Morndas, 7:21 PM, 22nd of Hearthfire 1E 173

Mzulft

In a sea of conversation and companionship, Dalzren sat alone.

She sat at a stone table for two, in the corner of a large, softly-lit room. The Grand Tavern, they called it, with more than a little sardonic self-awareness. Dwemer of all social strata converged here, arriving in their casual wear with no marks of rank. They took tables for two and four and six, dining on the finest food and drink from above and beneath the ground. Anyone who grew tired of meals in their own homes could come here, as long as they could pay for their orders.

Crowds of Dwemer talked and laughed. Across the room on a small elevated stage, a musician played a soothing tune on a harp. The scent of fresh savory food, laden with aromatic spices, filled the air.

Dalzren was dying. She could deny it no longer. Her body was as healthy as it had ever been, but her soul was slowly peeling away. And it could not be stopped.

Two weeks. For two weeks, she had waited, working as much as she could on that secret project, putting on a brave face for everyone else. And no progress had been made. Only this evening did Dalzren have a chance to learn more.

She'd had two more attacks since the one in her hidden workspace. Once when she had just seen Amalest off for his day, and once when she had been bathing. She had witnessed her body deforming and melting, blood draining away, flesh falling apart, and she had gone unconscious afterward, like the previous times. It horrified her even more now, knowing what it meant. It was her soul being unraveled.

The reason for the wait was simple: Rideroc had been traveling abroad as part of a delegation to Avanchnzel. She had been forced to bide her time until the younger Dwemer's return.

But today, he and the others had come back, their meeting having concluded without any noteworthy event. And Dalzren had arranged for him to meet her in the Grand Tavern. So here she sat, alone at a table for two, staring at a drink she had yet to touch.

At times like this, she almost regretted that her people took such pride in avoiding the intoxicating substances consumed by Nords and others. The only alcohol they used was the distilled cleaner they called san. She wasn't desperate enough to try to imbibe that.

A strange paradox had unfolded. Dalzren found that sleep helped stave off the effects of the Soul Fray. But so many of her attacks had happened in her home. She had taken to sleeping in the hidden room, nearby the unknown machine, for lack of a better place. There seemed to be a certain thought pattern that aggravated the attacks, and it happened to her much more in her own residence.

And that led her directly to this evening. She had a suspicion, a deep sinking suspicion that prickled at her mind, and she had to know the truth. This was the only way she would find it, or at least the only way she could think of. All other options had failed her.

"There you are," Rideroc said.

Dalzren looked up. She hadn't even noticed the Dwemer coming in. He stood over her, the picture of prosperous young adulthood, hale and fit, dressed in a stylish embroidered doublet over long dark purple sleeves and breeches. His beard was decorated with new gleaming gems, and he was looking down at her with a winning smile.

Without looking at his face, Dalzren wouldn't have even recognized him. This outfit was vastly more expensive than Rideroc should have been able to afford. Either he had borrowed a sum of money he couldn't possibly pay off, or that trip to Avanchnzel had delivered a shockingly great bounty to Mzulft.

Still, the older Dwemer smiled. "Rideroc. Welcome back to Mzulft. I trust your great secret journey was a success?"

She hoped she didn't have another Soul Fray attack during this conversation. Her reputation as a Designer couldn't afford that sort of public failing. The only reason why she had invited Rideroc to the Grand Tavern was because the only private space she could offer was her own home. That was even worse.

"Wasn't that much of a secret," Rideroc shrugged amiably as he sat down, flagging a waiter with a raised hand. They used living staff here, not automatons like in the public halls—the orders were generally too complicated for a machine to convey. "The Domain of State was in talks with Avanchnzel's foreign office to exchange cultivars of our staple seedlings. I got involved because I happen to work with those nowadays. It was actually a lot of fun."

So they were going to have a polite conversation first. That was fair. Perhaps it would be nice to catch up anyway.

