Azura's Coast.
There was water, and a lot of light.
Too much light he felt sick.
The song undulated in his head, first divine euphoria and then poison vitriol lies filthy lies he vomited over the edge of the skiff but he still felt sick.
He scratched at his face to tear off the false aspect but Peakstar grabbed him and her fingernails made dents in his skin. Dagoth's skin. His face was a lie and she did not KNOW.
"Do you know why they call it the Sea of Ghosts?"
"This is not the Sea of Ghosts," she answered without hearing his question. Stupid. Liar.
Peakstar did not know. She understood nothing, not with hands like scamp claws and hair that smelled of kwama cuttle.
"They call it the Sea of Ghosts because Truth was murdered beneath Red Mountain."
Peakstar said nothing.
Light stabbed his eyes so he closed them but then he saw the golden-masked Sharmat Dagoth Ur and when he opened his eyes again he had to squint with tears forcing him to close his eyes and hear the Song fragrant as lavender sprigs and decaying flesh. Dagoth drinking brandy from a shell cup nearly naked they can See him when his eyes are closed he can hear them when his eyes are closed. The insect orchestra drones on as they set fire to his body from the inside where they sleep but only when his eyes are closed. Pain. Pain that would cleanse him or kill him.
Dagoth was a monster Dagoth was a martyr Dagoth was a monster Dagoth was a martyr.
"Cut off my eyelids!" he shouted.
He did not want to feel this pain any longer when his eyes were closed, but he was not strong enough to keep them open when the light pierced like needles.
"No."
"Let me at my dagger."
"No."
"Harpy!" he spat.
Why was he being punished? Nils tried to claw at his eyes they were so smooth and round and perfect and he wanted to feel them in the palms of his hands like squishy pebbles but the harpy paralyzed him with her magic and tied his arms and legs with a cold wet rope attached to an anchor.
The anchor had barnacles on it.
Nils' arm had barnacles too.
Welts ruptured bleeding yellow pus. He smelled like putrefaction, like the shrine of Hassour where he first heard the bells. Yet the odor only made him ravenous. His right hand was swelling dark purple fingers fat with the bloat of decay.
The boat swayed it made him sick this sea-dream made him sick he wanted to carve a hole in the bottom of the skiff and sleep until the next era in an ocean-floor-dream.
Eyes closed. The song embraced him, understood him like no one else had. Eyes open. The hunger gnawed at him a constant aching void. Eyes closed. Dagoth's words were worms tunneling through his brain with beautiful lies. When he resisted the words they turned to knives tearing through his memories, stripping away the life he could hardly remember now. Who was Peakstar? Why was she here?
Who was he?
"Who..." he started.
"Your name is Nils. My name is Peakstar. We met in Hassour, remember?"
The words were familiar. He might have heard them in eighteen other lives. Her image split into two Peakstars.
"I don't know you. No... I do remember. Murderer. You made me murder them. Dagoth's children."
"Yes, Nils. Something there gave you the curse of flesh. Your people call it Corprus disease. No healing spells have helped. You told me to take you to a place called Tel Fyr when you were able to remember yourself. That is where we are going now."
Peakstar's voice was watery, rippling like the waves that carried the skiff. Again, it felt as if this was not the first time she had said these words to him...
He remembered something. Yes. The smoke began to clear from his head... oh, gods, what was wrong with his hand? What was wrong with his body? He could hardly move this turgid bag of pus and rot. There were so many disgusting things about him. The black decay on his right hand was spreading past the wrist now. The veins running up his arm appeared nearly black. Pain, excruciating, hammering in his ears.
"I'm so sorry..." he did not know what else to say. There was barely any energy left to speak.
Peakstar's image was still fuddled. He could not see her face.
"Do not be afraid for me. No disease will harm the Nerevarine. This is stated in the prophecy." She was confident about that, at least. Nils did not know if he could be about his own fate.
"Am I going to die?"
"I don't know."
