#beragon

She didn't bother trying not to sigh and stalked off to retrieve her mount. How she got away with riding an enormous death hound of all creatures was beyond him, and he couldn't imagine where she got it. The beast was no splendid sight with its skinned hide and interlocking needle teeth, it stunk of charred meat left to rot in the sun, and it had a mean and hungry look in its eyes. Maybe it was a holdout from her days in Namira's service, much as the Servitor and Philo served as remnants from his time in Apocrypha, but he was quite sure that Namira didn't employ death hounds amongst her menagerie of disgusting creatures. And his sister wasn't particularly forthcoming on the subject of her time in service to the Lady of Decay.

“We should stay off the roads,” Kyriel said as she returned astride her flayed beast. “That horror of yours might just frighten someone to death.”

The Servitor tossed its head and let out a wet squelch from its gaping mouths. And honestly it was a fair assessment - no creature of Apocrypha was a thing of beauty, and the mere sight of one could reduce many mortals to madness - but he couldn't resist returning fire.

“And we wouldn't want yours to drain any innocent travellers of their blood,” he shot back, giving the hound a loathsome look.

“Oh no need to fret,” she replied airily. “Syra only feeds when he has permission.”

Leave it to Kyri to always have to have the last word. She always had some counter, some comeback, some way to always try to shut down the conversation on her terms. Watching it be used on others could be humorous. Being on the receiving end was the most trying experience in the Aurbis.

Without another word, they set off for Skingrad. As they rode out, sticking to the rolling hills and their narrow trails, Orion reached out to sense the fabric of reality. He’d yet to encounter any of the significant strain he’d experienced at the Outcast Inn, but at the farm he had experienced the sensation of a prickling bur tugging at the threads, much like what he’d encountered elsewhere in the Weald. The wildburn seeds had a very distinctive presence and wherever he found them, he found Recollection as well.

He’d spoken with the Greenspeakers in Vashabar at length and was even granted the opportunity to study one of the dormant seed pods used to grow the village. Even with their power spent, the pods carried traces of their influence on reality; they were bright, hopeful bundles that promised new growth, new roots, a new beginning. In comparison, the wildburn seeds were fit to bursting with rage and thorned fury. There was no gentle integration into the existing weave - instead they promised to burn away the existing weave and slot itself into the smouldering, vacant hole left behind.

The Wildburn itself was like walking along a scorched seam, repaired by a clumsy and inexpert hand to tie Dawnwood and West Weald together. The magic itself might have originated with Ithelia, but it lacked the intricacy of the weft in her prison and in the other places he'd begun to notice traces of her.

The Dawnwood had also existed for some months now, growing into the Weald barely more than a few weeks after Ithelia had first escaped from her prison. She'd been so lost and disoriented without a grasp on her own memories until just a few days ago that there was no way she’d been plotting with the Recollection all this time. This whole scheme with the seeds was much more likely to be Torvesard and Vargas’ doing.

So he couldn’t help but wonder… now that Ithelia was reconnected with herself and her power, would she do anything to stop them?

The question itself was disquieting. On the one hand, Ithelia was a Daedric Prince, and Princes generally cared little-to-nothing about mortals. There were some exceptions of course, like Azura and the Khajiit or Malacath and the orcs, but ultimately it all came down to power. If the Recollection were to restore Ithelia to her full power, her inclinations as a Prince would see her favour them. They served her and worked to restore her, meaning those who opposed them were those who opposed her return.

On the other hand...

He was bleeding from his side where the dremora’s glass blade had cut through, slicing and piercing cloth and leather to reach the tender flesh beneath. The daedra was dead now, but the bleeding wouldn’t stop and his meagre powers of healing were not enough to stem the flow, much less shut the wound.

Lifting his head, he searched for any sign of Azandar. The older Arcanist was lying on the ground across the chamber. He wasn’t moving.

“No, no, no-!”

