UJON, Book Fourteen - The Death of Äelberon of Dusk

• Posted by Gnewna April 20, 2018 - Filed in TSC: Skyrim - #Altmer  #long  #Skyrim  #UJON  #Nerussa  - 1,033 views

  “Äelberon, please, try to stay awake…”

   

  He was refusing to take the potion she’d offered him, and her healing magicks really were very basic, and only much good against injuries and burns. Not terribly useful against a raging infection of the chest. Damn Rulundil, and damn Elenwen, and double bloody damn Ondolemar, no wonder he’d been in such a bloody damn good mood, probably anticipating a resurrection of his dead-end career after that coup. Ha! Those hopes would have been rather dashed by now. Oghma’s tits, she hoped the carriage arrived before any Thalmor came this way, thankfully the fire was barely visible from further up the hill. Hopefully the Daedric statue – which was very visible on the approach, even Äelberon had snorted on spotting it – would help to keep the more superstitious troops away.

   

  “What’s that smell? Smells… sweet. Like ‘ome.” She blinked. His voice – the deep tone was unchanged, but the way he shaped the words sounded almost like the impressions Rumarin did of his parents. The first time they had met, he had spoken with an accent identifiable to anyone in earshot as Dusken, but it was the merest trace compared to this. She had never really visited the Southern parts of Alinor – of the Isles – but she knew Rumarin’s parents were from somewhere close to Dusk. She wondered whether that had influenced their apparent certainty that the newer tales they heard from recently-arrived Altmer about the Pale Elf were untrue. “You got an orange tree in your knickers, Nordling?”

   

  She burst out laughing at that, thought for a moment, then reached for her pack, pulling a rather squashed Summerset Orange Cake from the robe she had wrapped them in, and waving it in front of his nose. “Do you mean this?”

   

  He nodded. “May I ‘ave a piece?” He seemed almost shy about it. Gods, the cakes had made her homesick, how must they be affecting him? Aside from the Symposium, sixteen years ago, he surely hadn’t been in Alinor in over a century – since his exile. She broke off a piece and did her best to lift his head and shoulders a little so he could swallow it.

   

  “If you take the potion, you might be able to eat more, you know.”

   

  “’F I take the potion, cake won’t taste as good.”

   

  “Ah yes, I remember that about you – an answer for everything…” He began a rasping chuckle, and for an awful moment she thought he was choking on the cake, but it seemed to merely have irritated his throat and set him to coughing again.

   

   

  “Mm, a bit crumbly, damn Northern recipe.” He grumbled.

   

  “I can take it back.”

   

  “No… crumbly cake better than none.” He coughed, furrowing his bushy brows.

   

  When he was still once more, she felt in Rumarin’s spare pack of her things for some juniper berries, blue mountain flowers, a piece of tree bark, and the carefully-wrapped, half-full jar of honey.

   

  “Will you drink some tea? Nothing disgusting in it, I promise. Plenty of honey.”

   

  Gods, where were they going to take him? Solitude and Markarth were obviously unsafe. Whiterun, perhaps, but it was an obvious choice, even bloody Elenwen could work that one out. And it was further than they could really travel overnight. Morthal might be safe – she thought Idgrod could be trusted – but the location was no good, he needed warmth and dry air, not a damn swamp.

   

  “Will there be more cake?” He was certainly persistent. She hoped that was a good sign. Riften was definitely too far, though it was probably the safest place, assuming things went as planned with the Guild. Oh, but the Thalmor would be heading there. No, not Riften, not yet. Riverwood? No, she didn’t trust Delphine – she couldn’t imagine the Breton woman would hand anyone over to the Thalmor, but she could make things difficult in other ways.

   

  “Ah, even if it’s a crumbly Northern recipe?” A tiny, teasing smile formed on his lips. Even as sick as he was, he was still playing with her. That had not changed either. “If you drink a cup of tea, and if we can get you sitting up a bit more, yes, I promise.”

