Winds of Change

“That’s what a librarian is for,” Torsa informed him, indicating the Orsimer sitting behind the large desk at the other end of the chamber. Vilkas followed eagerly to meet this esteemed keeper of knowledge. Torsa introduced him as Urag gro-Shub and Vilkas as “one of Tamriel’s foremost authorities on the history of Ysgramor and his 500 Companions.” He’d never remotely thought of himself in those terms, but logic forced him to accept that it was likely the truth. Even so, he felt the color rising in his cheeks. These lofty-sounding credentials, it seemed, were the bare minimum to even be allowed into a place like this.

“You are now in the Arcanaeum, of which I am in charge,” Urag declared in no uncertain terms, “It might as well be my own little plane of Oblivion. Disrupt my Arcanaeum, and I will have you torn apart by angry Atronachs. Hundreds of years have gone into assembling this collection. It's going to stay pristine, understand?”

“Aye,” agreed Vilkas, wholeheartedly.

Seeming satisfied, Urag inquired, “Now, do you require assistance?”

What did Vilkas want to research? Surely, any topic under the sun would be addressed in these tomes! He thought over the events of the week and knew at once what he wanted.

“There was a book I read once about legends that were not to be spoken.” It was so vague. Urag surely thought him an uneducated rube! The librarian, however, didn’t miss a beat.

“Yeah, Tolfdir requested that one late last night. It’s on the table over there.” Urag pointed to a table to his left.

Vilkas scowled. “How can you protect me from magic?”

“Cast a ward, of course,” Torsa answered. Vilkas could tell he was trying to make a joke, but Vilkas didn’t know enough about magic to get it. He told Torsa as much.

Torsa explained that a ward was the magic version of a shield.

This did not inspire confidence. “Are you any better at using them than you are at using a real shield?”

Torsa glanced behind to catch Vilkas’ eye and shake his head “no.”

Nevertheless, the gates of the college opened to receive them into a round courtyard. A hooded statue with outstretched hands dominated the middle of the path to the college’s main building.

Not letting go of Torsa’s hand quite yet, Vilkas questioned, “Who’s that a statue of?”

“The arch-mage Shalidor. You’ve heard of him, right?”

“Aye.” Vilkas had heard of him, alright. He was said to be a powerful Nord mage from the first era who supposedly brought Winterhold into being with a whisper. Most people thought the legend to be ridiculous, but for someone also said to have stolen the secrets of life from Akatosh, anything was possible. This truly must be a place filled with all manner of the unnatural.

Torsa extracted his hand to open the heavy doors of the main building. A gate decorated with a huge eye stared back at them inside the entryway. It separated the pair from some sort of well in the next room that belched forth some sort of ghastly, humming energy. Vilkas desperately hoped they weren’t going in there.

“This way,” Torsa directed, indicating a very normal-looking door to their left. When he set off, he rested his palm on Vilkas breastplate, over his pounding heart, just for a moment. Vilkas took the hint and tried to calm his thoughts. Torsa wouldn’t take him here if he thought it was dangerous. This wasn’t some madman’s ice cave or an ancient ruin. This was in institution that Torsa visited regularly and had existed for millennia. Tolfdir had survived to grow old here. Nothing too dangerous could be going on, right?

At the top of the steep, narrow steps beyond the door, a spacious entryway greeted them. Benches lined the wall, presumably for people to wait for their audience with the Arch-mage.

“Arch-mage Aren,” Torsa announced their presence, “I have in urgent message from Tolfdir.”

A voice called back, “Yes, yes. Come in.”

Vilkas couldn’t help but marvel at the Arch-mage’s quarters. He imagined this must be a mage’s dream workshop, everything one could want for enchanting and alchemy, even a garden containing every alchemical plant in Skyrim. Not to mention, the room was a prime example of first era Nordic architecture, still in use and therefor maintained. Surely, nothing else like it still existed outside of Windhelm!

