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[I]6:30pm, 13th Sun’s Height 4E208, Southern Druadach Mountains, West of Falkreath Hold…[/I] 

The heat of the desert was behind them. 

The climb had been long and arduous, even taking into account that this was a low pass through the Druadach Mountains many leagues South of Markarth. It was a passage that was used for generations by hunters and nomads, farmers and creatures of the wilderness alike. It was also a particularly popular place for bandits, the farmer had warned who had charged the party’s path through the mountains on their maps to wish them safe passage. The Alik’r and villagers along the way helped provide proper clothing and supplies for the journey, and nearly a week of scaling rough terrain with increasingly sparse vegetation, watching the temperate climate give way to a cool and rainy alpine climate, the absence of Dwemer patrols became a stark contrast to the past two months of their near-constant presence. One could be forgiven for being out in this remote region and thinking that the world was always as it had been, and that the troubles in the cities were from a different time and place.  

For many, the absence of contact with the outside world was trying, and tensions grew and faded between various members of the party with infrequent arguments or debates, but it was at least a peaceful reprieve from the chaos that had dominated their lives for so long that what their lives had been before were daydreams belonging to the strangers they had been a few short months ago. Although supplies were dwindling and their rations were supplemented by hunting and gathering, there was a beautiful simplicity to the journey that was in a way liberating. Nights were spent around fires, and while some days left them hungry or miserable in the rain, time was passed with stories and song and it was easy to forget the troubles they all faced on the selfless mission they all agreed to take on. They all knew reality would set back in before too long, so it was worth appreciating the merits of a somewhat cleansing journey.

They had crested the worst of the range on the night of the 13th, heading down the Eastward slope into the Reach proper. The rain clouds that had hounded the group for two days at that juncture began to part and to the Southeast, far towards the Jerall Mountains way in the distance, and a sickly green glow filled the sky like a perverse and unnatural thunderstorm. Had any experienced the Oblivion Crisis, it would have contained a pervasive feeling of dread for those who understood what they were looking at. Daro’Vasora, clad in the red and brown Nordic-style leather armour she had acquired from traders, stepped ahead, her eyes narrowed and ears pulled back. “This is where it all began.” she said, a thousand memories rushing back. She recalled the expedition camp, marked now where the green light was emanating from like a pyre, how many dozens of lives lost? The Khajiit’s fist was clenched tightly. It was a decision that had cost far too many lives, and she shouldered her share of the blame.

“One day, people will look back in the history books and see this as just another obscure footnote in history, much like I have done so many times before. Never before have I considered what it must have been like for those who had their lives destroyed by the events that enraptured me as a young girl, and even now as a grown woman. Those stories only tell of the heroes and those who survived to make their mark in history, not the countless innocents whose only crime was being in the wrong place at the wrong time.” She said, looking down at her clenched fist before turning to the others.

“I was where that light was on the fateful day that changed all of our lives, one of Rhea’s chosen for an expedition that shouldn’t have been different from the many I have done before, as were many of you. It’s hard for me to not look at all of your faces and think that you weren’t there in the beginning, and I remind myself daily that for many of you, it wasn’t your decisions that led to the Dwemer returning and destroying your lives and so many others.” Daro’Vasora said, her eyes meeting Shakti’s for a moment with a furrowed brow and a frown. “I can never find the words that would ever make up for the mistake that cost you everything, but for standing here today, as resolved as those who were there in the beginning, you have my undying gratitude and humility; may my actions prove my resolve in setting this all right again, and ending [i]that[/i].” she said, pointing behind her towards the green pillar of light.

She sighed, crossing her arms and disturbing the dirt beneath her feet. “It’s going to be dark soon, this looks to be a good enough spot to set up camp. I’m going to help pitch tents and get the fire going. If any of you have strength to spare, see if you can gather up some food in the wilderness.” she paused, nodding to herself. “Alright, let’s get to it. At least it’s an interesting view.” she said, stepping away from the group to go unload the horses.

[hr]

“You’re from here.” Latro heard Sevari say. The two of them had filled the spaces between them only with the sound of their horses’ hooves in the dirt and awkward glances. Latro couldn’t say he held much scorn for the Khajiit, and it looked as if the man had taken it upon himself to do that for him. He scratched at the short, black beard his jaw decided to give him in the wake of a razor’s absence and the energy to use it.

