Chapter Twenty-Six
The conclusion of Thorald’s business ended when the townsfolk of Whiterun gathered before the Skyforge. It was customary for the fallen Companions to be burned upon the mysterious forge; the giant, stone eagle stood watch above them. Each member of the order took a turn praising their fallen, shield brother. Once the short ceremony ended, Vilkas took a torch to the pyre supporting Durro’s body.
“You’ve done a fine thing, court wizard. From this day on, you are one of us. If ever you need assistance, come back to Jorrvaskr,” Vilkas said.
“If my brother likes you, I like you. Thanks,” Farkas added.
“Not bad for a wizard. I welcome your presence around the mead hall any day, S’maash,” Aela said.
The elf feigned a smile. He watched how the Companions gave their respects without grieving. They were glad to have avenged Durro and helped him to enter the eternal fighting and feasting of Sovngarde; it was not a time for grief but for celebration. Thorald was present as well, wearing dark finery.
“So, it’s all over, eh,” Thorald asked. S’maash looked up to meet his eyes. He nodded slowly. “It was more than just necromages wasn’t it? It’s no wonder the Companions required aid. Well, you’ve done a fine thing here.”
Blinking rapidly and prodding at his blind eye, S’maash looked around. The torch fires wavered, casting dancing shadows. Inside S’maash’s ears, the crackle of flame was like the sound of tearing cloth; obscenely loud. Above him, the stars sparkled like diamonds. J’zargo must be right…I must have contracted, his thoughts broke suddenly.
“What,” S’maash asked, startled.
“I said you’re probably off to College business. Anyway, should you ever need anything at all from me, I, and Whiterun’s people, are in your debt,” Thorald replied.
After patting S’maash’s shoulder, the Jarl joined the Companions inside Jorrvaskr for drinks and food. “Aren’t you coming,” Aela asked.
“No, thank you…my wounds still ache,” he replied.
He watched them all vanish behind closed doors before thinking back. The previous day, just after the vicious battle, S’maash and J’zargo had done their best to heal everyone, but their powers of restoration were lacking, so they limped back into town, where Danica, the priestess of Kynareth, did her best to bandage and brace everyone’s wounds. S’maash had neglected to tell her he fought Delyla, the elder vampire. Danica, being the phenomenal healer she was, noticed the bite marks regardless.
Suddenly, he heard her say, “Normally, Porphyric Hemophilia only takes hold of one’s soul after sleep. So long as we remove the disease before it becomes the curse, you’ll be fine,” her thick, nord accent with rolling R’s rang throughout his mind like a bell.
He stood there, gaping at the flaming pyre, and the scent of charring flesh made his stomach churn, but worse was the way Danica’s words echoed in his mind. Then, the khajiit’s gravelly voice burst into his head.
“Heheh, J’zargo does not believe your ailment to be so simple. Delyla was an elder vampire. Her bite may have affected more than just your blood. Do not sleep unless you are certain the disease is cleansed from your soul.”
He worried. The voices in his mind were almost like reliving the conversations. Everything around him had taken on a strange essence, unfamiliar, surreal. He decided to return to Danica. The Temple of Kynareth was modest and clean. Danica was watering some lavender plants when he entered. She, too, had attended Durro’s ceremony.
“Feeling better? Or worse?” she was concerned.
“J’zargo said an elder vampire’s bite might be worse than normal vampires’.”
“Aye, ‘tis a possibility. Come.” S’maash approached the hearty, nord woman. Her yellow and brown robes appeared almost living to the dark elf; it was the way they moved when she moved, and the sounds of cloth stretching. She looked him over. “Hmm, I’m both impressed and frightened at the turn your eye has taken.”
“I think I’m beginning to see out of it again.”
“You should not been able to…nor should it have healed so quickly. Perhaps, your khajiit friend was right. If an elder vampire’s bite affects the soul directly then vampirism might manifest itself without ever going to sleep,” she said rather calmly.
S’maash turned his palms over in resignation. “There’s nothing I can do?”
“There is always something. So long as you still have your soul, we can save you from the horrible curse. With finely ground soul gems, garlic, blessed water, and a little sap from the Gildergreen tree, I think I can make a potion to help you,” she informed him.
“The what tree?”
“The Gildergreen, the large tree just outside? Nevermind, I will handle that and then bless some water as well. You return with the powdered, soul gem and garlic. Make haste,” she said.
He bolted out of the temple and up the steps to Dragonsreach in a flash. From his study he took both the garlic and the soul gem. Working quickly at the alchemy table, he ground the gem to a fine, purple powder. Then, he ran all the way back to the temple in just a matter of seconds. I don’t even tire….
“Here,” he offered the reagents.
She took it all to a basin. First, she sprinkled the powder into the basin containing blessed water. Tiny crystals sank to the bottom. She used the garlic by rubbing it inside the small, clay bowl, previously holding the powdered gem. Once enough juices flowed into the bowl, she added Gildergreen sap, a vibrant sap, like honey.
S’maash observed all her ritualistic antics. The more time passed, the stranger his body felt. He wanted her to hurry, but instead she knelt before the basin. She prayed softly, too softly, yet he heard. It was like she had lips pressed to his ears.
