“Do you remember some of the things that I taught you?” Laskaria asked, her sing-song voice blending well with the river flowing over the rocks. Vaenlen thought for a bit, tried to remember. He didn’t want to disappoint her by telling her that her only legacy for him was his own failure of her ideals and goals. Of betraying the cause with his eyes blinded by the fire of his youth.
“Of course.” He nodded. Laskaria had been many things to him, a mother when he had none, a mentor when he had none and when he felt his own awakening as a man, somewhat of a first love. Though he never told her. It wouldn’t mean much to tell her now.
“Like what, then?” She had a knowing smile on her face. She’d never been easy to lie to, and not because Vaenlen was a bad liar.
“To use violence as a last resort. To give the chance of peace often.” Vaenlen said, “And more…” He finished lamely.
She chuckled and shook her head, “And why, then, do we use violence as a last resort?”
“It is the tool of simple minds.” Vaenlen answered, not meeting her eye. If violence truly was the tool of simple minds, then Vaenlen’s must be the simplest of all, knowing the wending rut in the dirt his life had carved all the years past.
“Indeed. I should never have saved you had I known how far you would set my goals and hopes back.” And she nodded just behind him. ”A good punishment.”
He felt lightning shooting from his back, and then another. He whirled around to see a man holding a dagger red with blood. His face screwed up in confusion before it dawned on him. It was his blood. He suddenly felt sick and scared, and his legs pumped as fast as they could, carrying him through the woods. The trees grew closer together the farther he ran until all semblance of the sky was blotted out so thoroughly it may as well be night. “You let your anger control you so much.”
“I’ve gotten better!”
“At what cost did this one lesson come though?” Laskaria’s voice came from all around.
“What do you want from me?” Vaenlen screamed at the dark, “I refuse to be dogged by ghosts! You of all people know that only the dead can afford to be still in the past!”
“Then join me.” The words dripped with malice, totally unlike Laskaria. At that moment, the brightest light stabbed its fingers into Vaenlen’s skull before revealing a man larger than himself, carrying a hammer. He felt rooted as deeply as an old oak, unable to do anything but gasp as he watched the head of the hammer become a blur-
* * *
He jolted awake with a heart’s pace that almost made his chest hurt. He looked around himself, finding that he was no more inside a dark and terrifying forest any more than he was in the grand halls and opulent gardens of a noble’s manor in Alinor. He sighed deeply and rose to his feet, the pitiful, teeming dirt of Cyrodiil’s swamps under his toes. The dark iron of a cloud-choked sky pressed down on the world around him. How he’d fallen. His ears twitched at a sound and a niggling at his shoulder told him to turn. “Your footsteps are still too loud.”
“No one else can hear me.” Tamas huffed, no doubt crossing his arms the way he did when things didn’t go his way. Had he ever been so stubborn in his ignorance? More than likely.
“But I can and that means you’ve much to learn yet.” Vaenlen finished buttoning his shirt, choosing to leave his hood down for a time. He ran his fingers through his long hair and his fingers came away greasy. His beard had grown unruly as well. Laskaria, doubtlessly, would have told him to shave and then forbade him to eat until he could fill a bucket to its rim with water using only what water he could carry in his mouth from the river, or to strike a rock with the edge of his hands or the back of his fists one hundred times. She was fond of creative punishments, was Laskaria. But she taught him well. Taught him that struggle and suffering were the best thing a person should get used to, rather than comfort and a life of uninterrupted ease.
“Have you been having your dreams again?” Tamas asked. Vaenlen said nothing, only looked at him over his shoulder, letting the boy of sixteen summers know that he was in no mood to discuss such things with anyone, much less him.
“There are Dominion troops in the mainland, in Cyrodiil. That means there are Thalmor among them, Tamas. Your footsteps that may as well be thunder and your prying about the business of my sleep will not help our cause.” Vaenlen said.
“And what is our cause? You’re paying us, remember?” Tamas sighed, as if he was a parent explaining to an errant child why inane things must be done in such inane ways.
“I’m paying Bor, Shimbul and Valdas. I am keeping you as a ward, as an apprentice.”
“As a prisoner.” Tamas muttered.
“You do not know what it is to be a prisoner, boy.” Vaenlen growled, “I may as well be feeding you rice pudding with a silver spoon as you sit on a mattress of feather down lined with velvet. Only pain makes a man stronger, pain and struggle.”
“You seem to hate the Thalmor.” Tamas crossed his arms and leaned against a tree.
“They hate what I am. They’ve taken much from me, so I break whatever they seek to build at every chance I can.” Vaenlen said. He turned and walked past Tamas, “The only thing that will stop me is my death.”
