Chapter Text
High in the mountains of the stretch of land that would someday come to be known as Haafingar, but was then known as the Feign, a temple curled quietly amongst the trees and cliffs. It barely made a sound, until nightfall, when pounding drum music echoed from its walls, a particular song for each phase of every moon that hung in the sky. Unlike the greyed, rough stone used for temples elsewhere across Skyrim, like Forelhost or the Labyrinthian, Feintmire’s walls seemed smooth and wet like carved ice, curling towers and battlements overlooking the forest below. Her walls however refused to melt, under the shift of seasons, or the pyres lit within to brighten its sweeping halls.
This grand and beauteous structure was home to the Briinahmaar do fin Jill. Mortal women, the messengers of the Minute-Menders, whispering between the ebb and flow the Dovah swam through. Peaceful in their ways, the Briinahmaar had no use for domination or conquest, using their infinite solitude for their rituals and seances. Feintmire’s Sisterhood remained removed from the blood cult Brotherhood of the Dovah, as well as The World Eater’s dominion as a whole. The Nords were none the wiser to what resided in the most North-Western corner of the land, and the Brothers were content to not visit the Sisters’ priestesses casually. Paarthurnax had not visited the temple in decades, or perhaps longer. Time was as simple as breathing to a Dovah, there and over with in an instant. It made surprises that much more startling, however. The Grey Wyrm was quiet, when Feintmire screamed and hissed from across the snow capped lands all the way to Monahven, and looked to the Black Wyrm.
Alduin lifted himself from his wall-throne, standing to his fullest height like a hare looking past the long grass, staring towards the Feign in quiet anticipation. Paarthurnax thought to laugh, because if the Elder Brother had been warm blooded, he might have paled to the point of looking ill. As the screaming whispers came with the winds howling over the mountain peak, the World-Eater became afraid.
-
Untouched snow-blanketed hills stretched as far as the eye could see. Not even hares had dared pervert the freshly fallen white yet that morning, and the sun had yet to fully rise to behold it, and let it glitter. Two horses stood side by side at the edge of the Solstace countryside, their riders thickly cloaked in grand robes of reds and purples and gold trimmings. One wore his mask, like a soldier’s medal beneath his hood, while the other had pulled a thick scarf down from his nose in order to admire the view. A younger man, though far from a child, with dark, curled locks peeking from under his hood over an olive brow. His breath rose like smoke in the air, taking in the landscape with a haughty smile.
“Such grace, our land,” he said to his companion, glancing towards him as if he was completely sure he would nod. “It commands beauty like a maid, and screams its chilling strength like a shieldmaiden.”
The man’s companion, who had not wanted to stop, did not appear to react. He was smaller, with slight shoulders cloaked in rich purple furs and fabrics. His thick iron mask wore no feeling, no hint of humanity. It appeared almost as though it were sleeping, the slit eyes arched down and a frown firmly engraved into the metal. The man resembled a crouched sabre cat, furiously patient, ready to pounce. His riding partner smiled, no kindness in the expression, once again glancing to the masked man and away again. “I must apologise, friend of mine. I have been remiss. I’d all but forgotten, how would you know of a snowy maiden’s delicate skin, compared to the sheen of your fair wife’s mighty scales?” The masked man silently turned to look at his companion, a dark glare hinting in the tightening of his shoulders. The dark haired man looked back, not an ounce of shame nor worry. “The village is still a way’s. Shall we be off?”
The silent rider snapped his reigns, and with a yelp his black stallion leapt for the hills in a rush.
Rahgot smiled once more, pulling his fur mask over his nose, and taking off as well. They rode for some time, as the sun began to rise and the snow flash tried to blind them. Spindly huts appeared in the distance, the sound of oxen and ground churning, pickaxes cracking. The tiny village came upon them at last, and what a sight they made. The nordic people scattered as the two steeds thundered to a halt, circling each other as their riders glanced over the shacks and farmers.
