Chapter Text
That night, Nemiet's strange dreams began.
From the darkness it began–indeed, it began with a sense of being, even though she didn't quite understand where it was that she was; there, she knew she was alone, yet she felt the traces of many souls as a string of stars crossing the sky. Then came the cold, as if the sunlight had never touched the ground on which she stood, toes dipping into a soft, grainy surface. With her arms wrapped around herself, Nemiet stared ahead, but still she saw nothing. The blindness took what felt like an age to pass, frightening her at first but subsiding as she tired; her body convulsed, fingers curling around her biceps, skin crying out for warmth. And when she finally did see the light, it came from below and blinked tears out of her.
The Redguard found herself naked on a shore which seemed to stretch on forever in all directions before its shapes faded to obscurity; the water itself was black, but the crest of each wave glittered blue like a thousand tiny diamonds, as if the night itself was licking at her feet. Though the roar of the ancient lake filled her being, not even the wind seemed to blow over her–it may not have got to where she was standing, or perhaps there was no known concept of it in that realm. For all that emptiness, that nothingness, a crushing pain wracked her ribs, and it was no peace that enveloped her; as the hot tears began to trickle down her cheeks and drip onto her collarbones, Nemiet opened her mouth as if to scream, but no sound could be heard.
At the end of her dream, when she jerked awake, she was still in the dark. In a flash, the remnants of sleep left her. Icy sweat covered the Redguard’s body; the tiny droplets seared her skin like the stings of a thousand wasps. She tried to steady her breathing, muscles quivering, fingers digging deep into the sheep skin under which she had slept. As the wild throbbing of her heart at last settled down, a haunting void swamped the room, and she recalled that she was not at home, but somewhere altogether different.
Once her eyes grew more accustomed, the room around Nemiet took shape. The bed in the guest room was small and creaky, but it had kept her warm, for it was lined with furs. There was a wolfskin on the floor, cured and pale, threadbare from the many boot soles having trodden it. There was a wooden chair, a table, and a wardrobe. The window tapered towards a tip, swallowed by the frost, but there was no light filtering through the crystals. It’s still early, the hunter decided, and, in spite of her plight, sighed contentedly. All in all, the room had been more than enough for her, and by the standards of the rest of Winterhold, up to what one may call lavish.
The inn at which they were staying at–the locals called the Frozen Hearth, and not for nothing, for the weather this far north was indeed deathly if one was to come poorly equipped–was one of the last buildings still intact in the city. Nemiet had witnessed the devastation for herself after their arrival the previous night. A hundred years ere, Winterhold had been hit by a series of inexplicable natural disasters (characterized simply as ungodly by the eyewitnesses), and those who had not died in the storms had soon abandoned their homes and dispersed elsewhere. The event, which was then descriptively named the Great Collapse , had left behind only a handful of wooden walls and stone foundations, still poking out of the snow like the bones of a long-dead dragon–but curiously enough, the entire Mages' College had survived virtually unscathed. This, of course, gave grounds for the local paranoiacs for accusations against the mages, and their ties with the rest of the province had further frayed. It was true that the people of Skyrim had never cared much for magic, preferring to rely on that which they understood (which would be steel and brute force); almost every Nord avoided it like the plague, and although Nemiet did not agree with them on many things, this was one of the few.
Tired, she rubbed her neck, stiff from the long journey. Her mouth was dry, and when she moved her eyes it was as if they were moving in sandy pits. It was inconvenient, but commonplace. That which she could understand scared her not. But even though her body had notably calmed, and her heart was beating at a normal pace, the nightmare would not leave her. It was the kind of a haunting, sickly feeling one failed to forget–the cold, the darkness, the water at her feet. It hadn't even felt like a dream, but more real than this moment that passed her in a dense fog.
Absently, Nemiet stroked the scar she had received in Dimhollow. It had healed well and readily, but sometimes she could still feel the edges twitch and burn. She thought of it as a reminder; lose, and your loss shall follow you everywhere; win, but do it not for yourself, but for your people. And the Redguard knew she was expected to do what the others could not–and she had sought to turn this baggage to glory, even at the risk of neglecting her own humanity, that beneath her skin there was a heart, frightened and true.
