#inaar

It died a valiant death, this storm dragon, head raised proudly as Inaar delivered the killing blow with arrows of fire. It passed quickly, too. In mere seconds its flesh melted into fire, crackling as its soul rushed towards her. She could just barely make out Argus knocking back a potion before she was blinded by light.

This one tasted sharp. And young, compared to her first. Mirmulnir, Inaar chided herself. The dragon’s name was Mirmulnir. She could get little else; only shadows passed through her mind’s eye, grey ghosts of silent knowledge that she could barely capture or understand. But it was powerful, and its strength seeped deep into her bones. Inaar thanked it wordlessly as she felt her reserve of energy deepen, just a twinge.

Then she wretched, and she cursed it for having been so strong. Why couldn’t she have felled a lesser dragon?

A healed Arghus quietly produced his herb satchel. Inigo only sighed, laying a comforting (if not slightly curled from residual pain) hand upon her shoulder.

“We must get you to the Greybeards, my friend,” he said. Inaar was too sick to do anything more than grimace. She distracted herself by focusing on the swift clicking of Arghus’ pestle crushing unknown plants.

“I don’t want to go.”

“Fate cares not for the desires of mortals.” Arghus’ voice was wry as he dripped water into his mortar. “It will drag you along your course until your dying breath, though whether that’s sooner or later is your doing. The Greybeards shouted for you. It would do you - and your gut,” he said, pressing his mortar into her palms with both hands, “rather well to heed their call.”

Inaar brought the paste to her mouth. Blue flowers and cat’s eye again. Even if she avoided death by dragon and dragon soul both, surely she would die from the foul concoctions that Arghus cobbled together. Though she knew that it was an unfair thought, and she thanked him quietly for his aid. 

When the paste had done its gristly work, Inaar straightened (and scowled, as the battle had ripened them all). “I suppose that Markarth can wait,” she exhaled. 

Arghus gave no indication of disappointment; Inigo’s face brightened, wheels turning behind his eyes as he thought of their new journey. She was glad that he had enough optimism for all three of them. For when she looked towards the direction of the Greybeard’s mountain, the clouds parted just a little bit faster.

Damn Fate, and all the strings that it pulled.

And even if they didn’t murder her for her transgressions against House Bursur, they would still yoke her to her future husband, Jallah. He was every bit the prince, the kind that servants dreamed of when fantasizing about finding a noble to whisk them away from a lifetime of other people’s laundry. He was kind to the poor when he needed to be; had a smile as bright as a mirage out on the Alik’r; was knowledgeable about the history of every nation, every house, every trade. You would never fail to see Jallah Maser Sha’ajani kneeling at the shrines twice a week, full and personable lips moving in prayer (for what, Inaar was never sure). A prize for anyone who wanted him, and their children would surely inherit his unceasing beauty. But Inaar did not see anything but a waste of flesh.

“Bloody Forebears,” he’d muttered one afternoon, staring out past their palanquin. Inaar had followed his gaze and found several Forebear sympathizers in the crowd, crossing the High Road back to the compounds. Their steel pins, hollow circles with sun-rays dancing on the outsides, glittered in the light. She looked back and saw that Jallah’s charming good looks had begun to harden, starting with his jaw.

“What of them?”

“When we marry,” he said, voice low, “our first task as a couple will be to root out all of their allies in Hegathe. Every last one of them will drink steel.” 

Inaar frowned. “Hegathe has found peace for at least a year,” she said slowly. “Limited fights at the taverns and brothels, few people giving speeches in the squares. Fewer clashes at court.” But this didn’t seem to stir him, and so she asked, “would you really pour salt on the earth, all for a misguided grudge?”

That got his attention. Inaar raised her chin as dark eyes fixed themselves upon her, as if to bind her at the stake. She was preparing for a fight when Jallah suddenly laughed, deep voice blotting out the city sounds. Inaar couldn’t tell if his shoulders were shaking in earnest or from the sudden jostling of the palanquin as he lowered himself onto the plush pillows. “Ah, peshaa, Inaar,” he sighed. “I was warned at the beginning of the courtship that your tongue could scorch like Alik’r sand. But you can’t burn what’s already aflame for you, my heart.” Then he pulled her into a kiss, not caring that he would give the city a spectacle. For a moment, Inaar swore that the taste of the mint that he’d chewed was replaced by the tang of blood. The low-burning lust in his gaze, which returned to scanning the crowded city road, was not for her.

That was the man who would be waiting for her if she returned, eager to give her headaches and children: the families were not deterred by neither Jallah’s nor Inaar’s thirty-two years, no matter how long she tried to extend their courtship. She would be obliged to present to Hegathe a model family, shining in their perfection, while their retainers slid blades between the ribs of anyone whose lungs drew breath for the Forebears. She could not. Her death shroud would not be splattered with the blood of innocent people. 

And even if she returned, she would never see Tenka, beautiful Tenka whose mind was brighter than a Northern star, ever again. She would never witness another sunrise out on the compound roof with her, hands intertwined like vines on the side of some Cyrodiil shack. Inaar would live out the rest of her days without Tenka al-Khosem, who would be whisked away to Sentinel “to further her studies.” She would not return; letters would be returned unopened, with a curt apology signed by Hakeem al-Khosem, chief administrator the College at Sentinel (Tenka’s prudish, inflexible eldest brother). Inaar would not consign her beloved to such a fate, locked indefinitely in the Tower of Scholars without her consent. Inaar would not consign herself to such a fate, either, and so she ran. The entirety of her trail to Falkreath was soaked in her tears. 

Skyrim was safer by comparison. Not safe - Inaar would not call the harsh, frosty and unforgiving country “safe” by any measure - but safer than turning back. The coin in her purse would give her a decent start. And no formal bond existed between the two nations that might drag Inaar kicking and screaming back to Hammerfell, and so Skyrim would have to do. Cold wind and shaggy unwashed Nords and all.