The events of the last few days floated through Hekivah's mind, vague and disconnected from the harsh reality of her life. She laughed, trying to wave away these visions as she lifted the bottle to her lips again. It was a dream, nothing more. Perhaps she had fallen prey to the traditional drug of the Khajiit, or some other flavor of debauchery. It mattered not.
Her fingers twinged where they were pressed against the cold glass of the bottle. Her fingernails were broken and bloody, and her slim fingers laced with cuts and scrapes, countless in number.
Once upon a time it would have bothered her, disrupted that careful grace that she had worked so hard to perfect. She had been a woman of many faces, personalities she took up and then abandoned, but her hands had always been nimble, in the best condition to lift some important missive or goldpurse.
Now she only wore her own face, the face of a betrayer, and her hands were still bloody.
Hekivah scrubbed the dirt and gore from them before she had even bought the supply of wine she was working her way through, but the scrapes and cuts had bled, replacing Draugr slime and dragon's blood with her own blood.
She shook her head, taking another long drink and staring up at the ceiling of the inn. There they were again, those torturous illusions. They were punishments from Vaermina, they must be...
That rational part of her that remained when her other skills had faded told her that she was only trying to hide in delusions. If the events of the past days were nothing but the toyings of a Daedra, than she wouldn't have to face the terrifying clarity she had found.
Hekivah had been trembling, standing before the Barrow, her head still spinning from her flight from Helgen, as she tried to remember what foolish oath she had made to the lord of Whiterun.
Suddenly she had realized that there was a dagger in her hand, and her lips were moving in an instinctive prayer to Azura.
She had fought her way out of the keep in Helgen, fought in the wild, vicious style of a wounded predator, cornered and desperate. The desire to survive then hadn't been conscious- only pure animal instinct had been on her side.
Standing before the Barrow, with the wind shaking away her stupor, she had forgot she ever left Highrock, forgot her disgrace. The dagger had fit well in her hand, and her steps had been silent as she crept up behind the bandits.
Later, firing clumsily at the beast in the sky, utterly out of her element, she had lost herself in the pure, wild joy of the fight. Something within her had stirred and come to life, roaring in response to the other dragon's flames.
Delusions. That was all they were. Hekivah could feel the lie slipping through her fingers, and tried to drown the moment of realization with another mouthful of wine.
The wild thing within her snarled, snapping its jaws and roaring its disapproval.
A strain of a song drifted up from the main room of the inn below, just loud enough to be heard over the din.
Beware, beware, the Dragonborn comes...
The word sparked in her memory, burning away for moment the haze of alcohol that had settled over her thoughts. The raw power she had felt as the dragon burned away to bones before her, its being flowing into her. Part of her felt triumph, to see this weak kinsman brought down before her as his power was added to her own.
The feeling had not been her own, but refused to be swept away by the terror that hit her after the fight was over and the realization of what she was done came over her. She certainly hadn't been the one who brought down the dragon. She'd hit it a few times at most, with her rusty bow skills and trembling hands. But they had hailed her as a hero all the same.
And the voices had called her name from the mountain...
No, no, it was not her name. Her name was Hekivah, and she was a Dunmer born of Highrock, a traitor and a drunk. Dragons only lived in stories told to children.
After a few more bottles of wine, the wild thing was quiet. Or perhaps she was just too numb to feel it raging against her ribs.
The Low Way In 1/? (F!DB)
(Inspirational songs!)
The events of the last few days floated through Hekivah's mind, vague and disconnected from the harsh reality of her life. She laughed, trying to wave away these visions as she lifted the bottle to her lips again. It was a dream, nothing more. Perhaps she had fallen prey to the traditional drug of the Khajiit, or some other flavor of debauchery. It mattered not.
Her fingers twinged where they were pressed against the cold glass of the bottle. Her fingernails were broken and bloody, and her slim fingers laced with cuts and scrapes, countless in number.
Once upon a time it would have bothered her, disrupted that careful grace that she had worked so hard to perfect. She had been a woman of many faces, personalities she took up and then abandoned, but her hands had always been nimble, in the best condition to lift some important missive or goldpurse.
Now she only wore her own face, the face of a betrayer, and her hands were still bloody.
Hekivah scrubbed the dirt and gore from them before she had even bought the supply of wine she was working her way through, but the scrapes and cuts had bled, replacing Draugr slime and dragon's blood with her own blood.
She shook her head, taking another long drink and staring up at the ceiling of the inn. There they were again, those torturous illusions. They were punishments from Vaermina, they must be...
That rational part of her that remained when her other skills had faded told her that she was only trying to hide in delusions. If the events of the past days were nothing but the toyings of a Daedra, than she wouldn't have to face the terrifying clarity she had found.
Hekivah had been trembling, standing before the Barrow, her head still spinning from her flight from Helgen, as she tried to remember what foolish oath she had made to the lord of Whiterun.
Suddenly she had realized that there was a dagger in her hand, and her lips were moving in an instinctive prayer to Azura.
She had fought her way out of the keep in Helgen, fought in the wild, vicious style of a wounded predator, cornered and desperate. The desire to survive then hadn't been conscious- only pure animal instinct had been on her side.
Standing before the Barrow, with the wind shaking away her stupor, she had forgot she ever left Highrock, forgot her disgrace. The dagger had fit well in her hand, and her steps had been silent as she crept up behind the bandits.
Later, firing clumsily at the beast in the sky, utterly out of her element, she had lost herself in the pure, wild joy of the fight. Something within her had stirred and come to life, roaring in response to the other dragon's flames.
Delusions. That was all they were. Hekivah could feel the lie slipping through her fingers, and tried to drown the moment of realization with another mouthful of wine.
The wild thing within her snarled, snapping its jaws and roaring its disapproval.
A strain of a song drifted up from the main room of the inn below, just loud enough to be heard over the din.
Beware, beware, the Dragonborn comes...
The word sparked in her memory, burning away for moment the haze of alcohol that had settled over her thoughts. The raw power she had felt as the dragon burned away to bones before her, its being flowing into her. Part of her felt triumph, to see this weak kinsman brought down before her as his power was added to her own.
The feeling had not been her own, but refused to be swept away by the terror that hit her after the fight was over and the realization of what she was done came over her. She certainly hadn't been the one who brought down the dragon. She'd hit it a few times at most, with her rusty bow skills and trembling hands. But they had hailed her as a hero all the same.
And the voices had called her name from the mountain...
No, no, it was not her name. Her name was Hekivah, and she was a Dunmer born of Highrock, a traitor and a drunk. Dragons only lived in stories told to children.
After a few more bottles of wine, the wild thing was quiet. Or perhaps she was just too numb to feel it raging against her ribs.