Skyrim: Lore Accurate Necromancer #70

Erik stood in the cold, still air of the Dwemer ruin, his eyes locked on Breya’s specter. Her translucent form shimmered with a faint blue glow, her edges flickering like a dying torch. Her face bore no mask of mindless rage nor the hollow stare of those spirits trapped by regret. Her gaze was clear, sharp, and unwavering. She was aware — fully aware — and that, more than anything, troubled him.

His thoughts began to wander. Nords had always spoken of Sovngarde with pride, romanticizing it as a hall of endless feasts and glory. Songs claimed the honored dead could hear Shor's call or the distant songs of ancient heroes guiding them to the Whalebone Bridge.

Erik had long since dismissed most of that as poetic embellishment — the kind of tales skalds told by firelight to inspire warriors before battle.

But one thing he knew for certain: a Nord who died with honor knew they were bound for Sovngarde. It wasn’t a matter of belief or faith. It was knowledge, like knowing the warmth of a hearth or the bite of the cold.

He'd learned this truth from an ancient source. The old necromancer had studied records of Sovngarde, written by an ancient Nord tongue, who had the power to call the heroic spirits of Sovngarde to his aid.  

One such spirit, a shield-thane of Ysgramor’s era, had declared it plainly to the ancient tongue: “When the horn of Shor sounds, you know it as you know your own breath. No doubt. No fear. It pulls you like the tide pulls the sea.”

But Breya hadn’t felt it.

That fact gnawed at him like a skeever in the walls. She hadn’t felt Shor’s call. No pull toward Sovngarde. No warmth of the hall’s hearth. She had died with steel in hand, courage in her heart, and yet… she remained. Not as a vengeful spirit, not as a wrathful revenant, but as a soul caught between. That was rare. Too rare.

His eyes traced her form, taking in every detail. Her battered armor was dented and scarred, but her ethereal figure mirrored it exactly. Her weapons, too, lingered with her spirit, clutched in her hands as if she still expected a fight.

Erik had seen plenty of lingering dead in his life — warriors too stubborn to accept death, mages driven mad by obsession, and spirits bound by curses or oaths. But none like this.

Breya was something else entirely.

He drew in a slow breath through his nose, his mind quieting into focus. He had seen enough. “Then you were claimed,” he said at last, his voice firm but not unkind.

Her gaze snapped to him, eyes flashing with sudden intensity. “Claimed by what?” she hissed, her voice carrying the crackling edge of old frustration.

Her ethereal form shuddered, her edges flickering like flame-touched parchment. Her eyes narrowed, and she stepped toward him, her ghostly feet making no sound against the stone. “I fought with honor. I died with steel in hand. I stood alone, and I stood my ground!” Her voice rose with each word, her grip on her ghostly axe tightening.

Erik raised his hands slowly, a silent gesture of calm. His face remained impassive, but his eyes were sharp as a chisel’s edge. “Yes, you did,” he replied, his tone like a weight pressed firmly into place. “But honor alone doesn’t always decide who claims a soul.” He pointed at her, each word deliberate. “The dragon cult knew that. The priests knew that. The Ideal Masters know it well.”

Her form flickered again, unstable, as if her spirit could barely contain her frustration. “What are you saying?” Her voice had dropped, but it carried a dangerous edge. Her eyes, bright and wild, locked onto his like a wolf ready to lunge.

“I’m saying,” Erik continued, stepping forward, “that if you didn’t feel the pull of Sovngarde, then your soul was taken. Claimed. Not by Shor, but by something else.” He let the silence stretch between them for a moment, his eyes narrowing like storm clouds on the horizon. “A Daedra, perhaps.”

The effect was immediate. Her eyes flared with raw, undiluted fury. Her face twisted with a mix of rage and disgust, her lips peeling back to show clenched teeth. Her whole form bristled, her ethereal light flaring like a torch doused in oil. “No!” she roared, her voice like the crack of thunder in a cavern. “I am no servant of the Daedra!”

Her ghostly form swelled with defiance, every movement wild and untamed, her armor rattling with hollow clangs that only her spirit could hear.

She took a step closer, her gaze locked with his, the space between them crackling with unseen tension. “I made no pact. No bargain. No deal.” Her breath came in short, sharp bursts. “I gave them nothing!”

Erik watched her quietly, his face a mask of calm calculation. He had seen this reaction before. No mortal soul wanted to believe they had been outwitted, trapped, or taken without consent. They clung to pride, to the illusion of control. But the truth was, the Daedra rarely asked permission, and their so-called rules were never set in stone.

Erik’s eyes darkened, and his voice grew colder, like frost creeping over stone. “It doesn’t matter what you gave, Breya. Only that someone did.”

Her eyes narrowed, her brow furrowed in confusion and irritation. “What in Oblivion does that mean?”

she snapped, her ghostly form flickering like a flame caught in a sudden gust. Her grip tightened on her phantom axe, her knuckles pale blue with strain. “I told you, I never made a pact with anyone. No bargains. No oaths. No deals!”

