Chapter Text
It starts, as most tales do, with a girl picking flowers in the sunshine. Yet this was not truly a girl. Under the coarse shirt rolled up to her ribs and pants tucked into sturdy boots were lean muscles, enough to be the envy of any Arena fighter—she was tall enough, too. But it was her face that belied her age—a hard jaw, harder eyes, and short red hair, just barely tied into a tail at the back of her head. She cut an imposing figure, even bent as she was, on her knees in the soft dirt.
The flowers in her hand didn’t quite suit, either. They were weeds, really—weeds being torn out by the roots in strong hands, tossed to the side like so much refuse. The air was humid, the sun beat down relentlessly, and all around, green and yellow weeds sprawled over what was once been rich farmland.
It was a job for ten men, but Irri found she much preferred doing it alone.
That was, essentially, how she had preferred it for the last three years.
Backbreaking labor in the heat of a Kvatch summer was not, on her scale, all that bad. She got to work with her hands and keep in fighting form, and what she was doing was important. Reconstruction was something the entire Empire needed to take part in, and she was doing the most she could do to help.
(Irri ruthlessly crushed any part of her that suggested another course of action.)
Footsteps behind her broke Irri’s empty-minded focus, and made her all too aware of the cramp in her back. She stretched, wincing at the all-too-loud crack, and half-turned. Seeing who it was, she smiled. Maren was a Nord from the east, come all the way across Cyrodiil to make it big—what she found was a smoking heap where Kvatch used to be. Unlike Irri, who tended towards a more nomadic pattern (and covering her tracks as she went), Maren had stayed in the county ever since. Technically, the Nord had nothing keeping her here—only her dedication to getting Kvatch back on its feet. Irri could respect that—but her respect hadn’t stopped her from giving the same false name she’d used for a year.
Maren was in no rush, walking through the rows of hastily-turned soil, a pair of hefty waterskins bouncing on her hip. She waved, and Irri raised a hand in greeting, standing up fully to try and work one final kink out of her spine.
“You’ve been out here for hours!” the Nord called, pulling a strap over her head and holding out a skin. “It’s the middle of Sun’s Height, Ara, for god’s sake, take a rest.”
Irri took the bottle but not the advice. “There’s a whole field to make ready, Maren,” she answered, taking a long pull of the vaguely spicy water. “Planting time isn’t going to wait.”
“Planting time isn’t til spring, dear,” the Nord said, raising an eyebrow.
“Yes—and there’s four more fields.”
Maren sighed, but slung the skin around her shoulders once more, taking a step back. “You work too hard, Ara—not even Bran keeps up with you, and this is his land after all. You should—”
Irri would never know what she should do, because at that moment the two became aware of a very loud voice from behind them. Maren turned, frowning, while Irri deliberately got back on her knees and started pulling. It was a high voice, and obviously excited—most likely Oren, the farmer’s youngest son.
Judging by Maren’s put-upon sigh, Irri’s guess was right. The boy crested the hill, running towards them at such a pace he was inevitably going to trip over his own feet. Impressively enough, he still managed to vault the fence. He was waving his arms, yelling about something neither of them could understand, and carried on full-pelt into the field, dirt staining his bare feet. By the time he reached them, he was out of breath, and added on to his enthusiasm, it made for a few incomprehensible syllables wheezed out between gasps. Not particularly useful.
“Mara’s blood,” Maren muttered, pulling out her waterskin to give the boy a few sips. As he caught his breath, she planted her fists on her generous hips and glared as only a middle-aged woman can. “What has gotten into you, Oren? Is the house on fire? Is the cow on fire? Is Bran on fire? Again?”
The young boy waved his arms, silencing her, nearly bouncing with energy. “T’ere’s a great big carriage just rolled up outside the old big house! Great black horses, an’ red flags all’n everywhere—m’off to find Da, s’probably another fight!” With a barely-there ‘later!’, Oren shot off once again, heading towards the cow pasture where his father had last been seen. Maren watched him go with a sigh.
“If only we all had his energy,” she muttered, before settling the skins on her hips and preparing to go. “Well, I suppose I’ll go see what this is all about—”
Irri hadn’t paused in her work, but her shoulders had gone stiff, a hard line to match her tight mouth. She ripped roots from the earth with a little more vengeance, her eyes narrowed and knuckles white. But as Maren took a step away, she cut in.
