Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Dawn greets her like an old enemy.

The blue light of early morning hits her, and she shifts under her blankets, reluctantly sitting up. Her sleep had been nothing more than her laying still, mind racing a mile a minute. 

Her feet touch the cold stone of the floor, but she braves it, standing to walk to her scant wardrobe. The closest thing to “armor” she has is her robes, and the Archmage had not offered anything more. She presses her lips together at the sight. It occurs to her now that this … may be insufficient.

She pulls her robes on, tying them tight around her waist, as if that would protect her. They’re supposed to help center her as she casts destruction magic, making her spells stronger and easier to cast. But the material is nothing but cloth. Not for the first time, she rethinks what she’s doing. But, there was no way to back out now, and besides. The whole prospect of this was intriguing. How can she not go?

She picks up the pack she’s thrown together, swinging it over her shoulder. A few health potions, a few books, a bit of food, and, of course, her soul gem. The note that came with it is folded up next to it, the bundle wrapped carefully with cloth.

She knows she’s all set, yet she’s reluctant to leave.

It’s silent as she enters the courtyard, the snow from the night still fresh on the ground. It’s light enough that the wind has swirled it into little drifts and banks on the stone walk. The wind howls through the pillars for a moment, and then it’s silent again.

Her feet make the first marks in the snow on the walk, and she slips into the Hall of the Elements.

The door to the Archmage’s office is unlocked, and she steps inside, walking upstairs.

“Makara! Is that you? By the nine-”

“No, sir, it’s me.” She calls back. The Archmage swears, and then appears at the top of the stairs.

“Come, quickly.” He demands, his cloak swirling as he storms back into his office. Damara hurries up the stairs, entering the main chamber. The lights are dim now, and the Archmage is pacing.

“He’s not here?” She asks. He looks up sharply.

“He’s not. He’s gone. ” Damara feels an odd sense of relief and disappointment.

“So what happens now, sir?” She asks.

“You’ll have to get there first. And fast. I cannot believe that idiot, going to fuss with things that do not concern him!” Damara frowns.

“By myself?” She asks. His frown darkens.

“Unless you have a better alternative.”

“Well, isn’t there anyone who could possibly … why can’t you come?” She asks, starting to feel indignant.

“I’m a very busy man, Damara. And I need you on his trail now. Who knows when the slippery little bastard left? He could have hours of a head start on you!”

“Well … fuck!” She huffs, folding her arms. “What in Oblivion am I supposed to do?” The Archmage sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I know he’s traveling by foot, so if we were to get you a horse, you might catch up with him, more than likely overtake him.”

“Why would he travel on foot-”

“It doesn’t matter.” He interrupts. “I need you on your way.” He moves over to his desk, rummaging around. “I’ll give you coin for the horse, and a map. I assume you can follow a map?”

“Obviously.” She mumbles. He pays her no mind.

“Good.” There’s a clinking noise, and a large bag of coins is set on top of the desk. She eyes it. The last time that much gold had been in her hands was … by the nine she had to get her mind off that. What was wrong with her? Just because the assassin didn’t speak didn’t mean he couldn’t . Why would the Archmage be working so closely with an assassin anyway? He wouldn’t be. It couldn’t be him.

“Damara.” The Archmage snaps. She looks up quickly. “Here. A map. Not the most precise, but we’ve no time.” He lays it down across his desk, taking his quill out of its well to circle something.

“Is that it?” She asks. He nods.

“This whole area is a ravine. It opened relatively recently, in the last ten years, out in the mountains of the Rift, after a large quake. A single tower of the ruins was revealed in the collapse, but it seems you can access the rest of the ruins through it.”

“And I’m to secure it by myself, now?”

“Yes. You’ll have to clear the way. No room untouched, you hear? If those machines are in there, I want them found.”

“So there’s no guarantee they exist?”

“Of course not. This is a guessing game, as with all expeditions. But, obviously you’ll keep anything that is of strictly … monetary value. Any magical artifacts, I want, but consider anything else your compensation.” She bites her lip, looking at the map for a moment until the Archmage rolls it up, handing it over. “Take this, and the money. Get a horse, and go. Quickly.” She nods, still feeling off kilter. “And should you meet him on the road, take care of him. I won’t have him disturbing our work.”

