[I][h3]From Night Comes a Light[/h3][/I]

The Rangers had secured the two piloted sets of armour, one intact, the other heavily damaged and would likely have to be scuttled if they could not find a way to fix its range of motion. Daro’Vasora was interested in spending more time studying them in detail to see how it held up to her journal notes on Dwemer designs, particularly the formidable Centurions, of which the few times she’d encountered them she thanked herself for having a lithe and quick body that was able to get in and out of dangerous situations with a degree of aptitude that it was a wonder she’d avoided being seriously injured thus far. She, however, was more preoccupied by the black soul gem she’d discovered was powering the suits earlier and the implications they brought. She’d never definitively found if Dwemer, renown for their general scorn of the arcane arts, had employed mages to create soul gems, but what if they started soul trapping in their exile? Was it a sign of desperation or cruelty? A grand soul like from a troll would have been one thing, but a person left a sour taste in her mouth. Much like the Falmer, the thought of being soul trapped and used and discarded for eternity frightened the Khajiit to no end. She was a pragmatist and not particularly spiritual, but she’d seen enough evidence that souls were tangible things that could be harnessed and used in her time that she didn’t question such a fate was possible. It bothered her immensely.

Daro’Vasora and the others had made their way back to the ruins of Elenglynn in a fairly prompt amount of time; going was much faster when you weren’t skulking through the woods like a predator after an enemy. She ran her hand across the Alyeid stonework, admiring the ancient masonry. The Wild Elves were one of her first scholarly interests, and she’d been here before. She just never thought she’d return to find it occupied by a species of elf that had predated the Dunmer. 

Looking around impassively at the faces of the other Rangers who had fought for the ruins and secured the airships, along with the carnage that had gone along with it, the Khajiit tried to find Brynja in the mess of wrecked automata and Dwemer bodies; those of the Rangers were in the process of being collected and sorted, likely to either bury graves or make a pyre, it was uncertain what would have been the agreed upon choice. However, her search didn’t take long at all; Brynja found her first.

“Daro’Vasora!” She bellowed, a grin stretching across her face when her eyes landed on her. 

The Khajiit crossed her arms and shifted her weight to a foot. “You seem awfully cheerful for someone who just got out of a nasty bit of work.” she replied. She offered a slight nod of relief. “I’m glad you made it through; I wasn’t fancying the prospect of trying to make new acquaintances. So, what happened?”

“By the Gods,” she shook her head, “I’ll explain on the way. I’ve something to show you.” 

Daro’Vasora scoffed. “I doubt there’s much I haven’t already seen today, but I’ll humour you.”

“You’ll change your mind. We secured the airships. I have to go heal Solandil. Got a nasty cut on his chest.” She explained hurriedly, forgetting how long her legs were compared Vasora’s. She slowed, and then the sight of him appeared.

“There you have it.” She gestured, “Alive and in the flesh. Our Latro.” 

That stopped the Khajiit in her tracks, her eyes widening as they followed Brynja’s hand towards a figure that was seated on the ruins. Coming from the very familiar lute in his hands was a familiar tune, a knowing smirk on Latro’s lips as a clue to what it was. Finally, as he bent the strings on the last note, it was clear- Wayward in Wayrest. The last song he’d played for her before all of this.

He put the lute down by his side and sighed, interlacing his fingers in his lap with a small smile that whispered of deep melancholy, “It’s really been some time, Sora.”

The words didn’t come immediately; seated before her as if nothing had happened was a specter. Walking tepidly towards him, moving ahead to face him head on to make sure that this wasn’t some cruel illusion, her hands were wrung together on her chest. When she found her voice, it was barely a whisper. “I thought you were dead. How is this possible?” 

“I thought the same of you.” Latro smiled. The two of them stood before each other for a few moments, not knowing what to say. After all this time, Latro’s tongue would not obey him. It had felt like years since he’d seen Sora. He wiped a sleeve at his eye and cleared his throat. Latro broke the silence, “I’m glad I was wrong.”

Wordlessly, Daro’Vasora crossed the distance and flung her arms around Latro, burying her face in his neck, tears flowing freely down her face. “Me too. I thought I lost everything, gods, I did. I couldn’t help but feel after everything with the Falmer, and that afternoon in the city, things were going to turn out okay. I… he’s gone. The day after you met him. I thought the same happened to you. How… how are you here? You never made it to Rhea’s manor.” she asked, her words coming out in a staccato. She gripped him tighter, his scent and the fabrics of his clothes making him something more than a ghost after all.