“No need,” she said tightly, crushing a stalk in her hands. “What this is all about is already here.”
“It’s true,” a voice called. “I am, after all, what everything is all about.”
Maren jumped in surprise, and Irri didn’t want to turn to look—didn’t want to with every fiber of her being, but she did. To be fair, the woman sitting on the fence was hard to ignore. She somehow made lounging on a narrow fence look natural, one elbow leaning on a post to prop up her chin. Black curls fell artfully over her shoulder, and the fine silk of her tunic and loose pants caught the light just so. She looked as if she could lie there, a half-amused, half-bored expression on her face, for hours, and not be moved to give a damn.
Kylara always did have the uncanny ability to make anything look simple.
It was not an ability that Irri had missed in the two years since she had laid eyes on the other woman.
Maren inhaled sharply, pressing a hand to her chest. Irri turned back to the dirt, shoulders tense.
Eyes wide, the Nord murmured, "Is that—"
"Yes."
"But she's—"
"Supposed to be in the Imperial City, yes."
"But—"
"Irri, my darling," Kylara called, mouth set in a pout as she gracefully slid off the fencepost. "Is this any way to say hello?" Her eyes narrowed, and her tone took on a hard edge as she approached. "Especially after all this time."
Irri couldn't help it—she winced. She wasn't so indifferent to her old friend that she couldn't detect the quiet hurt in her voice. Maren, on the other hand, blinked, looking between the approaching noblewoman and the distinctly irritated woman at her side.
"Irri?" the Nord asked blankly. Irri winced again. Only a few more moments...
"Shor's bones!" There it is. "Ara—no, Irri—you—you're one of the Heroes!"
"I was," Irri agreed, but there was a curious finality to her words. She leaned down, still not facing Kylara, and swung the rough sacks of weeds across her shoulder. She started the long trek back to the farmhouse, not looking back even when Maren called after her.
"Ar—Irri! Where are you going? I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be rude but—"
"It's quite alright," Kylara's smooth voice cut in—with a sinking feeling, Irri realized she was following. "We'll all go back to your...lovely home. There are some things I need to discuss with my dear friend."
Irri grit her teeth and kept walking.
The silence of the small farmhouse was painful. Broken only by the clink of forks and knives on wooden plates or the occasional sip of water, the tension lay thick over the table.
The main entertainment lay at the ends of the table. Kylara sat in the rough wooden chair like a throne, eating in tiny bites, green eyes fixed on Irri. For her part, Irri remained resolute, drinking cup after cup of water and gripping her utensils with white knuckles, all while staring down at her plate. Between them, the other workers, Bran and his family, and Maren watched with wide eyes.
Kylara took a single sip of water, wrinkled her nose, and delicately put the cup down. Irri carefully cut another miniscule piece of venison, eyes still fixed on her plate.
Crickets chirped outside as Maren swallowed several times, as if trying to silently clear her throat. The silence dragged on. Bran opened his mouth to whisper to his wife and was met with a burning glare. He subsided back to his meal.
Maren's eyes watered, and although everyone stared at her with wide, imploring eyes, she couldn't hold it any longer. She coughed.
Irri's fork clattered to her plate as she shot to her feet. The other diners watched, frozen with forks halfway to mouths, as the redhead stomped from her seat and into the night, the back door rattling quietly as it fell shut. As one, heads swiveled to stare at Kylara.
The noblewoman finished chewing, sedately dabbed at the corners of her mouth, and folded her napkin neatly. Laying it beside her plate, she stood, inclining her head to Bran.
"Thank you for the lovely meal," she said. Bran barely stammered a reply before Kylara followed Irri out the back door.
She wasn't hard to find. In the light of the full moon, her tall figure was outlined against the lighter crops as she stalked through the fields. Irri didn't feel the cold as she strode forward on her long legs, halting abruptly when she reached the edge of Bran's land. Rolling hills spread before her, sloping gently down to the River Brena on the very edge of Cyrodiil. Her fists clenched, and she didn't have to turn around to know that she'd been followed.
"Why now," she spat. "Why come and find me now?"
"Please," Kylara scoffed. "As if I ever lost you."
Irri whirled, only to see her oldest friend standing there impassively, arms folded.
"Then why—"
"Why didn't I come?" Kylara cut in, one eyebrow raising in disbelief. "The last time we spoke, Irri, you made it rather clear you did not want me to find you."