“Take care of him?” The Archmage nods, expression serious.

“Whatever is necessary. I cannot risk him disturbing those ruins.” Her eyes widen in disbelief.

“You want me to-”

“Anything can happen out on the roads, Damara.” He sits back in his chair, giving her a smile. “Anything at all. What does or does not happen, well. That’s nothing anyone has to know about, is it?”

“Sir, I…”

“You’ve got a lot of potential, Miss Megido.” He interrupts her. “You know … Solitude is looking for a new court wizard. They’ve asked me to make a recommendation.” She straightens up a little. “But I can’t keep them waiting. Understand?” Her eyes meet the floor.

“Yes sir.”

The horse is an easy matter, even if it is short notice for the stablemaster. She’s on the road faster than she thought possible, riding unsteadily on the horse initially but getting the hang of it after a while. It’s not an incredibly fast thing, but it travels faster than any person on foot. She supposes she could make up for the head start the man she was supposed to … take care of had on her.

She had a lot on her mind now. The Archmage had given her a bare-bones description, which she felt unsteady with. He was a breton, tall and thin. Leather armor, and he wears a cowl, which covers the lower half of his face. Dark hair and eyes. Told her she’d know it was him when she saw him.

Of course her brain picked up all the similarities between him and the description she’d gotten years ago from the courier.

She feels the compulsion to take the black gem from her pack, to smooth her fingers over the worn paper, like she did whenever her father was on her mind. Just to remind herself she did what she had to, and that someone … someone cared. The assassin had taken it personally. Had taken care of it for her. But she’s not very steady on this horse, and the last thing she wants to do is take her hands from the reins. 

She doesn’t know what she’s going to do about him. If it is him, there’s no way she could possibly do what the Archmage wants her to do. Provided she even sees him, or catches up with him. What would she do if he had managed to get inside and messed with the machinery? It was quite likely, if he was who she thought he was. All the alluding to him being quite capable.

Her mind flashes back to her father’s dead body.

Yes, she should think he is quite capable.

It’s as she dwells on this when the hairs on the back of her neck start to raise. She sits up on the horse, which slows. It’s silent, snow falling gently from the darkening sky. It’s picturesque - peaceful. The moons hang low in the sky, the sun dipping just below the horizon. She looks around, the horse snorting nervously.

Trees and brush surround her, darkens the path, makes it hard to see just beyond. She strains to look in, and a rustle to her right makes her look. The horse stomps nervously, huffing quietly as it stands. Damara’s hands grip the reins tightly, gently plodding the horse forward, trying to move her slowly, and then the bushes rustle again, and a pair of yellow eyes catch the moonlight. A growl comes from the bushes, and the horse rears, panicked, and Damara only just stays on the horse as it bolts. Behind them, a wolf bursts from the bushes, and Damara tries to regain control. No luck. She screams as the horse goes off the path, the wolf nearly at them.

Her right hand grasps the reins firmly, her thighs squeezing either side of the horse as branches slap against her face. She can barely focus, trying to cast as she’s being dragged along for this ride. What would work? What could work?

She’s panicking, and the only thing she can think to cast is flames, shooting them at the wolf blindly. She hears it yipe, but a quick glance tells her she only threw it off for a moment. It’s at that moment that a large branch smacks her across her chest, throwing her from the horse. Her right arm, tangled in the reins, is stuck, wrenching her shoulder from its socket. She can’t help but to scream. The horse, startled, turns sharply, and they’re on cobble again. She can’t focus, the horse dragging her along by what has to be a dislocated shoulder, the wolf lunging for her. She casts again, the flames already ready to go, and makes a direct hit. The wolf screams, its mangy fur catching alight. Tears fill her eyes, and she’s only just able to see the wolf as it disappears into the woods again, little flames licking at its fur. The horse continues to run, and soon the wolf is out of sight. She, however, is still being dragged. She can’t hold back her screaming anymore, desperately trying to untangle her hand, barely able to tug what with her position. Her feet scrabble at the ground, trying to slow the horse somehow, but this is a Skyrim draft horse, not easily dissuaded by things like weight or drag.

