#blind faith in mephala

[sigmaelxgr]

Vorhim Kegran, Morag Tong agent

[talldarkandroguesome]

2nd of Hearthfire, Middas

We reached the first barrier on the mountain and me with Holgunn and his contingent of Vanguard. They seemed restless and eager to move ahead. Apparently they had heard some strange sounds from the other side of the barrier. Tel and I had felt rumbles as we ran, but I had assumed that it was the result of having been taking the stamina potions as we had.

We briefly updated Holgunn about the situation in Kragenmoor and suggested he give the order for as many to pull out as possible. He informed us that Walks-in-Ash had managed to get herself and a very few amount of troops in with a spell, but the barrier was only lowered for seconds even with her best efforts.

It was clear as we talked that Holgunn was distracted. When questioned about how he was doing, he admitted that it pained him to think that he might have to cross swords with Uncle. Even more, he did not want to think about what the possible result of such a clash might be. I did not wish to give him cause to dwell on it.

Tel took the key we had been given and did something to the ward stones that brought down the barrier. Then Holgunn told us to hurry and find Walks-in-Ash while he got the troops through and sent orders to those in Kragenmoor.

We hurried on up the slopes of the mountain. We made sure to sneak our way along the side of the path so as not to draw any attention from any soldiers that may have been on the path. We came across Walks-in-Ash soon after and asked how it was going.

She explained to us that they were still trying to get passed the protective wards, but without any luck. Particularly with Vanguard guarding the wards. Tel told her that we had the key to lower them. She smiled and said we warmed her scales with our news.

She told us that she would seek Tanval while we lowered the wards. I asked her if she had any bitter green leaves or vampire dust. I just needed on of the two to make an invisibility potion for Tel. She told me she had bitter green and I quickly made a couple of rough potions so that Tel and I could go unnoticed by the Vanguard.

We managed to slip unnoticed into the tunnels of daedric ruins that snaked through the mountain’s interior. The potions I made giving us just enough time to be out of the Vanguard’s way.

Though fight we did. As soon as we made it passed the ward we lowered, daedra came at us through the tunnels. We fought our way through them. Mostly scamps and clanfears, a few flame atronachs as well. And then we came upon a couple of Vanguard fighting off daedra around a figure on the ground.

Tel and I jumped into the fray and helped the Vanguard dispatch of the swarm of creatures.

Then I saw who was on the ground.

Uncle. He held his stomach, blood pouring through his fingers. His armor was torn in places, a large gash on his right arm seemed to be continuously bleeding and he had a scratch of claws across his cheek.

I knelt down besides him and told him to hold on and not to talk too much until his wounds were healed.

He laughed and said he knew I would come to try and stop him. I waited for him to add something like, you could not even do that right, or looks like you were beaten to it. That was so often the way that he would usually speak to me. But it did not come.

I asked him what had wounded him so, that I had some curative potions for poison and disease should that be a possibility. He shook his head at me.

Uncle said that it was a mass attack by Daedra in the caldera when they tried to push their way in. That they had failed and barely made it back out alive. That they had lost many to Sadal’s summoned daedra. That the moment they arrived there, Sadal called the horde of daedra out to attack and that even with the Coral Heart, he had been unable to control Sadal.

Then, he did the most unexpected thing of all. He apologized. Maybe it was just the pain and fear of death that softened his heart, but he apologized for everything.

Uncle said that he could not bear Garyn’s death. That he had to see to vengeance. It was as if that grief had clouded every other thought from his mind. He reached out and took my hand and pulled me closer, speaking clearly causing him immense pain.

I leaned in and told him he did not need to apologize. That he could make it all right again once he was healed and back on his feet.

Uncle said he did not know if his actions, as dishonorable as they had been, would ever be atoned for. That it was his anger.

At that moment he looked at me with the most open and almost childlike honesty. He said he had suffered from a quick temper. That it was why he had treated me as he had. When I opened my mouth to speak he continued over me, saying that it had always been his anger about Aunt Tunila. About the way that Mother could not let it go. That he had nearly died and Mother still only cared to grieve for Aunt Tunila. The anger they shared escalated over the years as they picked at one another and that my defiance of his wishes had only pushed him to hate us both more and more.

Again I tried to open my mouth, but he grabbed my face in one hand. He told me that he saw that it was his anger that had been blinding him and that it would color his legacy. It was now Tel and my job to to right the wrongs he had made. That he should forgive whatever past grievances we might have if I could help him by disabling the final ward. He assured Tel and I that it would not be possible with the key we had alone, but rather, we needed to slay the ancient gatekeeper down in the caldera.

Then he apologized once more. I tried to say more, but Walks-in-Ash arrived with Holgunn and they pushed their way over to check on him.

I stood there, still letting those words sink in, the sticky palm print of Uncle blood still on my face. I felt my skin tighten in the pattern of the print as it began to dry on my skin.

It took a while of me staring blankly ahead before someone told me to go and wait where I was not blocking the healers. Looking down, I realized that Tel was helping one of the Vanguard to heal Uncle, with another trying to assist. I moved out of the way and sat down on a large stone to wait.

It was almost like a dream to think that all this time things could be set aside. All those decades, centuries of anger. Could all of it really be dismissed so easily, like fanning away a wisp of incense smoke?

Walks-in-Ash came to speak with me. She says that Uncle will recover. That he still has a part to play yet. I can only trust in her wisdom. I hope she is not wrong. There has been too much lost, our House will be in enough turmoil. To lose Uncle too....

No! I shall not even think on it. I cannot. I will not.

Holgunn tells me that Uncle is ruined. That nothing will remain of him in history but the madness of his ending. The victory he led over the Akaviri as the Dunmeri general a passing thought, clouded by the narcissistic assumption of harnessing great powers beyond what even our more powerful ancestors managed. To think that Altmeri scholars would one day look at Uncle and think of him as a case study in hubris and Dunmeri failings with the arcane was even more infuriating than the fact that Holgunn did not see him living throughout the night.

This is a test. I just have to remember that. This is all just a test. To prove our strength and faith.

Azura, your realm of mystery is unknowable, yet I believe that you will offer guidance through this never before seen time.

Mephala, may you weave fate in such a way that Uncle will yet remain here with us. Do not cut his silken thread just yet.

Boethiah, stay your hand of justice until the balance of right and wrong can be set into equilibrium. Let Uncle prove that he still deserves his place as the leader of our House. Let him be judged by the actions he takes to make things right again.

[mazurah]

Lost in Time Ch. 27: Children - An Elder Scrolls Fanfic

Chapter Summary: Ma’zurah gets into a fight and tells a story.

Cross posted from Ao3. Chapter Rating: T for swearing, including swearing at children, and the aftermath of very implicit child abuse.

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Lost in Time Chapter 27: Children

Ma'zurah led Logrolf down the hall from the room of sleeping children to the entrance hall. “Ma'zurah needs to talk to you. Ma'zurah has to warn you that Molag Bal is determined to make you submit. He tried to get Fayrl and Ma'zurah to bring you to him.”

“So you have heard of me,” Logrolf laughed. “Well, of course you have! I am sure that Molag Bal did ask that of you. I have desecrated his altar on multiple occasions and he has been powerless to prevent me! Lady Boethiah gives her faithful her protection, so I am free to spit in the face of her enemies. Once I have gathered the necessary reagents, I will venerate his altar in Boethiah's name, as I did before.”

