3
i. William of Anvil.
This was a mistake.
William had made his opinions quite clear on the matter and Jarl Borgun had dismissed them all. While he had the Jarl's confidence, his respect and his friendship, there was only so far that he could push before the Jarl would explode. He was a Nord, after all, and William's cheek and Imperial impudence would be tolerated only so far.
As it was, what the Jarl was proposing was tantamount to slavery and, despite the long list of societies that practiced it, William could not abide it. It was a familial dislike going back generations, to a time when William's ancestors had been enslaved themselves. He hated slavery and could not tolerate the idea of man or mer being 'owned'. It was a vulgar prospect.
The Jarl, however, had made his thoughts clear. It wasn't slavery, really. The situation was both different and dire. The life of an innocent was at stake.
All very good excuses, but it still left a bitter taste in William's mouth.
This was, perhaps, the first time he had ever had a true disagreement with the Jarl. Their relationship had been a long and turbulent one. Borgun had taken William as his steward not only because of his friendship and intelligence, but also because William had always been honest with him. Right from the beginning and Borgun's less than wholesome youth.
William had been a clerk in Anvil's bank and had been tasked to take certain private and important documents to the bank's counterpart in Kvatch. A relatively simple task that would have taken no longer than a day to accomplish. Were it not for a bunch of near incompetent bandits, he would have been home and drinking ale before sunset.
Captured. His document bag thoroughly rummaged through and emptied. And then interrogated by a beast of a man who thought a clerk, travelling alone, would be carrying gold or something else valuable. William had thought his days were numbered, made plain by the discussions the bandits were making about whether it was more simple to kill him and have done with it.
Except for one man. A big Nord, smarter than the others, argued the case for ransom. When William couldn't keep his stupid mouth shut, telling them they had little chance of getting a ransom for a mere clerk, it was the big Nord that had laughed. The others didn't find it funny.
Weapons were drawn. Threats to kill had become actions and the big Nord intervened. He hadn't signed on for murder, he had said. In the following skirmish, William saw, for the first time in his life, blood spilled in anger. In defence of him, someone the big Nord didn't know.
In the aftermath, the Nord had released William and promised to see him safe back to Anvil, if William kept his involvement between themselves. William had readily agreed. Who could have known that this would be the start of a 30 year friendship? Or that a bandit would one day become a respected Jarl?
William shook his head. Reminiscences were of no help in this situation. The prisoners were on their way from the cells and Dirgan Oakenheart, the Jarl's court mage, would be finishing his preparations. It was time to swallow his pride and perform his duty.
Even if it did stick in his throat.
ii. Jarl Borgun.
Borgun watched as the guards filed the prisoners into the main hall. The golden manacles and chains had been attached to them, binding them all together. They were a disparate group of people, that was certain. Varied races. Varied heights and builds. Varied personalities. Some seemed more experienced in life's darker matters than others, he could tell from the way they held themselves. Borgun was a very shrewd man even if his Nord upbringing would cause him to act, sometimes, before thinking.
The guards lined the prisoners up, before him, and then stepped back to the edges of the room, as Borgun had ordered. These people held no fear for him. His only fear was for his daughter. Ysrey had finally listened to him and had made her way to her bedchamber. Beautiful, dear Ysrey. The daughter that he had condemned with his thoughtless actions so long ago. But now, with the help of these people before him, what was done could finally be undone. Even if it was too late for his wife and son.
Absent minded, he touched one of the golden manacles attached to his own wrist, hidden by his sleeve. Glancing to one side at William of Anvil and then to the other side where the gruff Dirgan Oakenheart stood, he considered whether William was right. That this was foolhardy, immoral, even, but dismissed those thoughts when he thought of Ysrey and his lost wife and son. It was necessary.
Standing, he prepared to start the whole sorry business.
"What's this all about, old man?" The dark elf. Tall, beautiful and roguish, she had spoken first and forthright. Even disrespectful. Borgun liked that. It reminded him of his wife. "And what's with these gold chains? Are you just trying to prove how rich you are?"
There was an angry stirring throughout the main hall. The guards had begun to step forward, stopped only by a simple raised hand. William had lowered his head, trying to hide his amusement and Dirgan ... Dirgan's face didn't change. Carved from stone, that old mage, and twice as hard.
"Quite right. You have a right to know why I have brought you here, young, ah ..." Borgun turned toward William, glad to see his steward had tempered his amusement.