So the Redguard knew she had to go out and clear her head. She arose, and walked into the empty hall to get herself something to eat. Then, when she returned, she sat down by the table. There she had bread and yesterday’s beef stew, trying desperately to direct her thoughts to the day that was ahead, but as she twirled the spoon in one hand, nothing could interrupt her from going back to her dream until there was a knock at the door.
Swiftly, the hunter got up, wiping her hands on the front of her breeches before she let Serana in. The vampire smiled sweetly at her, and she felt deflated, flashing back naught but an awkward half-smile.
“Did you sleep well?” She walked past her, causing the Redguard to close the door behind her and lean smally against it. Nemiet shrugged with unease, and thought for a moment about telling her dream, but decided then that she wanted to push it as far as she was able.
“Yeah," she responded. Intrigued, the hunter eyed the vampire from head to toe, noting her long black cloak and the worn burgundy tunic under her corset, the nice ruffled hem and old needlework. Her clothes were fine, but to the hunter they felt rather impractical. But since Serana needn't have feared the cold might break her skin, or indeed much else, it hardly mattered.
The vampire looked at her with suspicion. She didn't push, even though she knew very well that she was lying, and then said, “okay.”
“Sorry. This takes some getting used to," Nemiet hurried to change her words, swinging her arm through the air, then going on uncertainly, “this. Us, working together. Never stopped being strange.”
“Strange is a word," agreed Serana and smiled, though tensely. The anxiousness within her sharpened off to a peak; none of what she was to say now would be easy. But she had spent the entire night considering it, and now only wished to be rid of the thoughts that nagged at her so much. “Been thinking about what you said to me the night before we left. That you felt alone. And this may come as a bit of a surprise, given my intellect and, well, my social talent, but I went through much the same thing.”
To this, Nemiet said nothing. She kept her arms crossed and listened, an expectant look on her face.
“I was never alone in the castle. Had a mother, a father, a couple of pushy suitors, some fresh, new vampires who hoped my company would bring them new opportunities. They worshiped my father, you know. More than Bal, I sometimes thought," sitting down on Nemiet's bed, she heaved a long sigh, clutching her hands above her thighs. After a pause, the vampire went on, “but I realized that having people around you means nothing. Sometimes you get lonelier... it’s that you don't notice it until you walk away. Your step carries you differently. Lighter .”
Then the vampire faced downwards, troubled. When Nemiet finally did get a word out, it was through a dry huff. “So I was lonely, and so were you. That hardly means a thing.”
“Maybe," she said dejectedly, “It was just a thought that maybe we weren't so different.”
“We are hardly comparable," the answer from Nemiet was meager. She felt foolish–indeed, she did not mean it in the least. She kept swallowing back her tears as she spoke, hoping that Serana would not notice. “But you’re right. You’re different from them, different from your father. That’s why you didn't belong.”
“Hm," muttered Serana, immersed in deep thought. Admittedly, it hurt her that Nemiet needed to watch her from an angle from which she was no longer connected to her family or background to have any empathy for her. Yet all the while, she understood. The pain that stared back at her whenever their eyes met was far from light. But by no means was the Redguard the only one in whom it lived, the one who had been thrown naked onto the cold floor, made to pray to a master for whom her life meant naught. It may have been years, millennia ago, but she still remembered as if it was only yesterday. There was simply no forgetting such torment. “Tell me, Nemiet, are you still lonely?”
“What?” The Redguard’s question came in a confused tone. “Why would you-”
“Just answer the question.”
Startled by the vampire's candor, Nemiet shrugged, still avoiding eye contact. “Don’t know, guess not. As the captain, I'm not supposed to fraternize with my men.”
Serana nodded smally. “Your father's teachings?”
“Where is this coming from? What do you get from-” Her question was agitated, cut short, but then as she continued she spoke more softly, as if regretting her words, “you shouldn't talk like that. We're not supposed to... If I have given you any reason to doubt my intentions, I am sorry.”