Ma'zurah looked alarmed. The man might be rude, but he didn't deserve to be subjected to whatever Molag Bal had planned for him. No one did. “The House of Troubles are not Princes to be trifled with! They provide trials to be endured and survived! Even with the protection of the Covenant, dealings with them walk the edge of a knife! And Mazurah can assure you, desecrating their altars is not under the Covenant!”

“You do not understand. How could you? A Khajiit would have no understanding of the power of such a god.” Logrolf looked at Ma’zurah with smug sympathy. “You think the pitiful Molag Bal can best Boethiah's faithful? I have won this contest before! I leave the rescuing of children to you, but you leave the work of the Queen of Shadows to those who know her best."

Ma'zurah bared her teeth. How dare he?! She was trying to help him! She had numbered him among her allies and he was questioning even her competence! “Logrolf knows not to whom he speaks. Ma'zurah is the Champion of Azurah. Ma'zurah is well aware of the power of Azurah’s brother-sister, and she is giving Logrolf this warning: to become involved in the wars of the gods is to risk becoming crushed between them. Ma'zurah speaks from firsthand experience. She provides this warning out of the respect she holds Lord Boethiah and his teachings.”

“Champion? You?” Logrolf curled his lip at her in derision. “I think you misunderstand the meaning of the term. And even were you using it correctly, you are still young. I have a lot of experience in these matters. I understand the risks and rewards involved. The Queen of Deceit has shown her pleasure with my efforts! Your warnings are unnecessary. Though I suppose I should thank you for using so much of your mental faculties to relay them.”

Heat rushed to Mazurah’s face and she was filled with a blind need to make this man respect her authority. Her tail puffed and she gave a low warning growl. “You will show respect! This one is at least four times older than you could ever hope to live! She has learned more than you could ever hope to learn! She has spoken with Princes and Gods and retained both her loyalty and her sanity!”

“Not as though you had much to lose,” Logrolf scoffed. “Still, you have proven your usefulness in freeing me from my confines at the hands of those butcher barbarians. I shall have to give you a payment befitting your deeds when I have my possessions back. I think ten gold is fair for your hard won efforts.”

Ma’zurah’s temper snapped. She hissed and her tail lashed behind her. She held out both hands, palms toward herself, claws unsheathed, displayed the Ring of Azura and the Signet of Sheogorath sitting side by side her wedding ring on one hand, and the Ring of the Redoran Hortator and the Moon and Star on the other. “Do not insult this one! There can be no doubt that this one is who she says she is! You may think this one a weakling of Azurah, but this one exists because she has the will to do so! And she shall remain as long as there are signs of her handwork!” She dropped her hands and took a menacing step toward the taller man. “This one has suffered much that cannot be suffered! This one has weighed matters that no astrolabe or compass can measure! She warns you, there is no bone that cannot be broken except for the Heart bone; this one has seen it twice in this one's lifetimes!”

Logrolf crossed his arms and pressed his thin lips together, looking thoroughly unimpressed. Ma'zurah barreled on, angrier by the moment. “Your actions in the past may have pleased your Lord, and that is all very well and good. But this one thinks perhaps you do not truly understand the teachings of the Deceiver of Nations. To truly understand, you must know that the secret of weapons is this: they are the Mercy Seat!”

The priest snorted and rolled his eyes. Ma'zurah kept going, snarling as she spoke, determined to make him back down. “This one offers you one last warning for the sake of your devotion to the Devourer of Trinimac: peril falls upon those who offer insult to the Child of Azurah, for she guards her name with all the selfishness of the sea! You will show this one the respect this one has earned!”

Logrolf looked at her as one would a piteous thing; as though she was someone to humor. “I cannot deny you have bravado. You are well learned in your practiced speech as well. But I am not so as blind as to be swayed by mere trinkets or pretty words. I follow the God of Deception. And yes, let me guess, you're a master of theft as well as of killing savages. Bravo. But I hardly think there is much impressive about a Khajiit thief. It is what your people are good at. Why, I hear half of Riften these days are just your sort of people. Though, from the level of importance of your prizes, I am going to assume you befriend the great followers of the Daedra then steal from them. Is that why you are truly here? To try and steal from me as well?"

Mazurah saw red.

There was a yowl audible from outside the fortress. Squeals came from the room of Forsworn children as the ground shifted slightly.

Fayrl stopped playing his lute and laid it gently on the steps, giving the horse a reassuring pat and whispering to it to sleep until he woke it.

“Fjotra, I will check inside. Stay with Miss Horse and make sure she doesn't wake up. If something bad happens, I want you to get on Miss Horse, tell her ‘Hava’, and ride her as far from here as you can.”

Without waiting for confirmation, he ran back into the fortress. He only hoped that Ma’zurah was alright.

Ma’zurah had the priest pinned to the ground at the bottom of the steps of the entrance hall. She was straddling the man’s chest with one forearm against his neck and attempting to grab his wrists with her other hand.

From around the side of the door at the top of the stairs, three heads watched the scene unfolding in the hall.

“Ma’zurah was trying to give a friendly warning!” Ma'zurah hissed in the man’s face, baring her teeth. “But Logrolf had to be disrespectful at every turn and accuse this one of lying and of attempting to steal from him!” Her tail swished through the air angrily, all her fur puffed on end.

“Ma’zurah!” Fayrl yelled, “you cannot kill him!” He ran and pulled Ma’zurah bodily off the the priest, his arms under hers, gripping her by the shoulders.

The moment Ma’zurah was off him, Logrolf began coughing and scurried backwards until his back hit the stone wall. “She's mad! She's trying to kill me!”

Ma’zurah’s paws scrabbled under her, trying to gain traction to stand. “Why not?!” she demanded. “We shall have the trial of Boethiah’s proving! This one will live because that one will die!” She hissed in the priest’s direction and her lashing tail whipped at Fayrl’s legs.

“Mephala's left testicle!” cried Fayrl. We can't just kill a priest of the Three! This isn't one of Boethiah's provings! We are here to rescue people! Not to murder them! You haven't done any of the rites for that sort of thing!”

Logrolf drew the sword he had taken from the undead Forsworn. “I will defend myself if necessary, I warn you, cat!”

Fayrl whirled towards the man with one outstretched arm and summoned webs, pinning the man flat against wall. “You, shut up!”

He looked at Ma’zurah in his arms. “Have you forgotten about the children you were not supposed to be waking up?”

The three heads popped back behind the door with a collective gasp.

Ma’zurah gained her footing and stood, wrenching herself out of Fayrl’s grasp and brushing herself off. She glared at Fayrl. “Ma’zurah was trying to warn this wafiit about the plans of the Lord of Domination! But then he insulted this one!”

Fayrl sighed. “Do you kill everyone who insults you?” he asked tiredly, feeling the strain of using so many of his taxing skills in a row. It had been a long time since he’d had to fight so much, and he had grown unaccustomed to it. “And what are we going to do about the children now?”

The door slammed shut and there was a great commotion of scraping furniture behind the door.

“What is this disgusting pile of white excrement!” Logrolf spat. “I am a revered priest of Boethiah! How dare you treat me in this manner, you horse sodomizing simpleton!”

Ma’zurah gave Fayrl a sweet smile. “Nooo… Of course Ma’zurah does not try to kill everyone who insults her! Only the ones who should know better!”

Fayrl stalked over the the priest, ignoring Ma’zurah. He glared at Logrolf. “I thought I told you to be silent. You can do it on your own, or I will make you do it.”