At last the two came to a stop, side by side, facing each others’ rears. The villagers stared in mute fright and awe. Never had they seen such beautiful stallions or rich robes. Whispers flew from ear to ear, of lords, kings, and warmongers. At last, a few took to their knees in confusion, though they were somewhat certain they should kneel.
An elder limped toward them, bowing again and again as he approached whilst favouring a frail back. “Milords, milords,” the white haired man croaked, shaking with age and not an ounce of cold. “We welcome yer visit. What might we do for ye? Though we haven’t much to gift, but perhaps food and beds might be yer need?”
“No, good elder,” Rahgot replied, looking down on the man, his fur scarf still decidedly set over his nose. “Not gifts, nor food, nor beds. But flesh.”
The elder raised his head and squared his shoulders, glancing back around at his people. This tiny settlement wasn’t large enough to have a jarl, or even a chief. But perhaps this old fellow had earned enough of the people’s hearts to be regarded as the authority, though no higher power had blessed it upon him. “Milords, the women here are but farmers and fishwives… I-I cannot offer-“
“To ride so far from the warmth of my temple and concubines to bed a fishwife certainly sounds a tale worth telling to my lords amongst our brotherhood, to raise laughter and ire at my tastelessness. Both things I enjoy tremendously, I assure you.” The man in purple once again fixed the red rider with a pointed stare through the tired slits of his mask. “I do not speak of flesh to enjoy, old man. Young flesh. Young meat, if you will. Is this the settlement known as Raahan?”
“It be, milord,” the elder replied quietly.
“Then, the maid Jaya, and her son. Are they here?” The old man paused, then nodded solemnly. “Bring them here. My friend and I must speak with her boy.”
The Nords whispered and looked to each other, nervous and curious. The elder turned to his people, and gestured to hurry. From behind a hut made of twigs and hide, a young woman shuffled through the snow. She had a vice like grip on a boy’s arm, who staggered behind her like a foal. The elder gestured again and, trembling, the woman stiffly came to the men. Her hair was a straw blonde, taken back and dripping over her shoulder in a long braid. Plain though she was, a common girl, there was a pretty edge to her plump cheeks and bright blue eyes. As she reached them, staring up at Rahgot in mute awe, she almost forgot to bow, hastily and messily leaning forward.
“Good lady,” the red rider said, dark eyes prying over the girl. “Present to us your boy.”
Jaya, still so taken aback, hesitantly pulled the boy closer. A handsome young thing. Blond, darker than his mother. He had her eyes, and likely his father’s face. There was the hint of a sharp jaw, not quite fully there yet. Curiously, Rahgot noted the faintly fading freckles speckled across the boy’s nose and cheeks. Odd, though perhaps he and his mother had not always lived with this tribe.
“Bow, boy. You are addressing kings,” Rahgot commanded, puffing his chest. All of a sudden, the village threw themselves to their knees, noses pressed to the snow, and the boy and his mother trembled on the ground. They slowly raised their heads however when the red rider began to laugh. It was a nasty sound. Like it would bite at you. “A jest, good people! We are not kings, but priests. Learned men of wealth and power, bestowing upon you our presence and glory.” He looked back down. “You may stay there, woman. You, boy. Rise.”
Now only further confused, the boy shakily got to his feet, his mother’s hand still tightly gripping his arm. The way he unconsciously shrugged and fidgeted, it seemed a bruising grip. “You were not born in this village, boy?” The child shook his head, jaw slightly slack. “You are not deaf, I see. Dumb, perhaps? Was you tongue taken from you, boy?”
“No, milord. Sorry, milord.” The boy gulped, and wetted his lips. “… me ma took me. Up from the south.”
“How long ago was this?”
The boy glanced away a moment. “A year, milord. We was in a village, near the mountain. Then me pa found us, and ma took me again. We been here a week, milord.” Rahgot nodded, reclined comfortably in his luxurious saddle. The lord Paarthurnax had sent Nahkriin to the village in the south not long before, and Rahgot had revelled in the great delight he wrought when the snivelling toad returned anguished and empty handed. He had been spared for his failure only because he had never once failed their lords before.
