Wildlander Tales: "The Beautiful Men" by William Slayden

"The Beautiful Men"

‍

Upon the misty tundra, Ysabel could see the boy doddering. The borealis was a lurid green tonight, poisonous. The cold bit through her nightdress, and again she cursed the north and every wretch who called it home. 

‍

By the time she caught up with him, he’d made it past the river. She kept an eye out for wolves or sabre cat, but she suspected the Nords played up their danger so they themselves could seem less tame. The boy paused just beyond the river, as though he were consulting some internal compass. His eyes were bleary with sleep. 

‍

“Just what do you think you’re doing?” she said, wringing him by his scrawny shoulders. “Where do you think you’re going?” 

‍

The boy wouldn’t answer her; she had to admit it was as unsettling as Alfhild, his mother, claimed. Tonight Ysabel had been the one to hear the doorlatch, the boy’s feet crunching on the cold grass. She'd followed him out, deciding not to wake his mother. 

‍

Mumbling about “the beautiful men, oh, the lovely, lovely men,” he pulled against her grip. Such a strange way for a child to talk, for this child especially, who, when awake, appreciated no beauty and seemed only to scheme and whine.

‍

“Come on, you little creep.” 

‍

With chattering teeth, she turned him towards the house. Alfhild had said he’d obey once caught up with. In the morning he’d never remember.

‍

And it was so cold. She couldn’t get used to it. Two weeks in Skyrim had done nothing to acclimatize her. And it was only the first week of Frostfall. 

‍

                                                                    ***

‍

At the breakfast table, Alfhild Battle-Born shook her head as Ysabel relayed to her Lars’s latest misadventure. While the boy’s delight was undisguised, Alfhild found nothing humorous in the sleepwalking. 

‍

“Did I really do that? All the way to the river?”

‍

“It’s ill tidings,” Alfhild muttered. “And the Witches Festival so close.” 

‍

Ysabel pretended sympathy, but inwardly she mocked the farmer's superstition. The only ill tidings are this infernal war, and the highwaymen and robbers you can’t keep away from your caravans.

‍

“Have you spoken to your husband today?” Ysabel asked.

“Sorry, dear, nothing doing. He’s still tied up in negotiations with the Imperial quartermaster.”

‍

“I just hate being a nuisance when you’ve been so hospitable.”

‍

“It’s the least we can do while my husband attends to your business.” 

‍

Ysabel smiled, but anger flooded her chest. Anger at Idolaf and the rest of the Battle-Borns, anger at herself. Her father had warned her against investing in Skyrim: “Having faith in a war to make you money is like having faith in a cyclone to hammer your nails.” The old hypocrite. He’d made their own fortune off the Great War. Either way, she wasn’t returning to Cyrodiil without all her money. 

‍

“Give him some more time. I’m sure he’ll come through,” Alfhild said, placing the back of her hand against her son’s forehead. Since the pestilence had taken several children in Whiterun, the boy hadn’t been allowed off the farm, if you didn’t count the sleepwalking, which had only started up recently.

‍

Oh, he’ll come through, Ysabel thought as she gathered their dishes.

                                                                        ***

‍

She was helping bring in the cabbages when Idolaf rode up on his black horse. She could tell by his displeased expression what he thought of his wife’s concerns. He was taciturn as he worked the straps of the saddlebag and drew from it a large, yellow-tinged potion.

“Idolaf,” Ysabel called to him, wiping her hands on the borrowed apron. “Do you have a moment?”

Even from a distance of twenty meters she could hear him sigh. 

‍

“For you, Ysabel, always.” 

‍

“I was just wondering about the status of my claim?” she said after she intercepted him at the farmhouse’s doorway. 

‍

“When I know something, you’ll know something,” he said, trying to step around her. 

‍

“Well, you see, it’s urgent that I get that insurance. You remember, the money you guaranteed upon honor of your last name when I so generously agreed to invest in Skyrim’s ‘famous timber trade’? There are other caravans leaving out of Whiterun soon, and they’re very interested in my business, even if you’re not.”

‍

“You mean the Khajiit?” He waved this off. “They’ll fleece you, and then they’ll drink away your septims one bowl of moon sugar at a time. Listen, we want your father’s custom—”

‍

“My custom,” Ysabel corrected him.

“Yes, as I said. Your custom. But you must refrain from being rash. Every businessman knows this. How could we have predicted bandits would sack the caravan?” 

‍

He went inside and spoke with his wife. Leaning against the jamb, Ysabel brooded, her mood as black as her hair. She could overhear them talking about the girl Braithe, one of Lars’s friends, who was on death’s door. The yellow potion he’d brought was a mild paralytic from Arcadia, the local alchemist. Idolaf complained about interrupting his busy schedule to run errands. 