“Oh, a threat! I see neither one of you can escape the confines of your natures. A thieving cat and a violent Dark Elf. I am sure I have never heard of tha--”

Fayrl ripped his bloodied tunic over his head and jammed it in the priest’s mouth. “I see what you mean,” he told Ma’zurah. “Let's let him stew while we see what the children have gotten up to. Hopefully they don't have any more knives. I feel I've been stabbed enough for one day.”

“Sure, just one thing first.” Ma’zurah walked up to the glaring priest and kicked him in the shins. “Jekosiit!” she hissed. Logrolf gave a muffled cry and shouted something incoherent into the tunic in his mouth.

Ma'zurah turned and walked with calm poise back up the stairs into the hallway and knocked on the door. “Hello?” she called.

“Go away!” came a small voice on the other side of the door.

Fayrl followed Ma’zurah. He wasn’t sure how they would get the children out without frightening them further.

“This one is Ma’zurah! Ma’zurah is sorry for acting scary! What are your names?”

“Go away!” said a different voice. “We aren’t telling you anything!”

“What if she tries to open the door?” asked the voice from before in a hushed tone, still audible through the wooden door.

“We have all the furniture up against it, she can’t get us,” said a third voice.

Fayrl gave Ma’zurah a look. “We need to be delicate with this.”

“Maybe Fjotra can help,” Ma’zurah suggested. “Go get her?”

Fayrl gave her an uneasy look, but obeyed with a sigh. He made his way back down the stairs, flashing a warning look at Logrolf before he went out to where Fjotra was.

“How are we doing out here?” he asked the girl.

Fjotra looked up from petting the horse. “Fine. Can we go now?”

“We are almost ready. First, we want you to come and meet the other children that were kept here. That way we can all go together. But they are scared to leave. Do you think you could talk with them?”

Fjotra gave him a doubtful look but nodded. “I guess. Why are they scared to leave?”

“Well, Ma’zurah was having a disagreement with that priest and she was a little bit upset. I think the children are afraid she might be angry with them too.”

“Oh. Okay.” Fjotra walked inside, making a face as she skirted the blood summoning circle.

Fayrl hurried after her, cursing himself for not catching up before she could see the remnants of whatever horror occurred in the entranceway. He caught pace with her and walked up the stairs, hoping that Ma’zurah hadn’t blown the door open while he was gone.

Ma’zurah had entered the empty bedroom opposite the children’s room, and emerged holding a book and a pair of leather boots when she heard them coming. “Hey,” she offered.

Fayrl looked her up and down. “I brought Fjotra,” he said with a smirk.

Ma’zurah blinked at him. “What? Nevermind! Here.” She shoved the leather boots into his arms. “Try these on. Yours keep getting ruined.”

Fjotra giggled, and Ma’zurah winked at her.

Fayrl sat down on a step that didn’t look too messy and began to unlace his boots, grumbling under his breath as he did.

Ma’zurah turned to Fjotra. “So these children are in there. We need to make friends with them so they will not be scared anymore.”

“Okay,” said Fjotra. She went up to the door. “Can you hear me?”

There was a smattering of hissed whispers.

“Let me answer!” said one voice.

There was a brief silence.

“I can hear you. What do you want?”

Fjotra sat down on the floor in front of the door. “Um. I’m Fjotra. What’s your name?”

“Morva. What do you want?”

“To make friends. I heard you were scared, but you don’t have to be!”

“Who said I was scared? I’m not scared!”

“Oh! That makes it easy then. You’ll come with me? I want to go home now, but they said we couldn’t leave because you were scared.”

Ma’zurah opened her mouth as though to speak, then closed it with a look of consternation.

Fayrl grinned, one boot on. The kid was good.

“Why should I care about if you get to go home?” asked Morva.

“Um… Because you’re a nice person? I was kidnapped last night, and I had a dream that a lady with big furry ears came to rescue me, and then it happened! She’s really nice, you’d like her.”

Ma’zurah shot Fayrl a smug look.

Fayrl rolled his eyes. He was a bit jealous, but he would never admit to it.

“You’re supposed to be in the shrine!” Morva cried. “How’d you get out!”

Fjotra looked confused. “I just told you. I got rescued. Don’t you want to go home too?”

“This is my home! Momma said you were a gift for the gods! You need to go back to the shrine.”

“How’d she get out?” asked another voice.

“She said she was rescued.”

“But how do you get rescued from going to see the gods? Why wouldn’t you want to be there?”

“I don’t know! I’m just telling you what she said.”

Fjotra frowned. “They weren’t taking me to see the gods! They were going to kill me! They said so! And they put blood all over Dibella’s statue! Why would they do that?”

“That’s how you go to see the gods. You can’t be alive and see them, dummy.”

“But I don’t want to die! And I can see the gods anytime I go to the Temple! Sometimes Dibella comes to me in my sleep too! Dying isn’t the only way to see the gods!”

“It is not,” Ma’zurah chimed in. “Ma’zurah has seen seven gods with her own eyes, and talked to many more than that. Some of them even gave her gifts, and Ma'zurah is not dead yet.”

There was a hushed discussion inside before anything else was spoken.

“What do you want from us?” Morva asked finally.

Ma’zurah moved closer to the door. “Ma’zurah promises she will not hurt you. She just needs you to come with her to Karthwasten. That is all.”

“Just come out?” Fjotra pleaded. “Please? I wanna go home.”

“They’re gonna do something bad when we go out there!” cried another voice.

“Oh, hush, Tyran! We never said we were going out!” hissed Morva.

“I think that’s the angry lady’s voice,” said another child. “The one that did this to Dryston.”

“Yes, Ma’zurah was angry,” Ma’zurah explained patiently, “But Ma’zurah is not angry at you. She will not hurt you, and she did not hurt your friend. He is only sleeping, and Ma’zurah knows how to wake him up.”

There was a gasp inside. “Morva! They can wake Dryston!”

“I don’t trust it,” said the other child.

“Me either, Petra. They’re up to something.”

“Why are none of the grown ups stopping them?” asked Tyran.

“That’s a good question,” said Morva. “Hey! Dummies! What’d you do with our parents?”

Ma’zurah hesitated. “They are not here anymore. That is why you need to come with us to Karthwasten. Ma’zurah cannot leave you here by yourselves.”

“What do you mean, they aren’t here?” cried Petra. “Mommy wouldn’t leave me!”

“It’s a trick, Petra, don’t listen to them,” said Morva. “As long as we are in here, we are safe.”

Ma’zurah sat down on the floor in front of the door. “You like Hircine, right? Would you like to hear about the time Ma’zurah met Hircine?”

“How would you have met Hircine?” scoffed Morva.

“I wanna hear,” said Tyran.

“It’s just gonna be a lie anyways.”

“It is all completely true. Ma’zurah was on the island of Solstheim with her friends Julan, Shani, Constance, and Jasmine, and she was visiting an Imperial fort when the fort was attacked by werewolves.”

“Who are all those people?” asked Petra.

“I think the grey one is Jasmine and the guy the lady was beating must be Shani. I don’t know about the other two though….” Tyran trailed off.

“That’s not right!” said Morva. “Jasmine is a girl’s name! The grey one must be Constance. That’s a good man’s name.”

