Serana remains quiet as I lead us out of the palace compound and up one of the walkways leading into the wealthy upper parts of the city carved into the side of the mountain. Only after a good five minutes, at which point we had already reached a stone balcony overlooking the city walls, did she finally appear ready to talk.
"Feeling alright?" I ask patiently, my eyes planted firmly onto the vista of Markarth's hold.
"I..." She struggles with her answer "I do not know."
"Take your time, we are in no rush." I offer patiently, still enjoying the view.
And she does indeed take her time, joining me in my staring into the distance and gathering her thoughts, nervously gripping the stone fence with her slightly twitching hands from time to time. Finally, after a very long while of simply enjoying the silence she suddenly takes a deep breath and begins to speak "I feel as if something has been ripped out of me that I will never get back."
I give her an appraising look and stealthily scan her with my magic, after failing to notice anything detrimental I finally speak "I do hope you are not suddenly feeling unwell."
Her expression turns wry at my words, likely at having pieced together what I have just done, before she shakes her head slightly "Nothing of that sort, I just feel the lack of a presence that has been with me ever since..."
"Your transformation." I offer diplomatically and she nods with some relief "Hmmm..." I cup my chin thoughtfully "I did not think that the Daedrabound feel their patron's presence so acutely."
"Not all of us, no." She shakes her head "I have just been bound to... him for so long that I feel lost without the constant oppressive presence in my mind. Now everything seems so... silent." She winces as she says the last word.
'To pry or not to pry? Hmmm... I think not.' I ignore my stray thoughts and instead ask "Would you mind describing exactly how you feel? I might be able to help."
She gives me an odd look "I did not know there was magic that could fix something like this?"
I stare at her for a silent moment before letting out a snort and bursting into a fit of quiet laughter, earning myself an offended stare in return "Oh, by Dagoth no." I chuckle a final time and raise a placating hand "You do realize that these problems are usually far easier to deal with by you know... talking about them?"
She blinks slowly before looking away in shame "I... did not."
"Oof." I mutter silently before forcing my cheery exterior to the fore once again "Come on then, tell me how you feel."
She takes a moment to compose herself and begins "Everything feels lighter, like a weight I did not know was there has been lifted from my shoulders, yet all of my powers save for the more extreme forms of vampiric domination are still with me... I guess the best way to describe what I feel is I am more alive than I have been for thousands of years yet it all feels so... wrong?"
Ignoring the immense urge to question just how she knows which types of vampiric charm she still has I tilt my head "And what is the issue then? Your very soul has been liberated from your tormentor, it was obviously not going to happen without consequences but most of those are just things you can deal with in time."
"Time" She practically spits the word out "Time is the exact issue here, I have spent so much time under his thrall that I feel completely lost as to what to do now. The very idea of moving on feels foreign to me."
"Then simply do not think about it and do it." I shrug, earning an exasperated look from the vampire "Simply keep moving forward and you will one day find your balance and desire for a future. Besides, it isn't like you are going to be going at it alone."
"I am not?" She asks with genuine confusion.
"Of course not." I scoff "I don't plan on dying anytime soon and I have no doubt you will make many more connections who will help you every step of the way. After all, isn't that what friends are for?"
For a moment she looks like a deer stuck in headlights, her thoughts instincts, and experiences battling against each other briefly before her mouth twitches upward slightly in the closest thing she can manage to a genuine smile "Yes... friends sounds nice."
And at that exact moment, almost as if Akatosh, or Auri-El as that would fit far better in this situation, wanted to fuck with us the sun crested above the distant mountaintops, covering the city in a wave of pleasant gold.
Unfortunately, I did not quite have the luxury of enjoying the sunrise as I quickly turned to Serana, fully expecting her to demand that we leave only to find her staring directly into the rising sun with a small tear running down her cheek.
"I..." She choked slightly "I do not feel rejected by it."
Dear fucking Dagoth, Blasphemy is broken.
'You only notice that now?' Scorch radiates smugness from his little pond of Magicka.
Ignoring the stupid bird I tap the vampire on her shoulder supportively "That is great!" But she ignores me completely, her thoughts still completely consumed by the distant ball of fire and magic.
