Note: Based on the PCs I ended up using in the games. Also, AU-ish, in that the Nerevarine has not buggered off to Akavir. Even if he/she did, why wouldn't they have come back when Oblivion gates are popping up in Morrowind? That's my rant, now here's my story.
As usual, I own nothing Morrowind/Oblivion-y.
Rain in Cheydinhal was akin to snow in Bruma. It occurred so often that frequent visitors and residents alike refused to acknowledge its existence, as if the weather were beneath their notice altogether. Locals could always tell the newcomers by their dress—their cloaks pulled tightly about their bodies and gear, hoods drawn up over to cover every inch of their face. Some of the bawdier residents preferred to make light of such new arrivals, and thus "cloak jokes" multiplied in the taverns and inns.
However, no one commented on this arrival. They knew who it was by the fine make of the cloak, by the design of the armor barely visible beneath rain-slicked oilcloth. They knew who it was by the way the guards silenced themselves as the cloaked personage passed by, travel-worn boots thudding dully against the slick cobblestones of Cheydinhal's western end.
A few watched the figure's passage with interest, only turning back to their business when it had moved out of sight.
"Is that—"
"Shh! Yes."
"What's she doing here?"
"She lives here."
"I heard she was there. At the end."
"Everyone's heard that. Ain't no one's seen her around in months. Most thought she ran off to one of the Provinces."
"Huh. Buy another round, would you?"
Oblivious to these hushed conversations, the figure continued down the street, pausing only after reaching one of the houses huddled near the river. One gauntlet-clad hand casually opened the gate, boots tapping on the flagstone path. Standing under the partial shelter of the roof, the figure pulled back its hood, revealing an Imperial woman, crowned with a mop of short brown hair. With a sigh, she moved to push open the door, then froze.
The lock was open.
With a soft ring of steel, she pulled a broadsword from the sheath at her hip, the blade glowing with a faint, wicked light. Gripping the sword tightly, she opened the door, cautious, peering into the room before actually entering the house.
Firelight flickered from the hearth, illuminating the entire lower floor in soft orange light. There was indeed someone inside, and he—the form was all wrong for a woman—stood with his back to her, stirring up the fire with a long iron poker. A pack sat by the door, propped up against a barrel, travel-worn, and well-filled. He did not turn to face her, nor did he seem to notice her at all. Grimly, she raised her weapon.
"Your business, sir?" she snapped.
He did not turn, did not speak.
She took a step nearer. Red light danced along the sword's edge. "Speak up, or get out of my house."
"A fine welcome to give an old friend," he said, finally. His voice was low, raspy, accented softly with the language of a foreign land. "The Empire seems to value courtesy less and less these days. Doesn't it, Jena Trossan?"
The sound of her name gave her pause. Then again, who in Cyrodiil didn't know who she was these days? "Who are you?"
Only now did he turn. It did little good. His position in front of the fire showed only a silhouette, save for a pair of red eyes, glinting in the gray evening light from the windows. Those eyes took on an affronted expression, and he spread his arms, wide sleeves hiding all but the tips of long-fingered hands from view. "I'm hurt," he said. "I thought you would be pleased to see me. Instead, I find you armored, with drawn steel! How could you, Jena?"
Her heart began to hammer. Memories began to click together, becoming clearer as she took in her visitor's dusky skin, adding it to the pile of similarities already collected. For a moment, she couldn't breathe.
"Neven…?" she whispered, feeling the sword grow suddenly heavy. "Neven Velandas…?"
White teeth flashed in a smile. It was him. He was taller, older, and sported a graceful, serpentine tattoo across his face, but it was her old companion who stood in her parlor nonetheless. "And here I thought breaking into the house of Cyrodiil's Savior would be enough to tip you off," he chuckled.
