The Penitent's Tale
The roughly bound book recovered from the Hall of the Vigilants and given to me by Serana sat undisturbed on my desk for several days, while I busied my mind in thinking up a series of urgent tasks that had to be done before I could possibly begin reading it. Finally, I realized that I was playing games with myself. What was it that Serana had said about the ability of an emotional vampire to sink its teeth into you from beyond the grave? Perhaps Serana's experience had led her to exaggerate the dangers. She had been driven forward by a very personal passion. But to be honest, I had already formed a picture of the Dragonborn in my mind, from past research and recent encounters, and that picture was almost entirely positive. So much for the objectivity of the objective observer from the objective Synod, who was here to objectively draw objective conclusions...that he was already so sure of that he was reluctant to confront anything that might disturb them.
On the fourth day after I returned from Castle Volkihar, I sat myself down at the desk as soon as I woke up, and resolved sternly to begin. And then wasted at least half an hour, daydreaming and examining the cover of the book. It had been torn from a much larger volume, and roughly sewn along the left side to hold and protect the sheets inside, no more than twenty of them by the looks of it. I couldn't read the title of the book that the covers had come from; there were a few letters left, but no legible words. Hmm, I thought to myself, the closest that I've ever seen to these were on old sets of The Real Barenziah, copied and bound in Riften fifty or sixty years ago...and then realized I was delaying again. What I wanted was inside, not on the surface.
It was a confession, hand-written on poor-quality paper, in a wandering, shaky script that became almost impossible to read on the last few pages. The author gave her name as Nimphaneth. Who she had been was anyone's guess. At least one page was missing from the beginning, since the text started in the middle of a sentence. The content was no surprise. I'd known it had to be there somewhere; it couldn't have been any different given what she needed, and I had been closing my eyes to it. Perhaps still closing my eyes with that last excuse.
.
...we never practiced any concealment among ourselves. The stories that the coven meets masked, and no member knows the true name and occupation of any other, are false rumors spread by the ignorant. It was true that we did not discuss the coven or coven business anywhere that outsiders might hear. But that is hardly surprising.
I cannot tell you where the coven met. Or who the other members were. When I came to realize the foul evil that had ensnared my soul, I prayed to Mara and Stendarr for guidance, and they told me that I could be responsible for only that which I had done with my own hands and heart. If I betrayed the others and they were put down while still deep in their error, I would rob them of their only chance of salvation through confession and atonement. You may say I merely delude myself. But the path I have taken is open to others to walk as well. Mara's light shines on all, and the righteous mercy of Stendarr knows no limit. They have but to open their eyes.
(Here there was a marginal note in another hand: Idle excuses. Question her further.)
I can only confess for myself, for Nimphaneth. Others must confess for themselves, without coercion. By the grace of Mara, this will happen very soon, I am sure.
Here are more details that I can give about the coven and my filthy sins and the sins of others. The coven met in an old burial chamber with an altar of Namira, Lady of Decay, at the far end. No one knows who constructed the altar, which is large and elaborate, and could not be built by any person today. This has been the place that Namira has been reverenced for as long as anyone can remember. Whether there are other altars of Namira in Skyrim is something I do not know.
After I joined the coven, its membership remained the same for a long time, about a dozen people, though not everyone made it to every meeting. We congregated once a month for our detestable feasts and sacrifices. The meat for these came usually from a traveler or merchant ambushed along the roads. It was said that Namira would spread a darkness around our hunters, and so they were never caught or suspected. I was not a hunter, but at the time I would have taken on the task gladly as a holy duty. The hunting was done by several men in the coven who were experienced in such matters.
Our services at the altar were interrupted for a period by a jealous follower of the daedric prince Meridia, who crept into our sacrificial chamber when all were absent and attempted to purify it. His magic was too weak to contend with the might of Namira, though, and all he succeeded in doing was waking up the encoffined draugr in the chamber and elsewhere in the cave. They tore him to pieces at once, but the damage was done and Namira's altar closed to us. None of us had a hope of standing against the awakened undead. For a time, we held our feasts in the Hall of the Dead in Markarth, but the priest of Arkay there noticed our presence and closed the Hall off, making that location dangerous for us as well. This was the first time that I doubted the power of Namira, for she could not cleanse her own altar. However, I did not discuss this with the others.
