Chapter 1: A Tale of Two Courts

Previously: Once Upon a Time 

My dearest Vingalmo, 

The longer I stay at the Blue Palace, the more I miss the silence, the rigor, the honesty of Volkihar.

 

During the war with the Empire, resources were scarce. The palace guards were few, and the servants fewer. Only a handful of nobles came to court. As for the common folk--they stopped coming altogether. There was no point. No one could help them. But now, the war is over. Prosperity is returning to Skyrim, and High Queen Elisif is now one of its wealthiest women.

 

And with her new wealth comes a flood of new people to the Blue Palace, so much that I feel like I'm drowning.

 

They swarm around her like children, forever whining about the smallest inconveniences. The mead is too bitter. The meat is overcooked. The lace is too itchy, the furs are too old, the beds are too hard, or the beds are too soft.

 

The spiced wine is too heavy, the Colovian brandy too strong, the servants too slow, the guards too handsome...and did you know that Lady Gisli still isn't married?

 

And then there's the mind-numbing tedium of simply being an ornament. A jeweled, mute accessory draped in velvet and protocol. As a lady-in-waiting to the High Queen of Skyrim, my primary duties are to be seen, but preferably not heard. I don't even run any real errands anymore. I am but one of several ladies now, following the young Queen around, listening to her talk about herself incessantly.

 

Such foolishness would never be tolerated at Volkihar. Vampires drink blood and eat raw meat, pure and simple. We bathe in cold water. We spend our days becoming, improving, mastering things like swordsmanship, smithing, chess, the arts, the sciences, and magic.

 

How did Sybille Stentor last so long in this golden cage? I often ask myself this. And then I remember: Sybille always longed to be one of them.

***

 

My dearest Viktoriyah,

 

As always, you give our people too much credit. We were once mortals, lest we forget, and like us, some of our...lesser traits simply refuse to die.

 

Lady Katarinya has returned to Volkihar. It wasn't of her own accord, of course; I'm surprised she wasn't kicking and screaming when the guards brought her in. She arrived without her Undead Ring. She is now effectively stranded at court, even though Harkon granted her freedom. He now takes a special pleasure in flaunting his new mistress at court, whom you should know by now is none other than Sybille Stentor.

 

And this is all anyone can talk about.

 

I, for one, was stunned beyond words. In many ways, she's the same Katarinya I remember--proud, vain, fashionable. But centuries of traveling have also done her some good. 

 

For the first time ever, Viktoriyah stopped reading a letter from Vingalmo and crumpled it in her hands without thinking.

 

Fuck the gods.

 

Her eyes squeezed tightly shut as she fought against herself. "Fuck the gods," she hissed to herself, trying not to lose control, even as the rage bubbled up within and threatened to burst forth.

 

But it was inevitable. "Fuck...the...gods!"

 

The last thing Viktoriyah needed now was to be trapped here while he was over there with her. Katarinya's beauty, wit, and charm were a thing of legend at Volkihar. Harkon had never recovered from her desertion and Viktoriyah was now starting to think Vingalmo hadn't either.

 

The news about Sybille, which should've been laughable, was also irritating. Vampires like Sybille represented everything wrong with vampiredom. They were too close to their mortal lives, trapped in their unresolved issues. Sybille had let her fantasies and insecurities in life lead her to disastrous decisions in death. Harkon's mistresses were never happy. They always ended up either dead or fleeing from Volkihar. Surely someone had mentioned that to her.

 

Then again, someone very well might have, but Sybille probably just didn't listen. The vampire equivalent of a king had "chosen" her, and that was all that mattered.

 

What is happening to the world? Viktoriyah suddenly wondered. Just when she was looking forward to spending time away from Blue Palace nonsense, it seemed more of the same awaited her at Volkihar.

 

***

 

I actually had a better version of Elisif's room, but Chatgpt struggled to get me this image, so I left it alone.

The new royal ladies-in-waiting hailed from Skyrim, High Rock, and as far as Cyrodiil. As Hammerfell remained independent of the Empire, they'd sent none. But Viktoriyah's brown skin wasn't the only reason she stuck out. In a conscious act of defiance, she only wore black dresses. She was a vampire living among mortals and wanted to express pride in her dark heritage.

 

At first, the other ladies made comments. Eventually, they stopped because her dresses were much finer than theirs. Viktoriyah carried the wealth of Volkihar; she could afford the best tailors and most expensive fabrics. That wealth was like armor; instead of making her a target of ridicule, the other ladies coveted her favor.

 

Three of them were in Elisif's room, working on their embroidery as they gossiped. Viktoriyah casually joined them with a forced smile, listening to their chatter. Gossip at the Blue Palace was most tedious, but every now and then, someone dropped a gem.

 

"...and now, I hear Arnsteinn goes riding with her in the mornings," Lady Gwynara was saying. She was a redhead from High Rock.

 

"Can you believe that?" Lady Yrsa shuddered. She was a blonde from Markarth. "He's not even of noble blood. His family's from Ivarstead for fuck's safe."

 

"And yet Elisif favors him all the same," Lady Carolanna insisted. She was Gwynara's sister. "She gifted him a bottle of Black-Briar mead just the other day."

 

Viktoriyah kept her voice level. "Who is this Lord Arnsteinn?"

 

"Elisif's new paramour that she thinks we don't know about," Gwynara snickered. 

 

I actually didn't know about him, Viktoriyah thought. "And...she's been meeting with him?"

 

"Before the sun comes up," Yrsa said, smirking. "She only takes her guards, never any ladies. But we know...we know she's with him." It was amazing how they could all talk and effortlessly sew at the same time. They weren't even looking at their fingers.

 

"I thought the Queen is supposed to marry an Imperial prince," Carolanna piped up, looking confused. "Prince Lucien or some such."

 

"Cassian," Viktoriyah corrected her, painfully maintaining her grin.  "Cassian Septim Mede, eighth son of the Emperor. And that was not easily arranged, I assure you," she added with a humorless chuckle.

"Hm," Carolanna murmured. "I wonder how that's supposed to work."

 

Viktoriyah worked hard not to sound clipped. "It won't. If the Emperor finds out it, the consequences will be catastrophic."

 

Next: The Eighth Prince