"Tilly High-Haven, my lord." William interjected, pointing at Tilly. He then moved his hand, pointing at the others, "Itagaki, a bedouin of Alik'r, Öenthir Riverfall of the Aldmeri Dominion and Revna Astadottir ... of Ingrstad."
There was an increase of muttering from the edges of the hall as the guards heard Ingrstad named. Angry muttering. Borgun ignored them and returned his attention to the four prisoners.
"Yes, you all have a right to know why you are here," Borgun stepped forward. He towered above all but the Khajiit and even she only came up to the level of his nose. "But, it is better, and easier, to show you than to tell you the whole tale."
Dirgan now stepped forward. A great staff of oak, little more than a thick branch, almost fresh fallen from a tree, in one hand and a golden chain in the other. Silent, he attached the chain to the golden manacles on Borgun's wrists and connected the chain to the one that held the others as a group.
"Oh!" Cried Öenthir, "I know what you're doing! This, this isn't right! The Mages Guild would never allow it!"
"There are authorities not held by the Mages Guild, child." Dirgan's voice rumbled around the hall like waves of rocks crashing together, "They are but one school of magick and the weakest."
"Weakest?" Öenthir squeaked in anger, but it was drowned out as the magick that Dirgan was performing was causing a minor storm to appear above their heads. Lightning flashed within the contained storm and fired down surrounding Borgun and the prisoners within a wall of barely held force.
iii. The Past.
Borgun slapped Borug gro-Naz-Muzh's hand away for the third time and replaced the orc's ale mug back in the pattern. He could understand the Orsimer's frustration. He didn't like anyone touching his mead flagon, himself, but this was important. The Altmer, likewise was staring, in that officious manner of his, as Borgun moved his wine glass into position.
"So, picture it. Tamriel. The First Era." With all three drinking receptacles in place, Borgun could finally begin telling them the plan. "Three races, all antagonistic towards each other. Skirmishes, wars, people on all sides dying for philosophies few really cared about.
He picked up the wine glass and made sure all four people at the table could see it. The orc, his arms crossed, was still unhappy about the use of his mug. Tiirakan, the high elf mage, barely registered a change in his demeanour. The Argonian, Dances-In-Moonlight, ... well, the Argonian didn't drink, but he always looked half-cut as it was.
"The Ayleids." He placed the wine glass down, "A people, an Empire, in decline. Fighting fiercely to hold onto their relevance."
Picking up his own flagon of mead, he carefully showed each of them, making sure he made eye contact with them all.
"The Ancient Nords. My ancestors." Again, he placed the flagon down before continuing. "A people on the rise, freed from Ayleid slavery and fighting to create a new dynasty of their own."
"Do you understand even half of these words?" Tiirakan mused, sarcasm dripping with every syllable.
"Yes. I do." Borgun bristled and tried to continue.
"Most unusual. For a Nord, I mean." It was deliberate. Tiirakan had a wicked sense of humour, if a little dry, but he did so like annoying his friends. Borgun did his best to ignore it.
"Anyway," He picked up gro-Naz-Muzh's mug causing the orc to grumble, yet again. "And the Dwemer. The dwarves are at, or close, to the height of their power. Dismissive of the failing Ayleids. Aggressive towards the rising Nord's."
He placed the ale mug back on the table.
"A great war between these three peoples was inevitable, some thought, possibly covering the whole of Tamriel. A total war that would have killed many, many innocent people. But ..." From a pocket, he pulled out some knuckle-bones, a game he liked to play to pass the time. One by one, he placed three bones in the centre of the pattern made by the drinking vessels. "Three mages, powerful mages, decided they could stop it before it even began. One mage from each of the factions."
"Is this going anywhere?" gro-Naz-Muzh interjected. He enjoyed his ale and Borgun, friend that he was, was close to being battered senseless if he didn't return his ale pretty damned soon.
"Yes. It is." Borgun's hands had clenched into fists. Knuckles white. He loved these people like family, but these interruptions were becoming very annoying, very fast.
"Only, I'm here for the fighting. The fighting and the drinking afterwards. And the money. The fighting, the drinking and the money. All this talking is getting in the way of all three." Borgun stared at the orc until he shut up, a dramatic wave urging Borgun to continue before crossing his arms again. Borgun continued staring a little while longer.
"Anyway," Borgun picked the knuckle-bones back up, "The three mages decided to create three powerful gems, each imbued with the entirety of their formidable powers. Gems of power that would be used to bring peace to the world. The Gems of Unison, however, were far more powerful than the mages anticipated. So powerful, that the mages decided to hide them away where no man or mer could possibly misuse them."
