Chapter Text
Both Fiirnaraan’s and Solen’s Thu’um assured the Dawnguard that the vampiric messenger was indeed alone. She stood on the Fort Road among the trees beyond the outermost palisade, watched by a dozen loaded crossbows, and quite unbothered by this. Her rusty amber eyes, flickering like bright lanterns, were only for Solen when, accompanied by Isran and Irileth, he climbed up among the watchful Dawnguard; Eldródr in hand, helmet on head, steel in his voice. “Here I am, Volkihar. Now say your bit.”
The vampire bared her teeth. “Dragonborn.” She made a sarcastic courtly bow. “What an honour.”
“What indeed,” Solen agreed. “You’re not out of range of my Fire Breath, and it’s a cold night, so make it quick.” She was, actually, but she didn’t need to know that.
The vampire grinned, untroubled by the threat. “You have something we want, Dragonborn – that our dread lord desires. We have something you also want, champion of the Dawnguard. Gendolin proposes an exchange.”
“If it’s anything less than Gendolin’s severed head on a pike, I don’t want it.”
“Lives, Dragonborn. Lives. Soft, fresh, innocent lives.” The vampire felt confident enough to swagger out of the tree-line to pace just beyond the firelight of the well-lit walls. She ran a tongue delicately around her teeth. “He knows your heart, Dragonborn. You wouldn’t condemn your worst enemy to such a fate as our teeth – much less your own dear friends.”
Well, if she was going to be that confident, he’d match it. Solen vaulted himself over the palisade and to the ground below, ignoring Irileth’s and Isran’s exclamations. He rested his battle-blade across his shoulders and approached the vampire, step by measured step. “Right. Which friends are these?” His voice was deceptively light, but his mind was racing – he’d made quite a few mates across Skyrim during his adventuring years, and not all of them were warriors quite capable of defending themselves. Or were they from Riften specifically, if the vampires had infiltrated it? What friends did he have in Riften? Balimund, the blacksmith? Hofgrir Horse-Crusher, the stablemaster? Legate Fasendil, the only other Altmer to serve the Legion in Skyrim?
In answer, the vampire withdrew a sack concealed beneath her cloak and withdrew two battle-warped Wolf Armour helmets, still crusted with blood. She tossed them at Solen’s feet. He’d have recognized them a mile away. He didn’t know whether he was overjoyed or terrified. Maybe both.
“They still breathe,” the vampire smiled, flashing her pointed canines. “But not for much longer, if you deny lord Gendolin the pleasure of your company.”
Solen tightened his grip on the battle-blade. Clear head. Keep a clear head. “What does ‘lord’ Gendolin want in exchange?”
“You know what we want, Dragonborn.” The vampire settled a hand warily on her hip, where a long, slender blade rested. “The Moth Priest. Our eyes are everywhere.”
“Ours too,” said Solen. Fiirnaraan’s was somewhere above his head, his body veiled in the shadows of the Canyon mountainsides. “Enough to know that you’re making awfully big demands by your little old self in a valley of the enemy.”
“Please, Dragonborn. You’re a man of honour. Even you wouldn’t dare turn your blade on a mere messenger.”
“I’m tempted to, for daring to insinuate that I’ll barter with lives to the enemy.”
The vampire chuckled. “You won’t refuse my lord, Dragonborn. His terms are simple. He will be awaiting your company at Riften’s gates tomorrow night, until dawn. Bring the Moth Priest. There will be no meeting without his company, either.” The vampire made as if to turn around, then glance back, as if remembering something. “As added incentive, Dragonborn – forfeit our gracious invitation, and it won’t only be Companion blood we’ll taste.”
“Riften.”
“Like a pig to slaughter.”
The vampire vanished on the spot. Solen tensed for an ambush, but it never came. One belated utterance of Aura Whisper confirmed the vampire’s fleeting aura disappearing swiftly back through the forest.
He put up his blade and gathered up Vilkas’ and Njada’s mangled helmets. Somewhere in the darkness, of the palisades or the forest itself, Aela was watching and hadn’t missed a word. Solen’s attention shifted to the line of Dawnguard on the palisade. “Did you all get that?”
