Chapter Text
Ealare had a very specific image in her head when she imagined Orsinium. Cruel and crude. Metal and stone wrought from the mountains, strong in function and appearance, but also something of an aesthetic blight on the landscape. She was aware the last bit was the Altmer in her, that innate desire for graceful and harmonious design.
Eclipsing her expectations completely however, Orsinium was like the shadow of the mountains surrounding it. Masterly-worked stone made up the largest and greatest of the buildings -- guildhalls, places of office, and the like. Each was adorned with intricate symbols and chevrons, though Ealare did not know their meaning. There was no shame in admitting how far off her presumptions were.
The drinks, however, fell well under her standards. The beer was strong and one-note, almost tasteless. Perhaps early into some evening celebrations she’d partake, but in the morning? She already felt a headache coming on.
Her companion, Frandivar al-Elinhir, was on his second cup. Redguard folk seemed slow to inebriation. He smiled when she caught his eye. “Not taken with the local brand?”
“Would it kill them to add a bit of spice? Or any flavor?”
“That’s not really its purpose.”
“Why would you get drunk first thing in the morning?”
“Would you rather be setting up the tents with the rest of the Troupe?”
Ealare conceded the point by enduring another swig. The city was alive with activity. Hunters were readying themselves for the morning’s hunt, the smiths--Ealare noticed they were mostly women--were heating up the heavy forges, and laborers were gathering their equipment and supplies.
Beyond her sight, closer to the outskirts of Orsinium, the Troupe of Wayward Souls were no doubt setting up their performance tents and practicing routines. Fran and her had arrived early and paid for the spot, exempting them from taking part in the preparation. Vira was, of course, upset about that, but her grandfather Dodrick talked her down. Dodrick could talk most people down.
He could talk most people into anything. He’s the reason Ealare was even part of this Troupe. Yet even that feat isn’t so unbelievable as them actually accepting her. She tried to shrug that feeling away, but anxiety often crept into her mind, telling her that one day they’d come to their senses.
“Fran, I’m going for a walk,” Ealare said, standing.
“I’ll join you.” Fran set his drink down, but she stopped him with a hand on his chest.
“Alone.” He looked down at her hand.
She realized how it lingered there and turned away, down the road. “I’ll be back before long,” she called back, her voice far less on edge than she actually was.
The streets grew tighter, the alleys nearer, as she entered the heart of the city. Her presence earned a few odd looks. Altmer were not unheard of in Orsinium, but like most travelers, they often stuck to the outer edges of the city. But save for the sound of work, of blacksmithing and woodworking, it felt quieter. It was the talking. There was very little of it in this part of the city. Noise, certainly, but little conversation to be had.
She liked it. The orsimer were a hardworking and serious people. Were they as absorbed in their work now as she once was? Of course she had done grimmer, less honorable work.
A strong hand grabbed her shoulder. Before she could respond, her attacker pulled her into the alleyway they’d no doubt been hiding in. The grip on her shoulder never lessened, but as she tried to reach for her sword, another hand gripped her wrist, stopping it cold.
Stillness, Ealare was pinned against the alley wall, both arms trapped. Her attacker was cloaked, but they took no further action. “Been awhile, highness,” the figure said. It was deep, but had the faintest feminine tone. And it was familiar.
“... Garoshka?”
The orsimer woman lifted her head. Garoshka’s face was scarred and burned, barely visible beneath the dark hood. It bore a smile, sharpened tusks prominent. “Gonna try to draw that sword if I let you go?”
“If you don’t intend harm, neither do I.”
Garoshka’s smile widened. “Don’t always intend harm, highness, but in our line, that’s just the way it goes sometimes.” After appearing to give it a greater deal of thought than Ealare was comfortable with, Garoshka released her.
Ealare massaged her wrist, leveling her gaze down at Garoshka. Ealare once thought Garoshka was simply unaware of her own strength. She learned quickly that Garoshka was keenly aware of it. “You escaped the purge,” Ealare said.
“Sure did. You always had a good eye for danger, so I figured you leaving was a sign that something was coming.”
