The incline leading to Whiterun’s city gates, already a disorderly path along crumbling crenellations, was now truly a revolting mess. The broken bodies of Stormcloak rebels and Imperial loyalists alike filled the fractures between flagstones with precious lifeblood, ultimately flowing its way into brooks that had sparkled so brightly for this geographic and economic heart of Skyrim. The sun spared no delay in turning its face and hiding behind a mountainous horizon; such vile violence would no longer receive the light of its visage.
Ulfric Stormcloak’s army had been fully routed by noonday, and the emboldened defenders rallied inside to celebrate soon after. Their merry voices mixed with song to echo throughout the streets, spilling over the battlements and passing unheard through the ears of the fallen. Once the last rays of red were blotted from the night sky, even those hollow bodies would depart-- either into the hallowed underground hall of Arkay’s nocturnal priests if they wore “Empire” red, or should they be clad in “Sons of Skyrim” indigo, through the bellies of the wilderness’ savage scavengers.
Of all the living and the dead amidst Whiterun, only the Altmer battle-mage named Arye Azuron remained present... for he more than anyone else bore the blame for this day’s bloodshed.
The procedure itself was no different than before-- Arye revisited each corpse, taking a routine yet intention-imbued four second examination on every face (or what survived in some semblance of it), before rifling for any valuables and then moving on to the next. It was a tradition the battle-mage practiced when possible, ever since leaving his sheltered study in Summerset Isle to don steel and discover the world he loved to learn of from books for himself. Taking the lives of others - be it self defense when ambushed along the roads, or proactive bounty hunting to earn Septims for meals and shelter - was a cost Arye knew he would pay for his freedom. The adventuring Altmer resolved to remember the weight of this consequence, while showing honor to those he had slain, by looking each death in the eye... in a literal sense.
Arye found his discipline to be especially pertinent in this case. Heaps of soldiers, faceless in their full uniform, were discarded as if pawns in a scaled-to-life, gruesome game of chess. Though the fallen rebel ranks very likely held relatives among Whiterun’s citizenry, their callous cousins prefered ignorance and an untarnished family name to recognizing the shared humanity and blood of their enemies.
The battle-mage too, initially, found this matter of mass combat like a macabre dance he did not know the steps to, where his foes were nothing more than an obstacle to be cut down in the blur of fighting. It was only after inspecting the possessions of the dead - their lengthy letters from loved ones, books brought to ban off-time boredom, and a faultlessly fashioned flute of all effects intended for flaunting in rebel victory festivities - that Arye could truly believe how his opponents were more than a unified group, but unique individuals with interests beyond the civil war.
Under a burden more crushing than salvaged coins and gemstones, Arye departed from the silent field of battle.
Disregarding pathways, the battle-mage took blood-caked and aimless steps into the untamed fields of starlit tundra. Arye took note of every flower, rock, and even the smallest creatures scurrying as he advanced. Truly, nature’s greatest champion would pose little threat to the ancient High Elf warrior, but he kept vigilant watch nonetheless for his unnatural and deceptive enemy.
Yet the lone figure nearing Arye did not do so from the shadows, although her midnight blue complexion, ebony chainmail, and smooth strides served well for stealth. She advanced purposefully toward the High Elf from his direct line of vision, hands free of the glass war axes secured on each hip.
Arye readied two spells-- a defensive barrier in his right hand, and an orb of fire (more for blinding than burning) in the left. Magicka flickered at his fingertips with this preparation of the battle-mage’s will, but not enough for the Dark Elf ahead to distinguish. His foe would behave brazenly to assault him within sight of Whiterun’s ramparts, and uncharacteristically desperate to employ one they see as “lesser mer”... but Arye took every precaution.
After halting five meters from the battle-mage, the darkened elf offered Arye a simple and expectant greeting. “Hail.”
“Hello…”, Arye returned, though his visored helm and rigid composure left a hollow ring to his reply.
“Did the battle end in victory?” The Dunmer’s red eyes glanced for a moment at Whiterun’s battlements, before returning to settle intently upon the battle-mage.
“...most see it that way,” Arye answered in a sigh.
“Battle-mage Azuron!”
The battle-maiden took an excited step forward, prompting Arye’s hand to twitch for his sword in surprise, though she only followed with a swift salute.
A puzzled frown grew on the battle-mage’s brow, beneath his mask of armor. “How did you…?”
“Eleisoenn Ephershriy'el-- battle-maiden in service to the Jarl of Solitude.” She allowed a subtle smirk of satisfaction before adding, “There are only so many High Elves about Skyrim, especially outside the Thalmor. Fewer are as critically outspoken for the war as you are; the Dwemer plate can’t hide that.”
Arye suppressed the indignant tension on his features before removing his helm, revealing his olive-gold skin and long copper hair. His bulky set of armor, salvaged from the ruins of a forgotten civilization, boasted a peculiar appearance: somewhere between a Valenwood gorilla and bronze automaton. Upon his recent arrival to the land, the battle-mage wore carefully crafted steel in the regal yet practical style of the Imperials. That had to change as he fled to the Stormcloak-controlled regions of eastern Skyrim.