“Bless this mixture, Oh Kynareth. Let us clean the impurities from our friend, the dark elf. He has fought bravely and achieved victory against the unholy. Bless this mixture, Goddess of Nature, so that balance might be restored,” Danica said.
After repeating the verse, with subtle variances, she placed the clay bowl in the basin and continued praying. Shortly after, the water in the basin sizzled; the powdered gem reacted with everything else. Danica then turned to S’maash, who was on the verge of losing his marbles.
“Quickly, remove your clothing. I will anoint your body with this mixture. It is the Elixir of Purity,” Danica ordered.
He tossed all his armor and clothing about. Standing naked before her, he took a few awkward steps. Danica dipped some linen wraps in the Elixir of Purity and scrubbed him down like a racehorse. It was not the gentle caress of compassion, but a vigorous cleansing. It took a minute, but Danica managed to scrub every inch.
“Should I dress,” he asked when she stopped.
“No. Let the elixir take hold.”
“How? Oh….”
His skin tingled then grew cold. With a sudden spasm from his midsection, S’maash vomited profusely. He dropped to his knees and searched about for somewhere to continue vomiting, but there was nothing. He threw up all over the wooden floors. Danica eyed him sparingly. Eventually, he was empty. With a great inhalation, he stretched his limbs, feeling better than he had in many years.
“Goodness! I’m sorry for the mess,” he smiled.
“Make it up by cleaning,” Danica joked.
Together, after he dressed, they both cleaned up the mess. “Is there anything I can do to repay you?”
“Keeping Whiterun safe is enough for me. Sleep well tonight.”
S’maash decided against sleeping in bed. Instead he collected all his gear and hired a cart ride back to Winterhold. He slept along the way. As the cart jostled softly, S’maash half dreamed of treasure. Suddenly, he remembered the hammer. I forgot all about that weapon the falmer used back in Mzulft. He had kept it in his room at the College. I wonder if it could really be Sunder….
Fully roused by his thoughts, he decided to scribble more of his story in his journal. The logbook was coming along nicely. While S’maash was no storyteller, chroni
cling his own adventures was rather simple.
The cart ride dragged on. The weather was nice, and they only stopped in Dawnstar along the way. His need to verify his hammer was pressing, but half a day after leaving Dawnstar, they arrived in Winterhold.
Lightly sprinkling snow fell onto the bridge. Over the many hours of travel, he had had ample time to think everything through and decided to let fate make his decision, a decision, which he had been avoiding since speaking with Aicantar. If fate was truth, and Sunder was in fact in his room then he was going to reforge the Heart of Lorkhan. If, for whatever reason, the item was not Sunder then he was not intended to forge the Heart of Lorkhan, and so be it.
Truthfully, S’maash wanted only knowledge. Seeing the necromancers with their new spells and ancient vampires with spells of old was compelling, though. He wanted to see everything through to its natural end, whatever it was. Once inside his room, he unwrapped both weapons. They looked and felt similar. S’maash went off to find Tolfdir.
First, he checked the Hall of the Elements, but found only students. In the Arcaeneum, he found only Urag. Tolfdir was not in either of the other halls, so S’maash walked back to the Hall of the Elements and took the door to the Archmage’s quarters. He knocked first.
“You may enter,” Tolfdir’s voice bled through the door.
S’maash walked in. The room was beautiful, extravagant even. Built from the same gray block as the rest of the College, Tolfdir’s room held many niceties. An arcane enchanter, alchemy table, several, small tables, chairs, and shelves with a great deal of tomes, silver carafes, and colorful banners adorned the area. At the center of the room were a plethora of reagents growing unnaturally in a tidy garden. Black tapestries also hung about, displaying the College’s symbol, a large eye over a sort of pentagram.
“What is it, S’maash,” Tolfdir asked. The elf stood before him with both weapons in hand. “What happened to your eye?”
“It’s nothing. Is this Sunder?”
Tolfdir took a seat at a small, square table adorned with silver nick-nacks; candlesticks, mugs, silverware. He motioned for S’maash to join him.
“Let us have a look. Hmm, I have heard Sunder was a hammer. Let’s see Keening.”
“They both appear crafted from the same hands. Both feel alive with some wavering force.”
“I cannot say for certain, but I do believe this is in fact Sunder. Where did you find it?”
“Mzulft. Falmer were battling before a fragment of the Heart of Lorkhan. Is it not strange that I have had this in my possession for some time? Every step I take seems to lead me to this ultimate end…I feel as though I must undertake this task of reforging the Heart of Lorkhan,” he sighed.
“Yes…sometimes there are men and mer alike, who appear to have to no choice, but to carry out the task the Gods have deigned them for. S’maash,” Tolfdir grew exceptionally serious. “I once had the pleasure of working with the Dragonborn. It seemed he, too, was destined for a specific task. Fate bestowed the title of Dragonborn onto him, and fate pushed him into many trepidations. Unfortunately, fate changed him into…well, into what he was meant to be, for better or worse.
“Here, you have a choice. You can see this through to its end, or you can stand back, and say fate be damned. Whatever the choice you make, you have our support, my support.”
