CHEYDINHAL
15th of Last Seed, 4E 168

For what seemed like the hundredth time, Alarin had to shake himself awake to keep himself from dozing off. I really should have cast that Stamina spell before I walked into here... he thought sorely. For a young Altmer with centuries ahead of him, the chapel sermon just seemed to go on and on and on. The whole era could have passed him by, for all he knew.

Alarin looked around the chapel, wondering how everyone else was coping. Of course, the usual Imperial, Breton, Redguard, and Nord families had filled up the pews closest to the Primate, who– by the Gods– was still taking about Arkay! How much could one person possibly talk about Arkay? Near the rear of the chapel, there were a few ragged beggars sitting near the doorway, some off-duty guardsmen quietly chatting to each other near the back, and, unsurprisingly, only one Dunmer, who, judging from the state of him, was only here because he had just wandered in drunk from the Newlands Lodge the night before and passed out right on the floor. Alarin yawned.

Gods, this chapel stuff was boring. He imagined it was partly the reason why his father never wanted to attend these things. Alarin thought of all the other things he could have been doing instead. He could have stayed at home and practised his spells. He could have sat down in the park and finished his book. He could have gone fishing in the river with Releth and Nedene Lythandas. He could have gone back to sleep… He could have… he could…

"Alarin!"

A loud whisper beside him brought him back. He rubbed his eyes and turned to find his mother's honey-coloured eyes staring right him.

"Sorry, mum," Alarin mouthed quietly. His mother shook her head and chuckled quietly, turning to face the front again. The Primate's voice continued to drone on through the chapel. Alarin slumped back in his seat.

Come to think of it, his mother never really enjoyed going to the chapel either. Even though she'd grown up in Cyrodiil, she never really struck him as the type to be very devoted to the Nine Divines– apparently, she never even visited the chapel once back in her Mages' Guild days. His mother seemed to just… attend.

"Go now, under the light of the Divines, under the love of Arkay, to love and serve them, the Empire, and each other!" the Primate's voice finally echoed throughout the chapel. The congregation began to rise out of their seats.

"All glory to the Divines!" they cried out in unison.

'All glory to the Divines' finally! Alarin practically leapt out of his seat– a little too eagerly, it seemed. He felt his mother quickly place a warm hand over his shoulder.

"Well, that's over now," she chirped as they walked out from the pews, "Let's head home. Your father is probably waiting for us, and I think left the calcinator on..." Alarin smiled in relief as they began to make their way towards the exit.

"Ah, Eilonwy!" a familiar droning voice suddenly called out from behind them. Alarin reluctantly let his mother turn them around, where they saw the old Imperial Primate plodding through down the aisle towards them.

Oh come on!

"Primate Godric! What a lovely sermon you gave today," his mother replied cordially, "I, um, especially enjoyed the part about Arkay." Alarin tried to suppress a laugh, but the Primate didn't seem to notice.

"It is only fitting that we praise Arkay in these troubled times, to aid our late Emperor's soul on its journey to Aetherius," he said. Alarin noticed when the Primate wasn't droning on in some endless sermon, his voice was extremely fruity, in an obnoxious, self-righteous kind of way. "And I am especially glad," the Primate continued, "That young Alarin here has decided to join us!"

"Huh?" Alalrin stuttered. He didn't expect the Primate to actually talk to him. "Oh, yeah – I mean, yes," Alarin stammered, "Chapel, yeah. Praise Arkay! Ahem." His mother squeezed him on the shoulder: gentle, but firm. That was usually the signal for him to stop talking.

"My son tries to visit the chapel whenever he can," she answered for him cheerfully. She tucked a few loose strands of fawny-coloured hair back behind her ear and smiled.

"Ah good, good!" the Primate said, nodding his head approvingly at Alarin, "The Gods are always pleased when the young give thanks at the chapel!"

Pfft, Alarin thought impatiently, Once in a millenium, maybe. His mother never really insisted on him going, although she had a tendency to drag him there whenever she felt he "wasn't being productive" and slacking off his magical studies. Looking around the chapel, he suddenly became aware that most of the chapel-goers had already left. Other than the unconscious Dunmer in the back corner, only he, his mother, and the Imperial Primate remained. For a few moments, there was an awkward silence between the three of them. Alarin fiddled with his hands impatiently, itching to get out of the chapel and away from the obnoxious priest already. But the Primate was speaking again:

"Well, speaking of," he continued hesitantly, "I hope you do not mind, Eilonwy, but I just could not help but notice that your husband does not attend chapel…often much? Forgive me for asking, but, ah, is there any particular reason why?" The question caught both Alarin and his mother completely off guard. Alarin saw her cheerful expression drop slightly. She gave a nervous laugh.