To my surprise, I received a message from the coven leader two months later that the feasts had begun again and the altar had been purified. She also mentioned that the coven had a new member, its first for many years. I arrived for the feast on the appointed day, and was told that it would be the new member who would be bringing the meat for the feast, and that neither had arrived yet, so we waited and grew more and more hungry and filled with evil passions.
As we waited, we speculated on the identity of the sacrifice and the new member. The leader of the coven knew both, but refused to divulge them in advance. Several of us guessed that the sacrifice would be the priest of Arkay who had contended with us in the Markarth Hall of the Dead, for he had just recently grievously offended Namira and was besides well known to all in Markath as an idle and insincere cleric addicted to luxuries.
Finally the two newcomers arrived and were welcomed by the coven leader. I customarily sat nearest the altar at the far end of the table, and so did not have a clear view at first, though I recognized the voice of the priest of Arkay that we had correctly guessed would be our meal that day.
I did not know the other person at first. It was a woman, dressed in a hooded robe in shape like those which Thalmor wizards used to wear, but of much thinner material. The hood kept me from seeing her face clearly. But when she followed the enthralled sacrifice to the altar to offer him up at the invitation of the coven leader, I realized with a shock that it could be none other than the glorious hero that every bard in Skyrim sang about incessantly: the Dragonborn. Her eyes were shining with excitement, and I am shamed to admit I noticed and was stirred by her nipples hard and erect under the thin cloth of her robe. She had an ebony dagger in her hand for the sacrifice. Being seated nearest the altar, I could observe her easily as she walked forward; I swear she ran her tongue over her lips, and I do not think it was from nervousness. After the coven leader commanded the priest to lie down on the altar, she plunged the dagger into his heart without hesitation, drew it forth, ran her finger over the red-dripping blade, and licked off the blood with a satisfied smile. The coven leader invited her to be first to eat. Eagerly, she removed the priest's robe and carved a long strip of flesh from his arm, and consumed it without hesitation. All the time she was doing this, her face glowed and her eyes shone like a blue fire. Then she drew forth a larger blade, and with a single blow sliced the head off the priest, bathing her hands in his blood before she presented the dripping head to the coven leader.
(Here there was another marginal note: This detail is not mentioned in testimony from others. Probably added to make the account seem more impressive.)
Then all of us felt Namira's loving Presence and heard her dread Voice. We sensed her at nearly every feast, but to hear her Voice was a rare honor indeed. She proclaimed the Dragonborn her champion, and the bearer of her Ring that confers health and other benefits to those who wear it and eat the flesh of corpses. And I swear the look of triumph on the Dragonborn's face was terrifying even to me, who had attended these accursed rites for decades. Exultant, trembling slightly, she faced us and stretched forth her hands stained red to the forearm, the Ring on her finger, and then turned and bowed deeply to the altar, so deeply that when she rose and turned again, her hair was wet with the blood that covered it. She was as passionate as a woman about to embrace her lover.
I and the others rejoiced with her, and she stayed for the whole feast, talking at length with each of the guests in turn. But inside me was confusion. For me, Namira was the greatest lord I had ever known, and I had never dared aspire to serve anyone greater – being as yet unfamiliar with Mara's mercy – but why should one who has been gifted by Akatosh and Kynareth, great rulers of the realm of light, bother with honors from the daedric prince of darkness and decay? And not only bother with the honors, exult in them as if no gift could be more precious.
When we talked, I ventured to ask her what had brought her here in the first place. She smiled and tossed her long black hair, and answered simply, "Fate." I replied, "Can you trust Fate, then? Even if it is unchangeable, it is not easily read by human beings." And she said, "My fate leads me to a great task, and I must draw upon every power, in the worlds above and below, before I can hope to succeed. They warned me – warned me that taking such power meant that I would have to take much along with it, much evil, as they termed it, and make it part of myself as well. So much the worse for me, then.