He gasped at the quickness of it all. He was not expecting Sora to be so forward and he found it somewhat humorous in light of everything that after all this time, it was him being bashful. Even so, his arms wrapped around Sora as hers did to him. Slowly but surely, he sank into the embrace. First nuzzling into her shoulder with his chin, then when the lump in his throat burst forth in a single choking sob, he buried it in the folds of her clothes and her neck. The sobs silently jerked his shoulders in her arms and he wasted no thought on his composure. After a tearful few moments, he withdrew his face and spoke.

“The Rangers found me wandering the city. I was almost dead when they found me, now all that haunts me is pain and…” he thought of the carnage at the White-Gold city, the face of the stranger he woke up with, the Dwemer, “Pain, all the same. When they told me you were not with me or them… I’m glad the worst has not come to bear.” Gathering himself fully, he gave Sora one last squeeze before stepping back, a hand lingering on her arm before it slowly came away, “I’m sorry about your mentor. If I had been there, I would have said some words over his grave.”

Daro’Vasora glanced back towards where Brynja was strolling towards Solandil, some kick to her step. The reunion obviously hit a chord for the Nord; the Khajiit shook her head, taking a seat on the cool ancient stonework. “I was going to arrange a funeral for him in Skingrad, even if his body is lost. I managed to reclaim a number of Zegol’s effects after… finding him.” the words didn’t want her to spell it bluntly; it was still hard for her to think of the man that had been like an uncle to her being truly gone, particularly due to something she had a hand in orchestrating. Her arms crossed protectively about her waist, her teeth grinding somewhat. “Looks like that’s getting delayed indefinitely due to all the damn refugees. For what it’s worth, I’m proud that despite what happened, you chose to act instead of wallow around walls like a clueless lout. Most everyone made it out from the expedition group, some are back at the Skingrad camp doing… something that isn’t making the Dwemer regret their return.” she added bitterly, looking up at the Breton’s face. It was like something of one of the stories she’d read a dozen or so times in Castle Leyawiin. Feeling somewhat self-conscious, her eyes darted away. 

“I wanted peace in my life, but,” Latro shook his head, “I know that if ever there was a good enough reason to kill now, the White-Gold city is it. I wanted to bring justice for your names. When I found Brynja and Sol, I had some hope.”

When he met eyes only just long enough to know that Sora’s were caught lingering on his, he too looked aside, somewhat embarrassed. They still stood less than an arms length from each other but both made no effort to add to the distance. He scratched at a teary cheek, a few days’ worth of unchecked stubble adding grit under his nails. “I’m glad to know everyone is still yet among the living.” He said, “But I don’t hold it against them if they don’t wish to fight the ones who stilled the heart of the Empire so easily. I had my reasons to.” He looked at her.

“[I]I[/I] told Rhea not to meddle with things that no one understood. So what if it conveniently helped us escape the ruins? It could have just as easily turned the room into a gas chamber or been a return beacon for that crawler that we saw. Instead, we enabled the return of a bunch of assholes who I much preferred reading about and pilfering their artifacts for a bunch of Septims. I’m not going to apologize for surviving, but I’m not going to pretend that everything’s okay. I was there at the beginning, and I am going to be there in the end when they realize that returning and murdering my family is the stupidest thing they could have done since meddling with the literal heart of a god.” Daro’Vasora replied venomously, her slit-shaped eyes might as well have belonged to a viper as she stared back at Latro. 

Just as soon as the cold rage came, it subsided in a few long breaths. She leaned forward, her head resting against a pair of fingers that squeezed her temple. “I just don’t understand how anyone can just sit back with the other clueless idiots and hope for someone better than them to resolve the worst bloody crisis since, what, the Great War? You’ve seen what the Dwemer brought with them. Imagine what they’re holding in reserve. We need to understand them if we’re going to do anything but be forgotten to history.” she said, standing suddenly, walking towards something that had caught her eye.

“Not everyone holds the same convictions we might. Even so, I’m glad to be alongside you in this.” He sighed, “I’ll admit, there might be some measure of guilt that guides me in this, being there when we did… whatever in Dagon’s name this all is. I’ve fought an overwhelming force before, I can do it again.” He let it go unsaid that he was run out of the city he was fighting for and ostracized for the whole ordeal, but he had fought.

Vasora turned from him and looked towards something with far too much interest to not ask, “What is it?”