Her left hand scrabbles at the looped reins, clawing at the leather wrapped snugly around her wrist. After a moment she wraps her hand around it, letting the flames burst again from her palm, and it separates, dropping her to the ground as the horse runs into the night.

She lays there, in shock, her heart racing and her shoulder screaming.

The snow falls silently around her.

It takes her a long time to recover enough to move. Her arm is absolutely out of its socket, and she grits her teeth, dragging herself up into a sitting position. Her arm hangs next to her, useless, and her breathing stutters, looking down at it. The pain makes her want to collapse once more, but she knows the wolf couldn’t possibly be that far away. She gets up slowly and unsteadily, unable to balance properly.

At the least, she had her scarce luggage on her person, and none of it was lost as the horse made its escape. She grits her teeth as she looks at her shoulder. Visibly, it wasn’t bad … but it hurts like a son of a bitch. She lays her good hand on her shoulder, wincing, and tries to call up healing hands.

She remembers a moment too late that things need to be set before they can be healed through magic. Pain lances through her arm, and she lets out a pained cry, short and frustrated, her teeth gritted.

“Fuck!” She yells. The snow muffles her shout, and she looks around, trying to figure out what to do. If she can just pop it back into place, her healing spell should work to repair anything torn. Her eyes settle on a nearby tree. It would have to do. 

She leans against the tree on her good side, looking at her shoulder to see how she should go about this. It’s popped out behind where it’s supposed to be, so she moves, the back of her shoulder pressed gently against the tree. She takes a deep breath, and slams her shoulder against it. She can feel it pop back into place, painful and overwhelming. She wants to collapse, but she stays standing, blinking tears back, her breathing fast and laden with pain.

The golden healing spell is already dancing between her fingers, and she places her hand gently on the damaged shoulder, allowing the healing warmth to flow over and into her skin, the pain lessening swiftly. The golden spell fades, and she rolls her shoulder. It twinges, uncomfortable, but far from the excruciating pain she was in before. Okay. Everything is okay.

Except. Her horse is gone, and she doesn’t know where the hell she is, and she doesn’t see a single sign anywhere. The trees are tall and the moons are low, meaning there’s no way to gain any sense of direction. She slips her map out of her bag, looking hopelessly at the path she was supposed to take, and wonders if she’s still on it at all.

She folds it up again, and looks around. The immediate solution is to start walking. Worst case scenario, things start looking familiar, and she has to double back. She knows she wasn’t far from a crossroad before all this, so hopefully she’ll come across some sort of signage. She straightens a little. Fine. She can do this. She’d gotten through worse.

She lets the idle flames spell in her palm provide a small amount of heat and light as she walks, the snow slowly falling and gradually dusting the path. She leaves footprints now, though within an hour they’d be buried.

She starts to feel hopeless, after a while, because nothing looks familiar, and she really hadn’t been that far from the cross roads, so something was wrong. During their brief dive into the woods, could she have passed it? Where is she? It’s fully night, now, and she’s lost. Officially lost.

It’s then that she catches a glimpse of warm yellow light ahead of her. Her footsteps pick up, moving faster, and she sees it again. A window, casting light into the darkness. Yes! She’s running now, towards it, and stumbles onto the property. Its sign reads “Nightgate Inn”, and her body floods with relief. She’s shaking, now that the fear is losing its grip on her, and she has made it to a place where she can finally get a grip on her surroundings. She enters, and a blast of warmth greets her, but nothing else.

She stands in the room, blinking in confusion, the inn silent. It’s obviously occupied, the fire blazing in the stone fire pit, but there’s not a sign of a single patron or even innkeeper.

“Is someone there?” Someone calls from a distance. It sounds like a woman.

“Um…” Damara starts. “Yes? Hello?” There’s the sound of someone coming up steps, and then a Khajiit woman appears behind the counter, grinning.

“Well! Hello there!” She says, leaning on the counter. “Don’t just stand in the door! Have a seat with me!” Damara finally leaves the doorway, entering the inn. It’s cozy in here, though she was thrown off by the silence, and the woman’s overt friendliness. “What can I get you to eat?”