“No,” Ma’zurah explained, “the Dunmer with Ma'zurah now is named Fayrl, and the other one is Logrolf. Julan and Shani are both Dunmer, a boy and a girl, Jasmine is a Redguard girl, and Constance is a Bosmer girl. But it does not really matter. So these werewolves attacked, but Ma’zurah did not know they were werewolves. When they ran away, Ma’zurah found out that the commander of the fort, General Carius, had disappeared. So Ma’zurah went to the Skaal village to ask them if they knew where he was. The Skaal are a tribe of Nords who worship a god called the All-Maker and live in a very snowy part of the island of Solstheim.”

“This story has too many people. It’s boring,” said Tyran. “I want a better story.”

“I thought the story was about Hircine,” said Petra, disappointed. “Let’s get back in bed, Tyran.”

“This story is about Hircine,” Ma'zurah explained hastily. “Werewolves are the children of Hircine, do you not know that? And it has so many people because the world has a lot of people in it. But Ma’zurah will get to Hircine soon. Ma’zurah found out that she had to prove herself to the Skaal, so she did a lot of things to help them. Then, after a while, werewolves attacked the Skaal village too and kidnapped the Skaal leader. One of the werewolves even bit Ma’zurah and everyone thought she was going to become a werewolf!”

“Did it eat you?!” cried Tyran with excitement.

“She couldn’t be telling the story if it ate her, dummy!” mocked Morva.

“No it did not eat Ma’zurah,” she laughed. “It also did not turn Ma’zurah into a werewolf.”

Ma'zurah realized this was a difficult story to tell to children because she had to simplify it so much. She felt rather lame leaving out so many details. It had been significantly more complicated than she was making it sound, but she was trying to cater to the children's brief attention span. “Ma’zurah tried to find out where all the werewolves were coming from, and while she was looking for them she found out that all of the horkers had been killed and were lying dead on the beach!”

“Eww!” said Petra.

“Cool!” said Morva and Tyran.

That was a much better reaction than Mazurah had expected. They were engaged with the story now at least. “The shaman was very worried about this because the dead horkers were one of the signs of the Bloodmoon Prophecy, which foretold coming of the great hunt of Hircine. The shaman sent Ma’zurah to a castle made of ice called Castle Karstaag. Castle Karstaag was full of Rieklings. Rieklings are small blue goblins who live in icy places. Ma’zurah had to swim in freezing water to get into the castle, but when she got there, she met a Riekling named Krish. Ma’zurah was very surprised, because she did not expect any Rieklings to talk to her. Krish told Ma’zurah that the Riekling leader, a frost giant named Karstaag, had disappeared, and that Krish was trying to take over the castle. He made a deal with Ma’zurah to let Ma’zurah into the castle if Ma’zurah would help Krish become the new leader. So Krish took Ma’zurah into the castle, and inside Ma’zurah found out from the other Rieklings that werewolves had kidnapped the Riekling leader, Karstaag.”

“Did the werewolves go like ‘Rawr!’ and eat the head off the reekly things?” asked Tyran.

“Why would a werewolf want to eat a ice goblin?” Petra retorted. “It’d be too cold to eat.”

Ma'zurah was losing their attention again. She huffed a frustrated breath. Why was she so bad at telling stories to children? “Ma’zurah did not see any werewolves in the ice castle,” she explained quickly. “She only heard what the Rieklings said. But Ma’zurah thought that it was very strange that werewolves would kidnap an ice giant, so she went to tell the Skaal shaman. That night, Ma’zurah got kidnapped by werewolves!”

“And then did they eat you?” asked Tyran.

“Gods, you’re so thick!” said Morva. “If you get eaten by a werewolf you don’t get to tell a story about it.”

“Unless you’re a ghost,” said Petra.

There was a tiny gasp from Tyran. “You’re a ghost lady!”

“I should throw you outside with the ghost lady,” said Morva.

Ma'zurah sighed. “Ma’zurah did not get eaten by werewolves, and she is not a ghost. When Ma’zurah woke up, she was in a room full of werewolves and a man with skin like the coat of a deer and a head like the skull of a stag told her he was Hircine and that Ma’zurah had been chosen as Prey for the Wild Hunt, and all the werewolves were going to hunt her now!”

“Coooooool!” said Tyran.

“Lucky,” muttered Morva.

“Not so lucky! Ma’zurah did not want to die!” It was one of the worst memories of her life, but she could hardly tell the children that. “Hircine did not give her a choice about it. The next thing she knew, she had been taken to a giant maze under the ice! And there she met General Carius, the Imperial commander who had disappeared! Hircine told Carius and Ma’zurah that there was a key out of the maze, and that only one person would be able to use it. Carius was a nice man though, and he said that maybe we could find a way for both of us to escape, so we worked together to run through the maze full of werewolves until we found the key and got to the center of the maze. General Carius got hurt though, so he told Ma’zurah to take the key and use it to get out of the maze. He thought Ma’zurah stood a better chance of surviving whatever Hircine was going to throw at us next.”

“How did you breathe under the ice?” asked Tyran.

“Just shut up and listen,” said Morva.

“It was a great big cave that had been carved into a glacier, that is how. But Ma’zurah used the key to open a portal, and the next thing she knew she was in a different maze, and there was the leader of the Skaal who had also been kidnapped. So Ma’zurah tried to team up with him too, but no matter how much we looked, we could not find the key. When we made it to the center of the maze, the Skaal leader turned on Ma’zurah, and Ma’zurah found out that he had the key the whole time, and he was actually a werewolf too!”

“Woah!” all three of the children cried.

“Did he--”

“I swear, if you ask if she was eaten one more time, I am throwing you outside,” warned Morva.

Tyran was silent.

“Ma’zurah fought him and took the key, and this time Ma’zurah found herself in a room with an ice giant! Hircine appeared and told Ma’zurah that the ice giant, Karstaag, was going to fight her for the right to enter the last part of the Wild Hunt! So Ma’zurah had to fight him to survive the Wild Hunt!”

There was silence for a moment.

“What? You said I couldn’t ask,” pouted Tyran.

“Good,” said Morva.

“So how did you fight a frost giant?” asked Petra.

“With fire, of course! Ma’zurah threw fire at it until it fell over, but it was very difficult.” It had been more than difficult. It had been a long and exhausting fight that Ma'zurah had only survived by flying to a high ledge to heal herself and wait for her magicka to regenerate. “After that, Hircine appeared again and asked Ma’zurah what skill she thought a hunter needed the most, strength, speed, or cunning. Which one would you have picked?”

“Strength!” said Tyran.

“Cunning,” said Morva.

“I think cunning too,” said Petra.

“Ma’zurah also picked cunning, and Hircine told Ma’zurah that the last part of the Wild Hunt was to defeat Hircine himself! But he said it would be unfair to fight him at his full power, so Ma’zurah had to fight one third of him; the third she had picked. So Hircine divided himself into three, and the Avatar of Hircine’s Cunning appeared and started to fight Ma’zurah!”

“What did it look like?” asked Petra.

“It looked like Hircine, just a little smaller. A man wearing kilt, with skin like a deer’s coat, and a head like the skull of a stag. He had a spear that he twirled around a lot. Ma’zurah had to be very smart to get out of range of his spear. She ran around the room and threw ice at him until she defeated him. Then she got to keep his spear.” She was hardly doing this story justice, but she did not want to tell the children just how harrowing the fight had been and how close to dying she had come. “Hircine was very shocked that Ma'zurah had won. He promised to come back and host another Wild Hunt, but he only gets to host one Wild Hunt per era.” Ma’zurah paused with a look of alarm on her face and glanced at Fayrl. It was a new era now.

