Chapter Text
Many spirits called the tundras east of Hjaalmarch home. Donobhan left them be, and they didn’t pay him much mind. Far from the Reach though he was, he was a Spiritblood in his heart, and wayward spirits of circumstance caused him no discomfort.
But, there was one he saw, different from the rest, dressed in dark tones, hair blood red with the light of the setting sun. Often they stood in the corner of his vision, a slender shape off in the hills and glaciers, and when he turned to look, they were gone.
His gaze lingered where he swore the ghost stood. It was odd, he thought; not often did mere spirits leave behind footprints in the snow. He could feel the residual power left in their wake; not magicka per se, but the aetherial energy of a being no longer of this plane, yet trapped here for one reason or another. It was familiar in some ways, yet unlike anything he had encountered at the same time.
In the evening, Donobhan played his flute by the campfire, with Calahan, the guardian wolf, curled up at his side. It was a somber tune, the Song of Gwyna, though it brought back to him memories of calm spring nights as the frost began to give way to the first hints of green beneath. As he played the melody, he could hear in his mind the voice of the Vateshran singing the words, could see the smiling faces of his family illuminated by the fire.
There was a pang of loneliness in his chest as the memory overtook him. As the end of the song drew near, he pulled the flute back from his lips, feeling a bit untethered. In the language of his homeland, the last verse he sang aloud, alone.
“We will die, but will not care,
Rowolan's dream will be done.
The clan I love is doomed,
This season or the next,
It ought not die alone.”
In the quiet that followed, the snap of a twig was heard, and Calahan's head shot up from where he lay. The wolf snarled and barked, gaze fixed on something beyond the campfire's warm light. Curious, Donobhan picked up his staff and a hooded lantern from the side of his yurt, moving to investigate the sound. Snow crunched beneath his boots as he followed Calahan around the yurt. The wolf led him around the perimeter, but they found nothing.
"Come on. Whatever it is, it's gone now," Donobhan reassured him, heading back to the campfire.
But there was something there; Donobhan could feel it in the following weeks. That same energy, a power from beyond the grave. Calahan could sense it too, he supposed, though as time went on it seemed to trouble the wolf more than him.
Something about the spirit brought him comfort. He felt almost as if he knew them, in a way. As he reached out to the magicka around him, he could feel them there, just out of sight as he played his flute. It became almost a nightly routine, playing for the spirit just as much as for his own enjoyment.
The soul he felt was a mirror of his own, and they were so sorrowfully, desperately alone.
As the snow began to melt in the valley and give way to grass and wildflowers, it felt like just that was enough. Donobhan felt heard, for the first time in a long time. But would it be greedy of him to want more?
The days grew long and the presence of the spirit diminished, and he yearned for that shadow he had grown to appreciate. He missed them, he realized, in an odd way. In the evening, he watched a spider spin its web above the padded entryway of his yurt, and it put his mind at ease.
The days waned once more in their length, the green draining from the valley like a river to the sea. Donobhan breathed in the scent of the first frost as the sun rose, an ill-advised sense of relief rising in his chest. Skyrim’s winters were cruel, of course; but, oh, how he longed to see his red-haired spirit.
The land froze once more as it became engulfed in near-eternal night, and Donobhan smiled to himself as multicoloured light danced across the sky, feeling whole again with the spirit nearby.
“I wish I could learn more about you,” he thought aloud. The silence was broken only by the crackling of the campfire as Donobhan thought more on it. What would he say if he could talk to the spirit?
“I don’t think your dog likes me very much.”
Donobhan froze, the breath knocked from his chest as he processed what he had just heard. As he regained his senses, he quickly hushed Calahan, placing a hand firmly at his back in reassurance as the wolf growled in the direction of the voice. Donobhan turned to look behind him, eyes darting over the dark treeline.
“He’s– not usually like this. I swear, he’s real friendly once you get to know him,” Donobhan said quickly, suddenly feeling a bit embarrassed. “Cal, stop it!” he hissed under his breath.
An amused chuckle sounded from the shadows beyond the campfire.
“Perhaps I’ll just stay out here for now, if that’s alright.” Their cadence was soft, staccato in a way that suggested their words were carefully chosen before they spoke, and their accent was one with which Donobhan was unfamiliar.
“Sure,” he replied. Calahan’s growling ceased, though his attention still fixed intently on the source of the voice. Donobhan laughed, a little giddy and disbelieving, as he saw the barest hint of red in the darkness. “I… I don’t suppose you’d tell me your name?” He chanced after a moment.
“Asha-ammu,” they said, and Donobhan saw a flash of red as their eyes met for but a moment, like the haunting crimson light of Masser in the night sky.
“Asha-ammu,” he smiled as he tested it on his tongue. “That’s beautiful. I’m Donobhan.”