A/N: This fic includes my Nerevarine from Accidental Disciples, but this is a stand-alone/complimentary piece and you do not need to have read that one to understand. A working knowledge of Morrowind's history helps, but again I tried to streamline the commentary on House politics as best I could. To those following AcciDi, I will return to that soon, so don't worry!
"When Nerevar returned, he saw the frozen comet above his lord's city. He asked whether or not Vivec wanted it removed.
'I would have done so myself if I wanted, silly Hortator. I shall keep it there with its last intention intact, so that if the love of the people of this city for me ever disappear, so shall the power that holds back their destruction.'
Nerevar said, 'Love is under your will only.'
Vivec smiled and told the Hortator that he had become a Minister of Truth.
The ending of the words is ALMSIVI."
– The 36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 33.
Of her father's collection, Rem liked the ebony mace most of all. As a child she found herself staring at the sleek black weapon, void-dark with a natural luster that neither ash nor blood could fade. Unblemished, unforgiving, unyielding. The only adornments included the symbol of House Indoril inlaid in gold where the spiked ball met the shaft, and a small engraving in Daedric lettering. Her father told her that the somber weapon represented the duality of House Indoril; brutality and elegance, punishment and mercy. The gilded inscription emphasized the oft-repeated motto of House Indoril:
Justice never sleeps.
Rem did not and could not understand the ancient significance of her father's name, not at that age, and not during an era where it no longer held any relevance. What she did know was that the ebony mace was the single most beautiful thing she had ever seen in her life.
Her father told her that it was only because she had lived within the cold stone walls of Windhelm her entire life, and nothing in Skyrim could never match the glory of a proper city such as Vivec or Mournhold. His stories of the former glory of House Indoril, glittering temple-cities of light and magic, kept and enforced by Ordinators like her father, their family's sacred duty to the three gods of the Tribunal... to Rem they were strange fables.
"Does Jarl Ulfric know that we are nobles? Perhaps he will allow us to live in his Palace, and you wouldn't have to work with the Argonians on the docks," the child suggested innocently.
Her father made a rasping sound that might have been a laugh. His voice was worn from the ash and a pervasive lung-sickness since the Red Year.
"There are no more nobles in the Gray Quarter, Remaru. None that would be recognized as such. Only bitter Dunmer like myself, old and sick. But you must be stronger than them, for they will always resent you for the fear and reverence my House once commanded. The Nerevarine turned our brothers and sisters against us."
The four of them lived in a one room apartment in the most run-down section of the Gray Quarter.
Sleeping in the worst part of a slum was perhaps only slightly more pleasant than sleeping in the same bed as Mehrunes Dagon. The other tenants of this crumbling stone tower included a rumored Dark Brotherhood assassin, a mad Ashlander mystic whose indecipherable babbling could be heard throughout the night, and a young couple addicted to skooma. The ceiling of their room was so low that her father could only stoop, and each time she saw him outside the apartment Rem was surprised at how tall he really was.
It was a hard life, but it was all she ever knew, and they managed to get by with the little they had.
Everything changed the year Ulfric Stormcloak murdered the High King of Skyrim. For Remaru Indoril, the civil war itself affected little other than tax raises and the validation of the local Nord population's xenophobia.
At the beginning of Frostfall that year, Rem turned fifteen. Her father died about a week later.
She remembered that cold night. Her father had not returned home from work and so Rem visited the docks outside the city walls. Enduring the stares and silence of the lizard-men none would answer her queries, until one eventually confessed that he saw her father meet his demise during a coughing fit.
Before she could begin to comprehend what this meant for her, Rem directed her outrage at the Argonians.
"But why were no healers called? How could you all stand by and watch? Why did no one attempt to contact his family? Where – where is the body?"
Most of the disinterested Argonians had began to go inside their quarters after their long day of work, where it was warmer. But two stood by to watch; a younger boy – perhaps about Rem's age, but it was difficult to tell – and an older Argonian watching over him, narrowing his eyes at the troubled girl.
"Neetrenaza, see the dark one?" the lizard-boy asked.
"It is the hatchling of the one recently dead. What of it?"
"Perhaps the elders were wrong. It is a scrawny, shouting thing dressed in filthy rags. It cannot be of the same race that enslaved our egg brothers and sisters."
The young Argonian made a hissing sound that Rem could only guess was the closest their species got to laughter.
Blinded by anger, Rem slammed her fist hard on top of the lizard-boy's head. The boy hissed, retaliating by splaying its sharp claws at Rem. She was quicker and smaller than he was, and darted away from his slashes.