At first, Serana was ready to protest, ask the Redguard to reconsider, to give her a chance. Words formed into sentences in the back of her throat, which tightened in disappointment. Shame crashed over her head like the cruelest wave in the ocean, then drew her down into the black depths. Hands balling into fists, nails sinking into her palms, she felt like the most foolish woman on earth. Yet, her plight she could not fully understand. Nemiet was forever vigilant, laying close to no one, behaving at the very best like a jittery doe calf. That they would ever come to be friendly was as improbable as that Serana would one day be out in the sun. But if the answer was already known, then why ask? And why did an already known answer cause her to feel so miserable?
In the end, she said little or nothing. Humiliated, the vampire stood up and brushed past her hurriedly, “well, there you have it, then.”
Once she had slammed the door shut behind her, Nemiet was left alone in the dark, cramped room. For a few breaths she had to hold on tightly to the back of the chair and count to ten, knuckles going pale. In her distress, she wished she could run after her and apologize–and in the midst of it all, she couldn't possibly justify why something that was supposed to come naturally to her took so much getting used to.
Nevertheless, she got dressed. Leaving the warmth of the tavern she stepped out into the cold, thin mountain air. Far to the east, the horizon lingered in shades of dull blue and rosy yellow. The sun had not yet risen above the sea. The smaller moon, white as milk, loomed full behind the tallest tower of the College; its high halls stood stark over the morning. When she looked up, the stars were still looking back at her–barely discernible, flickering ever above them. Soon the day would dawn, and the vast blue skies above Winterhold would come alive with birdsong and the sounds of people. A nagging feeling washed over Nemiet, and not only because of Serana–she feared the reception they would get once the mages had heard their strange questions. The Redguard wasn't sure if there were answers, but she knew she would never have agreed to ask such things unless she was the only one in her position, and she was.
They made it through the village buried under a fresh layer of snow. The early light glinted off the hunter’s pauldron surface, engraved with a ten-pointed sun. Water had seeped and frozen into the cracks of the wooden buildings, so much so that she didn't know if it even flowed in summer which, incidentally, was not far away at all. Here, in the absence of heat and leaf nubs, one could hardly notice it.
The College was located on a cliff that stood out from the rest of the mainland, which had once been part of the city but since destroyed and sunk into the sea. Once they reached the end of the main street, they started to climb up the dilapidated stone bridge. As well as being in a rather poor condition, it was narrow, and ran high in the air, taking them far above the ground. With every step they took, the Redguard's breath hitched harder, and she didn't know whether it was the spectacular views across the northern coast, where wisps of fog emerged from the coves of the bay, or the climb itself.
And she studied Serana whenever she could, unknowingly, hesitating. The vampire was like a sculpture, born from the hand of a talented artist, conjured to life. As she turned to wait for her again, looking down at her against the pale blue sky, the wind playing with her hair, the Redguard’s heart skipped a beat. Her cheeks soon became hot, and she hoped it was because of the climb, even though she was in excellent condition, and the ascent was not that difficult–it was easy enough to believe.
Even at this hour, the courtyard was bustling. Led by an elder Nord, a small group of apprentices amused themselves outside the front doors. Although his face was warm and patient, he appeared tired as he spoke to them, explaining about a field trip of sorts. They would hear every second or third word as they passed by them. Where the first Arch-Mage stood with his arms outstretched in front of a well with a blue magic pulse rising from its depths, Nemiet noticed another man. The Altmer, dressed in fine gold-embroidered clothes, also seemed to have already spotted them. He squinted his eyes and stepped before them, blocking their passage through the main door.
“And what have we here? I suppose I would remember if the College was expecting new apprentices," he spoke haughtily, lengthening his vowels. Nemiet straightened up. “I am afraid, if you cannot specify your reason for passing, I must ask you to leave.”
“Our reasons are our own," responded the Redguard calmly. She was not afraid of the man twice her height, even though there was irritation in his eyes, and that rarely boded well. “Strange. I had imagined the doors of your College were open to anyone.”
