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In this darkness, there will soon be footsteps. Ashen shores will be graced by greaves forged of shining ebony. The soldier, in her grief, will bear My blade—the very one which will break the dawn and blind you with its holy light. Such is the fate granted to fools who so severely bend My laws of life and death. Such is the consequence for hubris beyond comprehension. And then, mortal, vengeance for the champion you stole from Me will be Mine…
For many months, a great deal of delicate research and precise calculation led to what could only be described as the ultimate heartbreak, both in the literal and figurative sense of the term. Scrawling scribbles, mumbled musings, and a whole host of hypotheses went into the final finished product in order to put the wheel into motion.
Who would have thought that defying the Gods would cause him such an incredible headache? It generally didn’t—at least, not before now. However, Neloth was certain of his eventual success, determined bastard that he was, and there was nothing on Nirn, Aetherius, or in the Void itself who could tell him ‘no.’
So he did it. Unnatural or not. Everything and anything in the name of experimentation was open for him—he found that doors had never interested him much anyway.
The first few times that he tried, the outcomes had been disastrous—borderline
catastrophic.
It was a good thing he made the decision to practice on others before trying on himself. After all, anything less than perfection was considered a failure in his book, and failure was not acceptable. It was not a word really even to be found in Neloth’s dictionary.
Plumes of smoke, fumes, and many strange imported goods passed over, around, and through Neloth’s hands as he tried every logical way to achieve his ultimate goal. The most promising of these methods was, surprisingly, the very same process used by the Forsworn. The Briarhearts had always been something both repulsive and fascinating to him, and after he had gotten a hold of a corpse to dissect, he finally started putting together some of his own theories. What was dead was also filled with life—or at least a conduit which made life flow through the veins to tether the spirit to Nirn. The only thing he needed was to figure out what generator to use in place of his own.
Neloth sneered at the thought of replacing any part of his immaculate Telvanni genius, much less with that of some
foreign plant.
If anything was going to occupy the space where his heart had once been, it would have to be fitting to his status, unflawed and powerful. Any number of materials had been used to bring bodies back from the dead, but he did not want to be another rambling thrall. No, that was far beneath him.
It was then when he thought about one of his old apprentices—Ildari. The last he had heard she was out in the ash wastes with her own pitiful experiments, trying and failing to one-up him.
Figures.
However, there was perhaps one idea of hers which had at least some begrudging merit to it: heart stones. At one point in time, even Talvas, the
s’wit,
had become besotted with research about these seemingly-useless rocks. What mysterious magic they carried was yet to be discovered by either of them, but perhaps if he possessed one of these stones, he could…
That was that. He had to know.
Neloth conducted test after test in every school of magic he was proficient in—which was, of course, all of them—and finally, he found some results. Or at least the promise of them. By his calculations, heart stones were some piece of living magma imbued with properties of the Heart of Lorkhan and jettisoned from Red Mountain in the eruption during the Red Year. Suddenly, the idea of carving his own heart out was much, much more appealing. He would settle for the heart of a God and absolutely nothing less. Everything had fallen into place. All that was left was to find the stubborn determination to set the rest of his plan into motion. And for that, he did not have to look far.
Dulled, blackened ebony with a razor thin edge plunged past soft skin to leave small trickles of blood behind, yet he pushed further. He had to. Lips twisted in agony, the blade tried to sink in further past muscle and bone to the source of his still-beating heart, but everything was all resistance. Why must his own body defy him? He had gone too far to let this go at only halves. He would not fail. He refused. He breathed deeply, in and out, trying to tame his frustrations.
Level, cool-headed calculation was required for the task at hand. He let go and adjusted his grip on the blade once more. All the while his apprentice watched on as a safety precaution. Not that
he
needed any such thing. It only made
Talvas
feel better to stand around and stare with the rest of the household like one among a herd of restless ash hoppers.
Utmost concentration was the key. With his brows furrowed, Neloth tried again. Everything had to be perfect, and soon it would be. Flesh yielded and gave way to bone which cracked and popped in time with the thundering pressure in his ears.
Lub-dub.
One beat, and further he pushed.
Lub-dub.
Two, and he started to cast the stasis spell, a faint chiming enveloping him like a gentle cocoon.
As blood seeped from the wound, it began to pool onto the floor, spreading out like glass with a deep, rusty tinge. It was time. His ebony blade clattered to the floor as he took the heartstone from the table beside him. Inch by agonizing inch, he closed the distance from his hand to his heart, and even there he met resistance. Each movement felt like scaling the Red Mountain itself, heat searing and blistering his skin as he panted and tried to catch his breath. Not even the phantom wind which rustled through the room, causing the numerous potion bottles to scatter then clatter to the floor, made him feel any better. Darkness came after, candles snuffing themselves out as Talvas and the others looked on with abject horror. Finally, in one swift motion, Neloth wretched his own heart from his body, a savage scream dying on his lips as he stuffed the heartstone into his own chest, an eerie red glow illuminating his ribs through paper-thin skin.
