[h3]It Was Only a Dream[/h3]

A Dervy Shafting

[i]Midday, 16th of Sun’s Height, 4E208
Approaching Falkreath Hold[/i]

The lands felt like they were starting to level out somewhat after an arduous journey through the Druadach Mountains, it felt as if the group was finally reaching the foothills. More and more green and lush hills that didn’t break off into rocky caps surrounded them, and the pass was much more gentle; something that doubtless was needed after the ambush they had all survived the day before. While everyone was exhausted, most carried some form of injury, some critically; Daro’Vasora felt a pang of irrational guilt that she was one of the few who escaped the encounter without injury. The massive Orsimer who had attacked them with the Centurions was nothing anyone could have predicted, and it came as a shock that he was related to Mazrah, who has suffered grievously at his hands. 

It was dumb luck and ingenuity that had saved the day; Raelynn had managed to turn one of the Centurions’ weapons against the others and the giant Orc, and the mages had kept mobile enough to distract those who had to get close to get to work. Despite how advanced and deadly these Centurions were, they still had shortcomings, and nobody had died, not for lack of trying. Still, the entire ordeal sat poorly with Daro’Vasora, and where on Nirn were Megana and Zaveed? She feared something happened to them, which was a sobering thought when [I]Zaveed[/I] was concerned. How he had been before seemed to be so long ago that her arm stopped throbbing in his presence and when he spoke, she didn’t hear Roux’s last dying breaths. 

It was healing, wasn’t it? It was to the point where Daro’Vasora realized she wanted to see them both back fine, just like anyone else. Even Gregor’s undead condition was something she was slowly adapting to; his placid disposition and utter fearlessness and selflessness in the face of danger was still fresh in her mind, despite how utterly disturbing the entire thing was. She had seen him weather and endure trauma that should have killed him a dozen times over, and if she didn’t know the utter ruin that likely remained under his cloak, she would have thought she dreamed the entire thing. 

What the hell was the world coming to when the relic hunter was beginning to feel acceptance and some degree of fondness for a blood-thirsty murderer and a necromancer? She knew that good and evil were subjective concepts that often accompanied whoever wrote the texts, but there were so many bloody shades of grey the Khajiit felt like she could no longer see colour at all and it concerned her. What was wrong with her that she was allowing any of this to become [I]normal?[/I]

The group had stopped for an hour break next to a creek. While some took it as an excuse to check over wounds or eat in peace, others simply took the time to lay down and rest in the shade, easing their legs from the long ride in the saddle. Finnen was among those who deemed rest necessary, and it killed Daro’Vasora to see him laid low. She wasn’t there when he was attacked, and she had barely done more than fuss over him after she found him in the aftermath, maimed and broken to a degree that she herself broke down and cried, fearing for his life. 

He pulled through, and despite his injuries, he seemed to be more or less himself. The healers had done an incredible job on him… on all of them. The only thing they couldn’t mend what was going on inside of everyone’s minds, and with the faintest of reassured smiles, Daro’Vasora laid down next to Finnen, watching his chest rise and fall as he gently snored, sleep having taken him easily. She ran her long fingers through his long hair, admiring its tone and volume. He’d changed so much since they first met… they both had. As they lay there, listening to the sound of rushing water, she wondered if he was dreaming.

“He’s a fighter.” Sevari didn’t react when Sora flinched out of her reverie at the sound of his voice. “I saw some of it. He’s a fighter.”

He stood opposite them, speaking to Sora but looking at Finnen. There was something wrong with that boy, but whatever it was, it showed up at the right time. That big Orc was no slouch, taking two of the huge bullets from the gun. He hacked something up and spat it dark to the side. He’d been doing that a lot since the incident. 

“How are you?” He finally looked at Sora.

“Honestly? I’ve got no right to complain about anything right now.” Daro’Vasora said to Sevari, looking up to him with a frown. “Just taking it day by day and every time I think my plan is starting to make sense, that it’s going to work… this sort of thing happens.” she shook her head, sitting up to look at Sevari a bit easier. “How about yourself? You had quite the scare.”

He shrugged, “It happens.”

There was still a silence between them. He was sure something had happened to Zaveed. Twenty years apart or twenty days, he worried for the man. He was still his brother, and he didn’t know the man for abandoning what he set his mind to. But worrying himself to death wasn’t going to keep anybody going forward. “Food? Water? I’ve got a hunger. Dying is pretty hungry work, you know?” He had a macabre little smirk, but it was something.