Fayrl dropped the old boots he was holding in hand and met her eyes. That was not news he wanted to hear; not at all.

“Cool!” said Petra.

“Do you have the spear right now?” asked Tyran.

Deciding it was pointless to worry when there was nothing she could do. Ma'zurah shook her head. “No, but Ma’zurah does have the Ring of Azurah if you want to see that. Azurah appeared to Ma’zurah and gave it to her in person.”

“Can I see?” asked Fjotra.

“Yes, it is right here,” said Ma’zurah holding out her hand. She indicated the silver oval ring with a blue stone like the night sky at its center that she wore next to her wedding ring.

“Wow… It is so pretty!” gasped Fjotra. “Can I try it on?”

“Ma’zurah supposes that would be alright, but it likely will not fit. It was made for Ma’zurah. Give Ma’zurah your hand?”

Fjotra held out her hand obediently, and Ma’zurah slipped the ring onto the girl’s thumb. It was still too large, but Fjotra didn’t seem to care.

“It has an enchantment on it,” Ma’zurah told her. “Can you feel it? That is the power of Azurah.”

“Wow…” Fjotra stared at the ring with round eyes.

“I wanna see!” cried Tyran.

“Oh, me too!” said Petra.

“I don’t know. What if there is no ring?” said Morva.

“I wanna see the ring!” insisted Tyran, voice turning whiny.

“It’s too dangerous,” said Morva.

“I wanna!” Tyran cried again, then sniffled.

“Don’t cry, you baby,” said Morva.

“You’re so mean,” sobbed Tyran. “I wanna see it!”

“Fine!” shouted Morva, “Go see your stupid ring! And when you end up captured by the weird white lady and the grey man, don’t come begging for my help!”

Tyran broke into a full cry.

There was a loud screech as something large was dragged across the floor.

The door opened just enough for the small, tearful face of Tyran to appear around the door. “I wanna see it,” he moaned, squirming to get out of the door.

Fjotra stood up and held out her thumb in front of the door, displaying the ring.

“It’s real!” he cried and scrambled forward, tripping over his own feet for a moment, but momentum kept him moving and he caught his balance, grabbing at Fjorta’s hand to look at the ring.

Petra’s head appeared around the edge of the door then popped back in. “They aren’t doing anything yet,” she whispered, still audible enough for Fayrl and Ma’zurah to hear.

“Can I wear it?” asked Tyran, his tears stopped, but a trail of snot coming from one side of his face. He wiped it on his sleeve.

“Yes,” Ma'zurah replied. “Fjotra do you want to help him try it on?”

Fjotra beamed at being given responsibility. “Hold out your hand!” she said, taking the ring off.

Tyran held out his hand, using his other hand to keep it steady. The rest of his body bouncing with excitement. “Like this?”

“Tyran’s getting to try it on,” said Petra. “Morva, can I try it too?”

“If you go out there, I’m not responsible for what happens. I can’t protect you. If you want to turn your back on Dryston and me, go ahead! But he’s like this because of her ! He protected us.”

“They don’t seem so bad,” said Petra.

“Go, then! Get out!”

Petra fell forward out of the door as though she were pushed and the door shut behind her.

Fjotra solemnly helped Tyran try on the ring. “You feel the enchantment?” she asked. “Like you can see everything more clearly, and your tiredness is slowly going away?”

“Woah! I’m like a warrior hero now!” Tyran made slashing and chopping motions with both hands. “Smash! Hack!”

Petra got to her feet and dusted herself off before looking at Ma’zurah, Fjotra, and Fayrl. She didn’t say anything, just watching them while Tyran slashed at the air, lost in his imagination.

Ma’zurah smiled at Petra. Fjotra giggled at Tyran’s antics.

Petra took a tentative step forward, eyeing Ma’zurah.

Fayrl was starting to get anxious. He didn’t know why. Everything was going fine. And yet he couldn’t help but feel nervous. Was something going to happen?

“This ring is amazing!” giggled Tyran. “I bet I could defeat an ice monster right now if one came at me!”

“Would you like to give her a turn?” Ma’zurah gestured at Petra. “I bet she would like to feel like a warrior too.”

Tyran held the ring close to his chest. “But I just got it!”

Petra took a couple more steps away from the door.

Fayrl stood up and Petra backed up against the door. “I’m going to go and check on the horse,” Fayrl said, and headed down the stairs.

Ma’zurah reached into her pack and pulled out a honey nut ball. “Ma’zurah will trade,” she offered Tyran.

He came over at once and extended his hand. “Deal!”

Ma’zurah took the ring and gave the boy the honey nut ball, then she turned to Petra. “You wanted a turn?”

She nodded and cautiously stepped forward, her hand out.

Tyran took his treat and started running around the entrance hall chewing on it and dancing, apparently oblivious to the remains of the bloody ritual in the center of the room. “I got a sweets and no one else can have it!” he taunted in a mocking melody.

Ma’zurah gently took the girl’s hand and slipped the ring on her finger. “Does the world seem brighter? That is the power of Azurah.”

Petra’s eyes widened and she looked around the room as if she did not know where she was. “This is Azra? This power?”

Tyran picked up a rock from the floor. “You think you can have some of my sweets. But you can’t!” he yelled at the rock, then threw it at the wall.

“Azurah made the ring. She put a piece of her power in it to make the enchantment.” Ma’zurah smiled at the girl.

Petra scrutinized the ring. “It just looks like a pretty stone. How did the power get inside?”

Tyran continued to pick up discarded items from the ground and scream at them about how they could not have his honey nut treat.

“Ma’zurah does not know how Princes do it, but when Ma’zurah does enchanting she uses a soul gem. Now. Would you like a honey nut ball too?”

Petra smiled. “I can have one too?”

In his circuit around the room, Tyran finally came across the priest stuck to the wall with spiderwebs. “I bet your want some of my sweets too!” He stood as tall as he could and pulled the gag from Logrolf’s mouth. “Ew, that’s gross! Don’t eat clothes Mr. Sillybeard.”

“Listen here you little shit,” spat the priest, “I am an illustrious priest of the great Queen of Deception, Boethiah! I demand you free me from my bonds at once! Or else I will curse you and every one of your little friends!”

Tyran frowned. “You’re a big poop! I was gonna share, but you’re mean.” He picked up a rock and shoved it in Logrolf’s mouth to replace the tunic.

Logrolf spat the rock out in Tyran’s direction. “I am going to make you pay!”

“Hey! Leave my brother alone!” yelled Petra.

The priest laughed. “If you don’t free me I will make sure that you never see your parents again.”

“No!” shouted Tyran.

The door to the room opened and Morva rushed out, a crude bone dagger in hand. “Leave them alone!” she yelled, facing Ma’zurah.

“Another idiot child of the inbred savages,” Logrolf taunted. “What a delightful sample of the Reach’s quality.”

Morva turned to the priest, realizing that it was not Fayrl or Ma'zurah who had threatened the other children. She had the knife up and her body tensed as if deciding to attack.

Ma’zurah sighed. “It is alright. You are not in any danger. Any of you. Logrolf the Idiot is tied up. He cannot hurt you. He is just very rude.”

Petra started laughing. “That’s why you were sitting on him and hitting his face!”

Morva lowered her weapon. “He is tied up?”