Ealare stepped aside and leaned against one of the barrels along the wall. Composure was hard kept, but also key when dealing with one like Garoshka. “How long after I left?” She didn’t leave the Dark Brotherhood because of a coming purge, only hearing of it months later. She left because it disgusted her, because she hated herself, because it was destroying her. But Garoshka appeared to think she was just escaping ahead of the storm.
Best she didn’t disillusion the orc of that notion.
“Two months, two and a half at most.”
“Are we the only ones?”
Garoshka let out a tired breath. “Last I saw, he was still alive,” she said. Ealare cursed. “You know he’s a slippery little bastard, highness.” A hint of humor had crept into the orsimer’s voice.
Ealare didn’t find it funny. If Artagon Virmire was still alive, she wasn’t safe. Nor was the Troupe. “Do me a favor? If you see him again, stick a dagger in his ribs. Or at least tell him you heard that I died.”
She made to return to the streets, but Garoshka grabbed her arm again, tighter this time. “You’re not doing all this just to hide from him, are you?”
“‘All this?’”
“Walking about in Orsinium, arriving with that gaggle of performers.”
Her heart began to race. She fought to keep her expression still. “I do have business with them, but I’d rather not get into it.”
“I know how dangerous Artagon is and I know he doesn’t much care for you,” Garoshka said, letting go of Ealare. “So how about a deal? You join up with my people. If he shows his hide, we put him down.”
“Your people? The orcs?”
Garoshka barked out a laugh. “A gang. Nothing so revered as the Dark Brotherhood, but at least we’re not as prickly.”
Thoughts swam through Ealare’s mind. Garoshka was one of the Brotherhood’s best. Her skill in subterfuge was second only to Ealare -- though perhaps even that was no longer true, given Garoshka catching her by surprise -- and no one in the old Brotherhood would fancy facing her in open combat. Even if Artagon was more skilled, a single misstep would cost him.
Ealare could ensure that misstep.
It was the soundest, safest plan. The Troupe had its warriors. Frandivar was more skilled with a blade than she was and Vira was an admittedly powerful mage, but Artagon wouldn’t give them a chance to fight back. Garoshka had a chance.
The skin on her palm tingled. She remembered Frandivar, the months working by his side. She remembered the odd moment when they were each deep in their work and they would brush against the other.
She remembered Dodrick, the old bosmer that was the reason she was here, living a better life.
She remembered and fought to make the right choice.
“You,” Garoshka said, voice catching in disbelief, “you’re going to stick with the thespians?”
“I have business with them.”
“Night Mother’s blouse, you like those witless scamps? Don’t bother lying, I’m looking you dead in the eyes, highness.”
Ealare bit back a retort. Not that Garoshka didn’t deserve a thrashing, but this wasn’t the place, for a number of reasons. “There are parts of this life I’m not ready to give up.”
“Well I hope those parts are worth it, don’t see them lasting long if they run up against Artagon.”
Ealare took a step forward.
Garoshka’s eyes narrowed, then she leaned in. They were almost nose-to-nose. “What? You want to make a threat, make a threat. That grim look doesn’t work on me, remember?”
The silence was as thin as the space between them. They were like statues of shadow in the alley until Ealare’s voice broke the illusion. “Not a word about me to any of the old members.”
“Or what?”
“Or I’ll kill you. You know I can manage that.” Even if I die with you.
Garoshka turned away slowly. “Have fun with the stage plays, highness,” she said, giving a mock bow. That nickname had never been so full of mockery. With a wave of her hand, Garoshka disappeared in a cloak of illusory magic.
Ealare stood breathless in the alley for a minute. Then two, then three. Her head somehow felt both heavy and light. She needed to get back to the Troupe.
The tent was fully set up by the time she returned. Vira was at the borders of their rented property, entertaining a group of orsimer children with a small, illusory stampede of goats chasing a gaggle of miniature goblins. At the sight of Ealare, Vira’s smile dropped, the illusion wavered and she scrambled to reassert control.
After a word from Vira in orcish, the children ran off, apparently directed to a new source of entertainment.
Vira folded her arms and aimed a judgmental look Ealare’s way. Vira was young, but often took a matriarchal tone with the newer members. This included Ealare, despite being the girl’s senior by at least a hundred years. “You’re supposed to have a companion when we’re in the cities, remember?”