“That is where you're wrong, young dear,” he said and put his hands behind his back, looking appraisingly at the Redguard. The wind tossed his blond hair over his pointed shoulder pads. “It is your intentions, not your desires, that determine whether you are allowed to pass.”
Distressed, Nemiet was about to say something, but was interrupted, for which she was secretly grateful.
“Is there a problem?”
Turning towards the entrance to the courtyard, the hunter saw for the first time the middle-aged woman, whose hair was short and skin tan and covered by numerous wrinkles. She stood upright, surrounded by a certain authority that even the elf seemed to abhor. He grimaced, but showed no other physical signs of how much her arrival had dented his pride.
“I would advise you to leave our visitors alone, Ancano. They pose no threat to you.”
“You insult me," hissed back Ancano, managing to retain some dignity. There was a tension between them that both Nemiet and Serana knew ran deeper than a single incident. “I was simply hoping to hear the reason behind their visit. That is hardly an exaggeration, ma’am.”
“Good. And now, they're coming under my responsibility," said Mirabelle and walked between them, pointing gingerly towards the main doors. Intensely, his golden gaze followed her. “You may take your leave.”
The elf first looked at them all in turn, and then walked off without saying a word.
“For him, you’ve my apologies," said Mirabelle after he had gone. She carefully studied the guests, trying to also determine the reason for their visit. It was clear that she didn't particularly care about them or their questions either, but had seen it necessary to rescue them from the clutches of her colleague. “Now, what can I do for you? Here to join the College?”
“No, ma’am," said Nemiet and swallowed thickly, glancing once more in the direction of Ancano's receding back. The day was slowly clearing, and as he left the walkway, light flooded in through the opening of the entrance. “We were told the College has the most comprehensive library in Skyrim. Confidentiality binds me, but we mean no harm. All we are looking for are answers.”
The older mage seemed to consider her words for a moment. Her expressionlessness horrified Nemiet, who flinched once in nervousness, but calmed considerably as Mirabelle nodded towards the main doors.
“This is the Hall of Elements," she said as she took them inside, her voice bouncing off the high stone walls. The interior was not much to look at, but the foyer was filled with a magical glow, like the clear water of a hot spring; in the middle of the circular hall was a well-like structure, like the one outside by statue of the Arch-Mage, and from within rose a similar magic column, with both dust and tiny blue sparks dancing around it. Nemiet felt strongly about it, something like self-confidence and ambition, like she could have reached into the stream and fallen into a bottomless pool without ever finding a way out. Seen from the door, their figures loomed black against its pulse. In the stone slab beneath their feet, the eye of Magnus was carved; Serana knew it was an international symbol of the mages, a sign usually placed to tell practitioners whether a place was safe for them. It made her feel welcome. And although the College had suffered greatly in its day, neither the storms nor erosion had been able to destroy it or its wonders from ordinary people.
“This is where we hold our lectures, training sessions, and most frequent meetings," the Breton continued, “what you are looking for is the Arcanaeum. It is located directly above this hall. There you will meet the librarian, Urag gro-Shub. Be careful when you approach him–the man cares no less for his own peace than he does for his books.”
She then showed them to the door. They thanked Mirabelle for her help, to which she nodded approvingly.
As the heavy metal door closed shut behind them, a thunderous sound boomed up the circular tower. Their shadows lined the wall, for the candlelight illuminated only part of them, and not even the slightest of Serana with her hood covering her face. The air was still, but what was worse was the cold that plagued Nemiet as they climbed. When not a word was spoken aloud, the Redguard became restless, ascending quietly in the vampire’s wake, her mind teeming with the things she wished to discuss.
The library was quiet, just as they had expected. It was a vast, circular room with dozens and dozens of fully stacked bookshelves lining the walls. Most of the covers were worn, but all looked well cared for. Bright sunlight shone in through the frosted windows, and though never warm enough to melt the ice, it sparkled playfully over the windowsill. One discolored rug had ink spilled on it; this was perhaps why the sealed ink bottles had been placed in the middle of the round wooden tables.