Ever focused, Torsa delivered his message straightaway, “I need to speak to you about Saarthal.”

Not even bothering to look up from his research materials, the Dunmer mage drawled, “Please don't tell me that another one of the apprentices has been incinerated. I have enough to deal with right now.”

That was enough to get Vilkas’ attention: incinerated? Another? So much for this place being safe! This was apart from the apprentice that got eaten by frenzied skeevers! Why did people mess with this stuff? Wasn’t it simpler just to stab things?

“We've found something in Saarthal, and Tolfdir thinks it’s important,” Torsa corrected.

“Very well. I trust that you wouldn't be here were it not significant. Thank you for bringing this to my attention,” conceded the mage, finally putting his book away, “Tolfdir normally looks after your little group, yes? Since he's apparently occupied, and I will need to see this discovery for myself, I think perhaps you should begin researching the subject. Speak with Urag in the Arcanaeum. See if he is aware of anything that matches your discovery. And... good work. The next time you find yourself exploring Nordic ruins, perhaps this will be helpful.”

A genuinely surprised Torsa thanked the Arch-Mage when he presented him with a staff from his pack, and promised to get right to the research first thing in the morning. For this, Vilkas was grateful. It had been an exhausting day, he reflected as he watched Torsa veer off toward an unexpected exit.

“Ah… Didn’t we come from that way?” Vilkas indicated the other exit.

“Hey! Cat!”

They both jumped at the surprising resonance of the shout and the blatant slur. It took Vilkas a few heartbeats to realize the voice was Torsa’s. A Khajiit mage stopped in his tracks at the opposite end of the chasm.

“You may not know this,” the Khajiit explained, flattening his ears and holding up his hands in defense against the Nord advancing on him, “but that is not a polite word to address Khajiit.

Torsa did not pause in the slightest. “I don’t use it for all Khajiit, just the ones that try to blow me up.”

The Khajiit’s affect deflated and he pulled Torsa aside, ostensibly to explain himself. They hadn’t been here five minutes and there was already talk of things blowing up. Vilkas was really beginning to like his odds at winning their bet. At that point, the elderly Nord mage introduced himself.

“Excuse me, but I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Tolfdir, instructor in Alteration at the College.”

Another reasonable-seeming individual. Vilkas was beginning to suspect that Torsa might be the weird one of the group. “I’m Vilkas, Master at Arms of the Companions,” he introduced himself in return.

“Excellent!” exclaimed Tolfdir, “Then you understand what an exciting opportunity this is for us!”

Ysmir help him, he didn’t mind these people. “To tread the same paths, breathe the same air as the Ysgramor and his 500 Companions, perhaps to learn more about how they lived, it will be an honor.”

“Yes, exactly,” Tolfdir agreed, “To be able to study such an early civilization, and the magics they used… We're particularly interested in the prevalence of magical seals placed on the tombs here. It's rather unlike anything we've encountered. And if, along the way, my message about the dangers of magic should happen to sink in for a few students, that would be a happy coincidence.”

With that last statement, Tolfdir cast a wary look at where Torsa and the Khajiit, J'zargo he called himself, had joined Brelyna. Brelyna was commenting that Torsa looked less green.

“Green?” Torsa questioned, “Oh, that. It wore off by the next morning.”

“Exactly as I said it would,” Brelyna maintained, though her tone belied her lack of conviction, “Where’s Serana? I wanted to ask her something about the Revenant spell.”

Surprisingly, J'zargo answered, “J'zargo’s good friend here was kind enough to help J'zargo test a new spell he has been perfecting. Unfortunately, there was a slight problem with the spell and Serana was badly burned.”

“Oh, my! Is she alright?” gasped Brelyna.

Torsa assured the others, “She’s fine now, but she doesn’t feel comfortable at the College any more.”

Tolfdir exchanged a look with Vilkas that said, “See what I mean?”