Words wouldn't come. It had been so long—years since the whispered reassurances in the Imperial City's prison. Years since she'd been forced to watch the guards haul away her partner, her only friend, to what she could only assume was an execution. Memories of that day swarmed up to meet her. They were caught, brought up on charges of petty theft—a charge not uncommon among the poor folk of the waterfront. Sentenced to a few months jail time, it had looked as if the gods were granting the two a favor. Until the guards came—until they dragged Neven away. Until Uriel Septim appeared in a washed-up thief's cell, assassins hard on his heels…
"A tongue shriller than all the music calls me…"
Blood spatters the walls, catches her across the face with a rush of salty copper. An old man's face fills with pain, then goes slack as he falls to the stones in a crumpled heap of silk and flesh.
"They took you away," Jena managed at length, shoving the memories back into the dark corners of her mind. "They took you to the frontier. To—"
"Morrowind," said her old friend. All at once, the easy smile, the relaxed grace, vanished from the dark elf. He suddenly seemed older, as if the simple word had flipped a switch within. She was aware, now, of the small streaks of gray in his spiked, black hair. "They took me to Morrowind."
Then, he shook his head and extended a hand to her. A pale ring, stone set in the shape of a crescent moon, eclipsing a star, gleamed on the proffered hand. Something about it pricked her memory.
"But I didn't come here to brag of my misadventures. Jena, what have you been doing all this time? Anvil is abuzz with rumors of the Champion of Cyrodiil!" Red eyes regarded her skeptically. "And since you're obviously not seven feet tall, clad in Daedric armor, I think I deserve to hear the truth."
She slid her sword back into its scabbard, allowing him to lead her to the chairs near the hearth. Her armor clinked against the solid wood chair, and she had to pull the sword up out of the way before she sat. By contrast, Neven slipped gracefully into a seat. He had always been the more graceful of the two, putting on tumbling shows when their thieving game ran dry. Even the market district had welcomed their shows after a time. Only when he sat did Jena notice the sword at his hip—curved and dark as his skin.
"I never thought I'd see the day Neven Velandas wore a weapon bigger than a dagger," she said.
He snorted, but avoided her gaze. "A necessity, in Morrowind," he said simply. Reaching over to the small table between them, he picked up a bottle of wine, and offered it to her. "You need new locks on your pantry."
Jena arched a brow. "So it would appear. Nice to know you haven't lost your touch, Neven," she said. Accepting the drink, she uncorked the stopper, and drank straight from the bottle. It slid, earthy and cold, down her throat. She knew this bottle—a gift from the wineries of Skingrad.
"You closed the gate! How can we ever repay you?"
Hot red skies and plants ripping, tearing, seeking blood and bone. Daedra around every turn, cutting, snarling, killing men. The searing, mind-numbing pain as her hand closes around the sigil stone...
A throaty chuckle brought her back. The only red here was in his familiar, safe eyes. "Of course not, Jena my dear," he was saying. He held up a be-ringed hand, admiring his fingers. "With hands like these, it was either take up the lute or the life of the pickpocket. And considering that I am utterly tone-deaf, the choice was obvious." He eyed her armor-clad hands, clasped around the dark bottle. "You, on the other hand, if you'll pardon the pun, really had your work cut out for you, if I remember correctly. But how in the name of Azura are you supposed to pick purses in clunky things like those?"
Dropping her gaze, Jena pulled her hands closer to herself, suddenly self-conscious. Neven's bragging was a familiar balm against the memories he brought with him. She had so many questions to ask him, but he was still chattering away as he always had, moving towards her now, moving to take her hands in his.
Why are you here? She wanted to ask him. Why now? Why couldn't you have come earlier, when I needed you? Why did you stay away so long?
Then he was kneeling at her feet, pulling off her gauntlets, all while still prattling on about his skills as a thief compared to hers. Too late, she realized what he was doing. Before she could stop him, he had the armor off, and was staring at the bare flesh of her hands.
"Jena!" Neven gasped. "Azura's shinbones! What have you done to yourself?"
Her hands were that of a warrior's now—strong, calloused from sword and shield. But that was not what caused his oath. Her hands were covered in thick, shiny red scar tissue. The scarring snaked up her wrists, ending in splotches, like blood-colored raindrops against pale skin. All over, the skin was stretched, pulled tightly where it had tried to heal on many occasions. No magic would heal those scars—her status within the Empire had warranted an attempt from the Arcane University itself—just as nothing would purge the memory of the burns from her mind.
