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civilight-eterna · 10 months

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poll loser - horndragora morrowskyrim au

(it's a winner in my heart though)

to summarize: mandragora dabbled in vampire shit. she's such a baby vampire that horn doesn't even notice. she also doesn't notice because she's also trying to hide that she's a werewolf (but I didn't get there yet). lots of little lore crumbs because morrowind taught me to read.

this is. probably the lightest and softest i can do horndragora. they're basically just a little sitcom in this.

please enjoy!

...

Mandragora chose this.

She is prepared. She is. Months of research and playing idiot acolyte for the temple to access what she needed. So much time spent on meaningless labors, just enough to scrounge together what she needed to break into Vivec’s sequestered libraries to read of the vampire clans that might fill the hole in her heart with enough power to forget her lot in life.

There was no one to wait for her. Her parents had sold her for some impure water and diluted soup to keep them alive another day so long ago that it didn’t matter. She had enough to do to keep alive herself. The luxury to wonder at their fates had long passed.

She was enamored with the Aundae clan’s grasp of magic. She descended into a smaller lair, spoke with a fledgling, hatched a bargain: he could feed every day until she turned, so long as he didn’t kill her. She would return until then.

Hunger was always a powerful motivator, whether or not you were human.

The first time, she bit her lip as his fangs broke her skin. She couldn’t cry out.

She chose this. She reminds herself every time she arrives, every time he and his cohort pass her around for a drink. She leaves woozy and weak, sometimes only barely making it back to camp before losing consciousness.

Mandragora chose this.

Why isn’t it working? She wonders desperately. She has a certain suspicion, but she can’t bear to entertain it.

And yet.

Is the clan rejecting…my blood?

She returns one day to find the fledgling slaughtered. A trail of bodies leads inside. She follows the sprawl of limbs and viscera towards the echoes of battle down the chamber, knowing full well she can’t fight fair. The grip of her dagger bites at her palm.

The truth reveals itself to her.

An invasion. A cadre of vampires from the neighboring Berne clan’s coven are here to contest for territory.

And from the darkness, from the back of her head, a prickle of ill intent-

She’s too late to stop the arms that grab her and the fangs that sink in deep to her neck without permission or warning.

…

Panting in the rented tavern room’s bed next to a pile of bloody gauze, she wakes for the fourth time that night. Her homemade potions can only go so far, only give her the energy to keep her body in one piece. She can heal the wounds, but not the pain.

And they taste like shit. Saltrice and wet bread ground down into a nasty paste that makes her feel like she’ll throw up what little in her stomach she can keep down.

And yet.

This is the closest she’s felt to any kind of result. The nightmares-they were a common symptom among the newly turned. She’d read about it, with what little literacy the temple had imparted to her.

(But she’d also tried to make an offering to Vaermina, once. Another fruitless bid for power. Maybe it was just time for that particular Daedric prince to finally collect?)

No. The timing is too convenient. And she’s almost certain it isn’t even the right clan.

She’ll burn that bridge when she gets to it. If she gets to it. She needs to stay here a little longer. The temple is out of the question; if there’s something amiss with her they’ll be the first to notice, and at best she will be forced to drink down a preventive potable. The local mages guild will treat her like a test subject and ask to see her insides.

The tavern, while raucous and rowdy and noisy as it is, is the only option.

At least they can’t hear her sob through her wounds through clenched teeth in the night.

…

Two days pass. She has a worse nightmare every time she closes her eyes to rest.

Her mouth aches, like something that shouldn’t be there is pushing through.

…

The third night, she dreams of a beautiful girl with straw-colored hair. She lays in a sunny copse of trees in the warm grasses, her cheek propped on a book in her slumber. A long, antique lace and brocade dress silhouettes her legs, her waist, her figure. The scene is frozen in time.

She steps towards her but the light of the sun sharpens to an audible ringing in her ears, and as she opens her mouth to scream her skin crumbles to ash.

…

Mandragora wakes up to her new body.

She staggers to the mirror on the dresser.

She sees nothing but the room around her.

It worked.

…

The Aundae clan rejects her, and the Berne vampire that sired her was so low down the chain that they acted as though by accepting her-well, that was too generous an assessment-by taking responsibility for what she’d become, she was indebted to them for the barest extension of courtesy.

The work is dangerous and thankless. She’s not keen to lose her life-or her unlife, for that matter. They don’t even let her feed on what few humans they capture.

“Eating the rats is all a cat’s good for.”

Their jeers ring in her ears. She does as they suggest, simply to spite them by staying alive.

…

There’s a commotion at the heart of the cave. Mandragora wakes from her moldy bedroll to investigate, rounds the corner into the coven’s largest corridor, and sees a crowd gathered.

They’re dragging someone-a woman-towards the place where the humans are kept. She’s not allowed to go, but she sees a flash of wheat-colored hair and is hit with unexplainable deja vu.

…

Just one look.

Mandragora waits for everyone else to sleep. It comes much more easily to them, well-fed as they are, compared to her anyway.

She sneaks towards where the human cattle are locked up, finds the woman’s cell to see her in a restless, fitful sleep.

With supernatural steadiness, she pushes a bent pin through the lock and massages it through, turning the handle silently as it gives way.

The rusty door creaks ever so slightly, and the woman startles awake. Mandragora freezes, her silhouette caught in flickering lamplight. She alights to her side, dagger in hand, and saws at the rope and leather cords wrapped around her wrists behind her until she’s free.

“Thank you-” The woman hisses quietly, and this is the most Mandragora expects out of this. However, what she says next is something she had no contingency plan for at all.

“-let’s go.”

…

By some miracle, the woman has not caught on to the truth.

Mandragora’s features were too slight. Her teeth were barely pronounced, and her pallor suited her enough to not arouse suspicions that she’d not even attempted to allay.

Even as they stumbled into the light of day out of the cave and Mandragora crumpled to the ground with agony, the woman had dropped to her side, thrown her cloak around her shoulders, pulled the hood up, and helped her to her feet.

“By the Nine, how long did they imprison you for…? We’ll find a hollow and travel at sunset. Your eyes must be in such pain, seeing light after so long.”

Staggering with shock, and some degree of humiliation, Mandragora decides that if her skin begins to crumble and she can’t make it, that she wants one thing.

“...N-Name. Your name. I don’t know it-”

“Horn. I’m Horn. Stay with me. I’ve got you.”

“Mandragora. M…Mand…ra…”

“Mandragora.” Horn repeats firmly. “Mandragora. I won’t forget it. You’re not going to die out here.”

As Mandragora sways, unconscious before even the fall, she thinks to herself how she might not wake up ever again.

Before, something like that-

It wasn’t like she wanted to die. It was nothing like that.

But if she died right now, for some reason-

She feels she could accept it a little easier, this time.

It wasn’t that she didn’t want to live, either. She’d wanted to all her life. It was all she’d wanted to do.

But something was different now.

She was looking forward to waking up.

Whatever’s happening to her, she feels something ache deep inside of her, foreign.

I want to wake up.

…

She wakes up. Again and again, for many nights, they wake together, and travel together.

The village of Khuul looks and smells like fish and shit, but they manage to buy passage to Solstheim’s Raven Rock colony, so Mandragora stomachs it as Horn handles the more social end of their engagements with the locals.

From Raven Rock, it’s just another boat to the mainland of Skyrim. But the trip is several days.

There’s room enough on board that they each get a hammock. Mandragora decides that whoever thought up the idea to sleep in what was basically a net should get an ice shiv through their eye. It feels at once like she’s suspended in a freefall and like she’s tied up and trapped and by the Nine does she hate it-

Something warm drapes over her. Suspicious, she jolts up, just to see Horn putting a conspiratorial finger to her lips.

“Beat one of the swabbies at cards and won his blanket. Doesn’t smell too bad, does it? I figured it’s better than nothing. You’ve been tossing and turning every night.”

