"All I ask for is a pair of boots. How hard could it be?" - Basks-In-The-Sun
Gelebor had only ash and snow for company. The cobblestones beneath his feet were worn and forgotten. In some places the road seemed to disappear entirely. No one on Solstheim had much reason to go deeper inland than the coasts, where Raven Rock and Tel Mithryn stood as the sole beacons of civilization. Even the reavers and bandits hesitated to tread too far into the snowy wasteland before setting up their camps and outposts. The ocean symbolized escape, a potential path to Skyrim or the mainland or anywhere else warmer and more hospitable. Gelebor walked alone, as he always had. Occasionally an ash hopper or guar crossed his path, and he'd pause to watch the creatures for as long as he could. Far above, in the choking gray sky, the sun's rays struggled to break through. My god is with me. I need no others. A mantra he'd repeated to himself for thousands of years. Gelebor wondered if someday he'd believe the words.
"If I ever return to Raven Rock, Geldis and I will have to have a long conversation about the definition of 'close.'" He smiled wearily at the curious guar. The little lizard beast slowly moved closer to where Gelebor sat. Before them, a snowy pine forest stretched as far as the eye could see. Behind, the agitated ash wastes smoked and hissed. Gelebor had lost the path hours ago.
"Tell me," Gelebor said. "What manner of person chooses to live so far from the only other beings on an island like this?" I suppose it's hypocritical of me to pose such a question, given how many years passed in the Vale where I stood completely alone. Back then, he'd taken to speaking to the deer and rabbits that sometimes approached the Wayshrines, so he wouldn't forget how to form words. Old habits die reluctantly.
The guar scurried away when he rose. The sun was setting, and Gelebor wanted to be under the tree cover in case an ash storm formed in the night. The amount of protection the forest provided was meager, but it was preferable to being caught out in the barrens. I wonder if I'll die out here. Gelebor hadn't feared death for some time. He'd lived a hundred lifetimes, and as each century passed he grew more anxious to learn about what came after. Maybe I'll see Vythur again, before dawn arrives.
He broke through the treeline, searching for any trace of a path through the icy sentinels. There was no sign any men or elves had ever walked this forest; before too long, he'd lost track of the way he came, and each direction seemed to present the same picture. Logic dictated that walking one way on an island would eventually lead one to a coast, but exhaustion forced Gelebor to stop long before he could put that theory to the test. He found a small clearing with a large hollowed tree stump in its center. As good a place to make a camp as any. With shaky hands, he unpacked his supplies and set up a small canvas covering over his bedroll. Waking up with a mouthful of ash would be dreadful. Too weary to make a fire, Gelebor fell on to his pillow after eating a handful of his nearly depleted rations. If I don't wake up in the morning, it may be a blessing.
Every evening before sleep, Gelebor forced himself to remember. The process often took hours. All the elves of the Forgotten Vale, their names and faces, their songs and sorrows, he had to recall each night lest they be lost to time. Sometimes he feared he'd already forgotten too much for it to matter. Some of the memories were cloudy, indistinct; like images seen through a fog. He'd once thought of putting down the recollections in words, but to do so would take more books then he could carry. And what if they were ruined in a sudden rain, or taken by curious hands? My people would be lost forever. An inevitable certainty loomed always at the edges of his awareness: someday Auriel would call him to join the others, and the last echoes of the snow elves would go from the world.
The first years after leaving had been the easiest. Gelebor had journeyed Skyrim in relative tranquility, living off the land where he could and performing simple jobs when the need for gold arose. Though the country had been much changed since the days of his people, he still beheld many sights that brought joy and sorrow to his old heart. The snowy mountains of the Pale, the glittering glaciers of the Sea of Ghosts, even the rolling tundra of Whiterun and the awe-inspiring arches of Labyrinthian. He admired the tenacity of the ancient Nords, constructing such monuments in a climate so unsuited to their people. Most of the modern natives seemed to do their best to ignore him, and he didn't overly mind. Those he'd encountered in the wilderness had often offered him food and shelter for the night, in return for some of his latest game. Few had been outright hostile, save for the occasional drunk or bitter ex-soldier.
