Chapter Text
Alva Solaris wakes up with a gasp, her hand flies to her chest as she’s breathing heavily. Her otherwise side swept bangs cling to her forehead due to the cold sweat that has been gathering all over her body. It takes a few moments for her eyes to adjust to the dark room that’s lit by only one small fire. The ground is cold and hard. Uneven. Uncomfortable due to the debris that’s sticking this way and that, poking painfully into her. But, paying little attention to that, Alva’s eyes wander around the room. How did she end up here? Where is here? One moment she’s merrily making her way towards the ship that’s harboring the coast of Vulkhel Guard because someone told her there was a benefactor who wished to speak with her... The next moment she wakes up here, with a throbbing headache and a stinging pain in her chest. She feels weird, empty. Like something’s wrong but she can’t tell what exactly.
Absentmindedly, Alva runs her hand over the ground. Her fingers move lightly over the debris, until she grabs hold of something. The High Elf moves her gaze slowly from the wall to the object in her hand, her golden eyes widen when she realizes she’s holding a human bone. She breathes in sharply, dropping it instantly before she pushes herself away from it, only to stumble into a whole pile of bones and skulls and other debris. Panic rises in her chest, causing her to breath faster and harder. Her head swivels around as the walls seem to close in on her. Alva holds out her hand, a weak little ball of light sputters to life which she then uses to take a better look at her surroundings.
Everywhere she turns she sees even more bones and skulls. Alva cowers away, pressing herself in a corner, feeling the stares of the empty sockets of the skulls piercing through her. Alva pulls her hand away, causing the little ball of light to dissipate, leaving the room dark again. She presses her eyes shut and she pulls up her knees. The High Elf weaves her fingers through her long blonde hair that’s pulled back in a messy ponytail, rocking back and forth ever so slightly as she whimpers.
Alva doesn’t know how long she must have sat there, but her sore bum indicates it must have been for a while now. The whimpering died down a long while ago, her breathing slowed down again and she’s sitting still now with her back pressed against the wall. Alva’s arms are wrapped around her knees as she’s staring at the iron bars of the door. She figured she’s in a cell, but how? And why? And how ? This she couldn’t figure out.
Every time Alva tries to remember what exactly has happened to her; she ends up in another fit of panic. The episodes drained her tremendously so she just stopped trying. It’s no use . She tells herself. It’s no use. It’s no use. It’s no — A sudden noise snaps Alva out of her thoughts, followed by the distant sound of shouting. “So, I’m not alone after all.” She whispers softly to herself as she raises to her feet.
The distant shout grows louder and louder, and Alva could swear she hears hurried footsteps approaching. The High Elf eyes the cell door wearily. She wants to check out what’s going on, but she’s scared and tired and is so not up for any kind of confrontation. But curiosity gets the better of her. Once Alva reaches the cell door, she tries to look in the direction of the noise. Her brow creases as she hears more shouts, more footsteps. Louder shouts. Louder footsteps. Then, a small horde of what must be other prisoners, judging by the rags they are wearing — the same rags Alva is wearing as well, she realizes — run past her, deeper into the halls which lead to Auri-El knows where.
Alva’s lips part just a little as she looks on at the scene in front of her, until — “Whoa, there!” Alva almost jumps out of her skin by the sudden voice, she eyes the tall figure now standing in front of her cell. “Are you alright?” Alva doesn’t really get the chance to reply as the figure pulls an axe off her back. “The name is Lyris.”
“I’m— I’m Alva Solaris.”
Lyris nods and after that, she swings the axe in the air, destroying the lock of Alva’s cell. “Well, Alva, I hope you still have some fight left in you; you’re going to need it.” Lyris says, holding her weapon at the ready. Alva reaches out to the door with a trembling hand and steps out of the cell.
Without any further explanation, Lyris starts to run, and without any hesitation Alva starts to follow. “Hey, wait up! Where are you going?”
It only takes a few steps before they near a lifeless Dremora. “Dead.” Lyris says. “Must have been the runt of the litter.” While she kneels down next to it to examine it, Alva’s eyes fall on the Daedra’s great sword. She picks it up, and feeling the weight of the sword in her hand, she turns it over. Adrenaline starts to rush through her veins. Alva isn’t a fighter, much to her family’s dislike.
Her family... Alva remembers them. Their voices. Their faces. The aversion they projected towards her. Alva already was a setback for her parents for not meeting the Altmer standards. For starters she is actually pretty short for a High Elf, which is an embarrassing for all Altmer throughout Tamriel. Contrary to the frequently observed yellow complexion, Alva possesses a more human life skin and tone and her ears aren’t as long and sharp as they’re supposed to be. And to make matters even worse, Alva can’t get the hang of magic.
Her parents were already embarrassed for her. ‘What Altmer can’t do magic?’ Was something she heard plenty of times. Sometime it was said directly to her, sometimes it was said during an argument between her parents, sometimes it was whispered among the crowd of Summerset as soon she set foot outside. Alva wasn’t going to become a powerful mage like any other High Elf. She knew that, her parents knew that. So, the only thing they saw fit was for her to join the Divine Prosecution.
