Chapter Text
The first indication that something had gone terribly wrong was the overwhelming pain in her head heralding a new concussion. Murr had gotten several throughout high school (largely through musical theater) and was well acquainted with that particular kind of headache.
The second indication that something had gone terribly wrong was that she was half-submerged in freezing cold water and had no idea where she was or how she had gotten there. This was a wholly unfamiliar side effect, and Murr quickly swam over to where part of the wooden floor was above water. It was all wooden actually, floor, ceiling, and walls, and there were boxes and barrels floating around. It looked terribly familiar but she couldn’t quite place it amidst the panic clogging her throat as she forced herself to take a deep breath.
“Panic later, survival now,” she told herself firmly, looking around for resources. A wall-hanging caught her eye, and she stopped and stared. It was a woven circle with feathers hanging beneath, and startlingly familiar. It was identical to decor found in every house she’d ever owned in Skyrim. Come to think of it, all the items in this room looked like someone had downloaded the Skyrim assets and used a 3D printer to recreate them. Hand shaking, she reached down and grabbed a soggy book. The cover indicated that it was the Yellow Book of Riddles. “Oh.... oh boy,” Murr said faintly. “Panic later, survival now.”
First things first, she had to warm up. Hypothermia would limit her ability to think on top of the post-concussion haze. If this was Skyrim, did she have the beginning spells as well? Murr shut her eyes and took more deep breaths, imagining herself rising up out of her body. Maybe that would get her to the menu?
It was almost as if the instinct was in-built, and quickly Murr found herself weightless, all senses save sight dulled. She was on a plane of shadow over her body, a four-point compass of white light holding her in a way that felt magnetic. The point marked Magic called her, and the shadows folded out, columns of various shades of darkness that disappeared out of her line of sight. Flames , white letters read. Murr giggled, suddenly giddy. So this was a dream, right? A very realistic feeling dream, which meant that she wasn’t in actual danger because even a level one character could swim for ages without stopping. Sure, she felt weak, but that wouldn’t kill her.
Murr equipped Flames in both hands and blinked her way back into her body. Now she had heat running to her hands, begging to be released. “I can keep myself warm like this,” she whispered, wiggling her fingers excitedly. Now she could properly loot the lower decks without fearing the icy water.
-----------
All those seasons of Alone she had watched were coming in handy, Murr decided as she finished lashing the barrels together with rope. The big central barrel was where she would sit, with two additional smaller barrels serving as outriggers and the means to keep some of her supplies dry.
It was extremely lucky that the ship was partially supported by the iceberg it had hit. There was no way she would have had time to prepare for the large stretch of water between her and the shore. Even so, it felt like the clock was ticking as she pulled her make-shift boat up to the water’s edge. “Alright, don’t fuck this up,” Murr told herself encouragingly. Using the long board she’d co-opted as a paddle, she pushed the boat further into the water, trying to follow the waves’ timing. The boat... floated, and didn’t appear to be leaking. Letting out a relieved laugh, she started paddling to shore.
Visibility was good aside from the sun glinting off the water; Murr wished for her sunglasses fervently. It didn’t actually seem like the shore was getting much closer anymore. Perhaps there were currents pushing her off course? Think, Murr, think, she told herself, crouching down in the barrel for a moment. What else could I do to move the boat? Man, if only she had the clear skies shout or something she could use to propel herself! It looked like the only thing left was to hang off her boat and kick. Decision made, she pulled off her pants, boots, gloves, and white tunic. No sense in getting them wet, and they’d only drag her down. The tunic was a bit damp, so she brought her makeshift paddle into the barrel and tied the tunic’s belt to the part sticking out and up so the wind might dry it. That done, she jumped into the water, shrieking as the cold hit her.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.....”
-----------
Onmund bent down and picked a stalk of spiky grass to chew on. “So who do you think would win in fistfight, Nirya or Faralda?”
“Why would they use their fists at all?” J’Zargo asked, picking stalks of spiky grass for potion ingredients. “This one does not understand the Nord preoccupation with physical combat.”
“Well, if they both ran out of Magica, do you think either would quit without victory?”
J’Zargo stopped, narrowing his eyes. Ahead of them, a small raft with a flag that looked like a tunic was nearing the shore. Behind it was mostly a lot of splashing until a small figure emerged from the waves, breath exhaling into clouds in the cold. “Do Nords regularly swim in the icy sea?”
Onmund stared as well. “Not on purpose. Was she shipwrecked in her smallclothes?”
After pulling the raft further onto the beach, the woman summoned small flames in each hand and then started using the flames to dry herself, steam rising from her shivering body.
“J’Zargo thinks we should see who she is,” the Khajit said, walking forward again. Altruism was hardly the goal; The skill it took to emit the flames slowly enough to use them in such a way was intriguing, even to an adept at destruction magic like himself.