"Oh, my husband!" she said quickly, "Orintur regrets it so much, but he's just always so busy with his research! Ever since the Guild was closed down, he's had to work much harder. Those scrolls take so long to create, and the ones he makes are just so advanced. He just never really has the time…" More silence.

Alarin and his mother knew that was only half-true; his father probably never set foot in an Imperial chapel in his life. He was a Summerset Altmer, born and raised, although, come to think of it, he never seemed very devoted to the Altmeri gods either. Or any gods, really. Something in the Primate's demeanour hinted that he didn't entirely believe his mother either.

"But Eilonwy," he spoke tentatively, "I see you and your son at chapel, but surely your husband knows how important it is to for anyone to make time for the Divines?" Eilonwy cocked her head.

"In what way, Primate Godric?" she asked, hint of defensiveness rising in her voice.

"Well," he explained slowly, "When one works with alchemy, such as you do, you create magic using the gifts nature already provides us. However, there are just some schools of magic that are more, ah, feared than others. I am simply concerned." Alarin rolled his eyes.

This was stupid. What was so bad about Alteration? It was hardly Destruction magic. Besides, nothing ever went wrong with any of the spells his father used, Alteration or otherwise.

"But I've seen Orintur work all the time," his mother responded, "He's one of the best casters in the whole of Cyrodiil. He's highly respected by mages from around the province." Her voice was always soft, but she spoke with conviction – it was something Alarin noticed she always did when it came to defending his father and his work.

"I am sorry, Eilonwy. You may not want to believe it, but magic is still quite feared by many," the Primate spoke gravely, "And this fear has not disappeared with the Mages' Guild. You are a talented alchemist and your husband is, from what I understand, a brilliant mage, but it is concerning that he chooses not to be seen in chapel." Alarin's brow furrowed. Sure, a few superstitious old codgers disapproved of his family's association with the Mage's Guild, but his father was hardly some crooked necromancer hunched over a pile of corpses. Alarin looked to his mother, but her demeanour had noticeably fallen.

"I know… I know…" she said quietly. "Thank you, Primate Godric. I'm sure he'll appreciate your concern. I'll ask him again once I get home."

"We may all need the Gods more in the coming days, and we must all pray to keep them there. As Primate of Arkay, it is my sacred duty to look after all of the Divines' children," he exclaimed proudly, "Even if they themselves may not look to the Divines..."

Agh, Alarin thought. He hated this guy.

Alarin's mother, however, gave the Primate a small smile then, putting a hand around Alarin, they headed for the chapel door.

"But you will ask your husband to come to chapel more often?" the Primate suddenly called out from behind them.

"I'll talk with him about it."

"Ah, good! If you ask, he will listen," he said, "Blessings to you all."

"Blessings to you too."

The midday sun had already settled high in the sky by the time they finally stepped out through the chapel door and into the town square. The street vendors were already beginning to reduce the price of their wares. Alarin huffed. He felt irritated that so much of the day had been wasted.

"Mum..." he asked at length.

"Yes, dear?" she replied, as the two of them walked along the cobbled streets.

"That was boring," Alarin said. Best his mother heard it from his own mouth. Surprisingly, she laughed in response.

"Oh, it always is," she replied, chuckling. They passed a toothless old beggar sitting on the curb.

"Alms!" he growled, and rattled a tin bucket impatiently. She dropped a coin into the bucket as they passed.

"So, you're not really going to make dad go to chapel. Like you make me?" Alarin continued. His mother tutted.

"Don't be silly, Alarin," she said, "I don't make you go to chapel, and I'm not going to make your father go either. It's just good– for us, I mean– to be seen there every now and again."

"So people don't think we're crazy warlocks, right?" he asked half-jokingly.

"Well, um... yes, I suppose," his mother replied pensively, "You could put it that way..." She was silent after that.