For whatever reason, Latro couldn’t see the reason for Sevari’s hesitating. He shrugged, working at Faolan’s saddle straps. “Aye.”

More silence. Just the sound of buckles and leather, Sevari grunting as he hefted the saddle from his horse and set it down beside Stranger. He groaned as he sat on his new seat. Latro payed it no mind, or at least tried to. The constant stilted interactions between them was starting to grate him. “Was there anything else you wanted to say?”

“I don’t know.” Sevari said, “We haven’t even spoken much since we met back on the roads with the stagecoach. The last time we spoke was…”

Again with the forlorn head-hanging and dropping shoulders. It was starting to get old. How a man like this was rumored to be the bloodiest outlaw and most feared assassin in Southern Tamriel with an attitude like this was beyond him. But taking a look inward made Latro feel too much the same. He’d killed twenty-four men here. Exactly twenty-four. He kept count. And for all that fearsome reputation he’d made for himself all he did with it was try to make like he didn’t have it. “The last time we spoke was an argument.” Latro cleared his throat, “Where I threatened to kill you and Jaraleet.”

“Mm.” Sevari grunted, nodding his head but not sharing a gaze with Latro as he spoke. “You weren’t you. It was the stress, and the news, and everything.”

Sevari finally looked him in the eye and sighed, “I know how it feels.”

Latro thought back to the argument. He thought back to how it felt like he wasn’t even there. But to fool himself into thinking that Finnen Pale-Feather of the Crow-Wife Clan wasn’t the one to be blamed for taking his axe and breaking apart Nord heads and poisoning men was an affront to the dead. “You think you do.” Latro said, growling as he picked Faolan’s saddle off of his back and dropping it to the ground, “But you really don’t.”

Latro turned and left Sevari, keeping his eyes on the dirt underfoot and not even glancing at the trees and rocks around. The foolish notion that if he ignored the Reach it would be like they weren’t there. Until he agreed with himself that it was stupid and looked out at the horizon. That green pillar like a headstone, a monument to the great mistake shone against the gray iron of the clouds as they pressed down on him with the same weight. There was no rest to be had for him. No stop for the reminders of what his life had wrought.

Not until he was dead.

But thoughts like that would do him nothing. He slipped his shirt off and draped it over one of his shoulders, letting his skin feel the cold mountain air. As much as he did not want to remember what happened here, his soul would always yearn for home. He indulged himself in the cold at least, reveling in something that wasn’t a scorching sun and nothing but rolling dunes as far as the eye could see like a dead sea. As he strolled about to find Sora he locked eyes with someone he very much did not want to.

But as much as regretting the past would do him no good, neither would trading glares with their newest comers. Zaveed of Wherever the Fuck stood opposite him and instead of bearing his teeth or scowling, or any other sort of useless and petty posturing, he nodded. He took a few tentative steps closer like an animal at the edge of the fire’s light until he put some confidence in his steps. He stood opposite the Khajiit now. He was once a faceless bogeyman and then a sneering enemy. Now though…

He offered his hand out. “No ill will.” Latro said, though his voice held no warmth, “How’s that?”

Zaveed had looked up from plucking the materials from his pack to see Latro approaching, the memory of the Reachman’s face in the Gilane crowds forming nebulously in his mind. Back then, it had felt like such a triumph to see the despair, the anguish, the resignation upon Latro’s fair features. He’d been an enemy, simply another target to bring down on the hard climb to freedom, and now things were so much different. The two had avoided one another for weeks, doubtless fueled by the many unsavory actions and stories that had built something of a wall between the two of them, and this group at large. 

And now, Latro approached, the offered hand like a crack in a dam. 

He smiled, not snidefully or with any lingering animosity and took the offered hand, giving it a brisk shake and helping tear the crack asunder. 

“No ill will.” Zaveed agreed, nodding his head. His ear still ached somewhat from the golden piercing he’d acquired from the Alik’r before they’d left for the journey East, nestled on the opposite lobe of the Dwemeri metal one he’d gotten in Gilane. He still wore his customary sleeveless armour, the pistol strapped to his chest and the axes on his hips. If the cooler weather bothered him, he didn’t show it; he’d weathered worse storms than mere cold mountain air. 