There was nothing for a while. The song returned in a light crescendo.
"Please keep talking," Nils said in one pained breath. "It distracts me from the madness."
He waited, and waited. Illusory light-ribbons in stained-glass colors danced in front of his face. The music became louder. Why wasn't she talking? She opened her lips once, and then closed them, as if trying to think of the right things to say. Nils didn't care what she said, as long as it was something.
"Why were you named Peakstar?" he suggested.
Peakstar took a deep breath before speaking.
"I was born during a great storm. My mother was aboard a ship sailing across the Sea of Ghosts when she went into labor. The ship capsized in the tempest, and she swam to the shores of Ald Redaynia... she protected me with her own life. When the Urshilaku found her... us... she was dead, cradling me, the newborn infant, in her arms. Even the cord was still attached. So far as I know, I was the only survivor of the shipwreck.
"The ship washed ashore some days later. It was of Nordic design, and bore the name Peakstar on its side. That is all I know about where I come from."
This sounded like something out of a storybook, but Peakstar was an extraordinary individual. Her origins did satisfy the vague prophecies of the Nerevarine. Questionable parentage, possibly an orphan. He remembered that from Sees-Through-Dusk.
His hand had gone numb, but his arm still throbbed. The poison song fluctuated, its rhythm irregular and choppy. He heard distorted laughter in the background.
"Weren't there records on the ship? If it vanished... there would be people... looking..." he murmured, finding it difficult to form words with shivering lips.
"I would not know where to look. Perhaps... one day, someone will have known of the missing ship, and recognize my name. But there is no reason for me to want this. My fate was decided before I was born."
And what was Nils' fate? To die from Corprus at thirty-one?
Or if they made it to Tel Fyr, would he live out a fate worse than death, transformed into a hulking, shambling corpse, forever trapped in the madness of this fever? Zaryth once told him that the Corprus patients do not age, or suffer from any other afflictions. Divayth Fyr's Corprusarium was his best chance at surviving... but did he really want to survive in this form?
Nils tugged at his bindings, trying to pull his arms apart. But Peakstar had bound him tightly. The bloated corpse arm was pressed against his healthy arm. It was sticky with pus and made squishing sounds. And gods, the smell, he tried to ignore it but it made him feel so hungry. He disgusted himself. That arm, he did not want to look at the purple swollen thing. Dead it was dead dead dead dead.
"Peakstar... would you please loosen my binds?"
Another lengthly pause. Nils was growing irritated by all of her pauses. Did she really think he had so much time left? His life was like a discarded clock with no one left to wind it while it slowly, painfully ran out of time. And she was wasting the few hours, minutes, seconds he had left.
"I will do no such thing. The last time I let you free, you went mad and tried to gouge out your eyes," she finally said.
"It's because the sun is too bright but I don't want to close my eyes."
There went another seven seconds of Nils' life while Peakstar thought about what to do. She removed the red cloth that was wrapped around her neck. Usually she had it around her nose and mouth to protect her from the harsh Ashland winds, of which there were none in the Azura's Coast region. Not yet, at least. Dagoth Ur would spread the Blight storms to all of Tamriel if he had his way.
She tied the kerchief around Nils' head to cover his eyes, like a blindfold. Why was she touching him? He had Corprus. What if she got infected too? The fool.
The fabric may have been mildly placating at first, for it did protect his eyes from the brutal sun, but then it became another limitation, another prison. Blind, vulnerable, helpless. He couldn't even take it off because his hands were bound.
The pain seared through his bones, burning his veins; his blood must have been acid. There was nothing left to see, so he focused on what there was to hear. But there was nothing left to hear but the poison song, swelling in intensity and filling his insides with hot coals.
Would nothing bring him relief?
"I don't know what to do. I'm afraid. I'm very afraid."
"I know, Nils. We'll be at Tel Fyr soon."
No. She didn't know. How could she possibly know what was happening to him?