Dropping the somber guard of his mouth and eyes for a rare and fleeting moment, Arye quipped back, “I know it’s ironic. The disappeared elf choosing his disguise from the remains of other disappeared elves...”
Eleisoenn smiled at that statement.
“...however, it was a practical choice and- well, at this point, hiding of any kind is pointless.” The hint of amusement on the Altmer’s face faded, and the Dunmer’s expression mirrored his.
“I’m here to tell you good news: you can not only survive, but live free from fear. My lady Elisif the Fair noticed your heroism, offered for the high and lowly, when you last visited our city. She also learned - through our knowledgeable contacts - how one of your acts, also performed from a noble heart, provoked the fury of the Thalmor and thus forced you in exile from your home-”
“‘Noble acts’ is a… generous way to describe overestimating what invisibility potions and fire magic can accomplish against a small army. Uh, you said ‘my home’?”, Arye inquired in a skeptical tone. “I’m an adventurer. I have no home.”
Despite her patient regard towards the interruption, the battle-maiden met the Altmer’s remark with arms folded across her chest. “The people of Solitude you personally impacted would offer you one, and now my lady the Jarl seconds that sentiment along with an actual manor… provided you accept the title of thane, and myself as your housecarl.”
Arye practiced for centuries to maintain a calm and elegant exterior whenever possible, yet that did nothing to prevent his open jaw at this surprise. For his entire lifetime he wandered Tamriel, making his bed in tents, inns, or guild halls in the very best of cases. Now this Dunmer, who he never spoke with before, invited him to be the honored champion of a Jarl, with his very own house and bodyguard.
The smirk reappeared on Eleisoenn’s face, more pronounced this time, as she continued excitedly. “Lady Elisif is clever beyond her years, I know. The Thalmor won’t confront you publicly, though their embassy neighbors our city, because their activities you exposed at Northwatch breach their jurisdiction. Once you are a thane, they won’t threaten us through unofficial means either; doing so would be a declaration of war against Skyrim.”
Arye collected himself and paused to consider this proposition. Life would change. The plan’s sound logic and optimistic potential, however, was vastly preferable over his only other alternative-- pleading for refuge in the isolated province of Black Marsh.
“That said, we have something to ask of you, Battle-mage Azuron. Skyrim needs your talents for a particular mission-- one that you are currently, ah-... suited for.” Eleisoenn cleared her throat before going further, her voice now hushed.
“A Bosmer nightblade arrived in Solitude a month ago, promising his loyalty to the Imperial Legion. He gained quite the popularity in Whiterun, so you may have heard him in rumors.”
Eyes widening, Arye interjected. “Teira, yes? I’ve yet to cross paths with that one, but I owe it to his example that the Nords of Whiterun trusted an elf - even a High Elf - with their personal matters.”
“That’s correct. Unfortunately… the fort commander was not so impressed, and saw no place in this war for soldiers built for anything other than frontlines. He, um… to make this short, he sent Teira off as a decoy spy among the Stormcloaks, feeding him with false information in anticipation of his eventual capture. The Legion lost communication with him three days ago, just as we discover from our contacts that he’s the Dragonborn-- a hero of legend that Imperial Skyrim desperately needs and Tamriel itself will face destruction without.”
While he kept his mouth from gaping this time, the battle-mage was no less astonished. He blinked a few times in silence.
The battle-maiden fidgeted, an informal mannerism that would be comical, if not for the situation’s severity. Apologetically, she stammered, “I know, I know… it’s inexcusable, and shameful, and we’re asking you to risk your life, but… will you help us? We need you.”
An instinct flared its urgent warning in Arye’s overwhelmed mind. The battle-mage had lowered his guard. The sense did not caution him against Eleisoenn, for her words carried sincerity. Instead, it was their surroundings which worried the battle-mage; he allowed the gravity of their conversation to distract him from surveying his environment, leaving the pair vulnerable against any menace that would use it as a camouflage.
“Battle-mage?”, Eleisoenn inquired gently.
A compulsion to dart his gaze in every direction nearly revealed his error and realization. He took a deep breath before beginning the examination in a more natural appearance.
Most of the scenery remained static from his last observation, save for a single mudcrab. Despite the lack of any ponds in the immediate area, it had crept closer to Arye and Eleisoenn… perhaps especially with their lowering voices.
Though it could be nothing more than coincidence, Arye had centuries of experience with various mudcrabs to rely on, and could not afford such careless assumptions.
“...is something wrong-?”
This time Eleisoenn stepped back in surprise, as a flurry of magenta magicka motes gathered in the battle-mage’s hands before coalescing on his green and gold irises. The spell granted Arye an arcane vision for detecting life.
While his mundane vision focused on the battle-maiden before him and the cloud of radiant energy within her, he directed his will onto the wild creature in the far corner of his sight. Its soul’s nimbus appeared no different than any other mudcrab, which would likely assure any inexperienced and less suspicious spellcaster… yet Arye’s persistence discerned a new detail-- a very dim shape like a soul, hovering tenuously above the beast and extending vague tendrils into its crustacean eyes.