Onmund nodded and followed. “She may need help, yes.”
By the time they drew close, it had become apparent that the small size of the woman was not due to being far away. The top of her head barely reached J’Zargo’s shoulders, although the appearance of two people who could physically overpower her didn’t seem to bother her much. By now, she had put on breeches and boots, the white tunic flag quickly following.
“Are you alright?” Onmund asked, stopping a few feet away politely.
For the first time, the woman met their curious gazes, blue-gray eyes wild. “No, Onmund, not really. I just woke up in a sinking ship I don’t recall boarding, in a land I’ve never been to, and I’m really fucking cold!”
Onmund’s mouth opened and shut a few times ineffectively, so J’Zargo asked, “If you have never been to Skyrim, this one wonders how you know Onmund?”
The woman sighed. “It’s hard to explain, J’Zargo. I have seen and know many things that I was not physically present for. But I also have a head wound, so this is probably a dream?”
Onmund and J’Zargo exchanged perplexed looks.
The woman was still shivering, but started pulling a pair of knapsacks out of the barrels that made up her raft. “On the off chance this isn’t a dream, can you get me to Colette? I’m probably going to collapse soon,” she continued, a tinge of hysteria in her tone. “Hard to tell if the roaring in my ears is the sea, or-“ She stumbled, barely catching herself from face planting.
Onmund darted forward, putting a hand on her arm and exhaling in an alarmed manner. “You’re still freezing cold, do you have a cloak?”
“There’s a w-wolf fur in the raft,” she managed before sinking further to the ground. It was obvious she had spent more strength than she could spare in the journey to shore. Still, it was an impressive feat— not many survived so much time in such freezing waters, even among the Nords. Perhaps if more Nords used fire magic… but questions could surely wait.
J’Zargo found the fur and brought it over, nose wrinkling slightly at the smell as he wrapped it around those slight shoulders. “Onmund, if you take her bags, J’Zargo will carry this one. We can trade off if needed.”
Onmund nodded. “We’re going to lift you up now, Miss, hang on.” The Nord helped turn the woman over and lifted her so the fur could be wrapped more securely before J’Zargo took her in his arms.
“Is this where the fray starts playing?” the woman muttered, barely audible as she fought to remain conscious. “I wonder if I still need glasses.”
J’Zargo shook his head and began walking towards the college briskly.
-----------
Colette Marence looked out at the Sea of Ghosts with a sigh. Yet again, she’d found a note stuck in a restoration spell book she was studying that said it was a waste of time and only milk drinking chickens made it their whole focus. Sure, when J’Zargo had accidentally lit himself and Onmund on fire they called her quickly to help heal their burns, but the rest of the time? Colette could see their disdain clearly enough.
Fortunately, it was hard to stay upset for long with as good of a view as the College of Winterhold boasted. Even on days not so perfectly clear as today, one could see for miles, the sea to the north and mountains to the south. It was beautiful enough to take her breath away.
That wasn’t the only reason it cheered Colette up, though— from here she could see the crumbling stone edifices of multiple ancient ruins, all doubtless filled with the undead guarding the tombs within.
Could you use destruction magic to burn the aggressive corpses? Sure, but why would you when godsblest restoration was twice as effective? Was it ego that drove so many of her fellow students to ignore the advantages restoration gave them? Colette would be the first to admit that being good at healing and such had a lot to do with having respect for the gods. While it was possible to heal by drawing on just your own magic, it was much more effective when one was open to channeling the divine. That was why most good healers were priests, after all!
Colette was no priest, but she honored the gods and prayed daily that she could use the power she studied to do good.
“Colette! This one was sent to fetch you, quickly!” It was J’Zargo, slightly out of breath as he opened the door to the stairwell that ran through the Hall of Countenance.
“What is it now, did you set Onmund on fire again?” Colette sighed.
J’zargo actually looked a bit wide-eyed for once. “This one and Onmund were sent on an errand for Tolfdir and encountered a survivor of a shipwreck! She’s half delirious but asked for you by name for help healing her.”
-----------
Colette’s first impression was that the stranger was the shortest woman she’d ever seen: five feet in height or less, definitely. Mirabelle (who’d doubtless been the one to allow entrance to the college) had helped the woman into some blankets by the fire. Hot broth sat on the edge of the hearth to keep warm.
The stranger looked up as Colette entered. “Am I glad to see you, Colette,” she said, looking relieved. “I will be so completely fucked without your restoration expertise.”
Colette raised her eyebrows, taken aback by the stranger’s frank and familiar manner. “You seem to know me, have we met?”
“This is the first time for you, but I’ve seen our meeting many times,” the stranger said tiredly.