And then, there was nothing.
They were felt throughout the entire island of Solstheim, low rumblings which echoed in the ashy earth from deep underground. Strange and foreign—something not quite right—and none except the oldest of Dunmer had lived to feel anything of their like. The whispers, naturally, passed through the population like flowing water, and not long after, a mass exodus followed suit. They did not want to take their chances, with the familiar-feeling ill-omens which were accompanied by a burning, deep-seated fear—almost as if the Dunmer could still feel the ghostly remnants of ash blowing on the wind and searing their skin. All the right signs were there to herald a new explosion of the Red Mountain: the rolling tides, shaking lands, and scorching skies did not lie, and they would be thrice foolish to ignore them.
However, the eruption never came—even as the Skaal attempted investigations, vibrations only ebbed and flowed, their patterns steadily radiating out from the southernmost tip of the island. The evidence they had—or the lack thereof—was what they could feel in their bones and see in their limited field of vision. Many of the Skaal who were sent on these exploratory missions never returned.
What was happening to the island, and why did it feel so unnaturally
other?
It was as if the Gods had abandoned them—all that remained of their home was darkness, wasteland, and ash with shades upon shades of gray. Only the sky hadn’t been drained of color—it glowed an angry, haunting crimson, casting a bloodred pallor over everything.
Milky eyes turned to observe the landscape in a bored and uninterested fashion. They swept left to right, cataloging and filling away information as if scrutinizing it with sharp disapproval. This was not how he had expected things to go
at all.
Neloth flexed his withered, papery fingers; the joints popped and snapped in protest. This was not what he had calculated—it was outside of the expected results. However, as he tilted his neck to the side, he noticed that he felt lighter—less tethered to the world around him.
Curious.
He stretched out his limbs, observing his new body as he tested out his new limitations—or rather, the lack thereof. He felt more fragile in some ways, considering his parchment skin and creaking bones, but in others…the wells of power within him swelled and swallowed hungrily at the pit of where his stomach once was. A low screech erupted from his mouth, lips cracked and teeth clattering as he beheld the true potential of his new form.
His hands curled into fists as he looked out at the barren lands left to him at Tel Mithryn. No one anywhere to be seen. Silent rage gripped him as his blurry eyes scraped what was left of his once great home.
Where was Talvas—and the rest of his household?
They should have been here at his side by now.
Useless, small-minded, insects
! He breathed out, a rattle rasping its way up from his throat, or at least what was left of it from the decay.
His rotted fingers unfurled as magicka flowed through him. It came in large, easy waves, the feeling different from what he was accustomed to. Tainted, as if Magnus himself recoiled from its use and disapproved.
No matter.
He never needed anyone’s approval anyway. Deep reds and bruised purples cloaked Neloth as he snapped his fingers, mind reaching out and feeling for the black coolness of death. One, two, three bodies—more near the easternmost tower. The spell snapped, and he let out a low gurgling sound of frustration. At least they had not
run.
He tugged on his magicka again, and it flowed like dark rivers of ichorous blood, sticking to and slipping through his fingers. Not as rusted as the first attempt, he noted. Everything was just a matter of careful practice.
He
was the one who bent nature, not the other way around. This time he called upon the remembrance of life, that of light and breath which teemed with heart, soul, and a myriad of other undesirable and unnecessary worldly emotions which Neloth had long forgotten. The draw of his spell echoed back to him, light reflecting off of it like the candle flames of Saturalia trees. His own body remained as darkened and dulled as the Void. That confirmed two things to him at least. One being that he was very well and truly undead—the process of becoming a lich was successful. However, more importantly to him at the moment was his other finding: he was not alone.
Who would dare to come here and challenge him—especially in this state? He scoffed, looking down at his tattered robes billowing in the wind and brushed off the dirt from his shoulders. Who would be that idiotic? Not even Teldryn—his heart, or what served as one now, panged slightly—was ever that foolish.
With a crunch that turned her stomach, Lydia pulled her blade free from Talvas’s spine. Or what used to be Talvas, once. His skin had peeled back from his jaw, leaving weeping, open holes through which she could see his teeth and the blackened, rotted edges of tendon and muscle. He was sprawled in the ash outside of Tel Mithryn alongside Varona and Elynea, limbs broken and twisted at uncanny angles. His breath still rattled; he was dead and yet not, and it was all far too much to bear. Lydia clenched her jaw against a wave of nausea and looked away as she drove the point of her sword down through where his ear should have been. Fire and light brighter than the sun raced down the gleaming metal and blossomed over his skin. Light poured from his eyes and mouth as the chiming of her blade’s enchantment overwhelmed to the point of madness. Then, as if nothing had happened, it was over. The struggling stopped. With a final strained exhale, the mage’s apprentice stilled, skin flaking away from his skull like bits of burnt parchment.