Irri winced. "You know I didn't mean what I said—"
"Some things," Kylara allowed. Then she looked away, down to the river, and quietly added, "Other things were exactly true."
Irri opened her mouth to protest, but Kylara continued. "That's not why I'm here, Irri. I'm not here for me."
In an instant, Irri's apologetic mood vanished. She scowled, folding her arms tightly. "Oh, I see. You're here for your precious Council."
Kylara's eyes narrowed. "My 'precious Council' rules the Empire you swore fealty to, Irri—"
"That's not what we swore fealty to!" Irri shouted, incensed, sparks flying from her fists. "It's not, and you know it, Kylara."
Kylara's face twisted, and this time, she turned away. Her hands were locked behind her back, her fingers twisting around each other, and in the warm air of a summer night, cold fog rolled off her suddenly frigid hands.
"Be that as it may," she said harshly, "the Council is what is left, and we have a duty—"
"You have a duty," Irri retorted. "I'm no lapdog."
A long moment passed, and she suddenly wished she could take it back. It was exactly like it had been two years ago—once again she was shouting without thinking it through. Irri tucked her hands under her arms, feeling the cold as she hadn't before. Soon enough, though, Kylara straightened, her posture perfect and her eyes colder than they were before. Always tucking everything under the mask.
"I can see now that you have not changed a bit, Irri," she said, slowly. Kylara seemed to want to say more, and Irri almost welcomed it. Kylara could be vicious, and Irri realized that it had been almost two years since they had argued—two years of pent up emotions and unhealed hurts. By the Nine, she was ready to let some of it out.
But the noblewoman paused, settling back on her heels and pasting on a smile. "No, not changed at all—so you must have realized your talents are being wasted here."
Irri bristled. "Wasted?" she repeated in disbelief. "Wasted? I don't know if you noticed, Kylara, but I'm rebuilding land here—land the daedra destroyed."
Kylara looked pointedly around the barren landscape past the fence, at the evidence of the daedra's fire that still showed, three years later. "And you're doing a fine job. You can cover, what—an acre a day, if the weather is good? With rusty tools and rancid water?"
"The water is fine," Irri muttered, but there was no heat behind the words. What Kylara said only confirmed the thoughts that Irri had quashed for years—as one woman with a shovel in hand, she was woefully inadequate to repair an entire country. When she left the Imperial City and all it's politics, doing one small part had been more than enough. As the months wore on, though, guilt began to creep in; if she had remained, could she have done more?
Kylara sensed an opening. "Well, fine," she sighed, turning back towards the house. "I suppose I'll have to deal with the east on my own."
Irri stayed strong for about fifteen seconds as Kylara began to walk—slowly—back through the fields. Right on time, though, she broke the expectant silence.
"What's happening in the east?"
Kylara allowed herself a tiny smirk, slowing to barely a crawl as she called over her shoulder. "I can't believe you haven't heard! I suppose you wouldn't have, being in this ridiculous backwoods country—"
"Kylara," Irri cut in tiredly. She was in no mood for Kylara's ever-present superiority.
The Imperial turned back, a disconcerting light in her eyes that didn't match her next words at all, and Irri was suddenly very, very worried.
"Haven't you heard, darling? There's a plague going on."
"I can't believe you're leaving!" Maren cried, trailing behind Irri and wringing her hands. Irri sighed, letting her knapsack fall to the dirt.
"We talked about this, Maren," she said. "It's not forever."
"But it's planting time soon!"
Irri raised an eyebrow. "I seem to remember being told that planting time wasn't til spring."
Maren huffed, but reached up to pull one of her waterskins off her shoulder. "Here. Take this for the journey."
Irri gave one of her rare smiles and accepted the gift with thanks. She gave Maren a clap on the shoulder, opening her mouth to thank her for everything she'd done, when they were rudely interrupted.
"Very touching," Kylara called, leaning out of the carriage door. "But plague victims will not appreciate the sentiment!"
Irri rolled her eyes. She said quick goodbyes to Maren and Bran before reshouldering her pack. She climbed into the well-made carriage, settling into the unoccupied bench. Across from her, Kylara turned, knocking a fist against the wood, and the carriage lurched into motion.
Irri turned in her seat to watch the tiny farm disappear into the distance. Oren was waving frantically from the roof of the house, and Irri waved back until they crested a hill and the boy fell out of sight. She turned back. Kylara was reading a book, completely uninterested. After a long minute, Irri broke the silence.
