[hr][hr][center][h1]N E E D[/h1][/center][hr][hr]
Velyn Virith hurried back to his tent in the darkness of the rebels' camp. While others broke away from the meeting to drink and talk and make merry, he moved with a sense of urgency and with a singular purpose. The meeting had gone on for too long, the hour was too late. It has been all that he could do to stay the shaking of his hands and ignore the nauseating pit deep in his stomach, as the cold sweat began to drip from his brow. He had almost felt delirious by the end, the sickness was so acute, that he had started muttering things, old words and sayings from the life he had lived before. That dream he had been thrust from, into this waking nightmare. 

He needed his fix. It would all seem better afterwards.

As soon as Velyn reached his own tent he darted inside, closing the fabric flaps behind him as quickly as he could, with naught but a furtive glance to see if anyone was watching him. He had to be somewhat circumspect in the camp, this was not the slums of Chedinhal, these were not people who would necessarily understand his need. For that's what this was now truly, a need, for Velyn felt sick when he went without it, in body and in soul. 

It had been worst when he had first come here, half dead from the skirmish on the road. Mistress Deserine, Reinette, had healed him as best she could, but when he had awoken... it was not just the wounds he had taken that left him in agony. Somehow he had managed to crawl from his pallet, find his pack and open a vial. He had spilled it on the floor, and had licked it up from the dirt in order to get his fix. Skooma was not meant to be consumed that way, it had burnt his tongue and he had reopened some of his wounds in the process of rolling around on the floor. But it had been worth it, for surely he would have died without it. 

Since then he had been careful. Only a little each morning and evening, taken in the privacy of his own tent. Enough to take the edge of his hunger off, stop the shakes and dull the ache in his heart. But still, Velyn's tolerance had somehow grown, and he had found himself needing more and more, until his remaining supply was a meagre thing. 

He removed that meagre supply now from its hiding place. The sealed vials were hidden inside some of the empty slots of his scroll case, they fitted nicely in the spaces where once there had been poetry and sermons. He fumbled with the clasp that held the lid shut until burst open, spilling the vials onto his open bedroll. Gently he picked them up and turned them over his hands.

"Three vials." He spoke out loud, softly, almost as if trying to reassure himself, before carefully setting his precious supply back on the bedroll.

The pipe itself was something harder to conceal. Velyn had considered getting rid of it at one point, and just diluting his skooma with alcohol, the way that many of the native Cyrodilics consumed the drug. But drinking it he found had its downsides, it did not provide the same immediate rush of relief that the water pipe provided. Besides, such instruments were not only used for the consumption of skooma. Back in Morrowind it had not been uncommon to see a Dunmer fill its bowl with dried Hackle-Lo leaf, or some other fragrant herb. Still he did not remove it from his pack outside of the confines of his tent.  

Quickly he began to set up the apparatus. He kept a cracked ceramic pitcher of water in his tent just for the very purpose of filling the lower chamber of the pipe. The stub of a candle that heated the skooma he lit by putting it across the edge of his enchanted glaive, the flame where springing to life at his command. He had once used that blade to slay daedra, ash ghouls, corpus monsters, necromancers, An-Xileel warriors. Once the candle was lit there was only one thing left to do. 

Velyn picked up the vials from where he had left them on his bedroll. He turned them in his hands again, feeling the viscous liquid gently slosh against the inside of the inside of the glass. They felt reassuringly heavy in his light trembling grasp.

"Three vials. Three vials." He repeated the words he had said before. Like some kind of incantation, some kind of prayer.

Three vials, he reasoned, was more than enough to see him through the coming days. He had a plan, a schedule, and three vials would be enough. One vial would get him through the battle and its aftermath, then his duty here to the rebels would be discharged, and he would be free to go his own away again. The second vial was for the journey south, to Bravil, where he had been trying to go before he had somehow got entangled in the lives of these people. The third and final vial was to tide him over in Bravil until he could find a new supply there, which he did not think would be too difficult.