"It was fun talking about seedlings?" Dalzren raised an eyebrow.

Rideroc fixed her with a mock glare. "Hey. I don't question your great deliberations over the perfect shape of toilet scrubber. Respect the plants, please."

At that moment, a young barely-bearded server walked up to their table with a wax tablet and stylus in hand. He smiled brightly at Rideroc and said, "Good evening! What can I get for you?"

"Snowberry tea, please," the seated Dwemer answered. "That'll be all. Thank you."

"Very good! You'll have that soon." The server jotted a few lines down on the tablet, then left with the same chipper attitude as with his arrival.

Rideroc arched an eyebrow at the server's back for a few seconds, before turning back to Dalzren. "Happy boy," he muttered. "Must be glad not to work in the rigor of a domain, like us."

Dalzren simply shrugged. She couldn't bring herself to speculate on some random worker's mentality.

"You haven't touched your drink," Rideroc said. "What's on your mind?"

Again, she shrugged. But this time she took an obliging sip from her earthen mug. Her tea had gone tepid. It tasted like paper on her tongue. Still, she drank.

"A few things, I suppose," she replied, cutting off whatever comment Rideroc had been about to follow up with. "I'm likely a bit overworked."

"Ah, yes. You were working on an… independent project, right?"

"Right."

"Well, I won't pry." Rideroc dropped his voice to a conspiratorial volume. "Although anything you can tell me about this latest crisis would be appreciated."

Dalzren blinked slowly. Either she was having another attack now, or Rideroc was referring to something she'd missed out on.

In the interest of diplomacy, she said, "First, tell me what you've heard."

Rideroc scratched his head. The mental backtracking was obvious on his face. "Oh, well, uh… things seemed normal enough when I left, but I got back today, and my whole domain's been up in arms. It's that new policy about the Nords. The Domain of State put out that thing last week, doubling down on it. If the Nords start asking for concessions, let me tell you, we're not sharing our seedlings with them."

She hadn't had much opportunity to focus on broader events in Mzulft of late. The risk of suffering an attack in public was too great for her to continue attending the debate hall meetings. But she did recall the last time she had been there, when Clan Chief Harsinc had presented his shocking proposal to enter talks with the Nords of Falmereth. The Atmorans, as they used to call themselves. They were raging thieves and barbarians, and now the Dwemer were to treat with them? Small wonder that the people of Mzulft were upset.

Not that Dalzren didn't understand the logic of the policy decision. Mzulft needed to grow in strength somehow. And the Dwemer freeholds in Falmereth did almost no trading with anyone, including each other, let alone outsiders. If her colleagues in Mzulft could only get past the obstacle of the non-Dwemer races of Tamriel being warmongering imbeciles, they could gain a unique edge over their rivals.

There wasn't an easy side to take. She hadn't concerned herself with it much since the first evening of Harsinc's presentation.

It was just as well that this conversation was in a public space, though. What she planned to ask about was already terrible. Talk of civil unrest in Mzulft would be even worse if overheard. And in her experience, public spaces were often easier to have clandestine meetings in than private ones. They were simply two more voices in all the ambient noise.

Before she could say anything more, the server arrived with Rideroc's tea.

"Thank you," he nodded, sending the server back off. He cradled the mug in his hands and gave it a very gentle sip. "... Good tea."

"I'm glad for you," Dalzren replied flatly. "I can't say much about this latest turn. It's an issue for the thinkers in Administration to work out."

Rideroc nodded. "Admirable. Staying focused on your own work. But you might not be able to keep it up. Not to turn ominous on you, but we're in wild territory here. No Dwemer have tried negotiating with Nords since Hadras' Twenty-Three."

Dalzren took a long draft of her tea. That harp music from up on the stage didn't fit their conversation at all. It made her want to talk about the finer points of her craft, or maybe the Domain of Home's latest projects of public artwork. Not whatever this was.