"So," she began, "tell me about this supposed plague."
"It's not a 'supposed' plague anymore," Kylara answered, without looking up from her book. "Reports of the same symptoms have come in from across eastern Cyrodiil. People are getting feverish, hallucinating, screaming, and dying." She turned a page, continuing in a bright tone. "Oh, and the fish markets in Cheydinhal are completely deserted, I haven't had salmon in weeks."
"Be serious, Kylara," Irri snapped.
"I am being serious. A complete lack of caviar is very serious."
"Kylara," Irri said warningly, but she had to turn to the window to hide a reluctant smile. Kylara was ridiculous, really.
Another turn of the page. "The Council is desperate," Kylara went on. "The farms in the east are all we have until the western crops are ready for harvest again. Losing Kvatch nearly destroyed us—if we lose the east, the west will never have a chance to recover."
Irri's expression soured at the mention of the Council. "So, what, they ordered you to fetch me, so they won't have to put one pampered toe outside the City?"
"No," Kylara snapped. She turned a page with such force Irri thought it would rip. "They wanted nothing to do with this—all their money is tied up in the west. They decided to send me because I know the land best."
"So why am I here, Kylara?" Irri demanded. "Am I your meatshield? Your pack horse? Did they want me there to catch your salmon for you?"
The book slammed shut.
"I asked for you, you stupid wench," Kylara hissed. "I am bringing you along because you are the best. The best swordswoman, the best hunter, the best citizen of the Empire I know. Because you don't give a damn about the idiotic politics of the City and you will, above all, help people. That is what I want from you, Irri, that is why you are here. If you wish to continue to see me as a mindless tool of the Council, so be it, but by Nine, do your duty."
Silence reigned. Irri stared as Kylara picked up the book once more. She either didn't notice or didn't care that frost began to creep across the cover. Distantly, Irri recognized she was likely the only one who could still break Kylara's control like that. She didn't know whether to feel pleased or sad.
She looked out the window. Hills rolled by, scrub grass glowing gold in the early morning sun, and the rough fences marking out fields completed the idyllic setting. Through the mist, though, Irri could see the truth—the distant, shadowy specter of an empty Oblivion gate. So many had opened in this region...
They never stopped these days—they couldn't. Not with gates opening faster than they could close them. Irri's skin was scalded red no matter how many herbal creams she tried, and Kylara's once-clear voice grew rougher and more hoarse with every smoke-filled gate. But the fear had been burnt away by time and experience, leaving only a recklessness as dangerous as a wildfire.
"It's another double," Irri groaned, tempted to just drop to the hillside there and then. Below them, twin columns of smoke rose into the unnaturally red sky, marking the two Oblivion gates that pulsed red, less than a mile apart.
"The veil must be thin around here," Kylara said, academically curious, physically weary. "If we don't close these two, repair the gap, more will come."
Irri didn't need to say anything. The justification was meaningless; they both would do what needed to be done.
Kylara sighed, but straightened her armor and made sure the hilt of her rapier was clear. "Well, darling, which shall we take first?"
Irri opened her mouth to reply when a thought occurred to her. "You know," she said slowly, "we could always split up, and take it in half the time."
Kylara tilted her head, considering. There wasn't much danger—while they preferred to shut down gates as a team, they had plenty of experience running solo. She nodded, turning to Irri to agree, and was met with a slightly crazed grin.
"Last one to close the gate is scamp shit!" the redhead called, rocketing down the hill and laughing her head off.
Kylara's loud swearing as she fought to catch up would remain a fond memory for weeks to come.
Irri watched the distant remains of the gate disappear over the horizon, and looked away.
Things had been simple, then.
Irri's skin itched, and she looked up to find Kylara watching her. There was no anger in that green gaze, no censure. It just seemed wistful. On impulse, Irri spoke.
"Do you miss it?"
Kylara didn't blink, merely tilted her head, but her tone said that she already knew the answer to her own question. "Miss what?"
"The war," Irri whispered. As if anyone could overhear. Kylara looked away, her eyes distant.
"Yes," she answered simply. Her gaze turned back to Irri, piercing. "Do you?"
Now Irri looked away; looked through the window, over the hills, across a lake, and straight to the base of a far-away statue that had stood in the imperial gardens for only three years, and occupied her dreams every night.
"Yeah," she said quietly. "Yeah, I do."