The little group of students paused their conversation to greet a new arrival, a Nord. Torsa took the opportunity to introduce Vilkas to J'zargo, who promised he would not “burn this one,” which Vilkas did not find comforting. The Nord student was introduced as Onmund.

“It's good to see other Nords,” Onmund commented, “Almost doesn't feel like Skyrim, being so far away from the rest of the world up here.”

“Guess it would,” Vilkas agreed, “Are you excited to be visiting Saarthal?”

“No,” the Nord mage stated outright, “There's no chance anyone in authority approved this. Our ancestors should be allowed to rest in peace. I’m glad the Companions are going to be participating, though. Hopefully we can learn something from the experience, how the ancient Nords used magic, maybe even what happened to this place.”

“That’s what I’m hoping for, too. It’s been difficult accepting that the ancient Nords, used a lot of magic in their day, but I think it’s best we know the truth of our past.”

Tolfdir cleared his throat and conversation quieted. “And here we all are. All right, please stay close to me while we're inside. It should be safe, but it's always better to be cautious.”

Torsa said “we." He’d hoped it had been his imagination that as many of the staring eyes were looking directly at him as at Torsa. A shiver ran down his back as he remembered Granda Gray-Mane, Eorland and Vignar’s father, used to say of his inquisitive and bookish nature, “You’re doing old Herma-Mora’s work, boy.” Perhaps, he’d been right. Vilkas had been so concerned with Molag-Bal and Hircine, he never considered which of the other daedra might also take an interest in him. Mind in turmoil, his thoughts spilled out, “We can’t just give up! We have to fight!”

To his surprise, his outburst seemed to galvanize his shield-brother rather than frustrate him.

“You’re right. Maybe Hermeus Mora will have his way one day, but it’ll cost him.”

Moving with the efficient brutality that he usually reserved for battle, Torsa summoned an arrow from his pack and jammed the blood extracting device onto the tip. Next, he called forth his bow, Auri-El’s bow. Striding to the edge of open water, he shot the device into the abyss.

A sensation of duality seized Vilkas for a moment as he watched Not-Auri-El shoot the Not-Heart of Lorkhan into the same sea with the same bow. He rubbed his gauntleted hands over his face, the rough material grounding him in his body and in this time. When he looked again upon the world, he saw only plain old Torsa albeit with cold fire still alight in his eyes.

“It’s not enough,” Torsa decreed, “It’s like the others said, Meridia, Hircine: there is always someone else. They don’t need me specifically and Mora already has another, someone who can read the Elder Scroll I just gave him. What’s in that box must be one of his artifacts or he couldn’t manifest corporeally on Nirn.”

Hearkening back to a book he’d read time and time again since childhood, Vilkas suddenly knew with complete certainly what was in that box under the ice and could not deny that he had always dreamed of getting a look at it. How hard would it really be to gather some blood? They killed all kinds of elves all the time. The secrets contained in that volume would be well worth it.

“It’s the Oghma Infinium!” Vilkas all but yelled, dispelling the tentacles entwining his thoughts. When he’d made his utterance, he gasped in relief as one who’d been about to drown. He’d lived long enough with his wolf spirit, and without it, to know when his thoughts were no longer his own. In reply, Torsa made for the trap door in the ice.

Vilkas began to follow. “What are you going to do?” he asked shakily, worried that he already knew.

“Stay here.”

“Torsa! We can’t just murde…”

“Stay here!” It was a command this time and Vilkas found himself reflexively obeying. For the first time, he saw before him the Torsa that ruled Volkihar Keep with an iron fist. His shock must have shown on his face because Torsa’s demeanor softened immediately. “Please. You need not carry this.”

Carry, what? The guilt? The burden? The stain?

Already Torsa was gone and there Vilkas stood, paralyzed by his overloaded mind. He should do something. He was a Companion and Companions take action! Yet he stood, knowing what was happening, and doing nothing.