“I try to make it a habit of not knowing anything about that.” Daro’Vasora replied with a grin before her expression softened up some. “But if you’re offering, anything you can spare.” she placed a hand on Finnen’s shoulder. “And for him; I want to make sure he’s taken care of before me.”

“Can’t take care of him if you don’t take care of yourself. But, sure thing.” Sevari said, a small smile on his lips. He hung at the spot he stood, still cradling his rifle in folded arms. It was something he wouldn’t let get away from him, especially after what had happened. “You’re a fighter too. Both of you, couple of warriors.”

He chuckled at that, even if there wasn’t any comedy apparent, “You remind me of someone I knew back in Elsweyr. She was a good person.” He clucked his tongue, “Still is, I’d say. Even if her and I don’t get along well these days, I think you two might. Zaveed’s sister.”

That earned a crook of Daro’Vasora’s head. “I actually didn’t know he had a sister. Just you two, and even then, I struggle to see the resemblance.” she said, deciding Finnen could wait for a few minutes. She rose to her feet, feeling something pop in her ankles and her joints aching in protest. Now standing with Sevari, she gestured, “Know what? Let’s go for a bit of a walk. So, what reminds you of this mystery sister?” she asked.

He nodded, letting her lead the way as he followed, eyes up in his thoughts and memories. He snorted, looking sidelong at Sora, “You’re both fucking mean when you want to be.” He let the sentiment grow long enough for Sora’s expression to change a tick, “And nice, too. Self-sufficient. Strong. She was almost too strong for her own good, and what strength she didn’t have in those days, she tried everything to make like she had it.”

“It’s not a bad thing. Gods know I’ve had to keep a snarl while my pants were being pissed a great too many times I’ll ever tell you,” he smiled, “But warriors? Yeah, warriors.”

It was an oddly sentimental thing for Sevari to say; for a moment, Daro’Vasora felt somewhat [i]bashful[/i]. Compliments weren’t something that were offered freely to her, especially not from someone who had been an enemy not long ago, and barely an acquaintance after. “I’m not much of a warrior, Sevari. I’m just handy at hitting things with a mace if it buys me a few seconds to dart off with something valuable in hand… at least that was my life before all of this.” she shook her head, smiling as she looked to him. 

“You know, I didn’t ever think I’d find myself in the company of people I trust and care about more than myself. I feel like a part of who I am was just left behind in Anvil when I made the choice to go back for everyone to tell them to come with Finnen and I. I used to be so vain and selfish, I couldn’t trust anyone but myself because I was afraid I’d get hurt by anyone I let close. These people changed that.” she said, crossing her arms as she stopped for a minute.

“It sounds like you cared a lot about ‘Zaveed’s sister’. I noticed that you didn’t call her your own. Who was she?” she asked quietly.

“She…” Sevari’s fingers went to the necklace around his throat. The one she made for him. Saved up enough coin to buy everything she needed and kept it hidden long enough to finish it. She’d slipped it around his neck when he least expected it.

It never left since. 

“Was the first person to tell me I was worth something.” He stared long at nothing, furrowed brow as he remembered, “Growing up Ohmes in Torval was rough, Senchal was no easier. The Dominion came and suddenly everyone forgets the Ohmes are Khajiit through and through.”

“They called me half-man. Said my mother bent over for…” He scowled then, shaking his head and then looking at Sora, back in the present, “Marassa is her name.”

“It’s a pretty name.” Daro’Vasora said kindly, setting a hand on Sevari’s arm. “Both of my parents are Ohmes-stock, and they’re both very successful and well-regarded in Leyawiin. I’ve spent way too long hating being what I was that I thought being a Khajiit was holding me back, that it had people look at me with suspicion and distrust. You shouldn’t have to do the same, Sevari. You aren’t some half-man, or lesser for the station of your birth. You’re quite remarkable, and the Rid-Thar-Ri’Datta picked you to walk Nirn as an Ohmes-raht for a reason. 

“We’re the most diverse race on Nirn; it makes us strong and able to see things differently than everyone else. We aren’t so set in our ways, or resistant to change and new ideas we can’t adapt. How else would two people like us, from such different walks of life, end up here? We’re trying to save the world. We pull it off, who knows? Maybe you’ll be getting your own statue in Torval, or Imperial City. Sevari Dwemer-Bane, or some shit like that. Someone with your face can walk both worlds, so own it.” she said reassuringly. “You’ve got a lot more going for you than you think.”

