The Oblivion Walker

[Cosmic Storm]

The OBLIVION WALKER​

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·Twenty-three year old Valbjorn swears a binding oath with a mage. The terms: to assemble for him all seventeen daedric artifacts in exchange for the magical healing of Valbjorn's terminally ill wife. Through his now obligatory mission and his encounters with the various daedric princes, he learns much and gains much, but at what cost? His wife is all he has left in a cruel world, and as her life now hangs in the balance, he will stop at nothing to save her.


·This fan fiction will be an ongoing work. I do not have a predetermined amount of chapters, so I will just let the story flow until I can conclude it. Spoilers exist for each daedric quest, from Peryite to Dagon and every prince in between, plus huge spoilers for the Thieves Guild questline and random mentions of other factions’ questlines.


·Please enjoy! I will update on a regular basis, perhaps biweekly. Feedback would be much appreciated. It’s the only way for me to grow as a writer, my friends.


·As you may well know, Oblivion Walker is an achievement/trophy awarded in-game for collecting fifteen daedric artifacts on one save file. Big thanks to Bethesda for providing me with such a remarkable title!

 

[Cosmic Storm]

Prologue​

The whispering voice of the wind compels the newly fallen snow to rise from the frosty ground and twirl through the formerly still, frigid Falkreath evening. The white dust glitters like the diminutive shards of a diamond as it heeds the call of the gusting breeze and dances through the air with a flowing elegance. The sky rids itself of a dense blanket of melancholy clouds and reveals the brilliant, ruddy shades of twilight. The stars, the multitudinous stars, gaze down on Skyrim with an ardent twinkle in their eyes. How peaceful it is. How peaceful she is.

Freyja’s lovely face shines back at me, pale as moonlight. Even in this state, in what I know to be her final days, she somehow radiates life. Her eyes are closed, as they so often are now. I place my hand on her forehead, cold as an ice wraith’s lifeblood. I can’t stand to see her in this condition, can’t tolerate the thought of losing her, because she is all I have left.

My parents are dead, as they have been for five years, and I will admit that I barely offered them a perfunctory lament at their supposedly heartrending burial. They refused to accept Freyja as my bride, suggesting I wed someone, anyone else. They loathed her parents, likewise deceased, for what reason I still don’t know. I’m not proud, far from it, but when they passed, I felt truly at peace for maybe the first time in my life. Freyja and I married not long after. We never did have the traditional marriage ceremony we desired; we were too poor to afford even a modest wedding, too poor to travel to Riften to marry at the Temple of Mara. During our time together, alone, we were sincerely joyful. And we had a child, a little girl.

My little girl. She was only in her third winter when she died, taken by the accursed blizzard that devastated Falkreath just last year. We called her Beyla, after Freyja’s mother. I treasured her over the few items of value I had ever possessed, over my mother and father in their detestable crypt. I shouldn’t have taken my eyes off of her that night. I should have kept her close, I should have bundled her up, I should have, I should have, I should have…

Freyja was never the same after our daughter’s death. She spoke to me only on occasion, never more than a ‘yes’ or ‘no’, and seemed to fall into a trance of heartache and wretchedness that would not allow her escape. She recently became ill with a malady no one in town seems to be able to identify, much less treat. I spent the trivial amount of gold I make from felling trees for the lumber mill to take her to Whiterun, where the healers at the apothecary and the priests at the Temple of Kynareth all told me it was hopeless. That my cherished wife, the solitary being alive who loves me, who I love, will ultimately die. That I can do nothing to prevent it. That I should prepare her burial.

I can’t do that. She is everything to me, and without her, I have no desire to go on. I must visit him, no matter what they tell me. That he is a necromancer. A daedra worshipper. Both. Perhaps he can assist me and my wife. It may be a careless undertaking, but at this point, I have no choice. It’s for my beloved.