“What do you do here, boy?” The child scuffled his feet in place, glancing around.
“We’ve not been here long, milord. Ma helps clean clothes and spears. I been helping muck out the oxes.”
“Oxen,” Rahgot corrected. “Not oxes.” The boy looked up, for the very first time, meeting the priest’s eye. There was surprise in those sky blue eyes, intrigue. He was stared down, until he cast his eyes back down to his feet. “… can you read?”
“No, milord.”
“Can you fight?”
The boy’s brow furrowed, looking conflicted a moment. “I threw a rock at me pa. And I hit the baker’s daughter at the mountain village.”
“And why did you hit her?”
“She tried to kiss me, milord.” Rahgot laughed again, looking to his riding partner as though they might share a jolly. Met with silence, the red priest merely finished his giggle in his own time, shaking his head and sighing.
“I see. Boy, we have travelled from our kingdoms and castles, ridden across tundras and cliffs, to find you. Now, why might two lordly priests, who live only to serve our great, mighty god-kings, the Dovah, have left the comfort and duty of their lofty lands to find a muddy little boy huddled in a hut strung of horker skin?,” he asked. The boy’s eyes widened, like a rabbit being spotted by a hawk in a field. He dared not breathe, gulp or flinch, and the fabric of his sleeve wrinkled sharply as his mother’s fingers tightened.
“I don’t know, milord.”
“You do not? Then, might you know why our mighty, glorious master, eater of worlds, First Born of Akatosh, the Black that Swallows the Sky, our godly lord Alduin, looked down upon us simple worms, and commanded us, to bring you into our fold?”
The village had begun to creep back, further and further like the tide, and at last, the boy’s mother loosened her grip, and sadly curled her arm back to herself. The boy looked down to her, looked to the elder who had slipped back amongst the villagers, then back to the red and grey priests who watched him from atop their steeds.
“No, milord. I don’t.”
“Then we shall enlighten you. Ours is a brotherhood ancient as the grounds you walk upon, child. We were chosen not by blood, but by the will of the gods that walk our skies. For our cunning, our spirit, our strength. It is an honour unlike any other. There is no telling when the great ones will choose another. Til a short while ago, only eight priests have ever ruled at one time. Yet, the rules have been bent. And it is our lords’ right to bend them, and a ninth brother was brought to our order. For a time, we believed him to be the exception. However it seems our masters are not yet satisfied with our might. They have whispered amongst themselves and decreed that you, boy, will be our brother.” Rahgot straightened in his saddle, his mirth finally drifting away to reveal the sharp, judging eyes of a man who was jealous of a child. “Why?” Silence fell between them, thin and brittle as ice on a pond. “Well, it is not our place to ask. We obey, and we serve.”
Rahgot flicked his reigns, and his horse steadily plodded around and behind his companion’s stallion, not paying the boy one more glance. “You will learn a great many things. You will learn to read, you will learn to write. You will wield sword, shield, bow and arcane, to serve our masters with your blood and soul. We ride now, boy. You needn’t say farewell to your mother, she is no longer your family. This village a distant memory.” The purple rider, who had spoken not a word, nor seemed to have even taken a breath, stared down at the boy, and silently reached a hand down towards him. The glove was thick, black leather and, the boy realised, scaled.
The child looked away from the gloved hand, to his mother, knelt in the snow. Tears dripped down her plump, red cheeks, not a sound leaving her lips. He watched her, even as he silently reached for the gloved hand. It grabbed his wrist, and lifted him as if he was light as a feather, seated in the silent priest’s lap.
“We have fulfilled lord Paarthurnax’s wish, that even dearest Nahkriin could not,” Rahgot chuckled, that nasty glee returning. “Shall we be rewarded, lord Vokun?”