Mandragora’s mouth hangs open with disbelief, her brows knitting together with irritation. “Just what did you wager? If you’d lost how would we afford lodging in the mainland-?”

“No money. Just a kiss.”

“You did what?”

“Technically, nothing. I won, so I didn’t have to.”

If she still had a pulse she knew it’d be accelerating violently.

…Idiot! I’ll never be warm again in my life, with or without a blanket! The words flash through her mind in an instant, and she’s once again stricken with how much this infuriating woman is going out of her way for her.

“...Then, you should at least share it. You’re the one who earned it.”

“...Oh. Alright. Thank you.”

Mandragora had assumed her offer would be taken up in time-perhaps the next night of the voyage, or the night after that.

Instead, Horn drops her belongings, shrugs out of her cloak, and climbs into the hammock beside her. Even through their clothes and back to back, the warmth of Horn’s body knocks the itchy little blanket out of the water.

Worse yet, she’d done so much of her sleeping during the day, being newly nocturnal. Horn had kindly chalked it up to her imagined status as a recently-freed abductee, and hadn’t bothered her about it. Now though. All she could do as she lay awake was wait.

All she could do was be bothered by it.

Horn slept deeply and eventually rolled onto her back. Mandragora mirrored the movement.

The hammock swayed minutely as the boat groaned through the water. A dwindling flame from a lantern overhead in the cabin occasionally fluttered across Horn’s face, illuminating her features.

Mandragora stares at her; she watches how her brow softens in the light, the subtle frown of her lips catching shadows. Her throat bobs as she swallows and Mandragora’s eyes snap straight to it, that beautiful, exposed, flawless skin at her nape.

For not the first time, Mandragora thinks about draining her pretty neck dry. She has yet to take a human vein, but she’s reluctant to entertain the prospect of taking Horn’s.

She’s almost certain it will make everything else taste so much worse. She doesn’t know how she knows, but she does. Conversely, it’s this same principal that discourages her from taking even a cursory sip of anyone else on the boat while they sleep. There are ways to make sure it doesn’t leave a mark, and that the victim doesn’t wake in the middle of it, but knowing her tenuous grasp on her powers, and perhaps, if she’s honest, a fair bit of skepticism that they’d taste anywhere near as good as Horn smells-

She won’t risk it. Not even as Horn shifts about in her sleep and drapes an arm over Mandragora’s waist, cuddling-in the name of the Nine, cuddling-her closer.

…

The next boat they take is smaller. Not many people are headed to Skyrim. There seems to be a tacit understanding between Skyrim’s inhabitants and Vvardenfell’s populace that everyone would stick to their own shitty home, thank you, and that never the twain shall meet.

But the boat is so small that-dare she admit it-Mandragora might actually miss the stupid hammock.

The bedroll is a tight fit for them both, and the ship’s cabin is so dusty that the only creatures sleeping well are the rats that share the space.

Always one to make the best of the situation, Horn sparks a flame into a lantern, pulls a book from her pack and gives an inviting tilt of her head as she settles down.

“Care for a story?”

The invitation could have been, quite literally, anything, and Mandragora would have considered it. She nods and sidles closer. She can read, but she doesn’t feel like pointing this out to Horn. She has the distinct notion that Horn’s offer to read to her has nothing to do with her literacy or lack thereof.

But she can tell from the way Horn holds the book that she was a noble in whatever life she left behind to elope to Skyrim with her. None of the pages are dogeared, and some of the gold lettering remains where careless handling would have flaked it away with time.

Mystery of the Princess Talara. Mandragora has only ever come across the fifth volume in the series, and can recite the first lines of it by heart. By what right do you arrest my father?, and so on.

Horn is full of surprises: she’s got the very first volume in her hands.

Her voice weaves word into form, quietly filling the dark. When Horn reached the description of the protagonist, Gyna-a prostitute in the kingdom’s annual March of Beauty-Mandragora felt heat pool in her cheeks. She was grateful for the dark. The given description of Gyna was so alike to Horn-flaxen hair, a tall, curvaceous figure-that her mind handily filled in the blanks with images of her companion in similar dress: barely covered in strips of silk, with flowers speckling her hair.

It was impossible not to picture the tilt of her hips and stomach, soft muscle accentuated by the clink of bangled jewellery on her wrists, waist, and ankles. The gleam of her bright eyes, nothing short of bewitching as she coaxed her fortunate client down, all that skin on display as each garment melted off of her form, lowering herself into Mandragora’s lap, over her face with bated breath, her hair falling to one side like a privacy screen-

What in the world am I thinking-

Horn, oblivious to her internal panic, read on.

“...She was falling before she understood it.”

#arknights #foetp: impale you with my rock #horn (arknights)#mandragora (arknights)#morrowind/skyrim au #i'm posting it whether you want it or not!

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wellthebardsdead · 1 year

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The Mourned & the heretics Pt9

Part 8 here

———

Riiju-Lei: *hurrying through the temple after sending the ordinators flying* gods I do not need this right before my wedding day, hurries into the library and nearly jumps out of his skin seeing the Grandmaster of house Dres standing there, flicking through one of the many notebooks Divayth Fyr had written on Voryn Dagoth & then later Dagoth Ur and the other members of his house* Grandmaster Dres-

Grandmaster of Dres: Ah, Voryn. *closes the book* I was hoping I’d get to speak with you. I wish to apologise for my behaviour.

Riiju-Lei: *hair at the back of his neck standing up and alarms ringing in his head, watching the grandmasters movements as he puts the book down* You do?…

Grandmaster of Dres: Yes. I know it’s no excuse, however I was greatly distressed over the destruction of all my plantations. Thousands of crops destroyed, decades of hard work gone, my employees left jobless. I was, distraught, to say the very least. Then hearing you had returned, I like many feared you’d of brought all the foul omens Dagoth Ur had created with you. But I see now I was mistaken. I apologise.

Riiju-Lei: okay. *walks past him to start searching for anything on Vivec or Almalexia in his notes*

Grandmaster of Dres: That’s it? I apologised and that’s all you have to say?

Riiju-Lei: Just because you apologised does not mean I am inclined to accept it. You attempted to lay harm to Nerevar, you repeatedly undermined his authority and you’ve belittled me multiple times. Need I remind you as well that my mother was branded with your house crest as a slave. Skalei-Jei, that was her name. Not a scaled beast as you’d call her. My birth mother was a prisoner in your families hold too, a follower of nerevar, and she suffered at the hands of you and your ancestors to free those you held in chains. As far as I’m concerned. Everything you own can burn. *picks up the books the grandmaster had been looking at and storms out*

Grandmaster of Dres: *smirks and walks out of library and through the temple, unaware of the archmagister and a certain argonian hiding themselves with a simple minor illusion spell*

Divayth Fyr: *drops the invisibility* He’s gone-

Xelzaz: I saw him slip something into the notebook.

Divayth Fyr: I’ll tail after the grandmaster, you go after LeiLei.

Xelzaz: as you wish serjo- *gets up from his position behind the bookshelf and hurries out down the hall after Riiju*

Divayth Fyr: *fixes his robes and walks from the library, taking a book with him to look as though he’d simply collected some reading material to last him the lockdown within the temple and using it to hide his hand as he casts stone flesh on himself, having a deep sense of dread in his gut telling him he’ll regret it if he doesnt* … *peers around the corner to see the grandmaster enter the communal latrine, eyes narrowing knowing full well he wouldn’t be caught dead using a public bathroom* where are you going… *casts invisibility on himself as he follows behind at a distance, peering into the restroom in time to witness the grandmaster open and climb through a hidden trap door beneath the stone work of the floor* Azuras mercy… *hurries off to fetch nerevar*

*Meanwhile*

Riiju-Lei: *now back in nerevars room flicking through the books, the ordinators he sent flying earlier now back at their posts and looking very worse for wear* nothing on vivec or almalexia! *tosses it to the side and opens another one* Ugh this is why you don’t burn books! *flips a page and blinks seeing a piece of paper fall from the page* hm?… *picks it up and opens it to see a message written inside*

“Come Dreamer, Friend or Foe, come to me father of the mountain beneath the fall, gaze upon the gears of gods.”