She wished, not for the last time, she’d picked up
some
kind of magic. What she wouldn’t give to be cast Flames and create a fire hot enough to burn their bodies. It was a detail Ralis had explained once—the proper thing to do. Before this island had withered and become desolate, before the sun had set behind rusted clouds never to rise again in the same way, she had
known
them. They deserved more than to decompose here in the dust. All that would be left behind were bleached-white bones. A skeleton, and nothing more, like Uldwin could do with dragons, in the times before. She looked back at what used to be Talvas. His soul had already fled, the light long gone from his eyes.
She could not stop now, though, not for this. Not for her memories, not for her grief. Though she very much doubted it, Uldwin could still be alive. And that meant facing what came next.
Disembarking at Raven Rock had proven to be its own nightmare. There had been…rumors. That was why Uldwin had left, to find out what exactly had happened. Lydia still had chills from what she’d seen. Upon disembarking, she’d found the town deserted. The inn was boarded up. Gusts of wind and ash scoured abandoned buildings with their beetle-like roofs collapsed in. The stands in the market were barely collections of driftwood now.
Then, as now, the sky was dark as blood; the moons remained hidden behind ominous clouds as ash spewed from Red Mountain. In the distance, everything glowed a sinister crimson, as if something ancient had itself been tapped into—or worse, disturbed. Awakened.
Cool fingers scraped at the borders of Lydia’s mind until they plunged themselves in with talons sharp enough to grip her consciousness like a vice. She shivered, trying to make sense of the sudden intrusion and fight off whatever presence chose made itself known to her.
I know you’re out there. I can feel you and that damnable sword of yours from a mile away. You can try to make your way here…but you’ll never leave. Best to turn around now and save yourself the embarrassment of defeat.
Lydia held her head in her hands for a moment, trying to rid herself of the sensation of screeching. She both could and couldn’t hear it—further evidence of how cursed the island had become. Another chill, and Lydia decided she would have little choice but to move forward into the gnarled husk that Tel Mithryn had become, regardless of her fear. The mushroom, shriveled in places, stank worse of rot than the ash-dried corpses of Reavers strewn on either side of the path out this way. She hadn’t been able to spend much time examining them—their hearts were torn from their chests, ribs cracked and splintered and sternums crushed as if by some great force. The same had been true of Talvas, though his seemed replaced by a heart stone—though one whose light had since flickered out.
Even with the way the wind was howling, she could still have sworn something
else
was calling out above the cacophony. Something within the tower. The noise of it was unlike anything she’d ever heard before—a grating, dusty shriek that seemed to echo in dissonance. She pressed her palms against her ears, over the scarf Ralis had lent her, and for a moment that stretched until it snapped, the wailing felt as if it would not stop. When it finally did, it left the world feeling raw, like salt scrubbed in a wound. As if the sound itself had taken what was left of this place.
Who would be so bold and so foolish to come here of all places? It’s suicide, really, and an utter waste at that. No life, no light, and no hope shall penetrate this darkness.
Lydia shivered and readjusted her grip on her sword. Light like the sun shone on its guard, stained red by the way the rays filtered through the ever-present ash. The pale blade, though, remained as pure as it always did. She felt a calming reassurance in the back of her mind. The undead were an affront to be eliminated, after all. She knew the pact. She’d agreed to it all those years ago. Had lived by it dutifully. If
Her
presence was strong…that meant worse than these thralls waited ahead. Steeling herself against what heartbreak or horror she would find within, she pressed on.
The ramp that led up to the mushroom tower was itself rotting through, stringy, toxic orange webs of slime mold eating away at the fungus. Lydia balanced precariously on the wooden support beams, cursing the weight of the ebony armor Uldwin had gifted her. Its enchantment sang to her, too—a whisper of some Bosmeri prayer, scratchy from use of the Thu’um, like his voice had always been. She swallowed hard against another wave of grief. This, perhaps, had been the last of his efforts to spare her whatever fate he’d willingly walked into.
The door to the tower swung open of its own accord, iron hinges rusted and knob caked with mud and grime. Then… Whatever it was had become aware of her presence. This did not bode well at all. She stepped through into the darkness, unable even to cast Candlelight to guide her way forward.
Lydia’s senses were assaulted by the stench of death—mildew and rot, must, pine, the uncomfortable sweetness of fermentation—not at all unlike the smell of Nordic tombs, long undisturbed. She brushed cobwebs away as she crept through the shadows. Dawnbreaker glowed, though its light seemed stifled in this place; it filtered through the murk as if something were trying to snuff it out. Dread settled over her shoulders like a mantle.
One step after another.
It was all she could do, despite the fear—despite how very much she wanted to turn and run. She knew she couldn’t. Uldwin didn’t. And now it fell to her to end this nightmare—and to bring him home.
As Lydia took another step, something crunched audibly under her boot. A bone.
No.
