Chapter Twenty Three

Gaeolin woke with soreness as his roommate. His throat burned, and his head throbbed. The sound of music and lively patrons bled up through the floor of his room. The Skeever must be packed. He tossed his blanket to his feet, sitting up. 

The more he regained consciousness, the less of his dream he could remember. From what he could recall, this was for the better. It had been disturbing. A robed figure standing over him as he slept. As he woke in the dream, the figure whispered something to an associate out of view. He leaned in closer. His robes were those of a necromancer. Gaeolin had tried to say something, but could not. He remembered the last few moments before he had actually woken up, sweating as the scalpel broke through the skin of his chest. 

There was a knock at the door. “Come in…” Inigo peeked in, cringing at the look of total discomfort on his friend’s face.

“You do not look well, my friend.”

“I don’t feel it, either.” He stood, coughing as the muck in his lungs stirred loose. “What did you need?”

“Nothing, I just thought I should check on you. It’s getting late, and I know you wanted to set out today.”

Gaeolin paused, going to a window on the landing to look outside. Sure enough the sun was already starting to close in on the mountain tops. Returning to his room, he began to gather his equipment. “I’m sorry I slept so late. We may not get very far today. You’d think I’d feel more rested after all th-” Gaeolin’s words were cut off by another wave of coughing. Inigo grimaced, grabbing the cloak that had slipped from the elf’s hand.

“Well, the first thing you’re doing is going next door to the apothecary. Don’t worry about anything else. I’ll handle our tabs and the supplies we need. Take care of yourself for once.” He left, heading down into the crowded bar. 

Gaeolin found Angeline organizing her shelves in her shop. She smiled at him, her expression quickly turning to alarm as she heard his congestion. “Oh, you poor dear! You sound terrible.”

“I know… My budding singing career is withering away before my eyes…” The alchemist chuckled at the joke, but never wavered in her look of pity. “I was hoping you might be able to suggest something.”

She ushered him back to her work station, checking his eyes. “When did you first notice symptoms?”

“Just this morning, when I woke up.” He corrected himself. “Well, it was more like a half hour ago…”

“Any other symptoms besides the cough? Dizziness, weak limbs?” 

“My throat feels like I swallowed a decent portion of fire salts…”

She instructed him to open his mouth, squinting to see the back of his throat. “Well, it’s definitely inflamed. How about magic? Have you tried to use any spells today? Any trouble casting?”

Gaeolin raised his hand, trying to channel enough power to summon a werelight. Despite his best efforts, the magic just fizzled out before anything could form. “Hmmm… though, to be honest, I’m a horrible Illusionist in the first place.” He coughed the last word, catching himself on the lab as his balance faded. “Any ideas what it is?”

Angeline scoured her tome of notes, muttering to herself. “I’m not so sure… It could be a lot of things. Extreme cases of Blood-Lung have been known to sap energy and focus. I also suspect a case of Astral Vapors. Let me see what I can brew up.” She lit a fire beneath her Calcinator, beginning to crush a medley of herbs in her mortar. Gaeolin felt the threat of vomit pressing against his pharynx. He stifled his gag reflex as the woman worked on. She tipped the paste into the Alembic. It frothed and churned, sending steam up into the curve of the glass vessel. Gaeolin tried his best not to retch at the smells filling the shop. After a sufficient amount of potion had drained into a vial, she took it into her hand. 

“Here you are, dear. Drink this quick, before it cools.” The elf eyed it, his face going ever paler as the mist rolled from the bottles opening. With a grimace, he turned up the vessel. It hurt worse than any of the coughing and roughness he’d experienced already. He powered through it and slammed the vial down on the counter as he gasped for air to cool his throat. “I know it’s rough, but it should start to help you in a day or so. Without knowing for sure what it is, I had to be fairly general. Just try to take care of yourself in the meantime.”

“Sure…” He wheezed, “how much do I owe you?”

“Twelve septims.” Gaeolin handed over the coins, feeling slightly like he’d been swindled.

He wandered back toward the Inn, the shadows growing long as Inigo waited by the notice board. He was belting on his bracers when he noticed his friend. “How are you feeling?”

“A little better,” Gaeolin approached the board, “Angeline said to try and be careful for the next couple of days.” He grabbed a letter from the post. Inigo adopted a judgmental expression. 

“Which I’m sure meant ‘go on a dangerous job without proper recovery.’ Maybe just heading back to familiar territory would be a better idea. We’ve got gold. Just relax about work.”

Gaeolin looked up from his reading. “But this one is really simple. Farengar want’s someone to get a golden lexicon from Mzinchaleft. It would be Simple to head there and pick it up on the way to Whiterun.”

“It’s in the middle of the Pale… It adds an extra two or three days to our trip.”

“It’ll be fine. Come on, we’re adventurers! I’ll feel better by tomorrow.”

Inigo, though unconvinced, nodded that he would respect the choice. “Just… Promise me you’ll warn me if you’re going to be sick. I don’t do well with puke…”

“I look that bad, huh?”

“Worse…” Inigo hefted his pack into place. “Let’s get started. We should try to get as far as we can before the sun goes down.”

