Author's Note: This is a slightly edited version of the chapter I posted as Vows Thrice Broken, back in March. The story is now complete (!) and will be updated every Monday. Rated M for... pretty much everything. I don't own the rights to any Morrowind anything.
Broken Vows
Chapter 1
It was the fourth man I killed that truly started all my troubles.
One might suppose, logically enough, that trouble would have begun with the first man to die at my hands. In a sense, that would be true. The shadowy touch of Mephala's dubious blessing came to me with that first death, though at the time I did not recognize it, did not understand. But if that fourth man had not died when and where he did, all that followed afterward would not have fallen out as I am about to relate.
The first death, the first blood I spilled, occurred soon after I had been inducted into the Order of the Watch. It seems long ago, now that I look back upon it. I was young then, scarcely across the threshold of adulthood, and not two weeks into my duties on the Watch, though the Three know I'd been training for it long enough. I was young, but not much younger than I am now.
The man was nearly twice my age, a pitiful Breton gone deathly pale from lack of sunlight. He'd crept up from the underworks in St. Olms that morning, his eyes wild and his movements erratic. I'd kept my eyes on him for nearly half an hour, watching him shuffle from door to door, begging for work, or a spare coin. Skooma addiction is not a crime in itself, of course, but addicts do tend to behave irrationally, and it was my duty to watch for potential threats.
When he tried to slip his shaky fingers into the Altmer's pockets, I was ready. He bolted for the staircase when his victim let out a shout, and I charged after him, ebony mace in hand.
He rounded a corner and I heard a door slam, out of sight, before I made it across the waistworks. As shouting erupted in the halls of the canton, I clattered down the stairs and burst through the door to the canals, taking the last five or so steps in one leap.
I could hear nothing but the rushing water; my fugitive was nowhere in sight. I trod the canalworks carefully, waiting for ambush, but found no trace of the Breton. As I'd suspected, he'd retreated to the safety of his shelter in the underworks. I let myself through the trapdoor and down the ladder, warily. I was too composed, too well controlled then, to make even the slightest grimace behind my mask, as I descended into the stench of St. Olms' sewers.
It was quieter there; the water, thick with offal, ran too sluggishly to make much noise. Small splashes echoed off the cavernous walls, likely caused by cave rats or other denizens of the underworks, though it was too dim for me to see clearly. I proceeded carefully, rounding several corners before the man rushed clumsily at me from the darkness, a length of wood clutched in his upraised hands. He swung wildly. I ducked and shouldered my pauldron into his chest, knocking him back against the wall. His makeshift weapon clattered to the ground, and he held a hand to his chest, wheezing; I'd knocked the breath from his lungs.
"You violated the law, Breton," I said, reciting the speech that is drilled into Ordinators' heads so deeply, we sometimes speak it in our sleep. "Pay the fine that is due for your crimes, or come with me to serve your sentence of hard labor."
"I can't!" The addict shrieked, desperate. I wouldn't have thought it possible, but his eyes widened even further, until I thought they might simply drop out from their sockets. "I can't go! There's no skooma, don't make me go back there! It'll kill me!"
"Then pay your gold, citizen, and you shall be on your way," I said shortly, growing impatient and a bit disgusted by the man's dependency.
He let out a wild, high-pitched laugh, half-crazed. "Gold? Gold! Gods, if I had any coin, I would have spent it long ago! On skooma, sweet skooma, oh gods..." His words dissolved into unintelligible muttering, and his eyes glazed over as if he'd forgotten my presence.
"Very well," I said, reaching for his arm. "Then you must come with me-"
Quick as a Khajiit, he darted away from my grasp, making a stumbling dash for the safety of the deeper tunnels. And, quicker than thought, my arm moved, almost of its own accord. The spikes on my mace sank deep into his head before he'd taken two steps. He dropped to the ground, his skull crumpling as if the bone were no stronger than parchment.
I stared for a moment, watching the pool of blood spreading around his corpse, watching it ooze toward the canal and trickle into the water. I had let go of the mace and it stood on its own, the handle jutting upward from the back of his head. I had never taken a person's life before. A strange feeling crept over me; an emotion I could not name, but it felt like more than that, almost physical... as if it had wormed between my armor and settled in a thin film over my skin. I realized, much later, that it was Mephala's dark touch-- at that time, however, I could not have known.