She held back a scream as something screeched above her, the noise traveling through her skull like a jolt of Shock magic.
Suddenly, the floor gave out from under her—or, did it? Lydia was disoriented and dizzy, unsure of which way was up, until she regained some equilibrium. As she looked beneath her, she noticed faint red tendrils of smoke reaching out to pull her closer. The floor wasn’t moving—she was being lifted—but where? Or to
what?
A shiver rolled down her spine.
Come now, dear. Don’t be shy. You were the one so stubbornly
dead
set on investigating further…so come closer. See what it is that you seek.
She was asking for it, really. The pungent scent of purifying light wafted off of her like waves of sharp ozone. Too clean. Too
…good.
This one was as soft as a sweet roll. He’d
almost
feel bad for her if it wasn’t for her defiant attitude and insistence on meddling in his affairs. Almost.
Neloth cracked his jaw, or what was left of it, as he drew in a rattling breath. Yes, he would recognize that scent from anywhere.
Meridia.
He scoffed as he pulled the pathetic girl closer to him—not even She could help her now.
Eventually, she came into view and he sized her up, although it was all the same to him. One Nord was just like the next. Bravery. Valor. Honor. As if they knew anything of what really mattered. Science. Progress. Limitless boundaries to push until one melted into the other. The pursuit of knowledge above all else. Now
that
was worth something, and he would not allow this worm to stand in his way.
More screeching rattles erupted as inky black bile made its way up from Neloth’s throat, flecks staining his tattered Telvanni robes. As much as he tried to speak, nothing but putrefaction could make its way out of his now-useless mouth. His eyes glinted red in frustration. Perhaps then, it would be necessary to speak to her in another language. One that all creatures understood:
death.
Lydia screamed, the sound of it lost between the rattling breaths and shrieks from the creature which floated before her. She struggled against the crush of magic, pinning her arms to her side. She thrashed, which only served to disorient her further. As she was whipped to the side, hovering over the rotting fungal floor of the tower, another screech erupted from the accursed lich before her. She flinched, the sound of it driving through her eye like an icepick, headache blooming like blood from a wound. The pain radiated down her neck and through her body. These were not words of warning—she was being cursed.
That’s right, you pitiful fool. You will have no one but yourself to blame for your demise when you join the ranks of my undead.
Neloth clenched his bony fists, and the air of the towers shifted, pressure dropping dramatically like the oncoming of a sudden storm. For a moment, there was nothing—no indication whatsoever of what he was doing other than this feeling of foreboding unrest. Soon enough, the distant sound of moving earth reached his ears. He concentrated harder, bending death to his will as he placed his hands onto the floor. Lydia crumpled to the ground as his concentration on the spell that held her afloat faltered. It mattered little. She could be dealt with later. For now, he focused on calling forth his army of soldiers. More and more power swelled through him, doubling, tripling and finally, the first one broke free of its prison in the next room. A half-rotted hand flexed its digits as it pushed the great stone tablet aside and pulled itself out of its sarcophagus.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
You think your magic is enough to protect you from My wrath, mortal. You believe your accursed form a guarantee of life everlasting. It is no such thing. You offend with each rotting movement, each shambling shriek. My ebony-clad soldier will end this egregious affront to My will. You are nothing in My gaze, or hers. You have always been nothing. You will wither under the weight of dawn, no matter how you rail against this fate you have forged unto yourself…
Everything ached as Lydia unfolded from the heap she’d become, armor coated in the ichor of old blood and molding mushroom. She grimaced against the soreness of all her bruises. The thing which she’d once known to be Neloth was funneling his power into a spell that ripped through all things, pulling on the strings of reality until life began to warp around the magic. Lydia found she could not scream, voice yanked from her to be woven into the unholy calling. Images of draugr flashed through her mind like recalling an ancient memory—a visceral, ancestral fear buried deep down. Her heart could have stopped with the crashing of heavy stone in a room nearby. Something else had been woken and called forth by its master.
She scrambled for her sword, but it was too late. The lich cackled as that same spell from before lifted her from the ground, red, smoky tendrils trying to choke the breath from her lungs.
The wind rustled through her again, leaving the same hollow feeling within her like the shaking of dead leaves on gnarled branches.
Arise, my champion, and show this foolhardy mortal the extent of your true potential, unlocked and unleashed. All shall tremble under my power and bow to my whims. It is only right, after all.
Her eyes caught movement from the direction of the crash before. She recognized that armor. Leather, like
he
always wore.
No.
Uldwin stood, desiccated and crumbling. He aimed his bow. If Lydia had any doubts at all, they were gone now. The Bow of Shadows gave his identity away, not least when he disappeared from sight by its power. She was too late, and he’d come under the thrall of Neloth’s foul magic.
Her heart was sundered. Her limbs felt heavy with dread. What, then, was the point in thrashing against this impossible enemy? To give in would at least spare her the agony of bringing the news of Uldwin’s demise back to Ralis. She couldn’t bear it.