The older Argonian, Neetrenaza, stood by and watched. Perhaps he was waiting to intervene if the boy began to lose. Rem could take care of herself in a fight, provided it was with someone about her age and size.
The young Argonian drew her out along the edge of the dock, but Rem dashed behind him and stepped on his tail. She was about to pull him into a headlock when a thick Nord voice and the sound of steel being drawn startled her.
"Stop right there, elf!"
Rem's eyes widened.
When had a Stormcloak patrol ever cared about a fight in the Gray Quarter? Sometimes they even cheered them on and made bets.
But then she remembered. She wasn't in the Gray Quarter anymore. She was in Argonian territory. Even though they weren't allowed in the city proper, the Argonians seemed to be in better favor with the guards. Something about how they assimilated better, or their subservience. Rem had seen it in a racist pamphlet.
"Remove your foot from that poor boy's tail," the guard commanded. He was a big Nord – well, to her, they all were rather big – but she immediately did as he said. The lizard-boy slithered away. The Stormcloak forced her hands behind her back and loosely bound them. She might have been able to cut and run, but she wouldn't risk it. It didn't look like he was going to take her to the dungeons. Pushing the hilt of his sword into her back he led her through the stone streets, past rows and rows of somber gray houses.
"What, you think you're still in Morrowind? You think you can still treat them like your slaves? We want nothing more than for you and your kind to be able to return to your homeland, but until then you'll have to abide by our rules. Got that, elf?"
"Yes, sera."
"Good. I'll remember your face. Next time I catch you even thinking about making trouble, you won't get off so easy. Hear me?"
"Yes, sera."
Even so, the guard did not seem particularly racist or cruel, and Rem knew that she was getting off easy compared to most. Just before they reached the outskirts of the Gray Quarter, where the streets became narrow, darkened in the shadows of the taller estates, Rem had gathered enough courage to dare to ask him a favor.
"My – my father, uhm, his name is Llerethan Indoril. He disappeared today. The Argonians say he died. But – but I don't know where the body is, and they won't tell me. What if they murdered him? They hate us. D- do you think... if it's not too much trouble... could you try to ask around at the docks, sera?"
The Nord scratched his head, stopping just at the faded banners that marked the entrance to the Gray Quarter. He began to unbind her hands.
"I can't investigate a murder without a body, can I? Seems more like a personal problem between you and your father. Nothing to go beating on poor lizard-boys for, is it? Off you go, then."
The Nord made a shoo-ing gesture with his hand, as if she were some kind of insect.
Of course. Rem did not know why she might have hoped for a different answer, or for him to at least pretend he cared about upholding the law for all citizens. At least he went easy on her.
"Justice never sleeps," she muttered sardonically, remembering the inscription on her father's mace.
"There is no honor in theft," Rem's father once scolded her younger self after he caught her with a wheel of cheese she had pilfered.
But, she wished she could ask her father now, was there any honor in starving?
Rem searched hopelessly for any kind of employment. Work was scarce enough as it was for the Dunmer, even before the war. Rem grew accustomed to the sound of doors slamming in her face, to nimbly dart from a chamberpot being emptied from an open window. Asking Belyn Hlaalu if he needed help on the farm led to him nearly challenging her to an honor duel over a sister-in-law's torture and execution by a temple Ordinator, but Rem backed out of that situation quickly.
She was used to this treatment by now, but it was difficult for her to understand. Rem's father had been an honorable man. He never cheated, lied, or stole. He tried to teach them to do the same. He worked tirelessly in the docks so they all could eat. Why were they treated like pariahs?
She knew it had something to do with the Nerevarine. If he truly were the reincarnation of Nerevar Indoril, how could he betray his own House?
Their world more miserable with each passing day, her hatred festered. Not towards the Argonians. Not towards the Nords, or the Jarl and his ever-increasing taxes. Not even towards her fellow Dunmer who had turned their backs on them.
She directed all of her hate towards the Nerevarine. To her, he was the source of these problems. It was his fault the Indoril were forced to live in squalor despite their noble blood. His fault they could not return to the homeland of their ancestors. Almsivi had been unmade and they could no longer protect their people. It had been a careless thing to do, her father said, for without Vivec using his power to keep Baar Dau aloft, there was nothing stopping it from crashing into Vvardenfell, which in turn caused the eruption of Red Mountain. The Nerevarine seemed to come and go as he pleased, disappearing for decades at a time. In Rem's eyes, he had forsaken the Dunmer.
When the hunger became maddening they thought of selling her father's mace and armor. She had hidden them right after her father's death in case the tax collectors tried to repossess it, but every moment she was aware of its presence underneath the floorboards. With the gold from the mace itself they would be able to eat well for a few months, pay rent, even be able to afford warmer clothes for the winter, but once all the money was gone they would just be destitute again. She did not even want to think about some barbaric Stormcloak Nord wearing her father's sacred Indoril armor, spilling mead on it.