Realizing that she wasn't about to snap out of it, and unwilling to do it for her, I settled on watching the sunrise myself, it was after all a beautiful view indeed.
-----------------
To say that Serana was embarrassed when she finally did snap out of it would be an understatement. Even with that however, the overwhelming happiness she felt at being able to walk around without being judged by existence itself easily surpassed any form of embarrassment and she spent most of the remaining day basking in the fact that she could take a pleasant stroll.
We settled into a peaceful rhythm in the following days, as things were being prepared in the background me and my people simply kicked back and enjoyed the city like a bunch of lackadaisical tourists, drawing many curious looks but no complaints as we were spending a fair bit of money wherever we went.
It was only five days later that I was summoned by Igmund. Things were about to kick off and I could simply kick back and enjoy the proverbial fireworks.
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(General POV)
Hundreds of underfed Bretons clad in rags and furs and wielding improvised weaponry stood before a large, recently unbarred, Dwemer gate, the leader of whom stood at the back talking with a tall Noble looking Nord man dressed in much the same manner.
"I thank you for all your help Rath, my people will not forget you when the time comes." The elderly Madanach offers the Nord man a grateful nod, the closest thing to a bow as he was still considered King, and Kings do not bow.
"Think nothing of it, my friend." The stocky, dark haired Nord noble offers a sincere looking smile in return "I'd do anything to get back at those traitorous bastards that had me locked up in here and you have been good to me."
"Of course, friend." Madanach affirms before picking out a key from his pouch and offering it to the Nord "Here, there is a secret door next to my bed that will lead you out of the city. I wouldn't want you to be implied with our escape."
The Nord blinks in surprise, though not for a reason Madanach would think, and takes the key wordlessly.
Only for the Forsworn King to grab a bundle of fur clothing and also shove it into the Nord's hands "And take this as well, it is blessed with the old magics. Something to remember me by."
Rath blinks and nods, offering one final warrior's handshake to the Forsworn before turning around and at first walking, then outright rushing toward the secret passage he had long since found out about and already learned how to open.
As he stepped into the stone passage he threw the fur rags onto the ground in sheer disgust at having been touched by the vile magic of the Reachmen... Then he quickly picked it up the moment he remembered why he was there in the first place.
He wasn't about to let his family's thanehood fall because of his father's debts.
-----
At the other end of the gate a large commotion was threatening to draw all eyes to the entrance of the feared Cidhna mine as all the forces, including the corrupt guards they bought out, of the SIlver-blood family scrambled together due to a tip they had received from one of their informants from the palace.
Thonar Silver-blood, the de facto leader of the family did feel suspicious when one of his men managed to overhear one of the Royal Court Mage's men talking about a potential breakout from the mine, but even with his suspicions he had to take action before the Jarl realized just what was going on.
If they failed to cut the Forsworn down in time they would all be killed to the last man. The Silver-bloods may be powerful but they didn't have an actual army at their disposal, unlike the recently mobilized Jarl.
'A shame to lose my attack dogs so early, but such is life' Thonar thought with some disappointment before his brother drew his attention.
"I told you we shouldn't have relied on the bloody barbarians." Thongvor, the brother who carried the actual title of Thane in the family, hisses "If Igmund catches even a whiff of this we are dead no matter our influence or money."
"I know brother." Thonar grits out "Which is why we must kill them all, and let none escape to tell the tale."
Before the elder brother could respond, the massive mine entrance shuddered as magic struck against it, bursting open in the next instant and letting hundreds of furious Forsworn into the city of Markarth with only a thin shieldwall of heavily armored men stopping their advance.
"Thonar!" Madanach calls out as he steps in front of his men, an axe of bone in one hand and raging crimson Magicka in the other "I am afraid that our cooperation has come to an end!"
"You will not live to return to your little mountain hole, filth." Thonar snarls back and raises his hand in preparation for ordering an attack.
"Indeed he will not." The powerful voice of Markarth's Jarl resounds across the small section before the mine, drawing all eyes to a rocky outcropping of the mountain wall atop which stood Igmund surrounded by many of his Thanes, noticeably including a certain Rath, now wearing proper noble clothing.
Madanach grew so furious it was a surprise he did not die of a heart attack then and there.