Erik tilted his head, his gaze as sharp as a whetted blade. “Doesn’t have to be you,” he said quietly, his eyes fixed on her as if weighing her measure. “Souls can be bartered away by others. Someone with power over you. Authority.” His voice slowed, each word dropping like a stone into a well. “But most importantly — someone with a powerful connection to you.”

He let the weight of his words settle, watching her carefully. He knew where this was leading. So did she, even if she refused to admit it yet.

Her eyes darted, searching for some flaw in his logic, her jaw clenched so tight it could’ve cracked stone. “No,” she muttered, her voice low but fierce.

She shook her head, once, twice, her hair-like wisps of spirit-light trailing behind. “That’s impossible. I’ve had no master, no lord, no chain on me my whole life.” She stepped forward, pointing her spectral axe at him as if daring him to challenge her. “I grew up an orphan. No family. No patron. No one to command me.” Her eyes locked with his, her voice growing louder, more certain. “I never relied on anyone.”

Erik remained still, letting her words wash over him like rain on stone. His eyes didn’t waver. His face didn’t change. When she finished, he stepped forward, slow and steady. “Then tell me,” he said, his tone quiet but firm. “Did you know your parents?”

Her breath caught in her throat. Her eyes twitched. The shift was small but telling, like a tremor before the collapse of a mountain wall.

Her lips pressed into a thin line. “No,” she said flatly.

Her eyes flickered away from his, staring at some unseen point on the wall. “They were dead before I could remember. Didn’t matter. I didn’t need them. I taught myself everything I needed.” Her hands moved in small, sharp gestures, restless and defensive.

Erik sighed through his nose, rubbing the bridge of it as if staving off a headache. He had seen this before. Pride was a fortress for the lost, and orphans built the tallest walls.

“Then that’s it,” he muttered, his fingers pinching at the bridge of his nose before letting his hand fall away. “This has the stench of bloodline debt.”

He eyed her like one might a wounded wolf. Dangerous, but not beyond saving. “Your soul was never yours to lose. Someone else put it on the table long before you were born.”

Her eyes darted back to him, and her face twisted with rage. “No.” Her voice cracked like a whip, her ethereal glow brightening with her fury. Her whole form flickered with wild instability, like a lantern flame caught in a storm.

“That’s madness. I didn’t ask for any of this!” Her words echoed in the chamber, sharp and raw. Her voice lowered to a growl. “And you’re telling me that someone else—some bastard I’ve never met—just pledged my soul away like it was theirs to give?”

Erik raised an eyebrow, his face utterly still, utterly cold. “Yes.”

Her breath came faster, sharp, shallow pulls of air. She gripped her axe so tightly her arms trembled, her head shaking as if she could cast the thought aside with sheer defiance. “Who?” she spat, stepping toward him, her eyes blazing with a dangerous light. “Who did it? Tell me!”

“It could be anyone,” Erik replied, his voice calm, his patience well-worn but unyielding. “A parent. A grandparent. An ancestor long forgotten. Could’ve been someone desperate, dying, willing to trade something they thought they’d never miss.”

He spread his hands out wide, as if presenting an unsolvable riddle. “Maybe they wanted power. Wealth. Victory. People beg the Daedra for all kinds of things, Breya, and they rarely think to read the fine print.” He fixed his eyes on her, his gaze sharp as a chisel. “Some things are worth more than one soul.”

Her whole body tensed like a bowstring pulled to its limit. “So they pledged me?” Her voice cracked with disbelief and rising horror. Her face twisted with disgust. “What kind of fool does that? What kind of coward sells the souls of his own blood?” Her eyes flared, her teeth bared in a snarl. “Who does that?!”

Erik shrugged with maddening indifference. “The desperate. The ambitious. The dying.” His eyes met hers, hard as iron. “Pick your poison. I’ve seen them all.”

He crossed his arms, letting his gaze drop to her flickering form. “Doesn’t matter who. They’re probably dust and bones by now. All that matters is that they signed the contract with their blood, your blood.”

Her face twisted further, her breathing shallow and uneven. Her ghostly light flickered wildly, her form rippling with cracks of unstable energy. She turned away from him, pacing like a caged animal, her fingers flexing and unflexing around the handle of her axe. Her breath came in sharp bursts, the sound of a woman on the edge of something terrible. She sucked in a breath, forcing herself still.

“Then what should I do?” she asked, her voice ragged but quieter now. Her head tilted toward him, eyes like chips of ice. “What can I do to break this bargain?"

Erik watched her for a moment longer than she would have liked. She had the look of a woman expecting a simple answer, a sword to cut cleanly through a knot. But Daedric bargains weren’t knots. They were webs — thick, sticky, and clinging to everything they touched.

“Until we know who made the bargain and what it was for, there’s little to be done,” he admitted, his tone heavy with grim finality. “It’s not like breaking a ward or burning a contract.”

