CHAPTER THREE - FIRST DARK - PART I
15 First Seed 4E 5, 10:41PM
Green Emperor Way, Septim Eve Festival
"Where are we going?" Akara giggles. The little girl's voice is full of stars, her sweet brown eyes wide and sparkling. She bobs at the heel of my robe, tiny hand tucked securely in my own. A woven bag of roasted chestnuts swings from her fist. With a giggle of delight, she pops one into her mouth, crunching without a care.
For a moment, the simplicity melts my unease.
But only for a moment.
"You'll see, Akara," I smile, bittersweet and tender, steering our way through the bustling throng.
The streets surrounding the Imperial Palace ebb with vibrancy, a living tapestry of twilit festivalgoers, performers and merchants. Torches crackle, bathing Green Emperor Way in dancing light and flickering shadow. Everything is alive. The evening air is threaded with music, like a braid of coloured ribbons. Warbling pipes hum alongside trilling flutes. Romantic lutes sing in harmony with the rhythm of tabors. Shawms and horns trumpet ceremoniously. The melodies intermingle in a wild, festive symphony.
Septim Eve dances.
Around us, laughter bubbles in a joyous swell, tinged with the chatter of a thousand voices. They lilt and rise with the tune of foreign tongues, spinning together from across the Empire. Pilgrims and citizens, rich and poor, gathered as one beneath White Gold Tower. Faces pass in a parade-like blur, cast in golden torchlight. Each one looks like a jewelled carnival mask. Shadowy Dunmer and noble Imperial. Fair Nord and hardy Breton. Proud Redguard and haughty Altmer. Gruff Orc and cunning Argonian. Sly Khajiit…
And nimble Bosmer.
My breath hitches at the passing glint of hoops in the pointed ears of a Wood Elf, and alarm prickles over my skin. I can still picture it, the image of the Bosmer vanishing at the Waterfront this morning, his knowing smile sharp as a blade. My legs ache faintly, reminiscent of my morning pursuit through the districts— a twisting trail ending in naught but raised brows and a questioning reprimand from Baurus.
The shadow remains. Invisible and lurking. Watching, gods know why. And now this Bosmer –a mere commoner enjoying the festivities— brushes past with her partner, utterly oblivious to my unease. A small breath escapes my lips and I pull Akara closer.
"Are you sure it'll be safe to visit the Temple?" Baurus's words echo from the recesses of the afternoon. The ghost of the Redguard's furrowed brows looms before my vision, steeped in caution and reason. The news of my waterfront episode did not sit well with the Blade. I bite the inside of my cheek, my gaze tracing every passing face.
Little is certain, I think bleakly. I throw a wary glance over my shoulder.
Baurus lumbers at our tail, close enough to watch and far enough to avoid curious eyes. The Blade's face is sharp and wary; his dark skin glows as rich as a coin in candlelight. A silent sentinel, the man rests a casual hand on the dagger concealed at his hip. A shroud of grey wool hangs from his shoulders like that of a festival pilgrim. "If you're still planning on going, I'm coming with you, Pelenix." His words echo in my mind, brimming with loyalty. "Champion or not, you and I didn't survive the Oblivion crisis to take chances and get knifed by some invisible elf. We'll get one of the others to join, too. No chances."
I shoot my friend a grateful look, pulling my cowl close. He nods imperceptibly, slipping into the crowd. I turn, holding Akara's hand as we cross the avenue. Ahead, Fortis weaves between festivalgoers, carving a path through the sea of bodies. The crown of the tall man's dark hair is barely visible above the throng, and my pace quickens in order to keep step with him. Every so often, he pauses to admire a performance or to browse a stall, blending in with the casual air of a pilgrim. As he does, I catch glimpses of his hawk like gaze scanning the periphery for the slightest threat.
If anything, my companions are thorough.
Still, my eyes dart from face to face, wary, and I trace a fingertip over the wicked dagger strapped to the inside of my forearm. The elven blade is cool and light against my skin. The carved groove of the hilt enshrouds the vane like golden claws. Sufferthorn, my tutors called it. Tucked beneath the loose folds of my robe, it thrums quietly with the faint crimson glow of magicka. Its edges nip at my flesh with a sanguine hunger.