His body disobeyed as he tried to climb to his feet. Knees buckled, feet refused to plant. Blood sprayed over his tongue. Against the back of his teeth. Only arms were working, trying to haul him forwards. Blood wept freely. He was dying. He was going to die just like Azandar, and it was all his fault. If he hadn’t turned his back on Hermaeus Mora, if he hadn’t run away, if Azandar hadn’t been so damn loyal as to follow him into this doomed quest-

Vision was swimming. Lights dimming. The blood wouldn’t stop running-

Hot, searing pain erupted in his side and he yelled. The air caught on the blood and a hacking cough erupted from his lips. But the pain refused to subside. It kept digging in and out, in and out, a hot needle threading a burning thread of golden light into his flesh.

“I don’t know how I know, but it will only hurt a little longer,” a woman’s gentle voice soothed, its owner rolling him carefully onto his back. “I can fix this.”

So much of that memory was unclear to him still. When he’d awoken, his wound was stitched shut and the dremora’s armour had been left by his side, neatly folded and left for him. Azandar knew little more than he did, as he’d been out cold - and had complained about the resulting concussion for days after the fact - but they had their suspicions. Their conversation with Ithelia in the Outcast Inn had simply confirmed it for them: she had saved his life.

Being indebted to a Daedric Prince wasn’t a wholly new experience for Orion, but it was the first time that it hadn’t come as part of a bargain. Having spent so much time in Apocrypha, learning from Azandar and then from Leramil, he’d made countless little bargains with all sorts of Daedra in exchange for favours or scraps of knowledge, and he had fulfilled a contract or two with Mora himself to further his studies. But he hadn’t asked for Ithelia to save him, and she hadn’t demanded a price from him either. In her dazed state, she had simply stumbled upon the aftermath of the battle and pulled him back from the brink of death for no apparent reason besides compassion.

But then why leave him the armour? Was it simply a kindness, given the ruined state of his gear? He had his doubts. She hadn’t forgotten what she was after all, and his face had remained familiar to her despite the slipperiness of her memories.

Maybe it was her way of marking him, he'd wondered; a little precaution so that even if she forgot him again, the sight of him in Shardborn armour would remind her that he owed her his loyalty. Azandar agreed that it wasn’t impossible but encouraged him to take the armour all the same. His own gear was ruined beyond repair and wouldn’t protect him from another Shardborn blade. If push came to shove and they had to fight Ithelia, he might as well turn her own presumption of loyalty against her.

The notion didn’t sit right with him but he didn’t argue it. Just clad himself in leather and glass and pressed on in his search for the truth.

They dismounted outside of Skingrad. Orion dismissed the Servitor to Apocrypha while Kyriel sent her hound to lurk in the shadows of the hills with strict instructions to hide, not hunt. He wondered if it had the mental capacity to understand such an instruction. Regardless, it vanished into the long grass and before long, Orion was unable to track its movements.

“I’m surprised that Azandar isn’t with you,” Kyriel noted as they passed through the vineyards towards the city gates. The guards didn’t pay them much mind. No doubt they recognised Kyriel as the one working to stop the Recollection, so anyone in her company wasn’t worth harassing, even when they wore daedric armour.

“He’s in Vashabar right now. We were doing some research into the wildburn seeds when I sensed something amiss,” he explained. “We agreed that I could move faster on my own, and he could get more work done with the Greenspeaker.”

He didn’t disclose that Azandar had been so displeased with the notion of climbing back into the saddle of his own Servitor that Orion had offered to go ahead for those reasons. His old mentor was relieved to have the chance to stay in his seat and sip his tea while pouring over the corrupted seed with Darolith, and he'd be glad to know that some measure of his pride had been preserved.

They arrived at Beragon's home - a surprisingly large and well-furnished townhouse - and found the elf bent over what could only be the Skein of Secrets. He straightened up as they stepped into office and smiled at the sight of them, or at Kyriel anyway.

“You're back! Tell me what you found-”

His warm grin was quickly swallowed up by a quizzical look thrown Orion's way. His bright blue eyes were scraping over the daedric runes cut into the glass he wore, and Orion could see the concern forming behind them as he looked back to Kyriel for an explanation.

