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skyrimkinkmemeANNOUNCEMENTS: UPDATED 12/16/2017
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The Writing On The Wall - 7/7
Date: 2013-03-08 02:41 am (UTC)It might have been ancient Nord magic, but the Nord didn't have any answers. Instead, he tried to focus on practicalities. “Come on. You should eat something, before you pass out again.”
Martin allowed himself to be led back to their packs. He was still utterly chilled, and Hadvar wrapped him up in his cloak again, wishing he could build a fire. He tried to remember exactly how big the barrow was, and how long it would take to walk back to the main entrance where there was a large fire and cooking pots left by the bandits. Too long, he thought. A couple of hours? Martin ate the bread and cheese which Hadvar put into his hands automatically, as if he wasn't even tasting it. Hadvar watched him surreptitiously, from under his eyelashes, as he crunched an apple, and passed him one of the sweetrolls he'd been saving.
Martin picked apart the sweetroll and smiled. “I'm okay. I'm somewhat in shock, but you don't have to keep looking at me as if you think I'll break at any moment.” He nibbled the top of the sweetroll, and licked icing off his fingers.
Hadvar was a little surprised; though it seemed obvious in hindsight that the priest must be more resilient than he looked, to be coping so well without his memories. “Then, can I ask you a question?” Martin nodded. “When you were staring at the wall before, you were talking some strange language. I thought maybe you were reading the runes. Do you know what they say?”
Martin shook his head, sadly. “I think maybe I knew what they said when I was surrounded by their magic, but now? They're just runes. I wish I could read them. Then I might know what happened.”
Hadvar was left feeling strangely bereft by that reply. He'd been hoping that there would be some simple explanation for what in Oblivion had occurred: the “music”, the trance, the light, the terrifying dragon eyes, but there was nothing... And if it was ancient Nord magic, why had it been the Imperial who was affected? Simply because he was a priest, and more susceptible to such things? He felt oddly jealous of Martin, though he had to admit that if they had both shared the experience, they'd probably now both be dead.
“Hadvar? What happened to the Dragonstone?” Martin's voice was unexpectedly sharp, and Hadvar blinked, realising he'd been lost in thought. He scrambled to catch up.
“The Dragonstone? Isn't that it, up on the wall?”
“No, it can't be.” The priest shook his head, emphatically. “It has to be something small enough for us to take back to Farengar. I... I rather suspect that the Draugr was guarding it.”
Hadvar sprang to his feet. “You stay there.” But Martin merely nodded – so tired that he was content to sit bundled up in his friend's cloak. That in itself was concerning. He wasn't going to die of blood loss, his wounds were clean and at least half-healed, but it was cold and damp in the cave. They needed to get him somewhere warm and dry – ideally, with a proper bed.
He approached the dead Draugr grimly. He didn't want to have to touch it unless he had to. Thankfully, the Dragonstone turned out to be in the creature's tomb, rather than on its... corpse. It was a piece of slate, engraved on one side with a smaller copy of the carving that he was forever going to think of as a dragon, and what looked like a map of Skyrim, marked with stars at various points. On the back, there were runes – different from the ones on the wall, and none of them glowing. He wondered what would happen if he showed it to Martin.
But the priest was already asleep, curled up on his side and breathing deeply. He looked peaceful for the first time in hours, so Hadvar didn't want to move him, even to a warmer part of the barrow. In fact, there was only one sensible thing to do – unbuckle his armour, snuggle in next to him, and try to keep him warm while they waited for morning. He only hoped that when they got back to Whiterun, Farengar would tell them something useful...