Maybe if she became a Prosecutor, she might at least bring some honor to the Solaris family. She would stand as the highest authority of law and order on Summerset Isles, second only to the Queen and her Royal Court. There might have been a little uproar because why would someone, who was everything an Altmer wasn’t supposed to be, belong in a group as important as the Divine Prosecution? But, eventually, her parents succeeded in getting her to become a part of it. There was a whole ceremony at the Alinor Royal Palace, and everybody that mattered was there. The Divine Prosecution, important nobles, the Proxy Queen and even Queen Ayrenn herself.
The Queen was about to name Alva a Prosecutor, until at the very last moment, Alva decided to back out of it. She never wanted to be a Prosecutor; she only just went with it to make her parents proud for at least once in her life, but she knew she was going to be miserable for the rest of her life. And an Altmer’s life is very long. This was not worth it, and that’s what she told her parents, and the rest of the court as well, on that day, knowing damn well what this meant to their already fragile relationship.
How could you do this to us?
You are no true Solaris.
You are a disgrace!
You are useless!
We always knew you haven’t had it in you.
You are no longer part of this family.
You are no longer our daughter.
Get out.
Alva shakes her head and tightens her grip around the sword. She might not be a Divine Prosecutor like her parents wanted her to be, but she’s not a disgrace. She is not useless, and she was going to prove this. How? She doesn’t know. But she will, one way or the other.
Lyris looks up from the corpse and locks eyes with Alva only for a second before she raises back to her feet to continue. Somewhere deeper in the halls, they encounter another Dremora. This one isn’t dead though; this one is very much alive and is charging straight towards them. Lyris blocks a few attacks, deals a few blows of her own but then another hit from the Daedra forces her on her knees before it turns his gaze towards Alva. Oh boy... Okay, no problem. Alva has seen her father fight plenty of times. She can do this, it’s not that hard... right?
The High Elf takes a deep breath, readies the sword and widens her stance. The Dremora is almost upon her now, just a few more steps and— Alva steps aside, dodging the first blow. Then, the second and the third, invoking the Dremora’s anger by doing so. His attacks grow faster and more violent, making it harder and harder for Alva to dodge. She barely manages to dodge another swing of its sword, causing her to almost stumble to the ground. Alva is still recovering when the Daedra deals another blow. There is no time to dodge now, so the only option left is for her to finally use the great sword she is still holding in her hand. So, raising the sword in defense, she parries the blow just in time.
The Dremora deals blow after blow while Alva keeps blocking them, even though it’s only barely. This is the first time she’s holding a sword — or any weapon, really — and it shows. Another heavy blow from the Dremora knocks the sword from her hands, a kick in the chest sends her flying to the ground. Alva clings to the fabric of her jerkin, drawing heavy, labored breaths. A shadow falls over her as the Daedra stands at her side, looking rather pleased with himself.
“Watch out!” Lyris warns. When Alva looks up, she sees the Dremora raising his sword, readying himself to deal a final blow. There is not much to be done now. The great sword is out of reach and although Alva is a Templar, her magic really isn’t that great. She can conjure balls of light, yes, but that’s about it, or that’s what she thought. The Dremora grunts as he attacks, and on instinct, Alva raises her hand in defense. A divine lance bursts forth, impaling the Dremora. It stands there, sharing the same stunned expression with Alva. Lyris uses this moment to decapitate him, its body shudders for a second before it crumbles to the ground.
Alva's still clutching her chest and she struggles to sit up, Lyris walks over and helps her back on her feet. “Are you alright?” She asks.
“I—I think so.” Alva breathes, then she looks down at her trembling hand, the palm is glowing a faint golden color.
“You’re a Templar.” Lyris remarks.
Alva chuckles humorlessly. “I won’t call myself that.”
“You just stopped a Dremora with a Focused Charge.”
“I stopped it by accident.”
“By accident?”
“I don’t know how I did that.” Alva replies, looking down to the ground.
“Well, either you did and it saved our lives.” Lyris says and clasps Alva’s shoulder, shaking her a little so she looks up, and when she does, Lyris gives her an encouraging smile. After that, Alva picks up her sword and the women continue down the hall. It doesn’t take long before they run into another Dremora.
“Let’s see what else your capable off.” Lyris says, nodding in the direction of the Daedra. The creature doesn’t hesitate to charge towards them. Alva takes a deep breath and pushes her hand forward! ...but nothing happens.
“Uh-oh...” The High Elf whispers to herself and looks down at her hand in panic.
“Try again.” Lyris says agitated, keeping her eyes trained on the Dremora that’s getting closer with the second. With that said, Alva pushes her hand forward again, but still nothing happens. She draws her arm back, preparing to try once more, but there is no time left as the Daedra is upon her now. Lyris steps in between and blocks an incoming attack. She counters with a few strikes of her axe and after a short battle she manages to strike him down. As if on cue, another Dremora takes its place.
“Oh, come on!” Lyris growls in frustration.