   

  “Very well, then.” She was already heating the water over the fire, with the ingredients already in the pot. She’d found this gave the best combination of taste and mild healing effect. The bark was one Arcadia had told her would help with fevers – after the nasty business with the spiders in Ustengrav, she had taken a few actual lessons with the pushy Imperial woman, on alchemy and simple treatments such as poultices and which ingredients would aid in recovery from insect venom. If she couldn’t get him to take a potion, this would have to do for now.

   

  What about Rorikstead? It would be an enormous risk for Lydia’s family, she didn’t really feel able to ask them that, but perhaps at least for tonight – they could reach the farmstead not long after midnight, if the carriage ride wasn’t too eventful. The farm house was warm and dry… Yes, Rorikstead, at least for tonight. Perhaps in the morning they could send to Whiterun for a healer to visit.

   

  She tried not to think about whether Äelberon would survive even that trip.

   

  Soon, the tea was ready, and she added a good dollop of honey.

   

  “S’got bits in,” he croaked.

   

   

  “Now look here, you are Äelberon of Dusk, Knight of the Crystal Tower, Slayer of Bet. A hundred and fifty years older than me, if not more. Stop acting like such an elfling, clinging to your Lenya’s skirts!”

   

  He pouted for a moment, but she caught another small quirk of the lips, not quite a smile, but not bad, given his condition. And probably better than an actual laugh, given the last one.

   

  She held the tea, and he sipped from the cup as best he could, propped upright on the two packs, far from comfortable, but the best she could manage. She mopped his brow with a damp piece of cloth, dipped in the rapidly cooling remains of the tea. Lukewarm water should help reduce the fever a little. She hoped.

   

  A thought occurred to her. “You didn’t seem very surprised to see me. Why didn’t you seem very surprised to see me? My ears almost fell off when I saw you!”

   

  “I drank my tea, Nordling. I am waiting for my cake.” She broke him off another piece. His speech was returning to the pattern she was used to, and she hoped that was a good sign. “Thank you. Much better. Are there any more, for later?” He tried to turn his head toward the pack, then apparently thought better of it.

   

  “Stop trying to change the subject. But yes, of course there bloody are, I stuffed as many as I could into my pack. Anyway, you were saying..?"

   

  She wasn’t sure if she saw a twinkle in his eye, the reflected fire light, or the fever, but when he spoke, any amusement was gone from his voice.

   

  “I received… a letter from a Vigilant of Stendarr named Tyranus, asking for assistance with a matter in Markarth...” He took a labored breath before continuing. “He was… concerned about an abandoned property near the city gates, as he had heard rumours that led him to suspect it was being used for Daedra worship.” Another pause and Nerussa was beginning to worry that perhaps the talking was taking too much effort, but he continued. “He had visited the city on several occasions, but nobody would speak to him, and his Order believed he was mistaken. I was living in Bruma – you may have heard of the place?”

   

  It must have shown in her face, as he nodded and continued, “of course you have. You look so like the statue.” He scrutinized her carefully, the eyes narrowing. “Aye, same eyes, hmph…” Statue? Damn, was he delirious, now? He seemed lucid enough. “In any case, if one knows how to cross a border safely, it is only a few days’ journey from Bruma to Markarth, less if you’re a stubborn Old Fart who refuses to stop to rest more than is strictly necessary for his horse’s health…” A stricken look crossed his face, but he blinked it away and carried on. “As I said, I would rather not discuss what occurred when I arrived in Markarth just yet. The wounds are still fresh, so to speak. Ah, but you didn’t ask why I was here, did you?” He paused to catch his breath and his eyes found the fire.

   

  “As to why I was unsurprised to see you, as I am sure you will have discovered – the Dossier you took from Master Rulindil’s desk was not the only one you were interested in, I am sure? Yes, as I thought. As you will have doubtless read, they believe you and I had interactions beyond the Vampire Symposium. Possibly even before then. You were poking around the records office before you were… removed, were you not?”