They ran down the slope outside the gates, making it to Dragon Bridge in record time. The sun began to come to rest in the sea beyond the mountains. The sky was cast with the orange of impending night. They turned to the northeast, watching the disc that was Masser peeking between the tops of the pines. Gaeolin felt his throat and chest start to soothe. He silently thanked the alchemist for her work, picking up a burst of speed. 

On the roadside stood an orc. He was the oldest the pair had ever seen. His face was marked with many scars. He scowled at them, stepping over the two dead sabre cats at his feet. Inigo twitched his fingers toward his bow. The orc spoke, his feet at shoulder width as they approached,

“If you are not here to grant me a good death, then you can leave.”

Gaeolin inspected the elder. He seemed healthy enough, not near the end of his life by any means. “Why do you wish to die? You look able enough to live for many years.”

The orc shook his head. “We orcs don’t cling to life in the same way you of the woods or sands do. If I live on much longer, I will begin to grow weak, feeble. It is not the fate I want for myself.” He put his weight on his battle axe. “Were I to just lie down and die, it would not please Malacath. He has promised me a glorious death. A last, great battle to win my place in the Ashen Forge.” He closed his eyes, breathing deeply the now chilled air. “To do battle in the Arena of Malacath, a thousand wives chanting my victory as the feast of eternity is set. That is an orc’s pursuit. We fight all our lives, hoping to be seen worthy of this boon. So I wait here for the challenge my lord has in store.”

Gaeolin considered him, finally drawing his sword. “Perhaps I could give you the battle you seek.”

Inigo looked to him with alarm. “Are you mad?! Look at him! You’ve gone completely insane…. Delirium… “ 

“I’m fine, Inigo.” Gaeolin assured. “I think the cool air is helping some.”

The old orc eyed his would-be opponent. “Perhaps… Are you sure about this?”

Gaeolin nodded, taking up a defensive posture. “I will grant you a good death.”

The axe came to his hands, ready in a block. The orc grinned. “We shall see.” He struck first, his great axe coming to the ground in what felt like an explosion. Shards of rock scattered toward Gaeolin, making him shield his eyes. The elf barely rolled away from the next strike, turning to face the warrior with his tongue ready. 

“Tiid!” The wind slowed, the trees swaying with less energy. Gaeolin could hear the lethargic rates of the hearts of his friend and foe. He spun in the temporal pause, his blade flashing as quickly as it ever had. It met the neck of the orc, his head sluggish as it parted from the chest. 

Time resumed its normal flow, the head of the orc rolling away down the hill. His body stood for only a few moments before falling into the pool of blood that stained the cobblestone. Inigo stood with eyes wide. Gaeolin wiped down his blade. “Nothing to say?”

The cat just looked at him in awe. “Another textbook example of skill and grace.” He looked to the orc. “Remind me to never cross you…”

They traveled several more miles, only stopping when the cold and the dark became too great. Inigo  stamped about as Gaeolin built their fire. He looked off to the north, the pines silent in the veil of night. “Don’t you think it would have been better to head to Morthal for the night?”

Gaeolin continued to strike his fint. “No, I’m sure we’ll be alright. The fire should ward off the wolves. At any rate, this will be less we need to traverse in the morning.” He smiled as the flames began to flicker from his kindling. “And we haven’t just camped out in a long time. Sometimes a nice campfire and bed roll are inspiring.”

Inigo smirked, turning to his companion with  a shake of the head. “You’re a strange child.”

“I’m older than you…”

“And still act like a child at times.” Inigo helped toss a few pieces of wood into the fire. “I hardly think twelve years is enough for you to start trying to hold them over me.”

Gaeolin rolled out his bed, setting his bow above his head as he lay down. The fire’s warmth tickled his feet as it lit the clearing. Inigo yawned as he joined him. “Inigo?” The khajiit grunted in response. “What do you think about dreams?”

He seemed to be thinking, his tail twitching back and forth. “I feel like they are our way of reaching ourselves. Sometimes, when you dream, it’s a part of yourself you try to avoid. Other times, they are the thoughts we are afraid to think.” He smiled at the stars. ‘For instance, sometimes I dream that I am running from a giant chicken, bent on pecking out my eyes. It is a fear that so far, I haven’t met in the waking world. The horrors of those nights sometimes make me sweat.” Gaeolin couldn’t tell if he were serious, or merely trying to lighten the mood. “Why do you ask, my friend?”

Gaeolin tucked his hands beneath his head. “I had a pretty bad one last night. I can’t remember much of it. A necromancer had been experimenting on me.”

Inigo’s face twisted into one of sympathy. “Terrifying, but silly. Necromancers only mess with the dead. At least when doing their experiments. You must have still been shaken by Potema’s little plot.”

“Probably,” the elf agreed, “but it still made me feel… anxious.”

“Pay it no mind, my friend.” Inigo sent him an encouraging glance. “In the morning, it will be just another memory. Good night.” He rolled over, nestling into the furs. Gaeolin turned his gaze back to the sky. 

“Yeah… Good night.” He didn’t really feel like sleeping. It was too quiet for that. And he had a lot on his mind. What had the dream meant? Was it some kind of warning, or just a terror in the wake of dealing with so much death? As he finally drifted to sleep, he decided that worrying over it was less than useless.