“I know my presence among you is a point of contention for all of you, Latro, and there is precious little I can say that will make amends for the things I’ve visited upon you, but I do sincerely hope that my actions since then have proven my intentions are just.” the Khajiit said, coiling the thin rope around his spare hand that would act as a snare for some rabbit. He considered the many things he wished to say like a catalog in his mind before deciding to go forth without much hesitation for the consequences. 

“I’d like to think that men such as us, men of violence and action, often make the choices or have the choices made for us that could just as easily turn the people we meet into friends or foes.” Zaveed said, pausing as he met Latro’s gaze. “While I regret we met as foes, I will not apologize for what I have done. Am I wrong in thinking that perhaps you had been in a situation such as mine, where those set before you were enemies when under other circumstances they might have been friends?” he asked conversationally, addressing Latro as if he were someone he’d known for some time under much more pleasant circumstances.

Latro bristled, however briefly, at Zaveed’s mention of never apologizing. But he knew his words held truth in them. He never knew why foreigners took up arms in the Dwemer name, but he tossed that aside for the now. He nodded, “I won’t fault you.” He sighed, “This was my land once. My home, and the things I did to fight for it would make me a monster in these peoples’ eyes that we have with us.”

He glanced back to Sevari sitting alone and maintaining his array of weapons before turning back to Zaveed, “We do monstrous things for noble reasons.” He nodded, slow, “No forgiveness needed, no apologies needed.”

Latro frowned at Zaveed, though not in anger, just curiosity. “Why?” He asked, looking the Khajiit over. He seemed no more a monster than himself. “You three could’ve gone anywhere after the prison. You killed probably as many Dwemer as myself back there when at first you stood with them and did their dirty work. Why’d you stay?”

“The Dwemer took everything from me.” Zaveed replied simply, resting his wrists upon his axe heads. “I was a privateer of some renown in the Dominion’s service, Captain Greywake. I had a mighty vessel and a crew of 50 who were my family because my whore of a mother sure wasn’t much of a parental figure when she abandoned my sister and I onto the streets of Senchal when we were two, and the bastards who abused me when I took to their ship that would one day become my own sure weren’t very inspiring role models before I decided to kill them to give myself a good night’s sleep.” the Cathay shrugged. “What came after, however, was the best time of my life. A warm place to sleep, building fame and reputation, never going hungry again. The [I]Wrath[/I] was my home.”

Zaveed’s gaze turned to the pillar of green energy with a frown. “It was a storm, and unfamiliar waters for a job taken out of obligation to blood rather than the substantial coin that came with it that unraveled my entire life like a torn thread. My ship went down, most of my crew lost at sea. 

“The rest of us who managed to make it to Hammerfell’s shores were quickly set upon by Dwemer patrols. I was given a choice; become their knife in the dark and maybe, just maybe, I could earn my freedom and a comfortable position in their new empire. Refusing meant dying in some fighting pit for the dear Governor’s amusement. I have learned that one should never rue the cards they are dealt, but rather play their hands the best they can.”

He sighed, returning his attention fully to Latro. “Apologies for the lengthy tale of woe that I have served you, but I figured it would give some context as to why Sevari and I came into your lives the way we did, and that when I say that life dealt me another hand after Raelynn saved my life, I decided that my honour depended on how I used that gift going forward.” 

Zaveed smiled. “I got my brother back after not seeing one another for over two decades, I found my sister once more, and I found someone who saw me as I was and not a near mythical figure and decided I was worth helping. So, it became a rather simple choice; we were going to that prison to retrieve Sirine’s brother whether or not fate put our two groups together again or not. We served each other’s interests, and after that it seems Sevari’s taken a soft spot to you in particular. He’s not particularly well versed in the art of friendship, so you’ll have to forgive him for calling you one.”

“We beat each other to shit in a warehouse.” Latro shrugged, “What came after… he saved my life. I helped him in Al-Aqqiya, saw him kill his own brother.”