"…a humble blade, to be sure, but far deadlier than the sword. One fluid motion from the wrist, my dear child, and you'll embed it to the hilt between a man's ribs." My arm twitches slightly at the long-forgotten memory of my tutor, shrouded in black beneath the streets of Cheydinhal. A past put to rest…
We round a corner to be greeted by the wafting smoke of roast venison and braised slaughterfish. Tankards and bottles clink merrily; both wine and mead flow thick and sweet tonight. On either side of the avenue, street performers contort and sashay, swirling colourful scarves. Merchants hawk copper pendants with throaty cries. Their voices intermingle, fighting for prominence.
"You won't find nothing better, ma'am! Remember Martinmas for the rest of your days!"
"Septim Souvenirs for the little lady, ma'am? We've only the finest of wares."
"Sweetrolls, tarts and brandy! Sweetrolls, tarts and brandy, fresh from the farm!"
"Mama! What's that?" Akara's bright voice quips from amidst the rabble. She tugs on my arm, leaning into the swarming crowd. I turn to follow her gesturing hand. A writhing wall of faces meets my gaze with a roar; an audience as packed as the Arena itself gathers in a tight-knit ring. Elbows jostle shoulders as people crane their necks. Voices squeal and hands thunder applause.
"It's the Hero of Kvatch!" The throng cheers in a rumble of jubilee. I freeze. Rime hardens in my veins with a blast of frigid air. Something scrabbles at my chest, steeped with ice and dread. Wide-eyed, I pull Akara behind me. Cold terror and expectation rise like a—
Not an eye turns our way.
I frown with breath bated, and crane my neck for a better view.
On a raised dais assembled before the doors of the Imperial Palace, a Khajiit man brandishes an elaborately carved wooden sword. His golden fur gleams in the torchlight like a gilt statue. A row of bronze rings glints in his ear. His eyes flash, ochre and fennel, and he is clad in the glass armour of a warrior. It catches the torchlight, casting iridescent prisms.
"Behold! It is I, the Divine Hero of Kvatch, descended from the heights of Aetherius to protect Tamriel at the behest of the Nine themselves!" He exclaims grandly. His voice is like booming timber and velvet. With an acrobat's grace, he pivots across the stage jabbing at invisible foes. His swordwork is fanciful, full of flourishes and excessive swirls. I can't help but snort.
"Look, M'aiq! It's the Kvatchi Players," someone exclaims raucously to my left. "I saw them perform The Lusty Argonian Maid last Tales and Tallows in Bruma. Azura's Bones, aren't they marvellous?"
"M'aiq does not understand why men fight for peace, but pretend to fight as soon as they have it," a feline voice retorts acerbically. "Perhaps it is because they do not have a Colovian Fur helm to—"
An animated cheer rumbles through the square, drowning the pair. Bodies press and jostle on either side, crowding the avenue with heat and excitement. Anticipation crackles in the air. Akara totters to a stop, standing on her toes. The crowd dwarfs her diminutive form.
"Did you want to watch, little love?" I ask. My daughter's eyes glow, and she nods vigorously. Something softens in my chest. Her eyes are so like Martin's. "Alright. But just for a moment, Akara. We can't stay too long."
I reach down and hoist my daughter onto my shoulders, elbowing my way through the horde. She giggles, wrapping her arms around the crown of my head. Her gaze is wide with wonder. "Hold on tight," I say.
"There are so many people, mama!" She exclaims with a laugh. "This must be everyone in Nirn!"
"Almost," I grin up at her, weaving between a pair of Orsimer. They grunt and I bob my shrouded head apologetically.
We reach the front of the crowd just as a figure sweeps onto the stage. The Altmer is covered in rouge and sports a pair of goat horns. An inky cape hangs from his bare shoulders, which he swishes menacingly. Around us, the crowd ripples with a chorus of boos, and a shiver runs down my spine.
"I am Lord Mehrunes Dagon, here from Oblivion to purge Cyrodiil of the unbeliever!" The actor snarls, leaping across the stage with a thespian's flair. "Tremble before me. Bow to my might, O mortal weaklings. For the weak shall be winnowed, the timid cast down. The mighty shall tremble at my feet and pray for pardon." An ensemble of dancers swirls around him, clad in crudely made robes; poorly rendered suns are daubed on their chests. Their gloved hands cast shadows around the stage like black flames, and their feet pound an ominous rhythm.
Like fire. Like smoke. Like drums.