Peakstar called it a curse. Zaryth called it a disease.
They understood nothing.
He closed his eyes and felt the mild stinging because of how dry they were.
This was not a disease. It was a divine gift. Dagoth's gift.
Dagoth spoke, breath twisting into ringlets of ash. When Dagoth spoke all went silent except the purgative song which shaped itself to his voice and reorganized the static in Nils' brain. He spoke for the one whose name was the Daedric letter Vehk. He spoke for the one whose name was the Daedric letter Ayem. He spoke for the one whose name was the Daedric letter Seht. They broke their promise to the one they watched die beneath Red Mountain they could have healed him but they watched him die. Dagoth Ur told him so. Dagoth Ur told him that the Three betrayed him too. Nils understood.
Or he thought.
Dagoth Ur would tell him.
Soon, he said.
Soon. Beneath Red Mountain.
Dagoth Ur knew everything.
He spoke again and the song sharpened Nils' pain into hatred.
Outlander; that's what Nils was, but he was different. That's what Dagoth Ur said.
Dagoth Ur made him feel special. Dagoth Ur loved him. He loved Dagoth Ur.
The Three sold Morrowind to the rabid dogs. A ruthless dog named Tiber Septim on a white horse demanded it. Everyone in Mournhold Palace massacred by this army of dogs. Except the princess. The princess was brainwashed degraded vitiated until nothing was left but adulation for the Empire and they returned her to Mournhold Palace with strings tied to her back.
Dagoth Ur knew all of this. He was once known as Voryn Dagoth and he loved Resdayn before it was corrupted by the traitors and dogs. They changed the name to Morrowind and stole everything the Dunmer had. They stole the ebony they stole the glass their dog on a white horse erased a town from existence to make room for the castle of New Ebonheart.
Dunmer children starved their food stolen put on Imperial plates. Dunmer children starving dying wasting into nothing but bones, bones collected by the Temple to be used for the Ghostfence this blasphemous desecration of their revered ancestors ancestors he hated the Empire he hated the Tribunal the only one who could save Resdayn was Dagoth Ur Dagoth Ur Dagoth Ur Dagoth Ur Dagoth Ur
Tel Fyr.
Nils' eyes were swollen shut, but he was awake.
Awake, somewhere... warm. Humid.
Smelled like mushrooms. At least he didn't feel the urge to sneeze.
The only word that could describe what he was feeling was 'pain.' Pain everywhere. Agonizing, burning pain all the way down to his bones. His throat was parched and everything felt sore and weak and stiff too from being asleep for a long time but mostly he was in pain.
Nils grunted, trying to shift himself into a seated position. It wasn't really working. His right arm wasn't doing what he wanted it to do. It tingled numbly and he tried to rub it against the cot but it wasn't moving. He managed to move his left arm slightly, but it felt brittle and twig-like.
Brisk footsteps hurried in his direction.
"Hm. Well, this is awkward. You're actually not supposed to be awake yet."
That voice. Nils recognized that voice. Divayth Fyr, the old Telvanni wizard. So he did make it to Tel Fyr, after all. He didn't even remember getting off the boat, but apparently it happened.
The delirious fever seemed to have passed. Or maybe that was wishful thinking. This might just be another brief interlude of lucidity before he descended back into the mad embrace of Corprus. But he felt different. He was in pain and he could not move his body, but he no longer felt the ravenous cravings for his own flesh, nor did he wish to blind himself with his fingers.
"Wachhhhrrrr."
That was Nils' attempt to ask for water, but his tongue felt enormous and his throat could only make strange rasping sounds. Sharp electrifying stabs assaulted his brain whenever he tried to do anything.
Nils heard a faint clinking, like several empty vials being rustled around.
"Zaryth, prepare an anesthetic for Patient 2292," Divayth ordered with a tone of crisp professionalism.
Zaryth. She was here? Nils tried to speak again but his throat was still rusted.
"He has a name," he heard her mumble as light footsteps hurried out the room.