The purple priest did not reply, not giving his brother nor the village a second glance, once again snapping his reigns and bolting out between the shacks. The boy leaned suddenly, grasping the stranger’s robes to watch the sight of his mother, forlorn, alone, left behind in the snow. He found it hard to breathe, watching her watch him be taken, until he could just barely see the village at all. He finally turned back, lightly leant against Vokun’s chest, and watched with those wide, bright blue eyes, as the world rushed passed at a gallop.
They rode for a day, across Winter’s Hold, til the sun began to lower past the mountains and the skies darkened. The boy fidgeted and squirmed. The horse wheezed, and he worried it would trip on the icy roads. The winds that whipped across the land left his cheeks and nose numb, but his shoulders had been loosely covered with the excess of the priest’s purple cloak. His stomach growled and his legs twitched, until he couldn’t bare it any longer. The rider still had not said a word since they set off, not to him, or the man in red who trailed behind them upon his black stallion. “Milord,” the boy called as loudly as he dared, staring at the horse’s mane leading up its strong neck. “Can we stop?”
He got no reply, as he thought he wouldn’t. He swallowed thickly, bowing his head a little. “Sorry, milord. Can we stop? I really, really need a piss, milord.”
Another silence, and he thought he’d been ignored again, until the priest tugged left on the reigns. His horse veered towards the thicket, bounding to a rather sudden stop. The boy dared to feel relief, as the man swung himself off his saddle, and lifted the boy under his arms and roughly set him on his feet. He turned, and quickly bowed. “Thank you, milord, I’ll be fast.”
He scampered a short way into the bushes, the top of his blond head still visible. The sound of the red priest’s horse finally caught up to them, coming to a halt on the road. “What seems to be the problem, my friend?,” Rahgot called, leaning to see past Vokun’s panting steed. The poor thing lowered its head to lap at the snow for water, and Rahgot could see the boy’s back facing him. “Ah, I see, yes. Wouldn’t do for our new little brother to soil your robes, my lord.”
The boy finally felt the rubber limbed relief of getting to piss after a long, long journey, and quickly tied his trousers back up. He shuffled back out of the thicket, looking up at the priest. Vokun stared back down at him, the mask’s cold frown weighing down on him. “Thank you, milord. I feel much better.” The silent priest nodded, and lifted the boy again, having him straddle the base of his steed’s neck, just in front of his saddle. He climbed up after him, replacing his cloak around his tiny shoulders and flicking the reigns.
The stallion started at a steady pace, meeting with Rahgot’s on the road as they ambled along. The boy kept his gaze on the road ahead, not daring to look at the red priest. “Boy,” Rahgot said quite suddenly. Being addressed, he nervously peeked around Vokun’s robe to see the man in red holding out a bun to him. “You must be hungry.”
He quietly took it, cradling it in his frozen little hands. It looked sweet, he could remember the last time he had eaten something sweet. One of the baker’s elderberry pastry wraps in the mountain village. His daughter would steal one for him when her father wasn’t looking, and he would play with her as payment. She’d stopped bringing them to him when one day, she hid the sweet treat behind her back as he reached for it, and with a smug little look, said, “I want to be paid first. I don’t want to play today. You have to kiss me, or you won’t have it.” She’d puckered her lips and roughly leaned into his face, and in a panic, he balled his tiny fist and whacked her cheek. It was barely a tap, all the might a startled nine year old could muster, but she’d grasped her cheek like he’d slapped her with the strength of a man. Her eyes welled up, lips pulled back in an ugly grimace, and she shrieked and threw the treat into the river before running away howling.
He eyed the bun hungrily, mouth watering. “Thank you, milord,” he said, and took a big bite. Gods, it was sweet. So sweet his teeth ached. As he bit in further, his tongue found sharp snowberry jam in the centre, and he delighted even more.
“My lord, boy.” He looked back to Rahgot, who fixed him with a stern look. “Not milord. No speaking like a peasant now, boy. You’ll learn.”
The boy swallowed his mouthful, smacking his lips. “Yes, my lord.” The red priest nodded lightly, looking satisfied, and looked ahead. He looked back down at his snowberry jam bun, and eagerly crammed the rest into his mouth.