"I have no choice. You cannot save others without sacrificing something of your own – something that is part of you. By your Lady's grace, I have gained in strength. No matter what people say, that means that your Lady will have a share in my final victory, if indeed I am victorious. I cannot afford to care about what some say of your Lady, about the sacrifices and service she requires. The high gods allow Her to exist and act, and that is enough for me. If I am to prevail in the end, I have no choice but to approach her and all who have powers like hers."
No choice... no choice. But we do have a choice. I have chosen. The great hero is hollow and empty. She is greedy for power and excuses herself by talking of fate. When I spoke to her, I did not as yet know enough to call her actions wrong, but they disturbed me then, more and more in the days and weeks that followed. In fact, she is evil. She is evil. I reveal her identity here though I conceal all the others, because she is a wicked hypocrite and will never confess and repent.
It drove me mad to think of it. The bards sang ceaselessly in praise of someone whom they knew not. But I have seen her true face, smeared with human blood and grease. I have seen the act of killing have the same effect on her as the act of love has on others. Every tavern song exalting her deepened my agony, until finally I could bear it no longer and fled the coven, seeking grace and peace elsewhere than in earthly things. If I deserve punishment, even death, I will...
Here the manuscript ended, at the bottom of a page. What came after had been lost.
.
Eyes alight with passion and energy, high, exultant words...I had seen those reported of the Dragonborn before. It was the state she worked herself into before doing something she found supremely difficult – or repugnant. And afterward, she collapsed into terrified weeping and futile recriminations. I wondered who had comforted her at that time – it would have been too early for Shahvee – Serana perhaps? Was that why the story had struck so close to home for her, why she had instructed me not to return it? Had Serana held the Dragonborn through the night, blood-stained and shuddering, as she revisited again and again her murder and cannibalism to obtain an artifact that was all but useless to her? I knew the effects of Namira's Ring from lorebooks, and it would not have increased her abilities in any useful way. It was only helpful for heavily armored melee fighters, and that was the exact opposite of her preferred style.
An impulsive lunge toward a source of power, closing her eyes to the price that had to be paid, repenting afterward but always keeping that which she had seized, useful or not, along with all of its associated pain and grief multiplied by the twisting and turning of her mind – it was another thread in her character. What did this Dragonborn have to do with the cautious, meticulous planner who had balanced the needs of dragons and mortals and crafted a secure future for the vampire race? With the humble student of the Greybeards up at High Hrothgar? With the mighty hero selected by fate to destroy the black dragon Alduin and save the world? Even with the cunning and resourceful Listener of the Dark Brotherhood? Nothing – except they all happened to be the same person.
Or was the entire manuscript someone's fantasy? The Vigilants hadn't believed part of it, that the Dragonborn had beheaded the sacrificed priest. How did we know that any of the rest was true?
As these thoughts were running through my head, I got up from my seat at the desk and begun to stroll around the room, book in hand. Then I saw that my random path had taken me to the fireplace, which was lit, since the wind from the sea was still quite cool.
And then it suddenly dawned on me that the perfectly obvious and natural thing to do was to throw the book onto the fire and forget about its existence and what it had contained.
I didn't. I went instead to my luggage, and buried the thin volume at the bottom of one of the larger bags. Deep enough to be safe from sudden impulses. Then I sat down again and wondered what had come over me, but really, I knew.
.
I dreamed all night of somewhere purple and black, where I was talking to ghosts, though as usual by the time I awoke I had already forgotten what we had been talking about. I could only remember that all the ghosts were complaining about the same thing. The place resembled the Dragonborn's description of the Soul Cairn, the only description that we have. I wonder whether a trip there lies in my future.
The next morning, I hired a courier to take the book and some correspondence back to the Synod librarian in the Imperial City. It'll be safe there, even though delivery to such a distant place cost me an arm and a leg. I've instructed the librarian to make several copies of the book as soon as possible – just in case.
Then I returned to the inn to pack my bags. It was time to move on to my next destination. I'll probably sleep better after I am out of here, to begin with. And as everyone knows, a moving target is harder to hit.