Serana was, of course, delighted. Her gaze drowsily roamed the shelves, and she wished she could be there another day when danger was not there to whip them forward. Nemiet watched her for a moment, but when the strange feeling crept into her chest again, she left the vampire behind and walked through the sunken middle section to the counter, where the Arcaneum's only guest, the librarian, sat with a book in his hands.
Before the Redguard could say anything, the Orc spoke without taking his eyes off the yellowed pages, “you’re now in the Arcaneum, for which I am responsible. I watch this place like a father watches his daughter. Mess around, destroy something, and you might not walk out those doors alive. Now, what can I do for you?”
“The library’s quite impressive,” started Nemiet cautiously. Urag looked at her from under his brows, licked his finger and turned the page. The words reflected off the surface of the glasses sitting on his nose. “My name is Nemiet Taher. My partner and I are looking for something we believe you can help us find.”
When there was no reply, she continued to speak, her heart pounding with nervousness, “we’re looking for an Elder Scroll.”
On hearing this, the librarian put the book down and looked appraisingly at the Redguard. A disdainful laugh rose in his throat. “And what would you, or either of you, do with one of those? Do you even know what you're asking for, or are you some megalomaniac’s errand girls?”
Nemiet fell silent, shocked by his words. Suddenly, Serana appeared beside her. “Yes Urag, we do know. May I call you that? Sweet. Though, I advise you to say what you know, for it is many, many more tricky to question the dead.”
The Orc watched them both now in turn, bewildered.
Nemiet glanced at the vampire by her side, somewhat worried. Never had she seen her so grave, so irate, and it made her wince with nerves, “all we need is a location. A name. Anything.”
At last, Urag set the book down on the table, crossed his arms and regarded them with a dubious stare. “You are mad. Both of you.”
After a little while, he added, “the thing you two want, you won't find it here. But make no mistake; even if I did have one, I wouldn't let you see it, let alone touch it. It would be kept behind bars in a place where the Gray Fox himself could not go.”
Nemiet drew a slow breath, her chest heaving and then lowering. When she finally did speak, her tone was steady and calm, even persuasive, “hey, Urag. I’ve nothing against you. And I respect very much your dedication, I really do. But I've got to–and I mean I have got to–find one, and I’ve got to do it soon. We were told you could help us. Can you?"
“Of course, I can," grunted the Orc. After that, his voice softened. “I can give you all the books we have on them, but there are not many. Full of lies, and written by fools.”
Muttering to himself, the sullen librarian rose from his chair, and went out back. As the rattling of the cabinets filled the air, the Redguard cast a concerned look at Serana, who still seemed on edge. Absently, the vampire swayed to and fro a little, looking to the side, chewing through her cheek. Did she look paler than she did before? Nemiet refused to believe that the fault for her bizarre behavior lay solely with Urag, blaming it on herself. The thought ate her when the Orc returned carrying two old books, one green-bound, the other brown and made of leather.
“Here,” he growled, “handle them gently. The old pages are brittle.”
Still perturbed, Nemiet opened the green one, feeling the parchment with her fingers. The name of the book was ‘Ruminations on Elder Scrolls’ , and it was written in a sloppy, unsteady hand. After only a few paragraphs, the Redguard shook her head, a frown on her face. “This makes no sense.”
“Aye," responded the Orc, with his arms folded over his chest. “That’s the work of old Septimus. He was a little peculiar, but I’ve never met a man so wise. The scrolls were his speciality. It’s a pity he's gone.”
When Serana spoke again, the hunter was surprised by the hush of her voice. “So he's dead?”
“No, Gods, hope not. But he left the College years ago. Said he found something on the glacier, became a field scientist. No one's seen him since," he said and looked out of the window, embedded in frost, though saw nothing. “Should you wish to find him, go north. Look for an outpost.”
“Thank you," said Nemiet and handed the book back to Orc. Urag grunted in response, and watched with satisfaction the backs of his guests.