S’maash looked down at the table. He was simply frightened. The unknown was a terrible enemy.
“What if something goes wrong? What,” he trailed off.
Tolfdir heaved a heavy sigh. “You are still young. For all your adventures, failures, and triumphs, you still have many obstacles before you. Just promise me you’ll tread carefully, and do your best to ponder every implication,” Tolfdir said, placing his hand on S’maash’s.
“I promise.”
He stood, took his treasures, and left the Archmage to his ruminations. In his own room, he expended the powers of a greater soul gem to refuel his sword’s magickal properties. He still needed a white soul for the completion of Hermaeus Mora’s task. Upon recharging his blade, he walked out of the College, and out of town.
It was late in the evening. Winterhold was always cold, its ground packed loosely with pristine snow. S’maash circled the town looking for an animal to sacrifice. It was not long before he saw a snow fox. The tiny, white, creature looked at him and ran away. It left tiny paw prints in the snow. Not in a mood to give chase, he walked around for hours, and then the sun set. A starry sky and twin moons lit his path. A low growl called his attention.
S’maash was familiar with the snowy, sabre cats of Skyrim, so he waited. From his right, he noticed the movement. The white of fur was nearly indiscernible from the snow, but rapid movement was easy enough to spot. The steady beat of large paws came closer.
He turned and blasted the creature with wall of ice. The many shards both slowed and injured the cat. Red tainted the snow. As the animal writhed, the elf approached and slayed it. A simple thrusting of his blade deep into the cat’s flank sufficed. It glowed purple and caught aflame from the sword’s enchantments. The daedric heart gem was filled.
With the deed done, S’maash started his way back to the Midden. Heavy steps took him to the entrance in the courtyard. From there, he traversed the icy cavern of the Midden and stood before the Oblivion Forge. The sigil stone glowed violent red intermittently. S’maash opened the offering box and placed everything inside. He then pulled the lever and waited.
A horrendous impact jarred him. For a moment he was befuddled. His head spun with sights of the cieling. After a modicum of control returned, he looked around. The sigil stone had shattered. He stood then ran over to the forge to find his treasure. There was nothing. Confused, he opened the offering the box. His fragments and gem were still inside.
“What? What has gone wrong?”
Crimson mist had crept from the shattered sigil stone. It slowly descended and hovered just above the cold ground. S’maash sighed and gave a subtle shrug in resignation. He took his belongings and went back to find Tolfdir, who was still in his room. Inside, they spoke.
“Fascinating. Perhaps a normal sigil stone is not powerful enough for this undertaking,” Tolfdir commented.
“Normal sigil stones? Are there other kinds?”
The old nord leaned back in his chair, stroking his beard in thought. “Well, it has been said that the hero who helped Martin Septim obtained a special sigil stone. Some of the details escape me, but I believe a greater sigil stone was required to open a portal to Mankar Cameron’s alternate reality.”
S’maash clenched his jaw before speaking, “What do you know about these sigil stones. Their magickal properties are unknown to me.”
Tolfdir nodded rhythmically as he searched for words. “A sigil stone embodies the chaotic forces of Oblivion itself. Many years ago, enchanters used them for their particular enchantments. I’m almost surprised you are unfamiliar with their uses. Sigil stones also anchor the forces of chaos….”
“Enchanting? Wait, what do you mean anchor forces of chaos?”
“Well, the stones can be used to crack the fabric of reality, create a bridge or portal from the realms of Oblivion into other realms, ours for example,” Tolfdir attempted to clarify.
“How?”
“I’m not sure, to tell the truth, but there is a book somewhere. I believe the Blades might have a copy. They did, after all, play a major role during the Oblivion crisis. Mehrunes Dagon used the sigil stones to that end, but only because Uriel Septim was dead, and his son, Martin, had yet to wear the Amulet of Kings.”
“So, without an heir to the throne, Mehrunes Dagon was able to break his way into Tamriel?”
“Yes.”
S’maash rapped his fingers against the wooden table. “It seems, if I wish to continue this task, I must somehow obtain a greater sigil stone,” S’maash whispered.
Tolfdir leaned back again. “Well…If you must continue, or perhaps, this is your sign to put an end to this ordeal.”
/>
“I don’t think Hermaeus Mora will just release me from this task,” S’maash answered.
“With Azura’s guidance, you most certainly can break away from Hermaeus Mora, though it will not be a simple matter.”
As candle flames flickered, Tolfdir’s chambers grew slightly ominous. S’maash pondered for a moment. The Archmage kept a firm gaze. They met eyes.
“I should see the Blades. Farengar said they are usually unwilling to work with others, but I must read this book you mentioned. After that…well, I suppose we’ll see,” S’maash said.
“You have slain a dragon. That alone should convince them to listen to your request. You can find them at Skyhaven Temple, far to southwest. They are in the Reach, so tread carefully. Here, let me see your map,” Tolfdir said, marking the location.
“I have been to the Reach before,” S’maash remarked.
“You have been to Markarth, no? The Reach is still Forsworn territory, no matter what that Silver-Blood says. Tread carefully.”
S’maash readied himself for the Reach.