Sevari chuckled ruefully, “Oh, I don’t think they’ll be putting statues of me in Torval, Sora.” His chuckling continued as he shook his head, “If only you knew what I used to do in Elsweyr. Khajiit see things differently. A man accepted me and told me I could get justice for what was done to me. Khajiit saw me and saw only difference.”

He looked at Sora, a small frown on his face, “By Khajiit. By men, too, and elves. But the person who let me right the wrongs was a Man. A round-ear, a pink-skin. I might be able to walk both worlds but one of those worlds showed me how much it didn’t want me.” 

He let out a gravelly cough and spat off to the side, pulling his collar down to let her see the Red Diamond, then Pelinal’s image on him. He showed her one of his khajiiti script tattoos, ‘Thank you, Anequina, for my ruined youth.’ <I don’t want it either.>

Daro’Vasora shook her head. Sevari had a story she had no idea what it all entailed, but it clearly wasn’t one of comfort and warmth. “I see you and see a man who wants to be hated, [I]needs[/I] to be. But Sevari?” she asked, crossing her arms and looking past him. “Let’s say you finally get what you want, revenge, justice, whatever you want to call it. What comes after? Have you even thought that far?”

Sevari stopped walking and rustled around in his coat pocket, tsking, “Last one.” He muttered to himself before placing the cigar between his lips and touching the tip of his finger to it. He looked around, noticing they were alone now, a ways from the others. The cigar began smoking with each of his breaths until he removed it from his mouth, “Yeah. I have.”

“I’ll inherit his wealth, fuck his wife. Marry his daughter or something, but I don’t think she’ll want to do that after I strangle his son with his own guts.” His spiteful smirk faltered for a moment and he grabbed a fistful of the necklace and pulled it up behind his neck, taut against his throat, “She’s fucking him, you know?”

He said, necklace still taut, “The son. Marassa’s fucking him and she’s been fucking him for I don’t know how long.” He shook his head, a frown twitching at a corner of his mouth, “My entire [i]fucking[/i] family gets killed by his father!”

“I lose my home! I lose my brother, Zaveed, I lose him!” His fist was shaking now, making the beads of the necklace shiver together as if they were frightened of him, “And she fucks his son, and tells me if I even try to get even!”

His breathing was labored, his eyes bore into Sora not with anger, not with fury. But with heat. A heat that came up from his chest and set to quivering his breaths through clenched teeth. A heat that put pain in his eyes. He continued, his voice a pained whisper, “If I want to seek justice for everyone [i]his[/i] family has killed… [i]My first love, Marassa, will hang me.[/i]”

With a violent tug and a snap, the necklace tumbled from itself, beads falling to the forest floor and plinking into each other. He threw the remnants into the stream as the moment died away into silence, “So I either forget the faces of my dead family or kill one of the only people I ever loved.” He said, voice low. He swallowed, looked away from Sora, “So, yes. I need to be hated. Because if she hates me, it might make it easier for both us.”

He turned away from Sora and stalked the way they were walking in the first place, wiping his nose and face in as rough and angry a manner he could muster. He didn’t want her to follow him, but he never really expected to get what he wanted in life. So, he settled for not caring. “I’ll get whatever you and Finnen need. Just make sure he’s okay, I’ll be back.”

It left Daro’Vasora stunned as she watched Sevari go, her eyes glancing between the necklace that was left destroyed in Sevari’s wake and what it represented. So much pain and loss filled Sevari, and the picture he painted of love and loss was so vivid Daro’Vasora couldn’t help but feel it like a knife in her own gut. “You’re all so stubborn…” she muttered, shaking her head as she gathered what was left of the necklace he had destroyed, pocketing them before returning to Finnen. Anger might have consumed Sevari then, but he wouldn’t have carried around something from so long ago that meant everything to him if it wasn’t deeply important. She’d put it together again for him, somehow. 

She returned to Finnen’s side, kneeling next to him as she put a hand on his chest, feeling it rise and fall. “I hope your dreams are better than what Sevari’s waking life is right now.” she said quietly. 