The female Dremora holds up her staff, and attacks with a fire blast. Alva and Lyris jump out of the way just in time to dodge it. The women exchange a look, and without saying another word they each take a side to attack from. Alva holds the sword steadily in her hands since trying to use her magic again might not be a good idea now because it doesn’t work whenever she needs it to.
It takes an elbow in Alva’s face, and a burn on Lyris’s pants to beat the Dremora. Then, the two of them stand back to back, waiting for more of them to come, but after a nerve-wracking moment of silence, nothing more seems to happen. “Let’s get out of here, my friend.” Lyris says.
They lower their weapons again and head for the door, only to be stopped by a blinding flash of light. Several moths flutter around before a projection of a man appears. And judging by Lyris’s expression, she seems to know the man. “The Prophet.” She gasps.
“Greetings, Vestige.” The projection says to Alva. “Just like you I’m a prisoner in this place. You must rescue me and I, in turn, must rescue you.” After that, it fades away. Alva’s still looking at the place where the projection just was, her mouth a little agape, her brow knit in confusion. After a short moment, she turns around to look at Lyris, her brows knit even deeper.
“Who was that?” She asks.
“The Prophet.” Lyris says. “He’s a prisoner here, too. It was very dangerous for him to speak to you, even for a moment.”
“Why would he endanger himself to speak with me?”
“He must think you can help me.”
“Help you... do what?” Alva asks unsure.
“Break him out, of course!” Lyris replies casually, like this is the most obvious thing in the world. “Believe me, I can use all the help I can get.”
“Break him out?” Alva echoes. “I’m not sure I can help you with that.” Lyris makes a face as if she’s about to protest, but Alva cuts her off. “You have seen me out there, I can’t even use my abilities whenever I want to and I can barely hold this sword properly.”
“I don’t care. We got this far already; we can’t stop now. That blind old man is the only person alive who can help us get back home. Tamriel’s a long way from here.”
Alva sighs and rubs her face tiredly, the determination in Lyris’s voice makes it hard to argue even more. “Fine. Where do we go from here?”
“These tunnels will eventually take us to the Towers of Eyes. That’s where we’ll find the Sentinels.”
“What are these Sentinels?”
“Magical constructs created by Molag Bal to guide his vision in Coldharbour. The Sentinels are connected. If we destroy one, the others will be blinded. With any luck, that will buy us the time we need to free the Prophet.”
“And how do you propose we do that?”
“I’ve no idea. Brute force?” Alva creases her brow in worry, and Lyris already knows what that means. “We’ll find a way.” She assures the High Elf. “We have to. Be ready for anything. I doubt Molag Bal left the Sentinels unguarded.”
“Of course.” Alva breathes softly and runs a shaky hand through her messy ponytail, her side swept bangs fall back into place. She turns her back at Lyris and looks around the place, her eyes flicking this way and that as she’s processing what is going on. Abruptly, she turns back around. “Who... who was that man, really? You call him ‘the Prophet’. But who is he?”
“He’s a strange one, no doubt about it, but he’s the wisest man I’ve ever met. He sees things. The past, the future.”
“And— and this place? Where am I?”
“You’re obvious not in Tamriel anymore. Think of the most miserable, depressing place you have ever been in your life. That’s paradise compared to Coldharbour. And to top it off, well... there’s no easy way to say this.” Lyris hesitates for a moment before she continues. “You’re dead.”
Alva looks at her like she just got slapped in the face. “ Dead ?” She repeats. Dead... So, this is how she ended up here? She died? Just thinking about it makes her shudder. “If I’m dead, then how are we having this conversation?” She asks next, her voice just above a whisper.
“I don’t know. Once we rescue the Prophet, he can tell you about the Gods and the ways of Oblivion. I don’t understand any of it, myself.” Lyris replies calmly.
“Who killed me?” Her tone of voice made it sound more like a demand than a question.
“A man named Mannimarco. His Worm Cult is doing some kind of ritual back in Tamriel. They sacrificed you, and everyone in this prison, to the Deadric Prince Molag Bal. After you died, whatever was left showed up here. They call you the Soul Shriven.”
Alva’s trembling all over her body now. Her nails dig into her palm as she balls her hands into fists. She has been wondering what had happened to her, but this was definitely not what she expected. She’s dead , for Mara’s sake. And now she’s a Soul Shriven? “What does that mean?” Alva asks, now with tears burning her eyes.
“It means you’re a slave and you’ll spend the rest of eternity here in Coldharbour, working under the lash of the Daedra. Unless of course, you come with me.”
“Are you dead, too?” Alva wonders.
“No, I wasn’t sacrificed. The Prophet and I were brought here... conventionally, if that makes any sense. But we’re prisoners here, same as you.”
“We need the Prophet to get out of here, right?” Alva asks, and Lyris nods in response. “Then, how can we save him?”
“It won’t be easy. The place is watched by Sentinels. We won’t stand a chance unless we can blind them. I’ll tell you more when we get there. And we’ll never get there if we don’t get moving.” And with that said, the women continue.