The Khajiit crouched next to a body, one of the Dwemer soldiers, and began to look over the armour with clinical curiosity. The elf’s sword was in the grass next to him, and she picked it up without much ceremony, not to wield it, but to examine it like she was appraising what it was worth. “It’s the same.” she murmured, turning it over in her hands with a slow blink before offering the handle to Latro for his own inspection.

Latro took the offered sword, placing his hand on the fuller of the blade and holding its point to he sky, his careful eye running along the length of it. It was true, how many times had he seen the exact design from the archaeology samples? The weight was the same, the balance, taper of the blade down its fuller to the thick point of it. “You’re right…” he whispered, handing it back to her.

 “The design, the manufacturing process… it hasn’t changed in thousands of years. They forged the ingots first, and then let the form follow the material, and then rarely deviate from it. Once it’s cast, that’s it. It’s not malleable like steel or even moonstone. Why, out of all of the elves, were the Dwemer the only ones that never seemed to figure out how on Nirn to make a curved blade? Something designed for efficient cutting? Everything is in such precise angles. Everything that they have, as superior as the materials they are forged from are… they’re incredibly basic. It’s functional, and that’s about all you can say about it.

“As incredible as they were at metallurgy and mechanical aptitude that no one else seemed to have even come close to comprehending, everything they built follows the exact same form, every single time. They were incapable of innovating or reshaping their designs in more elegant ways, and that’s why past personal engravings, you can end up in opposite ends of Tamriel and find almost an identical sword. Why is it the one in your hand looks exactly the same as something a Chimer could have looted from his foe? Where is the refinement, or the incremental improvements in designs?” Daro’Vasora couldn’t contain the excitement in her voice, she looked back to Latro, hand running along the blade. 

“Do you understand? Latro, the Dwemer have barely changed, they haven’t advanced. They’re throwing the most unconventional weapons they have at us to keep us off balance, to instill fear of the unknown. Why is it that the same ones we’ve just fought look like they’re only a few years removed from when they last were seen here on Nirn? For as much of an advantage as they have with their technology, they’re still using the same tried and true processes that they’d been using for thousands of years. It’s like they stagnated.” she grinned. “They haven’t learned many new  tricks.”

“As smart as this all is, how do we exploit it? Their alloy may not have changed but it’s still a damned task to fell them.” Latro shrugged, “A valuable thing to notice, either way, I’m sure. We should bring this to the Rangers.”

“When we find more adequate proof, agreed. This is all speculation so far.” Daro’Vasora said, her hands going behind her head to hold the back of her neck. “Are we still at a disadvantage? Certainly, unless we find some way to fly like their airships. But we can plan around what we know; we know spells work, and we can estimate their capabilities knowing that even if we see new automata or machinery, they should in theory follow a similar set of rules. All this means that for all of my years crawling through their ruins, there might be some valuable insight to be gained from what they left behind. Assuming, of course, they didn’t reclaim it all when our backs were turned.”

Latro smiled, somewhat exhausted, “I would say I doubt it but, well,” he swept his hand across the scene before them, “I don’t know what I can safely doubt now. At least we know as well as they do now that they’re not infallible.”

Latro crosses his arms and sighed, surveying everything before him. Tearful words said over graves, a couple Rangers carrying Dwemer dead to a pile of corpses, more Rangers looting or milling about, the timeless art of looking like doing something but not. His eyes settled on Sora after he picked up his lute and retook his seat, “I can’t express how much I’m glad you’re here. I’m not letting you out of my sight after all that’s happened.” He chuckled, plucking a few strings as he talked.
 
One of her rare smiles crossed her face, she glanced away for a moment sheepishly. “Well, it’s a reciprocal sentiment.” she murmured, taking a seat next to Latro. She sighed contentedly; at least she didn’t lose everything as she turned her gaze to the lute, its strings vibrating subtly as the cavities allowed a song to breathe into the air. “Sorry to prattle on, hardly makes for a sentimental moment, does it? I’m not much of a fighter, and I’m still trying to make sense of the world right now. But here you are, against all odds with the very same instrument I gifted you. I guess it meant more to you than simply a kind gesture.” 

“Music is something I hold dear. It’s the one constant in my life that has never brought me anything bad. When I lost my instruments, I lost some of myself.” Latro said, “So, it is more than a gift. It is a gift, but more than an instrument. We wouldn’t have made it out of those caves without each other. Never found the way out of it.”

His fingers broke into a flourish of notes, “I never would have made it away from my old choices without music. I never would have made it away from the caves without you, I would’ve sat without picking a direction. This new war of ours,” he bent the strings up and then finished a flurry of strumming on a few notes before letting it fade out on its own, “You and me, the rest of us. Let’s pick a direction.”