I kiss her cold lips and gently lift her from the icy ground. She stirs slightly and mutters our daughter’s name. Hot tears well up in my eyes as I whisper words of reassurance to her; barren lyrics to a hollow song I know she doesn’t hear. Walk. I struggle to lift myself from my kneeling position, though the gaping hole in my trousers that allows the callous rime to attack my exposed knee should force me up quickly. My arms… How they burn. I must be resilient. Nords are resilient. I must be a resilient.

I carefully tread over the wild roots of an old, snow dusted pine tree, my worn leather boots crunching in the frosty sward. I know who I am searching for, but I have no idea where I am going. The Rift. He’s somewhere in the Rift. South of Ivarstead? Yes, I think so. Through the pass. Not much further to go now.

Freyja’s breathing, ragged and reedy, reverberates like a knell in my ear, an excruciating sound that assails my heart like a torrent of arrows. But even arrows can’t represent the hurt and the grief. Talos guide me. Keep her alive.

The pass. The winter air is unbearably bitter here and the fierce gusts of wind try their best to wrench Freyja from my enervated arms. In the near whiteout I can hardly distinguish the ground in front of me, though I know it is an inclined road. The trees seem to glare at me with malice, as if they disapprove of my mission. Keep walking.

I can see my breath. It grows denser as each second passes and the air grows icier. My teeth begin to chatter and my nose begins to run. I search through the thick fog for any sign of the man I need. I see a flicker of light to my left, a greatly needed beacon in the misty storm. Thank Talos! My arms grow slightly stronger and I jog toward the fire.

The fog dissipates with haste. A vast glade, a vision of perpetual summertime, greets me with its expanse of absolute beauty. The air grows warm and muggy as I carry Freyja into the clearing and the fragrant aroma of prospering flowers embraces me with comforting arms. The snow, which had been developing into an even more violent flurry, subsides and the sky clears, revealing the stars once more. The flowers, in sight everywhere I look, smile at me with their vibrant colors. Upon closer examination, I see that they are abnormally vivid, with reds, blues, and yellows unlike any hues I have ever perceived, though they are most definitely real flowers. The pines yield to make way for large tropical trees that should not grow in Skyrim. It is clear to me that magic is at work here, something I, having been raised by a horribly xenophobic Nord family, have been indoctrinated with distrust for. A fire burns in the middle of the clearing; three skewered rabbits rotate above it, saturating the glade with a luscious, mouthwatering scent. And at the far end stands the moss-covered entrance to a grotto from which a hooded man emerges.

“Stop right there. One more move and I terminate you.”

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[Cosmic Storm]

“By those who guard this oath, let it bind me to his soul, and should I infringe upon it, let me be duly cursed, both here and in the afterlife.”

- Soulbinding Oath

Oath Maker​

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The man stares at me from behind his black cowl. The spell in his right hand burns with an intense flame. His head cocks to Freyja, so delicate and pale in my arms, and he cancels the spell and draws back his hood. He is a Dark Elf, with deep grayish-blue skin, coal black hair that falls to his thin shoulders, and sinister red eyes. He doesn’t appear to be very old, but I find it hard to differentiate between young and old elves. He scowls at me, though that may just be his usual appearance, and says not a word, but beckons for me to follow him, and I obey. He takes me into the grotto, an impossibly green space with a clear running stream, thick grass, and stunning trees, lush and filled with colorful foreign birds. The fading sunlight floods in from outside and illuminates the brilliant colors that fill the area. The Dunmer glares at me as I carefully set Freyja on the smooth ground, brushing a large beetle away from her prematurely graying chestnut hair.

“If I didn’t realize her ailment, you’d be incinerated right now,” he growls at me in a curt tone.

My heart begins to pump at full speed at his threat. “I’m sorry,” I say contritely. “I’ve heard of you, and I thought you might be able to… to help.”

The Dunmer looks me in the eyes to size me up. Though I so desperately want to, I don’t avoid his gaze and stare back. He grunts and strides over to Freyja with an outstretched hand. He places his gray palm onto her forehead, taking in her cold sensation. He grumbles something to himself and rises to his feet. “Nothing I can do.”