In the next room they encounter the Forgemaster holding up a Soul Shriven by its neck. Alva gasps, drawing the attention of the Forgemaster. They look at each other in silence, until the Daedra throws the Soul Shriven away, piercing it on a spike. Alva almost drops her weapon by this display, but Lyris on the other hand raises hers in anger and charges straight ahead. The sound of grunts and clanging metal fills the room. Alva looks on in anguish, how Lyris can fight with such confidence will remain a mystery to her, but she would be lying if it’s not inspiring.
The Forgemaster tackles Lyris to the ground, Lyris knees him in the ribs and then she elbows him in the face. The Daedra retaliates with a few well-placed punches of his own, and with each punch, Lyris’s power to fight back decreases. He straddles the half-giant to the ground and grunts out of effort as he draws his sword back to kill her, and when he moves his sword forward again, Alva slices through the air, cutting off his arm. Then, a blinding flash lights up the room before the Daedra gets knocked off of Lyris. Before the Daedra gets another chance to do anything at all, Alva thrusts her sword in its chest, killing the creature.
Alva swirls around when she feels a touch on her shoulder, she points the sword at the source, only to realize it’s just Lyris. She holds up her hands, instinctively stepping back. “Easy, there.”
The High Elf drops the sword and starts to pace around, breathing heavily as she runs her hands through her hair again. “This is too much...” She whispers to herself.
“What was that?” Lyris asks.
Alva stops and turns to look at her. “This. Is. Too much.”
“What is too much?”
“What is too much?” She repeats in disbelief. “What is too much? This!” Alva gestures to the dead Daedra on the ground. “The Daedra, and the fighting and the killing! I’m not cut out for this.”
“Is anyone, really?” Lyris replies.
“You don’t seem to have any trouble with it.”
“I’ve been in battle before. This isn’t any different.” Lyris says calmly and hands the Elf the sword she dropped. Alva hastily wipes away a tear she didn’t know she shed and accepts it begrudgingly. “I know this isn’t easy,” Lyris says next. “but you’re doing a good job. We're both still alive.” Alva glares at her. Lyris doesn’t understand why until it hits her. “Oh! I mean, at least we’re both still... we’re both still breathing!”
The glare softens and the High Elf rolls her eyes. “So, which way do we go next?”
When they go through another door, they end up outside. Lyris sees how Alva sags her shoulders at the sight of a dozen more Dremora guards, Clannfears and there are even feral Soul Shriven terrorizing the river. Lyris want to say something, but then she sees how Alva takes a deep breath and straightens her back, gripping her sword tightly. The Elf looks over her shoulder at Lyris and raises an eyebrow. “Are you ready for this?”
Lyris smiles confidently. “You have no idea.”
The women run down the stairs and work their way through the guards. Lyris, of course, has a much better time cleaving these bastards than Alva. While she, Lyris, is occupying the guard, Alva uses the little time she has trying to conjure another Focused Charge. How on Nirn did she do that? She's a Templar, but she doesn’t know how to use her power. It is frustrating to say the least.
Alva's lack of knowledge about magic is another subject on which her parents would berate her. She just knows if they were to be around, she would get the whole lecture of ‘being a failure’ and that she’s ‘good for nothing’ and—
“You’re getting there, Alva!” Lyris shouts. “Just a little— You need to concentrate! Concentrate... Almost there—almost. Now!” Alva thrusts her hand forward, and attacks a Dremora guard with a ball of sun fire, burning it completely before it turns to ash.
Lyris pumps her fist in the air. “Ha! That’s what I’m talking about! What was your name, again? Target practice?”
“Lyris!” Alva says sternly, but the hint of a smile dances on her lips anyway.
“What? These little skeevers deserve this and so much more!” She replies and kicks the pile of ash at her feet just for good measure. Then she turns back to Alva. “Good job with the fire, by the way. It wasn’t entirely what we we’re going for but it worked nonetheless.” Alva smiles shyly in response.
Alva and Lyris work their way through more groups of guards and other foul creatures. Lyris is always the first to charge, Alva on the other hand just tries to keep up. The way Lyris moves from Dremora guard, to Clannfear and occasionally a feral Soul Shriven might give one the impression she has actually fun striking them down. While Alva is trying to not get killed—get more killed than she already is? — she watches Lyris closely. She watches how she holds her weapon, how she moves when she attacks or when she dodges, how she always seems to find the perfect moment to retaliate... And using this as example, Alva finds it easier to fight the Daedra as well. At least now, when she tries and fails to use her power, she can use her sword more properly and deal some damage, even if it’s only just a scratch compared to Lyris’s full blows.
After some time, when they finally seem to get closer to a Sentinel, Lyris stops Alva by her shoulder. The Elf frowns in confusion and asks what’s wrong.
Lyris looks up at the road which leads to the Sentinel they need to destroy. “Nothing’s wrong. I just need you to do this bit alone.”
“Wait, what? Alone?” Alva says, already panicking. “Why?”
“Slow down.” Lyris says with a soft voice. “It’s not that hard. You just need to destroy the Sentinel so we can get to the Prophet’s Cell. Easy.”