Irileth’s red eyes smouldered like the embers of Red Mountain. “Every word.”
~
It was going to be a cold, clear night. Riften’s walls weren’t yet in sight when the last of the sun slipped beyond the western peaks. Solen doubted he’d have noticed if he was riding through a midwinter blizzard. He hardly noticed the warm familiarity of Ember, trustiest of warhorses, beneath his saddle, or the bizarrely comforting shadow of Fiirnaraan coasting noiselessly over his head. His mind’s eye was far away in the north, remembering Rayya’s warning by the Kastav hearth. He wondered what she’d say to him riding willingly to the parlay with the monster that had so nearly taken her away from him.
He rode at the fore of a band of Dawnguard, twenty strong, Dexion Evicus in the middle of their tight, protective knot. One anxious argument after another had decided they’d all play along with the vampires’ demands for now – the Dawnguard surely thought he had some great crackpot plan stewing in his skull, some way to outwit the villain, as heroes were supposed to do.
Solen really hoped some plan would miraculously come to him when they reached Riften’s gates. He wasn’t sure what was going to happen otherwise.
He’d dealt with hostage situations before. Civilian rescues were a frequent Companions contract, and during the Civil War he’d broken captured troops out from the bowels of Forts, and even led a couple of daring raids on caravans transporting prisoners of war. As for negotiations, well, he had plenty of experience with that, too. Season Unending had started his career in diplomacy, and after the War he’d entered plenty of discussions for plenty of banalities, both from horseback on the open road and in tight stuffy rooms in city keeps and palaces. Tullius had kept him busy in those pursuits. Solen was Dragonborn, after all. He had a certain way with words.
Yet this one felt different. It wasn’t just Gendolin he was going to finally meet and clash wits with. Gendolin and the creatures he commanded had no inkling of remorse or compassion. Genuine monsters. At least the Stormcloaks had been fighting for an understandable, even righteous cause, even if they’d taken the wrong approach.
Solen blew out a faint sigh. Aela, on foot beside him, glanced upward. “Everything well, Harbinger?”
Solen managed a smile. “I’m not nervous, if that’s what you’re asking. I’m too experienced to be nervous.”
“Oh, of course,” said Aela. “There was another reason you decided to forego sleep last night. My mistake.”
Solen laughed weakly and knotted his fingers into Ember’s mane. The warhorse whickered and bobbed his head. “Oh, hush, the both of you. I had perfectly valid reasons. Was getting rusty with Eldródr, you know. And I hadn’t meditated on the Thu’um in weeks. The usual chores of a saviour of Skyrim.”
“The usual,” Aela agreed. She rarely beat around the bush for long. “You know what’s at stake, Solen. If it comes down to it...”
“Don’t.” Saying things aloud had a horrible way of attracting the gods’ attention to them. “I have to see them before I decide anything. Maybe they’re not turned yet, but if they’re thralled...”
“My arrows will find their necks faster than yours, Solen.” Aela caressed her bowstring. “You have my word on that.”
A clatter of hooves brought Irileth sharply to their side. “No Florentius?” Solen asked, glancing around. “Almost didn’t recognize you without him.”
Irileth levelled him a remarkably frosty glare. “He’s back in Dawnguard, as you should know, Dragonborn – he’s working on that blood sample I took from Redwater Den.”
“Give me a break, I don’t remember half my own Companions in Jorrvaskr sometimes. And didn’t you get that sample months ago?”
“Do I look like an alchemist? Florentius keeps waffling about making new discoveries about its potency and lack of. Anyway, he thinks it’s linked to a vampire’s power and thus useful to properly understand, and Isran managed to agree with him.”
“Well, that ends the argument, doesn’t it? Isran agreeing.”
Irileth, as usual, found no humour in the joke. Her dark eyes flicked between him and Aela, and Solen sensed the Housecarl’s suspicion raking their skin like knives. Did she think they were conspiring to sell the Moth Priest to save their Shield-Siblings? That they were considering it at all? “Easy,” Solen growled, before Irileth could say a word. “Dexion’s only here to ensure the vampires have no cause to slaughter a city of hostages.”
“It’s a good night for it,” Aela added, turning her nose skyward. “There’s no wind. They won’t so much as catch his scent.”