[hr]

The Reach was famous for only a few things; hills and rocks, mist and blood. It was the land that birthed the young man named Finnen, a warrior of only few years but the men he’d put in the ground were many. He had a name for himself in Markarth Side and the Western Reach, even. Tales of his deeds trickled through the high passes like rivulets of blood. And there were rumors that a great Red Bear was coming to call on him.

For now, they saw no sign of him, heard nothing of him in the whispers of Reachmen in the towns or the hills, no scout had picked up sight nor scent. And so Finnen and his band of Forsworn waited at their fire. Finnen and seven wraiths wreathed in shadow, the erosion of the river that time was wore down their faces in his memory until they were but shadows of men.

In that little slice of time they’d sat and laughed around the fire for hours. But Finnen only sat by himself, looking about with curiosity. He was confused, was this real? But one of the writhing shadows turned, snakes about itself until the smoky tendrils made a picture of himself, skin black as charcoal with eyes red as the flames of the Deadlands, horns sprouting from his forehead to crown the black hair down his shoulders.

Finnen should have been scared, perhaps, but he only cocked his brow. “Who are you?”

“If you do not know me by now, you have truly forgotten.” The other Finnen said.

“Ah. It is you, then.” Finnen said. He looked at his hands and they were covered in blood that was not his own. “What is-“

He flinched as blood speckled his face, though he almost couldn’t feel it. Like the ghost of sensation tickling at his cheeks with fingers of nothing. A great roaring man of fire bounded through the trees and cut yet another of the wraiths at the fire. “Up, Finnen! Up!” The Black Finnen seemed to dance on his feet and giggle with excitement, “Come on!”

The Black Finnen stood and beckoned him, voice high like an excited child, even as the wraiths of smoke that were supposed to be his friends upon a time were being cut down. More big men came from the trees following the Man of Fire, and as Finnen took Black Finnen’s offered hand to stand, it was as if he was no more.

Watching himself through eyes not his own, he drew a sword he didn’t remember seeing on his belt and spitted one of the men from the trees on it. An odd thing that these men stood out as such, instead of smokey shadows lost to memory. He heard himself growl as he pushed the blade deeper, felt a wave of giddiness as the warrior-boy whimpered with bloody lips and looked into his eyes with fear and surprise. As if he had been told he would never die and had been proven all wrong.

With a great roar, he ripped the blade out the side of the man and sent his gut-rope to pile at his feet following a great gout of blood, the sickening sound of meat tearing apart. Another man came at him and he dodged right, sending his blade ripping through the man’s head, leaving only the bottom half spurting black blood.

And finally, the great Man of Fire stood opposite him. The longer he looked, it was no longer a great flame rendered into the shape of a man, slowly fading out of form into yet another Nord. Hair red as fire, teeth snarling like a bear in a big slab of red, furious beard. “I was told you were taller.”

“I’ll look it when your head is dropped at your ankles.” Finnen heard himself say. And he rolled out of the way from a great, reaping arc the huge blade of the Nord made. He sprang off his feet and sent himself hurdling at the Nord.

The Nord threw himself to the side and Finnen swiped wildly to the left, looking to take the Nord’s legs from him but finding only air. Their battle raged around the clearing, swiping and growling and slicing with fury enough to match each other.

“Know the Red Bear!” The huge Nord threw down his sword, hand covering up a deep gash in his shoulder, “Face me!”

Finnen’s bounding steps carried him into the arms of Red-Bear, their hands meeting as they struggled against each other. His heart beat the faster as he saw surprise creep into the Red-Bear’s eyes as he pressed on through the torrent of the bigger man’s strength “I am Pale-Feather.” Finnen hissed, and of a sudden he felt fear of himself, “And I… am...”

He pressed on and curled the Nord’s wrists back and back until he heard him yell in pain, wrapping his hands around the Nord’s thick neck and squeezing, squeezing, “Made-

[hr]

“Of death!” Finnen’s hands were squeezing tighter and tighter still, a grip of iron in hands made of ironwood.

It was so sudden and so unexpected; one moment Finnen had been asleep, tossing somewhat fitfully, and the next his eyes had opened with an insatiable hatred and malice that Daro’Vasora realized far too late that it wasn’t Finnen who opened his own eyes. His hands were grasped about her throat so tightly she couldn’t not do more than utter barely audible gurgles and grunts as his thumbs dug mercilessly into her windpipes.