“I can take care of myself, remember?” Ealare said.
“Oh, you cocky--” Vira said in a low, almost hushed voice. “Maybe you need a companion so someone can keep an eye on you.”
“As long as you don’t volunteer yourself.”
“Like I’d want to be shackled to you for hours on end. Where in Oblivion were you anyway?”
“Out drinking. I’d say where but the orsimer seem surprisingly strict on being of proper age to drink.”
Vira scowled. “Months with us and all you can offer us is scorn and secrecy. We took you in, even after--”
“Vira!” Dodrick shouted. Despite the volume, it hardly sounded like an admonishment, yet the argument was extinguished like a spent match. The old bosmer walked up, staff in hand. To Ealare’s surprise, he was joined by an orc, massive and in full orichalc plate. The orc simply watched on, gaze like imperious stone and only silent judgment on his face.
“Grandfather, she--” Vira started, but Dodrick cut her off.
“I heard. Are retorts the solution?” he said, voice light but stern. “Go tend to the animals. I need to speak with Ealare, then I’ll come to help you.”
Sneaking in one last glare at Ealare, Vira stalked off to the stables and cages. Ealare watched her go before turning to Dodrick. He was looking at her, eyes tired. “I expect better of you as well,” Dodrick said.
“I don’t take well to being told what to do.”
“And mockery gives you a bit of that power back, eh?”
Ealare opened her mouth to speak, but said nothing.
He smiled. “I don’t imagine feuding with one so young as her will make you feel in control. You know you’re better than that.”
“I can’t feel in control when I’m not even--” She paused and looked at the orc, who had been studying them with detached interest. “Can we have this conversation another time?”
Dodrick raised an eyebrow and followed her gaze to his orcish companion. “Ah! Olkor, I forgot you were with us.”
Olkor nodded emphatically. “It is well. I was just observing.” His eyes dug into Ealare, like he could actually figure out everything about her with enough intense staring.
“Well, clumsy introductions aside,” Dodrick said. “Ealare, this is Guard-Captain Olkor. Olkor, this is Ealare. A newer member.”
“One of your warriors,” Olkor said.
“Indeed.”
Olkor nodded again. “How many have you killed?”
Ealare’s eyes narrowed a fraction. “How many what?”
“Things.”
“It would take too long to count. But,” she said hesitantly, “many I would not be proud to count, in any case.”
“Too insignificant?”
“Too innocent.”
Olkor paused, though his expression remained the same. “I see. I have tested the redguard already,” Olkor said, gesturing to a deep cut in the center of his chest piece. “If he has vouched for you, I will trust you as suitable.”
“Suitable?” She looked to Dodrick. “For what?”
“We will be hosting a show for the youngest daughter of the Lord-Chieftain.”
“An orcish princess,” Frandivar said. He ran a stone along the edge of his blade, drawing a satisfying ring from the metal. “Been awhile since we played to royalty.”
“Not since I’ve been a part of the Troupe.” Ealare sat atop a pile of boxes, watching the small crowd of workers. The performance would be tomorrow night, leaving almost two full days of pure rehearsal. They often did more conceptual preparation on the road. “Though I wouldn’t call her a princess. They don’t have an official title, from what I recall.”
“Lord-Chieftain Haggrish is a sentimental sort. He likes those old stories. Knights and princesses.”
“Stories that often paint his people as monsters and brutes.”
Fran flashed a smile without looking at her. “Sounds like someone should fix that.”
Ealare raised an eyebrow. “The play you’re doing.”
“Grinnok is our lead. Proud, orcish knight saving the princess from the mighty dragon.”
“Sounds like Haggrish will like it,” Ealare said, stepping down from her perch.
“Where are you headed?”
“Not like I have rehearsal. I’ll go double-check security.”
“The play isn’t until tomorrow.”
“Then I guess I’ll go brood.”
Frandivar let her go with an exasperated chuckle. Ealare was waiting for him to invite him to join in the play, but he had probably guessed she wasn’t interested. She was raised on these stories too, but in Alinor, they had a different agenda. One of cultural purity. Swap bestial dragons for unclean, impure elements of society. The vile upstart, the foreign influence. Swap princesses for the heir of some pure bloodline.
