Old Habits Die Hard, Can an old dog learn new tricks? Options

[haute ecole rider]

This is the story I have been posting on the Unnamed Forum. I'm in the process of moving it over here for those who have not yet seen it. Enjoy!

Chapter 1.1a Escape

Waking up vomiting nothing but a small amount of bile, I gagged on the burning in the back of my throat. Coughing the last of it from my mouth, I curled on my right side on the foul cot, knees drawn to my chest. The rough wood of the cot’s frame pressed into my cheek. The smith’s hammer pounding on the inside of my skull sent stars shooting across the backs of my eyes. Grinding the heels of my hands into my closed lids in an attempt to drive the lights away only made the damn hammer pound even harder. Groaning, I turned until I lay on my back, opening my eyes.

Ignoring the taste of moldy stones on my tongue, I gulped down deep breaths of the damp air. The stars subsided as I stared at the stone blocks rising into the gloom above my head. The hammering slowed to once every shaky breath. Raising my thin wrists, I looked at the iron shackles encircling their ache. The prominent veins in the backs of my hands disappeared as the blood drained from them. Turning them so their palms faced me, I studied the ghosts of rough calluses, dark skin pale in the dim light of the window above my head.

Shouting. Clashing of steel on steel. A dark room spinning around me. Pitchers breaking, fluid flying everywhere. The helmed face of the Legion rider before me, his gauntleted hand holding my shoulder in an implacable grip, shouting something at me. My empty hands between us, palms facing the rider, my voice drowned by the chaos around us. Then the cold night air, my bare feet cringing from the rough cobblestones. Falling through the paving into darkness.

“Ach, what happened?” I muttered softly to myself. In spite of my whisper, the smith’s hammer pounded hard for a couple of heartbeats before slowing down again. Struggling to a seated position, I ignored the familiar stabbing pain in my left side, the hard throbbing in my right knee. Scooting my rump along the cot, I reached the pitcher sitting on the rickety table at the foot of the cot. Looking into the mug next to it, I grimaced at the dirty fluid inside. Picking up the pitcher, I raised it to my lips. Trying to avoid tasting it, I gulped the stale water hurriedly. Taking another mouthful and setting the pitcher down, I rinsed my furry teeth with it. Rising to my feet and leaning my right hand on the wall, I limped to the privy at the rear of the cell, spitting the foul water out.

“Awake now, are you, pretty Redguard?” the sarcastic, biting voice sounded behind me. Shooting a glare over my shoulder, I took in the barred door, the Dunmer in his cell across the way. “How do you like your cell?” he continued, his voice still mocking. Pretty, am I? Disheveled, filthy, thin and weak - no, pretty would be the last word I’d use to describe myself.

Turning around, I took a limping step through the trickle of faint moonlight falling from a window too small to show stars. Another limp took me past the table, its pathetic candle shedding little additional light. One more step brought me to the cell door.

“Roomy enough for you?” the mocking continued as I studied the Dunmer. He looked as unhealthy as I felt. Turning away from him, I limped around the small room, hunched against the sharp pain in my left side. Nausea roiled in my stomach, and my muscles quivered uncontrollably, their former strength forgotten. “I can’t even imagine what it’s like for you,” the other’s voice followed me on my limited perambulation. “No more sunshine, no more open seas. Just a box and a dirty sunbeam for the rest of your sorry life. Bet you’re glad it won’t last long, eh?”

“What?” I returned to the barred door, squinting at the Dunmer across the way. “I won’t be here long?” my voice cracked, weak in my still-burning throat. My dry lips split as I spoke.

“Oh, didn’t you know?” The Dunmer’s voice turned bitter along with his faded red eyes. “They put you here to forget about you. They don’t care if you die, Redguard.” His sharp-edged voice grated on my already raw nerves. The sound of a bolt being drawn back, a heavy door creaking open somewhere down the passage reached us. “Hear that Redguard?” the Dunmer’s tone became strident. “They’re coming for you!” He drew back into the shadows of his cell as I heard voices.

“Tell me what happened to my sons,” an old man’s voice reached me, heavy with grief.

“Sire, all we know is that they were attacked,” a woman’s voice, clipped with authority and respect, responded as booted steps drew nearer the cells. “We must hurry, Sire, we need to get you to safety.” I heard the slightest undertone of anxiety in her voice.