“Right, easy.” Alva breathes and turns to look up at the road ahead, holding her sword in a white-knuckled grip.
“Alva, one more thing.” Lyris says. “Try to be inconspicuous. We just got free of this place, the last thing we need is to get recaptured.”
The High Elf nods and moves forward, holding her sword at the ready. It doesn’t take long before she approaches the Sentinel. Alva frowns at the sight of the big eye that is constantly flicking around. She crouches down, out of sight of the Sentinel as she tries to come up with a plan to destroy it. Just charging to it won’t work, it will set its gaze on her in an instance. Sneaking towards it won’t work either, the eye moves around constantly, looking every way. It will still spot her. So, she would need to attack from a distance, and the only way to do that is... by using her powers. Of course.
Alva sighs, lowering her head. This is really not the time to having to rely on her magic, but there is also no time to waste either. So, with that in mind, Alva takes a deep breath and she closes her eyes as she holds up her hand. What kind of Templar can’t even use a simple sun fire spell? The words of her mother echoes through her head. What kind of High Elf doesn’t know how to use magic? Alva tenses up, tears burn her eyes as she tries to push out her mother’s voice. Without your powers you are useless to the Divine Prosecution. Without your powers you are useless to us! “I am not useless!” Alva growls and moves her hand forward in a punching motion, blasting the Sentinel apart with a ball of flame.
The force of the blast causes a gust of wind to waft through the clearing. Feeling the wind upon her cheeks, Alva snaps out of the anger that was building up, and just like that she stands up to join Lyris again. Lyris jumps up immediately when she sees Alva approaching. “Quickly, while he’s blinded, we must get to the Prophet’s Cell!”
Lyris starts running with Alva close on her heels, avoiding Daedra and feral Soul Shriven, they almost reach the door. Lyris reaches out, but before she can get there, a blue flame blocks their path towards the Cell. Molag Bal’s voice booms in their ears. “Fool! You will never escape my realm.”
"Herma-Mora's wagging tongue!” Lyris curses. “The door's warded. We'll never get in this way."
“Destroying the Sentinel must have triggered these wards.” Alva says as she’s still looking at the blue flames.
Lyris paces around, holding her chin in thought. “We’ll need to find another way in. Hmm... maybe Cadwell can help us.”
“Who's Cadwell?”
“Cadwell is the oldest of the Soul Shriven. After years of torment, Soul Shriven usually go insane and turn feral, but not Cadwell. He was already insane before he left Tamriel. Mad as a box of frogs, but completely harmless. You’ll see.”
“How can a madman possibly help us?”
“Cadwell sees things as he wishes them to be. To him, Coldharbour is a wondrous place. It’s his home. And he knows it like the back of his hand. He’s usually down by the river. Let’s go find him.” Lyris runs towards the small camp some ways further, Alva follows closely by. As they approach the settlement, the sound of a lute fills her elven ears, the words to a song becoming clearer.
“ One fine day in the middle of the night, two dead kings got up to fight. Back to back they faced each other, drew their bows, and stabbed themselves! ” The old man playing the lute continues cheerfully, and Alva can’t help but notice the pot on his head and how it is tilted a little to the side, making him look rather silly.
Alva approaches him. “Uhm, excuse me? Sir?”
“Hello, what’s this? Out for a stroll, then? Lovely day for it.”
“You must be Cadwell.” Alva smiles.
“Sir Cadwell, yes indeed. A pleasure! And fair Lyris!” He says, shifting his gaze to her. “Good to see you, m’dear. How are you, then?”
Alva quickly side glances at Lyris next to her when Cadwell mentioned her. The High Elf then moves to sit down on the bench next to Cadwell. He, in turn, shuffles in his seat to give her a bit more space and looks expectantly at her. “Let me get straight to the point; we’re trying to get inside the Prophet’s Cell, but the door is sealed.”
“Oh dear, oh dear. Well, that is inconvenient, isn’t it? Tell you what— I happen to know another way in! Much more of a scenic route. Rather a fun little jaunt actually. Full of traps, and corpses, and nasty beasties filling up the bits in between.” Cadwell replies chipper. Hearing these words, Alva should be in despair, giving in to the impossibility of the situation and just give up. But the way Cadwell said that, she can’t help but look at him with the hint of a smile on her face. She likes him already.
“How do we get through all of that?”
“Rather cautiously, I expect.” Cadwell replies, earning a soft giggle from the High Elf. “Watch your step, hold your nose and do mind the traps. There’ll like as not be a fair dose of running and skull-bashing as well.”
Alva takes a deep breath, and let’s it out as a sigh. “Do you know where the entrance is?”
“Follow the river. You’ll find the door to the Undercroft at the water’s end. Once you’re inside, stick to the light and you’ll find a ladder that will take you right to the Prophet, straightaway. Do give him my best!”