She frowned, recalling the horrors of the Falmer. There wasn’t much in Tamriel that unsettled Daro’Vasora to the core, but the Falmer were certainly among them. “I still get nightmares about what they would have done to me if they caught me. You kept me focused, made me feel like there was a way out. I was terrified beyond my wits, but you kept me sharp and safe.” the Khajiit gripped her hands into a ball, resting forward against her chin. “It’s strange, you know? Normally people come and go out of my life, but as soon as everything we know is threatened, I’m afraid to be alone. Brynja’s been too kind to me considering how I’ve been to her, and in the short time I’ve known you, things have felt like they’d work out somehow. Whatever direction you think we should take, I’ll be there with you. I’m not a good person, but I’m trying to do the right thing. I just don’t know what that is anymore.”

“Perhaps we’re doing what’s right for us. Let everyone else do what they will, but we’ve picked this path. I feel right.” Latro shrugged. “There’s not much else to do but run. I wouldn’t feel right doing that, either. I can wander from their borders for as long as they move them, but what happens when I’m staring at the ocean horizon with them breathing down my neck?”

“I’ll admit, I never liked the taste of war or death. It’s too bitter, and I’ve spent my life seeking a peaceful place to set my coat down where I’m not constantly tested against a knife edge. Where I don’t have to tear my meal from the dead’s hands. I don’t like violence, but this just feels like being pressed to defend myself, or else.” He sighed, fingers running along his knife and axe beside him, “I’m not sure if that makes me feel better or worse for what I’ll have to do.”

She considered his words for a few moments before speaking. “You’ve always struck me as someone who learned to be capable the hard way, as if it weren’t much of a choice. Not so different than where we’re at now.” Daro’Vasora pointed out. “They can’t be everywhere, they aren’t endless. I’m sure you or I or anyone could just wander forever, pretending like they aren’t here. But what kind of life is that? All I know is I owe them back for what they took from me, and if they ever got down to Leyawiin and I didn’t try to make amends for our mistake… I’m not a coward, nor an idiot. I’m not going to be winning any wars on my own, and probably won’t be making a shit of a difference, but at least I can live with myself.” she sighed, leaning back until she was resting upon her elbows, staring up at the earliest stars prodding through the shroud of the branches above. “I just wish I knew what they were after.”

Latro nodded, chewing on his bottom lip, “Whatever it is, they’ve got an odd way of asking for it. They won’t parley, they don’t set terms, they arrived wading through blood from the start.” Latro frowned, “Whatever it is, even I won’t stand by. I can’t. My mentor would do the same, that’s enough for me.”

Daro’Vasora’s ears perked up that. “You mentioned your mentor before. What was he like? I feel like we’ve barely really touched upon each other’s lives. Might as well sort that out, yeah? You met Zegol, so you know where I come from.” she propped herself up on her elbows to get a better look at her companion.

“He was the best fighter I’d ever seen in all my travels.” Latro started off, eyes going somewhere distant, “I remember being in an inn after… things happened… in Wayrest. Nothing good for me was there and I was stripped of everything I once had, from my septims to my pride. I was sitting in that inn, playing to no one and he sat near me at the hearth. When my song finished, he handed me the second flagon he’d been holding onto.”

Latro laughed, more of a bitter huff of air through his nose, “I told him nothing good ever came of accepting drink from strangers. He respected that, we talked for the night and he was intelligent, worldly, gentle. He was unlike everyone I’d ever met in my life. When he made to leave in the morning, I asked to follow him.”

“He was a duelist and a sellsword, I learned. On our third night of traveling together, we’d run afoul of some drunk thugs for the mere offense of being there,” Latro chuckled, less bitter now, “He set them all down on the floor without ever drawing his blade. That was all after trying so damned hard to calm everyone down. He had every right to kill every one of them when they drew weapons, but he told me he refused. He hated violence, ironic for a duelist.”

“He explained the purpose of dueling is a contest of styles and technique, not bloodletting. He’d never sold his sword to a person who would see it bloodied. He never told me why, but I didn’t need to know why to know that I liked that. Being violent never did me any kindness but he said the lamb may be good but the lamb is useless when the wolves come. I asked him to teach me, so he did. Now my knuckles are scuffed and my palms are callused, I know my way around blades short and long, my feet are quiet, I know many unpeaceful things,” he frowned, “He always told me violence was the first tool of simple minds, so I learned poetry, songwriting, instruments too. I learned the good things in life as well so I can learn to detest the bad. I use my knife and my axe only when I am desperate.”