Listen!
Hear me and obey!
Fight, and
do not fail.
You will
not
be given a second chance.
Dawnbreaker’s light gleamed from its sheath at her side, brighter than Lydia had ever seen it. She shielded her eyes from its overwhelming glare as a strange melodic chiming grew louder. Neloth shrieked again, dropping the spell which held her aloft. She was prepared this time, and rolled into the fall, returning to her feet as swiftly as possible. She readied her blade and turned to face the abomination where he floated.
Uldwin had other plans. Head filled with the miasma of death and foul necromancy, language all but lost to him, all he knew was what had been commanded of him. He’d aimed the Bow of Shadows carefully, waiting for the signal. Neloth raised his hand, skeletal fingers closing into a fist.
He loosed the dragonbone arrow with frightening precision, and his form sprung forth from the invisibility enchantment. He would have laughed, had he the capacity. Such was the sacrifice of becoming an undead thrall. While he had not chosen this, he could not care. Neloth’s voice guided him now.
The arrow sank into Lydia’s shoulder with a sickening thud. She was thrown off balance, toppling into a bookshelf. Clouded glass potion bottles crashed to the slimy floor, the sulfuric stench making her eyes water. Dust filled the air as the rotting wooden shelves collapsed around her, and half-congealed alchemic mess leaked under her boots. Her shoulder was on fire—the arrow had clearly been coated in some kind of poison. Her vision swam from the pain and the fumes. She struggled to draw breath. But, it was as she’d been told—she wouldn’t be given a second chance. She grit her teeth and surged forward, drawing Meridia’s gleaming blade. If death could not give Uldwin peace after all he’d done for this world, she would at least end his agony.
Another unholy screech emanated from within Neloth, shaking the foundations of the building. She would not bow and she would not break under him just yet. If there was anything which bothered him, it was stubborn determination and a sense of self-righteousness. This ant had it in spades, and he knew what to do with insects: burn them under the might of his fire.
He raised one hand, dark blue flames gathering around him and sucking all the warmth out of the space. All that was left was the coldness of death, skeletal hands and ghostly memories which surrounded him completely. Not that he cared—with his new form, he lost all ability to feel anything except burning rage and empty indifference.
The thrall that had once been the Dragonborn no longer had the kind of brain that would allow for true remembrance. His movements were rote, merely answers to commands mixed with the memories still left in his stringy, dehydrated muscles. There was a kind of understanding that he had injured his target, and the slow, dim realization that she should not still be barreling toward him. The voice in his head telling him how to move and what to do next was absent, right at the worst time. What else was left? He turned and faced the assailant as she charged. The sword gleamed in a way that would have hurt his eyes, if they had not rotted away already. He unhinged his jaw and Shouted.
“FUS RO DAH!”
As the vibrations of the Shout crashed forth, the one thing which Neloth did not account for was the reverberations of it echoing, bouncing back to hit him. Why would he? He was
Neloth,
the most powerful Telvanni wizard to have ever lived and with his most recent experiments, a master of death itself. Overconfidence or short-sightedness? Either way, it would eventually be his downfall.
The Shout swept him away as it brought him to the ground momentarily. Neloth was sure that, if he had still been intact, it would have shaken his very soul from his body. As for now, he only felt the heartstone powering his body flicker in and out painfully. Hand drawn to his chest, the only thing he could do was weather the raw power. He
hated
it. If he had not been the one holding the leash, he would have sent the Dragonborn back to his grave again out of sheer jealousy.
Lydia had weathered a Shout or two in her time—Uldwin had used them recklessly at first, before he’d traveled with his future husband and learned to be more careful. There was very little that could withstand the full force of his power. It was almost unstoppable—unless you knew what to look for. The air rippled as the Shout tore through the room.
Lydia dodged, shifting to the side as Unrelenting Force pushed Neloth and everything he owned aside. The wizard’s decrepit corpse hit the wall with a crunch, his staff falling from his hands, cracked through the middle, the two halves still attached by only the tiniest sliver of bark. Her ears rang—though she’d avoided the blast, the noise of it still stole her hearing. She was disoriented as she righted herself and readjusted the grip on her blade.
Once-Uldwin was surprised, insofar as a thrall could be. He reached his hand back to draw forth another dragonbone arrow, and took perfect aim.
Lydia knew him, though, and since he had so kindly incapacitated Neloth, however temporarily, she was not taken by surprise this time as he let fly another arrow. She ducked, the sound of the ebony plates clattering together absurdly loud, even over the creaking complaints issuing from the accursed heap of leathery skin and bones behind her.
Cease this folly!
Neloth’s voice boomed from every crack and every crevice as if trying to dig its way under her skin and make her bend to his will. However, she would not be moved.
You have no idea what you are doing—what you are upending! Do you even realize how long it took me to make this work?
Uldwin! ULDWIN!