As long as he was sensible and rationed out what he had left, he would be fine. It was more than enough to see him through. 

More than enough.

More than enough meant there would be some left over at the end of all of this, and now he was sat here, with it in his hands, that seemed... wasteful... somehow. Surely he could make an exception from his plans, just for tonight? Do a little bit more than just take the edge off. The battle was tomorrow, he wouldn't be any good to anyone if he was too sick and shaking to fight. Better that he took that little extra now, tonight, than leaving it until he was in Bravil where they said good skooma was plentiful and cheap. 

It seemed like a sensible idea to Velyn. 

It was just one exception, taking a little bit more tonight, not to be repeated. After tonight he would stick to his plan, stick to his schedule, and he would still have enough to make to Bravil. He would be fine. And he would feel fine too. Just as soon as he had his fix. 

So Velyn measured out a spoonful of the viscous liquid, careful not spill a drop despite his shaking hands, and placed it in the bowl of the pipe. He hesitated for a moment, adding a second spoonful. Two would do more than just take the edge off... but still he hesitated once more. [i]This could be it,[/i] he thought to himself, [i]this could be my very last chance. I could  die tomorrow, many of us probably will. What good will any of this do me after I am dead? I shall not be joining my ancestors, there are none here who will care for my ashes. I will simply be gone. What need have I go any of this then? Better to use it now and dream for one last time.[/i]

Velyn added a third spoonful to the pipe bowl.

He closed the lid of the bowl, and sat there trembling as he waited for the skooma to heat up. Perhaps it was not wise to take so much on the night of a battle. But Velyn was through with wisdom now. Let him be a fool, and think only foolish thoughts, and believe in many foolish lies. That was what the skooma let him do. It let him forget the ugly truth, and it made his beautiful foolish lies whole and shining once more. 

Velyn put the mouthpiece to his lips, and sucked hard upon it. Sweet vapour filled his lungs, calming his shaking nerves and soothing his aching soul. All the sickness, the pain, it went away. He could hear now that the night was full of music, and laughter, and merriment. He could perceive, despite the darkness, that his tent was filled with the most beautiful of shining light. It was an inner light, golden like the fire of enlightenment. 

Another lungful of the sweetly cloying smoke, and Velyn began to feel distant, dizzy. He pushed aside his tiny horde of precious vials and lay down on his bedroll. It felt warm to the touch, like that of a living person, caressing him as he lay down. It had been a long time since had been caressed like that. A long time since had been someone's lover.

"Salas..." He breathed remembering the youth who taken his hand and shown him, hesitant and unsure, how to forget the world and to live inside a dream instead. They had comforted each other for a time, Velyn had tried to teach him what he had known, just as Salas had taught him. They had not loved each other, but he had come to care for him. What ever had happened to him in the end? 

Velyn raised the mouthpiece once more and breathed deeply. He thought of Salas no more. The inner light grew brighter, the sounds from outside faded into a orchestral blur. He let his mind wander and drift upon an ocean of memories. He dove down into that sea, swimming deeper and deeper. 

Until he found him.

Beautiful, golden, shining with all the light of His Godhood. His glory untarnished, just as Velyn remembered Him. The inner light had always been His, the secret fire. It was His warmth he felt against his skin. It was His touch that healed the hole in his chest where his heart had once laid. A voice spoke to him, familiar, dripping with lyrical power and sounding with all the secret syllables of the names of the divine.

[b]"The fire is mine: let it consume thee."[/b]

He did as he was bade, and let the warmth and the light rush through him. He let it consume him, burn through him until he was only ashes, and longer still, until there was nothing left at all. Until he lost all sense of self. Until Velyn Virith had been dissolved, disintegrated, annihilated, in the face of God.  

He lay there for a while, insensate, dreaming of his own sweet destruction. 

Deep down he knew it was lie, but it did not matter, for Velyn had chosen to forget the truth.

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