“My brother. He's been looking into Ithelia separately,” she said dismissively. “We ran into each other at the farm and destroyed the wildburn seed there. I also destroyed one at Hastrel’s Hollow - we were right about the map showing Nantharion’s movements.”

The concern melted somewhat but while Beragon decided to smile and move on, he obviously had some reservations about a stranger in daedric armour.

“That's good to hear, friend. And a pleasure to make your acquaintance…?”

“Orion,” he offered politely.

Beragon smiled and extended a hand, which Orion shook politely before the discussion turned back to what Kyriel had discovered while pursuing Nantharion.

“According to a Recollection missive, this next wildburn is intended to ‘awaken wellsprings of power’,” she explained. “Obviously they refer to Ayleid Wells, most likely at the various Ayleid sites that the Recollection have seized, but it doesn't specify any one in particular.”

“Hm, well since you destroyed the seeds, the Recollection will need to replace them. Let's take another look at the Skein.”

Seized by his own curiosity, Orion peered down at the artifact. Its silken surface was burning with an impression of West Weald, the lines of the region's borders smouldering like embers. For a brief moment the map was blank when, before their eyes, a black widow mark emblazoned itself upon the map, northwest of the city and situated within the wildburn region.

The three of them set out together in swift order. If Beragon was uncomfortable with Syra's ghastly appearance, he was petrified by the many eyes and gaping maw of the Servitor, and tried to avoid staring back into its many hour-glass shaped pupils until the creature was sent back to Apocrypha. His relief at its disappearance was palpable.

Fort Dirich was as ruined as he'd promised, having been largely reduced to rubble in Varen's Rebellion and never restored in the decade since his disappearance.

There was no visible sign of the Recollection at first, unlike the farm and the Hollow where there had been guards everywhere. Ironically it was the corpse of a slain wildburn beast that led them to a concealed cave entrance covered by vines and partly concealed by rubble.

Kyriel went first as always, leading the way down into the dark. As they descended the narrow cave path, Orion cast out his senses once again. Immediately below, reality was pinched between the thorny burs of multiple wildburn seeds, wrinkling the fabric as the crackling power threatened to burn it away just as it had been in Dawnwood.

This close to Skingrad, this much wildburn would surely consume the entire city.

Perhaps Nantharion was unaware of the seeds having been destroyed as Hastrel Hollow and the farm because there was no Recollection presence lying in wait in what seemed to be the ruined remains of the fort’s dungeons. If he had to guess, they had assumed that the entrance was hidden well enough that they wouldn’t find it. A very foolish mistake if there ever was one.

Between the forks of Kyriel’s staff, a violet crystal coalesced to cast a light as the daylight filtering in through the cave mouth began to fade and fail. The walls were bathed in pale purple, and before long the walls opened into a ruined cavern. The ruined passages and archways of the fort were blocked up by rubble. If the Recollection still had Abolisher, they would have been able to hide the seeds away behind the ruined stone and they never would have been able to reach them in order to destroy them.

Fortunately, the wreckage forced the cultists to instead plant a pair of the seeds in the cavern before them, their thorny stems glowing with that eerie turquoise light that pulsed through the seeds like a dreadful heartbeat. And between them, a mote of swirling emerald light formed in response to the Echonir.

They burned the seeds and their stalks first. Violet flames consumed them and the seeds burst with a wet bang rather than a grand explosion of wildburn and forest. Once that was done, Kyriel took the Echonir from her bag - the stone eye was vibrating as if the memory had it excited - and held it out to the mote.

The stone's pupil dilated as it absorbed the mote, then glowed with sickly green Apocryphal light which it projected outwards.

The shade of Nantharion appeared, still carrying the Staff of Many Paths as he rounded the now-burned stalk.

“The Wildburn is but a tool, my Prince. A way to awaken the Ayleid magic sleeping beneath this land,” the shade explained.

