
And at the temple we find, on that white altar waiting silent,
Speak clear to me of the star we find that kills our death's tyrant.

Speak to us of the times you know we shall be lost:
Speak to us of lives we'll have to pay for journey's cost:
Speak to us of the hundred and one times we shall despair,
And think in our lips that to reach the goal we now shall never care...

And then in silence, show us that which cannot be said in words:
Show us how to set ourselves apart from the sullen common herd:
Blaze a trail in our minds to make us learn again how to be kind,
For Love is that which heals all, and leaves not a single soul behind.

For this we hold true, our motley crew, on our ship that sails never yet to fail -
You, who have brought us thus far, shall yet guide us to the final star -
Yes, you shall guide all the way to the end, when we'll step out on the beach,
And there find the beginning of our journey...the truth that seals all in the breach.