My breach of protocol lasted only a few moments. Years of training roared back into control, and I jerked my weapon free of his ruined skull. I cleaned the blood and gore from it with the cloth I carried for such a purpose, and then grimly knelt to search the man for any identifying papers or objects. As I'd suspected, I found nothing more than an old pipe. Anything else would have been traded for skooma long ago.
I noted the body's location and returned to the waistworks of St. Olms. The other Ordinator patrolling there was a man named Rogis, someone I might have called a friend, if such familiarities were not discouraged among the ranks. I informed him of what had happened, and left him to cover my post while I made my report to Elam Andas.
Andas was the Chief of the Order of the Watch, a Curate of the Temple who had risen to his position by means that were perhaps less savory than one might expect of the devout. He made a better Chief of the Order than he did a priest, and kept the Watch running efficiently and effectively.
I found him in his office in the Hall of Justice, and made my report. As standards dictated, he wrote down the location of the corpse, so that some men could be sent to dispose of the remains. I was dismissed, but as I made for the door, he spoke again.
"Your shift is nearly over, isn't it, Brother Sul?"
"Yes, sir," I replied, turning back to face him.
He shuffled some papers on his desk. "The others will handle the relief of your post. You are relieved early; I suggest you spend your extra time in the Temple."
His words surprised me, though they shouldn't have. Andas had many long years' experience on the Watch, and of course he knew that one's first killing would weigh heavily upon a young Ordinator. "Aye, sir," I said quietly, and went to the Temple.
The Temple of the city of Vivec was a grander affair than most; the archways stretched into dimness far overhead, and it was kept sparkling clean. Incense burned near each shrine, filling the room with a heady smoke that masked the scent of the sacrificial burnt meat. The shrines of all the Saints were ensconced within. The Temple is devoted to worship of the Tribunal, of course, but custom dictates that they require no shrines of their own, being able to hear the prayers of the devout no matter where they originate. In front of each Saint's ancient pictograph were the prayer benches, polished to a glossy finish.
I passed the sacrificial pit and approached the shrine of St. Rilms. My knees fit easily into the grooves of the prayer bench, the same places eroded by the knees of countless other penitents.
Oh blessed Saint, I prayed silently, my eyes tracing the primitive but powerful lines of St. Rilms' portrait. I have killed a man today, and though I was without fault, the life I took weighs heavily upon my conscience. Grant me your blessing, that your grace may help me to endure this hardship...
I fell easily into the devout trance, meditating and praying for several hours. It was early evening when I arose, stiff from my immobility. As a sign of good faith, I knelt before each of the other shrines in turn, offering a brief prayer to all, before I left the Temple.
I felt no better when I made my way back to my barracks room, however. St. Rilms had not seen fit to bless me with her grace this time. Whether it was due to the hand that the Spider God had laid upon me earlier, or some other reason, I cannot say.
I had no appetite, and went to bed early, though I found I was unable to sleep. I lay awake in my bed, staring up at the ceiling of my modest room, seeing in my mind's eye the Breton falling at my feet, over and over. It frightened me, for an afternoon of meditation should have cleared my thoughts, wiped clean my concerns. And as I lay in the dark, alone, I could feel more acutely that strange, unseen touch on my skin. It was as if a noose had been wrapped about me and was drawing tighter in the darkness.
When I awoke in the morning, entirely unrested after a night of disturbing dreams, the sensation was gone.
----
The second and third men I killed were rapists, or near enough. I found them outside the Plaza of the Foreign Quarter, drunk on their beverages of choice for the celebration of Harvest's End, just past midnight. One had their victim shoved against the wall; the Imperial was lucid enough to keep a hand clamped over her mouth from behind, but too drunk to manage his own clothing with his other hand. His Dunmer comrade stood to the side, holding a dagger to the girl's throat and encouraging his friend with slurred mutterings.