"The Dragon waits."
Earth shakes and the wall falls inwards. Dagon is here, storming the temple, axe raised on high and nothing she has in her can stop it. He has left her, running to the center of the temple, standing to face the demon even as he is consumed by fire and by light. The voice screaming is her own. The fire raining down from the Dragon's wings, from its emergence into the world, scorches the ground, setting her fingers aflame as she searches through molten ruble for her companion.
For him.
"Jena…? Dear one?"
All at once, the temple was gone. She was in her home, in Cheydinhal, meeting concerned, Dunmer eyes. "Jena," Neven said again. His hoarse voice was thick, anxious. "What happened?"
The voice she summoned was as hoarse as his, and she could not look away from her hands—her scarred, blood-colored hands. "Oblivion," Jena whispered. "Oblivion…" Before he could see her hands shake, she pulled her gauntlets back on, relishing the feel of the material against her injured skin. No one could see anything but the Champion that way. For that same reason, she rarely went out unarmored.
"News is slow in the provinces…" said Neven, understanding coloring his gaze. To his credit, he did not move to take her hands again, just stared straight ahead. He fiddled with the ring on his left hand. His right clanked softly, as he wore, she now noticed, a metal glove of Dwarven make. Like her sword, it glowed faintly from some inner light. "I heard of the Gates opening… Some even opened in Morrowind, and we had to beat back the Daedra with everything we had…" Bitterness was in his expression now. "It was never enough. Ever. So many men died fighting…"
Jena had to throttle back the memories, clenching her fists around the hem of her hauberk. She could still see them, in her mind's eye, broken across the field at Bruma, even as she emerged, scorched and triumphant, from the Gate.
The guard is speaking, even as the temple healers stitch shut the gash across his cheekbone. He is telling her of the dead—he is telling her that none of the Blades have survived, telling her of their funerals-to-be. Her sword hits the floor and she wants to scream at him, to throw the thrice-be-damned sigil at his blood-spattered head. She does nothing but begin to crumble, only to be steadied by royal hands…
"Yes," she said finally, choking through the tears that suddenly sprung to her eyes. Why now, of all times? Why now, when she wanted nothing more than to hear of her friend's travels?
His eyes, so open, so safe, stared up at her. There had been so much to think of during the crisis. So much to watch out for, to keep ahead of, that it felt as if, somewhere, emotion had been lost in the struggle. There had not been time to discuss such trivial matters when Oblivion Gates were springing up across the countryside—when a madman brought forth the devil in the name of paradise.
Maybe there was time now…
"We lost… many," she finished lamely, avoiding that red gaze.
"How many, Jena?"
Jauffre… Baurus… Captain Steffan… Emperor Uriel… Emperor M—
"What does it matter to you?" she snapped, rising. Temper flared against the images of the dead, walking in her mind. "Why should it matter? You didn't know them. You didn't fight with them."
You didn't see them die.
The unspoken words hung, suspended like a knife, between them in the silence. Neven took a step closer to her, moving to place a hand on her shoulder. "I came to talk to you, dear Jena," he said. "Don't deny me that. Tell me what happened to you. To them—those men you led." At her noise of surprise, he gave a half-hearted smile. "News may be slow in Morrowind, but all of the Empire is talking about your battle at Bruma."
"There's nothing to tell!" she barked in the tone that had set the battle plans in motion. "I led them against the daedra, and they died. That's all."
"And Emperor Martin…?"
Something in the quiet, gentle question stopped the automatic tirade of indignation that automatically rose to her mouth. "The Emperor…" she started, but found herself unable to finish. "The Emperor…" Somehow, she could not bring herself to say it. Saying it would make it real—more real than the scars coating her hands, running over her skin. More real than the trophies collected in a grim little box upstairs. More real than all her journeying over the past months—trying in vain to find a counter-spell, a solution, anything to rewind the scene in the temple.