"That was rather silly of them, wasn't it?" Dances-In-Moonlight had remained silent for so long that hearing his croaky, hissing voice caused all heads at the table to turn towards him in unison. "Why didn't they just put a little power in the gems?"
"Because they thought ... they needed to ..." Borgun slammed the knuckle-bones down on the table, "Look! I don't bloody know! Alright? Do you want to hear my plan, or not?"
"Why don't you just tell us, dear boy?" Tiirakan said, cutting through the tension. Borgun, angry, frustrated, looked from one face at the table to the other and stood up.
"I know where gems are, I know how to get them and I know who we can sell them to." Picking up his flagon of mead, he downed it in one long gulp before slamming the empty flagon back on the table. "I'm going for a piss."
All three remaining at the table watched the big Nord storm off. The Altmer with detached amusement. The Orsimer with a shrug, leaning over to grab his mug of ale. The Argonian as if he didn't quite understand what was happening or, indeed, why he was there.
"He's too easy to play, sometimes." gro-Naz-Muzh said, laughing into his mug. The other two nodded.
-+-
Borgun, with one hand, wiped the blood, sweat and ichor from his face. He didn't have the time, but he stared at that hand. Shaking, blood soaked. He had never known his hands to shake before, but then, he had never faced odds like this before. He wiped the hand on his armour and then returned the hand back to grip his sword as tight as he had ever held it.
It was looking very much like this was the end.
Dances-In-Moonlight had been the first to die. Skewered by some eldritch weapon Borgun had never before seen. He had been the lucky one. gro-Naz-Muzh had been less lucky. Literally torn apart by the horde of fell creatures that now surrounded them.
"Return them to us, or everything you love will fall to ruin and ash." The same phrase. Repeated over and over again by the three spirits of the mages. Talking in terrifying unison. Words seeming to bypass the ears and slither straight into Borgun's brain.
Borgun tried to see how Tiirakan was holding up without taking his eyes from the creatures beyond the barrier. It wasn't looking good. Already injured, the strain of holding back the combined horde of reanimated skeletons, Dwemer machines and draugr was taking its toll upon the proud Altmer.
"Keep fighting, mage! I just ... I just need a moment to get my breath back." Borgun's knees felt weak. He thought he could collapse at any moment. "Keep fighting."
"Put ... put the gems back." Tiirakan's knees did give out, forcing him to the floor, causing the magickal barrier to shiver and, in that moment, allowing a skeleton through. Before it could strike Tiirakan, Borgun's blade hacked the creature into lifeless bones.
"I did put them back! In the exact order! It didn't work!" The Gems of Unison felt heavy in the pouch at his waist, as if some force were pulling at them.
"Return them to us, or everything you love will fall to ruin and ash." Again the eerie combined voices called, rising above the din of the noises the creatures were making.
"Then we must flee. But I will need your aid, old friend, for I fear I cannot walk." It was clear that Tiirakan's strength was at its end. "I will open a portal, but the moment I do, the barrier will fall. You must pull me through. Can you do that, old friend? Do you have the strength?"
"Aye! By Ysgramor's beard, we'll not be feasting in Sovngarde this day!" Borgun grabbed a good handful of the shoulder of the mages robes, ignoring his shaking hand. "Whenever you're ready, elf!"
The world seemed to slow down.
Tiirakan, lifting his hand to throw the magicks to open the portal.
"Return them to us ..." The voices, once more.
Borgun, shifting his feet, preparing for one last burst of strength.
"... or everything you love ..." Seeming to grow even louder.
The barrier beginning to fall.
"Fus!" A different voice from within the horde of creatures.
"... will fall ..."
The portal beginning to open.
"Ro!" A draugr Death Lord expanding its chest.
Borgun lifting Tiirakan with all the strength he had left.
"... to ruin and ash."
"Dah!"
A wave of force ripped through what little was left of Tiirakan's barrier, lifting both Borgun and Tiirakan and throwing them like pitiful twigs in a storm.
Borgun's grip failed him and the two friends were separated by the magickal blast of force. While Tiirakan was thrown into a cracked and crumbling column, Borgun got lucky for the first time that day, flying through the air and into the maw of the portal Tiirakan had conjured.
The last Borgun saw of his friend was his eyes. Surprise. Confusion. Fear. Pleading. All could be seen in those eyes.
