Our boots splashed in the mud as we strolled our way down the main street, rain pouring all the while. Those few who lingered outdoors stared curiously as we passed. With a tug, I pulled my hood down over my face, but one of the women, Tekla I think, caught the motion and glowered darkly from the eaves of the apothecary.
"What do you think you're doing here, witch!" she hissed. "I haven't seen my husband come to bed for a fortnight. Why don't you bother some other man who ain't got nobody!"
"Ma'm, I haven't been with your husband. I don't know where he is."
"Lies! That's all your kind ever do. You can't fool me with your magic."
"But I--" I stammered, trying to quell the rising indignation. Yes, I had made some mistakes in the last few weeks, but nothing of the magnitude she suggested.
"Get out of town! I don't want to see your face 'round here anymore!" she spat, turning on her heel to stride across the thoroughfare to her home where a small boy peered out at me from behind the shutters.
"Don't listen to her. She's just a nasty old woman," Valindor murmured, placing a hand on my shoulder. His words, though, bled doubt. Nevertheless, I squeezed his hand in gratitude and proceeded towards the inn, where I knew Runil would already be deep in his cups. "Why is a priest of Arkay spending time in an inn?" the Bosmer asked, eyeing the rest of the town with distrust.
"Because he, too, has dreams. I suppose he wants to forget them," I replied, trying to forget the woman's harsh words. It was difficult, and I felt my mind spiraling down on a well-established track leading to some empty corner where similar voices cat-called and berated me. I'd heard it all before. Even after the Battle of Fort Dunstad, people had talked. The Imperial soldiers accused me of murdering one of their own beloved Legates, though they could do nothing against the pardon issued by Legate Hrollod and sponsored by Ondolemar. The Thalmor, who should have been my comrades, rejected me for my connection to the backwards people of Skyrim as well as the prophecy that filled their days with worry. Nothing could convince them that I wasn't a murderer, nor was I the Dragonborn they so feared. Those powers were gone, if I ever truly had them in the first place.
We strode up the steps, the wood warped and creaking underfoot from rain and rot. Meeko shook the water from his fur and lay down on the porch, ready to guard the door from any strange intruders. Ever since I found him alone in a shack near Morthal, he'd been protective of me. I supposed the loss of his previous master stirred some need to make sure people didn't disappear from his life.
Valindor crossed his arms, doubtful and suspicious. "I don't like this, Gwaihen. Something seems off about this guy. I've watched him long enough while playing here. He looks like he's seen a ghost most of the time."
"Falkreath does have a large cemetery," I countered with a soft smirk.
"I didn't mean an actual ghost. I meant... There's just something wrong. Oh, nevermind. Let's just go inside, I'm soaked to the bone and getting cold," he grumbled in frustration. I took his arm and ushered him inside, amused at his loss for words.
Inside, another bard played a quiet melody on an ill-tuned lute, and Valindor's expression continued to darken as each note echoed discordantly about the room. Most of the town crowded near the fire, trying to dry their clothes as they spoke idly of the work they weren't doing. Many suspected a curse upon the town that kept the weather so damp, though they all spoke of this in hushed tones lest Runil overhear them. The Altmer in question I spotted sitting in a dark corner near the door.
"Runil, I need to have a word with you, if you don't mind," I said lowly, tapping his shoulder.
"Ah, Gwaihen, what brings you to Falkreath in this weather?" the old Altmer inquired. His eyelids were heavy and face reddened under the shroud of his hood. Deep in his cups indeed.
"Shh! Not so loud! I've already been spotted by Tekla on the way here," I hissed, taking a seat at the darkest corner of the table. Sensing my need for privacy, Valindor meandered away towards the bar, already charming those he met with outrageous tales.
"Very well, very well. I will speak as the dead do--with whispers barely heard by the living ear," he replied. I was forced to lean close to even hear him. "Now, my dear, what can an old priest of Arkay do for you?"
"What do you know of recurring dreams?"
"Ah. Arkay blesses us each with the image of our fate. Be it the moment we are to pass or the moment of great change in our lives. A recurring dream is only a reflection of his blessing." He paused to take a long draught of his drink, dribbling a little on his robes, which bore many splashes of fluid already. "What dreams have you been having?" he continued, his voice clear and measured.
"I dream of a great tree encased under a dome of rock. It's singing, but I don't understand the words. I go to approach the tree, but I'm stopped by something. A barrier. There are people there who are shouting at me, screaming. I've done something wrong--committed a crime I wasn't aware of and then they're attacking me, tearing my skin from my body. All the while there are eyes in the tree watching me. I feel like they're laughing at me, but I hear no voice. As I scream, I'm falling into an abyss filled with noxious light and spirits wailing in sorrow," I explained, my words tumbling out of my mouth in a jumble of repressed thoughts.
Swallowing thickly, I continued, "Just as I emerge from this abyss into a new place, I wake. There's a voice echoing in my head, he's pleading with something to let him escape. That he doesn't belong wherever he is." My heart hammered in my chest, and I struggled to maintain emotional control.
"Who is this man who is pleading?" Runil asked, fingers steepled.
"My friend, Derkeethus," I whispered to the table.
"And have you spoken to this, Derkeethus, about this dream?"
"I can't. He...died." I stared at the grains of wood, focusing on their swirling shapes interrupted by deep slashes made by silverware stabbed into its surface. A set of golden fingers covered my hand with a gentle pat.
"This is common in those who have lost a loved one recently. Grief corrupts the will of Arkay and disturbs the message he's intending you to understand. Have you said goodbye to your friend?" Runil regarded me carefully, his eyes piercing.
"No. I don't want to. Not yet," I managed.
"Perhaps it is time you reconsider. Look around you. Everyone here has lost someone in the pointless farce they call a war. That is why they come to Falkreath, and that is also why they do not leave. They drift here, unable to say goodbye to the deceased, who are no more here than Magnus. They are ghosts of who they should be, Gwaihen. Do not become as they are. Move on.
"As for your tree, there is a pilgrimage the priests of Kynareth make every year. They go to a tree they call the Eldergleam to pay their respects. I know not where the tree is, but the Temple of Kynareth in Whiterun will know of what I speak." The Temple of Kynareth. I was very familiar with its interior, for I spent weeks on end healing from a near death experience. It was there that I lost my fox friend Jorin, but it was also there that I met Valindor.
I cast a glance at him across the room, and smiled a little to see him in stitches with one of the somber-eyed locals. At least I wouldn't have to return alone.
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I feel for Gwaihen, for while I don't know the details of her past, I understand her pain. I'm enjoying the process of le... more