Irileth snorted. “You both seem to have forgotten I’ve known Solen just as long as you, Huntress. I know he is one to trust. I’m wary that they know that, too. If they know we won’t turn the Moth Priest over for two Companions, then what other atrocity do they have planned to force our hand?”
“Well, they mentioned killing off Riften,” said Solen, shrugging. “But I don’t see how that’d be tolerated. The Thieves Guild and even Maven bloody Black-Briar would agree that’s bad for business. And Fasendil would never...” He tailed off. Legate Fasendil was a prime model of a Legionnaire, notably incorruptible – a dangerous challenge to lay down in a city that thrived on greasing palms. For the vampires to have gotten this far, what had happened to him, and the Legion installed in the city? Was he already dead? Were the soldiers already disposed of, or thralled?
It did not raise his spirits to see Riften’s watchtower unmanned and the city walls absent of torchlight. “No blood,” Aela reported lowly, “no sign of struggle.”
The maples creaked gently, as if in the wind – but, of course, there was no wind. “They are on the walls, Dovahkiin,” Fiirnaraan’s disembodied voice whispered in their ears. “There are many. A great many. Many of them joor.”
“What?” Irileth muttered.
“Mortal,” Solen murmured back. “Many are mortal.” That surely didn’t bode well, either. “The Companions, Fiirnaraan – the ones I described – did you see them?”
“Oh, no, Dovahkiin. It is growing dark. I do not know their scents.”
“Gendolin?”
“The sosvolunnah is there. Crouched upon the gatehouse. His scent I know.”
“All right. Thank you. Quiet, now. Make sure the woods stay clear and they don’t see you.”
The Dragon gave a fluty giggle. “Of course, Dovahkiin.” Solen strained his ears, but not even Aela heard his noiseless departure. He’s definitely gotten better at this. “Fall in among the Dawnguard,” Solen ordered Irileth and Aela. “Keep Dexion calm and your guard up. I’ll handle this.”
I hope, he added to himself, as the road curved under their feet to the open stretch before the Riften gate. The warriors slipped away to their places, and Solen straightened in the saddle and set his helmet on his head. Ember snorted his own challenge as he paced forward, harnesses jangling and shoes ringing like iron bells in the breathlessly quiet night.
Because the silence struck Solen immediately. That, and the profound sense he was being scrutinized by many eyes in the darkness.
Well, he was quite used to being stared at. “I’m here,” Solen thundered at the walls. “Are we getting on with it?”
Solen was staring quite hard at the walls, told himself he was prepared for some sort of theatrical entrance, and yet it still took him by surprise when the walltops came alive with bodies – some with the shivery puff of blue magic that accompanied spells of invisibility, some simply out of the dusky darkness as if they’d worn the shadows like a cloak. There were dozens of them, the vampires distinguishable by their rusty amber eyes and their signature scarlet life-drain magic wreathing their fingertips, and the others – for there were others, a curious number of others – in brown padded leathers and smoke-blackened buckles. These ones bore bows, or daggers, and in one case their hands crackled with latent destruction magic, and all their faces were cowled.
Directly above the gatehouse stood three that, despite Solen’s most careful attention, were almost completely invisible. Their armour fit like liquid night, the sleekest and most obviously enchanted raiment that Solen in his many years of adventuring had ever lain eyes on. They were clearly figures of authority, the commanding way they bore themselves. One had a dark arrow set to a gilded bow, the second – the largest of the three – armed with long dirks. The third and most central appeared unarmed – until they drew down the mask and lowered the cowl concealing their face, revealing a coldly handsome Bosmeri visage, silver hair, and glittering eyes as bright as two newly-minted coins.
It was uncanny how eerily, how naturally, Gendolin fit Aela’s description – even down to his voice, all genial, courteous arrogance. “Dragonborn Solenarren. The privilege of the hour is all mine.”
Solen swung himself down from the saddle and patted Ember’s rump, sending the warhorse trotting back behind the Dawnguard lines. “Not like you gave me much of a choice, vampire Gendolin.”
“Vampire lord,” the Bosmer corrected. “Or master, if you prefer.”