“Thank you, Sir Cadwell.” Alva says, and glances at Lyris, who nods her head towards the river rather impatiently. But the High Elf doesn’t feel like leaving yet. From the moment she arrived here she was confused and scared— terrified even. Lyris might have been by her side the whole time, reassuring and encouraging her. But she didn’t manage to make her feel at ease — if one can feel at ease in such a place as this — well, not like Cadwell that is. Just his presence alone makes her forget this nightmare, even if it is just for a little. And it must show on her face, because Lyris bends down and lowers her voice to a whisper. “We really need to get moving, we don’t have all day. But we can spare a few more minutes, do make it quick. I’ll keep watch.”
“Thank you.” Alva smiles relieved and watches her move away from the camp before she turns her attention back to Cadwell. “How do you know Lyris?” She wonders.
“Ah, Lyris. Girl’s as mad as Sheogorath’s jammies. Heart’s in the right place, I suppose. Says she’s got to rescue the Prophet to save us all from eternal torment. How an old blind man could do that is quite beyond me.”
“You know the Prophet?”
“Yes. He’s an Imperial gentleman. Apparently, he was once a powerful mage, but years haven’t been kind. Lyris says he knows of a path back to Tamriel. I rather think that if one existed, I’d have found it by now.”
Alva’s stomach drops. “You don’t think there’s a way to get home?”
“I hadn’t actually given it much thought. Anything’s possible, I suppose. Truth is, I’ve been here so long, this place feels like home.” Cadwell turns to look at her, the distraught look on her face is not what he expected so he decides to do something about that. “But a good uprising now and again is a pleasant diversion, so where’s the harm, eh?” That seems to lighten her mood.
“And who are you exactly, Sir Cadwell?”
“Well there’s not much to tell, is there? It’s the same old pish-tosh. Gallant knight, epic quests, rescued maidens. I came to this land when my head was quite unceremoniously separated from my body—”
“Wait. You've been beheaded?” Alva asks next, failing to hide the horror on her face.
“Yes.” Cadwell replies. “Bad luck that, but you make the best of things.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Oh, quite a long time. In fact, I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if I was the oldest of the Soul Shriven. Of those who didn’t go feral, that is. I know every gunnel and path, every nook and cranny. The others look up to me, I suppose.” Cadwell replies and continues playing the lute.
“Lyris says I’m a Soul Shriven as well.”
Cadwell stops again. “How did you die?” He asks, the otherwise cheerful tone of voice turns suddenly really serious.
Alva stays quiet for a moment before she speaks up again. “I’ve been sacrificed.”
“Oh dear.”
“Yeah. Bad luck that, but you make the best of things.” Alva replies with a wry smile.
Cadwell chuckles softly, and continues strumming on his lute when Lyris comes back to join them again. “Come on, Alva. We really need to get going.”
The High Elf takes a deep breath and lets it out as a sigh before she gets back to her feet. She turns to Cadwell, bowing her head. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Sir Cadwell. And thank you.”
“Best of luck, young lady. Do check in now and again, won’t you?”
Lyris and Alva follow Cadwell’s directions, and it’s just as he’d told; at the end of the river they find another door. After a few attempts of picking the lock, they manage to enter the Undercroft, only to be greeted by a ridiculous foul smell. Lyris pulls up her nose in disgust. “This place stinks of dead and decay.”
“And then some.” Alva adds, covering her mouth and nose.
The two of them make their way quickly through the halls, destroying skeletons and feral Soul Shriven along the way. To Lyris’s surprise, Alva seems to move more confidently now. Where she would otherwise hesitate, she now strikes with determination. Lyris would like to comment on that, but she decides against it in fear this might throw her off.
Soon, they enter the Prophet’s Cell. Alva’s jaw drops a little at the sight of it all, the Cell looks nothing like the rest of the Wailing Prison.
“The Prophet!” Lyris breaths, and when Alva follows her gaze, she sees the figure hanging mid-air. Invisible shackles seem to keep him in place. "All right. The good news is, we made it here in one piece and the Prophet looks unharmed. Now the bad news. It's going to be up to you to keep him safe and get him back to Tamriel. I'm not going with you."
Alva’s head snaps in Lyris’s direction. “What do you mean you're not going with me?”
"There's a trick to opening the cell. The only way for a prisoner to leave is for another living soul to take their place. I need to swap places with the Prophet."
“That’s ridiculous!” Alva exclaims angrily.
“We have no other choice, Alva.” Lyris says, and although she appears to be acting tough about it, Alva can still see a hint of fear in her eyes.
“There... there must be another way.”
"Believe me, I wish there was. But... I don't see anyone else here with a beating heart, do you? If Molag Bal isn't stopped he'll destroy everyone and everything we've ever loved."
Alva shakes her head and turns around to look at the Cell, hoping to come up with something or find any other way to do this. There must be something she could do to stop this. But what? What could she do? What could she do? What could she—
“Alva!” Lyris says, taking the Elf’s wrist to stop her from pacing. Alva looks at Lyris’s hand before she moves her gaze to lock eyes with her. “It’s going to be okay. You did great, I only need you to do better now.”
“I don’t know if I can do better.”
“Of course, you can.”
“How do you know that?”