Having left the College behind, they set off north. There was no road, and the path was naught but a low depression in the thick layer of snow that snaked down the hillside. It was steep, and sometimes there was a large rock or a root that ran along their route. Above them the wind was brisk, but it failed to rock the waves of the distant sea, as it was covered by ice, off of which the light reflected and dazzled the viewer. Midway through the descent, Nemiet would cover her eyes with her arm, shielding herself from the glare. She then turned to look at Serana, who was following her at a short distance. Behind the vampire, the College stood still against a sky strewn with billowing clouds, with a few birds flying through them; their white bellies stood out as separate dots. Higher up the hill, a few pines reached up, black and bleak.
The Nord trudged through the snow like a newborn foal, a far cry from graceful. Nemiet felt playful then. “Doing okay back there?”
“Eyes on the road, Taher," was a frustrated reply.
“Ah. The famed dignity. It always ends with the first snow bank," laughed the hunter, and the wind caught on to her words.
The closer they got to the shore, the louder the gulls’ calls became. Now, the cliffs stood dark behind them, and there was no telling when they had left the land and stepped out onto the ice. Sometimes a sharply pointed formation would rise up from the ground, covered in snow, but they wouldn't know whether it was a boulder or a small iceberg; their rough shapes reminded Nemiet of ancient teeth bones. There at sea the wind blew stronger, and as it had snowed all night, fresh powder fell in their eyes; licking it aside, it revealed the deep blue ice of the basin, its surface covered with white cracks like scars on skin.
“Gods, it’s cold," said Nemiet after they had walked for a while. Her many layers of clothing did not prevent the wind from biting her skin.
“Huh," responded Serana, “and here I was, thinking being human was nice.”
The Redguard glared at her. “Rather suffer the cold than run away from anything uncomfortable.”
“It isn’t so bad," confided Serana, “but I do admit that there are certain things I miss. Or rather, the absence of which I miss.”
Nemiet grew curious. “Such as?”
“Hunger is one thing. Have you ever seen the kind of hunger that would make you kill a person to fill your belly? At first it was terrifying. I barely left my room, afraid I was going to suck some poor thing dry. Now, mainly it bores me," she sighed, “but you need not worry. I can keep my temptations to myself.”
“Not worried," said Nemiet with a small laugh, “so I tempt you?”
“Moron," grumbled Serana, supposedly galled, but the tug of her mouth betrayed her. The vampire’s expression turned downwards then, her stomach sinking from the memory, “I did want to talk about what happened before, at the library. To say sorry. Don’t know what came over me, I just... I got angry, so very angry.”
“That’s all right," replied the Redguard, “he was being an ass. I daresay he deserved it. Wouldn't have got what we wanted, though.”
“Not going to deny that," laughed the Nord in response, but then she got serious. “Hey, look ahead.”
Further out to sea, against the clouds which hang heavy and blackish-gray in the sky, a huge iceberg loomed. At its base was a kind of door, made of a few boards placed vertically to cover for a small gap, and on either side of it was a torch pushed into the ice, though both were unlit and covered so thoroughly with frost that they suspected there hadn't been a fire for a while. After blowing out a long breath, the warm air coming out of Nemiet’s mouth obscured what she saw. And she had a chill. She could not understand, try as she might, how anyone could voluntarily choose to live here where even the Gods could hardly find, in a place where great disasters had once ravaged. Not that the problem was hers, anyway; but it made no sense to her.
She asked under her breath, “should we just barge in?”
“I suppose so," said the vampire, shrugging. “He’s hardly seen anyone in years. Better be careful.”
Together, they walked to the door and tore aside the boards. They were frozen tight, and once the road was clear, Nemiet's fingers cramped from the cold. The only way down into the abyss was a rickety ladder, which gave way with every step, as a thin layer of ice had formed on the surface. Each time it crackled, they would take a breath in fear–never before had any journey seemed to last for so long. When they finally stood at the bottom of the cave carved into the iceberg, they both laughed a little in relief, looking at each other but flinching away. Seeing the strange, inquisitive look in her red eyes, a turmoil came into being inside of Nemiet, and the feeling in her ribs did not calm down even as she filled her lungs with the prickling glacial air. She leaned against the permafrost, looked ahead and pretended not to feel the excitement, no, even though it felt like a fist in her stomach. Sighing, "okay," the Redguard tried to push b the pressure and look forward. The gleaming blue corridor before them seemed to continue deeper and deeper into the ice. From its surface, the buckles of their clothes were reflected off as small, flickering lights, and the ground crunched with every nervous step.