‍

But you still came yourself, instead of sending a servant, Ysabel noted. 

‍

Alfhild was all apologies to her husband. 

‍

Spineless, Ysabel thought. A mule to be hooked up to the harness. Stand up for yourself, woman!

‍

Coming out of the house, Idolaf bowed perfunctorily to Ysabel before hoisting himself onto his horse, riding away without another word. 

‍

                                                                           ***

‍

Despite the child’s protests, Alfhild locked him in her own bedroom before administering the potion. All seemed to be going well before the sound of banging awoke Ysabel. The boy was pacing around inside the room, trying the window, the door. 

‍

“I have to see them, mother. I have to see the beautiful men.” 

‍

“Who?” Ysabel heard muffled through the wall. “Lars, who are they?” 

‍

Eventually she got him back into bed, and, of course, in the morning he remembered nothing. At the breakfast table, Alfhild was scribbling a letter, and by the afternoon a courier returned a response. Ysabel read it over Alfhild’s shoulder, recognizing from her own dealings Idolaf’s handwriting: 

‍

           She’s on her way. You know I don’t approve, but if it’ll stay your incessant worrying, 

           then I’ll play along.

Around evening there was a knock on the door. Alfhild rushed to it. Standing there was an old, wizened woman clad in a cowl, a satchel over her shoulder.

‍

“Olava,” Alfhild said breathlessly, “Thank the gods you’ve come.”

“Don’t thank them just yet,” the old woman said wryly. When it was clear she was waiting to be invited inside, Alfhild ushered her in.

“He keeps talking of these ‘beautiful men,’” Alfhild said. “Do you know anything about them?”

Olava looked sagely about the kitchen. “May I see the boy?”

Lars was summoned. Complaining, he stood while the old woman held his chin and turned his head this way and that, looked into the bores of his ears, peeled wide his eyelids.

“That hurts. Stop it!”

“Quiet, child. I should be the least of your worries.”

After she’d inspected Lars, she asked to look around the farm. She was gone maybe ten minutes, and neither Alfhild nor Ysabel spoke. What a character, this old sage, Ysabel thought. Straight out of a Nord romance.

‍

When she was done, Olava had the women step outside. “There’s ill tidings about,” she said, nodding her head. “That is sure. I've consulted the cards, and they've nothing good to say.” Then she pointed off towards where the Skyforge could be seen over the city walls. Ysabel only knew what it was because Lars talked incessantly of the legendary forge and the warriors who trained beneath it. “But there are other forces that keep evil at bay, for now.” She drew a potion from her leather satchel. “It may not be approved by the guild, but it’ll keep the lad in his bed where he belongs.” She passed the potion to Alfhild. 

‍

“Is it spirits, do you think?” The latter asked.

“Could be. Around this time of year, they gather round, but it’s like listening for a single voice in a crowded room.” The old woman seemed to consider something. “But I think not. Whatever it is, it’s something ancient.” She took from her satchel a silver amulet. “It’s enchanted,” she told Alfhild. “But the enchantment is fickle. It’ll only work once. Put it in the boy’s mouth if the potion fails. It’ll bring him out of whatever trance has snared him.” Then she added, “But be wise with it. I have no more. You can thank the war for that.”

She left with Alfhild’s profuse thanks and a purse full of gold. As they sat at the table, Alfhild put her head in her hands.

“I can’t help think but we’re being punished.”

‍

“Oh?”

‍

“We’ve profited off the misery of others. With the war our lands have increased, and my husband has his hands in more pots than I probably care to know.” 

‍

Ysabel’s heart quickened, but she outwardly she kept herself calm.

‍

“Maybe it’s time to make amends,” she said gravely. “Maybe then the gods will let you and your family be.”

The woman looked at the potion the old sage had brought her. She didn’t speak again. Ysabel’s intuition told her not to push any further tonight, but she thought she could use this to her advantage. 

                                                                              ***

‍

The potion’s effects were beyond what Alfhild could’ve hoped for. The boy slept a sound and dreamless sleep, and after a couple of days of incessant complaining, he was allowed to sleep in his own room again.

I’ve known your ilk my whole life, Ysabel thought. You’ll always be tied to your mother’s apron strings. 

‍

Meanwhile, she’d been to visit the Khajiit caravan camped outside the city’s main entrance. They were leaving after the Witches Festival—heading west towards Markarth. She needed to act quickly if she was going to get her money back.