Latro sniffed, curling his hands into balled fists, “He told me peace was always the highest virtue, so when peace is shattered, to never be content. My enemies are no more demons than I am, so I am to take up arms with sorrow and compassion and enter battle gravely. To be sullen in bloody victory.” Latro nodded, “Killing is brutal and violent and terrifying, as it should be. If it weren’t, it’d be a weightless thing on the conscience. I’ve refrained from violence ever since I met him.”

The Khajiit sat upright and took Latro by the arm, showing solidarity. “He sounded like quite the man, someone who gave you purpose and direction that you needed. One doesn’t carry a blade unless they know it may be used some day, but you cannot hold yourself accountable for the actions of others. If you’re forced to use lethal force to save yourself or another, what of it?” she asked quietly. “I can’t tell you how many bones I’ve broken, and I’ve killed my share of rivals, monsters, and otherwise indecent folk in my line of work, almost all of it entirely preventable if I’d just pursued a passion that was mundane and boring. 

“He sounded like a man who was wise to times of peace, but war doesn’t let us chose; it choses for us. You’re still a poet, a bard, a man with a soft and gentle soul who wants to make the world a better place than he left it. It’s part of why I have such a curiosity about you, but you shouldn’t hold yourself accountable if someone forces your hand to violence. Does a hawk apologize for eating the hare? Or the tortoise for letting the wolf starve by protecting itself? Sometimes, we need to be willing to do the unpleasant things to ensure what we care about survives. I’m a historian, and let me tell you, history is a bloody swath of reprehensible people, but there’s also a lot of nobility there. Most people who have their names remembered were ones who were forced to make the hard choices. It didn’t erode their sense of decency.” the Khajiit explained gently, not wanting Latro to feel wracked with guilt over being forced to spill the blood of monsters that came from the sky. Zegol’s dismembered body flashed through her mind; her grip tightened somewhat and her teeth clenched. Wolves, indeed.

“We’re of the same mind, Sora. I hold no qualms in seeking to restore the relative peace I once had. I would rather have weapons and never use them than have them be called upon and want for them. Too many think that not having claws at all is the same as being good. Ask those slain in pogroms what good that monks and pacifists turning the other cheek did for them. As my mentor said to me long ago,” he picked up his lute and set his fingers to the task of tuning it, “These invaders have shattered the peace. Until they are dead or surrender, I will not be content. It is up to them which to choose. Until they do, I will kill them wherever they are until peace is attained again. Their blood is not what I want, it is peace.”

He sighed and frowned, “the farmer takes no pleasure in killing wolves in his manger. I am no lamb,” He spoke gravely, “And this is a land of wolves now.”

Despite herself, Daro’Vasora allowed herself something of smirk. “Wolves, farmers, sheep. We’re getting much too metaphorical for my tastes after risking life and limb to steal a couple of those suits of theirs. Whatever we might be, let’s not forget to live along the way. Don’t let the music stop.” She leaned over, placing a hand on Latro’s chest and kissing him on the cheek before breaking off and standing with an audible stretch with her lithe frame reaching for the sky and her back curving. Something in her leg definitely popped. She grinned at her partner. “Now that you’re back, no more making me think you’ve died. Agreed?”

“I apologize, I can wax poetic-“ his tongue seized there as he felt Sora’s lips on his cheek. He placed a hand there, staring ahead and then glancing up at Sora as she stood. At the mention of leaving their fates a mystery to each other, he nodded at first, only because his tongue still refused his commands, “Sure,” he smiled almost dumbly, “Like I said, you and me. Pick a direction and I won’t stray from it.”

Daro’Vasora winked at Latro. “And yet you can still be caught off guard from an innocent gesture. Right now, I’m picking the direction towards the boss; Brutus might like to hear some of the ideas I’ve run by you, and I wouldn’t mind heading down in the ruins, for old-time’s sake. Other than Welkynd stones, there’s probably surviving Dwemer and some equipment we can salvage.” she smiled, feeling like some of the heavy weight she’d carried the past few weeks lift considerably. She was ashamed to admit to herself she felt almost like a little girl again with a stupid crush.

Oh well, life was a mixture of highs and lows. She’d learned to appreciate the highs, even if it was vapid and perhaps born out of emotional stress due to the insanity of the situation they were surviving. It didn’t change the fact that Daro’Vasora felt joy at Latro’s return, and a comfort in familiarity in times that both were in short supply.

Turning to leave, she offered him a parting wave. “I’ll catch up with you later, mister wolf.”