Memory flares behind my mind's eye of the carnage of Oblivion. Lakes of fires. Daedric battle cries. The stench of brimstone. Followed by the crush of Dagon's form shaking the city streets, entire blocks crumbling as the Daedric prince clashed in fierce battle with Akatosh…
The crowd hisses. I bite my cheek, shaking my head and the darkness away, and cast a glance up at my daughter. Akara's eyes are rapt as she takes in the scene. For a moment, I am grateful to the Nine that for her, this tale will never bear the weight it bears me.
The Khajiit-Champion and Altmer-Dagon leap around the stage, caught in a violent dance. The feline parries and thrusts with his fanciful blade, countering the blows of Dagon with poise. His tail twirls, grasping for balance, his nimble paws dancing circles around his foe. A roaring Elsweyr battle cry echoes from his lips, and Dagon-Elf snarls in return.
The pair circles one another with rolling dodges and lunging thrusts. They sidestep and spiral, twist and jab, moving with an exaggerated kind of grace. The crowd cheers and groans as they do, keeping time with the rhythm of harried steps. Weapons rage and block and slash, and then, with a series of flying leaps, the cat lands nimbly, his blade at Dagon's throat.
"Yield, O Dark One! Your fate is mine! Yield to the light of Aetherius and the Nine!" The Hero-Cat cries. His voice rings through the square, the promise of a valiant soliloquy. "For on this day, you shall not prevail. By the light of…" He launches into a tirade, victory glowing in his eyes. Balancing on my shoulders, Akara sits, rapt, hanging on every word. I can feel her excitement, each tiny gasp and the racing of her heart, as the Khajiit carries on. His poise is grand, his expression regal. But then, Dagon-Elf lets out a shriek.
"Never shall I surrender, O worthless mortal scum! It's too late for you, my cleansing has begun!" Altmer-Dagon says. His rouged hands scrabble at the Hero-Cat's blade, ripping it from the feline's grasp.
"I never knew you were Khajiit, Pelenix." A voice appears at my ear in a low chuckle. Fortis. I roll my eyes, and exhale a small spike of panic. "Or a particularly unpoetic male. The things you learn, huh?" The Blade's voice is light. "Next thing you know the history books will be replacing you with any of the races. If they remember you at all after this, that is."
I snort.
"And I never knew you were a fool," I whisper at his back, my eyes fixed on the stage. Dagon-Elf has the upper hand, forcing Hero-Cat to the ground. Red ribbons spurt from their costumes, reminiscent of blood. My own scars twinge dully beneath my robe with the faintest bite of iron as the Khajiit cries out.
The crowd hisses.
Fortis shrugs impalpably.
"Sometimes," he says. The ghost of a grin tugs at his lips. "Just not today." I glance at the Blade sidelong. His eyes never cease to scan the square, and I can't help but feel a wave of gratefulness. He shakes his head and continues. "In all seriousness, lady knight, I hate to be the one to…uh… spoil the fun here, but it's time. Levin arranged the meeting with Mistress Tandilwe at the temple, and we oughtn't keep her waiting. She can only keep the doors closed for so long on a night such as this."
"Right. Of course," I say, tearing my eyes from the stage. As I do, I can't help but feel some sense hollowness reaching from the past, some ache for the nights before that night. Despite the Oblivion Gates and the cold nights spent camped on hard earth, there was a peculiar comfort in before that has escaped the world of Nirn. I sigh, shouldering the heaviness. "Are you ready to go, Akara?" I ask.
My daughter squirms, her fingers sticky in my hair.
"Do we have to?" She asks. I can't help but smile.
"I know the pageant is exciting, little one," I say, "but we can watch more afterwards. There's a very special lady at the temple that'd love to meet you. Today is a very important day, you see, and we're going to pay our respects."
"Why?" Akara asks, cocking her head to one side. Her voice is flecked with soft curiosity, like the first evening stars or a vein of gold. I open my mouth, and then close it.
Suddenly, a cheer resounds from the crowd, warming the audience. I pause, glancing back at the stage as the red elf pulls his cloak up around his face. The actor's face is contorted with terror, the whites of his eyes visible from afar.
"What is this? No, it cannot be!" Altmer-Dagon exclaims. Drums rumble in unison, and suddenly a figure dressed in a white robe ascends to the stage. An elaborate glass pendant hangs from his throat, painted scarlet, and a magnificent sword is clasped in his hand. The hollowness deepens. Despite the inaccuracies, there is no doubt whom the Breton is meant to represent.