He shook his head slowly, letting the truth land like a blade in her heart. “Even if we did find out, it wouldn’t be simple.” His eyes flicked toward her, colder than ever. “I’m no friend of the Daedra, and they know it. None of them would deal with me unless the price was steep enough to ruin me...”

Breya’s eyes narrowed, her gaze sharp as her axe. “So, you’re telling me I’m destined to rot in this ruin for eternity?” Her voice was as cold as the air of a frozen barrow. Her hands flexed at her sides, ready to grip her weapon at any moment. “And there’s nothing I can do about it?”

Erik shrugged, his shoulders rising with the slow indifference of a man far too used to grim certainties. “You can always surrender to the pull,” he said, his tone as casual as if he were offering a choice of wine at a feast. “It won’t take you to Sovngarde, but depending on who’s calling you, your afterlife might not be as unpleasant as you imagine.”

Breya’s glare was icy enough to freeze a river in mid-flow. She didn’t speak, didn’t need to. Her eyes said everything.

Erik chuckled, the sound low and dry, like boots crunching over brittle leaves. “Didn’t think so,” he muttered, glancing at her flickering form.

The truth was, that surrendering to the pull was a gamble, and the odds were rarely kind. Sovngarde was for the honored dead, the worthy dead — the ones who fell in glorious battle. The pull she felt wasn’t calling her to Shor’s Hall. No, it was something else.

The Daedra always had a way of collecting their debts, and those debts rarely led to golden mead halls.

'Coldharbour,' he thought grimly, his eyes flicking toward the shadows of the ruin. 'Or some other hellish plane of Oblivion.' Compared to that, this crumbling Dwemer tomb was paradise. Silent. Still. No molten rivers or endless torment. Just the quiet hum of ancient machinery and the steady drip of condensation from the stone ceiling.

Time passed slowly between them, each moment stretched taut like a bowstring. Breya’s form flickered like a guttering candle, her ethereal light dimming as her connection to this world weakened.

She stared at her hands, flexing her fingers like she was testing the strength of a chain she couldn’t see. Her breathing grew shallow, not from exhaustion, but from realization.

Then, at last, Erik let out a long, slow sigh. “There is... one alternative.”

Her eyes shot up to meet his. Her gaze was like an arrow loosed from a bow — sharp, fast, and focused entirely on him. “What is it?”

Erik tilted his head toward Helrath and Surtr, his skeletal servants standing like silent sentinels at his back. Their hollow eyes burned with unnatural light, Helrath’s cold blue glow like frozen coals, and Surtr’s blazing orange flame like the fires of Oblivion itself.

“As you can see,” Erik said, gesturing toward them, his voice as smooth as freshly honed steel. “I’m a necromancer. I can restore your body and bind your soul back to it.” His eyes locked with hers, unblinking, waiting for the weight of his offer to settle. “It wouldn’t be life, but it would be... something close to it.”

Breya’s gaze flicked toward her own body, crumpled on the cold stone floor just a few paces away. Blood stained the stone beneath it, a dark, spreading pool that had long since dried. Her eyes traced every detail — the hollowed cheeks, the slack jaw, the lifeless, empty stare. Her axe lay just beyond her fingers, as though her past self had died reaching for it.

Her eyes turned back to Erik, hard as tempered steel. “Do it.”

Erik’s eyes widened. For a moment, his calm mask cracked, surprise flickering behind his features. “I’m not sure you understand how this works,” he said, his words slow and deliberate, like a smith tapping a blade into shape with precise strikes. “To be raised into undeath by me isn’t some simple resurrection. It’s not a second chance at life.”

His tone sharpened, cold iron in every word. “It means you’ll belong to me. Body, soul, and will. You’ll be bound to my service, just like them.” He tilted his head toward Helrath and Surtr. “I can give you my word that I’ll look into the bargain made with your bloodline when I have the time, but that’s all I can offer in exchange for your servitude.”

Breya’s eyes shifted toward Helrath and Surtr, studying them like one might study the fate of a condemned prisoner.

Her eyes narrowed as she turned back to Erik. “Will you make me like them?” Her tone was sharper than the edge of her axe. “Will I be a walking pile of bones?”

Erik’s lips curled into a grin, faint but unmistakable. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “Your body is mostly intact. You’ll look no different from any living being.”

He tapped his chest with two fingers, his gaze distant for a moment as if recalling an old memory. “But you’ll still be dead. No heartbeat. No breath. No warmth in your skin.” He tapped his temple next. “It’ll be magicka that moves your body. Pure willpower coursing through every muscle, every nerve.” His eyes focused on her again, his grin fading. “That’s the reality of it.”

She was silent for a moment, turning his words over in her mind like a gambler examining loaded dice. She glanced back at her body one last time, her gaze lingering on the lifeless shell she’d left behind. Slowly, she nodded, her eyes locking onto Erik with a look of raw determination.

“Do it.”