A tall figure, clad in steel armor with blue enamel and brass trim marking him as one of the Blades, lifted his torch at me. He stopped outside my cell, his Redguard features scowling at me in the guttering light. The woman, a little shorter than I and clad in the same armor, paused at the sight of me. Her blue eyes sparked angrily beneath the helm. “This cell was supposed to be empty!” she exclaimed softly under her breath.

“I don’t know, Captain,” the tall Redguard shrugged, keeping his cold black eyes on me. “Some mix-up with the City Watch.”

“It doesn’t matter,” the captain responded. Beyond her, another armored figure and an old Imperial man in royal purple robes appeared. The third Blade matched my height, and like me, turned out to be Redguard as well.

“Prisoner!” the captain’s voice crackled between the stone walls. My back straightened involuntarily, painfully, at the unmistakable command in the woman’s voice. “Stand back beneath the window!”

Although I had been out of the Legion for four years, old habits die hard. Complying with her order, I limped to the back of the cell, behind the moonbeam. The captain unlocked my cell door while I squinted through the grey light. Opening the door, she stepped back to let the other two Blades enter. The tall one advanced to stand between me and the others. Sensing his dislike of me, thick as molasses in a Skyrim winter, I accepted it, as I accepted the captain’s authority, since I could do nothing else.

“Watch the prisoner, Glenroy,” the captain ordered, moving to the side wall opposite my cot.

The slim sword whickered as Glenroy drew it. “Aye, Captain,” he growled, turning the blade so it shimmered in the moonlight between us. “You stay where you are,” he snarled at me. “Don’t even breathe.” Breathing slowly and shallowly, I stayed put. Looking past him, I regarded the other Redguard. Standing at ease near the door, his impassive expression scared me in its implacability. Years of combat in the Legion had taught me that the most deadly enemies are the ones you can’t read.

The captain started muttering under her breath, and I felt the unmistakable tingle of magicka shimmer over the plain rock face. Catching my breath, I realized the captain was a Breton, with high innate magicka. Probably trained as a battlemage.

The old man, his dark fur-lined robe a shadow in the shadows of the cell, stepped past the impassive soldier and peered at me, his sad eyes puzzled. “Come closer,” his voice smoothing from a grieved coarseness to a commanding tone.

Glancing at Glenroy, I hesitated, but he fell back to stand beside the old man, keeping his blade between me and the other. Acutely aware of the shimmering sword, I stepped forward into the light.

The old man’s eyes widened. “Ah, yes, I’ve seen you before.” His dark gaze held mine, once again becoming sad and resigned. “That means today is the day, and the hour is near.” Suddenly aware that the smith’s hammer had stopped pounding in my head, I stared at the old man.

Licking my dry lips, I remembered how the captain had addressed him. “Pardon me, Sire?” He can’t be - no, not the Emperor, not here, not in my cell! My eye fell on the large red amulet on his brocaded chest. The Amulet of Kings? The Emperor! Stiffly against the pain in my left side, I bowed. “How may I serve you, Sire?” Old habits die hard, very hard, indeed. Looking up, I saw a faint smile touch Uriel Septim’s eyes.

“I have served Tamriel all my life,” he answered. “You too, shall serve Tamriel in your own way. But you have your own path to follow.” His eyes grew even darker. “Be warned, though. There will be blood and death before the end.”

“Blood and death are not new to me, Sire,” I spoke softly, surprised by the weariness I heard in my cracking voice.

The wall of my cell crumbled beneath the captain’s hands, falling away in a cloud of dry, choking dust. A passageway appeared beyond. “Sire,” her voice cut between us. “We must go now, there is little time.” She disappeared into the darkness beyond the jagged stone edges.

Glenroy turned the top of the slender blade toward me as the Emperor started toward the opening. “What of the prisoner, Sire?”

“Leave her be,” the command voice was quietly unmistakable as Uriel Septim stepped through the opening, following the captain. “Her path may yet lie with ours.” Glenroy gave me one last glare, sheathing his sword and following the Emperor. The third Blade turned his back on me and brought up the rear.

Listening to the sound of their booted feet fading away, I glanced around the cell again. Something coiled in my belly, just below the breastbone. On my discharge from the Legion, I had once hoped to find peace and health after decades of blood and death. Peace and health had avoided me, and now a mere hint of blood and death had found me.