Riiju-Lei: *staring in bewilderment at the letter* father of the mountain?… beneath the fall- the clockwork city…

Xelzaz: *suddenly skids into the room* Riiju!

The ordinators: no visitors are-

Riiju-Lei: let him in.

The ordinators: *immediately step aside, both afraid of being launched again*

Xelzaz: *hurries in and starts flipping through the books in a panic* Where is it!? A note he put a note in here somewhere?!

Riiju-Lei: I- this? Note? You saw who planted it?

Xelzaz: *takes it and suddenly goes cold recognising the hand writing from the scriptures of Vivec* … We need to find nerevar, now.

Riiju-Lei: why what is it?

Xelzaz: The grandmaster planted this for vivec!

Riiju-Lei: *stands up and grabs his sword in case he needs it* I’ll go find him, you get Kaidan and the others!

Xelzaz: alright!

*Meanwhile*

Nerevar: *creeping through the sewers, Divayth Fyr* shhh… *freezes hearing voices up ahead* Divayth, stay hidden…

Divayth Fyr: *casts invisibility on himself once more and steps away from him in case*

Nerevar: *creeps slowly, steps muffled by the moss coating the stones as he sneaks up to a cistern chamber and slowly peers in to see Vivec, clad in old travel worn robes, head covered by a red shawl, and face concealed by his mask, and before him the grandmaster kneeling* …

Grandmaster of Dres: *looking up at Vivec* I did as you asked my lord and get you’ve still not made good on your promise!

Vivec: Plans have changed, child. With Voryn Dagoth now back in the picture, our plans for you are now obsolete, but you have been a faithful servant none the less and I assure you you will still be rewarded.

Grandmaster of Dres: You promised me the power he possessed! And now you’re denying me it?!

Vivec: Hush. I can no longer afford you his power now that it’s been confirmed he has reincarnated. However. Once I have him in my possession and nerevar lies dead, we will be strong enough to sap the god hood from that traitor Seht, and gift it to you.

Grandmaster of Dres: M-my lord- I- th-thank you! I would be honoured to take up the mantle of the clockwork god.

Nerevar: *backs up to leave and regroup with Divayth Fyr so they can gather reinforcements, only to gasp in agony as a dagger pierces his thigh* GAGHHH- *reaches for his sword and freezes as the knife touches his throat, and a dunmer woman’s hand grabs a fistful of his white hair* nghh- hello- alma.

Almalexia: Hello. Husband. *pushes him out into the cistern grinning wildly* We caught him! We caught him Vehk! Let me gut him! Let me choke him with his entrails!

Vivec: *smirks from behind his mask* Hello, Nerevarine.

Nerevar: hello cunt- *hisses in pain as alma yanks his hair back*

Almalexia: You do not speak! I will cut out your tongue this time!

Vivec: Hush now Alma. There is no point in expending the effort. Once we are done we will need not fear him reincarnating again, and the good daedra will no longer have the means to revive him…

Nerevar: You won’t succeed. I defeated you all once and I’ll do it agaiAARGHHH!! *pulls back in pain as Alma slices the dagger under his jawline as if prematurely slicing off his face in a second foul murder*

Vivec: ALMA.

Almalexia: *whines and shrieks shaking nerevars head* It’s not fair not faaair!!! He has my skin! My pretty gold skin! And look at how he’s cursed me! I’m filthy! Dirty! Ugly!!!

Nerevar: *glares back at her* among other thing- *hisses as vivec suddenly punches him across the face before grabbing hold of his arm as Alma grabs the other, both of them kicking the back of his legs making him drop to his knees* This feels familiar…

Vivec: Grandmaster of house Dres, *holds out his spear to him* Take my muatra in hand, and claim your new name sake of Dres Seht as you drive it through his heart…

Grandmaster of Dres: *takes the spear with trembling hands, a mix of honour and cowardice wracking his body as he stares down at nerevars blue eyes* Dres Seht… *smirks darkly and laughs* I honour my family by slaughtering you! Now you will pay for the downfall of house dres! *drives the spear through his chest*

Nerevar: *eyes rolling to the back of his head, the cracking of ribs ringing through his ears, almost drowning out the voice of Vivec and the feeling of his lips on his*

Vivec: Don’t weep… I’ll take good care of your Voryn… *smirks removing his mask as his face and skin twists in shape and colour, turning him into the spitting image of the Hortator* Come you two… leave him to wither and rot like he did us…

Dres Seht: *pulls muatra from nerevars chest making him seemingly choke out his final breath* yes my lor- *recoils as vivec suddenly takes the spear from him, making it disappear*

Vivec: Alma.

Almalexia: *knife already hanging over nerevars face once more* But Vehk!

Vivec: Patience Pet… you’ll have an eternity once we’re done to torment him. Come… *takes her hand and leads them from the cistern, up the ladder and into the temple, the blood of the nerevarine allowing them entry at last*

Divayth Fyr: *drops the illusion and runs to Nerevars side* oh gods, oh please no…

#vivec #almalexia #divayth fyr #riiju lei dragonborn #nerevar #indoril nerevar #skyrim #xelzaz skyrim

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nerevar-quote-and-star · 2 years

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Vivec: Seht, I need a short story about deception.

Sotha Sil, tired AF: This happened while I was in my first year of medical school. I was taking an exam in anatomy. It was really tough. They ask questions like "How many bones are there in the hand?" I was stymied. I kept saying to myself, "How many bones are there in the hand?" Then I heard this little voice that said "24."

Sotha Sil: I looked around the room and there sitting on the window sill of the classroom was this little grey scrib with a very intelligent face. And he pointed at his hand and said "24." So I wrote it down. And then after the exam I rushed over to the library to look it up. And would you believe it? That stupid scrib was wrong by four bones!

Sotha Sil: I went looking all over the campus for him. I wanted to kill him. I finally found him over on a bench by the pysche department. "You were wrong!" I screamed at him. "There's 28 bones in the human hand!" "Oh," he said pointing at his hand, "I thought you meant a scrib's hand."

Vivec:

Vivec: I don't think I can use that story.

Sotha Sil:

Sotha Sil: Want me to make one up?

#where on nirn did seht go to school???#sotha sil #vivec #tribunal #almsivi #scribs #nerevar queue and star #incorrect quotes #incorrect elder scrolls #incorrect morrowind quotes #the elder scrolls #tes #Morrowind #the elder scrolls iii: morrowind #source: m*a*s*h

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razaks-wheel · 1 year

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[Talvini needs to fulfill a Daedric contract, which is totally chill and has never caused problems before.]

---

"I was thinking of taking a...pilgrimage, if you will. A sabbatical. To the Telvanni Peninsula," Talvini said over dinner.

"Is that so?" Milia asked with a raised eyebrow. She knew her partner well enough to know there was more to it that Talvini was just waiting to share. "What sort of pilgrimage-sabbatical?"

"Oh, you know. Check out the libraries on the peninsula, see my ancestors in Necrom, investigate the whispers that might be related to a Daedric contract I got myself roped into that deals with the fate of the world, that sort of thing."

Milia set her fork down and opened her mouth to protest.

"It's fine, though, really!" Talvini said before her partner could say anything. "It's not going to be a repeat of the Clavicus Vile thing. The Three trust us, right? When the world is at stake, we're allowed to go around doctrine by a little bit. I know that now." With the right words, she might even be able to convince herself.

With a sigh, Milia found her fork again, though it did not make its way back to her plate quite yet. "Well, it's not one of the Good Daedra or you would have led with that. Bad, then? Or neither?"

"Neither." She watched Milia begin to relax, almost reaching for a bite of food, and decided it was best to drop the identity before she could get too complacent. "It's Hermaeus Mora."

The fork went back down, and her shoulders rose and fell in a deep breath. "I'm sure I don't need to tell you why this is a bad idea, right?"

