Antebellum
A/N: So, fear not, Arisha’s story is not over but we will get back to her after Lysanthra’s story. This is the second half of this fic which takes place before the first and will tie into the first half. Lysanthra’s romantic partner will remain a mystery for now and this part of the fic will be key in discovering Arkus’ identity.
Soundtrack: http://https--open--spotify--com.proxy.hbcoal.com/playlist/48LPOjevFYeOLXvmbvIrAm?si=BwFJvAtmT7mNFNsoSUhLaA
Glacierite
~ Dedicated to Shaheer & Rayyan ~
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In the dusk of a shattered age, when the faith of men fractures beneath the weight of silence, a Serpent with the blood of dragons and cloaked in the flesh of men shall walk among the people. Its whispers sowing doubt where once certainty ruled. Its machinations threatening the Sacred Song.
A Child will rise, the final born of the marriage between Dragon Fire and Eternal Love, and his flames will cast long shadows. But the frost of an ancient Crown, buried in winter, shall still his fire. Together, the Child of Fire and the Crown of Frost will stand at the unveiling of the Serpent as it challenges the Sacred Song.
17th of Last Seed, 4th Era 201
A serpent the size of a castle that could devastate a whole city, with gleaming red scales more appropriate for a dragon than a serpent, swam through her mind. Its cursed black eyes stared right at her before it lunged, fangs agape.
Lysanthra jolted awake, her heart thudding and her breath wild. She felt the ice around her encroach into her skin as she looked around. A canyon of verglas and endless snow fields surrounded her. A man and woman stood before her with pickaxes and clothed in furs.
“You’re finally awake!” The man cried, a smile lighting up his pale face.
He was not a Nord, that much she could tell as his features were too sharp and his hair was darker. Neither was the woman judging by her cherrywood skin and midnight-black hair.
“Who are you people? Where are my mother and father?” Lysanthra brushed the cold water from her eyes and shivered.
The woman put a warm hand on her shoulder. “Miss, judging by our estimates, you’ve been in this iceberg since the early First Era. We only just managed to unearth you on Jarl Balgruuf’s orders. It’s the Fourth Era, year two-hundred and one.”
“You’ve been in there for thousands of years,” the man clarified.
Lysanthra sat down against the iceshelf and put her face in her hands. “The Nords found our hidden city, Hira, and they killed everyone. I remember running and the snow falling on top of me.”
“Were you royalty?” The woman wondered aloud.
Lysanthra glanced down and saw the dress and bangles she was wearing. “I was the Princess of Hira.”
The two excavators helped her up before they got on their horses and trotted towards wherever this Balgruuf lived. Lysanthra sat behind the dark-skinned woman. They passed a Dwemer ruin on their way up the hill. She shuddered as she thought of what the Dwarves had done to her kin. The bronze-domed tower shining in the snow.
Alftand. The once thriving city was now buried in snow and desolate. She and her father, King Abidi, would come here to ensure peace and trade. Her father had been terrified of crossing the Dwemer since they were thriving at the time and the Snow Elves were dwindling.
“I’m Umana Bukhari, and my associate is Sulla Trebatius. I’m a Redguard and he’s an Imperial,” the Redguard told her, filling Lysanthra in on the knowledge of the races in Tamriel and other basic information such as hold names and whatnot.
Lysanthra remembered mentions of other races back in the First Era, but had never met anyone other than Nords, Dwarves, and other Snow Elves. According to Umana, the Dwarves had all disappeared long ago. – Lysanthra had breathed a sigh of relief at that. The Dwemer were a cruel, nihilistic race.
Lysanthra held onto Umana tight as the snow was slowly stripped from the landscape until golden grasslands was all she could see in the view. The sun seemed to be less shy here too. She could see giant bent pine trees in the distance along with the odd structure. One was shaped like an arch, the Daedric insignia for Oblivion. What had happened to this land in her absence?
Whiterun’s golden farmyards shined brightly under the rising sun. They parked their horses in the stables and hopped off. Lysanthra dragged her feet over the paved stones as a light wind played in her mind like a calm hymn. Crumbling structures and ruins were littered around, and a group of warriors battled a giant in a farm a ways away. An influx of river water entered the city’s sewer grates and a few orioles flew around. – The scenery of the nordic city was also something to behold. It adhered to a hill with large, surrounding walls, guard towers interspersed. Background nothing but golden wheatfields with rows of flowers wedged in between the grass. Were those anchor ruins in the back?
A guard approached them.
The law-enforcer wore some mixture of leather, fur, and steel. Chainmail underneath with animal skins on the back under a T-shaped helmet with a full view of the bearded Nord’s face from behind his nose-guard.
“City’s closed with the Colossal Serpent about. Official business only.” The guard stepped back a little.
“We are in the service of Jarl Theo Balgruuf,” Sulla explained.
“Oh, you must be Sulla and Umana, the Jarl will want to see you then.” The guard and his comrade pushed the gate open slightly, enough to let them in. His face fell into shock when he saw Lysanthra though. “I’ve never seen an elf like you before.”
Rarely would she ever use this phrase to describe anything, but this place felt like home. Tan, wooden buildings with mosaics within the glass. Pockets of short, florid grass and a wide, stone path. A golden charm affixing the whole city as stonemasons fixed cracks in buildings and a few rabbits scurried around. A man chopping wood in the distance.
A Nord in red and silver armor was arguing with an Imperial woman in blacksmithing robes.
“We’ll pay whatever it takes but we must have more swords for the Imperial soldiers,” said the blond man.
“I just can’t fill an order that size on my own. Why don’t you swallow that stubborn pride of yours and ask Eorlund Gray-Mane for help?”
“Hah. I’d sooner bend my knee to Ulfric Stormcloak. Besides, Gray-Mane would never make steel for the legion,” responded the blond.
“Have it your way. I’ll take the job, but don’t expect a miracle.” The Imperial woman tied her hair back.
Lysanthra moved on, lost in thought as she observed the edifices of the street and market district. A few women were gathered around, either buying or selling. A stand full of vegetables, one with meats, and a last one with jewelry. She got more than a few curious but not unkind stares as she rose the steps, passing the inn. A blooming cherry blossom tree in the center of the square. A temple in the corner.
So, my people are gone but the Nords no longer hate us. So much time has passed that now my people who haven’t devolved are viewed as a rarity.
They walked around the curve of the tree, seeing a Redguard couple arguing with each other.
“I know your family’s sword is important to you. But we can’t afford it.”
They halted when they saw the grandiose statue of a man stabbing a snake, and two priests arguing in front of it, near them a Nord woman in iron armor.
“That’s Talos, the god of men. Once a man named Tiber Septim who ascended to divinity.” Umana pointed out. “The priest on the left is Heimskr Halfvitinn, a priest of Talos. The priest on the right is Aerin Sophilus and his guard, Mjoll Svanhildr.”
“Why does he need a guard?” Lysanthra looked at Umana.
“Aerin’s been known to say some weird things, things that have gotten him in trouble once or twice.” Sulla stared ahead.
“Where is this ‘All-Maker’ you speak of?” Heimskr shook a fist at the Imperial priest. “I serve Talos the mighty, Talos the unerring, Talos the unassailable! For his breath is long winter!”
“The All-Maker is the Father of all, even the gods. If you knew Him, you would know He has sent me.” Aerin shook his head. “But you belong to your god, Talos, who was a murderer from the beginning.”
“Don’t pay much attention to them, you know how religious preachers are, always arguing.” Sulla shook his head and walked up the staircase.
Hmm.
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A/N: Review.