The Lost Vengeance
It is not a tale found in common lore. This story of regret, of family and betrayal, is known only to a few select scholars, each one older than even the oldest of noble houses. This tale, though heartbreakingly beautiful, is all but lost, and few people truly know why. But I, Dirith Nelelor, have finally heard enough to stitch the fragments together – not without enormous pains, mind you.
When first I approached the woman who would inevitably tell me the first of this tale, she said to me, "Hush, child, do not toy with forces beyond you. This is a terrible story you seek."
Naturally, my first reaction was anger. I'm a wizard of House Telvanni, for Vivec's sake! I won't fall apart at the mere mention of strife. But when I had settled down and my anger had subsided, the woman, with scores of wrinkles running down her face, smiled at me, and she said:
"Very well, then. I will tell you my part of the tale, and if you choose to seek further I will tell you the name of the next Keeper of Vengeance, who may or may not tell his part. Just know, before you hear it, that this is an awful burden to bear on one's shoulders. Do you truly wish to know the Anguish, so badly that you would forever cloud your mind with it?"
I agreed. I so wish I hadn't.
But once I had heard the first I desperately needed to hear the second, and so on until, finally, I had heard the whole of it. The tale was such that I felt a terrible sense of loss once it was over, and after my audience with the last Keeper I was said to have vanished, though where I went I could not tell you. The memory is so far away, as if had in another life. I was found near Ash Mountain by my uncle, who said I was raving mad, struck with a powerful fever, which did not break for a number of weeks. Even after the illness subsided, however, I felt empty, like a part of my being had been ripped away and thrown from me. The first Keeper tells me that this is the pain of Vivec, and now I must wear it with me wherever I go, just as He does.
But I cannot bear the hollowness that this has left me with. The Anguish has found me, buried itself within me, and now not even the warmth of the sun nor the smell of my favourite meal can stir a smile on my face. If I am to suffer the weight of this tale, I will write it down so that perhaps the Mages Guild can study it, and one day break the curse that the Keepers of Truth have tried so hard to contain.
And so, here: The Tale of the Lost Vengeance, our Lord Vivec's secret shame, and the Anguish that caused a god's heart to bleed.
Keeper Meraala, first of Vengeance:
The carriage came in to Vivec City pulled by two modest guar with tattered saddles, the Dunmer at the helm no more than a boy of twenty-two years and of minor significance. It had underneath its ragged canopy a wealth of potatoes, pelts and meats, and to the unsuspecting eyes of the people it passed it seemed no more than a simple farm cart sent forth to the capital to sell its wares. Those who stared harder – the few who did not need to be anywhere in a rush – noted that there was a hooded figure amongst the sacks, its face turned from the sunlight, but almost immediately dismissed it as the boy's grandmother, coming along to see the great city and pay her respects to the Warrior-Poet. If a guardsman on the road had stopped the cart, perhaps the Anguish would never have happened; but they hadn't, and so it did.
The Dunmer came to a halt near the bridge of the first canton, where he turned and looked at the passenger in his cart. He smiled, and it was a warm, bright smile that did not to dispel the ice of the person he had driven from Sathra Farms.
"We're here!" he said, and pointed up to the enormous Temple Canton that overlooked the city. The water around it gleamed, and the Dunmer felt his heart soar at the sight of it. "That's Lord Vivec's temple up there. He should be inside, unless he's gone to Mournhold. Do you need anymore help, friend?"
The figure shook its head and set a small pouch in the boy's hand. He was about to protest – he wanted no money for helping someone who seemed down on their luck – but when he caught sight of his companion's hand, the words died in his mouth.
Its hand was a mixture of gold skin and ghastly black, as if at some point it had been partially submerged in lava. The Dunmer had seen that hue of gold before, in storybooks as a child; the colour of the Chimer, the ancestors of his people. He did not have a chance to speak again before the figure alighted his carriage, and then that young Dunmer who carried the Anguish leaves the tale forever.
To the bridges it went, and with a slow, deliberate stride it crossed each canton, quiet and unhurried. Few paid it attention. It was a particularly busy day in the marketplace, with new wares arriving from the furthest reaches of Skyrim and Cyrodiil, and the citizens of Vivec were eager to peruse. The figure reached the Temple Canton without so much as a second glance.
It encountered one lone problem, and that was at the end of its journey, just as it was about to ascend the stairs to the temple itself. The guards were vigilant and not as prone to fancy as the civilians. As soon as the figure came across one of them, it was stopped. The guard's name was Aradel, a Mer who took pride in the accomplishments of the Tribunal and touted them as though they were his own.
"Halt," he demanded, the Holy emblem on his chestplate almost winking in the sunlight. "Lord Vivec isn't seeing anyone today. I suggest you move on."
The figure paused. It lifted its head towards him and made a noise – a strangled cry that sounded close to words, and enticed Aradel to lean closer. It was a fatal mistake.
He didn't even see the blade that killed him. He had tilted his ear towards the stranger so as to better hear it, but charred hands clutched his head and a sharp pain erupted in his throat before fading into a cool sort of terror. The blood flowed; if he had the presence of mind to observe it, Aradel might have been offended that someone dare spill Dunmer blood on Vivec's temple floor. Instead he thought of his wife, and how furious she would be if he was late to dinner.
His body was pushed over the canton's banister. Aradel was lost to the ocean, his name known now only to the Anguish.