"I've...dealt with Daedra before."

"You're avoiding the question. You're a mage. He preys on mages."

"Which is why I'm going in knowing that I need to be careful. You know I'm not that reckless, as mages go. I have a good Tribunal education on top of my magical one. I know not to give into the temptations, no matter how much knowledge he offers. Plus," she reached out and took Milia's former fork-hand, "I might just have my Buoyant Armiger girlfriend there to help me if I get in over my head. I bet Vivec would approve you for a field mission."

---

"Your field mission has been approved!" Vivec said, completely unprompted, when Milia arrived at the temple the following day.

"Of course you knew about it," she mumbled.

"Of course I knew about it!" Vivec agreed happily.

"And you really trust Hermaeus Mora not to try to pull in a Telvanni mage?"

"No. I trust the protections my companions and I have over Morrowind, I trust Seht's Coldharbour Compact of which Hermaeus Mora is a part, and I trust the two of you." Still, hir usually confident smile faded somewhat, and ze leaned in and said in a quieter voice, "Just keep an eye on Talvini. I know that she knows not to give into Mora, but she doesn't know that. She's more afraid than she lets on. She needs you for more than just a jaunt to the tombs, romantic as that may be."

Milia nodded pensively. She didn't really need to be told, but it did help to have it laid out so concretely. "I will, muthsera."

"Good!" ze proclaimed, snapping back to hir usual jovial tones. "Enjoy your time in Necrom!"

#talvini #milia #necrom #eso #no spoilers i literally haven't started the chapter yet

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ehlnofay · 1 year

Note

(For the prompts) number 6 - A juicy rumor about a prominent person

same prompt requested by @jiubilant so this will cover both :)

“Excuse me, sera?”

The bare-faced stranger looks up from the book ze’s flipping through, a line between zir brows. It's quiet as ever in the Library of Vivec, the few patrons browsing quietly, the Ordinators standing unsettlingly statue-still. The green-tinted light of the lanterns gleams off of their gold armour. The low ceilings make the place feel almost snug - or suffocating, depending on how one chooses to approach it.

Standing before zem, shifting her weight with poorly concealed impatience, is a child in neatly tied Temple robes, a satchel tucked under her arm with the strap dangling. (Some kind of initiate, maybe – a lot of people are brought up in the Temple, raised for the vocation.) Ze says, “Yes?”

“Do you know where I can find the prayer books?” the girl asks.

The stranger closes zir own volume, frowning. “No,” ze says, “sorry. What are you looking for?”

“Consolations.” The girl’s arched brows knit, displeased; she’s shifting her feet so much that there is an honest concern she might wear right through the thick-woven rug.

“There should definitely be a few copies of that about.” The book, bound in dark, peeling leather, is placed back on its shelf. “But it might be difficult to find. The religious texts are put in every section, and the shelving system is… rather cryptic.” It’s a method of propaganda, most likely – the books of Temple doctrine being scattered among everything else, that is, not the Library of Vivec’s bizarre shelving system. Not even the books entirely about the practise of religious rituals or prayer are grouped together; they’re more inextricable, mixed in with everything else.

It might not be. Ze’s a bit jaded, at the moment; ze sees most everything the Temple does as propaganda, right now. (The problem is that so much of it is. And that’s not any kind of conjecture – Vehk told zem so. It’s hard to find any kind of reliable truth in a dogma that ze’s currently helping to twist to zir own ends.)

(Not that ze’s trying to be selfish. Things are just complicated right now.)

The girl frowns. “Drat,” she says, with an emphasis that almost makes zem laugh.

Ze asks, “What did you need it for?”

“Kena Vedren set me a project about the Library.” The girl tugs at the hair pulled in knots back from her face. “I can’t do it if I don’t find the book, I’ve got to copy from some of the pages. And I can't just find it in the bookstore back in the Redoran canton – that's cheating.”

The stranger offers, “I can help you find it.”

(Ze might as well. It’s what ze’s here for, isn’t it?)

The girl yanks at her hair sharp enough that her eyes screw up. “But I was meant to learn to find information on my own,” she says. “That was part of it.”

“Asking for help is just a tool you can use to get things done,” the stranger points out. Ze tucks a thumb into the sleeve of zir high-necked jacket. “Come on. I think that one will be in the history section. Or close to it, at least.” (It’s a safe guess; the history section is the biggest, and holds a lot of the Temple texts.)

The girl twists her mouth and acquiesces, and they begin to walk.

She eyes zem curiously as they go, the light from the green-glass lanterns reflecting starkly against her eyes. “You’re an outlander,” she pronounces, after several silent seconds.

“And you’re the first to ever make that observation,” the stranger says serenely. Ze smiles, cheeks crinkling like there’s air trapped beneath the skin. “Yes. I was born in Cyrodiil.”

The girl ponders this. Fiddling with her sash, she looks very serious in a way that doesn’t quite mesh with her lopsided face and skittish fingers. “Then why are you in the Temple Canton?”

That’s a difficult question to answer without disclosing some things that should not, right now, be disclosed.

“I still follow the Three,” ze says – because it has, at times, been not not true. Zir nails scratch absentmindedly at the skin pressed over zir cheeks – smooth, unblemished, free of ink. Zir lips are cracking again.

“Oh,” says the girl, and ponders this some more.

The history section ze’d referred to takes up a quarter of the library. The stranger nods to the Ordinators stationed by the shelves a little more deferentially than ze usually would. Zir hair falls loose over zir face as ze does so, and ze has to carefully push it back.

The book is probably here somewhere. Ze sets to scanning through the shelves.

“Did you hear the Temple is changing?” the girl asks, following the words on each book’s carefully cared-for spine with a finger, and the stranger’s stomach drops.

(Metaphorically, of course; none of zir insides do much of anything anymore.)

“I did,” ze says, neutral. “Are you hearing a lot about it?”

She shrugs. “I overhear the priests, sometimes. And Kena Vedren told me a bit. My grandmother, too.”

Her finger stops on a thick book bound in painstakingly painted guar-leather. She squints.

“It’s weird,” she tells zem, staring hard at its thick spine. “I don’t know. My grandmother doesn’t like the talk about it. She says it’s all hearsay. And none of the priests will answer my questions.”

The stranger can’t imagine they would do.

“I think it’s a bit rude that I keep asking, actually,” the girl says after a moment. “Am I talking too much? Sorry. I tend to be a bit of a chatterbox. It’s a problem – I keep talking when I’m supposed to be listening and the priests get cross.”

“That’s all right,” the stranger says. Ze looks at this child – round-faced, keen-eyed, her hands prudent around the Library’s books – and smiles. It wears wrong on zir face. “I don’t talk to very many people these days, anyway.”

The girl nods and goes back to sorting through the shelf.

“It’s just weird,” she reiterates, frowning.

The stranger takes another glance at her high, furrowed brows, asks, “What do you think?”

The child considers this. “If the Tribunal want to rest,” she says slowly, “I think they’ve earned it, haven’t they?” She sifts through a few narrow volumes, adds, “Besides, it isn’t as though they’re gone. I heard Mehra Llareth saying that the Nerevarine went to work with Lady Almalexia, help her prepare everything so she could retire from public life. Did you hear they went to Mournhold?”

If the stranger had to breathe, ze would be in trouble, air sticking to the back of zir throat. As it is, ze presses the flat of a gloved hand through zir shirt against the pendant set into the base of zir sternum. Its hard facets and sharp corners dig into the thick skin of zir palm. “I think I heard something to that effect,” ze says, and, momentarily, ze thanks all the gods ze no longer prays to for zir ever-dry eyes and zir garbled voice that does not shake.

(Ze wants, very badly, to laugh. Or perhaps to hit zir head against the wall. This is why things are all so complicated.)