It was an enchantment to control and see through an animal, which the Bosmer once kept a secret among their mages… before the ruthless Thalmor held their very province hostage.
“Azuron! What was that spell for?”
His intuition verified, the battle-mage returned his mental attention to Eleisoenn. She proved herself clever earlier when determining Arye’s identity, and would do so again within seconds for this mystery. Unfortunately, the awareness of either mer could incite lethal action from their watching enemies… if the detection spell did not already do so. Arye needed an explanation to satisfy both parties, and he needed to come up with it quick.
“Detection spell, for vampires.”
Eleisoenn arched her eyebrows critically, then turned her gaze about the landscape. “We’re the only ones here.”
“Yes… and I’ve never met you before now, this evening. I made some enemies among the unliving, and had to be sure you’re not…”
Arye’s weak words trailed off there, as wrath boiled upon the battle-maiden’s previously friendly features. Sparks of indigo magicka emanated around her clenched fists, and the battle-mage didn’t know whether he should be relieved or fearful that their chaotic pattern suggested they were not part of any structured spell. She replied in an even, though tension-wracked tone which produced additional mixed feelings in her Altmer offender.
“Do I look like an undead to you? Is this some kind of, half-veiled slight against my race? Under normal circumstances, I’d pay that caliber of idiocy no mind… but I see you’re hiding something, and playing this farce to distract me from it… which pays me dishonor all the more.
“I’m no fool, Battle-mage Azuron, unless you prove me one now as I expected far more from you. You are free to accept or decline my request… but don’t you dare ignore it. I’ve sacrificed more than you know to be here speaking with you. Now, answer me in truth.”
Arye failed to stifle a long sigh. The battle-maiden’s crimson eyes bored into his, and he so badly wished to follow her call, if only that predictable path did not lead to such dire consequences. She begged him for truth, and so Arye could only answer honestly in the negative one way-- by extracting those raw doubts in the most distant depths of his heart.
“How can I fight for your cause? My very presence has caused more bloodshed and disorder than I’m worth. Those men laying dead before Whiterun… some of them, or all of them might have lived if I carried out my original mission.
“Jarl Balgruuf and the Imperial Legion trusted me, as an independent adventurer, to deliver the Jarl’s war axe to Ulfric Stormcloak, as a tradition of extending an ultimatum-- he is a friend of Whiterun, or an enemy. Ulfric sent me to return the axe, symbolizing his choice that there would be war. I did not come back, until I was already too late, because I feared that the Thalmor would ambush me along the way.”
Eleisoenn placed one hand against her war axe-laden hip and commented pragmatically, “Jarl Balgruuf was hardly taken by surprise, I’m sure. He sent ahead for Imperial reinforcements, regardless, so it would have ended no differently-”
“Can you be certain?!”, Arye retorted in stubborn exasperation. He foresaw that point, and planned accordingly against her reassurance. “How can you know for fact that my return would not have encouraged a strategic counter attack? With proper foresight, the Legion could sabotage the enemy siege equipment beforehand, forcing the Stormcloaks to retreat or at least putting more of the casualties on the rebel side.”
The battle-maiden had no words to say in response, only a look of frustrated sympathy, as Arye resumed without relenting.
“Truthfully, I’m not certain I care anymore. I may seem young, but I’ve lived longer than you would believe, and in the greater scheme of things I’m not sure how heroism makes a difference. Men and mer keep on dying… and it appears that selfless actions simply delay, or else speed up that process.”
Eleisoenn’s face took on a purple tinge, and Arye knew his answer was finally convincing… though this achievement felt empty. With her feet planted apart in the frosted ground, she pointed a finger the Altmer’s way that carried intent searing worse than any spell of flame.
“You are no battle-mage, Arye Azuron, and “greater things” will elude you, so long as you adventure in isolation and see others as means to an end.”
---
That night, after the battle-mage and battle-maiden parted ways, Arye set his camp beneath the great mountain range dividing southern Whiterun from Falkreath’s territory.
As he vanished in his tent and his fire gradually cooled to embers, a host of animals - mudcrabs, rabbits, and deer - all kept careful watch at every angle, with their eyes given a golden tint like the Altmer wizards who charmed them. Some of the smaller critters even scurried through the camp, to ensure the battle-mage did not enchant any trap wards.
When the justicars of the Thalmor did arrive, in even higher numbers than their natural spies sent ahead of them, they surrounded Arye’s tent with footsteps magically muffled and swords brandished. One wizard wearing an especially long and dark robe entered the tent first, with a magicka shield shimmering in a semi-circle before him, ready to absorb any type of retaliation.
Inside, however, Arye and his belongings were absent... save for a single bottle on the floor, recognizable by its distinct seafoam stain to have once held an invisibility potion. As the wizard would next realize (too late), it was not before, but from behind that required his attention.
They were not the only mer capable of deception, and to think themselves the only hunters proved a great folly. Igniting from the formerly dormant campfire, which concealed it from arcane attuned eyes, a trap ward specifically adjusted for the proud and heavy footfalls of multiple Thalmor activated, bathing the campsite and its unwelcome visitors in a vengeful inferno.
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