Without a word, they went on their way. The tunnel was narrow, so that neither of them could have kept their arms straight on their sides; but what it lost in width, it gained in height. Even though they were walking in the dark, up on the ceiling, brightness flooded in. Serana found herself walking with short, labored steps, but as she tried to correct this, she stumbled, without the Redguard noticing. For that, she felt grateful. Her thoughts seemed to stress her, to overwhelm her, but she did not wish to deal with them now.
Then, suddenly, she heard a voice. After a bend, they came to a ledge where Nemiet was about to step over and fall. A few chunks of ice came crashing down. They found themselves looking down on a large opening, inside which the conditions were almost viable; a bedroll rested on the planks on the floor, next to a pair of fur boots; there was a cupboard and there was a table, piled high with empty wine bottles and meat that had curled and turned gray. The cold was now in their favor–in weather that was any warmer the place would have smelt like Lake Honrich.
In the farthest corner of the cave, their gaze was drawn to a mammoth-sized cube, its gilded surface streaked with intricate carvings. Inside the spiral formation there were three aligning glasses, each with a thick layer of frost. Next to it rested a small lantern, whose warm glow illuminated the room. It all seemed to be part of something bigger, something that Nemiet did not understand. What on earth had Septimus found on the glacier?
The man himself, wrinkled and old, was crouching beside it. The long, uneven beard visible beneath the robe showed that he took little care of himself. Quietly, he spoke to himself, as if he hadn't even noticed their arrival, despite all the noise.
“...once the highest level was built, no others were set. It was, and is, the maximum apex…”
“So you are Septimus," Nemiet exclaimed, trying to see a safe way down. “We were told we would find you here.”
The old man waved a dismissive hand.
He didn't even turn around, let alone give them a word, until Serana spoke. “We have questions? About the Elder Scrolls.”
“Empire... they absconded with them. Or so they think. Those they saw... the ones they thought they saw. I know where there's one. It is forgotten, sequestered," Septimus spoke haltingly, and roused his guests’ interests. He pushed down a strut, which then fell into place. “But Septimus cannot get to it. No, not I, the poor thing. For I have risen beyond its grasp.”
“Why are you here?” Serana eyed the scrap, broken metals and small strips of leather, around them with wariness. “A little cold for camping, eh?”
“The ice entombs the heart. The bane of Kagrenac and Dagoth Ye. To harness it is to know the fundamentals. They are hidden. In here. I needed a vision, deeper than those who dug deep… to bring about an opening," the man's voice faded as he cocked back his head and banged the sheet metal with an open palm. At first he grimaced, but seemed pleased then, oblivious to his company.
Nemiet asked, her throat swollen with distress, “have you got it here?”
“I have seen enough to know the fabric. The warp of air, the weft of time," his gaze strayed, “but no, it is not in my possession.”
“Septimus," urged the Redguard more strictly now, “where is the scroll?”
“Here. Here, as in Mundus. Tamriel. Near, relatively speaking. In cosmological terms, it is all near," he replied, but still there was no sensible answer.
Nemiet moved. “Are you all right?”
“Oh! I am well. I shall be well. Well to be within the will inside these walls.”
“Can you tell us the way, or not?” Once again, Serana was inching closer to a place where her patience seemed to rapidly dwindle. She then turned to Nemiet, who frowned at her dark under-eyes and the thin veins running black against the pale skin. Something was amiss. “We should go. Shortly, before I tear him limb from limb. This is a waste of time.”
The kind of ire that she now beheld in the woman's eyes was alien to Nemiet. She peered closely into each eye, debating whether their blood-red was a fresher color than before, runnier, more pungent. Then, her face still grave, her heart leaping with bewilderment, she spoke quietly (so that she would surprise herself again), “hey–you don’t have to do this. Leave it to me. Let me handle this.”
