Extract from the private journal of Baldr the Dovahkiin (which he keeps because that's a thing every self-respecting adventurer should do).
His face has been burned into my mind like a brand mark. It has haunted me throughout the nightmare of my escape from the mines, and it is still there, floating persistently before my inner sight when I close my eyes. It is him, there can be no doubt. My brother! By Talos, it feels so strange putting these words on paper; it has been so long since I last dwelled on our common memories. After all these years… he hasn't changed one bit. Well, I grant he has become a great deal taller, with his Thalmor robes fitting him perfectly – unlike in those bygone days when he used to stand in front of the mirror, wrapped in Father's clothes, which were several sizes too big for him, and pretend he was a real, grown-up Thalmor, much to my delight. And, of course, the few pathetic little chin hairs that he was coveting with such pride at the time we parted our ways, which was when I was still a child and he was on the verge of manhood, have grown somewhat in size and number. But apart from that, he is still the same old Lemmie. Not quite the same old Lemmie, though – and I think I'd better find out the exact extent of this not quite.
Extract from the private journal of Justiciar Ondolemar (which he keeps because he deems himself one of the few persons in the world worth keeping – and reading – a record of).
The abominable creature is haunting me. It is more than disturbing, the way he shadows me around the keep, racing up in front of me when I try to avoid him and peering insolently into my face. Once or twice, he has attempted to start a conversation, presumably under the pretext that we are both Altmer and people of one race should be friendly towards each other. What he seems to fail to understand is that by reducing himself to the standards of behaviour of a lowly Nord he has cut off all ties with the properly, superiorly bred mer such as myself. I must admit, the little incident with the guards was quite impressive, especially for one of our kin, who are not naturally disposed towards melee combat. But I digress.
When – by sheer accident, of course – I chanced to fall into the trap of his small-talk, he bombarded me with questions about my origin. 'You are not from Markarth, I take it?', he asked me, with the air of most innocent curiosity. When, losing my temper a little at his irritating persistence, I told him all that I think about this craggy wretch of a city, he proceeded to utterly take me aback with the following discourse, accompanied by a repulsively cheerful grin and a sly wink:
'Ah, yes, you must have been born in the Summerset Isle, then. Perhaps in one of those magnificent villas – with a lush green garden, overgrown just enough to do a bit of exploring as a child, and a terrace coming down to the very sea shore… A perfect place to spend one's early years… playing with a younger sibling, perhaps? Nothing like a good game of hide-and-seek to while away the lazy summer afternoons when all the grown-ups are gone… but it can be dangerous, too. Imagine a small boy hiding from his elder brother among the bushes on top of a steep cliff looking out into the sea. He thinks himself concealed completely, and giggles at picturing the other child's vain attempts to find him. But then his foot slips, he loses balance, and tumbles down into the water! He can swim a little, because his brother has taught him how, but the shock of his fall, and the pain – he has twisted his ankle, you see – make all the knowledge of moving his limbs in the right way evaporate from his poor little head, and all that he can do is struggle desperately to keep on the surface and bawl out his brother's name till his voice grows hoarse like the cry of a seagull. When the second boy finally comes to the rescue, it is almost too late. He dives in, horrified, and catches the choking, half-drowned little mite into his arms and waddles ashore just as a huge wave is about to sweep down over their heads… When they finally make it to dry land, the elder boy gives his brother a good spanking and they take a solemn oath never to breathe a word to the grown-ups…'
For a while, I was left speechless. His bizarre narrative matched, with uncanny accuracy, one of my many boyhood misadventures. I asked myself, just as I ask now – how could he have known? My little brother and I had indeed sworn to each other not to tell anyone – and as far as I know, we both kept true to our word. Was it the fabled insight of a madman – for he clearly is one, forsaking all his kin holds true for the false ideals of the inferior species? Or perhaps, just a coincidence, a fictional tale that matched exactly what I myself had once experienced? I felt obliged to question him; but I got no chance to do so, for he was called away by the Housecarl; apparently, the Jarl needed some brute muscle power to eliminate a Forsworn settlement.
A hastily scribbled plan stuck between the pages of Baldr's quest agenda:
See if he recognizes me – check. He doesn't. No wonder – I wouldn't have recognized myself if I had had to compare the image of the small, fragile elven boy he must remember me as and my present muscular, broad-shouldered, unshaven self. That's what you get when you embrace Nord customs.
Probe the soil with a childhood tale – check. Judging from how ghastly pallid he turned when I told him about our hide-and-seek game, my little experiment has set the cogs of his mind working. He must be wondering what I am playing at.
Now, to reveal myself! Preferably, in as dramatic a way as possible. I haven't studied at the Bards' College for nothing! Perhaps I should mystify him further? More hints, more questions, more stories of what we did together as boys? Get him all emotional (if that's possible, of course) – and then fling myself on his neck with a customary 'Ondolemar, I am your brother!' This is going to be so thrilling! I wish I had more time… All those other quests I have to do… Delphine must be steaming with impatience…