[haute ecole rider]

Chapter 2.4: Jauffre

Jauffre rose from his desk and went to a nearby shelf. He rummaged among the vials sitting clustered together, and brought one to me. “Drink this, Julian,” Starting to shake my head, I saw the hard look in the old man’s eyes and took the vial. He waited until I had choked down the bitter potion, then returned to his desk.

“Let me explain things a little more to you, Julian of Anvil,” he looked down at his hands, clasped loosely on the edge of the desk. “Many years ago, I was the Captain of Uriel Septim’s bodyguard. Late one night, he called me into his private quarters. There was the babe,” his eyes grew distant, seeing something from long ago. “The Emperor told me to take the child someplace safe, where he could grow up in peace.” Jauffre’s fingers started drumming an irregular rhythm on the wooden surface. “I placed the babe with a farming family, and watched him grow from afar.”

Looking down, Jauffre covered the woolen lump with one hand, as if to feel the heat I knew emanated from the stone. “We need to find Uriel’s last son.” Now that blue gaze looked directly at me. “Apparently the assassins don’t know about him yet, but they will, soon. And when they find out -”

“They’ll kill him, too, Grandmaster,” I whispered, finishing Jauffre’s sentence. He nodded, and I thought I saw a satisfied gleam in his eye. “Just like they killed the Emperor’s other sons, and the Emperor himself.”

“Aye, that they will do,” Jauffre looked me up and down. His assessing regard made me acutely aware of my mismatched ensemble of shabby armor. He rose to his feet. “Come, it’s dinner time. Join us, please, Julian from Anvil.” It was more an order than a request.

“Yes, Grandmaster, thank you.” I rose to my feet and followed him downstairs. Thanks to the potion he had given me, the stairs were easier to navigate this time. The pain in my side had disappeared with the potion, and my knee felt stronger, though it still hurt to put all of my weight on it.

Brother Piner was serving the older man when we arrived. Jauffre gestured me to an empty chair next to the black-robed monk, and sat down across from me. Piner set steaming bowls of aromatic stew in front of Jauffre and me, before seating himself in front of his own bowl. Sniffing appreciatively at the food, I picked up my fork. Taking that first bite, I looked up to see the three men sitting quietly, heads bowed over their own meal, eyes closed and hands below the table. Mortified, I put the fork down when I realized they were praying.

They did not take long, and began eating, not looking at me. If they knew I had not shared grace with them, they showed no sign of it. We ate silently, and we ate quickly. Piner stood to clear away the empty dishes, and the older man picked up a pewter flagon from the center of the table and poured into Jauffre’s cup. Smelling the wine, I shook my head hurriedly as the pitcher moved over my own small goblet.

“No, thank you, sir,” I murmured, afraid of what the wine would to do me, of what it had done. I did not want the smith’s hammer again.

“We have water from our well,” the man said, pouring himself a mug without hesitation. “You will have to wait until morning for some klah.”

“Water is fine, sir,” I watched as the black-robed man with the proud features rose and moved to the sideboard under the front window, where he picked up a clay pitcher and returned. He filled my goblet, then set the jug next to my elbow. “Help yourself, guest.” Sitting back down, he picked up his wine and sipped it, his face warming a little. “I’m Prior Maborel.”

“Julian,” taking a sip of the clear water, I caught Jauffre looking at me over the rim of his goblet.

“From Anvil,” he added, addressing the prior. “She has traveled far today.”

Looking around, I caught the prior’s gaze at me. “Thank you for the meal and the water, sir. It’s a nice place here,” I commented.

“It’s simple,” Maborel responded. “We are, after all, a monastic order dedicated to Talos and the Eight Divines.” He smiled slightly, kindness more evident in his dark eyes than on his lips. “I am responsible for the religious and secular affairs of the Priory.” He nodded over at Jauffre. “Brother Jauffre came to us late in life, after many years in the Blades. He continues to serve, in his own way, but spends much of his time studying.”

Jauffre glanced up from the apple he was slicing. “It is never too late to gain knowledge,” he commented before turning his attention back to his steel dagger.

I turned back to the prior. “What’s the Brotherhood of Talos?” I asked him.

“Our order works to spread the teachings and worship of the Divine Talos,” Maborel settled back in his chair. “Talos is Tiber Septim ascended. He teaches how to be strong for war and peace, to protect his people, and to be bold against the enemies of Tamriel.”

Recalling some of the chapel teachings from when I was small, I nodded to myself. My time in the Legion had been in the service of Akatosh and the Emperor. What Talos taught was not so different from what I had practiced all these years.