It pains me to hear those words spoken yet again, perhaps more so now than before, seeing as this man is my very last hope. I look to my wife again. Agony is carved onto her slumbering face; whether it is physical or emotional I don’t know. Her hurt permeates me and I feel it in my soul. My stomach wrenches, my heart aches, and tears spill from my eyes.

“Please,” I beg him, “if you can’t do it, perhaps someone else can. Someone you know. Anyone. Please.” I can’t prevent myself from sobbing in front of this intimidating mage who almost certainly does not take kindly to sniveling young men. I break down, splaying myself over Freyja’s weak body, a small comfort in these horrible times.

I hear the Dunmer move toward me. Maybe he has had it with me and is about to kill me. Maybe it’s for the best. My life has been full of pain and anguish, and though I have experienced a small number of cheerful times, the bad has always outweighed the good. If I must leave for Sovngarde now, maybe I should be glad. Freyja will undoubtedly meet me there soon. And I may see my daughter again.

I hold onto my wife and wait for the split second of suffering that I believe I will feel before death. When it does not come, I crack open my eyes and glance at the mage. He looks at me with a peculiar expression, almost cheerfully. “Yes,” he hums, “perhaps someone else can.” He floats over to a large tent nestled underneath an enormous tropical plant with odd yellow fruit growing in clusters in the midst of its huge, fanlike leaves. He stays in the tent for a few minutes, bustling around inside, before he comes out with a large discolored book. He rushes over to me and thrusts the dusty tome into my hands. I wipe the dirt from its face and see that it is titled “The Book of Daedra”.

“It would seem that we were intended to encounter each other,” the Dunmer says with a disturbing grin. He points to the book in my hands. “There is your answer.”

“The daedra?” I ask cautiously. I am baffled. How can the daedra help revive Freyja? They are malevolent, they think only of themselves, and of the poor souls they can manipulate for their amusement. I find it difficult to believe that they would even consider saving the wife of a lowly mortal such as me. Because the mage stares at me with furthered intensity, I open the book to the first page.

“Azura, whose sphere is dusk and dawn, the magic in-between realms of twilight, known as Moonshadow, Mother of the Rose, and Queen of the Night Sky.”

I give the mage a perplexed look. “What do you-?”

“Read,” he interjects. “Commit its words to memory and you will discover.”

I am uneasy with his demand. I don’t know the slightest thing about him or his motives. But I read it. For my wife. I read the book cover to cover, again and again, until my eyes throb and my head pounds. It is not until at least three hours later that I can recite the spheres and artifacts of each daedric prince verbatim. But I am still confused. I reluctantly leave Freyja’s side and slowly walk over to the Dunmer. His speedy request that I read the book still unnerves me.

“I’ve memorized the book word-for-word,” I say with fire, hoping he does not realize that I am still rather frightened. “Why did you make me study it? I don’t understand.”

The mage takes a sip from a chipped tankard filled with a bizarre yellow liquid. He smacks his lips and regards me for a second before gesturing to the book. “You have just learned about the beings that will help your wife recuperate.”

I laugh, not out of hilarity, but out of utter incredulity. He must be cracked to think that the daedra will aid me. I start to regret venturing out to this strange place to speak with a psychopath. The mage ignores my outburst and continues speaking. “You recall the chapter on the daedric artifacts?”

“Yes,” I say with annoyance. “Azura’s Star, the Wabbajack, Mehrune’s Razor… what do they have to do with anything?”

“My boy,” says the mage with a warped smile, “they have everything to do with it.” He rises from his seat and paces to an exquisitely pure pond teeming with magnificent fish. The new moonlight reflects off of the crystal water and gleams onto all the unspoiled splendor of the grotto. The mage sits at the water’s edge and runs a finger through it. “The daedra will not assist you willingly,” he says calculatingly, “but their artifacts? That is a different story.”