“She’s travelling among the people now,” the girl says. “I think. Which is strange to think about, isn’t it? But I can’t pretend to know what that would be like, being a god. It might be exhausting. And if they’re just going to take a rest, then they’re still around. And maybe they’re still listening. And maybe they’ll still speak through their people time to time – not priests, probably, but maybe their champions. Maybe the Nerevarine, if they’re helping them retire.”

Ze bites down hard on zir tongue. “Maybe.”

Blood blooms, ashy and rotten, in zir mouth. Zir tongue feels dry and thin as paper.

(It’s always interesting, to hear people speaking of zem. Normally ze doesn’t get this kind of candour – until relatively recently the scars made zem very recognisable. Ze never feels quite comfortable stripping them away, so until ze could figure out how to layer over them, ze had to settle for a distinctive face.)

(Maybe ze shouldn’t have bothered with it today. Ze’d been in the mood for peace ze wouldn’t get if noticed, but this is worse. It aches.)

Zir finger, dark-gloved, trails along the edge of a shelf, collecting dust. “Hey,” ze says, rasping, rapping a knuckle against the spine of a book dyed red and embossed with black lettering, “is this the one you were looking for?”

The girl looks up. She beams, crooked-toothed and full of life. “Yes! That’s the one I needed to copy from! Thank you for the help, sera.”

“My pleasure,” the stranger tells her through dry, chipped teeth, and ze barely waits for the girl to pull the book from the shelf before ze ducks away.

The air in the library is cold and stifling and the Ordinators’ golden faces feel like some kind of mockery. Ze taps the pendant set into the base of zir sternum, half-swallowed by the scabby skin of zir stomach, for comfort, and leaves before the green-tinged light can make zem feel any sicker. Zir shoes scrape against the mats. It sounds like rustling leaves.

Ze’s still not certain if ze wants to laugh or cry. It would be easier if either of those things came naturally anymore.

…

Back in the Palace, peeling off the clinging film of clear dull skin, Caelestis asks, “Did you know that the Nerevarine went to Mournhold to help Almalexia retire?”

There is a pause, the silence of the cavernous hall bearing down on them both. The light flickers dimly.

Vivec says, “Ah.”

Caelestis has laid zir body without much care against the low wall at the foot of the plinth. Zir gloves lie on the stone next to zem.

“Perhaps one day,” Vivec says mildly, “that will be funny.”

Perhaps. Caelestis doesn’t believe it; and though ze’s never been much for reading peoples’ feelings – and Vehk’s far less than most – ze doesn’t think they do, either. “Might as well be optimistic,” ze replies, instead of saying so.

(What good would it do? What else can be done, after all?)

Vivec, one ornamented hand trailing in the ashpit surrounding hir old plinth, blinks at zem.

“The Nerevarine might be a conduit between the people and the retired Tribunal, too,” Caelestis says. Ze digs a fingernail just a bit too deep – it breaks the crusted skin by zir eye, the rot-dark crescent of keratin dipping into whatever’s built up behind it. (It doesn’t drip, at least; it’s long since dried up.)

Vivec lets his eyes stay closed when he next blinks. “Ah.”

“Mm.”

Caelestis rubs the pad of a thumb over the scab and lets zir head tip back.

In a few months – two to six, depending on progress – the Nerevarine and the last of the Tribunal will abandon Morrowind to fend for itself. Even this country that so reveres its ancient dead has no place for them now. (Staying would only make it worse. Staying would only make it worse. Staying would only make it worse, and ze knows this – better to leave a mythic hero and Living God than remain and give the chance for anyone to learn better – but it doesn’t feel good.)

Vehk’s blood-red ring winks on their finger. Caelestis’ pendant is still cold against the flesh that holds it in.

“We’re doing the best we can,” Vivec says. He speaks strongly, but his voice doesn’t resonate like it used to; in the hollow hall it sounds lonely.

Caelestis drops a scabby black hand into the ash. “I know,” ze replies. Zir voice is quiet, vowels garbled with zir half-a-tongue. “At least this way our memory can be a comfort.”

In the time they remain, they are carefully warping the story to ensure it. In a century’s time, the Nerevarine will have gone to Mournhold to assist the goddess in withdrawing from the responsibilities she had so long shouldered. The Nerevarine will have aided the transition from Temple to Temple. The Tribunal will have stepped back from their altars and faded into obscurity gracefully. They’re getting enough ahead that they won’t even need to rewrite history – it will simply be the way it’s always been told.

It’s all they can do, now. It will have to be enough.

#I'll be honest I feel like this is a bit shit #but it's hard to judge quality when I've only just finished something #and it got me out of my slump! so I'll take it #(and post it since it Is A Prompt Thing. I Did Promise)#and if it sucks. sorry #I feel like this is the exact opposite of the prompt also. the rumours are so so normal it's the truth that's juicy and insane #the nerevarine cooperating with the living gods and helping ease the temple's transition #vs the nerevarine murdering/being murdered by a living god and planning to ditch morrowind with the last one that's still alive #in like a selfless way. but also in a selfish way. caelestis is in a weird spot at this point in zir story #give zem a couple months to make peace with zir choices and ze'll be chill. give zem a few years and they'll be absolutely thriving. maybe #I don't really know what ze gets up to once ze peaces out of tamriel. but it's probably wild #it's fun to write a bit more of caelestis and vivec's dynamic also. they are insane #YES they don't like each other. YES they are best friends.#they don't even really get along per se because there's too much history there but they're too enmeshed because of all the history there #also they're both grieving in insane ways #obsessed with them #anyway #oc tag #caelestis #vivec #my writing #fay writes #morrowind #tes #the elder scrolls #tes iii #tesblr #nerevarine

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slusheeduck · 2 years

Text

Count Only The Happy Hours

[I] [II] [III][IV] [V]

VI.

It was odd, being on the cusp of something so great and terrible and still having to deal with the banalities of life. Vivec was already prone to musing over the divine and mundane and how very, very close they were in the calmest of times, so cutting his hair felt particularly sublime in the wake of the war they were about to wage. Like he was making room for the fire that’d soon erupt through Resdayn as they drove out the Nords.

Well, that, and he wasn’t sure when he’d next have access to a nice mirror and sharp razor.

He was careful and methodical as he drew the blade over his head, hand steady as a skiff through silt. So engrossed was he that he just about sliced his head open as a broad hand rested on his shoulder.

Nerevar gave a wry smile, then sighed as he crossed his arms. He was quiet for a very long moment, and Vivec did nothing to interrupt. He was very rarely disappointed in what Neht had to say after a long silence.

“Sorry, sorry,” Nerevar apologized once Vehk drew the razor away, unscathed, luckily, and trying very hard not to look startled. “I just…thought we could speak for a moment, before we went out.”

“Of course, Neht.” Blade set aside, Vivec perched on the edge of the washroom’s very fine tub. “I’m always happy to speak. Too happy, if you ask anyone else in our party.”

“I’m afraid,” he finally said, voice soft in confession, “that I’m becoming slipshod in my thinking.”

Vivec blinked. “Then why come to me?”

“Because I trust you, Vivec,” he answered, as if it were the most obvious thing in Nirn. “You’re…a little over-romantic, I’ll admit, but your heart is good, and you let it guide you. That’s valuable, especially in our situation.” He was quiet again, then glanced up. “It may be that we have to do some very terrible things, if we want to free Resdayn. And at the start, it was a…a necessary evil. But now…” He sighed, running his hand through his fair hair. “I’m less certain.”

“Reach heaven by violence, then,” Vivec murmured; he wasn’t aware he’d said it aloud until he caught the look Nerevar was sending him. He froze a moment, afraid of being caught in his eavesdropping, and quickly added, “Or…don’t.”

Nerevar shook off his surprise–as Vehk noted to himself to be more careful in adopting poetic turns of phrase–and furrowed his brow as he looked off at nothing in particular. “What do you mean by that?”