By the middle of Frostfall most of Rem's pride had withered away and the only worse thing than the gnawing emptiness of her own stomach was having to hear her sister's children crying out in hunger. It had been days since they caught a malnourished skeever and roasted it over the fire to eat, and Rem knew scavenging for food during the rest of the winter was only going to get harder. They were too proud to beg. Not that anyone in Windhelm with gold to spare would care for their plight. It was time for Rem to resort to the only way she knew how to get by.
With her small hands and careful observation, Rem happened to have a natural affinity for picking locks. From a young age she quickly discovered that she could eat very well simply by stealing from those who had plenty. She tried not to do it so much as her father would always exercise the strong arm of discipline whenever she was caught, but there was nothing stopping her now, was there?
"Better to suffer a wrong than to commit one," her father always used to scold, quoting from his obsolete scriptures. She tried to forget his face in her head as her numb hands gently worked the lock.
It happened to be the house of some rich Imperial widow. Violet, Viola something. Rem could not remember. She could not remember much anymore except that she was starving.
They called this the Stone Quarter. Rem thought the name was redundant. All of Windhelm was made of stone.
Locks were less flexible and harder to pick during the winter, but this woman's lock was not frozen over like most already were. Perhaps she had left a fire on inside. Rem pressed her ear against it until she heard the tumblers clicking into place and let herself in, locking the door behind her.
Rem nearly passed out when she caught a whiff of the pleasant aroma that awaited her.
The woman's supper. A single pheasant breast on a spit.
Her experience in thievery reminded her that if the woman had left the fire going she was obviously going to return within minutes, but her mind was fogged with the twisting hunger. Had she not the thick skin of a Dunmer she might have burned herself when she reached her hands into the fire and grabbed the entire roast. Her fingers slippery with hot grease, her nose filled with all sorts of delights, she devoured the entire thing within one minute of absolute bliss.
Her eyes had begun to water because she had forgotten what it felt like to feel sated, but she also regretted eating it so fast for now it sat like a heavy ingot inside of her. Her movements were much slower, though she also did not run the risk of fainting inside the house she was trespassing in. She had to concentrate, regardless. The woman would return shortly. There was nothing of interest to steal on the lower level, and upstairs proved to be just as sparsely decorated. With a few cursory glances Rem was able to make an assessment of the entire place. A few dusty books on a shelf. An old broom. Nothing. Rem realized she was running out of time. Frantically she started opening drawers. Clothes. Pelts. Sheets. Useful things, very useful things that her family could use, but fairly impractical if one wanted to slip past the guards unseen.
And then she saw it. A shining golden ring, under some bear pelts in the bottom drawer.
As soon as she swiped the ring, she heard the sound of a key entering a lock. Time slowed as Rem began to weigh her options. There were not so many. She could jump out one of the windows and hope not to break her neck, or she could try to slip down the stairs unseen before the woman realized something was wrong...
"By the Nine! My supper, right out of the fire! The nerve... I'll find you, I swear!"
Rem had no more time to think. Clawing at the wooden shutters of the window until she pried it open, Rem climbed out just as she heard thundering footsteps stomping up the stairs.
She managed to break the fall a bit by sliding off the stone walls, but they were lined with ice and she slipped onto the hard ground, already lined with a thin layer of freshly fallen snow. Clambering to her feet she sprinted, cold air filling her lungs as she thrust a hand inside her pocket to make certain the gold ring was still there. Luckily Rem knew the claustrophobic quarters of Windhelm very well. Slipping through the iced roads she made her way down the steps to the Hall of the Dead. No one would look for her in there.
This place always gave her the shivers. Though right now she was mostly just shivering from the cold. She shook the snow out of her hair and rubbed her hands together for whatever small amount of warmth it might give her. At least she was out of the snowfall, though it wasn't all that much warmer in here. Rem cautiously made her way down the halls, taking care to make her footsteps quiet, more out of fear of disturbing the dead than getting caught.
"Ho, who goes there? Desperate enough to rob the dead, are we?"
The shrill voice of an old Nord woman interrupted Rem's thoughts. As she turned, the old woman pointed an accusatory finger at her.
"Worse than a grave robber, a dark elf! I hear how your kind treat the bones of your ancestors back in Morrowind, and it's enough to make me sick. We'll have none of your necromancy here, understand? Go! Get out of here or I'll call the guards!"