"Ig- Igmund" Thongvor stutters in fear "I can expa-"
"Shut your whore mouth Silver-blood" Igmund snarls before turning to the Forsworn King "You." The Jarl looks at the older Reachman with pure hatred "I will have you beg for mercy before having your soul rent from your body."
Being the far more decisive of the two brothers, Thonar grabbed Thongvor by the shoulders and hissed "We need to get out of here, now!"
"I am afraid it is far too late for that, Silver-blood." Ingmund, who somehow managed to hear him voices loudly "None of you are leaving this place alive."
The Jarl's words caused a large commotion in the Silver-blood's ranks as most of the men realized they were well and truly fucked.
Before anyone could truly react, the sound of metal hitting stone resounded across half the city, as the stomping of armored boots signaled the advance of Markarth's guard, and newly formed legionary contingent.
The renowned heavy infantrymen of the city were all gathered in one spot for the first time since the great war and the slaughter they were about to bring would be absolute.
The rebel's chances were not helped by the ten men wearing full plate armor and wielding blazing greatswords emerging from one of the passages, soon followed by a wall of spearmen.
The shieldwalls that formed around the rebels and Forsworn were far more imposing than anything the Silver-bloods managed to do, as the Jarl's men looked to be outright impenetrable. The tension grew with each moment as the warriors entered a staredown.
It was all broken as Igmund finally voiced "Kill them all."
To call what came after a fight would be giving it too much credit. Calling it a massacre would be far more apt as the forces of the city crashed into their gathered enemies and started butchering them indiscriminately, cutting them down with ruthless efficiency yet not breaking ranks for even a moment.
Though even the mechanical butchery of the Markarth soldiery fell short when compared to the sheer bloodletting frenzy the Knights of Evermor entered upon reaching their foe. Each swing of their greatswords cut a man in two, sometimes even multiple would be hewn as the rags of the Forsworn failed to even slow the swings of the knights' mighty weapons.
Madanach was a very old man by now, used to suffering and to defeat, so the moment he saw where the battle was going he decided to make his escape. It was cruel, it was treasonous, but his people needed him and no one else would unite the Reachmen before they were all culled by Skyrim's Arch-Witch.
The stories he heard made even him, the man who faced down the entirety of Skyrim, afraid.
His brave followers threw themselves into their doom without hesitation as they realized what was about to happen. Not once did they look upon their King with betrayal in their eyes, or despair in their hearts.
One by one they fell as they managed to push through a weak link in the enemy formation. Madanach's bodyguard, Borkul the Beast being the last to fall as the massive man literally threw himself onto a shieldwall to clear a path, the last of which was opened by a fireball coming from the King in Rags himself.
Without hesitation, the old Reachman dashed down the winding streets of the ancient stone city which was once his, zigzagging through the familiar stone pathways in an attempt to shake off his pursuers, their heavy armors giving the beggar King a chance at an escape.
As he finally managed to slip into a hidden alleyway he allowed himself to take a deep breath of relief, only for said breath to hitch and get stuck in his throat as he beheld what awaited him inside.
A wall of blackened halberds faced him from each direction, even from behind he came to realize, the emotionless masks of the Dunmeri staring down at him judgingly as their comrades stood behind them with crossbows raised. A duo of extremely pale elves also stood behind the formation but they made no move as a tall figure emerged from the shadows next to them.
And it was at that moment that Madanach knew his people would not know freedom. Still, in an act of desperation, he gathered all of his Magicka and called forth the fire within his soul, aiming to take as many of the elves with him as he could.
Only for his arm to be seized by a sudden force, the raised hand of Torygg's Arc-Witch twitching only slightly and immediately tearing said arm off without even the slightest bit of resistance.
Madanach wanted to curse the damned witch with all he had but the same force which removed his arm had enveloped him wholly, not even allowing him to speak.
Two crimson embers stared at him imperiously, feeling so far above him he might as well have been staring at the very heavens. The Reachman attempted one last utterance but all he managed was a strained gurgle as the elf raised a finger in front of his masked mouth and muttered out a "Shhhhh, sleep now."
Reyvin twisted his hand and Madanach knew no more.
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Unlike the barbarous Reyvin I take my royalties in stone instead of blood.
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