“Something warm.” Damara says, and the woman laughs.

“Well. That’s not unexpected, I suppose. You have a seat, I’ll be back with a sweetroll or two.” Damara watches warily as the woman leaves back down the stairs once more. After a second, she sits, her shoulder twinging unpleasantly. She winces, pressing her lips together in worry. Maybe she should have paid more attention in restoration classes, because this certainly had not healed quite right. She sighs.

Who is she fooling? What is she doing out here? If a wolf was enough to nearly defeat her, what does she think she’s doing out here? Much less being a palace mage . She had been too comfortable with her books for too long. She isn’t near ready for real world experience. She puts her head on the counter with a soft thud .

How is she supposed to catch up with him now? With no horse, and she’s already resting for the night. But she couldn’t go on, it’s dark, and she’d already been injured once. Certainly this man , he’ll be walking further into the night, and resting shorter, if he’s as experienced as the Archmage made him seem. Her quest was already a failure.

She hears the woman clear her throat, and she jumps, her head flying up. The Khajiit woman, having approached silently, regards her with amusement.

“I’ve brought you a sweetroll. Would you care for a warm mug of mulled wine? Or perhaps a bowl of stew?”
“Yes to both, please.” She says. A warm sweetroll is set in front of her and the woman turns to the small fire pit beside her to ladle out some mulled wine and something else, which smelled like rabbit stew, from the pots warming above it.

 Damara begins to pick apart the sweetroll. She can tell the woman had hurriedly stuck it back in the oven to make it warm, but it doesn’t even matter. It’s warm, and it’s not half bad. The Khajiit places her mug and bowl in front of her, and leans back against the wall with her own mug of mulled wine, studying Damara. Damara is too hungry to care, and begins to eat her stew.

“So! What is your name? Strange to see a high elf in such cold.” She says. Damara raises an eyebrow, looking back up at her.

“It’s Damara. Damara Megido. And I could say the same for you. You are?” She waits for an introduction.

“You may call me Kodo'shaa. And I have grown very accustomed to the cold. Does my accent sound Elsweyr? No. I was born in this snowy wasteland.”
“A fact you seem most happy with.” Damara says, sarcasm clear in her voice. She smirks as she sips her mulled wine. It's been on the fire for too long, which she does not comment on. Kodo'shaa laughs.

“You are very funny, Miss Megido. You make for an entertaining guest. Tell me … do you intend to stay the night?” Damara looks around at the completely silent inn.
“Well … do you have the room?” She asks. The Khajiit smirks in amusement.

“For you? Certainly. You should be honored, we’re very busy. A record two guests in one week.” Damara focuses on her. 

“You have another guest?” She asks, trying to hide her overt interest. Could it be him? The woman hums.

“No, they only stopped for a moment, for a sweetroll, like they always get.”

“You know them?” She asks, and then covers. “I don’t see you having too many regulars.”

“They stop by on their way to the College every now and then. Guests are memorable, due to their rarity, but especially so when they act so strangely.”
“Strangely how?” She asks.

“Would you know, I have never heard them talk. Not once.” Kodo'shaa shrugs. “They used to write their order every time, but it was the same every time. They are always polite enough, though they rarely stay the night.”
“Why do you say “they”?” She interrupts, prying maybe a little too much. The Khajiit woman laughs.

“It’s hard to tell with you furless ones. With differences as subtle as the width of the jawline. And theirs is almost always shielded with their hood. Usually I can tell by the pitches of your voices, but they have never spoken to little old me.” She shrugs. “Perhaps a man? Certainly they are tall. But they are a Breton, most of them are as such. She waves a hand. “Such interest. Are you … looking for such a person?” She asks. Damara hesitates.

“Perhaps.” She says, weakly, knowing the Khajiit has her figured out. Kodo'shaa grins.
“Tell me why. No need to worry. I just like to know things. And perhaps, if you share, I may also share. I get so bored around here. They won’t be back for at least three moon cycles, anyway. I won’t spoil your plans.”

“What if you disagree with my plans?” She asks, challenging.
“They are only a customer.”

“And so am I. How do I know you won’t share my plans with someone who wants to wrong me?” Kodo'shaa shrugs.