The tough Nord had such a look of disgust that Rem sprinted right back outside. The snow pelted against her face as she ran. Rem had never even been to Morrowind. She had no idea what the old lady was talking about. No one here liked the Dunmer, it seemed, and even the Dunmer didn't like her. It was just the way things were, and it was why she had to steal the ring.
Again she navigated the stonework maze of the city, weaving in and out of alleyways until she was certain that she was not being pursued.
Leaning against the wall to catch her breath, Rem even felt the cold of the slick ice through her thin clothing. She had a ragged shirt of cotton that at least covered her arms and a threadbare linen undershirt, but her cloak had been stolen months ago and in a place like Windhelm that was nearly a death sentence. Though she felt she had just ran a lap around the entire city, there was no way that Rem could possibly feel warm. Her body would not stop shivering. She stared at the glowing light of the windows of the nearby Candlehearth Hall, a place she definitely would not be allowed inside, though she longed to be able to sit there just a moment and warm herself by the fire. She heard the strings of a lute and singing, laughter, dishes clattering. It seemed so warm, so happy, so alive.
She heard someone stopping directly behind her. Rem whirled around defensively, fist raised and ready to strike. But she calmed slightly when she saw it was a Dunmer – nay, a half-Dunmer judging by the lighter hue of his ashen skin. To the Nords they were all just gray, but any Dunmer could tell the difference. He had a certain sagacious aspect that made her guess he was quite a few years older than he appeared. He did not look nearly as old as her father had been, and there was still a certain youthful charm in his face, his reddish-violet eyes inviting trust. Still, Rem knew how deceiving such appearances were, and she eyed him suspiciously.
"Eh, what's this? You ought not to be loitering around the Stone Quarter this late. You know the Stormcloaks don't like to see us round these parts at – gods, you look cold. Here."
He removed his heavy cloak and draped it over her trembling shoulders. It was well-tailored, dark velvet lined with some kind of white fur on the inside. Rem gripped it with her hands and wrapped it even tighter around herself to get the most of its warmth. She still kept her eyes narrowed and said nothing, waiting for whatever favor he wanted from her.
"Let me walk you home. I'll let you wear my cloak until we get there."
Rem blinked. It was a simple offer, one which held no explicit obligations. Yet every bone in her body screamed out against it. Maybe he did not look dour enough to be a permanent resident of the Gray Quarter, but perhaps he too sought revenge over some alleged crime House Indoril committed against him as with every other Dunmer. If she had not already stolen the ring, Rem might have just ran off with his cloak, but instead she reluctantly unwrapped herself from it.
"I... I'm not going home yet, serjo," she mumbled, her lips so numb that it was difficult to manage these few words, let alone fabricate a decent excuse.
When Rem offered the cloak back, he held up a gloved hand. The way he looked at her, Rem immediately knew he could see the reasoning behind her fib.
"Ah, I do understand. No, no, don't worry about the cloak. Keep it for now. Are you certain you will be alright? It is truly no problem if you wish for me to escort you home. It can be dangerous at night."
"I... I'm fine, serjo. I haven't seen Rolff swaggering around lately."
Rolff Stone-Fist had been the worst. He went out of his way to terrorize the Dunmer in the Gray Quarter. But no one dared stand up to him because his brother was Ulfric Stormcloak's general.
"No, I don't think he'll be swaggering for a while," the stranger said with a peculiar smile, as if he had something to do with the Nord's disappearance.
"What about the cloak?"
"The Gray Quarter's not so big. I suppose I'll be able to find you if I need it back. Be careful, now."
With a wink, the stranger was off.
Rem stared at his back until he disappeared into the darkness of the Gray Quarter. For the first time she noticed the sheathed sword at his left side. She heard him whistle a cheerful melody to himself, though she did not recognize the tune. Strange to hear anything resembling mirth in the Gray Quarter these days.
She wrapped the white cloak tightly around herself yet again. It was thick, warm. It had to be from the pelt of a snow bear. But someone wouldn't just give up a precious bearskin cloak to some urchin, especially not in the middle of Frostfall. Rem slowly made her way through the narrow street that was more like an alleyway, keeping her eyes down as she always did to avoid any altercations with the dregs that came out at night.
Rem was grateful for a cloak that would allow her to survive the winter, but she did not like the thought that she might be indebted to a stranger now.
At least she had this ring to pawn, but after the rent was paid for along with food and other necessities, there would be hardly anything left, certainly not enough to pay for this cloak that looked like something a nobleman might wear if he came to collect.
If he came to collect. They always came to collect.
No way anyone would be that kind to her just because she was cold. Charity was a lie.
At age fifteen, Remaru Indoril already knew this very well.