» Wed May 23, 2012 11:23 am Even as his mind swirled through the fading mists of sleep, Ve’lek could feel the sickness. The deep corners of thoughtlessness were fading away and no matter how he reached for them the sweet bliss of unknowing was vanishing. The tyranny of consciousness dawned and he could feel the tension in his body; muscles taut, stomach twisted in outrage. How long had it been? Hours, months, years? The downy bed was soft against his skin but offered no comfort as the pain contorted inside him. As the last vestiges of sleep flickered away they left him with images of debauchery; a salty, iron taste on his tongue – a lust too powerful not to satisfy.
Ve’lek gripped the soaked sheets as his eyes opened. He breathed in the air with its myriad smells: roasted meats, dirt, a wood fire, unwashed skin. On the first floor beneath him the bard was singing a song about a red-headed braggart and the people were laughing, clapping. Ve’lek focused on the voices, the ridiculous lyric; ran his fingers over the bed sheets. He could smell them – smell their frustrations, their bitterness, their hate for the Imperials and the Stormcloaks. He could take it all away from them; the lightless corners called out to him. He ground his teeth and forced himself from the bed.
It wasn’t easy to dress. His hands were shaking; his whole body trembled as he reached for his cloak. When he stood up his legs gave way and he landed hard on the bed. Cursing beneath his breath he pushed up on arms that could not bear his weight. The shadows called: images of the aged beggar in Anvil, the inviting cold. Oh yes, the cold. He could feel it as he staggered down the stairway, nearly collapsing into an armored Nord. Everything was cold. He could barely feel his hands. His vision was clouded as though he were underwater; yes, he was drowning. But he could feel them, smell them, hear their hearts beating. On some level he heard them mocking him as he stumbled towards the door. The air was cold, as cold as the sickness inside him.
He was outside, surrounded by night. The cloven body of Lorkhan mocked him; how bright it seemed to his eyes. It was growing inside, the lure, the power. All he had to do was reach for it, to grasp his inheritance. “Azura help me,” he whispered. But she would not. He was an abomination in her eyes.
“Are you all right, sera?”
It was Isolde; dear, sweet Isolde. There was worry in her eyes. She had always been so kind to him. He could feel his canines elongating. The shadows whispered to the monster inside. His voice was so very weak in his ears. “Forgive me, mi’lady. Ataxia. I need…the Temple.” A lie.
He felt her indecision. And then she was leading him to the Temple of Kynareth. How strong she felt; her arms were steady, her stride swift. He let her lead him, leaned upon her arm. Through the storm of his mind he heard himself question, what are you going to do?
They had reached the tree, the Gildergreen. “I…” he said. “I can make it from here,” he told her. “I don’t want you to risk this.” The sickness roared its dissent.
“Don’t be silly. You can barely stand.”
“Please, mi’lady. It’s…my fault. Not carrying a potion.”
She looked at him long and hard and Ve’lek pushed away the images burning in his brain. Sweet, kind Isolde. Her neck was slim, young, so very alive. “If you’re sure…” she said.
“Yes.”
As soon as her back was turned Ve’lek made for Heimskr’s door. The priest was asleep – he could hear the light snoring through the half-open window. There were no guards; they were off drinking at the Huntsman. Ve’lek squatted down at the door; glanced to be sure no one saw him and pulled out his lockpick.
It broke.
Three times he jabbed the pick into the lock and three times it snapped right away. His hands were visibly shaking and he could feel the laughter mocking him inside. He was so tired. He could just lay down, lay at Heimskr’s door until some guard found him and took him to jail. Or he could die, pull out the malachite dagger and slit his own throat – there would be hardly any blood. It could all end now.
You’re not strong enough, the darkness mocked. You’ve never been strong enough.
Ve’lek inhaled deeply and summoned the shadows to him.
He felt every fiber of his being come into alignment. The pain did not diminish – it intensified; it fed the sickness and gave him strength. And anger; powerful, sweet anger. In the back of his mind he watched the matron defiled by their dread lord, watched her wreak vengeance on the travelers who had aided her. His hands were steady, now. The lock was child’s play.
He was inside. Heimskr was buried beneath his covers; how many times had he listened to this damned priest wail about Talos, his annoying voice breaking the beauty of Whiterun? Yes, the sickness told him. Take all and more; bring silence. His feet made no sound on the wood floor; he was a ghost, an ephemeral spirit of the Dawn magicks. Ve’lek leaned down to the pulsing vein in Heimskr’s neck.
His mouth filled with warmth and the sickness screamed in triumph.
But then he was outside, before the thing in him could understand. He had taken only a little, barely a mouthful; and already Ve’lek was pushing the shadows away, deadening his ears to the monster inside him. He was himself again. A ragged breath escaped his lips. Enough, he thought. Enough for tonight.
Ve’lek stood up on his own legs, straightened his dark robes. His hands were steady, his mind finally clear. He could see how beautiful the evening sky was, could smell the fires burning at Jorrvaskr. As he walked down towards the market stalls he caught sight of Isolde and approached her. He did not smell her blood, did not feel her heart beating.
“Thank you, my lady,” he said, his voice fluid, strong. “It was foolish of me to go adventuring without a potion to cure diseases. I didn’t even realize I was sick until I woke up.”
Isolde smiled. “You really should be more careful,” she chided.
He bowed to her and made his way to the city gate.
You could have so much more, came the barely perceptible whisper. You need not hunger, you need not be weak. And you are weak.
Ve’lek checked to make sure he had all his gear before exiting the city. Perhaps, he thought. But strong enough to fight you.
He turned west towards the Sanctuary.