That night, after supper, while Alfhild was reviewing her ledger and the boy was waving a wooden sword about, Ysabel crept into the kitchen and found the two potions. She took out a tankard and carefully drained Olava’s potion into the cup, then filled the empty bottle with Arcadia’s. The liquids’ hues were similar enough she was confident Alfhild wouldn’t notice. She drained Olava’s potion into the remaining bottle.

‍

That night she was careful to unlock the doors and clear the way for the boy—no need to wake Alfhild. When he was off on his babbling, northward jaunt, she stooped and began to write in the cold dust near where the road met the garden path. She knew Dunmer runes from her schooling. The old sage had mentioned “something ancient.” Elven runes would do the trick. These ignorant Nords were afraid of anything elven.

When she was finished, she went after the boy. He’d gotten beyond the river this time, his steps uneven and clumsy on the dun-colored grass. The night was misty, and the boy was headed into a wall of fog. Ysabel had been reveling in the ingenuity of her trick—the runes were a great touch—when she saw the figure in the mist. Tall, elegantly thin, otherwise featureless. She froze.

For some reason she looked back towards the farmhouse, where a spiral of smoke rose off the chimney and shone against the city’s ambient light. Did she look because she’d hoped the farm and all its mundanity would serve as a counterpoint? Or to see how far they’d have to run? She didn’t know; she only knew that when she looked back the boy had stopped and there was no figure. She needed to believe there never had been, or else she’d never be able to convince her feet to tread the cold cotton grass to where the boy stood, looking as lost as an orphan.

‍

                                                                     ***

‍

There was no perfunctory bow this time. Idolaf didn’t even seem to know she was there. He stormed into the house, and there was muffled shouting, and then Alfhild stepped out and beckoned her in.

“And you have no idea how the boy got out?” Idolaf said, his dark eyes furious.

“I only heard the latch,” Ysabel said calmly. “I thought maybe I’d imagined it, but I couldn’t get back to sleep. Then I thought to check, and I saw him headed off towards the river.”

She hadn’t mentioned the figure. She’d lain in bed that night and come to the conclusion it hadn’t happened, then cast the thought away for good.

Before Idolaf could follow up, Lars burst through the door.

“You have to come see, you have to come see!”

As his parents hurried out, Ysabel smiled to herself.

The night had been windy, but the cold had hardened the dust, and the runes were mostly intact. Ysabel tried to sound innocent as she offered to read them. 

‍

“When one generation eats with much salt, the next will thirst for water.”

Idolaf shook his head. “I don’t understand.” Beside him his wife had gone pale. 

‍

Though Ysabel waited, Alfhild never mentioned punishments or the gods. Or Ysabel’s money. A baffled Idolaf saddled his horse and spoke to his wife. “He’s still safer here. The pestilence took another child yesterday, and the Braithe girl is still ill. Be patient. Your nerves will return to normal after this blasted festival passes.” 

‍

Ysabel waited for Alfhild to go back inside before addressing Idolaf.

“I know what you’re going to say, and now’s not the time,” Idolaf growled. “Have a thought for anyone but yourself.” With that he sped off towards the city.

                                                                       ***

‍

That night Ysabel prepared some mulled wine, splashing a little of Olava’s potion into the bottom of the cup.

“It tastes funny,” Alfhild said, wrinkling her forehead.

“This is how we make it in the south.”

‍

After Alfhild slept, Ysabel struggled her into the bed. Olava’s silver amulet fell from the woman’s pocket. Something told Ysabel to grab it. Then she went into the other room where the boy was poring over an expensive illustrated book. Handsome men with delicate features and long hair, clad in regal garb, waved swords about, and other figures lay on the ground in gouts of inky red blood. 

‍

“Time for bed,” Ysabel said. 

‍

“Where’s mother?” 

‍

“She had a hard day. She retired early.” 

‍

The boy brought his book to bed with him, and Ysabel drew his sheets up. She thought about kissing him on the forehead but decided it was a step too far. 

‍

“What about my medicine?” He asked. 

‍

 “Do you want to take medicine your whole life? Do you think the Brave Companions lace their nightly milk with potions?”

‍

“I guess not.” 

‍

“I’ll be in the other room. You’ll be safe. Now try and sleep.” 

‍

She was sitting in front of the fire, her mind parsing through what little she knew of northern trade routes, when she heard the bedroom door open. 

‍

When she saw the boy, she shivered. His drooping eyes were far away and dull, his mouth slack. And yet there was a happiness in his slack features beyond any she’d ever seen.

She steeled her heart, rose from the chair, and opened the front door to the Frostfall cold.

“Thank you,” the boy mumbled, heading through the door. 

‍

She followed him to the end of the garden path and then stooped to write in the dust beside the previous night’s message. She didn’t let her mind return to the figure she’d seen in the mist. Tonight’s proverb: “Give to those what belongs to them by right.” 

