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]

@mALX: Dang, I knew I needed that Surgeon General's warning label on this one. Not that it works - people still smoke!

@Olen: Because of my line of work (veterinarian), I have to keep reminding myself that not everyone has the stomach for gore that I do. Likewise, not everyone understands the implications of different approaches to the same place as I do. I hope I have explained Julian's approach adequately for you.

@SubRosa: In view of the absence of clocks in Oblivion, the terms clockwise and counterclockwise still bug me. I have known widdershins as the term for counterclockwise, but I have long forgotten the alternate term for clockwise. I hope I remember it before I need to use it! I'm glad you noticed some of my favorite parts in this chapter.

@D.Foxy: Thanks for the German (Afrikaans? Dutch?) accent! Made me smile!

@W. Wolf: Paint says Heyyy, Adoring Fan! Julian says thanks for the vote of confidence!

@Destri: Sorry you got caught making faces at the screen this time!

The pace will slow down over the next couple of chapters, so catch your breath, put your feet up, and grab some drink of your choice while you can. After that, we'll be off hobbling into combat again.

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Chapter 4.3 Recovery

Landing on my knees with a grunt, I hunched over the pain flaring in my right leg and left hip. Lowering the sigil stone, hissing and crackling in the cold rain, I braced myself on my left arm. My scorched breath steamed in the damp night air, the rain hissing into vapor as soon as it hit my heated cuirass. Lifting my head against the pain in my back, I let the cold drops stream onto my burned face. Oblivion was gone, Nirn had replaced it. A normal thunderstorm roared above my head. Before me, the twisted and ruined metal gates of Kvatch rose from shattered walls. A circle of steaming ashes and charred struts were the only evidence of the Oblivion Gate’s erstwhile existence.

Goneld! He’s still back there! The realization hit me hard. Warm tears mingled with the cold rain on my face. Not wanting to imagine his fate, I shivered suddenly. Bringing my eyes back down to the world around me, I could see the barricade behind me, barely visible in the downpour. Two shadows moved cautiously toward me, weapons drawn.

“Julian?” one of them called. “Is that you, ma’am?”

Not recognizing the voice, I sheathed my sword and struggled to my feet, turing to face the pair. The tall archer hung back as the other walked up to me. “It’s me, sir,” I said, my voice harsh in my parched throat. “Where is Matius?”

“Down in the encampment,” the Imperial answered. “I’m Jesan Rilian,” his gaze moved past my shoulder towards the remnant of Oblivion behind me. “You did it,” he exclaimed softly. “You really did it! Akatosh be thanked!”

The Altmer had lowered his bow, returning his arrow to his quiver. “I’m Merandil,” he said to me, looking me up and down. “You’re hurt.” Oh, no kidding. “Matius is resting at the moment,” he added. “He’s been on the barricades nonstop for almost twenty-four hours. He will be glad to see you again.”

“Vonius?” I asked, looking from one to the other.

“He’s fine,” Rilian volunteered. “Matius made him go down and rest right away, he should be coming back to relieve us.”

“You should head down yourself, too,” Merandil advised. “You look like you need rest as well.”

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At the bottom of the mesa, Boldon greeted me. “Julian!” he exclaimed. “What happened up there?”

Meeting his gaze, I tried to think. Well, there was this Oblivion Gate that was blocking the way into Kvatch - my mind couldn’t focus on his question.

“Julian,” Boldon tried again, gripping my right elbow when I wavered. “Paint’s been restless, pacing all yesterday and for much of the night. But look!” he pointed at the small grazing area where he had turned the horse loose. Paint’s brown and white splotched coat was barely visible in the rain, but I could see him standing three-legged, characteristic of horses at ease. “He’s been like that for just the last half-hour.”

When I closed the Gate, my eyes widened. “Well, Boldon, that Oblivion Gate is gone now,” I said.

The Redguard stared at me. “That thing is closed? You closed it?” he looked me up and down, taking in the gash across my cuirass, the scorch marks on my right shoulder and my shield. “By Akatosh, you really did it?” He led me to a nearby campfire, where a big Orsimer sat slumped by an anvil. “Batul!”

She lifted her head to look at us, rising to her full height. “What?” she growled.

“This is Julian, from Anvil,” Boldon ignored her tone. “She has need of you.”

“Me?” the Orsimer snapped. “Look at this!” she whipped her hand around the fire, at the anvil, the few repair hammers next to it. “I lost everything! Everything!”

Boldon turned to me. “This is Batul gra-Sharob. She is our best smith.” Now he faced the angry Orc again. “Mind your manners, Batul,” he said mildly. “Julian just closed the Oblivion Gate. Can’t you hear it? The silence?”

Gra-Sharob eyed me thoughtfully. Returning her gaze, I drew my longsword. She tensed, as did Boldon, but I took the sword by the blade and held it out to her, hilt first. “How much to sharpen this blade?” She eyed the blade, then snapped her eyes at me. “I see you have your anvil, a fire, and some hammers,” I continued, keeping my tone bland. “I’m assuming you still have your skill, ma’am.”

The big mer narrowed her eyes at me. I held my breath - Orcs are hard to stop once they get going, especially angry ones. She exhaled suddenly, and her pointed teeth gleamed in the firelight. Taking the sword from me, she examined it expertly. “Two drakes,” she answered, after casting that same expert eye at my armor. “Throw in your bow, shield and armor, and I’ll repair the lot for four drakes total.”

Looking down at myself, I considered gra-Shrob’s offer. Nodding, I thanked her. She gestured for me to lay my weapons down next to the anvil.

“Julian,” Sigrid greeted me, waving at me from the next fire. “Come with me, you can use my tent to change.” Following the tall Nord, I was struck again by her regal bearing in spite of her disheveled appearance. “Thanks for the mortar and pestle,” she said to me over her shoulder as she drew back the flap of a pavilion. “I’ve been making healing potions as fast as I can get the ingredients.”

The daedra heart. I drew out the bloody package from my belt pouch. “My mother used this in her strongest potions,” I said, handing it to Sigrid. “Sorry about the mess.”

Taking the object, she gasped when she had unwrapped it. “A daedra heart!” her eyes shot up at me. “Then it’s true, you closed the Oblivion Gate, didn’t you?”

Already unbuckling the cuirass, I only grunted. Easing it off over my shoulder, I looked down at the linen tunic. Other than being stained with sweat, it was fine. Dropping the cuirass onto the floor, I sat down to peel off the greaves. Sigrid bent down to touch the scar tissue covering the outside of my right knee. The knee itself was badly swollen, already turning black and blue. The wound over my left hip hadn’t broken open, but the flesh around it was severely bruised. Sigrid looked at me wide-eyed, handing me a blue woolen robe. Stripped down to my undergarments, I wrapped myself in the soft fabric.

“You need to sleep, Julian,” she said finally, picking up my leathers and tossing them outside the tent. “No amount of healing spells or potions are going to heal these,” she pointed out my various bruises, muttering under her breath.

“I need to see Matius,” I gritted my teeth against the weariness overwhelming me. Sigrid shook her head.

“He’s finally asleep,” she answered. “I’m not going to let you wake him. He needs his rest, too.” She pointed me to the bedroll behind me.

Obeying her unspoken command, I lay down gingerly on the thin mattress. “Then let me know when he wakes,” I mumbled as Sigrid left the tent.