He pats the grass beside him, a signal for me to sit down, and I do. He takes the Book of Daedra from me and flips through the pages. I gaze at my reflection in the mirror-like water. I look considerably older than I should at twenty-three. My eyes are not as blue as they used to be; perhaps all of the tears I have spilled over the years have rinsed them of their color. Small creases make their home beneath them and my originally golden hair is graying much too early like Freyja’s, a product of unspeakable stress.

“What is your name?” the mage asks.

“You first,” I say, unwilling to relay that information to a stranger. He gives me a look. “Athys,” he says grudgingly.

“Athis?”

“No, A-thys, not A-this. With a ‘y’, not an ‘i’. Now, you are?”

“Valbjorn,” I reply.

“Valbjorn. Well, Valbjorn, if you were to collect their artifacts, there is a chance the… the wielder can gain the ability to save your wife.” He leafs through the pages of the book again and waits for my reply, but I am too dumbfounded to utter a single syllable. The daedric artifacts, as I have just read, are immensely dangerous and volatile items that can either grant the wielder great power, or betray them without hesitation, sometimes both. The idea of such power entices me however, because with such power, my wife might live. But I still don’t know how it could be.

“How can the artifacts save Freyja?” I ask Athys probingly.

The mage looks off in the distance as if he needs to think of an answer to my question. He smiles after a while, but it is less than sincere. “They won’t. But if their individual powers were added to my own, I should be able to make her whole,” he admits.

I see it clearly now. This is why he did not kill me, why he seems to care about the wellbeing of my wife. He thinks me a possible pawn in his game to obtain objects of otherworldly potential. Does he see me as someone who can help him gain supremacy? And how long has he been planning this, been waiting for some poor fool to wander into his web? He is right in a sense. It does seem to be fate that we are here, together, where one can do something for the other. Besides, if it will help Freyja, I am firm enough to cross into Oblivion itself.

“Very well,” I say with a sigh. “Which artifacts do you need?”

Athys gives me an expression that says he doesn’t want to tell me, but his gaze is all I need to understand. All of the artifacts are required, all seventeen. I put my head in my hands and shake it. I don’t know how he expects me to retrieve them all. How do we know they are all still available and not possessed by someone else? But Freyja’s face leaps into my mind again and that is all I need to see to give the mage a resolved nod.

Athys scratches his chin and rises from his sitting position. I follow him into his tent, which is decorated with unusual symbols and words on its canopy. An alchemy laboratory stands beside an enchanting table at the back; two contraptions my parents had raged against vehemently when they were alive. He offers me a tankard of the same odd beverage he had been sipping before. I take a disinclined taste and am surprised by the refreshingly sweet flavor of the juice. I drain the cup as if I am in urgent need of a drink and wipe my mouth on the sleeve of my drab tunic. Athys crosses his arms when I place the now empty tankard on a small wooden table.

“Regrettably, it is essential that I attain your… unwavering cooperation and trustworthiness before we can proceed,” he says deliberately. “To do so, we must perform a special soulbinding ritual. It does as the name implicates: binds our souls for the duration of pact. Should you break it, well, it won’t be pretty. But I doubt you will.”

I should have known it would not be easy. I am averse to enter into an oath that I am not even sure I can fulfill. I think of Freyja, expiring so rapidly, and I question how it can be accomplished when she noticeably does not have much time left.

“Freyja is dying,” I point out. “It sounds like this, er, mission, will take an extended period of time. How can you… I mean to say, how will she survive all this time?”

Athys ponders this dilemma as he runs a finger over his crooked nose. He seems to come up with something, but he hesitates to tell me. I motion for him to articulate his thoughts and he relents. “I can put her under a spell. It will put her in a coma for an indeterminate amount of time, which is as long as I can endure the continuing effects of being drained of energy, likely a few years at most. It will be heavily taxing, but…” He trails off, uncertain of himself.

“If you can, then please do it,” I implore him. “Give me your word that you will keep her alive.”