It was some time later before they arrived back home– or, as Alarin's family affectionately called it, Willow Bank. It was a cozy wood-beam house on the very edge of the town walls, sitting in between a worn old statue of Vanus Galerion– the founder of the now-defunct Mages' Guild– and the lazy banks of the Corbolo River that ran through Cheydinhal. Alarin quickly wiped his feet on the welcome mat, and entered the front door. From the outside, their home was one of the larger ones in town, but it seemed much smaller on the inside, filled to the brim with his parents' research. As soon as he stepped into the living room, a noxious herbal scent furrowed its way into his nostrils. He gagged– his mother had left the calcinator on.

"Oh my!" she cried out, rushing quickly to take the mixture off the fire, "Drat. I won't be able to sell this batch now." She tipped the burnt contents of the calcinator out a nearby window.

Except for a small fireplace in the back wall for cooking, nearly every room in their home was lined floor to ceiling in bookshelves, each one packed with books, scrolls, and the boxes of alchemical potions Alarin's mother had arranged for delivery to the marketplace on weekdays. Next to the shelves, in front of a huge sealed bookcase, was his father's desk, covered almost entirely in tall columns of thick leather folders containing decades of his accumulated magical research.

"Eilonwy, Alarin? Is that you?" a voice suddenly called out from upstairs. Alarin looked up as his father appeared above the balcony railing, then reappeared again on the top landing before slowly making his way down the stairs, precariously balancing another stack of research folders in his hands. He quickly dropped the stack on his desk with a loud thud.

"There," his father breathed, "Now I can finally make a start on this thing!" He dusted off his hands. For an Altmer only in his middle years, Alarin's father looked severely overworked. His chestnut hair was already turning silver at the temples, and there were even a few dark circles forming under his brown eyes. Yet, despite it all, he always managed to sit up straight while working, always kept his hair slicked back behind his ears, and his cotton blouse - the one Alarin swore his father wore almost every day - was always clean and neatly folded up to the elbows to avoid ink stains or accidentally singeing off the edge of the sleeves with spells. It was the kind of effortless Altmer poise and bearing that could have only come out of Alinor.

"Hello, son. Hello, love," he said happily. He gave Alarin a quick hug and kissed his wife on the cheek. "What took you two so long?"

"Oh," Eilonwy replied, "We had a little chat with the Primate."

"Hmm… That's nice." Orintur settled down at his desk, and flicked through one of the leather folders on his desk, occasionally stopping at a page to read it. "And how was it?"

"Good, good. It was all very good. Very interesting." she replied again. Orintur nodded his head then slowly looked back to his notes. Alarin couldn't help but notice the awkward silence. His mother, very quietly, cleared her throat. No reaction. She cleared her throat again, louder this time. His father didn't look up, still concentrating intensely what was written on the page. Alarin took a step forward.

"Dad…" he said, tapping him on the shoulder.

"Sorry, sorry!" Orintur jumped up suddenly, tearing his eyes from the page, "You were saying something, love?"

"Well," Eilonwy spoke, clasping her hands together, "I was actually wondering if you would consider… visiting the chapel one day? You don't have to be there every Sundas, dear, but maybe just a few times a month?"

"Oh. The chapel," Orintur replied, "Well... I'll see if I have time. I'm working on a brand new research project, and it's thrown my schedule off completely." He sat up in his chair. "Besides," he continued, "You know me, I've never really been one for the Imperial chapel. I mean, you grew up here in Cyrodiil, dear, and Alarin's lived in Cheydinhal all his life, but my family all worshipped the Altmeri gods. It just wouldn't feel right if I started getting into, you know, the Nine Divines." Eilonwy sighed, and, nodding her head, patted her husband on the shoulder.

"I know, dear. But if you ever feel like visiting the chapel, just let me know," she said, "I'm just worried about…about what people think about you and your work. That's all." Orintur raised an eyebrow. Presumably Eilonwy was referring to the small incident with the drunk Nord last month, or was it the one with the Orc two weeks ago?

"Worried? Oh, don't be!" he laughed, reaching over to rub his wife's arm.

"He almost broke your nose, Orintur..." she warned.

"Pssh. It was nothing one of your healing potions couldn't fix. Besides," he continued, "Whatever people say, if the time comes they'll need defensive spells, they'll have to come to me. Practical shield spells aren't easy to come by these days, what with Battlemage Salas ordering every single one that pops up for the Imperial Battle College." He quickly flicked through one of the folders. "Anyway," he added, "I don't think the gods are going to banish me to Oblivion either for working with something one of them gave to us in the first place!"

"Magnus, right?" Alarin piped up.