Ealare was hardly a master of literature and maybe it wasn’t right to criticize stories so old. They were almost made in a different world. Still, in an orcish fable especially, couldn’t a princess slay a dragon? She shook her head. A childish thought.
Ealare arrived at the top of the stands where the Lord-Chieftain and his daughter would be seated. The rest of the stands, as well as the stage, had been almost completely assembled. A pair of actors sat at the stage’s edge, discussing their coming scenes. Ealare held the silence in her mind, as she always used to before a job. These days the silence never lasted long.
“And this is where you’ll be…” said Vira from the base of the stairs as footsteps grew near. The bosmer reached the top of the steps, trailed by a young orc girl. Both paused as they saw Ealare. “Oh. It appears it’s occupied.”
“I was just getting a look about the place.”
“Well,” Vira said, apparently unused to dealing with non-hostility from the altmer. “This is Sharn, the Chieftain’s daughter. The one we’re putting on this play for.”
“I had heard,” Ealare said, turning towards the girl. Girl may be exaggerating, but Ealare imagined she was young even for an orsimer. She was at least three heads shorter than Ealare herself and her clothes, while clearly fine and functional, were somewhat roughspun. Her gaze though, her gaze was steady, even if Ealare could tell there was effort to keep it that way. “It is an honor to meet you. I am Ealare. I help with security.”
“Security, here?” Sharn said. “We’re in the middle of Orsinium.”
“One can never be too prepared,” Ealare said. An image of Garoshka flashed in her mind. “Are you looking forward to the play?”
“It sounds like one of father’s stories.”
Not to your liking then, Ealare thought. “Your night is in good hands. These performers are among the best.” She turned to Vira. “I’m being stationed by Sharn and the Chieftain. Who else will be with us?”
Vira raised her hand. The two shared a look. Antagonistic though they were, they at least were of one mind that distance was a better remedy than forced cooperation. Unity borne of revulsion.
“I see. Your grandfather has a sense of humor.”
“A way of putting it,” Vira said. “Sharn, would you like to see the props?”
“What kind of props?”
“Weapons.”
Sharn’s eyes glowed slightly. The two left Ealare to her musing.
She leaned against the nearest pillar and watched the sun as it neared the horizon.
The day of the play raced by. Approaching dinner, Ealare could hardly recall the day’s events. A morning training session with Frandivar, retrieving her weapons from the local smithy, a begrudging security briefing with Vira, and the day was nearly done.
Save for the play, of course.
Ealare has resolved to it being just another day to trek through. Complete the errands and it will pass by, undelightful as to be expected. Then Fran dropped a bottle of proper wine in her lap. Her eyes widened. “Arenthia Red?”
“It’s not the Summerset Isles, but it’s further south than any of the other selections.”
Even sealed, there was the scent of Valenwood just as she remembered, though she was only there briefly. The sharp smell of berries with a faint earthy undertone. The scent--and memories--were strong. She exhaled, setting the bottle back down before her. “I could marry you right now, you know?”
“With any luck, the wedding will be cheaper.”
“Oh no, how much?”
Fran forced a smile. “They said we’d have to name the child after him. How do you fancy the name Argrok?”
Ealare stared a moment before chuckling under her breath. “Oh, you ass. I almost started feeling bad.”
“Feel bad for the kid.”
“Not like I’d let you see them.”
Fran clutched at his chest. “You would deprive a son of their virtuous father?”
“You are far from virtuous, Frandivar al-Elinhir! And what makes you so certain it would be a boy?”
“My father said all things are a matter of will. Wish for a son strongly enough and the Divines will make it so.”
Ealare laughed. “And suppose I want a daughter instead?”
“A son and a daughter then.”
“Twins, eh? Or do you think I’d take you twice?” Ealare said through her smile. “A touch bold.”
“Just a touch?”
The two laughed, bottle still sealed between them. When the laughter faded, along with the slight pain in Ealare’s sides, she said, “All this talk and we haven’t touched the wine yet. Divines wonder what will happen when we share such a drink.”