They were too engrossed to notice my approach. I imagine they must have been frightened when I fell upon them from the darkness. The drunken fools' reactions were slowed, making it easy for me to disarm the one with the dagger and kick his feet out from under him. He fell with a startled shout, and I turned to the other, wrenching his arm away from the woman. She turned and ran, while the Imperial swung at me. I caught his fist in my hand and twisted; he dropped to his knees, gasping.
The Dark Elf got to his feet and threw himself at my back, wrapping an arm around my throat, dragging me away from his friend. He had no chance of a successful choke hold through my armor, however; his weight on my back was little more than an inconvenience.
The sensible thing, of course, would have been to ignore him, subdue the Imperial whose wrist I held, and then turn to the Dunmer. But all knowledge of the sensible course of action had fled my thoughts.... instead, driven by some impulse I could not name, I let go the Imperial and drew my dagger. I thrust it backwards, feeling the resistance as it sank to the hilt in the Dunmer's torso. He let me go with a gurgling gasp, and my arm flashed forward, opening the Imperial's throat with a backhanded slash that spattered blood across the mask of my helm. He dropped to his knees, clutching at his neck, eyes wide in shock. I watched him die, saw the life leave his features as he toppled sideways.
Behind me, the Dunmer was taking longer to die; I could hear his breath rasping, slower and slower. I was frozen in place; that same sensation from before had returned, bringing the memory of the dead Breton back to me. It was guilt, yes, but only in part. There was also anger, and power, and a sort of joy.... and, somehow, the sense that it was a part of something bigger I had yet to understand.
The dead men's intended victim stirred me from my conflicted musings; she had returned when she saw them die. "I am in your debt, ser," she said, a little too loudly, approaching me unsteadily. She was nearly as drunk as the other two had been. Quite a lot of her pale flesh gleamed, exposed to the faint moonlight. The two louts had torn her dress, but there hadn't been much dress to begin with. It occurred to me for the first time to wonder at the circumstances leading up to their attack. It wouldn't have surprised me to learn she'd brought it upon herself.
She came up, too close, almost leaning against me. "...allow me to repay you," she added, in a voice that she might have intended to be seductive. She was an outlander, I realized.... anyone who'd been in Morrowind for long knew of the strict vows required of the Order.
I put my hands on her shoulders and guided her aside. "My lady," I said sternly. "Trading sexual acts for services or gold is a crime in Morrowind. I suggest you return to your night's lodging and remain there until your head clears, or I shall have to arrest you."
She wasn't too drunk to understand, thank Vivec. Her eyes widened in the exaggerated manner of the drunken, and she turned away quickly. "I'm going, I'm going..." she mumbled.
I let her go, which was another foolish mistake. I should have arrested her anyway, but the strange touch of Mephala was still on me, clouding my thoughts, making it difficult to concentrate. Instead, she made her unsteady way out of sight, and I stood between the two corpses, wondering what had come over me.
The consequences of my actions were rather more severe, that time. I was hard-pressed to explain to Elam Andas why two men had died at my hands, when I should have been just as easily able to arrest them without much fuss. When I reported the conduct of the woman as well, and said that I'd let her go, it did nothing to help my case.
In the end, it was determined that I had made a mistake; I was still young and new to the Order, and my punishment was not as severe as it might have been. The dead men were identified as known smugglers and outlaws with bounties on their heads, so there was little public outcry over their deaths. I was relieved of watch duty for two weeks without pay, and spent that time laboring in the scullery, when I was not on my knees in the Temple, praying for guidance.
During those two weeks, I was sickeningly aware of the feeling that still clung to me since that night. It was worse when I was in bed; as before, the darkness seemed to make it clench tighter about me. In the daylight, it was like a film of oil that soaked me, making me feel unclean. No matter how much I bathed, nor applied scents until Rogis joked I must have bathed in the Temple censers, I could not rid myself of the sensation. It remained with me throughout my weeks of punishment, and finally faded, a little each day, when I was returned to my regular duties.
If things had ended there, or if the fourth man I killed had been someone else, in some other place at some other time, my life would never have taken the turn that it did. But Mephala's dark webs were drawing tight around me, and my true troubles were about to begin. When the fourth man fell, dead by my hand... that was when I met Amurah Llenith.