"The Emperor is dead."
And he is never, ever coming back for you.
It was painfully, horribly easy to say.
And something in those words robbed her of her strength. Her knees gave out, sending her stumbling, crashing, to the floor. Metal gauntlets scraped at the floor, as if trying to dig out through the solid wood—anything just to get away, to run away and put distance between herself and the pain. This failed, and she felt the first tears leak out. She tried choking them down—she couldn't break down, not here, not now. There was too much to say.
But, when strong, Dunmer hands came to rest on her shoulders, her resolve crumbled. Jena allowed Neven to pull her into his arms, kneeling there on the floor before the hearth, and he allowed her to sob uncontrollably onto his shoulder. Mercifully, Neven kept silent, only tangling his long hands through her short hair, the fingers on his gauntlet catching in the tangles.
The fading light outside was the only indication of the passage of time. Neven continued to hold her until long after the fire had burned down to embers—until long after the tears had dried themselves up, giving way to dry, bone-wrenching sobs. He listened, silently, to her ramblings, to the story pouring out of her in gasps, nodding in all the right places. When it finished, all he did was gently kiss her forehead, holding her tightly until, finally, as the final light from the fire died, she quieted, leaning into his embrace. He was shocked to discover his own cheeks were damp.
Something in his friend's tears, in her complete surrender to grief, had loosed his own memories. He found himself once again wandering the ash-strewn streets of Ald-ruhn, slogging through the marshes and wastes of the ashlands. He felt, again, the stinging hiss of steel through armor and flesh—the fear as the ring slides onto his finger… the burning, searing pain as Wraigthguard latches itself onto his arm and hand… thick welts of disease taking root… betrayal recalled from another life, another time.
Neven shook his dark head. For the first time that night, his cheerful, gallant façade broke down, and he winced against the images in his head.
This is not why I came.
Valiantly, he held that thought like a shield against his own mind, as he helped Jena to her feet, all but carrying her up the narrow staircase. He'd gotten what he'd come for. He had learned what he'd come to find out. Now, all that was left to do was deposit Jena—no, the Champion of Cyrodiil—safely in bed, and slip out of her life once more.
But when she sagged against him, burn-mangled fingers clutching feebly at the fabric of his tunic, Neven found he could not bear to be so cruel. Gently, carefully, he began undoing the clasps of her armor, fingers dark against the bright glass plates. Wraithguard clicked audibly when it came into contact with the plates, causing Jena to begin prying it off him.
He almost resisted—he had not removed the gauntlet since the poet god had bestowed it on him—but there was a sort of oblivion in succumbing to the attention, however platonic, of a friend. Not thinking, not looking beyond the next loop and toggle of armor, helped to slowly stitch together the frayed threads of psyche.
Dawn found them a few hours later, curled in each others' arms, the scars on dark flesh matching, almost mirroring, the scars on pale.
-------
Midmorning found Neven hunched over Jena's desk. His friend still slept, but though his hair was tousled from rest, circles, black against the dusk of his skin, hung below his eyes. A borrowed quill scratched furiously over a long sheet of parchment.
My lady of Mournhold,
Deepest apologies that I have been unable to send word to you for so long. My mission in Cyrodiil has taken something of an unexpected turn. As per your request, I have sought out the Champion of Cyrodiil, and attempted to assess the situation.
It does not appear, my lady, that neither the Champion, nor the Empire itself, poses a great threat to Morrowind at this time. We did not count on the Champion being a mirror for her Empire—broken, confused, and pining for a lost leader. Though, given my own experiences, lady, I cannot fault her.
Indeed, I can quite sympathize with her. We are alike, she and I. Both of us have seen things not meant for men and mer to witness. Both of us have lost so much—friends, companions, and, even lovers. You know of who I speak, lady. And while I still can see no way around Her death, the soul in me weeps for Her all the same, even through betrayal twice over. At least, the Champion may take comfort in the fact that Martin did not die by her hand.