“I am! Now free me child! If you do I will give you a grand reward.”

“What kind of reward?” asked Tyran.

“To become an apprentice to the great Logrolf the Willful and serve the Lord Boethiah in all her needs.”

Petra and Tyran both frowned.

“That’s stupid,” said Morva. “I don’t want to serve some stupid god who makes people like you.” She stepped closer to Ma’zurah.

“It is not stupid! It is a great honor!” cried Logrolf. “You ignorant barbarians could not even comprehend what you are declining!”

Petra picked back up the tunic and hurriedly shoved it in Logrolf’s mouth. Tyran ran up after her and shoved it further in. The man struggled again and screamed behind his gag, though nothing he tried to say was intelligible.

Fjotra tugged on Ma’zurah’s sleeve. “Can I have a honey nut treat too?”

“Alright.” Ma’zurah retrieved one, then held out another to Morva. “Fair is fair.”

“I can see why you have him tied up,” Morva commented, accepting the treat.

Ma’zurah nodded. “He is very disrespectful.” She moved to peek into the room the children had been in. The boy was still asleep on the bed, but the rest of the furniture had been rearranged. She turned and walked down the steps into the entrance hall and looked out the front door. Fayrl was nowhere to be seen.

“Where are you going?” asked Morva as she saw Ma’zurah disappear down the steps.

Ma'zurah leaned out the front door to pat the horse and spotted the bodies lying in the road. She cursed under her breath.

“Trying to find Fayrl,” she explained.

The children sat at the top of the stairs watching and waiting. Tyran licked sugar off his fingers.

Ma'zurah closed the front door and turned around, noticing the door on the right side of the entrance hall slightly ajar. She peered inside.

The bodies of the Forsworn still rested where Ma'zurah had last seen them. The man Fayrl had injured lay sprawled across the floor at the side of the bed in a pool of blood, obviously dead. Fayrl stood in the center of the room redoing his hair.

“Hey,” Ma'zurah said to catch Fayrl’s attention. “Ma'zurah needs Fayrl to clear off the road and then come let Ma'zurah know when he is done.”

Fayrl turned around, tucking the last pin into his hair. “Very well. I will gladly go and take care of that, my dear.”

Ma'zurah nodded and walked back up the steps into the hallway and entered the children's room. The children came running after her.

“You can wake him up, right?” asked Petra, standing nervously next to the unconscious boy.

“Yes, but we have to take him to Karthwasten.” Ma'zurah started opening chests and nightstands until she located a set of packs. “Okay, help Ma'zurah pack your clothing. First one done gets another honey nut ball. Somebody show Ma’zurah where that one’s clothing is.” She gestured at the unconscious boy.

“They’re over here!” cried Tyran, tugging Ma’zurah’s sleeve towards a set of drawers.

“But his spare tunics are in here,” said Petra, pulling on Ma’zurah’s other sleeve.

Fjotra sat on an empty bed, blinking at the other children stuffing their meager belongings into packs. In a few minutes she was fast asleep.

When they finished, Ma'zurah scanned the room for anything else they might want, and tucked a lost rag doll into Petra’s pack. “Are you ready? It is not a long walk. It should only take an hour or two to get to Karthwasten.”

Petra nodded, slipping the pack onto her back.

Tyran put his bag on his head, trying to balance it. “Wooooaaah!” he said as it fell to one side. He caught it and put it back on his head.

Morva stood beside Ma’zurah with a wary expression on her face. “We’re ready. But I don’t understand. Where are our parents? Why won’t Dryston wake up? Why are you two here?”

Ma'zurah lifted her eyebrows at the teenager. “That is a lot of questions, and they all have long answers. Ma'zurah thinks she is getting a bit too hungry to answer so many questions at once. There will be hot meals at Karthwasten. If you ask Ma'zurah again after we have eaten, she promises she will answer them all. It is not too far to go or too long to wait, but it is only midday and Ma'zurah is already tired. Is that fair?” She gave a small smile and cast telekinesis on Dryston, lifting him gently.

Petra and Tyran watched their friend floating with wide-eyed fascination. Tyran waved his hand underneath and, upon finding nothing, walked under Dryston. “Magic!”

Morva tightened her grip on her pack straps at her shoulders. “What if our parents come back and we aren’t here? They’ll be worried.”

Petra looked worried at this prospect. “I… I don’t want mommy to think I’ve run off….”

“It will be alright. They will not worry. If you are still afraid, Ma'zurah will try to use magic to contact them once we get to Karthwasten. Ma'zurah is a Mystic. She knows a few rituals.” Ma'zurah stuck her head out of the children’s room, keeping an eye out for Fayrl.

“But where are they?” Morva insisted. “They put us to bed after we stayed up most of the night waiting for them, and then where did they go? They wouldn't leave us behind.” Tears of frustration and fear welled in her eyes.

Ma’zurah set the boy back down on the bed and knelt in front of Morva. “Ma’zurah does not know. She is sorry. Ma’zurah will try to contact them for you. She does not think she can do it here though. It is not a far trip. It will be alright. Ma’zurah will make sure that no harm comes to you if she can do anything to stop it.”

Morva looked like she was warring with herself. After a moment she sighed. “And you can wake Dryston? You're positive?”

“Yes.” Ma’zurah gave a firm nod.

“Then I will go.” Morva stood and Petra took her hand. “We are ready.”

“Alright, one second. Let Ma’zurah find Fayrl and see if he is ready too.” She walked into the hallway, closing the door behind her, and went to the front door. She spotted Fayrl hiding the last body behind a large juniper bush, and called out to him. “They are ready. Ma’zurah will bring them out.”

Fayrl nodded. “Go ahead. I'm ready.” He walked back to his lute and began playing a pleasant song.

“Alright. When Ma’zurah brings the boy out, make sure he will not wake soon, please.”

She went back inside and roused Fjotra from where she had been dozing. She smiled at the children, cast telekinesis again on Dryston, and led them outside. “Fayrl has his lute out, do you like songs?”

“I like music,” said Petra. “Daddy sings a song about a spotted stag who plays with wolves.”

“His song about the bear is better,” said Tyran, his pack on his head again, though he kept one hand on it so it wouldn't fall.

Petra snorted “You just like it cause the bear eats everything.”

“That's the best part!” said Tyran.

Morva walked in silence, clearly deep in thought.

Fayrl turned to the children with a goofy smile. “Look at this band of adventurers! Why we have four mighty warriors here! I shall be your bard and Ma’zurah your wizard as we hike on our way towards adventure. Let us hurry to the castle so we can wake the sleeping prince. Come, wizard, let us set our prince upon his steed!” Fayrl helped to guide the sleeping boy onto the horse’s back, stroking the horse to keep it from spooking. “Fjotra, I know you are good with horses, why don't you take the reins and I shall play a tune to keep away evil spirits.”

Ma’zurah gave Fayrl an amused smile, and the small group set off down the road to Karthwasten.

End Notes:

Ta'agra Translations: http://www.taagra.com/ wafiit = idiot jekosiit = sheep shagger

Fayrl’s tumblr: @talldarkandroguesome

Screenshot of Fayrl Screenshot of Ma’zurah Check out my art tag for more pictures of Fayrl and Ma’zurah.

Constructive criticism is welcome. We also really like it if you leave comments on Ao3.