‍

As she wiped the dust off her fingers, she looked around to see the boy’s progress, but he was nowhere to be found. Her heart went cold. How tempting it was to go back inside and bolt the door. 

‍

Fortune favors the brave, another one of her father’s proverbs. She set off into the misty tundra. 

‍

Every ounce of courage she’d cultivated since girlhood she called to herself now, glad for once of the miserable cold and the way it demanded attention. She could see the boy now, heading not for the river, but up the road where it headed northeast.

The boy seemed to be moving unbelievably fast. His step was normal, but it seemed to carry him farther than each one of her own. She began to run. The boy disappeared into the mist. Periodically she regained sight of him, only to lose it once more.

“Lars,” she called. “Lars, dear.” Her voice was spooky to her among the quiet night where, she realized, she now believed big cats and wolves roamed. They were far out, farther than ever before. And if she couldn’t find him? She’d already begun to plan for the morrow. She couldn’t leave right away. She must stay and endure some of the woman’s grief. Then she’d charitably acquiesce her claim on the money and head back to Cyrodiil. Her father would understand. Like the figure in the mist, she’d never let herself think of the boy again.

Just when she was about to turn around, she spied him. He was in front of a huge ridge of rock. Thank Stendar, thank Mara, thank Kynareth. She was just about to call out to him when she saw them. 

‍

There were four. Standing at the cave’s mouth. They wore the most splendid garb she’d ever seen, more splendid even than the imperial court. The boy had stopped a few meters short. His joy seemed barely containable. 

‍

Adrenaline sharpened her eyesight. These were not men at all, but elves, the likes of which she’d never seen before. They were pale white and as beautiful as an illustration. Their long hair covered their ears, but she knew from the cut of their angled and delicate features, their languid limbs and grace even when standing utterly inert, these were elves and not men. 

One raised its hand, and the boy took a step forward. An instinct she didn’t even know she had caused Ysabel to dart forward and seize the boy. 

‍

“Lars, honey, listen to me. We have to go back.” He struggled against her grip. With shaking hands, she fumbled the amulet from her satchel. She held it up to the boy’s mouth, keeping her eyes on the mer, who looked on with regal, eternal faces. 

‍

He closed his lips tight. Anger flooded her chest.

“You little bastard.” She mashed the amulet against his lips until they bled, and when he opened his mouth, she forced it in. 

‍

He relaxed beneath her grip.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled around the amulet, “but I have to go now. I’ll miss you.” The amulet slid from his slack mouth and fell into the dirt with a thud. He turned on his heel and began to trek homeward. Though she knew she should follow, she couldn’t bring herself to turn away. A happiness that felt closer to madness roiled in her chest. She took another step towards the elf with the raised hand. 

Through her growing euphoria, she noticed one of the four mer had disappeared. She heard her father’s voice. Stupid girl, the amulet! Grab the amulet!

‍

Before her volition could completely desert her, she knelt and grabbed the amulet. It was like moving in a dream. She crammed the dirt-flecked amulet in her mouth.

From behind, a cold, leathery hand gripped her forearm. What she saw when she turned around reminded her of the kittens born too early to her favorite cat, Juniper, when Ysabel was a girl of ten. The face was gaunt and rawboned, the features distorted and stretched, the eyes unopened. But this that gripped her had no eyes, just a puckering scarp of flesh where brow met socket. Breath as dead as the air of caves puffed from a nose that ran like melted wax.

‍

She bit down on the amulet, but her leaden limbs wouldn’t struggle in the creature’s grasp. It’ll only work once, you fool, her father’s voice lamented. Stupid girl. 

‍

The changed and hideous others seized her legs and bound her hand and foot with rough hemp. As they dragged her caveward by fistfuls of her hair, she cried out for the boy. 

‍

“Lars, get help! Get your father! Lars—”

‍

Though he was far off on the tundra now, he paused and seemed to turn about.

For a moment her wild, terrified heart buoyed up within her chest.

“Lars—”

‍

But just as quickly he turned away and was gone. Had he been skipping?

Then she remembered the boy’s forgetfulness in the mornings. He’d wake eager to face the day, his mind on childish things, with no more memory of this night than his time in his mother’s womb.

I’ll miss you, the boy had said before he’d started off. 

‍

Her? Or them? 

‍

Her mind was beginning to open up to new realities of pain and suffering heretofore unthinkable as she glimpsed a last time the lurid yet impossibly beautiful borealis and the holes in Oblivion they called stars. 

‍

Her thoughts were of home as ancient and indifferent hands dragged her deeper and deeper into the earth’s maw.

‍