“If we’re playing the titles game, I’m fairly certain I have you outmatched.” It was difficult maintaining his signature easygoing veneer with a wall of silent witnesses in front of him and a line of agitated Dawnguard behind him. Solen gave up after a second more of reflection. “I’ll assume we’re both hunters. Let’s cut to the chase. Vilkas and Njada – where are they?”
Gendolin raised his arms. An orange glow permeated his fingers, and two bound, writhing figures were dragged up from the battlements behind him. Solen gritted his jaw. Even in the low light, he could tell Vilkas and Njada were in a terrible way. Their armour hung in shreds, and almost every inch of their flesh was blackened with bruises. The ambush had happened a fortnight ago – they must’ve been fighting captivity every day.
That means they aren’t thralled, Solen realized, with a startling rush of hope. It was only further proved when Vilkas shouted, “You’d better not be taking this seriously, Harbinger, or I’ll kick your arse back to Hammerfell myself!”
“I’ll consider your counsel and get back to you.” Solen’s eyes flashed back to Gendolin. “Put them down. Gently. Or so help me I will Shout you back to Y’ffre.”
Gendolin laughed. “I haven’t served Y’ffre in a long time, Solenarren.” But he released Vilkas and Njada. He nodded to his two shadow-cloaked seconds. “Hold them up. Let’s ensure the bargaining chips remain on the table.”
“Harbinger! For once, don’t be a hero,” Njada growled, as she and Vilkas were thrust between the battlements, suspended by the strong arms of their captors. “We’re not going to be responsible for any of their scummy victories!”
“Gag them, please,” Gendolin added mildly. “Their betters are talking.”
“Go to Oblivion you son of a –!”
“Gendolin!” Solen said sharply, trying not to focus too hard on his two dear friends being gagged so unceremoniously. “Neither of us have all night.” He certainly didn’t; the Thu’um pulsed louder in his ears every moment, reminding him that all it would take to end it all was a word or three – maybe.
Gendolin leaned over the battlements. “I agree. You wish to hear my terms in person?”
“This is between you and me. Right from when you stole that Elder Scroll from under my nose.”
“Ah, yes. My boot remembers your nose well.” Gendolin smiled, showing his long, clean fangs. “So let’s make this simple, brother Elf. You have an asset. We have assets. Neither are of any use without the other. You have no desire to watch me turn your siblings-in-arms into flaccid heaps.” The vampire’s eyes flicked past Solen, and even from afar they singled out the quiet robed Imperial amidst his protective knot of Dawnguard. “Turn over the Moth Priest, and I will return your two dear Companions to you.”
Solen drew Eldródr – just to get Gendolin’s attention back on him. “And Riften?”
“My clan will withdraw. The citizenry will not be harmed.”
Solen shook his head. “You’ll have to do better than that.”
“My dear Dragonborn – I think you misinterpret the situation.” Gendolin jumped up onto the battlements, catlike, as if unconcerned with the long drop to the cobbled road below. “You are in no position to change the bargain.”
“Nor are you,” Solen shot back. “You could have a thousand Elder Scrolls at your beck and call, but without someone who can read them without their brains melting out their ears –” He shrugged, pointedly, gloatingly. “Well, they’re really not much use to you, are they? Just how desperately do you want to find out about the Day of Black Sun?”
Gendolin didn’t answer. In his pointed silence, Solen arched his brow. “Oh – you don’t think we don’t know why you want the Scrolls? Gendolin, perhaps in your pursuit of power and your many attempts at getting my attention, you’ve forgotten that I am Dragonborn – and that means I’m nothing if not resourceful.”
“So it seems,” Gendolin said, and graciously bowed. “I’ll be first to admit my surprise, Dragonborn. I thought escaping the province was the only course of action you cared about, for many a year.”
Solen rammed Eldródr’s point between a pair of cobblestones. “Escape? After the six years of effort I put into rescuing Skyrim from the brink of disaster? I’m not a wasteful man, Gendolin, and I sense neither are you.”
Gendolin nodded. “Unread Elder Scrolls are very wasteful. There’s a prophecy yearning to be spun, mortal, and a promise waiting to be heard.”
“Well, if it matters so much to you, bring the Scrolls to Fort Dawnguard. We’ll let you know what they say.”