Vivec drummed his fingers on the stone of the tub. “I mean that the choice is yours. I can’t tell you what to do–even if I were in the leagues of Sul or Voryn–but…but I think, if we help more people than we harm, it’s better that we shoulder whatever sins we must so others can live better than we have.” He looked up at Nerevar, face serious. “I’d give up whatever virtue I have to free Resdayn, to keep the Chimer out of slums and…and to keep what happened to Sil and I from ever happening again to other young mer. We are the heirs of Veloth, and we know better than to believe that our exodus was sterile and bloodless.” He stopped as his voice grew louder, the familiar stirrings of a righteous speech thrumming in him. He stayed quiet, for just a moment, then continued, voice soft and serious, “But either choice you make will be an act that carves a path for us. So you can sin or you can not. But…even St. Veloth, with all his followers, it would have meant nothing if he didn’t act at all.”

Nerevar was quiet again, eyes fixed on one particular spot in the wall. Vivec stayed put, fingers clenching and unclenching as he waited for some sort of response. Praise, dismissal, anything.

Finally, he pulled his gaze back to the present, settling on Vivec. His mouth twitched, and it took a moment before he finally asked, “Where’s Sil?”

“In the library, I imagine. He spent all night working on that spider of his, still as anything.”

Neht nodded slowly, gaze distant. “Go get him. We’re going to be leaving shortly.”

“You think he’s still there?”

“I’d be much more surprised if he isn’t.”

Vivec looked over him curiously, about to ask if they were changing the plan. Instead, he simply nodded. “Of course, Nerevar.”

There wasn’t very much distance between the washroom and the library, so not terribly much time to muse over what the future might hold. But that didn’t stop Vivec from starting to think on it. What sort of terrible things? They’d killed before, quite often. Blood on their hands wasn’t unusual. Perhaps they’d start conscripting people; but then, how many Chimer would actually be opposed if it meant they’d be free? He supposed–

His thoughts were interrupted as he opened the door, replaced with a stream of curses that escaped his mouth as something cold and hard jumped straight at his face.

He automatically swung at it, but it was already skittering away. As Vivec reined in his surprise, he looked up to see the thing going straight to Sil. He started to lunge for it, but stopped as he saw the wide grin splitting Sil’s thin, serious face.

“I said I could make it better, and I was right,” he said, looking over the rebuilt spider as it twitched in his hand. “And it has less materials than the original design–I could probably make a whole new spider with how much was left over. Its core needs fixing, but I think, if I could find a soul gem, it could power it for so much longer than the current model does.” He looked up to Vivec, pale eyes bright. “We can use these, Vehk. They’ll be quick a-and less dangerous–for us, anyway–and…” He paused. “Do you think Nerevar will like it?”

This, possibly, was the most Sil had ever spoken all at once, and it took a moment for Vivec to catch up from the shock of it. Finally, he nodded, returning the smile. “Yes, I…I think he’ll be very, very impressed.”

That seemed to please the boy very much, and a smile–though smaller than the one Vehk had been greeted with–stayed put on Seht’s face as he set the spider back onto the desk. “Of course, this is a prototype, just like how it was for the centurion spiders. But when we go back to the Dwemer, perhaps we can get more materials.”

“Well, that may be happening sooner rather than later.” Vivec started to gather his things. “There’s been a change of plans, and we’re heading back out soon. Probably this evening at the latest.”

Sil’s excitement dimmed. “Because of us?”

“No, no. Just…a new plan. I don’t know the specifics, but things are probably going to be taking a very different route than the one we’ve been following.” Vivec pauses. “It’s a little exciting, actually. I love a good twist in the plot.” Ah, no, remember: more warrior, less poet. At least for now.

He could still take notes, though. For later, once they’d reached heaven–violently or otherwise.

They left the city the same way they’d entered, staggered in groups. First Sul, to set up the camp; then Vivec and Sil, in the midst of the bustling midday to stay unseen, and by evening, Voryn and Nerevar joined them. They’d had enough time to send word to those who had gathered in town to join their cause of where to go, warning them to come over the next several nights under the cover of darkness. Nerevar, by virtue of his devotion to Azura, had a natural distrust of Nocturnal, but Vivec swore he heard a whispered plea for her darkness to cover their allies in the coming days.

Correspondence went out to Dumac and his own forces; it was too soon in the alliance talks for them to offer any more than mercenaries in terms of soldiers, but–bolstered by Sil’s demonstration of his modified spider–Nerevar gladly welcomed any mechanical things they could spare. There was an air of unease of letting a boy manage something so alien in such a delicate situation. But Sil didn’t have the same vocal need to prove himself that Vivec had–still had, admittedly, even after his years of service. He simply worked, his previous focus of his studies now turned to the spiders and spheres delivered from underground, with the hesitant aid of a few mercenaries’ basic knowledge. Vehk kept an eye on him when he had the chance, looking for any signs of Seht being overwhelmed; if he was, he hid it well beneath bright eyes and mechanical chatter that no one but a Dwemer could make heads or tails of.

As for Vivec, he’d taken Sul’s rebuke to heart, he really had. He listened in their strategy meetings–which were maddeningly uninformative as to what Neht’s new plan was, considering half of them seemed to take place when he wasn’t around–and kept his words focused on the task at hand, not the account for the future. It wasn’t fun, not even slightly, but then, war wasn’t supposed to be. When he wasn’t listening, he was back to scouting; Nerevar was preoccupied with the defense around Hofstaag, wanting to know entrances and exits of the city. His reports were crisp and concise, with only pertinent information.

By the Three, was it boring to live this way. He supposed this explained why Sul and Voryn were…like that.

But ultimately, Vivec had done what he had been told to and been an exemplary soldier. So, with some validation bolstering him, he went to the fire that night with quill and parchment in hand. He wasn’t sure where to start up again, but he knew once he started he likely wouldn’t be able to stop.

He’d just sharpened his quill when a glint of metal caught his eye, and he smiled as Sil settled next to him, fair brows furrowed as he worked at what looked like the body of one of his jumping spiders. Vehk rested his elbow on his knee, chin plunked in his palm as he watched the boy work for a moment.

“You really are taking to these clockwork beasties like a netch to the air,” he said. “Have you secretly been a Dwemer this whole time, Seht?”

“No,” Sil said plainly. He paused, seeming to realize that it was a joke once Vivec laughed, and looked up from his work. “It’s very straight-forward. Put the right pieces together, and they do what you want. Not that different from magic–easier, actually; magic you sometimes have to account for emotions.”

“And was that ever a problem for you?” Vivec asked. “Having to deal with the emotions part?”

Sil shook his head. “Nall did,” he said quietly, going back to his work. “But she’d never really liked magic all that much anyway. She’d just started…” He trailed off, throat flexing as he swallowed. Vivec didn’t dare say a word; some days, he knew, were harder. He didn’t so much as blink as Seht dropped that train of thought. “I was always good at separating the two.” His brow furrowed again, and he added, very softly, “I wanted to be a Psijic.”

“A Psijic?” Vivec repeated, equally quiet. “The ones over in Summerset?”

Sil nodded. “I’ve heard they take people from other races, besides Altmer, if you’re good enough.”

“Then why are you talking about it like a childhood fancy?” Vivec asked, then gestured to the half-spider. “Find me an Altmer forty times your age who can make sense of that. I guarantee you won’t.” He grinned as his chin returned to his palm. “I’ll come with you, with all your accomplishments written out. Sotha Sil: mage, inventor, liberator of Resdayn–you know, I’ll even do it in verse.”

“Do not, Vivec, please.” The words were muttered with all the exasperation expected of a young mer, but there was no hiding the hope, however fragile it was, that danced over Sil’s face as he fiddled with the gears inside the spider’s chassis.

“I’ll have one ready, in case you change your mind. It’s inevitable that you will, you know,” Vehk quipped back, still smiling, before he settled back to start at his own work. But before he could so much as tap his pen, more movement caught his eye. He smiled up at Nerevar as he sat across from them, then put on a pleading face.