"Return them to us ..." Was the last thing that he heard and, upon regaining consciousness on the other side of the portal, those words continued to ring in his head.
He had found himself in a field of wheat, not far from a small village in Cyrodiil and, while sat on the dusty ground, his hand leapt to the pouch at his waist.
Still there!
He had lost three friends this day. Three good and loyal friends! And all for these Stendarr damned gems. He'd be damned, himself, if he'd let their lives be lost for nothing! Return the gems? Never! They were his, now. Three gems. One each for the souls of his friends.
It was too high a price.
-+-
The Jarl's seat, at the end of the longhouse, felt even larger than usual. Borgun felt swamped by it. Belittled by it. All the power that a Jarl of Skyrim could bring forth and none of it, not a single thing, could help him now.
He sat, slumped at the edge of the seat. The circlet of office, in his hands, felt heavy and burdensome more than usual. He traced the three gems, set in the circlet, with calloused fingers. A sadness and anger filling him.
The voices had been silent for many years, now, and he had moved on from the terrible events of his youth. He had grown in the intervening years. From bandit, to warrior, to soldier and finally to Jarl. His reputation, for many years, was spotless and filled with many heroic acts. He had, it seemed, been blessed by the Eight.
But the voices had returned. Quietly, at first, barely even the idea of a whisper and now, after three months, it was like a constant scream in his head.
"Return them to us, or everything you love will fall to ruin and ash." They said. Words he never thought he would hear again. Words that now brought chills to his bones and a fear. Not for him, but for his family.
His wife was dying.
The children couldn't understand and nor could he adequately explain it. His son, Yorgun, was almost of age and he could not put into words his feelings. His daughter, Ysrey, was still so young. So unused to suffering and death. How could he even begin to explain to her? Explain that their mother was not ill. That she had not been injured, or hurt in any way. That she was cursed because of him. That she was just ... fading away.
"Return them to us, or everything you love will fall to ruin and ash."
Dirgan, that mountain of a mage, entered the main hall and strode towards Borgun, the great tree limb he called a staff banging a rhythm upon the floor. He looked even more grim than usual. The healers had failed. Dirgan, himself, had failed, going so far as to suggest contacting the Mages Guild and even they had failed. The priests of the Divines, witches, even the hagravens of the Reach failed to break the curse.
"She's gone, isn't she?" Borgun didn't even look up. He didn't need it confirmed. He already knew. The voices were fading away again. Dirgan remained stoic, silent. He didn't need to say anything, only stand there for his Jarl.
Borgun wept silently upon the Jarl's seat, thinking only of his children now. 'Please let this be the end of it! By Ysgramor's blood, let it be the end!' he thought as he let the circlet slip from his fingers.
The circlet landed, with a musical tinkle, upon the floor, Dirgan noting the slight darkening of one of the gems.
-+-
Borgun placed his hand on his son's head. It was cold and Yorgun's face held no expression in death that it ever wore in life. The expression was neither horrific nor was it beatific. It was blank, as if the boy's entire personality had left the body along with his soul.
A stray lock of hair had fallen across one eye and Borgun carefully brushed it back into place and then, just as carefully, smoothed Yorgun's hair as he had done a hundred times in the years of Yorgun's youth.
The stiff warrior's posture that Borgun usually held was gone. Likewise, his face had changed dramatically in such a short time. Drawn, pale and tired. He gripped the edge of the altar, his knuckles white and strained, as he tried so hard to hold back tears. Even in such times, it was expected of a Jarl to maintain his composure, but it was so hard.
"He feasts in Sovngarde now, my lord." Dirgan's booming voice echoed behind him. Even in whispers, the man's voice could shake mountains. "He sits by Ysgramor's right hand and drinks with the heroes of old."
"Does he?" Borgun didn't turn to Dirgan. His voice was soft and broken.
"Aye! He died in battle with the blood of his enemies upon his sword!" Dirgan had stepped forward, the Nord in him flushing with the fervour only a good fight could bring. "What more can be asked of a true son of Skyrim?"
"He has no wounds! No sword killed my son! No arrow pierced his skin! No spear ran him through!" Even Dirgan was taken aback by the sudden anger erupting from his Jarl. "No mortal hand took my son from me!"
The voices had receded, once again silent in his mind, but, yet again, for three months they had tormented Borgun. During waking hours and during sleep, he had heard those voices, over and over. Heard them, that is, until yesterday, when the voices had finally silenced.
"Return them to us, or everything you love will fall to ruin and ash."
He knew, straight away that his son was dead.