The Bosmer laughed. “I may have all eternity, Dragonborn, but even my patience has its limits.” The silver shortsword appeared from under the folds of his cloak and pressed against Vilkas’s throat. “You have two choices, Solenarren. Turn the Moth Priest over without bloodshed. Or watch us take him from you, with bloodshed. The choice is yours.”
It was at this point in time, with no banter left to barter and the cards all down, that Solen expected some bright brainwave, some formerly unseen avenue of wit to unveil in his mind and present the unexpected way out. With the eyes of the doomed city and the restive Dawnguard all upon him, they clearly expected it too. The heroic exploit that would see him triumph and the enemy fail. Judging by the way Vilkas and Njada were glaring at him, they had expected such a turn five minutes ago.
But nothing came, nothing at all. For the first time, he had no plan, no counterplan, no wild card to pull. He could not agree. He could not refuse. It horrified Solen, this helplessness that gripped him with total absolution, as if he faced the Helgen chopping block all over again. Perhaps Gendolin sensed it, as he smiled his cruel and elegant smile as the seconds of silence stretched on and on.
The soft pad of sandalled footsteps and the sharpening of vampiric attention jerked Solen’s head around. “No, Dexion, I won’t –”
“May I have a word, Dragonborn?” The Moth Priest’s eyes were steady.
Solen seized upon the opportunity of delay, any delay, and looked back at Gendolin. “Well? May we have a word?”
Gendolin gave a little dismissive flick of his hand. Perhaps the vampire already sensed an inevitable victory, to seem so charitable. Quite unwillingly, Solen put his back to the wall and followed Dexion into the knot of Dawnguard that closed around them. “Please, keep your voices down,” Dexion said, barely above a murmur, as the ring of heads came together. “I fear to be only further undone should we be overheard.”
Irileth glowered at Solen. “You can’t be considering this. Not you.”
Her disapproval stung worse than usual. Solen swallowed. “You’ve killed a great deal more vampires than me by now. You tell me if they’re bluffers.”
“Listen, please,” Dexion insisted, before arguments could begin. “Even if we refuse, condemn those poor people to an evil fate for my sake, all we would achieve in their sacrifice is a purchase of time. I am not the only Moth Priest in Tamriel – others would be found, endangered, if not myself.”
“So you’ll give in? Give up?” hissed Aela.
“I will do neither.” Dexion slipped his fingers into the belt of his robes and withdrew a tiny, hidden vial of a clear liquid. His expression was tense. “But I fear it is the only avenue left to us that will avoid bloodshed.”
Irileth frowned at the vial. “Poison?”
“Of a sense. It will destroy my sight in a matter of days. I will become useless to them before I will be useful.”
“Then they’ll kill you.”
“I imagine they would.” Dexion looked grim. “But it will rob them of the chance, and give the Dawnguard one. Remember what I have told you all. I will send them your way, whether through my will or his.”
Of course he would be thralled, if not killed, or turned – consigned to damnation and torment and the ultimate price. Solen caught his hand as Dexion unstoppered the little vial. “No. This can’t be it. We’ll find another –”
Dexion held his gaze calmly. “My eyes were always on borrowed time, Dragonborn. Play his game for now – then win. Reclaim the stolen Scrolls and ensure whatever prophecy they intend over this land never comes to pass. Promise me that evil will not prevail, and my heart will be at ease.”
Solen tightened his jaw. Everything about this vile situation scraped him like a rusty shaving knife. He was the one whom evil was meant to fear – which he defeated, always. For a moment he desperately wished Rayya was here, to reassure him – and then, just as suddenly, he was glad she wasn’t. He forced his voice to stay even and flat as he pledged, “I promise. It’s who I am.”
Dexion nodded, then quickly and discreetly downed the contents of the vial. “Very well, then. Let us make the exchange.”
~
It didn’t matter how necessary it was. It still sickened Solen to his stomach, to bring the Moth Priest forward with him out of the Dawnguard lines, to see Gendolin’s smile widen, to hear the mocking jeers of laughter that flickered among the wallbound foe. “Come forward, then,” Solen barked; his voice, pulsing with an anger barely restrained, slapped their ears like a thunderclap, silencing their snigg*rs at once. “With Vilkas and Njada, and alone.”