Lyris shrugs and loosens her grip around Alva’s wrist but she doesn’t let go entirely. “Because I have faith in you.”
“But you don’t even know me.” Alva replies, her voice just above a whisper.
“I do know you, you’re Alva Solaris.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Although there are tears in her eyes, she still smiles weakly at Lyris.
“I know.” Lyris smiles back.
Alva lowers her eyes to the ground. Lyris holds her chin gently and forces the Elf to look her in the eyes. “Hey.” She says softly. “Everything will be alright. I just need you to trust me.”
“I—”
“Do you trust me?”
“Yes.”
"Good. Once it's done, get moving. The Prophet will know where to go, but he'll need your eyes, and your protection."
Then, everything happens so quickly. Lyris takes her place and starts the ritual. Alva fights off two more Daedric guards and activates the two dark pinions. That seemed to do the trick. Alva holds her breath as she watches how Lyris and the Prophet switch places. The Elf moves forward to reach out to Lyris in a form of reflex, but she manages to stop herself. It is done. Lyris is now held captured and the Prophet is now a free man.
Alva hesitantly joins his side. “Prophet?”
The Prophet whirls his head towards Alva’s voice. “Thank the Divines, you are safe! There is that, at least. Lyris sacrificed everything, that we might go free. Her sacrifice must not be in vain.”
Alva looks at Lyris’s limp body in the air, the sight of her fills her with dread. The Elf frowns deeply as she moves her gaze towards the Prophet again. “We can’t leave her like this. Can we find a way to take her with us?”
“I wish that were possible. But I promise you, once we escape Coldharbour, we will find a way to rescue her together, Vestige.”
“Vestige?” Alva repeats.
“That is the name I have given you. You are but a trace of your former self. A soulless one. An empty vessel that longs to be filled. It is as the Scrolls foretold, but not exactly as I imagined.”
Alva’s frown deepens even more. She doesn’t know what to do with that information, though. What she does know is that she doesn’t like it. Not at all. But what she likes and doesn’t like is irrelevant right now. Alva’s gaze flicks back and forth between Lyris and the Prophet until a question pops up in her mind. “Why does Lyris call you the Prophet?”
“That is what I have come to be called. My true name is lost— even to me. Years of torment have taken their toll. Quickly now, we must make haste to the Anchor!”
“What is the Anchor?”
“The Anchors are Deadric machines of the darkest magic. Their chains bind our world and pull it towards Coldharbour. I can use one of these Anchors to return us to Tamriel, but you must lead me to it.”
“All right. Stay close then.” Alva replies. And with one last look at Lyris she leads the Prophet to the Anchor Mooring. Only a few steps inside and the ground starts to shake. Alva stops, and on instinct she uses her arm to shield the Prophet from whatever might be happening. Then, Alva’s stomach drops as she sees Molag Bal himself appear right in front of them. “The mortal thinks it can defy me. Futile. Soon your world will be in my chains.”
After that, he disappears, and in its stead a grand Bone Colossal climbs its way out of the ground. Alva raises her sword and takes on a fighting stance she has seen Lyris use multiple times before. “Come, I will protect you.” She hears the Prophet say before she charges. This time it isn’t fear she feels in her heart, but determination. And although the Colossal might be twice her height, it doesn’t stop her from attacking. Alva grunts out of effort as she strikes down, slicing in the bones of its arm. The Colossal uses his other arm and slams into Alva, sending her flying onto her back. She rolls over several times and loses her sword in the process.
The High Elf struggles for a moment as she feels a sharp pain in her chest, but that doesn’t keep her from fighting back. Not when they’re so close. Not when Lyris sacrificed herself so they could escape. Alva winces as she wipes blood from her split lip. A newfound anger flares up inside her, giving her strength to get back on her feet. Her sword is out of reach, and her bare fists won’t stand a chance against its bones. So, Alva figures, using her powers must do it.
Alva takes a deep breath and she straightens her shoulders. She enters a state of concentration where the sound, the Anchor Mooring around her is whisked away. Where she has only eyes for the creature in front of her and where the only sound she hears is the sound of her breathing. Alva feels warmth rising in her chest, which then slowly moves through her whole body until both her palms start to light up in a golden glow. Then, she charges valiantly forward, her eyes ablaze with ferocity.
The Bone Colossal slams his hand down to crush the Prophet, but Alva jumps in between surrounding herself and the Prophet with solar rays which provide as a shield. When the Colossal slams into the shield instead, his bones start to burn. The creature hisses and pulls away, stumbling backwards. Seeing this moment as an opportunity, Alva moves both her hands forward, conjuring a beam of pure sunlight. She growls out of effort; her hair moves in the wind the beam creates. When Alva pulls her hands back, there is a big gaping hole in the Bone Colossal’s chest. And then, whatever there is left of it falls apart on the ground. Alva wobbles slightly after the energy expenditure, she rests her hands on her knees to recover.
“Well done!” The Prophet praises. “Now, the Dark Anchor’s portal is high above us. I will prepare a spell to lift us to it. But first, you must re-attune yourself to Nirn in order to regain your physical form. To do this, you will need a skyshard.”
