#windsofchangeficwip

CHAPTER 6 IS UP!

Torsa sighed and rolled his eyes. “I suppose he would have found us sooner or later.”

This must be Ancano, the suspected Thalmor spy Faralda warned them about. Torsa was already striding toward him, so Vilkas followed. Somehow, he didn’t expect the elf to be actually wearing Thalmor justiciar robes. Knowing, now, the depth of Torsa’s hatred for the Thalmor, there was no telling what he might do. Vilkas darted in front of Torsa, stopping him from getting too close. Thankfully, Torsa didn’t try to push past.

“You there,” the Thalmor so very impolitely addressed the Harbinger of the Companions, “I have questions for you. You were in Saarthal, yes? It has come to my attention that something was found there.”

Vilkas glanced over his shoulder only to see Torsa putting on his best wide-eyed, innocent face.

“Maybe…” he answered, vacantly.

Ancano, not fooled for a second, sneered back, “I know full well that you have. Please do not insult my intelligence. Tolfdir is still there now, is he? I shall expect a full report when he returns.”

Tolfdir must have headed back to Saarthal shortly after they’d left the Hall of Attainment, probably to avoid this guy. Vilkas was already regretting his attempt to be the adult in this situation. He’d had little personal experience with the Thalmor, yet he felt this one was in desperate need of a fist to the face.

Dropping his act, Torsa replied loftily, “Why does this matter to you?”

Ancano looked like he was about to take a step forward, but something in Vilkas’ scowl or Torsa’s smirk, maybe a combination thereof, made him reconsider. “Something was discovered in Saarthal that was significant enough that Tolfdir sent a new member of the College, alone, to deliver word. That sounds precisely like the sort of thing that should matter to everyone. Especially me. Thank you for your help. You may go now.”

“How magnanimous of you,” said Torsa in mock deference.

He nudged Vilkas’ arm as he passed him, not even sparing the Thalmor a look. Vilkas, on the other hand, couldn’t help but glare up at the Altmer as they made their way out of the Arcanaeum. Ancano merely peered down his wrinkled nose at him. Normally, he could get at least a flinch with that glare. Only when the cold winds of the courtyard hit their faces did they dare break the surface tension of the atmosphere.

“This isn’t good,” Vilkas stated, “What do we do, now?”

“Shor’s bones! That’s a lot of books!”

Torsa chuckled, “Wait ‘til we’re out of the entryway.”

What did Torsa mean by entryway? They stepped out of the stairwell into what was, indeed, merely the entryway. Beyond it was a dodecagonal room in a similar architectural style to the Arch-mage’s quarters. The construction, itself would have been enough to get Vilkas’ blood pumping, but the books… They lined every side of the polygon, sat in every alcove, on every table. Some were even piled on the floor. The place was veritably covered in more books than Vilkas had ever seen.

“Where would you even start?” spoke his reverent breath.

Returning their minds to the business at hand, Torsa asked for clarification, “What should I tell the Arch-Mage?”

The trio walked down to the thing to examine it more closely. Still, no answers were forthcoming. Tolfdir was scratching his head in puzzlement. Vilkas’ forehead was beginning to ache from prolonged scrunching. There was some sort of writing all over the floating orb.

“Mmph,” commented Torsa.

Vilkas turned to his shield-brother in concern. Torsa looked like he would have been sick if he had a functional digestive system. He knew something. Vilkas thought back to his report of what the Psijic monk had said. He was extremely vague about it. Vilkas made a mental note to ask him about it when they were alone. Whatever he knew, he seemed hesitant to speak of it in front of Tolfdir.

He couldn’t do it. He just could not bring himself to do it. How could he walk into that place and call himself a Nord?

“Something wrong?” asked Torsa upon realizing Vilkas was no longer following him.

Vilkas confessed, “I can’t go in there. There’s… There’s magic in there.”

Heaving a sigh, his shield-brother’s expression cycled between frustration, amusement, and what might have been affection.

Finally, Torsa pointed out, “After all we’ve seen this week, this is what gets to you?”

It seemed absurd when put like that. Still, everything he’d been taught his entire life told him that this was a terrible place that a Nord should never go. He glanced at Torsa and back at the imposing structure. His feet still wouldn’t move.

“Come on,” Torsa urged, closing the distance between them to tug on Vilkas’ hand, “I promise I’ll protect you.”

As they traversed the now-familiar path past Ysgramor’s Tomb and up through the glacial crevice to Saarthal, Vilkas caught Torsa glancing surreptitiously at him, perhaps to guess at his thoughts. Contained as Torsa was, it was easy to forget what a proud man resided behind his mild facade. He sought evidence of pity or maybe even disdain. Well, he would find none.

“You know, the whole shield brother thing goes both ways,” Vilkas spoke up, and hastily clarified lest Torsa get the wrong impression, “I know I can trust you to look out for me, no matter what. You can count on me to do the same. W-We’ve been through a lot together.”

“We have,” agreed Torsa, somewhat pensively, “and you’re still here.”

“Of course, I’m still here. It takes a lot more than a little blood and some tentacles to scare me off,” chuckled Vilkas.