“You don’t. But I know plenty about this person you … may or may not be seeking. So this could be mutually beneficial. And, how about this. Tell me a good enough story, and I’ll let you stay for free.” Damara weighs her options for a moment before sighing, raising an eyebrow.
“Doesn’t seem like a very business friendly practice. But fine.” She sips her mulled wine again, thinking. “We were supposed to go to a … dwarven ruin together.” She says, choosing her words carefully. “Instead, he left the night before to reach there alone. I’m supposed to intercept him ... for the Archmage of the College. Depending on how willing he is to compromise, perhaps this will turn out okay.” Kodo’shaa hums thoughtfully

“He did seem to be in an awful hurry.” She says, her gray eyes dark and intrigued. “What ruin are you seeking?” Damara sighs, debating whether or not to share. After a moment, she concedes.

“My quest is probably a bust, anyway. I’ve already been bested by a wolf. I’m utterly unprepared for this, so I suppose this is no harm.” She drinks her mulled wine once more, slumping over the table slightly, her chin resting heavily on her free hand. “We’re seeking a ruin called Oft’grimnar.” Kodo’shaa hums, knowingly. “You know of it?”
“I’ve heard mention, though I thought it was lost.”
“It was. The Archmage says tremors have moved the ground, revealing a tower from what they believe to be part of Oft’grimnar. Over in the mountains in the Rift, to the far East.” The Khajiit’s thoughts are unnervingly unreadable, and she continues to watch Damara as she speaks, the curious glint in her eye her only tell.

“You think you have already failed? Then why even try to seek information on this person?”
“Because … I think I know him. He … did me a favour a long time ago, but left before I could … properly thank him, I suppose.”
“Ah.” She says, voice full of understanding. Damara feels a spike of fear, but the Khajiit’s smile is smug and lazy, satisfied with her read on the situation. “A favour? I can guess what favour that might have been … that armor they go around wearing is unusual … but I have seen it before.” She pauses, dramatically. “Brotherhood armor.”
“So he is part of the Brotherhood.” She says, feeling her heart pick up, excited and scared in turns. It was him. Exactly as she had feared … and hoped.

“Now this is interesting. Maybe you’ll earn that room yet.” Kodo'shaa says, tapping her claws against the tin mug in her paws. “I’ll tell you a little, then. I know their first name. Kurloz. Kurloz M-something. They’re experienced. I’ve seen their weapons. Daedric, and buzzing with magic. I don’t imagine you’d have much luck if they disagree with your dwarven ruin plans.” Kurloz. His name is Kurloz. She resists the urge to take her soul gem out, to bring out his letter so she can run her thumb over it for comfort.
“I don’t imagine so either.” She mumbles, finishing her mug of mulled wine. It seemed a weak batch, but that was just fine.

“Why did they split off? What do you seek?” Damara hesitates.

“Several items of … magical importance to the Archmage.”
“I see. Well. Why do you think you’ve already failed?” Kodo’shaa asks, moving away to fill another tin mug with mulled wine, setting it by Damara’s empty one. Damara sips at it, holding the warm mug close to herself.
“I don’t know what I’m doing...” She says, feeling defeated. “I nearly was ended by an Oblivion-sent wolf . I’ve lost my horse. I’ve no idea how to possibly convince him to help me, and I’ve no plan for if I can even clear the ruins.” She sighs over the rim of her drink, pensive as she slumps in her chair. “I haven’t even got armor.” She drinks deeply, and notices a weird, bitter aftertaste to the drink. Perhaps the cup? She doesn’t dwell on it, just enjoys the warmth it brings.
“Certainly, you have been handed a monumental task...” Kodo'shaa sounds a little far away, and Damara realizes she may be a little tipsy, actually. That wine must have seriously creeped up on her. She swirls the cup a little, frowning down at it as the other woman continues. “But things are not always as hopeless as they seem.” She looks back up at Kodo’shaa, raising an eyebrow.

“How so? I’ve barely the coin to pay for all this. I can’t buy myself any equipment, let alone another horse.” She says.

“Let me help you.” Damara’s brow furrows, her suspicion immediately raised.