Latro sighed, shaking his head, “It’d just feel wrong not saying we’re friends after all of that. No matter how much of a dour, violent prick he is, anyways.” He crossed his arms, “Maybe we’re not that different, like you say. There was a time when I was death in these mountains, Forsworn. A time when I was a whore in Wayrest, and a time,” he looked at the green light in the endless distance, “when I pretended I was never any of those. I forgot in the process what kept me free and alive.”

“I played the hand I was dealt the best I could, like you.” He smiled something that had a twinkle of cruelty, “I killed the men who thought they owned me and the men who raped me. Burned the brothel and a good part of the docks down with them. I guess, what I’m trying to say is that I like the way you think.”

Latro rubbed his jaw full of dark, long stubble and pointed at Zaveed’s own with his chin, “How was it, by the way?”

Zaveed tilted his head, gazing back at the light. “I’d never allowed myself to forget what I was. The reason I introduce myself as Zaveed of Senchal is not so much to give myself a pompous title, but to rather remind myself of what I have pulled myself out of. I wish I could say I do not understand what it means to be passed from man to man, and sometimes woman, for grotesque gratification, but it’s a pain I know all too well.” His eyes darkened and a scowl crossed his features. 

“It is an indignity I vowed I’d never suffer again, and I would not permit any under my influence devolve to such depravity. So one night, after how many weeks of never sleeping the whole night through before some creature I was supposed to call a crewmate gagged me and tied me so I could not claw their fucking eyes out, I took an axe and opened their throats while they slept. The last one I left it there, splitting his skull on an angle, like so,” he explained, tracing the path with a claw down his temple, between his eyes, and across the dimple on the far side. “And then I went back to my hammock, and I slept soundly for the first time in as long as I could remember, knowing full well I could die the next day.”

The Khajiit sighed, rolling his shoulders. “Maybe, in another life, it would have felt satisfying, but I was so fucking weary of it all. I came to the ship to escape starvation and disease and found myself the plaything of things worse than a boy who was barely a teen could understand. 

“And instead of being given death for murdering half a dozen of Dar’Narra’s prized sailors, he gave me back my axe and forced me to fight every single day against everyone else. If he didn’t think I fought hard enough, or suffered enough, I wouldn’t eat that day. Instead of withering away and accepting death, I fought, I grew stronger and more ruthless. Eventually, it gained me respect. The dagger at my back is my prize for surviving all of that and looking fate in the eye and spitting in it.”

“Every day I live as a free man is my prize.” Latro nodded, remembering what it was like being trained by his father to kill with axe and knife. It wasn’t dissimilar to Zaveed. “The Reach loves its children in its own way, and Hircunnen, or Hircine in the Empire tongue accepts no prayers. Everything you need is already in yourself. Pray for mercy and he’ll grant you death.”

“The Reachtribes breed wolves of men.” He frowned, “And on the night I shrugged off my slave’s chains and whore’s silks, they learned it. I tied the man who payed for me and the man who owned me to a wagon. I dragged them behind me, made them do what they did to me to each other.”

“And then did what I wanted with them.” He mimicked tapping a nail with a hammer, “Ever since then, I’m remembering what it was like to gain my freedom back. No pretending to be a prissy Breton ponce. Not a whore anymore, not a slave, not Forsworn. [i]Finnen.[/i]”

He looked around himself, at the foothills and the mountains. At the river valley far, far away. At the pale green pillar of light. “I’m home now.” He nodded, “I’m back.”

He looked the Khajiit over once more, “We’ll have to talk more sometime, Zaveed of Senchal.”

“Finnen.” Zaveed repeated the name, as if testing the waters with a raised brow. “And indeed we shall. Is that the name I shall call you?” he asked, before nodding towards Daro’Vasora. “Or perhaps what she calls you? You’ll have to tell me the story of how a hardened killer of the Reach won the heart of someone like her; you two are from quite different worlds.”

“Finnen.” The Reachman nodded, “Finnen Pale-Feather.”

And then he too looked at Sora, going about her work. The cruelty of remembering Wayrest lightened at the sight of her. “It’s something to do with that,” He nodded at the towering light, “And this.” He patted the lute on his back. His easy smile was there. “Well, work to be done.” And Finnen nodded to Zaveed and went his own way.