Sundas, 7:31 PM, 24th of Last Seed, 1E 173
Mzulft
The debate hall was absolutely filled. Each semicircular ring of seats bore host to a complete line of Dwemer citizens, broken only where the stairs passed through. It always was like this, when Clan Chief Harsinc was scheduled to speak. Everyone with the barest inclination in the affairs of Mzulft would want to see this firsthand.
And Dalzren was right in the middle of it all, flanked on either side by citizens from other domains. If the room was filled to capacity, that meant there were just over one thousand people in here, but Dalzren knew the names of not even a tenth of them. They were people she simply never worked with.
Not that it mattered. Harsinc was already walking out onto the stage. Even from afar, he was instantly recognizable for his singularly ornate robes of office. There was no black to be seen on them, only gold inlaid with jewels, from his circlet all the way down to his boots.
This was as it should have been. In this respect, Harsinc was emulating the aesthetic of the Dwemer automaton. His golden attire evoked the appearance of decorated true alloy plating, as would be seen on their finest machines. And there was no higher praise than to be compared to a device of pure reason.
In all frankness, however, it was good that his attire spoke for him so well, because Harsinc wouldn't have looked like much of a ruler otherwise. He was only forty years of age—younger than Dalzren herself. The few times they had been very nearby one another, Dalzren was always surprised by how youthful the Clan Chief looked. Round eyes, smooth skin—even his beard wasn't particularly long. Nothing about him suggested that he had earned any great power at all, let alone the right to command the entire freehold of Mzulft.
And yet he had.
"My fellow citizens," he called out, and it was as though he were speaking into Dalzren's ear. Such were the acoustics of the debate hall. "I bid you thanks for joining me on this evening. May we remain true to the ways of logic as we proceed into today's discussion."
And so it began. Dalzren leaned forwards in her seat as she listened.
"As Dwemer of Mzulft, we live a proud and prosperous life. We have the greatest array of research and development resources out of any of the freeholds. Our strategic position, on the border between Falmereth and Dwemereth, gives us a greater diversity—culturally, technologically, even botanically—than any other city. But there are many things that we may take for granted. Many things that, because of the very prosperity we enjoy, we simply assume to be part of life. And no offense, Chief Nevenis, but I'm not just talking about your quarterly harvest."
A ripple of light laughter ran through the room. Chief Cultivator Nevenis, in the front row, raised his hand to speak.
"No offense, Clan Chief, but you shouldn't take that for granted anyway."
And the laughter rebounded twofold. Only a domain chief could publicly talk back to Harsinc in that fashion and get away with it.
"Fair enough." Harsinc smiled. "But there are many things we do take for granted. As children, we are educated in not only the logical axioms, but also the empirical truths that have been discovered for us by generations past. As adults, we pursue our careers with the freedom to engage in whatever suits us—and we start families of our own with confidence that the outside world will not interfere. These are all vital pillars of our lives and our culture, and we Dwemer alone have earned them. And yet whether we know it or not, we frame all of our interactions with all the other races of Tamriel within our own exclusive perspective."
At this point, Harsinc reached into his robes, and drew forth a flat, elongated reddish object. It took Dalzren a moment to realize that the object was actually a leaf. A single leaf, as from a plant, although it matched no description that Dalzren knew of.
"Last week, I met with an Ayleid diplomat from the White-Gold Tower in Cyrodiil. She wanted to open a regulated trade route between her city and ours—not the world's most complicated request, and not the first that we've established. It would offer us not only the Ayleids' refined crafts, but also access to an entire kingdom's array of plant and animal life. An entire kingdom's! As a token of the offer's potential, she gave us a sample of this." He held up the leaf higher, for emphasis. "The viper bugloss leaf. A powerful alchemy reagent, one with exceptional curative properties, and one that has never grown north of the Jerall Mountains. We were offered this and much more, in exchange for the crafts that the Dwemer race is known for.
"But before we could even get to the details of how to work the trade deal out to our ideal preference, she presented me with a far more basic issue: Her caravans couldn't travel freely through Falmereth without fear of reprisal from the Nords. As Chief Transactor Meziri has noted, while her Domain of Commerce regulates trade effectively both within Mzulft and with outside parties—yes, I see you, Meziri, thank you—" He pointed to another Dwemer in the front row, who waved happily in reply. "While this is the case in Mzulft, the legal protections afforded by Nord territory apply only to the Nord people. By High King Harald's own laws, his guards and enforcers are not obligated to aid any members of any other race."