[dunmerofskyrim]

26

Shurfa, Balambal, Medis and me. The city sleeps around us. But the city has slept for a hundred years and almost a hundred more. How long, I wonder, before folk started footpadding round it? Stepping soft as soft, to make homes in the hollows of its slumbering body and take tiny bites from its flesh? We’re among their number now. Urn-breakers, grave-robbers, Tammunei said. But we skulk lower still, hiding from the living and from the dead and from the city itself. And as for Tammunei, we left them behind.

No racers in the sky anymore, not so close to Vvardenfell. Only the sometimes-sounding voice of a gull, raucous towards the citadel edge where they make their nests in the cliffs. Only the raucous uprise and downfall of salt-shrikes, from their colonies in the citadel’s high places. Otherwise the skies are empty, a close and cloistered white.

My breath makes mist as I walk.

Three days since we split off from the main procession, out to scavenge. The first day finished in hollow luck. Salt-stained and strewn with the crackling death of dry seaweed where the Red Year made the sea rise up to flood Old Ebonheart’s streets, we found a backstreet spicer’s shop. A wealth of sealed urns and jars; smoked salts, powders in every colour; fragrant seeds. Even a trove of coins in shils and ceramics and green-black trueglass. But spices alone can’t feed you, and with no way of trading, nor can coin. I took for myself a little of each all the same. For habit or hate of waste, I can’t say which.

My breath mists as I walk, and after the two-day shadow of that empty fortune, I am desperate. I am desperate in deploring this place. A city of stillness, shadows, shattered things. A city where every street leads nowhere. Where wealth and luxuries count for nothing. Where spice is only dust, and coin is only metal in shapes that have no use. And yet we saw life here. Not just animals, or the moving dead, but thinking feeling black-souled life. Or thought we did. There’ve been no signs since then. I wonder if Balambal’s brother didn’t see a ghost. It seems a simpler explanation. If people make their lives here, the glaring question is how?

“There.”

Balambal points a way out of the blind alley we’re walking. A stubborn section of wall stands up from a building gone elsewise all to rubble. As a facade it’s still grand, in its way. Three even-sided triangles, side by side in sequence. The outer two are screened off with what’s left of a wooden latticework: interlocking triangles, each leading into a nook in the stone behind. Still a scant few scraps of ribbon flutter on the frame, tied once like prayers, and since worth too little to be scavenged away. The middle triangle is an archway, an open doorless doorway, leading on to nothing but wreckage.

“Temple,” I say.

“Once maybe,” says Medis. “Before the false gods proved false in their godhead; nothing but masks for the Princes’ glory, worn until their people were strong enough to see the truth.”

“In the ending of the words is the true way revealed,” Shurfa says, and signs herself down her body: head, heart, and belly.

“Hadn’t reckoned you for the pious type,” I say to her.

She looks back blankly. “Why’d I not be?”

I feel the new knowledge like a watched wariness, fixed in the floor of my chest. I don’t know why. What have my near-nineteen years taught me of the Dunmer’s former gods, or the come-again old ones worshipped now? Festivals in the Quarter. Mazes of veils and curtains for Mephala the Spinner; Boethiah’s priests in their two-faced masks; the ululating shrill of prayers across the Quarter in the dusk and dawn processions for the Twilight Queen.  But I’ve encountered little devotion, little faith. And feeling it at my side now fills me with something like worry.

Balambal juts a thumb at the doorway, half-interested, and speaks in Dunmeris: “In?”

“To steal?”  says Shurfa, tip of her longclub resting against the ground as she shakes her head. “I won’t. A temple’s a temple.”

“Even when its gods are false?” I say, more curious than contending.

“Might not be gods anymore. Might never’ve been gods to start. Still I can’t name a saint that’s higher than Seht, Ayem, or Vehk,” Shurfa says. “Place is still holy some way or another, and I believe that’s that.”Balambal takes another few steps towards the doorway. I look to Medis. The young priest’s face softens further with a smug light as he closes his eyes and speaks:

“All saints, great and small, are slabs on the road to the truth. To walk the true way, you must step over them.”

It seems like sophism to me, but towards a practical end. I clap my hands together once. “You heard the priest.”

With a practised gesture, Medis moves his long queued braid to fall over one shoulder, with the back of his hand. His heavy lidded eyes open, gleaming with some triumph too large by far for the small victory he’s won.

Inside is wreckage and rubble. Roofless, more like a scree-hoarded hillside than an empty building. A bronze brazier half-buried in the wreckage. The shattered parts of a broken stele, just gleaming fractions of basalt now, carved with illegible words. The scent of old ceremony still clings to the air. Incense, balming-spirits, fragrant-burning firestones. Or am I imagining it? Inventing visions from older days.

The scree and rubble slopes into the remains of a spire. It towers above the ruin, not-quite-solid and not-quite-straight. Ruin and rag-pickers, we’re all in its unsafe shadow. A cavemouth yawns from the rubble-slope and leads down beneath the earth. A child-high hole, or a tunnel tall enough to stoop through.

I pick over the rubble with scrambling strides til I’m almost at the tunnel-start. Hard to tell if the depths are dug out or natural-made. Old Ebonheart is full of sinkholes and crevasses where the Red Year opened the earth and left it yet unhealed. Bracketed against one wall of the cave is a little redware lamp, mouth black with soot.

One step further into the cavemouth, I feel a strangeness on my skin. “It’s warm. Warmer as you go.”

Somewhere above the entrance, a wind-chime sounds, high in the spire overhead.

“Wanna chance it?” I say, jabbing a thumb over my shoulder at the tunnel.

Balambal shrugs.

“Better to be hungry and warm than hungry and cold,” says Medis. “If we’re to search anywhere, it might as well be out of the wind.”

Shurfa wears a look of apprehension. She lets down her longclub and its head strikes the ground with a studded chunk of sound. Leaning on it, she hangs and shakes her head. “I mislike this.”

“Not asking you to like it. Just to do it. Reckon you don’t like starving or freezing either.” I turn and move to the tunnel’s edge. Reach out to touch at the lamp. My finger comes away black and I rub it against itself, feeling for the texture as it offs onto my palm. “Soot’s fresh.”  I take the lamp from its bracket and shake it. “No oil though. Must get refilled. Someone comes here. Time and again, I reckon. Must be a reason.”

“I don’t like the feeling of this,” Shurfa says. “Spit on the reason, it’s the someone that gets at me. We oughtn’t be here.”

I replace the lamp in its bracket. We won’t need it. “We’ve seen people. Have to be feeding themselves, sheltering themselves somehow. This could be storage or who knows what. I don’t wanna go without finding out.”

“If that’s so,” says Shurfa, “well, why’d they not watch it?”

“Then watch them back. You won’t go in? Fine. Stay. Keep an eye out. You as well, Balambal. Medis and me’ll go down and see.”

“If you don’t come back?” says Balambal, already settling to sit on the slope’s wreckage, waiting.

“Give it two hours. If we’re not back then, go back to the rest. Tell Tammunei and tell everyone to get going — this place isn’t safe and would sooner see the backs of us.” I exaggerate. That’s the way luck works. Whatever you prepare for’s whatever won’t happen, so always prepare for the worst. Hope by pretending to have none. “Medis? A light, please.”

We step into the cavemouth. Into its red-throat warmth. Medis chants three old and prayer-like words and a violet light bathes us. No solid core of light, nor any cold flame such as I summon. More an incandescence that, sourceless, has insinuated itself into the air round our limbs. Like we ourselves are radiant.