His attention turned, but his voice was no less loud. It pressed into his eardrums, pressure doubling and then tripling until they popped painfully. Then, all of a sudden, it was gone. All that was left was a quiet whisper, almost velvety in its production.
Finish this.
Uldwin had no choice but to obey.
Dawnbreaker flared again as Lydia moved in close, its chime a strange comfort in the chaos. She knew Uldwin’s bow was useless at this range, and Neloth, it appeared, hadn’t thought to properly arm his minion. There was no sword at his side that she could discern. With a grimace and quick footwork, she moved into sparring range and raised her blade.
Uldwin swiped Neloth’s ebony dagger up off the floor by his feet and out towards Lydia, forcing her to dodge quickly to the side or taste the dark metal of the blade. Even in undeath, the Dragonborn’s reflexes were just as sharp as they were when he was alive. He continued to advance, the sharp glint of his weapon inching closer and closer until there was no space left behind her—nowhere left for her to go. There was no turning back from this.
Lydia’s shoulder was searing from the injury she’d taken from the arrow before. Her body was bruised and breathing became more difficult with every movement. Dawnbreaker was still raised, the light of its unnatural magic illuminating Uldwin’s desiccated face. It was too much. Her heart hammered in her chest and that overwhelm stayed her hand, even as he got close enough to press the ebony dagger against her skin. This was
impossible.
It had always
been
impossible. She knew, however, that she would have to try.
“Uldwin,
please,”
she said, throat tight as she tried to speak, “just listen to me. You don’t have to do this. He can’t have this much power over you.”
Uldwin didn’t quite understand why, but her voice pierced the haze his brain had been under. Though she sounded like she was under water, he felt somehow calmed.
Lydia.
It
was
Lydia, wasn’t it? She was, for all intents and purposes, his sister, at this point. Was she here to end his torment? He felt his grip falter. The tip of the dagger tilted downward.
And then, for a moment all he knew was pain.
“You foolish waste of potential,” came Neloth’s voice. The skeletal creature he’d become was struggling to right himself from where he’d been caught up in Uldwin’s Shout. “You will do as I say. End this nuisance. Crush this insect.”
The command seared through Uldwin’s mind, or what had become of it. There was almost nothing left of him which could resist the command. It hurt too much. He desperately wanted to return to sleep—his rest should have never been disturbed. But the wizard had done this—had drained everything from him. Everything had been taken from him in an instant.
Everything.
“Uldwin, don’t listen to him!” Lydia shouted. He found he was not throwing all his weight into pinning her to the wall. His grip was even weaker than it had been before. Still, he felt the call of Neloth’s command. Had he all his teeth, he would have grit them, but the muscles were gone from his jaw. It was all he could do to Shout before. The commands seared through the remnants of his brain once again.
“You will do as I say!”
“No! You don’t have to do this, Uldwin!”
“He does, and he will. I have commanded it!”
Uldwin tried to scream, but all that issued from his maw was a dusty hiss—an echo to the kind of voice the wizard’s rotting body could produce. Lydia was calling to him again, the words mixing around in his head like a slurry. Had he any tears at all, they’d have fallen. It hurt so much.
So
much. Through the torment, he could feel the steel grip of the wizard's commands beginning to slip. This was his chance, even if it only lasted a moment. All he needed was a thin, fragile second of strength. He would have to borrow it.
His mind’s eye was flooded all at once with images of his past as he struggled against the spells which enthralled him. He remembered the day Lydia became his housecarl. He’d ignored her at first, walking straight out of Dragonsreach without her. She’d followed. He didn’t know then that she’d always follow—even into the worst of the danger that trailed him. And he was glad she did. She’d been there through it all. Through his transformation. Through his cure. Through finding Ralis, and all the subsequent falling he’d done. She’d pushed aside Maramal and officiated their wedding instead. She was his
sister.
She was. And he would borrow her strength.
“Lydia,
move,”
he tried to plead. “Please move. Get out of here!” Again, his voice was not of the kind that could form words the correct way. They rattled as they came out of his throat, no power behind them. With the last of his strength he dropped the ebony dagger.
Lydia knew then it would be her only chance to stop this madness. She wanted to scream, to cry, to scold the Gods for their part in this, if they were even here at all. It wasn’t
fair.
It wasn’t fair at all, and yet she
knew.
She knew it would be this kind of madness before she even left Whiterun. Uldwin had been lost. Taken.
Neloth
had taken him from her—and he could never pay back the debt he had accrued for his misdeeds.
She struck in the opening Uldwin had given her. She threw all of her fury behind the one movement she’d have time for. That which gave her the strength to drive her sword through his spine was not Aedric in origin, but she would take it, if it meant ending Uldwin’s suffering. She could almost hear Meridia cackle as holy fire erupted from Dawnbreaker, enveloping his corpse. The stench of dry, burning flesh seared her nostrils and made her eyes water worse. Tears trailed through the ashes and dirt on her face as that which had once been Uldwin collapsed onto the floor at her feet. She withdrew Dawnbreaker with a sickening crunch which turned her stomach. The icy light where his eyes should have been blinked out. It was just as it had always been when fighting draugr.