When Colette’s confusion remained evident, Mirabelle spoke up, “This is Mírmir, a seer. She says she knows much of what will come to pass here at the college.”
Colette met Mirabelle’s gaze; the master wizard was a practical woman, but seemed to be content playing along with the unlikely claim for now.
“I’ll be happy to prove it later, but right now I’m very concerned about how hard I must have hit my head,” Mírmir said. “I have no idea how I ended up on a ship in Skyrim. Trauma can block memories of course, but that’s a pretty significant thing to forget.”
Ah, head trauma, that would explain most of the oddities at hand. “Do you have any other injuries besides your head?” Colette asked.
“I managed to heal the surface injuries from sharp ice and a very angry slaughterfish,” Mírmir said. “Mirabelle checked those over before you arrived.”
Mirabelle nodded. “They were mostly healed, no budding infections or anything.”
Mildly impressed, Colette stepped forwards and channeled healing power into her hands, which she raised to hover on either side of her patient’s head. The thing that separated adequate healers from master healers was the ability to detect and understand the damage so that one could direct the magic specifically instead of aiming it broadly. An adequate healer could close up an arrow wound, a master healer could knit back together nicked bone and cut veins in the process.
Mírmir’s head definitely felt wrong; Colette eased the swelling first, coaxing battered blood vessels back into place. Then she settled in to look for what prickled her instincts as strange. The brain was as complex as the most delicate alchemical potion, with many substances that needed to be at precise levels that varied per person. Mírmir’s brain felt like a potion that had ingredients very closely substituted; the flower of a plant instead of a leaf was as close to an analogy as she could tell.
Colette stopped and stepped back. “Do you regularly take potions, elixirs, or drugs of any kind?” she asked, keeping her tone gentle.
“That’s the other thing I’ll need your help with,” Mírmir admitted. “Healers in my past gave me elixirs to take daily because my brain doesn’t make or process enough of the chemicals that keep one happy or not needlessly scared. The problem now is that I have no idea what was in them, so I will likely face a nasty withdrawal. It’s happened before and it was one of the darkest summers of my life.”
Mirabelle raised her eyebrows. “Because your body is used to the substitute, it may create even less of the chemical than before, is that what you’re saying?”
Mírmir shrugged. “I honestly don’t know if that’s how it works, all I know is I was too afraid to fall asleep in the dark for months and often needed someone to sit with me. I hated myself and wanted to die.”
The nonchalance of the confession was disturbing, as if the small woman accepted such dark thoughts as a normal part of daily life. In the city where Colette had grown up, she’d had a neighbor who grew depressed as they had begun to approach adulthood. As it got serious, a priest had been called to consult. The neighbor had been healed over months with regular trips to the temple. Why hadn’t Mírmir been given aid?
“The god my parents worshipped didn’t or wouldn’t heal me,” Mírmir continued. “In spite of going back on the elixirs later, the despair never truly went away, just cycled through levels of severity. I don’t know if there’s anything you can do about that, but would you be willing to try? I will gladly work to repay you when able.”
Colette sat down. A master mage didn’t work for free, but this case might make a good academic paper. “Let’s worry about repayment after you’re feeling better,” she decided. “Can you tell me more about you being a seer? It may be connected.”
“Yes, how long have you had these visions, and what do you typically see?” Mirabelle inquired, not a hint of skepticism showing.
Mírmir chewed on her bottom lip. “I suppose it’s somehow been ten years or so already. I see Skyrim from this year onward, but I’ve seen many versions of the same events. Some things end up differently, but most things stay the same. Who wins the civil war can change, whether the dark brotherhood is destroyed before or after they try and kill the emperor, stuff like that. Stuff that stays the same is like how that Callixo guy in Windhem is a serial killer, Greylod who runs the Riften orphanage is an abusive monster who needs to die, the Mace of Molag Bal is hidden in a house in Markarth, a former vigilant of Stendarr is reforming the Dawnguard for unfortunately valid reasons…”
These were all pretty incredible claims, but Colette kept the disbelief off her face. “Did you start seeing these before or after you started taking the elixirs?”
Mírmir sighed. “After, by a few years actually. There is one thing I should have no way of knowing that you can verify fairly quickly. Savos Aren’s trip to Labyrinthian back when he was a student at the college went terribly and he was the only survivor, so you can ask him about the Torc he kept so no one could free the Dragon Priest Morokei within.”
Mirabelle’s eyes widened before she could stop them, and quickly regaining her composure, she smiled at Mírmir. “Do you mind if I verify that now? It may affect your treatment plan.”
“I would expect nothing less,” Mírmir said graciously. “You can also tell him that the evil will likely be defeated within the next few years.”
Colette shoved aside her skepticism to begin taking notes on her patient. “In the meantime, if we could cover more of your medical history…"