He growls at me and promises to vow to keep Freyja safe. My heart somewhat relaxes as he explains to me what I should say during the ritual while he searches through a bulky chest in the corner of the tent. He exclaims when he finds a long ebony dagger underneath what sounds like a bottomless pit of endless clunking clutter. I follow him out of the grotto and into the glade, still balmy in the night air. He points a skinny finger at the ground and a tendril of energy discharges from it. His spell creates one of the odd symbols in his tent, a large rune that resembles the claw of a mudcrab with an oval in the middle. I recognize the symbol as the daedric letter ‘O’, and apprehension begins to take hold of me. Athys positions himself on one side of the oval.

“Stand opposite me,” he commands, “and we can begin.”

I tentatively step into the rune and arrange myself on the right side, parallel to Athys. I am only a foot from the mage, and I can easily make out a terrible scar under his left eye, his sharp eyebrows, and his dilated pupils. He extends his left hand and gives me the dagger in my right.

“Cut my palm when I signal to you. I will do the same to you once I am finished with my oath.”

My heart palpitates and my legs feel unsteady, but I nod my head. Athys breathes deeply and begins. “Hear my voice and heed. I do swear to safeguard the wife of the soul before me, to use my abilities to keep her alive until his promise is fulfilled, and to heal her when I have the capability. By those who guard this oath, let it bind me to his soul, and should I infringe upon it, let me be duly cursed, both here and in the afterlife.”

He nods to me and I grasp his wrist tightly. I place the blade against his palm and drag it across, drawing blood. It falls in large droplets onto the middle of the rune, which burns a dazzling blue as it partakes of the essence of the mage. Laughter seems to echo from below me, from the rune itself. Athys takes the dagger from my hand and gestures for me to make my oath. I take a deep, trembling breath.

“Hear my voice and heed. I do swear to obtain the artifacts of the daedra for the soul before me, to fulfill his wish to possess all seventeen. By those who guard this oath, let it bind me to his soul, and should I infringe upon it…” I falter, loath to proclaim the last portion. Athys raises his eyebrows in urgency and I steel my nerves. “Let me be duly cursed, both here and in the afterlife.”

Athys grabs my left wrist and cuts my palm with the cold edge. The pain is sharp, but I don’t flinch. My blood falls onto the daedric rune, which blazes bright once more as it eagerly feeds. It laughs again and the wind kicks up around us. My very spirit feels unpleasantly hot as the rune’s voice becomes vociferous and foreboding. It shrieks into the night with the intensity of a multitude and blasts its blinding blue light to the sky. Just as suddenly as it had transpired, the din abates. The countless stars come back into view and the crickets and cicadas resume their nightly songs as if nothing had happened.

“And that’s that,” Athys declares. “Short and sweet.” After he heals our wounds with his magic, he takes me back into the grotto and tells me to bring Freyja into his tent. I place her onto a cot in the corner where she whimpers, tears streaming down her sleeping face. The mage looms over her and mutters a lengthy incantation of some sort. His body shines radiant blue like the rune. Ghostly wisps dance from the glow, settle over my wife’s fragile body, and saturate her with their tenderness. Her face relaxes and I even see her smile for the first time since Beyla’s death. Athys turns from her, fatigue and dizziness strong in his red eyes.

“The spell will siphon my own life energy on a daily basis, therefore keeping her alive,” he groans. “So if I ever seem a tad irritable, don’t let it get to you.” He woozily shuffles to his own bed and collapses on it. “We’ll get down to business come sunrise.”

It isn’t until now that I realize my own drowsiness. It is after midnight, so I stretch out next to Freyja’s cot, pleased to see her appearance of happiness. My eyes close almost immediately, and I dream of the mirth and blinding blue light of the rune and the dubious figures who will undeniably decide my ultimate fate.

 

[Cosmic Storm]

Reserved for future chapters.

 

[Cosmic Storm]

Reserved for future chapters.

 

[Cosmic Storm]

Reserved for future chapters.