And then, almost a year ago, the Dragonborn Jaxius Amaton had been slain by the Thalmor. The change in attitude towards Gelebor had been almost immediate: innkeepers refused him service, merchants refused to buy his goods, and children ran away when he stepped on to the street. For a time, Gelebor had felt as monstrous as the Betrayed, those twisted subterranean creatures that he'd once called kin. Many high elves received a similar shunning from the locals, but none were treated as harshly.
None of the Altmer had skin so wanting in color, or long sharply curved ears, or hair as stark white as the freshly fallen snow. Even when mistaken as a high elf, Gelebor appeared an outcast. He wondered if some genetic predisposition towards hating snow elves had been passed down from the Nord's ancestors, who'd driven his proud race to extinction thousands of years ago; but such thoughts were unfit for a Knight-Paladin of Auriel, even one in exile.
Eventually Gelebor fell into a troubled sleep, tossing and turning on the rough ground. Flakes of ash and snow fell gently from the surrounding trees, covering him as they covered everything on Solstheim.
He awoke to the sound of snuffling and grunting nearby. Opening one eye a minuscule amount, Gelebor discerned the sun had not yet risen and also that a colossal ursine creature was rummaging through his pack a short distance away. The air had the scent of damp fur and decay. What an impressive beast. The few of its kind Gelebor had encountered during his travels in Skyrim had been skittish, brutish, and protective. This bear had not a care in the world but hunger, and paid Gelebor no mind as it tore his satchels to ribbons to get to the wrapped breads and berries. I suspect that would change, were I to move. Gelebor resolved to feign sleep unless the situation demanded he kill to protect himself. If that's even within my power.
The bear finished eating and sniffed the air. It reared up on its hind legs, and took a heavy step closer, the pine straw crackling underfoot. Oh, dear. This is no creature of Kyne. He knew of the manbeasts of Hircine from books, but had never heard of one able to take a form different than wolf. And yet the werebear continued towards him, slaver dripping from its jaws, unconcerned with his state of knowing.
Gelebor rolled out of his tent, drawing the elven dagger that Geldis had gifted him.. He'd no experience with such a weapon, and limited skill with magic. Thank Auriel I chose to sleep in my armor. The werebear halted, regarding him with unknowable intent.
"I've no wish to hurt you, child of Hircine," Gelebor said. "Had you asked me to share my rations, I would have gladly obliged. There's no need for conflict. We must be the only living beings for leagues in any direction."
The werebear cocked its head, grunted softly, and nodded. From such a strangely mortal gesture, he could almost imagine the man behind the curse.
It sprung clear of the ground with a roar that shook the world. Gelebor raised the dagger before being slammed to the ground. His blade sunk into the oily skin of the beast's shoulder. Daedric claws tore splinters of moonstone from his chestplate. Gelebor raised his gauntlets to protect his neck, but soon enough yellow teeth were shredding the ancient metal away like so many knives through hot scrib jelly. Gelebor had no way of harming the werebear, and his defenses would only last a moment longer. At least I'll soon be reunited with my brothers and sisters. He had no question of why Auriel had abandoned him to this fate; the chief Divine hadn't raised a finger to protect the rest of the snow elves. The last one didn't expect to be treated differently.
Claws finally found purchase in pale skin, and Gelebor screamed despite himself. The shattered ruins of his ivory chestplate began to turn crimson.
The werebear reared back its head and roared into the sky, slimy drool flying to splatter Gelebor's face. He looked up at the monster through tears of agony and disappointment. And then the point of a glass arrow sprouted from the bear's left eye. It turned its head and another arrow joined the first, and the life slowly drained from its wide red eyes. The werebear fell, and Gelebor didn't have the strength to move out of the way. The corpse crushed his legs and chest, rendering him unable to breathe. This state persisted until black spots appeared in his vision, and a curious warmth surrounded his head. Auriel, come to take me away. For centuries I've yearned for my sovereign's attention.