Someone pressed something cold and solid against Nils' lips.
Then, a surprisingly gentle hand reached behind Nils' back, sitting him up to allow him to drink the water from the cup. He tried to open his eyes some more, but he could only see through small slits for openings. Divayth took the cup of water away from him and slowly lowered Nils' back to the cot again.
That damned arm was still tingling pins and needles. If only he could move it out of that odd position, maybe rub the feeling back into it...
"Serjo Fyr..." he tried to speak, but Divayth interrupted him.
"Talking wastes energy. Fluids, too. Stop talking, and drink more."
Nils obliged, and after the second cup his belly woke up to start aching from being full of water and nothing else.
"What's... what's happened?" Nils said in a weak voice, without the capacity to care that he already disobeyed Divayth's no-talking order.
"You are an extraordinary patient, 2292. I suppose I might call you Nils again. Eh, on second thought, no. I won't. Too confusing. Haven't finished documenting your recovery."
"Uhh... recovery?"
"Yes, recovery. Ah, you have no idea how wonderful it is for me to say that word. You, 2292, are the very first recorded person to be cured from Corprus. Even I am impressed."
"I've been cured?" Nils asked, dazed.
"Well, 'cured' is a bit of a misnomer. I've spent decades of research on the disease, and had nearly given up on ever finding a cure. None of the patients have responded to conventional formulæ that target the infection itself, so I went in a different direction. I actually developed this formula months ago. Thought I'd figured it out. The potion is designed to halt the degeneration of the mind and body, while leaving the disease intact. In theory, it was supposed to work. Didn't work when I first tested it. Killed patients 2289, 2290, and 2291 almost immediately. There was no reason for me to believe that you would respond any differently, and I was far more willing to keep you alive while you were still useful to me as a subject. But in the end Zaryth insisted on a fourth trial –"
Nils was not paying too much attention as Divayth rambled on. He only wanted to get some kind of sensation in his arm back. It was twisted in such an awkward position and numb-tingling as if it had fallen asleep. The left arm was stiff as wood, not much of an improvement from the right, but at least it was responsive. He brought it over and slapped down hard on his right arm.
His hand hit the bedding instead. Head swimming from dizziness, he tried hitting the bed several more times.
This was disorienting. he fanned out his fingers, searching for the arm. It had to be there; he could feel it prickling.
Nils cracked his eyes open just in time to see Divayth's hard-set features displaying their usual dispassion, thin lips curled in mild annoyance.
Still laying on his back, Nils laboriously tilted his head to the right.
The arm he felt was not there.
His hand and forearm were missing. Cut cleanly off just an inch past his elbow, with nothing but a stump remaining. This must be some kind of cruel joke. He had felt it – could still feel it! Like pins and needles, only worse.
Something was... moving? Nils blinked several times to clear his focus.
Pale maggots wriggled around in the healing stump of his arm. Hundreds of them, feasting as if his open wound were some delicious rotten peach. Oh, gods, he felt sick. Why were there maggots?
"Where – what –" Nils croaked. "My arm –"
Divayth sighed heavily, rubbing his eyes. He glanced down the hallway first before he answered.
"Gone, yes. I amputated it myself. You're incredibly lucky to have only lost your arm, you know," he said, waving his hand dismissively. The ancient Dunmer's eyes darted back to the corridor again. Waiting for Zaryth to return with the sedative so that Nils would shut up, he figured.
But his flustered thoughts were tumbling out faster than he could form words. He didn't want to sleep again; he wanted answers.
"I felt it just now – but it still hurts – gone – why maggots?"
"Milkfly larvae, to be specific. Wonderful creatures. They feed on necrotic flesh and leave healthy tissue alone."
"You – you can't fix it? Like you did the Corprus?"
Divayth let out another impatient sigh. Explaining things to his patients must have been horribly inconvenient for him.