“What is a skyshard?” Alva asks, still a little out of breath.
“A shard of Aetherian Magicka that carries the essence of Nirn. Some link to Lorkhan, the missing god of creation. If you collect and absorb its power, it should restore your corporeal form. I will summon one of these shards for you to absorb.” The Prophet moves to the center of the room, and when he holds his staff in the air, a blue beam of light forms around him. “Shard of Aethurius, fall upon us now and anoint us with your blessing!” And when he slams his staff on the ground, a skyshard appears.
Alva looks at it in awe and moves towards it as if in a trance. She feels like she’s drawn to it, like it waits for her touch. The Elf carefully reaches out to it, and when her hand touches the rough surface of the skyshard she breathes in sharply. An invisible force lifts her from the ground, and so she can absorb its power. It only takes a short moment, and once it’s done, Alva falls down on her knees. The Prophet doesn’t seem to mind her as he runs towards the stairs straight underneath the Anchor and raises his staff again. “Great Akatosh, Dragon God of Time! I require your strength. Let the way be opened, let these wandering souls return home. Let the will of Molag Bal be denied!” With that said, the Prophet turns back towards Alva. “Quickly, we must go now!” He warns before he gets lifted in the air. Alva scrambles to her feet, she runs up the stairs and once she reaches the top she leaps. She doesn’t know where the Prophet’s spell will take her, but everywhere is better than here...
Alva wakes up with a start. She looks around bewildered and creases her brow in confusion when she realizes she’s inside a small tower. She sits atop a thin blanket, and a little fire burns next to her, providing little warmth. Alva shivers involuntarily. She's cold. Why is she cold? The Elf shuffles closer to the fire and pulls up her legs so she can wrap her arms around her knees. She rests her head as she stares into the fire.
“The Vestige awakens once again.” Alva’s head snaps up at the sound of the Prophet’s voice, his projection stands only a bit further. “Come, we must speak.”
Alva gets to her feet and walks towards him. “Prophet... where are you?”
“As I feared, we arrived in different locations. I am in a city near the sea, in a land of eternal spring. The air smells of the ocean and of markets and gardens. It matters not. You have awakened once again and we must set you on your path.”
“How long was I unconscious?”
“Days? Weeks? I cannot tell. The voyage between worlds disrupted all sense of time and space. I know only that you were deposited in the sea, and some charitable soul fished you out and brought you to dry land.”
“So, you can’t tell for certain how long I’m here already?”
“I’m afraid not.”
Alva shakes her head and runs a hand through her hair as she curses under her breath.
“I can see you are distress.” The Prophet says calmly.
The High Elf kicks over an empty barrel and turns towards the Prophet’s projection in anger. “Yes, I am!”
“Why?”
“Because I’m dead!” Alva shouts in return, now throwing a sack of flour against the wall. Her voice raises with each word she says. “I got killed and my soul was taken from me. Why had Lyris to stop by my cell? Why didn’t she help someone else? Someone more capable? I had never fought in my entire life, not until I ended up in Coldharbour, I had never even held a weapon before! I was so terrified all the time but still Lyris pushed me to go on. She pushed me to do better. I only got so far because of her and now she’s trapped there! She helped me every step of the way, and what did I do? I— I abandoned her! Who knows what Molag Bal will do to her!” Alva covers her face with her hands, her shoulders shudder as she sobs softly.
“Lyris made a bold sacrifice, Vestige.” The Prophet says softly. “And I will do everything within my power to repay her. We will get her back.”
Alva looks up again and wipes away her tears. Then, she leans against the wall tiredly, crossing her arms in front of her chest. “What do I do?”
“I’m afraid you will have to decide that for yourself.”
“Hmm. When will I see you again?”
“I cannot foresee that. Not yet. But we will meet again. There is still much we need to accomplish.”
“Tell me about it.” Alva sighs.
“Be wary Vestige. Our very plane of existence is in peril. The threat of Molag Bal looms across all Tamriel, and chaos spreads in its shadow. Danger roams the land and will assume many forms. Do not let it catch you off-guard.”
“Where should I go from here?”
“You must find your own path. But perhaps there is a reason for the place in which you find yourself. Explore. Search for a cause to lend your hand. Join with others. You might even seek out those who rescued you from the sea. The choice is yours.”
“I highly doubt I would be of any help.” Alva says, lowering her head.
“You helped me escape Coldharbour . There are not many—no, there is no one , who can say they accomplished that. And I couldn’t have done it without your help. I sense it even now there are good people near you who face grave danger. They need your assistance should you be willing to give it. To thwart the will of Molag Bal, we must skirmish with evil wherever it rears its head.”
“And there are others who would join me in this?”
“We do not face these troubled times alone. Many shall rise up to fight this tide of darkness. Wherever you go, you will encounter others who share your courage and valor. Help them if you can, and enlist their aid if you have need of it.” And with that said, the Prophet’s projection fades away. Leaving Alva alone in the tower.