In the temple itself, Lord Vivec had felt a change in the air; an undercurrent of malevolent energy that he could not quite place. It was at once familiar and terrible, as unknown to him as a cup of bitter tea he hadn't yet sipped. He felt peculiar, but did not see a need to increase the patrols around the canton or contact his fellow divines. Instead, as the feeling was faint, he allowed his hall to be filled with priests and scholars, certain in their safety, and passed on more wisdom that would have made up his thirty-seventh Lesson.
"Lord Vivec!" he heard a call – his archcanon Thormil, with his bent back and white beard, had scuttled into the room while he was discussing philosophy. For Thormil to interrupt him was almost unheard of, and so Vivec was instantly thrown.
"Yes?" he asked. "What is it, Thormil?"
"My Lord, there's a…" the old Mer paused for a moment, apparently uncertain of what he had seen, "…there's a man outside, demanding to speak with you. He claims you have business."
"The temple is open only to my priests today. Tell him to return tomorrow and we can tend to this 'business'."
"I've told him this already, my Lord, but he refuses to leave. I even threatened to call the Ordinators. He says he's not afraid."
Vivec's eyebrows rose. He gestured to his priests with his golden hand and they started to line the walls, pulling the scholars into step beside them. Once there were no more people in the way of the door, the god nodded to Thormil.
"Very well," he said, "then send him in, and pray he has an excellent reason for his impudence."
The doors to the hall opened. A rectangular patch of floor burned a hot white as the sunlight hit the stone, and a long, dark shadow stretched through it like a black finger as the figure swept inside. It came to a stop just a few steps into the hall. The doors closed shut behind it.
For a moment, all was silent. The priests and scholars looked, wide-eyed and stunned, as the figure stood unwavering before their Lord.
"Friend," said Vivec, "You claim business to my archcanon and then are silent to me. What is so pertinent that it must interrupt this day of peace and wisdom?"
The figure uttered a low and harsh laugh; one that sickened the mortals' stomachs and hurt even Vivec's ears. Its head lifted, and indeed it sounded as man, but in an instant those in the hall knew it was anything but.
"Peace," it said in a voice that seemed to rumble with the thunders of Oblivion. "And what would you know of peace, Vehk?"
Thormil's head recoiled as though he had been slapped. "How dare you speak to our Lord—"
That charred golden hand flew out of the figure's cloak and there was a sickening snap. Thormil landed on the floor with a heavy thud, his head bent at an impossible angle and the bones of his neck twisted under his skin. Their audience let out a thin, warbling cry almost in unison, and the priests fell to their knees in prayer.
Vivec was alarmed, but he kept his face calm and collected. He had no idea what this man – what this creature – was, but if it could murder his archcanon with no more than a gesture, it was powerful.
So this is what I felt when the winds turned, he thought.
"So you interrupt my priests and murder my archcanon. To what end, creature? What business justifies the murder of such a faithful servant as Thormil?"
The figure rubbed his hands together and let out a chuckle. It resonated with a sort of evilness that sounded to his ears like tar. "Creature? Such a careless choice of words for the Warrior-Poet."
"Would you prefer murderer?"
"Of many thousands I have killed this one, and am stamped a murderer. And yet, Vehk, you have murdered thousands and are revered as a god. I've seen Muarta as she spins and slaughters."
The Warrior-Poet's lips thinned, "What are you, creature?"
"You don't know? How can you not, O Poet? Am I not a familiar shape? Do you forget so easily?"
"Tell me what you are!" Vivec's fist hit a table that sat on the floor beside his leg, and although he was levitating his audience felt his shout travel through the ground. The figure, however, appeared uncowed.
That charred hand reached up and clutched the hood. As it slid back from the creature's head, the priests and scholars saw first those piercing golden eyes, intense in their beauty, and the pointed ears of what was definitely a Mer. He had the skin of a Chimer, but it was marred by great patches of black, horrific burns. Vivec's face fell as he stared at this demon before him, for he knew him, and he knew him well.
"I was the most beautiful of the Pomegranate Banquet!" declared the half-Mer, "I dined on the souls of the Chimer, drank the blood of Snow Elves, danced on the hearts of Daedra! But low, while I opened my eyes to a thousand planes, my sire was betrayed! The King of Rape, thrown into the fires, and I after him!"
The priests prayed more furiously as, around them, the walls of the canton trembled and groaned as if caught in an earthquake.
"My brothers slain! My sisters murdered! And I, survivor, robbed of my beauty, burned by my mother's betrayal."
The figure held up his hand, and in an instant all prayers stopped. The scholars cowered low to the ground and the priests looked up, slack-jawed, as the creature stared Vivec in the eye.
"The day of my reckoning is upon us," he rumbled, "For as long as there is hate in my heart – for as long as the blood of my brothers and sisters is spilt – I will have my revenge. Vehk—"
Vivec held his gaze, though all he wanted was to turn and hide from it.
"—Mother."
"What's your name?"
Another terrible laugh.
"I am Anguish," he replied, "and soon, my brothers and sisters will rise, and a new banquet will begin."
The creature's hand came down in one fell swoop. As it did, the priests all clutched at their throats and started to splutter, and the scholars dropped without so much as a whisper of protest. The latter were dead – no wounds, no illness, just dead – and the priests were soon to follow, but their cries and suffering was so great that for a moment Vivec almost couldn't stand it.
"Anguish!" he screamed, but the creature had vanished in a cloud of foul-smelling smoke. All that remained of him was the lingering smell and the dozen of dead bodies of the floor.
The Anguish would soon sweep across Vvardenfell in a wave of forgotten death.
Vivec preserve us: What if I've woken him?