Uldwin had been more than a draugr, though. He was her
brother,
in all ways that mattered. Neloth had taken him from her, and now it was time to pay for his crimes. Lydia would not let him escape her ire again.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
Your reach is not absolute. Your forfeited life has not bought you the power to resist My laws, though you have long tried. I have suffered your inconsequential grab for power for long enough. Your skeletal body will bend to
My
will now. You have clung to your existence as if your soul did not already belong to Me, if it ever existed at all. Come, then. Put forth your best effort. It will not be enough. It never has been.
Neloth had finally reached the end of his patience. The voices, the defiance, and the sheer arrogance of the situation in front of him. Enough was enough, and this ended when
he
said so.
He placed a hand on the ground and reached into the depths of his ill-gotten power. Death, decay, and destruction answered him to circulate through his body as if it were his lifeblood. And honestly, at this point in time, it probably all but was. What was left of the shell of the man once known as Neloth? Magic and malice—nothing more than cheap parlor tricks held fast to a grudge.
The sensation of the magic, no matter what was or was not left of the vessel who channeled it, swelled through the atmosphere as the pressure dropped in the room. Lydia’s ears popped along with it as Neloth’s shadow loomed over her larger than life.
What was he waiting for? She gritted her teeth. Some sense of a dramatic ending? A call for more attention? Her fingers gripped the pommel of her sword tightly. No, she would not let this go, and this monstrosity would soon see his end—he would be left as nothing more than an old ghost story to scare wandering Dunmer children away from the old Telvanni home.
The sound of knives sliced through the air, and a moment too late, Lydia realized that Neloth had finally released his spell. A barrage of ice shards plummeted down upon her in every direction, and one of them caught her unaware. Stinging filled her pounding head as blood trickled down from her temples to obscure her vision.
Two could play it this game, and her knives burned hotter.
Lydia charged at Neloth, Dawnbreaker raised in hand as he cackled.
There is no escape, mortal, and soon you will join your friend. Perhaps if you serve me well, you’ll last longer than he did.
Wrinkled hands swept dramatically across Neloth’s body, and more spells poured from him: lightning, ice, and fire. They joined together in a chorus and drowned out all the sound in the room in a dissonant song which set the heartstone in his chest alight. Searing pain crashed through him, yet still he continued to pull more and more magic to him to bend the elements to his will.
Chain Lightning burst forth from his fingers as the rasping sound of his cackling filled the spaces between the storms of his magic. Between the blasts of pure energy, shards of ice like glass careened around the whirlwind his power was creating, crashing into wall or armor indiscriminately, tearing his own flesh from bone where they glanced off of himself in his effort to aim them. It mattered little, for he was beyond the concept of pain with the pulse of raw energy swirling around him now. The flames laced the tempest of magic and pushed out away from him, almost like Ancestor’s Wrath—had his ancestors not abandoned him long ago.
Several of his spells landed, but many more missed. Scores of spells shot across the room as they tried and failed to bring the worm to her knees—she remained stubbornly rooted in her upright position. Anger, more magic, and annoyance at this one single distraction powered the next phase of Neloth’s assault.
Lydia dodged what magic she could, but the spells were so strong, they seemed to be tearing apart reality. Her mind was clouded by the chaos of this place, and this power. She wanted very much to end the fight, but finding her way forward in the ever-shifting cloud of spellcasting was proving to be difficult. Closing her eyes made no difference—either way, she could not see. But at least this way, she could focus on the
noise.
Between bouts of dry, ashen laughter, she could hear the rattling wheeze of air escaping the place where Neloth’s lungs and heart should have been, before he’d given his life and body to this madness. This, and the sound of the ice flying by reminded her of arrows, and of training, and how hard she had worked to be better, and faster. She had kept up her skills to try and match pace with Uldwin. The grief and anger at Neloth’s betrayal of her brother seared through her again as she listened, dodging spell after spell. Again, she heard the lich cackle, and that was all she needed.
Hubris would become Neloth’s downfall as Lydia launched herself forth, her sword swiping at his side. Bright bursts of light, pain, and fire spread through the lich’s decaying body. Cracks formed as he began to shatter into pieces like a porcelain statue.
Lydia tried and failed to dodge between one slash and the next. Dawnbreaker did not catch on bone or flesh as, too late, she noticed her error. Neloth cackled again, despite his injuries—despite the fact that he was quite literally falling to pieces. It mattered little now. The end of this distraction was near. He raised his hands again and crushed Lydia’s throat. Papery fingers dug into her windpipe so that she could not breathe.
Seconds ticked by—how many Lydia did not know. Stars and light swam in her vision as the edges of her consciousness started to slip away from her—where was the line between life and death? Where did she end and where did he begin?