Fear gripped her with blind panic; she lashed out with claws, dragging long lines of blood into his hands and arms, his neck and collarbone and chest, and nothing was making Pale-feather release her, nothing was bringing Finnen back. She felt like her throat was entirely closed, even her vocal chords wouldn’t vibrate to allow her to scream and she kicked into the dirt feebly as he pinned her into the earth, trying desperately to gasp as she struggled against death. Her head was exploding with pain from the constricted blood vessels, the lack of oxygen, the blind terror of a body knowing it couldn’t breathe. Her neck felt like it was crushing in a noose, and she tried to speak, to scream, to do anything, and her lips contorted in agony, spittle escaping as if they were rats on a sinking ship.

The face of the man who was supposed to be her lover was staring down at her with a manic joy in what he was doing. The thoughts of every memory she shared with that face felt like they were bursting like the blood vessels in her throat; she saw him looking at the lutes in Imperial City, the way he shyly looked at her when she offered to replace it. She saw him when they had trained to fight, and when he had been over her in the following bought of love-making; the face then had been so tender and compassionate, and she felt like he was her world then.

Now she knew he was going to be the end of it.

“What the fuck…” Sevari breathed at the sight of it. He’d returned to the two of them, his pack laden with rations and water, to see Finnen not only up and awake, but with his hands wrapped around Sora’s neck.

This was no lover’s quarrel. He dropped his pack and unslung his rifle from his shoulder, charging at Finnen. He stabbed at the man with the barrel, unwilling to shoot his friend. Maybe he could get him off of Sora without killing him. Maybe, just maybe. He stabbed at Finnen’s ribs again and though the skin purpled over with bruises the man seemed to shrug them off. He never took his eyes off of Sora for even a moment, so intent on killing her.

He’d seen Finnen like this, fighting with Maul. At the time he was amazed, amazed at how fast he moved despite his wounds, how strong he still was. He remembered waiting with bated breath like a man at the edge of a boxing match in a back alley. But the same fury leveled at Sora, the man’s own lover, twisted knots into his stomach. He flipped his rifle around and grabbed firmly onto the barrel. [i]Thwack![/i]

He hit Finnen as hard as he could, once, twice until he rolled away from Sora, panting wildly as he let go of muted little giggles. He leveled his rifle’s barrel at Finnen, “Stay there, Finnen, please just stay there.”

His voice was pleading, ready and willing to kill Finnen if he had to, but the look on Finnen’s face was what kept him from feeling that pain. It seemed the horrifying pleasure had sapped away from Finnen to be replaced with fear and confusion. As if he hadn’t even been there. “Wh-what?”

“Finnen?” Sevari asked, but was met with only silence. Sevari inched the barrel closer to Finnen, “Answer me, please.”

“What- why are you?” Finnen’s lip quivered, his arms wrapping about himself, “Sora, please, what-”

And then he saw it. There was fear in her eyes as she looked at him. She wouldn’t meet his gaze. “The dream…” he muttered, “No… no, no, no…”

“Is it you?” Sevari whispered harsh.

“I…” Finnen looked at his hands, felt at his face. There was no blood. But what those hands did to Sora for her to look like that…

Finnen got to his feet, taking a few stumbling backwards steps, eyes going from Sevari to Sora. Without a word, he turned and ran. Sevari let him go, watching him retreat and shrink back into the forests.

Daro’Vasora couldn’t even call after him; the trauma done to her throat was too great. She coughed and wheezed, her head pounding and heart torn asunder from the betrayal, the near-death experience. Finnen had warned her this would happen, and she brushed it off. She discounted his warnings, thinking she knew better than him. 

She lay there, helplessly curled up in a ball, wheezing as she clutched at her own throat; she knew the skin beneath her fur was probably dark and bruised, and she still felt his hands upon her neck. She couldn’t even sob, as much as her body needed to; the pain was too great, and now she simply struggled to take in the air she so desperately tried to draw. 

He turned away from where Finnen had took off to, his eyes on Sora as she writhed in the ground. As quick as he could, panting and coughing as he skidded on his knees to Sora’s side. He cradled her head in his hand, reassuringly squeezing her shoulder, “Breathe, Sora. Slow,” He said, “Slow, Sora, you’re going to be fine.”

Daro’Vasora wheezed in Sevari’s grasp, clinging to his shirt, tears piercing clenched eyes. Her voice was gone, or else she would have challenged that statement.

There was nothing fine about any of this.