“Please don’t tell Alandro I’m writing,” he whispered, just loud enough over the crackling of the fire. “I won’t be able to stand the look he’ll give me. It’s like having the sky be disappointed in you.” He sat up properly at the weak, tired smile Neht gave him, returning it with a frown. “Something’s wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Nerevar quickly assured. “In fact, everything’s going very well. It’s just…very hard.” He rubbed his face with a long sigh, then stayed very silent and still. After a few moments, even Sil looked up from his work, a small frown of his own mirroring Vivec’s. But they both stayed quiet, waiting for Nerevar to take the lead on whatever soon-to-be-had conversation was hanging darkly over the three of them.

Finally, Neht drew his head up, taking a breath as he looked over the two of them. “In three days,” he said slowly, eyes reflecting the fire as he met each of the younger mer’s gaze, “we’re going to do something incredibly dangerous. And I need you both to do exactly as you’re ordered. This time, it is a matter of life and death.”

Despite the seriousness of what Nerevar was saying, Vivec couldn’t help but feel a flare of petulance in his chest. So it hadn’t been bad luck keeping him from the majority of the strategizing; he’d been excluded, no doubt dismissed as a troublesome youth even with all his work. But, righteous though he was sure his anger was, now wasn’t the time. So he merely nodded, and Sil did the same.

Another pause, this time with Nerevar shutting his eyes. When he opened them, the hesitance melted from his face, replaced with a look of steely determination.

“We’re declaring war on the Nords,” he said, “by burning Hofstaag to the ground.”

Silence followed, only broken by the now-foreboding crackling of the flames between them. The air was terribly still, and Vivec, for once, was left without any idea of what to say. On one hand, it was drastic and so very, very risky. On the other…action was the only language the Nords seemed to speak, and a small part of him roared in anticipation of sending such a damning message.

“What about the mer?”

Both Nerevar and Vivec were started by Sil’s question. His thin jaw was set firmly, expression sharpened even further by the flames throwing his face into harsh relief. Nerevar was the first to shake himself out of his reverie.

“I…don’t know what you mean, Seht,” he said. “But our for–”

“Not them. The mer in Hofstaag, the ones in the slums.” Sil’s voice was clear above the flames, and his eyes bore into Nerevar with challenge. “If we burn down Hofstaag, they’re in danger, too.”

Vivec had traveled with Nerevar for quite some time now. Sil probably wouldn’t notice, but there was the slightest twitch in Neht’s mouth; he’d thought of this as well. The question of sin suddenly made much more sense. There was clear deliberation in his face before he finally looked away.

“Azura will protect them,” he said, voice firm and confident. Vivec almost believed him, but he knew the words for what they really were: a prayer, not an assurance.

“But they’ll have no idea,” Sil shot back. “We have to get in before, warn them of what will happen.”

“There isn’t time,” Nerevar said, voice tightening as his frown deepened. “We’ll risk showing our hand. This has to be a surprise, and done with no warning.”

“But Chimer will die!”

“And many, many more will die if we’re caught,” Nerevar snapped, voice low. “In war, Sil, you have to think about the greater good. Even if it means doing terrible things to bring that greater good around.”

Vivec expected Sil to be cowed by Nerevar’s chiding, but he saw another argument about to bubble out of the boy’s mouth. Quickly, he rested his hand on Sil’s shoulder, squeezing it in a silent Shut up as he looked to Nerevar. “We,” he said, punctuating the word with a hard look at Sil, “understand, Neht. We’ll be waiting for instruction, and we’ll follow them to the word.”

Nerevar let out a long breath, an undeniably grateful look sent Vehk’s way, and he gave a short nod as he got up to his feet. Vivec and Sil stayed silent as he faded into the darkness of their surroundings, no doubt to wrestle with his guilt.

Once he was gone, Sil jerked his shoulder out of Vivec’s hold. “We have to do something,” he said, fire still in his voice. “We have to talk to someone. Voryn o-or Alandro…”

“If Neht’s gotten to this point, then Voryn and Sul agree with him. And they’ll be unshakeable,” Vivec said, running his hand through his hair. “Look, we’ve said time and time again: Azura has blessed our mission. She’ll protect the mer in Hofstaag.”

“Like she protected Ald Sotha?”

Oh.

Vivec looked up at Sil; rage seemed to fill every bit of the boy as he stared at Vivec, making him tremble hard enough to rattle the metal parts in his lap. There was no sign he would lash out, but, if he were just a few years older, he could tell that there would be something very, very dangerous in this silent fury.

“The daedra do nothing, Vivec,” Sil spat out. “They don’t care. If…if none of the others will do anything, then we must.”

“We? You and I?” Sil nodded, and Vivec let out a disbelieving little scoff. “Because going off on our own worked so well before?”

“We can plan. Come up with…with something. But we must do it quickly.” Sil pulled the chassis from his lap, eyes darting about as he thought. “I…my spiders aren’t ready, but, but I know there’s a way to make them combust. If we can start on the far side of the slums…”

“We’d have to go through the whole city for that,” Vivec said, shaking his head. “I’ve been around the whole perimeter of it.” He set aside his parchment and quill and grabbed the long stick used for tending the fire. In the dirt, he drew a crude imitation of Hofstaag’s walls, with Xs serving as the entrances and exits and a wavy line serving as the slums. “You see? The governor’s mansion is up here, and any way to enter there–especially the hidden ones–are going to be far too secure. We have to go through these areas, and that would be dangerous.” He rubbed his face–a habit picked up from Nerevar, no doubt–then kept his mouth covered as he looked over the map. “If there was a way to get word out…a whisper or a rumor or…”

“Or a notice.” Sil’s eyes had traveled from the map to the parchment, and he looked back to Vivec. “You can write something. In Chimeris, maybe, warning about what’s going to happen.”

“And when someone snitches?” Vivec asked dryly. “Or when the odd Nord who’s picked up enough Chimeris can get an idea of what we’re saying? No, that’s as good as a bounty.” He rolled the stick in his hand; despite his dismissal, words and ideas were already starting to dance in his head. “But…perhaps it’s a notice from the Nords.”

Sil frowned. “There aren’t any Nords on our side.”

“No, but we have someone who can write like one.” Vehk gave Sil a smile as he picked up his parchment and pen again. “Skalds are Nordic poets, and as much as I can’t stand the people, I admire the way their poems are ingrained in their society, and I’ve read quite a bit. Know your enemy and all. So even their official notices have a particular cadence to them.”

“It can’t be a poem, Vehk.”

“Not a poem. An…homage, let’s say, to the stark lyricism of Nordic government issues.” Vivec chewed his lip as he looked over the blank page. “Notice, effective immediately: anyone not descended from the noble sons of Ysgramor…”

“No.”

“You’re right, too much. Notice, from the office of the governor, effective immediately: all knife-ears and animals…Ah, they’d say that, but even Nords show a bit of nuance in paperwork. All mer and beast-folk are required to vacate the city of Hofstaag. Any who don’t comply will be…persecuted? That doesn’t sound right. Penalized, no, severely penalized, there we go.” He looked up to Sil. “Threatening enough without overdoing it, yes?”

Sil sucked in his lips before giving a shrug. “I can’t think of anything better.”

“Then we have our notice.” With a flourish of his pen, Vivec started to write. “Now, we will have to be very, very quick, and very, very good at sneaking.” His eyes flicked up to Sil. “Voryn keeps his cloak in the wagon, in the storage area under the driver’s seat. It’ll be too big for you, but in this case, that might work in our favor. Go get it.”

Sil blinked. “Are we going tonight?”

“If we want to do so without getting caught by our enemies or our allies? Yes, we’re doing this as soon as the ink dries.” Vivec let out a quick little breath, willing his hand to stay steady. “And if Azura won’t help us, then let’s at least pray that Mephala will.”

There was a crumbling bit of wall Vivec had found in his last scouting that led straight into the slums, a place favored by thieves and those doing illicit business. By a stroke of luck, it was empty when they arrived despite the late hour, and Vivec ushered Sil through before he followed. He’d considered coming alone, truthfully, but again he recalled how well that went. Besides, the fire was still burning bright and clear in Seht; he’d have followed no matter what to see it through.