   

  “You were so different from how the official version of events portrayed you. I did my best to…remove some of the memories myself, and had the rest dealt with officially. But over the last few years, I don’t know, things started coming back to me. I couldn’t make sense of it. So, yes, I went looking for answers. Apparently I wasn’t very good at sneaking around back then…” Nerussa replied.

   

  He looked at her very seriously for a moment. “That has changed, eh? It must have, for you to have arrived in the dungeon un-noticed. In any case, they were asking what I knew of you, where you were, whether I was involved in rescuing you and Ulfric Stormcloak from the chaos of Helgen… I must admit, ‘twas a struggle not to laugh at the thought of you and Ulfric Stormcloak on the run together…” His words trailed off, and he seemed to be resting.

   

  Suddenly, he sat bolt upright and clutched at her arm and even through the fabric, she could feel the heat of his fever. It wasn’t going down. “Ebonnayne! Where is she? You’ll bring her to me, won’t you?”

   

  “Who’s Ebonnayne?”

   

  He let go of her and started mumbling, no, he was singing in – gods, was that Altmeris? It was so long since she’d encountered anyone able to speak the language, and he was beginning to slur his words a little, that it took a while before she could be sure. But yes, it was Altmeris. It wasn’t any of the poems she was familiar with, though, either the Classics taught in school – some of which must originally have been songs – or the fragmentary remnants of lesser-known works that she’d found in her linguistic studies.

   

  Was this something he’d written himself? Gods, did he speak the language that well? By all accounts people of his station were not even allowed to learn the language. It was breathtaking, whoever had written it. The imagery! She had never seen a place like that before. She was no poet, couldn’t hope to translate it into verse in Tamrielic, but it was evidently about someone very much beloved. The melody was clearly simplified, almost like a lullaby her Senna used to sing to her – her Lenya was never one for singing, nor was Senna normally, but sometimes, if she had been very good... She only realised she was crying when two fat teardrops splashed on the hands folded in her lap.

   

  He finished singing, and repeated his previous words, almost. “You will bring her to me.” This time he sounded much more certain.

   

  “If I can, Äelberon, of course I will.” He seemed content with that. He lay back on the bedrolls and smiled, his eyes fluttering shut.

   

  He was quiet for a while, allowing her to dampen his brow again. Soon, though, his lips began to move. His voice was cracking, barely above a whisper. She couldn’t make out all the words, but it was clearly a prayer, although… a good deal less formal than the ones she remembered the Priests at the Temple reciting. He spoke of his love of "his Blessed Isles", and of his regret that he had been unable to avenge his parents’ deaths, finishing with the words, “I leave my fate to you.” She realised with growing horror that he was preparing for death. He spoke again in Altmeris, and as soon as she heard the word Ebonnayne, she made herself stop listening, thinking back to the Dossier and the… well, the lies the Thalmor had spread about the noble Mer in front of her – of common birth, perhaps, but a damn sight more noble than any other Altmer she had met, with one exception – Queen Calianwe. He had done so much for his people, and this was how they repaid him.

   

  He was growing quiet again, and she found herself taking his hand in both of hers. One red-orange eye flickered briefly open and she thought she felt a faint pressure from his fingers.

   

   

  “Not fret, child...”

   

  It was barely audible. She made herself smile, but was unsure if he even registered it. She wanted to count, but made herself say soothing words, stroke his hair, sing that song her Senna used to sing. The smallest smile played over his lips and then – oh gods, there was a slackness that… He couldn’t be gone? Not him! For a moment she was frozen, then she found herself bent over his body, hands still clasped around his, rocking gently at first, then more forcefully back and forth as she sobbed, eyes squeezed tightly shut.

   

  Gradually, she became aware of a soft glow suffusing her closed eyelids. The fire? No, it was something different, something new. She wiped her face on her sleeve – vaguely wondering whether she would ever have such a pretty dress again, and whether she’d be able to avoid ruining that one – and forced her stinging eyes open. The light was… was coming from Äelberon. He was glowing.