"You cannot heal that which is already dead. Would you prefer I re-attach a bloated, necrotic arm to your body?"
"No, thank you," Nils said mildly.
"You'll be alright. How good are you at writing with your left hand?"
"I'm left-handed."
"Great!" Divayth said, rubbing his dark callused hands together. "Shaking hands might be awkward, I suppose, but people are more understanding than you realize. You'll have to learn to do any two-handed activities with one hand, of course, but..." the Dunmer thought a moment, then shrugged. "Could be worse."
Worrying about not being able to shake hands was the last thing on Nils' mind, but he was too tired to disagree. There were a lot of things he would need two hands for. Playing the lute, holding a sword and shield, cradling an infant in his arms...
"There you are, Zaryth. What kept you?" Divayth said, eyes locked on his young apprentice who had re-entered the room with a vial of some opaque white liquid.
Nils attempted to use one hand to support himself upright, but his left arm was so weak he fell on his back again.
"Hi, Zaryth," he said, attempting to smile. It probably just made him look scarier. Not that he didn't look revolting enough already. There were maggots feasting on the stump where his arm used to be.
Could be worse.
Zaryth blinked at him. Her short reddish hair was disheveled and she looked like she was about to fall asleep where she was standing. Instead of responding to Nils' greeting, she turned to Divayth, communicating with the same clinical detachment about Patient 2292 as if he were not laying awake right in front of them.
"Shall I administer the anesthesia or would you prefer to do it yourself?"
"Let me handle this. He may still be violent," Divayth answered, gingerly taking the vial from her with two fingers.
Oh, that was rich. Nils didn't even have the strength to lift himself out of bed, and they had to assume that he could leap up at any moment and start attacking like some kind of frightened animal.
"They call me Nilseth One-Arm. Fear me."
Both mages ignored Nils, which he probably should have expected.
"Hello, everyone," he said, raising his voice now. "I'd really appreciate it if someone told me why I need to take a sedative."
Though the agony was so intense he could hardly move, Nils was already feeling alert and wakeful. He didn't want to go back to sleep already. Mostly he just wanted answers.
"Good question. You may have noticed fluctuating levels of excruciating pain throughout your body."
"No, really?" Nils grimaced.
"Corprus is a degenerative disease. Your bones must look like they've been put through a cheese grater. Probably tore your muscles to ribbons too. Perhaps, with the help of a skilled healer and several months of bed rest, you just may walk again. But I can do better than that."
There was a pause made uncomfortable by just a few extra seconds.
"Is this another experimental formula, like the Corprus cure? Apologies, but I simply do not have it in me to let others play a dice game with my life again."
Nils saw Zaryth cringe. He wondered what that was about.
Divayth gave him that withering look again that told Nils he was very tired of hearing his voice.
"If by experimental, you mean 'haven't tried it before,' yes and no. I've experienced success in treating victims of rotbone, but never attempted to restructure an entire musculoskeletal system. You probably won't die if it doesn't work, if that is any consolation. I can also tell you right now that you do not want to be awake for this nasty business. Really, it's -"
Now, Nils was getting tired of hearing Divayth's voice.
"Give me the damn sedative already," he mumbled, allowing Divayth to pour some cool, minty liquid down his throat.
Minutes later Nils was already starting to relax. His body felt like it was sinking into the bedroll, enveloping him in fabric where he would be safe so very safe. He probably had a stupid smile on his face but he didn't care.
Divayth started to speak again but his voice might have been underwater.
"We're going to take Patient 2292 down to the Corprusarium to perform the operation. Tell Uupse to stabilize Yagrum Bagarn before we-"
"Don't you mean Patient Zero?" Zaryth piped up. Her blue robes were so striking even when Nils' vision was a narrowing aperture.
"Eh? Oh. I get it. You're hilarious, Zaryth."
Nils didn't understand the joke but he still thought it was funny.
Now he was floating... his bedroll suddenly became a chariot to the stars above... and then everything went quiet.