Once they were on the other side of the wall, tucked out of sight behind a ramshackle building, Vehk got their bearings. The danger of this task seemed amplified in the quiet city streets, and every way it could go wrong hung heavily over him. After a moment, he pulled a dagger from his belt. “Take this,” he whispered, meeting Sil’s pale eyes very seriously. “You can’t use your magic, it’ll be too obvious. With this, it’s two motions.” He demonstrated: one sharp pull out of the sheath, and a sharp, sideways push into an imaginary threat’s belly. He sheathed it before holding it out to him.

Sil looked down at the knife, then back up to Vivec. “Do you think I’ll need it?”

“I pray you don’t. But if you do, do what I said and then run.”

Sil’s brow furrowed, but he took the knife. “And you? What will you do?”

Vivec swallowed, then set his hands on either side of Sil’s head, face as serious it’d ever been. “I know you don’t trust Azura,” he said, voice a whisper. “But I will keep you safe. No matter what.” A little smile eked its way out of him. “Okay, hla’daesohn?”

Sil’s mouth twitched, but it didn’t come close to a smile. After a moment, he slid the knife onto his own belt and nodded. Vivec let out a long breath, then led the way out. Cloaked as they were, hoods drawn far over their faces, they went unnoticed by the few people out at this hour. Vivec could hear the whispers of clandestine meetings–tones differing as they bounced off the stone walls of the alleyways–punctuated with the odd call offering a night of pleasure for a low price and pleas to be allowed in, they hadn’t had that much skooma. But none were threats, and the one hollow-faced boy who came sidling up just a touch too close to Seht was easily scared away with a sharp look from Vehk.

“Here,” Vivec whispered as they crossed a wooden wall of a fence. “We’ll put it up here, that ought to be in everyone’s eyeline. Sil, keep watch while I get it up.”

Sil nodded, and he turned to keep an eye on the street, dagger shifting back and forth between his hands. Carefully, Vivec pulled out the parchment. It didn’t look very official, but he couldn’t imagine anyone looking too hard at it. The Nords would be overjoyed, and everyone else would be expecting it. And, realistically, this was the only option they had.

“Guards,” Sil said softly as two voices wafted down the alley.

“Nearly done.” Vivec pressed the notice to the wall. Now just to secure it with…

“Vivec, hurry,” Sil hissed as the footsteps grew louder, to which he received a “Shit, shit shit shit,” in return. He looked over his shoulder, eyes wide, and Vivec met his gaze with a horrified one.

“I didn’t bring anything to secure it with,” he whispered. His eyes darted to the footsteps that became ever-louder, keeping time with his thudding heart. He’d been thoughtless, and it’d cost them again.

Sil looked to Vivec, then to the alleyway, then to the parchment. His eyes flicked about, thinking very hard. Finally, as the guards let out a laugh that echoed through the alley, he pulled the knife from its sheath and slammed it into the parchment, fixing it to the wall. Vivec allowed himself one breath to be impressed with Seht’s quick thinking, then quickly grabbed Sil and pulled him back into the shadows just as the guards rounded the corner. They paused, and both mer held their breath as one went up to the fake notice. With a wince, Vivec wondered if it perhaps looked too dramatic with the knife.

“Shor’s bones, Eirfa really needs to stop giving Stedvar knives,” the other guard said. “He thinks he looks like a real hard-ass putting up notices like this. Just a waste of a good weapon if you ask me.”

“Huh! Looks like old Vanskyr finally wised up, come look at this.” The first one stood up straight. “About damn time we clear out the knife-ears and animals. Get this place civilized.” (Vivec, it had to be said, was quite proud that he knew the Nord voice so well.)

“Wait, really?” The other joined him before letting out a loud, “HA!”

Vivec let out a long, silent breath. There, the Nords were convinced, and that’s all they needed. He nudged Sil, urging him to move, and they tried to slip away. But the movement gave them away.

“Hey, you! Halt!” the first guard called.

They both froze. Slowly, Vivec turned around, nudging Sil behind him. He stared at the Nord from beneath his hood, ready to draw his blade. Sil knew where they’d come in; he’d push him toward it if things got ugly. The guard crossed his arms, looking unbearably smug.

“What’s got you skulking about at this hour, elf?” he asked.

Vivec swallowed, then put on a demure face. “I-it’s my brother, sera,” he said, averting his eyes. “He has terrible nightmares. We…walking helps, after he’s had one. We were just heading back home.”

“Oh, no you’re not. New decree just came out: all the elves and cats and lizards are out of Hofstaag.” He pointed toward the city gate. “So you’ll be having a nice old walk out of the city.”

It took every bit of Vehk’s acting ability to look panicked. “But…sera, please, let us get back to the house, our mother is…”

“Look at the sign, elf,” the other guard drawled. “It’s effective immediately.”

The first leaned down, flicking at Sil’s hood; he pulled it back down, but luckily, it seemed like the guard was just trying to irritate rather than identify him. “Listen here, little knife-ear. You want to see your big brother here get punished? He’s resisting authority, and that’s a big crime.” Sil shook his head. “There, you already seem smarter than him. Why don’t you try and talk some sense in him? Surely whatever you’ve got at home isn’t as valuable as your brother’s teeth?”

Sil hesitated, then looked up at Vivec. His face was, as always, unreadable; in this case, it worked to their advantage. “Let’s just…go out, V–al’daesohn.”

“That’s right, Valdayson,” the guard mocked, butchering the word thoroughly even without Sil’s slip. “Just go out, and there’ll be no trouble. Your mother will be right behind you, along with the rest of you yellow-skinned devils!”

Vivec slipped his arm over Sil’s shoulders, finally turning away from the Nords and guiding the younger mer out from the city gates. Neither of them breathed until they were through, and Vehk didn’t let go of Sil until they came to a bend in the road. Once they were clear, his arm dropped, and he and Sil looked at each other.

“It…it worked,” Seht said, breaking the silence first. “It worked.”

Vivec let out a disbelieving little laugh. “It did. By Oblivion, it did.” He gripped Sil’s shoulders, giving him a wide smile. “We’ve done the impossible, Seht. We saved people! By the Three, once the others hear…” He trailed off, glancing overhead. On the horizon, the barest sliver of gray lightened the sky; Azura was entering her domain.

“We’ll celebrate later,” he said. “We need to get back to camp before anyone realizes we’re gone.” He picked up his pace, darting off the road for a shortcut back; all the scouting certainly paid off in that respect. Sil followed after, right on his heels.

For quite some time, they walked in silence, a mutual rush of success keeping their steps light and providing more than enough fodder for a pleasant walk. And, even more surprising than their success, it was Sil that finally broke the silence for once.

"What are you going to do when I'm older?" he asked. "You can't call me your little brother forever."

"I wasn't aware that siblings were age-restricted," Vivec said, voice light. "But then, I was born an only child. Not much room in an egg, you know."

Sil was clearly still in a good mood, because he didn't even roll his eyes. "I mean, it's not, but we're not actually brothers."

"No? You know, Seht, it's funny with stories; if you tell them long enough, they start to become fact. And, well…I've told the story now of you being my brother so many times, I'm starting to think it might be true." He looked over his shoulder with a smile. "But then, you were there each time. So in this case, you can tell me if I'm wrong or not, and I'll amend my story."

Sil blinked a few times, until finally he shook his head with a little smile. "You're ridiculous, Vehk," he said as he walked a bit faster, passing him as they approached the camp.

But, Vivec noticed, Seht didn't correct him.

[VII]

#tesfic #tes #vivec #sotha sil #indoril nerevar #morrowind #tribunal #elder scrolls #This is very long #It was supposed to be the season finale for part 1 but it worked much better ending here #and having the next paragraph be the opener for the actual season finale #At any rate enjoy

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