She said, "It's really not my place to make judgments about this. Harsinc is a virtuous mer who wants good things for Mzulft. He's our rightful Clan Chief. And as far as I know, there's no law against diplomatic talks. I don't know what everyone's so worried about."

"Besides that we'll look weak in front of all the other freeholds?" Rideroc snorted. "All I know is that the Nords will never honor the agreement. They'll send their bandits to raid our trade caravans, and then when we confront them, they'll say: 'Oh, sorry! Skyrim is such a wild place. You must not be used to it, hiding in your holes in the ground.' And if we stop giving them our trade goods in return, they'll say: 'Now look, you broke the agreement! To war with you!' And then Mzulft will be sacked. So yes, I'm worried."

Dalzren drained the last of her tea while she listened.

"That's a very thought-out argument," she replied, when Rideroc had finally finished. "I'm sure Harsinc is aware of it. He must have some plan. It's a radical departure from our normal policy, without a doubt, but… as far as I know, Mzulft isn't in a truly desperate state now. So he must have some idea of how to handle this with low risk for our city. At least, that's my guess."

"I hope you're right," the younger Dwemer muttered darkly, before taking a deeper sip of his tea.

In truth, there was no real way to verify either of their arguments. They were only speculating on things that might have been. This was exactly why Dalzren had avoided taking any stance on the Clan Chief's new policy. This, and also the fact that she was busy with much more pressing matters.

Sometimes she forgot that the rest of Mzulft wasn't also preoccupied with matters of life and death.

Dalzren remained quiet, and enjoyed the harp music. She hoped the musician was well-paid. Without any conversation to sully the mood, it was very soothing.

But eventually, Rideroc resumed their back-and-forth. He looked up from his tea and said, "All right. I have to ask. Is there something you want to talk to me about? You've been giving me eyes this whole time."

So much for the soothing feeling. Instantly, the older Dwemer felt a deep sinking feeling in her chest. There would be no better time to ask than now. But there was no easy way to broach it. All these years, and she had never tried.

She swallowed. "It's only one question, but I can say without a doubt that you won't like it."

"Try me," Rideroc said coolly.

"Put down your tea first."

He obeyed.

Dalzren took a deep breath in. "I wanted to ask you one question, and it's this: What exactly happened to my husband?"

The words had escaped her lips. There was no taking them back.

Rideroc went pale. He teetered briefly on his chair, before bringing his head forward and resting it in his hands. His voice came quietly, weakly, as though he were reliving the grief all anew. "Oh. I wish you hadn't asked me that."

"I need to know," Dalzren said, trying her best to keep her own voice level. "I must know, tonight."

Rideroc's voice descended to nearly a whisper. "Ten years. Ten years, you've respected that we can't talk about it. Don't do this to me now."

Dalzren still remembered that day. Ten years ago, when Amalest had been only an infant boy, when she had been a younger and brighter mer. When she had opened the front door of her home, and there stood two couriers with a paper letter that would bring her life crashing down. She remembered how far away from herself she had felt. Only Amalest had kept her going.

She asked, "Is it because your Domain forbade you to share, or is it because you can't bear the memory?"

There was a long pause. Rideroc picked his head up slowly, then slumped back into his chair. He looked utterly drained, utterly defeated. There was no need for him to answer out loud. His memory of that day must have been even worse than Dalzren's own.

"Angthist was my best friend. Do you remember that? I remember playing with him as a child. Studying together, building…" He chuckled hopelessly. "Building those silly little tabletop automatons together, making them duel. I looked up to him so much. We grew up together. And then I met you, and… it was so joyous when you and he married. It was the greatest thing I could wish for both of you."

It had been years since Dalzren had heard her husband's name spoken aloud. Angthist. It put a chill through her very bones.

She controlled her breathing. Now was not the time to have another attack. Anytime but now.

Rideroc asked, "Do you truly need to know this?"

"Yes," Dalzren said. "Please."