When they reached the bottom of the excavation site, an elderly Nord mage engaged Torsa in conversation immediately, which left Vilkas and the other mage staring at each other awkwardly. Vilkas was about to introduce himself when the Dunmer woman declared, “Before you even ask, yes I have an ancestry steeped in magic, and no I don't want to talk about it. Yes, I know Winterhold used to be full of my kind, and no I don't care that they're all gone now. Does that cover everything?”

“What?” Vilkas asked, completely thrown off, “I don’t even know who you are.”

“Forgive me, I didn't mean to assume,” the woman demurred, “Brelyna Maryon, of House Telvanni. First of my family to leave Morrowind in a long time. Now I'm here to study Conjuration. That's what's important. You’re one of the Companions, aren’t you?”

All at once, Vilkas tried to remember everything he’d ever heard from Athis about House Dunmer while also speculating on how she would know he was a Companion. “Ah, right. Torsa and I have matching armor,” he reasoned, “I’m Vilkas. Do you know anything about Saarthal?”

“Not really,” Brelyna admitted, “Just that it's very, very old. It was one of the first cities of men in Tamriel, I think.”

So far, this mage seemed pretty normal and not pompous like Athis described the House Dunmer. Then again, maybe that was why she was in Skyrim, because she was an exception to the rule.

“Are you nervous about being here?” Vilkas attempted to continue the conversation.

“Why? Because it's old, and full of dead things? Clearly you've never spent any time in Morrowind.”

Shifting his weight from foot-to-foot and scraping at his neck stubble, Vilkas internally chided himself for not wording his question more courteously. “No, I haven’t,” he offered, “But I’d really like to some day.”

His worrying was cut short by his first look at the dwemer lockbox. The construction of it, crafted of stone, metal, and crystal, the varying shapes and patterns, the concentric, yet not quite concentric circular mechanism… Vilkas couldn't stop staring at it. He longed to understand it, needed to know what secrets it contained. Torsa, however, was frustratingly resistant to the idea.

As if he might lose his nerve, Torsa said in a rush,“I’ve inscribed the lexicon,” skipping his usual play at pleasantry.

“Give it, quickly,” Septimus demanded, seeming undisturbed by Torsa’s directness. “Extraordinary. I see it now. The sealing structure interlocks in the tiniest fractals. Dwemer blood can loose the hooks, but none alive remain to bear it. A panoply of their brethren could gather to form a facsimile. A trick. Something they didn't anticipate, no, not even them. The blood of Altmer, Bosmer, Dunmer, Falmer, and Orsimer. The elves still living provide the key. Bear you hence this extractor. It will drink the fresh blood of elves. Come when its set is complete.”

The request seemed simple enough, yet as Torsa took the extracting device, he interrogated Septimus with no preamble whatsoever, “Why are you so eager to open the box?”

Not a bit put-off by Torsa’s unusual display of outright rudeness, Septimus revealed, “The box contains the heart. The essence of a god. I have devoted my life to the Elder Scrolls, but their knowledge is a passing awareness when compared to the encompassing mind of divinity. The Dwemer were the last to touch it. It was thought to have been destroyed by the Nerevarine, but my lord told me otherwise.”

Torsa did not seem at all surprised about what the box contained. He must already have known or strongly suspected, and yet he hadn’t told Vilkas. He had been hoarding the secret for himself! Why? Why wouldn't he tell Vilkas the Heart of Lorkhan, Shor, was right here? He didn’t even seem to care! Only one fact divulged seemed unknown to him.

“Who is your lord?”

Septimus seemed to have no qualms about answering. “The Daedric prince of the unknown: Hermaeus Mora. I thought there were no secrets left to know until I first spoke to him. He asks a price: to work his will. A few murders, some dissent spread, a plague or two. For the secrets I can endure. In time, he brought me here. To the box. But he won't reveal how to open it. Maddening.”

Vilkas’ thoughts screeched to a halt. Hermaeus Mora was behind this? He glanced back at the box. Suddenly, it didn’t seem so appealing.

“It lick the panes and smokes the glass…” Septimus was back to his ruminations and Torsa was headed back up walkway to the surface, giving Vilkas’ arm a brief tug as he passed. Vilkas didn’t need any further urging. He follows Torsa eagerly until his shield-brother stopped short with yet another uncharacteristic utterance, “Aw, shit!”

There, blocking their way of escape, was a wretched, tentacle-filled, abyss. It was all Vilkas could do to keep breathing and try not to wet his armor. His thoughts were racing. He knew in theory that he could come face-to-….whatever that was with a Daedric Prince while out with Torsa. After all, Jenassa had gotten whisked off to a dinner party at Sanguine’s, but there was a huge difference between the Realms of Revelry and this! What was going to happen? He couldn’t fight his enemy! The edges of his vision began to narrow until the whole world was a black void of tentacles and staring eyes.

Torsa’s sigh broke the silence. “I suppose we aught to see what it wants,” he grumbled as if the thing at the top of the walkway were nothing more than a pompous noble demeaning the companion retrieve his heirloom “right this instant.”