“Why.” She demands, flatly, studying her over the rim of her mug. “What do you get out of it?” Kodo'shaa smiles.

“Well … plenty of treasure in those ruins. Sounds as if a … return on investment is in the future.”

“And if I die, horribly?”

“Then I am no better or worse off than before. I have armor. Do I use it? No. I am an innkeeper. But I could use gold. And … perhaps any books you may find?”

“Books.” She says, dubious.

“And gold. Maybe … a mere quarter of whatever you find?”

“Why books?” She asks. The Khajiit’s tail twitches a little. She knows this is some sort of tell for Khajiit, but she’s not sure what. Kodo'shaa gestures to the tall stack of books on the counter.

“I’m quite the reader. I should be thrilled to have my hands on anything Dwarven.” Damara frowns, finding the terms of this Khajiit’s deal surprisingly agreeable.

“How can you help me?” She asks, starting on the second mug of wine. Kodo’shaa smiles, seeming to know Damara has been persuaded.

“I have armor. I have weapons. I even have a horse. And furthermore, I have traveled up and down these roads, and know many waypoints. Here, let me see your map.” Damara pulls her pack up, taking her folded map out of her bag, and hands it to her. She takes it gently, unfolding the map.

Very few waypoints are marked on her map. Kodo’shaa’s paw traces over where the ruins have been marked on her map, and then taps it.

“These are the ruins?” She asks. Damara nods. “Interesting.” She sets the map on the counter, stepping away to take a pot of ink from beneath the counter, as well as a quill. She begins to make small markings at certain locations, using map symbols to denote various places along the route, starting with her own inn. There are plenty of abandoned old farms, and she presses her lips together as Kodo’shaa marks an old farmhouse outside of Windhelm. The same place that set all these events into motion. She drinks, silently, and watches the Khajiit work.

Kodo’shaa is methodical, and apparently thorough. There are plenty of caves, ruins, and apparent bandit holes she carefully marks along her path, mumbling to herself occasionally. Eventually, she pulls back, looking satisfied.

“There. You see? I deliver on my promises.” She says. “Does this give you hope?”

“I must say it does.” She says, taking the map gently to study it.

“I should think you will encounter them at an abandoned farm. Perhaps a cave, if not on the road.”

“Why do you say that?” 

“They have expressed distaste in staying in inns to me before, when I bothered them a little too much about spending a night here.” Damara hums softly, studying the wine in her mug. She was starting to feel dizzy, actually, and she sets the cup down, pushing it away a little. 

“This is ridiculous.” She mumbles to herself. “It feels as if I’m chasing a ghost.”

“Seeking a member of the Brotherhood will always feel as such. Those bastards are tricky.”

“And how do you know so much of the Brotherhood?”

“It is not my first day under the sky.” She says. “And I have not always been an innkeeper. Even now, it is simply … a pastime.” Damara sees the glint of her razor sharp fangs in her smile.

“Sounds intriguing.” She says, and Kodo’shaa shakes her head with a smile.

“It is a long story, and you have a long road ahead of you.” She says. “Let me show you to a room, I will make a few preparations for the morning, and you’ll leave first thing.”

“You seem excited.”

“Well, I have gold on the line. Would you not be as such?” Kodo’shaa waves away her concerns. “Come with me.”

She is shown to a room, and Damara shuts the door firmly behind her, and latches it. One can never be too careful … especially with how unsteady she felt.

She hears the wind battering against the walls and windows, but despite the frightful noise, they hold fast. Outside, snow that had been falling gently as she entered the inn is now falling thick and heavy, obscuring her view into the woods. She sighs softly, and sits on the hay mattress, bending to untie her boots. She sets them to the side, and puts her pack beside them.

It’s nerve wracking, what the immediate future might hold. But things are starting to look up, fucking finally. But now that she knows this is Kurloz she’s after… she’s uncertain how to feel. But she hopes when they finally do meet, it goes well.

She isn’t sure what to do if it doesn’t

She lays down, tugging the slightly too thin blankets over herself. Despite the loud wind and the chill sleeping in, she’s exhausted enough that she already feels sleep pulling her down. With a quick breath, she extinguishes the candle beside the bed, and settles in to sleep.