And so he continued. He was staring off into space, speaking in a deadened, still shaky voice. "I remember it like yesterday. We were both working the Falmer pens. We were new, they had us doing the low work. It was time to fill a soul gem, so we sent down the automatons. They started carrying one of the Falmer up the ramp. Angthist was holding the soul gem. And then… I don't know what happened. Something went wrong. The Falmer grabbed him. But the automatons punched the thing's skull a split second after. It all happened in a second. I barely realized what had happened. But Angthist… he…

"I don't know why. I'm sorry. I still don't know why. He looked at me, and he said something, but I didn't understand it, and… and I asked him what it was. And then he…" Rideroc sat up and rubbed his hands over his eyes. He was shedding tears, however quietly. They were still flowing. "He… he threw the gates open again, and ran straight down the ramp. Screaming at the top of his lungs. The Falmer swarmed over him. They pinned him down, started tearing at him…"

The Dwemer lowered his head and closed his eyes. "And that was how he died. They told me never to repeat it to anyone. If it got out, it'd… it'd cause everyone to be afraid of the Falmer. And that would ruin our work. So his death was called a fit of madness. I could be put behind bars if anyone learned I told you this. Even today, after all this time."

It all made sense now. It all made sense in the exact way Dalzren had hoped it wouldn't. She had her answer now, there was no hiding from it—but axioms be damned, she wanted to.

"Marriage," she said quietly. "The bonding of two souls under Aetherius."

Rideroc, through his grief, squinted at the older Dwemer. "What?"

At this moment, there were only two feelings. Love and horror. Dalzren was struck by them both.

How could she have come under the affliction of Soul Fray, despite having never had uncontrolled contact with a soul gem? The next option was for it to be transmitted to her. She wouldn't have ruled it out. Just as diseases spread from one person's body to another, she had speculated that this ailment might spread across souls. Such as her late husband's. It had been a desperate guess, based on her crude understanding of magic, but it had been completely right.

Ten years ago, Angthist had been dragged into an active soul trapping. He had still lived, and the soul gem had not fit him, being white against his black. But he must have felt what it had done to him. And he must have thrown himself to his death, hoping that in doing so, he would free his soul from Mundus before the Soul Fray could spread.

Dalzren had never known how her husband had died. Now she did. Her heart overflowed with sorrowful love for that wondrous mer. He had given his life to try to save hers.

But it had failed. And now that Dalzren knew the Soul Fray could be transmitted, there was only one conclusion. Any time now, any year, any month, Amalest would be next. His soul was linked to theirs also. Her one and only child, her baby boy—he was going to die too? He was going to see his body tearing apart, feel his soul rend itself away from him, just as Dalzren did now?

She fought back the urge to vomit. It was incredibly difficult. There were no words to describe how great this horror was. She was going to die, and her son was going to die also.

Across the table, Rideroc asked, "What's wrong, Dalzren?"

"I'm sorry," she said, standing up suddenly. "I'm sorry for… bothering you about this. I meant no harm. Thank you."

Dalzren managed to walk out of the room with her composure intact. She managed to get out into the corridor outside, past the doorkeepers, past anyone who could see her. Then she found an alcove behind a pillar, collapsed against it, and let her legs give.

Tears flowed freely down her face. She made no effort to stop them. All these years, she hadn't known. All her Dwemer logic failed her. All her command of design failed her. She was going to have to come home tonight, and find some way to look Amalest in the eye.

What would she tell him? That his father had died trying to protect him, but soon they would both be dead anyway? That there was nothing to be done for either of them?

There was only one possible hope. Only one way she could get out of this. And she'd been working on it for weeks. A machine that, by some method, for whatever reason, was being designed to do the impossible.

Minutes passed, and Dalzren slowed her breathing. Collected herself. Wiped her face dry, then pushed herself back to her feet. It would be a long walk back to her home from here. She had plenty of time to think.

First, she and Chief Designer Hizeft were going to need to talk.