The chime sounds again in the wind. The toll of metal teeth as this mouth closes round us.

Step by step we sound the depths. The tunnel slopes short, then corkscrews down straight and sudden through the earth. We stoop the way and soon we’re made to crouch. My shoulders hunch against the ceiling; my hands paw and drag on the ground. But the walls of the tunnel are solid and almost smooth, like gritty plaster or daub.

Running the secret ways of the Grey Quarter, I’d squeezed through worse. The crawl-tunnels and waste-ways that led off from spinner’s shops and laundries; darkness and dust and a textile haze in the air. I’d known mer who’d lived in warrens worse and called them home. The tight dark of this place holds no dread for me. The only bother’s in how the floor scuffs my knees. But the tunnel comes straight now, no further down, but tighter with every inch we crawl. There comes a time when too much is too much. It comes sooner for Medis than me.

He stops behind me. “I can’t…” his voice is quiet and thin. “Not any further. Not enough to breathe.”

“Turn back then.” Speaking, I taste a runnel of sweat corner into my parted mouth. The heat has got stifling. Blood-hot, flesh-warm; like a body asleep all round us. “I won’t stop you. Only…” I feel something ahead. Not quite a breeze but more motion than the hard-packed air has in this tightest point of the tunnel. “Wait.”

I call my own magelight, hunkering onto my elbows and knees to cup my hands and whisper the spell to life. It glows red, an unfuelled ember; a lampless lamplight, burning cold. With a breath and half-bound gesture, I send it forwards. In a ring of cold-smouldering red, it carries my sight down the tunnel. Then the ring breaks open wide. The tunnel ends in emptiness.

“It opens out ahead,” I say. “Just a little further. More air that way. I promise.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes you can. There’ll be more space for you sooner if you carry on than if you turn back.”

“Back?”

“Back through all those tight-screwed tunnels. Remember? Just a little further, and you’ll straight your back and breathe your fill.”

“Only a little?”

“I promised, didn’t I?”

I start to crawl. I hear Medis shuffle behind me, whimpering breathless all the while.

The last bodylength, I crawl on my belly. Crawling towards daylight, I could do it unthinking, but making only towards the uncertain glow of my magelight, I feel a flash of fear — some short and catching shadow of what Medis feels to my back. My breath catches thick and heavy. I grit my teeth. Writhe, squirm, hard daublike dirt on either side of me. Strange-smooth, no purchase. For a moment I’m stuck. Then I’m born like a worm out into the open and pull Medis by the hands to join me.

He lies on his back, panting, eyes closed. With time his breath comes slower.

My eyes are open though, and all for the world around me. Compared with the tunnel, it’s an enormity. The smooth almost-gleam of its daub-like walls, worn and worked til the earth is nearer ceramic than soil. In the darkness outside my magelight’s glow, there are glimmers and gleams, above and all round. Jade-green in shuffling arrays, like constellations crawling through the night. A warm and nascent orange, pulsing strange in places, like firelight glowing through the hide of a yurt’s walls. Hot as a living body, this place, and full of the sound of motion.

“Medis?”  I’m on my feet, reaching for my sword, putting Firecalling words on the tip of my tongue. “There’s things here. Moving.” The start of fear hurries my words. “Think I see eyes. Priest?”

A belly-shuffling something sounds its way towards us. I draw my sword with a jerk of my arm. It reaches towards us and into the light, like the searching finger of something far larger than itself. An armoured worm, long as my forearm, shelled all round in lapping plates like a lobster; legless and shell like leather. Three bright-black eyes stare back from a headless head, set over a round and leechlike mouth.

It writhes up onto its backmost plates and seems to stare. I stand frozen still and watch the glint of my magelight red the black shine of its eyes.

“Lower your sword, outlander,” Medis sighs. There’s a safety in his voice. A calm that’s almost smug in how our nerves have reversed in role. “It’s only a forager.”

“…a kwama?”

“Are you surprised? This is an egg-mine.” Medis gives a sharp outbreath of a laugh. “Huh. They have an egg-mine, and beneath an old temple. Our saints sustain us still…” Another snort of laughter.

“It’s not wild then? That thing’s tamed?”

“Domesticated, yes, after a fashion. The queen is tamed. She knows the scent of her miners, and knows it means feed, cleaning for her sometimes. So the hive is tamed as well. ‘That thing’ would have attacked at first scent of you otherwise. The question is, why does it think you smell like a miner.”

I frown. Look down at my hand, still soot-stained. The black has stuck to it, like a residue, a resin. “Must be my honest face and open nature…” Sweat beads my brow and fills my clothes like a mist. “This means food. They’re farming here, good as. I’d ask who, but time’s short, and long night’s make a better time for asking questions without straight answers. You know anything about mining for eggs?”

“Not such that I’d consider advising anyone, but…”

“But what? I’m asking you to advise me.”

“I read an allegory once. ‘As the kwama feeds on dirt, so from dirt does the egg-miner feed us all; As the kwama makes its architectures of ordure, so too we must remember how truth first came from dung.’”

“I’m all for the manifold uses of book-learning but…what did it teach you about the actual mining?”

“As I gather…you take the eggs and you put them in a basket.”

[talldarkandroguesome]

12th of Sun's Dawn, Sundas

I do not know how cruel or kind Almalexia's decision was. Of course she could see straight through me, as though I were merely a pane of glass. Of course, with her godly abilities she is capable of manipulating mortals as she sees fit. Still. I feel hollowed out. Incomplete. Broken. My hand was forced. I knew it would be. Yet the feeling of it cannot easily be shook. My one contentment, aside from being spared my life, of course, is that my boon could not be erased entirely from me. The imprint a god using your body leaves is apparently permanent, even in the face of another deity. Still, I will have to learn all over again the full extent of where Mephala's gifts still reach. I have seen already that I still have visions of a person's secrets upon touching them, but they are not quite so overwhelming. Beyond that, I must wait to see. And now I have been given a series of tests. Each one designed to observe my loyalties. Uncle will be thrilled, I'm sure, by the amount of grueling dreariness I have to submit to. So much endless Temple work. At least part of it involves the search and eradication of those seeking to harm Morrowind. Scouting is work I am well suited to. And assassination, although it has been a long time since I have participated in, is not beyond my skill set. Hard to believe that such a prominent Tribunal priest would be working for the Daggers without anyone knowing before they rose to such high ranks, but as faith blind as many of our people are, it is little wonder that they missed such an obvious sign. The hardest part of my task is simply to make it look as though it was the work of the Daggers, and to find a way to keep from casting dispersions upon the Temple. My success and the degree of precision with which I complete my task, determines my fate. I have to do all of my missions flawlessly, lest Almalexia change her mind. This conspiracy has four co-conspirators. And I have to wipe them out quickly enough that none are any the wiser of what has happened to their companions. I head, with Avon and Sildras in tow, towards Narsis. If I am successful, then I head north towards Stonefalls. There is one more in Kragenmoor, go figure the Dres were easily seduced to devious acts. Then it is over the border to Skyrim. I will be given the specifics of those two fellows only after I have been successful with my first two targets. I do not like this. I know too little. What shall my true punishment be? Nothing makes sense. Almalexia could see through me, she knew my faith was not in her, even if I do not doubt the strength of her powers. Why should she call me her son and speak as she did? I am not my father, who serves faithfully the Almsivi and their teachings. The whole situation is unsettling. I've no idea how to cope with these feelings. I am likely still a dead mer walking.