The room was deathly quiet. This was how they showed disapproval in the debate hall—by giving no reaction whatsoever. Dalzren certainly shared the sentiment. But Harsinc continued to speak, and so she continued to listen.
"Now, this is far from being a new concern. The Nords living throughout Falmereth have never had a warm history with any Dwemer freehold. Is this the product of poor thinking, on their part? Conventional wisdom holds that the Nord race is simply too brutal and relentless to negotiate with. The relation between our peoples, historically, has been characterized by a complete absence of diplomatic contact. But therein lies the single greatest obstacle to the growth of Mzulft to its full potential. So let us think on this."
He paused momentarily, to stow the viper bugloss leaf back in his robes, before holding his empty hands out wide. A bit of a peculiar gesture, perhaps. But in fairness, he clearly didn't have anywhere better to put the leaf right then.
"We Dwemer approach one another for commerce with a sensible, logical outlook. We perceive a need for a good or a service, and we provide that service, in order to obtain whatever we need ourselves. Using that system, we've built stable, self-sustaining economies in each and every freehold. But the Nords are too proud, history shows, to admit even that we have anything they may need. They act not based on logic, but on ideology. And while we readily dismiss that as an inferior mode of thinking, it is still theirs. If we ever wish to become more than what we are, we must respect their point of view."
More silence ensued. At this point, Dalzren was unsure where Harsinc's speech was meant to be going. If this was all to encourage the Dwemer of Mzulft to believe the Nords were nice people, it was missing quite a lot of supporting evidence.
But still, Harsinc continued to speak, and so Dalzren continued to listen.
"Now, let me be clear. I'm not asking us to suddenly abandon the tenets that have brought the Dwemer people so far. Respect is a fundamentally different notion than agreement. Respect, after all, is the keystone of our conduct in this very debate hall, and this place wouldn't exist if we all agreed with one another." Harsinc paused. "Basically, what I'm saying is that we can speak to the Nords as peers without submitting to the divine virtues of Shor."
There were a few uneasy chuckles throughout the room. It was a little worrying, perhaps, that Harsinc felt the need to clarify that in the first place.
"For all practical purposes, what I'm talking about today is purely an economic opportunity. We need to open a dialogue with the Nords in order to further the prosperity of Mzulft, and we need to do it while respecting that they think differently than we do. Approaching them in their own cities has only ever been taken as an affront. So to remedy this, I propose that we send a diplomatic party to the White-Gold Tower, and allow the Ayleids to mediate between our people and the Nords. They, when they feel ready, will be free to send diplomats of their own."
Well, that was… truthfully, much more reasonable than Dalzren had expected. She found herself breathing a sigh of relief. More likely than not, the same feeling was being shared by the majority of the others present.
"We Dwemer have always seen the world according to rules of logic and sensibility. But we're not alone in Tamriel. And while our history with other-minded races has been filled with contention, there is hope for all of us to have a brighter future. All we need to do is open our minds, and take it."
Harsinc brought his hands together, and nodded once. "With that, I give the floor to Chief Administrator Manza, to take some questions. Thank you all, and may we remain true."
As he walked off the stage, another Dwemer stepped up from the front row and took his place. This one was a much older mer, and much more understated in dress. For one thing, he was wearing actual black. The Chief Administrator was the Clan Chief's right hand in managing the freehold. He was also the one to bear the public response to the Clan Chief's decisions. This would be interesting.
"All right," the older Dwemer said, before the entire room went up with raised hands.
Two hours later, Dalzren entered the doors of her home with the last of her energy for the day. She hadn't even said a single word, during her entire time in the debate hall, and it had still exhausted her to sit through. This always happened when she stayed for the entire scheduled time. Now she wanted nothing but to rest.
As she leaned back against the closed door, she saw her son, Amalest, sitting there at the dining table and watching her curiously.
"I'm home," Dalzren announced, with just a trace of a smile.
"How did it go, mother?"
"Oh… The Clan Chief had some interesting ideas for us. As usual." As everything stood, Dalzren wanted little more than to go to her room and get out of her domain uniform. But the 'little more' in that idea included looking after her son. It always would. So instead, she walked over and sat down beside him. "Have you finished your studies?"
"Yes, mother," Amalest replied wearily. "I was doing them when you left for your meeting. Remember?"
Dalzren paused. "… Yes, that was good of you. Is everything still going all right on that front?"
"I think so. I suppose I'll find out when I put it to the test." Her son smiled briefly, looking off into space, his mind elsewhere. "If last week is any indication, it'll be fine."
And that was true. He had passed his creative design test at the head of his class.