As for my duty to my people, to my lady, I say to look to the North—to Skyrim. Perhaps, in time, the Empire, and its Champion, may recover. But not now. Now they need a shoulder to cry on, a period to recover from the shock. The Nords attack now. Let us turn our attention, and our armies, to them. I will send copies of this order to Houses Indoril and Redoran.
At your service,
Lord Neven Velandas, Hortator, War Chief, Nerevarine
With a sigh, he set aside the missive, and pulled out a fresh sheet of parchment. He stared at it for a long moment, lost in thought. There was no easy way to begin this message—he wasn't even sure saying goodbye this way was a good idea in itself. But there was no more he could do here, really. He'd accomplished his missions—personal and public. Jena's recovery, like that of her Empire, was in her hands now. There was only so much a simple Dunmer, however noble his soul, could do. He didn't want to leave her again, but he had his orders. He had a duty to his people: a duty that superseded that of his duty to a friend.
"That explains the ring."
He whirled about, coming face-to-face with Jena. She stood on the stairs, wearing loose pants and shirt, pale blue eyes hard and accusatory. "You've gotten better," he murmured, unable to meet her gaze. "I should have known you were there before you got past the first 'my lady'."
"That's what all this was about, Neven? Assessing the Empire for a weakness?" she asked, staring at him. "Or should I call you Nerevar?"
The words stung, recalling the days in Mournhold, hearing a goddess speak those same words. "No," he said. "No, not 'Nerevar'. That was another lifetime—I'm Neven now, I always have been." He still could not look at her, and he dropped his gaze to his hands, toying with the Moon-And-Star on his finger. "I have no answer for you, Jena. This was my mission. It's my duty to my people."
"Then, this is my duty to mine. And my Emperor."
A soft shing of steel. His heart sank, and nearly broke. He stood, drawing his own sword to meet hers. Fire danced along the edge of the curved blade, mimicking the wicked light emanating from her broadsword. Flames hissed and popped as the sword that slew Dagoth Ur met the sword that wounded Mehrunes Dagon—as the Champion of Cyrodiil stared down the Nerevarine. Blue eyes met red, flaring with rage and betrayal.
… Poison in the ritual… the traitors seizing the Heart for themselves… his sword sweeping down on a Goddess's crumpled form… a golden mask falling to the molten floor below as the blight-infested face shrieks in hatred… exhausted acceptance in the eyes of the poet-turned-traitor-turned-God… They were mortal now…
Neven felt the sword fall to his side. He sagged back into the chair, suddenly exhausted. "I'm sorry," was all he could manage. The words felt horribly useless—he had turned on her just as the Tribunal had turned on his past self. How were mere words to fix such a thing? "Forgive me, Jena. For lying to you…"
"Neven Velandas."
Startled, he looked up, half expecting to see her sword swinging down at him. Instead, she had dropped it to the floor, and was watching him with expressionless blue eyes, arms folded across her chest. In an awkward motion, she came to his side, and took up his ringed hand. The barest hint of a smile came into her face. "What happened to you?" she murmured, a calloused thumb cautiously stroking the pale glint of Nerevar's ring. "What in the name of Akatosh happened to you?"
His expression must have been a surprise, for she laughed slightly—for the first time in her memory. "As I said," she said. "this is my duty. Morrowind, for the moment, is part of the Empire. Skyrim is attacking the Empire. And if the only way to help it remain intact is through the Nerevarine... and his continued ability to fight… then…" She pulled him to his feet, guiding him towards the little corner table. "A tale for a tale it is."
The dark face twitched in a small, familiar grin. "You always hated my storytelling, Jena dear."
"It brought in the gold well enough."
"Ah, but there's no gold at the end of this tale… only scars and dead gods."
Her smile turned sad. "For our duty then, Neven. For our duty, let us talk of scars, dead gods, and dead Emperors."
Picking up an empty, pewter cup, he raised it to her in mock salute. Raising a brow, she followed suit.
"To the Empire," he said.
"To Morrowind," she replied.