"Correct! Well done, my boy! I see you've been studying," his father said. He chuckled quietly then turned quickly back to his work. Alarin's mother opened her mouth to say something but quickly decided not to press the matter further. There was a short silence.

"Well…" she spoke up, changing the subject, "This new research of yours, dear, what's it about?"

That got his attention.

"Oh? This?" Orintur took out a long piece of parchment and rolled it out over the whole surface of the desk. "These are my initial designs for a new shield spell that will be able to absorb one-hundred percent of physical damage but for only half the magicka cost of a spell of that magnitude! Isn't it exciting?" He exclaimed. He stood up, and pointed at a few symbols on the parchment. "These, I'm not too sure about, but I've finally finished gathering all of my relevant past research here– " He patted the stack of folders on the desk. "– And if I could use them to improve the some of the weaker shield spells I've already created and use them to create a prototype, this spell would be the strongest and most effective of its kind!"

Alarin looked over the parchment in awe. He had a hard enough time understanding his mother's research notes on advanced alchemy, but his father's notes were always something else. Nearly every surface of the parchment was covered in a flurry of diagrams, scribblings, and obscure, arcane symbols only some of which Alarin could even begin to understand.

"It's brilliant," he said, "Really, dad, it is." His father smiled at him.

"Thank you, son," he replied, putting an arm around Alarin's shoulder, "I'm glad you think that way."

"Maybe when you finish it, you could teach it to me?" Alarin said, "I mean, I think my studies are going along pretty well. I could probably do it if I practised a lot." His father simply shrugged.

"Oh, I think you've got a lot more studying to do before you go around trying to cast spells like this!" Alarin's mother chuckled teasingly. Alarin frowned slightly. He liked to think, especially being an Altmer and all, that he'd at least inherited a certain magical prowess from his mage parents, even if it didn't show much yet. He sighed. She was probably right anyway. It would likely be another decade of practice before he could do the kind of magic his parents worked with.

"Orintur, your designs look fantastic!" his mother continued, looking up from the parchment, "And I, oh– " She suddenly hesitated, chewing her lip. "Look, dear, I really don't want to bother you about this again, but you really should consider sending this one off when it's done." Alarin's father shook his head.

"Please, Eilonwy," he said, his voice dropping to a low murmur, "I threw that letter out last week. I really don't want anything to do with them."

The Synod. Alarin didn't know much the shadowy group of mages, other than that they were the strongest of the two splinter organisations that had formed in the wake of the dissolution of the Mages' Guild, and that they held the Elder Council's ear. And, ever since his father published a big treatise on Galerion's Magical Axioms back in 153, they had been pestering him about joining their organisation for years now. He never published another treatise after that.

"They're nothing like the mages at Crystal-Like-Law, or even our old Guild friends," he continued, "Now, both are gone and there won't be any guilds like them again." Alarin's father stared wistfully down at his desk. "Eilonwy, the Synod couldn't care less about scholarship or magical research. All they care about is politics and fighting with that damned College of Whispers."

"I know, Orintur," she said, "But think of all this research of yours being hidden away." She gestured to the piles of leather folders in the desk, then at the bookshelves. "All that research you did on the Conservation of Magicka? And your essay on Vanto's Second Law of Alteration? It's just such a shame." Alarin's rubbed his eyes.

"Maybe it is, but you know me," he said, "I don't even care about the septims anymore. I just don't trust the Synod with my work. Who knows what they'll use it for?"

"But you can't work freelance forever," Alarin's mother pressed, "I don't like them any more than you do but at least with them you'll have another guild behind you!" A watery glaze began to form in the corners of her eyes. "At least take out a commission from the Imperial Battle College! You can do all your research without worrying about what anyone else thinks!"

"But I don't worry about what anyone else thinks!" Alarin's father suddenly stood up from his desk and took both of his wife's hands. "Oh, Eilonwy…" he said lovingly, "You're always so worried about me. You shouldn't worry."

"Oh, only because I love you so much, dear!" she sniffled, and, throwing her arms around his neck, leaned in to kiss him. Alarin quickly turned away.

"Oh, come on!" he said, covering his eyes, "Could you please not do that kind of stuff when I'm around?" He stepped around blindly for a while, before making an awkward dash towards the front door, his father and mother laughing behind him.

"Eilonwy, my love!" his father exclaimed, just before Alarin shut the door, "You and our boy don't make me regret leaving Alinor one bit!"