At the moment, Amalest was out of his student uniform. He'd put on one of his casual wear robes. The light green one that Dalzren had gotten for him the other month. It was nice to see him being comfortable in it.
He turned to her suddenly and asked, "So, what was the meeting about? If it's all right to ask."
"Of course. Ah…" Dalzren had to collect her thoughts. She'd been sitting through far too much today. Harsinc had been talking to them, and…
Her son continued. "My peers are jealous sometimes. That I have a parent who cares to go to the debates. Astaris was saying some things about that."
Astaris. That would be one of the students in his year. Dalzren had heard about her quite often. A girl of high conscience, by the sound of it, and high intellect at that. Sometimes Dalzren wondered if her son would grow to take a deeper interest… but that was a thought for another time. She had a question to answer.
"Harsinc was talking about trade," she said. "At least, that was the most superficial practical effect of his speech. It was what most of the following questions were about. Arranging a secure trade route with the Ayleids, by negotiating passage through Nord territory. But there was a little more to it than that. Harsinc also made the claim that we shouldn't reject the Nords for their illogical ways of thought, as this interferes with our diplomatic prospects."
"And what do you think?"
Dalzren took a deep breath in and raised her eyebrows. "I think there's some merit to that idea. But it's not as though we're new to Tamriel. Have you ever heard of Hadras' Twenty-Three?"
Amalest shook his head blankly. "Is that a law of nature? Like Narsin's Three Laws of… Mundial Energy, or…"
"No, not quite," Dalzren chuckled. "Where are you for your history lessons, these days? Still on the First Era?"
Her son nodded quickly. "Yes. We've been learning a lot about the history of the freeholds. This… this isn't from the First Era, though. Is it?"
This would be interesting to navigate. Dalzren had never tried to share something of quite this nature with Amalest. But there had to come a time for it. It might as well have been now.
"No. And this isn't something that you're likely to hear about very soon. It's not often talked about. But settle in, because I have a story to tell you."
"All right." Amalest leaned his elbows forward onto the table, and looked directly at her. "Where does it start?"
What a good question. Dalzren thought that over for a long moment.
Then she began.
"Four hundred and eighty-eight years ago, in 315 ME, the Nord war-chief Ysgramor landed upon Falmereth's shores for the second time. He had landed once, before, along with many other men from Atmora. Thousands of them came and settled in this land. They lived side by side throughout the country with the Falmer, while we Dwemer remained in our freeholds. And there was peace, for a time.
"That changed when the Falmer saw fit to turn their weapons upon their Atmoran kin. The Night of Tears, it was called. Sun set on the northern city of Saarthal, and an army of Falmer swept through in the dark. The Atmoran soldiers on their walltops saw nothing, heard nothing, until the sky began to rain with arrows. Scores of them died without ever knowing that the peace was over.
"What unfolded was not a battle, but a slaughter. The Atmorans were far from defenseless, but they were too few, and unprepared. The Falmer tore the city gates down, and engulfed the Atmoran buildings with the fire of their arcane engines. And as the mothers and their children fled their burning homes, they ran straight into the dark army's blades. Only three Atmorans survived that night. Ysgramor, and his two sons. They vowed revenge for every life that had been taken from them. Reason was beyond them. Blood was their mission.
"And so they fled back north to Atmora. But when Ysgramor returned, in 315 ME, it was with five hundred tested warriors at his back, and many more to come. The Falmer were just as unprepared as the Atmorans themselves had been. One by one, the cities of the Falmer were erased, just as the Falmer had done to Saarthal. Ysgramor and his men lacked the sophistication of Dwemer machines or the power of Falmer lore, but they more than compensated for it in brutality. The Falmer were losing, and everyone knew it.
"It was in this time that we Dwemer saw our own future threatened. Ysgramor was creating a beast that would not lie down and rest. A war machine that thirsted for blood, to put Molag Bal's cursed to shame. When the Falmer were no longer there to fight, we knew, we would be next. So a meeting was held between the chiefs of all the freeholds, to decide what to do. In the end, Clan Chief Hadras of Raldbthar arranged to meet Ysgramor with a special envoy, as had never been made before. One that would make peace between our races a certainty.
"Hadras went to the city of Windhelm with twenty-two of the finest engineers and designers in Falmereth, two from each freehold. And there, they presented themselves to Ysgramor, with the offer of a tribute far greater than any gift of gold or cloth or stonework—they offered to share with the Atmorans our wealth of ideas. The principle of skepticism, the axioms of logic, the very pillars of our being. And to prove their worth, the engineers brought in device after device, automaton after automaton—not even a single weapon, nor a single piece of armor, but all the ways that our ideas could be applied to a life of peace. This, they offered, could be the future of Ysgramor's people. They would never need to fear famine or disease again, they would never be at the mercy of their gods' cruel whims. They would be masters of their own fate, as we are.