“Well,” Fran said, leaning in before suddenly snatching the bottle from the table, “I’m afraid they’ll have to wonder for at least another day. We’re on call in a few hours.”
“Wait.” Ealare pawed at the bottle, but Fran had already stepped away from the table. “I can’t even have one drink of it?”
“Tomorrow!” shouted the quickly departing Frandivar.
“You’re a damned tease, Frandivar!” Ealare slumped down in her seat. She really, really wanted that drink. She wanted Frandivar too, but that cruelty almost shoved that out of her mind.
A chuckle broke her out of her malaise. Dodrick was standing at the table’s edge, cup of steaming tea in hand. He wore a sympathetic smile. “He brought out the red wine, didn’t he?”
“It was Arenthian.”
“Bit sweet for me.”
“More into the bitter stuff?”
“More honest about being alcohol,” Dodrick said.
Ealare laughed shortly. “So,” she said, centering herself, “I suppose it’s pointless to ask if you think I’m wasting my time.”
“With Frandivar? Hardly, your feelings are clearly reciprocated.”
“With the Troupe.”
“Ah.” He took a sip of his tea. “I don’t know that.”
That caught Ealare off-guard. “Really?”
“Really.”
“You’re the biggest optimist I know. Don’t know anyone else that would hire a former member of the Dark Brotherhood. Figured you’d assure me right out of the gate.”
“I hope you can find a family here, Ealare, whatever that word means to you. I know this Troupe has the potential to heal you from the harm that working for the Brotherhood has done to you. But not all potential comes to pass.” Dodrick’s expression became sad. “Lukstrin, Vira’s father, was a gifted mage. Beyond gifted. I’ve met Archmages that couldn’t measure up to him.”
“I’ve never heard you speak of him,” Ealare said, curious.
“Lukstrin was not a faithful man. Vira’s mother left the Troupe because of him. I keep in contact, of course, but the Troupe brings back bad memories and Vira is happy enough without her.” He shrugged. “Anyway, one night during some celebration or not, Lukstrin made his usual passes around the bars, not often caring for tact or modesty. He made some rather forward advances towards a young lady that was committed to another man. Another man that was standing not far-off, another man unfortunate enough to lay his hands on Lukstrin.”
Ealare felt the blood pulsing in her veins. She could guess what was coming. “Lukstrin killed him.”
“Lukstrin slaughtered him,” Dodrick said. Ealare has never seen fury in the old bosmer’s eyes before. Now one of his hands tightened around his walking stick. “Tore him apart. I heard what happened and I fled. The Troupe set out the moment I heard of his imprisonment.”
Ealare closed her eyes, trying not to picture the scene. She had a strong imagination and an intimate familiarity with true bloodshed. “Does Vira know?”
He nodded.
Slowly, the pieces fell into place. Vira’s dislike of her was about more than simply Ealare’s own attitude. Ealare had seen how patient Vira could be with others. “Does she think I’ll fall like he did?”
Dodrick closed his eyes. “Vira is slow to forgive, as you’ve noticed. And now you can guess why. She looked up to her father. His actions were a betrayal to her.”
“Yet I’ve done worse than kill one man.”
“You have and it weighs on you everyday. If Lukstrin were sitting before, he would find his actions amusing. Perhaps he’d feel pride in them. Is there an ounce of pride in your time with the Brotherhood?”
Ealare searched herself. She dug through calloused memories and horrors she wished forgotten. She was certain, deep down, there’d be some withered seed of pride, some admittance that at least the Brotherhood’s training was worth it, that she was good at what she did. There was nothing.
She was skilled at killing, that couldn’t be denied. She was skilled in ways most were not, in things that could be useful to the Troupe. Yet if it was her choice, she would erase it all without a second thought. She’d give up her skills, her history, even this life if it meant undoing everything.
Ealare felt exhaustion suddenly weighing on her.
“Perhaps you will never earn redemption, Ealare. I do not have the right to say. But should that stop you from trying?”
“No.”
“I would agree.” Dodrick placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “You should rest before the play. It do well to be awake while on guard duty.”
Ealare smiled weakly and left, finding a spare bedroll to nap on.