Orion's heart dropped like a stone into his stomach as Ithelia appeared in the vision, following behind Nantharion at a cautious but curious pace. She tilted her head as she inspected the seed, one hand hovering an inch off of the surface. The magic inside responded and the seed’s shell seemed to bubble and strain as it tried to reach her.

“Yes,” she murmured. “The Well of Miscarcand. I remember it now.”

Nantharion preened under the Prince’s words and bowed to her. "Miscarcand was the ancient realm of my ancestors, my Prince. But the well lies hidden.”

"I can open the way for you. The wellspring of power awaits in a starry vault deep beneath the city. Come. I will show you.”

The vision ended as Ithelia strode away and Nantharion hurried to follow. Orion didn't miss the gleam in the traitor king's eyes as he tried to keep pace with the Prince of Paths. That was the look of a man on the verge of getting everything he'd ever wanted.

As the green light washed away, a stifling silence fell over the cavern, and even Beragon - uninformed as he was - wasn’t blind to the obvious tension between the two siblings. He said something about Miscarcand and talking outside before hurrying back out the way they came, but didn’t wait for them to follow. His footfalls dissipated into silence and they were alone once more.

Kyriel’s eyes were fixed on him like a hawk and it was obvious that she had no intentions of letting him slip away in silence this time. He sighed and adjusted his bracer. The blue glass glinted in the violet light of her staff.

“If you have something to say, then say it sister,” he said curtly.

She rolled her eyes. “As if I need to. You’ve seen what I’ve seen. Ithelia is helping the Recollection in their mad plan to burn their way through West Weald, and they’re going to help her regain her power. Stopping them means stopping her; how angry do you think that’s going to make her?”

Kyriel would never admit it to anyone (least of all Orion) but Ithelia frightened her. After what they saw in the Many Paths - the terrifying power that an enraged Ithelia could wield to shred an entire reality into non-existence - had convinced her that Mora had been right all along, and that any efforts made to help Ithelia spelled certain doom for all reality.

Fear really did make for the most persuasive arguments.

“That Ithelia was enraged because of Mora’s actions against her,” he argued. “Things might never have gone that far if not for him, and if she turns to fury now, it will be because of what he’s done to her-”

“Which she was given the chance to avoid!” she snapped back. “Mora warned her more than once, and every time she dismissed him. If she had just listened, none of this would be happening, and the Recollection wouldn’t be threatening West Weald!”

He scoffed. “Like how you wouldn't have helped Namira to nearly unravel reality at the Crystal Tower if you'd just listened to everyone who told you to stop?”

That shut her up. Her eyes bulged in her skull as her mouth hung open, and he was certain that she was debating between slapping him or skipping straight to a lightning strike. But he took the brief victory as a chance to press his advantage.

“This plan was in place long before Ithelia regained her memories and her power. The Recollection could have walked away and continued their lives as and where they were. They chose not to. What happens to West Weald is on Nantharion and the Recollection, just as your crimes are your own responsibility. How you convinced Niraen to spare you after everything you did, I will never know-”

She surprised him by smashing the head of her staff into his head, then in a flash of scarlet and silver, pressed a cruel jagged blade against his throat. The impossibly sharp edge could cut his throat easily.

“Don't you dare use that against me,” she spat. “You weren't there. You can't even begin to understand-”

“Of course I can,” he huffed. “You were angry at the world and she offered you a way to change it. But Mora's not demanding that you and Namira be locked away for nearly destroying reality, is he?”

A beat passed.

"This isn't about Ithelia being some innocent flower. She's not. She's a Prince, and Princes are dangerous," he continued, his tone softening, imploring. "That doesn't mean Mora was right either. We can't let ourselves be compromised by the fear of what someone might do. There might still be a way to leave this mess better than how we found it."

She had no reply to that. Just dropped the dagger - it seemed to literally vanish into thin air - turned around and stalked away back up the passage to go and find Beragon.

Orion sighed before he followed.