"The entire time that the works of our people were being presented, Ysgramor remained silent, observing the tribute from his throne. He studied each device without asking any questions, without voicing his thoughts. Only when we had shown all our gifts did he reply. And his reply: We were all blasphemers. Our very ways of thought made mockery of the gods and their sacrifices. And we had no place in his court, or in his kingdom.
"It could have ended there. But it did not. A week later, the sentries at Raldbthar saw a massive army marching over the horizon. Eight thousand men, with horses and siege engines, bearing the standard of Ysgramor. Closer and closer they crept, this great and terrible sea of soldiers, and just as they came within a mile of the city gates, they stopped.
"The minutes dragged on. Nothing happened. Ysgramor's soldiers stood in formation, and the sentries of Raldbthar stood and watched. Raldbthar had perhaps one thousand soldiers, twice as many automatons. All that protected them was the safety of their walls. They could only wait, for a battle that would not begin.
"Eventually, the soldiers stepped apart, a neat line down their middle. And along came their Clan Chief Hadras, in chains. Ysgramor was there with him. He brought Hadras out before his own men, in full view of Raldbthar's sentries. Forced him to his knees on the frozen ground. Raised his great mer-killing axe, and took off Hadras' head.
"He did the same for every one of the twenty-two engineers we had sent them. One by one, he marched them out into the open, among the bodies of their fallen friends—and killed them as our sentries watched. By the time it was done, there was a great patch of solid red on the ground, where their blood had all mingled together as one. There was nothing that the Dwemer of Raldbthar could do. If they attacked, their city would not survive the battle to follow. They could only stand and witness what was being done, in sheer abject horror.
"Ysgramor's army then turned and left, no doubt headed back for Windhelm. The scouts of Raldbthar later found that they had left behind the broken wreckage of all the devices they had been offered. It was a clear statement: The Atmorans would never be our allies. And if we dared to put a toe out of line, they would cut it off."
A brief pause ensued.
Amalest said, "We could have waged war on them for this. But I already know we didn't. Why not?"
"Because we're not like them. Because Ysgramor lost himself in his ever-burning need for vengeance, and the world became his enemy for it. Twenty-three Dwemer died at his hand, it is true. But they were not worth sending thousands more to join them in death. Raldbthar refused to move to retaliate, and the other freeholds followed its example. The Atmorans took this as cowardice. Had they accepted our gift of ideas, they would have seen it as wisdom. But they did not, and so while we live here in safety, the men now called Nords live at their gods' mercy."
A much longer pause followed. Amalest sat back in his seat and ran a hand over his brow.
"So why is this such an obscure event? It sounds like it shouldn't be."
That was a fair question. But Dalzren didn't have to hesitate to provide an answer. "Because it didn't start a war. I doubt the Nords even recorded it at all. That bit about Ysgramor being silent? According to what I've read, that was hearsay from a Nord observer at the time. We wrote it down, because nobody else would."
"How about that," Amalest murmured. "You know… I remember your bedtime stories for me being a lot nicer than this."
Dalzren smiled wryly. "Well, tomorrow, if you want, I can tuck you in with the story of the Lens of Variation."
"That story is terrible," he grumbled.
At moments like this, Dalzren truly was proud of her son. Ten years of age, and he already knew not to be impressed by works that failed to capture the spirit of history.
"Well, speaking of tucking in, I'd like to get to bed now myself." With that, she pulled Amalest close to give a kiss to his forehead, before pushing herself upright and starting off to her bedroom. "Good night!"
"Good night to you too," her son called after her.
That was a relief. The day was over. Amalest was doing well, she was doing well… everything was fine. Finally.
The first thing to be removed was the jewelry. The moment Dalzren had closed the door, she was already pulling off each individual piece, collecting them in her palm to deposit on her dresser. The next off were her boots. She sat down on the side of her double bed to remove those.
But then, she observed, there was something odd happening. Her right foot was starting to tingle. That wasn't a good sign. At best, it meant she'd had these boots on for too long. At worst…
She pulled her right boot off, and beneath, there was blood.
Her foot was a mangled, bloody mess, shredded and frayed at the ends, with loose skin hanging like a footwrap. It was all coming away from her.
Horror. It was horror. It was beginning. It had begun.
Then everything cracked apart, and the world spun away into darkness.