“And the Blades,” I tipped my head at Piner, who had rejoined us from the kitchen area, “are a part of the Order as well?”

“Yes,” Maborel nodded. “They are the elite knights of the Emperor, dedicated to Talos above and the Septims here on Nirn.” His eyes turned dark, as Jauffre’s hands slowed in their slicing. “The loss of the Emperor is a terrible blow to the Blades.”

“Yes,” looking into my tankard, I saw again Baurus kneeling beside the Emperor’s body. “I can’t remember the Dragonfires ever being out.”

“There will be change ahead of us,” Maborel remarked softly, his eyes on Jauffre. “The future will be hard to foresee.”

Shifting in my chair, I hid my unease behind the water, taking another sip. “I try not to think beyond tomorrow.”

“Spoken like a true soldier,” Jauffre commented, lips twitching in a barely suppressed smile.

Finishing the last of his wine, Maborel rose to his feet, his kind eyes on me. “If you ever want to learn more about Talos,” he inclined his head slightly, “I’ll be happy to answer any questions you may have.” He nodded at Jauffre and Piner. “Good night Brothers, Julian. Talos guard you all.”

“And you also,” both Brothers murmured in response. As Maborel left, Piner excused himself, removing the platter of apples and the pitchers from the table. Finishing off the last of my water, I became aware of Jauffre’s steady regard on me.

“Grandmaster,” I returned his gaze. “What will you do next?”

He shrugged. “I need to find someone to go to Kvatch,” he said, looking down at his small plate, spiking the last apple slice on his dagger. “Find Martin the priest, in the Chapel of Akatosh, and bring him back here.”

“Martin?” I repeated the unfamiliar name. Jauffre popped the fruit into his mouth and chewed it thoughtfully, wiping his blade on the napkin in front of him.

“Yes, Martin,” he said after swallowing the apple, still avoiding my gaze. Leaning back in his chair, he tipped his goblet towards him, swirling the wine still remaining in the bottom. “Problem is,” he continued, “all of my Blades are occupied at the moment. The Palace contingent has been severely decimated.” He shook his head. “I’ve got a couple of agents missing out Cheydinhal way, as well. We’re like the Legion, spread thin.”

I studied Jauffre silently. Why does he need to speak to a priest of Akatosh? He is a Brother of Talos, he doesn’t need to speak to the Dragon. But it’s the Dragon’s blood in the Amulet. Maybe Martin may be helpful in determining what to do with it - Inhaling sharply at a sudden thought, I became aware of Jauffre’s gaze on me. “Martin Septim, right?” I asked him. He nodded. I looked down at my hands, resting in my lap.

“What is it, Julian?” Jauffre asked.

“If the Prince of Darkness,” Mehrunes Dagon, has to be, “gets a hold of the Amulet, what will happen then?”

Jauffre scowled at me. “Then the barriers that protect Tamriel from Oblivion will fail,” he answered. “That’s why Martin needs to be found, so he can take the Amulet and re-light the Dragonfires.”

“Are you ordering me to go -” No. That’s ridiculous. I couldn’t save the Emperor from that assassin. I’m too old, too feeble. Something moved beneath my breastbone, like a snake shifting its coils.

“You’re not a Blade,” Jauffre responded. “So technically, I can’t order you to go. But it’s because you’re not a Blade that I’d like you to go. Sure, you don’t look like much at the moment,” again he raked me with that calculating glance, “but you’ve made an impression on the Emperor.” He emptied the wine glass. “The assassins will be watching for the Blades, but they likely won’t know you. You can pass right through them.” Setting the goblet on the table, he leaned his elbows on the table and pointed at me. “Looking at you, one would never suspect you of being on a mission to recover the Emperor’s last son and heir.”

What Jauffre said made sense. We regarded each other for several moments. Taking a deep breath, I closed my eyes. I’ve accomplished the task the Emperor gave me. Or did I? “Close shut the jaws of Oblivion,” he said. How? It’s simple, really. Find the heir. Give him the Amulet, get him to the Temple of the One, so he can relight the Dragonfires. That’s all there is to it. The Emperor called me Sun’s Companion. Or did he mean Son’s Companion? Is that what he meant, for me to make sure this Martin makes it to the throne?

I opened my eyes and looked at Jauffre. “Very well, I’ll go.” After all, how hard can this be?

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That's it for the second chapter. Enjoy!