Vilkas and Njada made noises of indignation through their gags. Cursing him and his mother, probably, Solen thought wearily. Gendolin stepped onto the edge of the battlements, the two bound Companions hovering like strung puppets on his either side. Then he stepped off the wall, and the three of them plunged to the ground.
Several screams of fright went up, and Solen began to curse – but Gendolin didn’t fall, he glided, him and his prisoners both – without any kind of visible magic, as if he too were suspended by strings. Elegantly he touched the cobbled road, his black cloak billowing like bird wings, and towing his prisoners strode across the barren road towards where Solen waited.
It would be the closest they’d been since Dimhollow. Solen gritted his teeth, and his throat tautened with severe longing. One Word would bring him in front of Gendolin, one chance was all Eldródr needed to bite – yet he was paralyzed, again. One wrong action would see throats open like faucets. All Gendolin’s volatile followers needed was an excuse to execute.
Then they were across from each other, in a conversational speaking distance. Solen could count the wrinkles around Gendolin’s eyes. Not that the Bosmer had many; he’d been young before he’d been imbued with the bloodcurse. The lull between them was unexpectedly brief; without prompt, Gendolin’s hands moved, fingers twirling – Vilkas and Njada suddenly floated forward and were deposited in groaning heaps on Solen’s either side.
“That was awfully trusting of you,” Solen said warily. He’d expected the usual squabbles of how to exchange a demand between two enemy parties.
“You don’t trust the bond of my word, Dragonborn.” Gendolin’s unnatural eyes glowed from his pale face. “But I trust the bond of yours. You are much too honourable to cheat, even your enemies.”
Was that a sneer? The flash of anger was replaced almost at once by the salty grit of shame. It was less a taunt than the truth, and for a moment Solen was made ashamed by it – resented his willingness to find the light in every man or woman’s dark – but only for a moment. He forced an easygoing smile as he met Gendolin’s eyes with a cheer he did not feel. “Better than becoming a twisted scheming bastard like you. I like having friends, you know.”
“Oh, I had friends once.” Gendolin’s poised demeanour suddenly dimmed with a soft and potent malice. “I know what I’m surrounded by, Solenarren. I haven’t forgotten the family I’ve lost. Or who took them from me.”
The bitter hint held all the discretion of an avalanche. Solen again scoured his brain for some forgotten past familiarity, and again turned up nothing. “Who are you? Really? If we’re going to be nemeses, I might at least know a little about your background, so I can insult you better.”
“You knowing nothing of me is all the insult I need. But I’m certain a resourceful creature like you will figure it all out before the end.” Gendolin twitched one finger. “Give me the Priest, and we will go our separate ways.” For now, hung the resounding unsaid.
Under those scorching, hungry eyes, Solen didn’t dare reveal his turmoil. He patted Dexion’s shoulder. “Play nice with the vampires now, Evicus. We’ll see you soon.”
With great regality, Dexion slipped his hands into the long sleeves of his robes and walked from Solen’s side to Gendolin’s. And it was done.
The Dawnguard stirred, and Solen felt more than heard their disbelief. They could not believe their eyes, that the Dragonborn had ceded to their sworn enemies. Solen could barely believe it himself. He might as well have murdered the old man with his own hands. He felt Aela and Irileth move on his either side, bending down to cut Vilkas and Njada free.
“The Oblivion are you thinking, you egg-skinned idiot?” Njada spat, the second the gag was ripped from her mouth. “Did you give that vampire your spine as well?”
Solen could muster no retort.
Gendolin had retreated to the city wall at an unhurried pace, gripping the Moth Priest tightly by the arm. At the gates he stopped and as if to flaunt, bowed and made an elegant leg to the motionless Dawnguard. “Here is a prophecy I give freely.” His chilling smile and chiselled visage vanished beneath a sleek black cowl. “The time for battle will come again between us, Dragonborn Solenarren – and you will lose.”
The shadows of the gatehouse swallowed him and Dexion whole, and seconds later, the Riften walltops emptied at once and completely of observers, mortal and vampiric alike.