And what made Serana's rage shrink was the way the Redguard's russet eyes met hers, and how calming she could be without them knowing it first. The pinch of her brow softened, and before long her stature relaxed, visibly at ease. What was eating her had not gone away, but like a tame animal it now came to them, with its head low and a tail between its legs. Nemiet gave a hint of a smile, a kind of compassionate and warm smile which didn’t sit right on her face, and felt rigid, as if she had been cast in clay. Empathy had never been part of her training; to the contrary, it was discouraged, having led to speechlessness or harsher, more strenuous bodily exertion. It only took one wrong turn of the back for you to be dead. That is why she was surprised that there was nothing or no one that hurt her, and that afterwards she still felt like herself, and the earth under her feet bore, and swallowed her not up alive.
“Oh! A brutish specimen! Septimus has no fear for you," said the old man, turning to them, waving his finger, “but where one block lifts another.... I will give you what you seek. But I also seek after something, that which you will bring to me.”
Breaking away from Serana, Nemiet turned to face him, “and what is it that you seek?”
“This is the handiwork of the Dwemer, yes?” Septimus stood up straight, but still hunched over, beckoning to the huge cuboid of metal. “Surely you two can see it? Deep within their consciousness. Septimus is clever among men, but foolish as a yearling compared to the dullest of the Dwemer. Merrily, they left behind contraptions they used to read the scrolls: in the depths of Blackreach one yet lies. Have you heard of Blackreach?”
Nemiet folded her arms, shaking her head. With the vampire at her side looking no more convinced, Septimus spoke again, “cast upon where Dwemer cities slept, the slumbering spire hidden learnings kept. Under deep. Below dark. Tower of Mzark. Venture into its depths, and Blackreach lies just beyond," said the man mystically, and from under his cowl two eyes glittered like little sapphires. Then, his voice got cautionary, “But not all can enter. Not all will penetrate the breakpoint. Only Septimus has a way in.”
“Two things I have for you. Two shapes, one spherical, one angled. The orb is for tuning: the music of the Dwemer is mellow, imperceptible, the sole means of opening the gates to them. The cube is used for inscribing. To us, merely a hunk of metal, but to them, like an archive," Septimus then took the lantern and brought it with him to his cupboard. After he had opened the uppermost of the drawers, they then heard clatter, and the banging echoed through the cracks in the ice. He then gave one for each. The Redguard studied intently the sphere-shaped object passed over to her, its deliberate curves, rotating it in her hands. “Look for Mzark and its celestial dome. There you will find what you are searching for. Trust in old Septimus. He knows you can know.”
Perplexed, yet calmer now, Serana asked, “how will we know what to do with these?”
“The doors of the Dwemer are in search of a singing song. The orb, it plays the notes from the altitude from which they seek. Do you not hear? Too low for hearings?” From Nemiet, the old man's focus shifted to the block lying in the vampire's grasp. “The cube. As he looks into the Elder Scroll, a man loses his sight. Or his mind. So it was with poor Septimus. But they had a method, they always did. A method to put the data into a comprehensible form. Insert the cube into the device. If you make it there, the Dwemer will do the rest.”
“And bring it to you?” Serana sounded incredulous. “What do you need it for?”
“Oh! An attentive fang. Clever to question old Septimus on that," said the man, and seemed enthusiastic, “here, in the permafrost, there is a heart. The heart of a God, the heart of you and I. But it is under lock and key. Hidden. The Dwarves did not do it, no, they were already gone. Something else. Unseen, unknown. It discovered the heart, and with a flair of the ironical used their trickery to hide it. The scroll knows all, you see. For not even the greatest lock can resist the all-sight given by an Elder Scroll. ”
Septimus' cautionary words were still on Nemiet's brain well after they had left. She had no wish for the scroll to fall into his hands, but felt so disempowered by the threat they were prophesied to face that she knew no other way. She still knew not a thing. But the days, cruel and unforgiving, rolled past them like an army, and at the passage of each the shadows grew taller. They had no time to be lost in mistrust. They had to push forward. Hope had not fully waned, and as long as even a sliver of it was still in sight, Nemiet could believe that somehow, goodness would prevail.