No, no. NO.
Neloth’s screech tore through her ears and into her skull like an icepick. Darkness began to cloud her vision as time began to unwind and stretch thin.
Yield, you pathetic girl. Serve me, and not that thing which calls itself a Prince. Serve me and live on forever.
Lydia would never yield to the likes of Neloth. Not ever—not after what he had so shamelessly done to Uldwin. Meridia would not lose another champion to Neloth’s greed. She held tight to her resolve, each agonizing second, gaining more and more control of her limbs as she tried to ignore the lich’s commands. Finally, her mind cleared. She pushed back against Neloth’s commands with the strength of all her will, and, with her muscles protesting, she lifted Meridia’s blessed sword again and plunged it forward.
The sun screamed. Or maybe that had been her. Air rushed into her lungs as ash burst around her like the storms Solstheim was so infamous for. If it was possible, more light gathered around her until it blinded her and blocked out the rest of her senses.
And then, just as suddenly as it came, it stopped, and she was free. The lich was no more than specks in the wind.
Lydia rose from the floor, leaning on her sword, whose point had dug into the floor when she fell. Her arms and legs were weak and shook underneath her as she tried to stand upright. It took enormous effort, even with the slow chiming of Meridia’s blessing pulsing forth from Dawnbreaker. Finally stable, she withdrew the sword and flicked the ashes from the blade, which still glowed, as if it was absorbing Neloth’s power for itself. Maybe that had been Meridia’s goal all along. She wasn’t sure.
She felt hollow, the deed she’d been sent to do finally done. Somehow, she still felt she had failed. Life had been drained from this place long before she’d ever arrived. There was a strange urge now to lay down in the dust and let her own body return to the soil. Likely an effect of Neloth’s spells. Perhaps Meridia couldn’t protect her from everything.
She paused and wiped away the tears on her cheeks. Her limbs ached as she moved back toward Uldwin’s body, finally still. And still it would remain. She sniffed, pretending it was the rot and dust in the air rather than her own emotions that now clouded her senses.
She thought she’d cried enough already, but maybe she hadn’t. It was hard to remember when worry and disgust fought to assert themselves in her gut. All she knew was that this news had to go back to Breezehome. The Dragonborn was
gone.
Truly gone. Stolen, as Meridia had proclaimed. Lydia was inclined to agree. Stolen, as if his life was nothing more than a shiny trinket to Neloth. A thing to collect and to flaunt in the face of any who opposed him. For what?
She sighed, grimaced against the pain of her myriad injuries, and knelt near Uldwin. Even in true death, his face did not look peaceful. Neloth had stolen that from him, too. She was too tired now to feel the anger she knew was churning somewhere below the surface of her skin.
What was she going to tell Ralis? That he had fought and died bravely? That he’d made it to Sovengarde in the end? Or the Colored Rooms, or the Evergloam, or the Hunting Grounds depending on who would win the battle for what was left of his soul after Neloth had been done with it. All of it was ambiguous. The truth was, she didn’t know. She hadn’t been here.
She hadn’t been here,
even though it should have been the case.
There was a certain numbness in this kind of loss, even though she had known it was coming—even though she herself had brought the finality of this moment down upon them both. She brushed a strand of stringy hair out of his face and shook her head. She was sorry it had to come to this. Not for the last time, she berated herself for ever letting him slip away into the night to meet this awful demise. If only she had paid more attention, maybe this could have been avoided entirely.
But Lydia could not change the past.
Instead, she reached for his earrings, carved of bone. He always wore them. She wasn’t sure, but it felt as if they had a certain enchantment on them. Another thing she’d never asked, and now, she’d never know the answer. She replaced one of her own earrings with Uldwin’s. She slipped the other one into her pocket. That one would be for Ralis. They would both have to carry the immense weight of this sorrow, so it only made sense that each of them would keep a small memento.
She picked up the Bow of Shadows, Uldwin’s favorite, and slung it over her back. She took Neloth’s dagger, too, for good measure, and slipped that onto her belt next to Dawnbreaker.
Uldwin may be gone, but she would not let his legacy fade into the background of this place. For all the chaos that was wrought here, he did attempt to fix it as he always had. He always worked to right the wrongs he saw. It would honor his memory if she took up the tasks he had left behind.
There was a hole in the roof of Tel Mithryn she hadn’t noticed before. Somehow, through the red murk, light hadn’t quite filtered through. Her ebony armor almost sparkled in the brief glimpse of the sun before more ash and clouds shifted in front of it again.
Lydia thought for the briefest moment that the light had
been
Uldwin. It was as if he’d reached from whichever plane he’d ended up, to squeeze her shoulder, or to remind her that there were indeed things worth fighting for—worth protecting. She smiled in the fading rays—a wistful, grief stricken thing.
It didn’t matter what the light actually meant.
It was all the affirmation she needed.