"Make way…for the Emperor!" Hero-Cat cries, escaping Altmer-Dagon's grasp. Breton-Martin charges the stage like a warrior, sword in hand, a harsh, angry war cry on his lips. Irritation flickers across my spine. How different would this portrayal be if they'd only come to know him?
"Your daddy is… was… a very great man, Akara," I say quietly. "They may not know him well, but a lot of people are alive today because of his sacrifice. He gave everything for his people." Akara pauses, lost in thought, before nodding.
"Oh. Okay, then," she chirps brightly. "Well, can we go buy sweetrolls, first, mama? Please?"
A breath escapes my lip, one part relief, one part sadness. What I would give to have such simplicity once more.
"Afterwards. When we come back to watch the stage. But we'll go visit Mistress Tandilwe first, alright, Akara?"
The little girl grumbles in agreement. I turn, my gaze searching the crowd for Baurus. A sea of faces gazes back, their expressions painted by excitement, awe and terror. Their attention is as rapt as my daughter's.
Where did he go, I frown, scanning the audience. My eyes catch on the haggard faces and lingering injuries of a few familiar members of the crowd, and my chest aches. You'd think they would want to forget the last five years after all they lost, I muse sadly. Yet, they too gasp and hiss, eyes wide and wondrous as the sharp, angry voices ring out from the stage. Musicians beat rhythmic tabors and a chaotic dance of blood is enacted upon the stage: Martin's last battle, painted by the twist of robes and the echo of wooden swords clattering across the square.
"Pelenix—" Fortis hisses, slipping ahead into the crowd. I nod slowly, pulling my cowl close.
And then there is a triumphant cheer from around me, and my gut sinks. I brace myself, suddenly eager to leave, eager for the cool, quiet confines of the Temple of the One. Eager for the solitude of my grief. For I know this tale and what will come next on the stage all too well. The loss is carved deep within me.
"O Mehrunes Dagon, you foul beast, you wicked wight," Breton-Martin's voice calls out, "to netherworlds be vanquished, to Obl'vion's night! By the might of the Nine, may your gates be broken—" Martin's speech is shattered by a harsh cry, his voice trailing off abruptly. The crowd gasps, a hushed silence echoing through the square, and my head snaps back to the stage.
A burst of ice freezes my spine.
Hero-Cat stands at its center, his fanciful wooden sword running through the Emperor, coloured red ribbons emerging from Breton-Martin's costume. The actor stumbles to the floor of the stage, caught in the dramatic throes of death.
"By the blotting out of sinful bastardly blood, I cleanse us of accursed Oblivion above…" The Khajiit calls out, arms outstretched to the audience. "May the off'ring ring true for ye Nine Divines. Akatosh, come banish the Daedra maligned."
"No…" I breathe, eyes wide as a crudely costumed Akatosh gusts onto the stage. A darkening of confusion and a tint of anger shadow my brow, and some beast's claws scrabble at my chest. My eyes lock, transfixed by the scene. Martin, run through by the Hero-Cat. Dagon's expression of glee. Red ribbons bursting from the Emperor's white costume. Tightness forms at my throat, and I close my eyes, swaying slightly. The crowd seems to drift, miles away and muted.
No. No, this isn't right. This isn't what happened. "This is wrong," I whisper. My voice is a muffled croak. "They've got it so wrong."
Suddenly I feel a firm hand at my elbow.
"Wha—?" My eyes snap open, panic biting at my senses.
"Come on, Pelenix," Baurus mutters quietly, "It's just a play. They don't know what happened. It's just a play. Let's go."
Author's Note: Hello, hello! Time is a fickle beast. I may be slow to update, but here's the funny news: I have at least the next eleven chapters fully planned for this in vivid detail (which, if my math and my current word count pattern are correct, means approximately 40,000 words that are already planned and living in my head demanding to be free). And that's both exciting and really fun. The struggle just lies in finding the time between the numerous projects I'm working on (here and elsewhere) to take the ideas from notes to an actual, comprehensible story... If only sleep were optional.
So if you're still reading, THANK YOU for your patience. And if you're new, welcome aboard!
I hope you enjoyed the chapter; I promise it's to set up future events, not just to fill the page. We're on the brink of the beginning of the excitement here. I can taste it. I also have so much of it written in spurts and blips on my phone, my computer, in sketchbooks and scraps of random paper that I've probably lost a few ideas between starting and finishing this note. But the best ones are safe and sound.
Wherever you are in this beautiful big world: good afternoon, good evening, good night and good morning. Stay tuned.
-Mintermist