Tasked with putting down an errant group of murderous bandits, Yorgun had leapt at the opportunity. Times had been quiet in Skyrim before the Three Banners War erupted and chances of finding glory had been few and far between for young Nords, hungry for the clash of steel upon steel.
The fight had gone well, with few injuries on the side of the valiant Riften guard. But then, after Yorgun had taken the head of the bandit leader in a furious exchange, the Jarl's son had collapsed. He was dead before he hit the floor.
"Your son fought with honour and was victorious." Dirgan gritted his teeth, leaning heavily upon his great staff, "He resides in Sovngarde, as a hero. Do not take that from him! Do not shame his memory with this ... this milk drinker talk!"
At that insult, fury erupted from Borgun. Spinning on his heel, he pulled his sword from its scabbard and had it pointed at Dirgan's throat before the last word had finished echoing in the Hall of the Dead.
"You dare speak to your Jarl this way? In front of his dead son!" For the moment, the frailty was gone. The tiredness, dissipated. This was the Jarl Dirgan knew so well! Yet, Dirgan didn't move, only staring deep into Borgun's eyes.
"Remember this feeling, Borgun! You are a Nord Jarl! Act like one!" Dirgan glanced at Borgun's circlet of office. A second gem now as dark as the other. "As for the curse ... We ... I will redouble my efforts. Your daughter will not suffer this fate. You have my word."
iv. Jarl Borgun - The present.
The miniature storm had dissipated and only stray electrical arcs flittered across the floor between the five of them. Borgun regained his senses, quicker than most of the others, it would seem. Each of the four former prisoners were in some form of disarray, their golden cuffs and chains gone, absorbed into them by the powerful magicks wrought by Borgun's mage. Dirgan had said there would be minor aftereffects, but this felt like a terrible hangover.
Surprisingly, it was the little Bosmer mage that had recovered the quickest and her petite, child-like face showed an incongruous fury as she looked around for sight of Borgun.
"What have you done?" She snapped. Even in her anger, though, she did not make any unseemly moves or falter in her perfectly actuated posture. "People have died through misuse of this kind of magick!"
The dark elf, trying hard not to retch, looked from the Bosmer to Borgun and back.
"What kind of magick? What have they done to us?" The Dunmer bent over, breathing heavily. "Apart from showing us visions and making me feel like I've eaten last month's fish."
"They've bound us! Magickal binding that cannot be broken." Öenthir made a cautious step away from the ill looking dark elf. "The Mages Guild banned binding spells! They're too easy to use for nefarious purposes."
"What does 'nefarious' mean?" The Khajiit, her composure regained, now joined in the questioning.
"Bad purposes. Evil purposes." Chimed in the Redguard.
Borgun watched the exchange between the four outsiders. He could feel their anger, their confusion. Literally. A side-effect of the binding was an empathic link between all five of them. Dirgan had warned this could happen. These spells were known to have erratic consequences.
He looked towards Dirgan with a silent question. A question that Dirgan would understand without having to verbalise it. With a nod, Dirgan raised his hand, testing the binding and the connection he had made between the five people before him.
"The binding is stable. None can break it now, save for myself." Having performed his task, Dirgan stepped back, leaning upon his staff and watching the ongoing proceedings.
Nodding, Borgun turned and made his way back to the Jarl's seat at the end of the longhouse. He was no longer a young man and events of the past couple of years had aged him even more. He dropped into his seat and leant his head against the seat's back for a second. Steeling himself, projecting the attitude of a Jarl, he finally gestured to the four bound outsiders.
The four cautiously stepped forward, unhappy, confused and angry. Each had wary looks upon their faces. Each, except the dark elf, who appeared to be unmoved. Amused, even. Thanks to the binding, Borgun could also feel what they were feeling. Again, all except the Dunmer, who appeared to feel nothing.
"As it was in the beginning, so it shall be at the end." Borgun stated. "Two warriors, a mage and a thief."
"Hey!" The dark elf, Tilly, snapped. "I am not a thief! Well, not anymore. Not really. Well, not all the time. I'm ..."
"A rogue, then? A woman with morals that bend in the wind, yes?" He was tired now and was eager to to see his bedchamber. "But, enough of this for this night. The spellcasting has tired me beyond what I expected. I have arranged a room for you here, for the night. Tomorrow I will tell you of your task, but, for now, sleep."
He didn't bother to dismiss them, not that these four would care. He rose from his seat and, aching, left the room and all who were left there.