But the dead werebear was pushed off him and the dizziness faded. He opened his eyes to see a slender Dunmer woman with short black hair standing over him, her brow furrowed.
"What in Dagon's eyes are you?" She held a glass longbow, and light armor of a similar material. Though she appeared reasonably young, thin lines were visible at the corners of her eyes. Similar lines had appeared on his own visage in the past years since he'd left the Vale.
"Knight-Paladin Gelebor, former guardian of the Great Chantry of Auriel."
The woman glanced around his campsite. "If this is your chantry, I see why you lost the position. But I didn't ask your name."
"Ah. Well, I'm an Altmer." He felt a bit off balance with this woman, thanks in no small part to the bleeding gashes on his torso. Even trying to sit up summoned an unrelenting pain down nearly every part of his body below the neck. "A high elf."
She snorted. "If you're a high elf, I'm a Chimer. I've killed enough of those prissy s'wits to recognize when I've one bleeding out in my forest."
Gelebor frowned. "Am I to assume you'll let me continue bleeding should I choose not to follow the path of this conversation?"
"Makes no difference to me." The woman stepped over him without looking down. "I came to kill the werebear that's been stealing my game the last few months. Saving some mysterious fool was not on my schedule."
Auriel preserve me, I've been rescued by a pragmatist. If Gelebor didn't get a healing potion or spell soon, he'd be dead in hours. And for whatever reason, that thought was no longer so attractive. There seemed to be little choice but to divulge his secrets to this forest Dunmer.
"I'm a snow elf," Gelebor said.
She turned, eyebrows raised. "A Falmer?"
He winced. "Just snow elf, if you please. The word Falmer has become synonymous with the monstrous blind creatures that inhabit many of Skyrim's cave systems. Our paths diverged quite a while ago now."
"Fair enough." The woman stepped closer, her curiosity obviously piqued. "Are there any more of you?"
"None that I know of. My brother, Vythur, passed away a few years ago."
"Interesting. The last of the snow elves." She looked down at him with an unsettling glint in her eye. "So if I put an arrow in your head, right here in this forest, I'd be rendering an entire race extinct?"
Gelebor smiled. "The Nords did that long before you were born. It's not as if I'm capable of producing more of my kind by planting a bit of my hair in the snow."
"I suppose you're right." She seemed almost disappointed. "In any case, how in Oblivion did you get out here? I came so far into the wilds to avoid people, not to save them. I might have put you down myself if the werebear hadn't got here first."
"Geldis Sadri said an elf living nearby might have work available. Certain circumstances rendered me incapable of remaining in Raven Rock."
"Damned innkeep. I told him to send me a strong orc, not a battered elf."
"So you're the woman in question? It was an orc that gave me some of the bruises, if that factors into your consideration."
She sighed. "I'm Nadene. Nadene Othryn. Not sure what use I have for a broken priest, but Geldis would probably stop sending me food if I just let you die here."
Nadene knelt down and put her hands over his wounds. Gelebor sucked in breath sharply through his teeth, trying not to cry out.
An orange aura pulsed from her palms, providing warm relief to his pain in moments. The openings in his chest slowly closed.
"Many thanks, miss Othryn."
She held up a finger. "One. Never call me that again. Two. That was the only healing spell I know, and it's mainly for emergencies. I'll have to take you back to my home and finish up with some bandages. And then you'll forget you ever met me and go far away."
Gelebor responded, "Very well. Is your dwelling close by?"
Nadene shrugged. "Reasonably close."
He struggled to sit up. "I may need a moment before I can set off."
"You think I'm going to lug your bloodstained carcass all the way through this forest? Just hold still. I'll teleport us."
"I thought teleportation magic to be forbidden in the Empire."
"This is Morrowind, n'wah." Nadene placed her hand on his chest again. This time, her fingers seemed to thrum with potential energy. "Why walk when you can-"
They vanished in a burst of sparks.