Memory One-Hundred and Forty-One: (Aem'uvus)

It pulsed with a familiar beat. In the atelier, the pit was incongruous; a construct shaped as a large well of sorts, but as he approached Aem'uvus could feel its power even more clearly than he could when he was a child. It pulsed and hummed in dormancy, so much so that it was almost audible, and as he clutched the rim he looked down in those dead pits and wondered how he could have been born there.

His father had told him once, "What you were and what you are required a precursor, my son." It had confused him ever since. He recalled that he had referred to him as a 'ball of light, neither alive nor dead' before his birth, but he had assumed that was a metaphor for the fact he would be born – a concept unconceived, he likened it to. His fingers tightened around the rim. He wondered if he had been too short-sighted in his assumptions.

"I have to find out what this is," he murmured to himself as he released his grip on the pit. Aem'uvus searched the shelves and mechanical parts for clues, hopeful that Sotha Sil had left some record of that day behind. There was little to be found, however. No matter how many half-built constructs he pushed aside or corners he covered, he did not come across even a scrap of evidence that the pit had ever been used, nor how to activate it.

He let out a huff of frustration as he turned to face it. On the surface, it was rough and rudimentary in style; perhaps at one point it had been submerged in the ground, for his father had built a platform with rounded edges to hold it in place. But the energy that it exuded even in its dead state spoke of unimaginable power. The more time he spent within its presence, the more he felt it could be manipulated; but to what end, he had no idea.

Aem'uvus reluctantly drew closer to the pit. He touched its edge, and when he did he felt a brush of hot breath at his ear, and a whisper sounded that was at once familiar and terrible.

"The Well."

He froze. He did not flee, as he had when he was a boy on Artaeum. He felt the hairs on his arm stand on end as he gazed down in the embers, and once more, softer this time, he heard it.

"The Well."

It was an encouragement. He was certain of that. An encouragement for him to use the energies he felt all around him. The voice had told him once to learn K'Tora's mind magic – a skill which he had not used since, but had never harmed him – and yet still he hesitated.

"The Well."

Aem'uvus reached out. He focused himself on those pulses, and the pit appeared to react to him. It shaped itself around his hand as though it had been made to fit, until he wore it as a second skin. To his eye, it stretched over him as a cloak of red light, sparking with a power that felt ancient – even more ancient than his father. He closed his sight to it. In a matter of seconds, the wave had washed over him, and on an instinct he was not aware he had he reached once more for the pit.

Memory One-Hundred and Forty-Two:

Sotha Sil felt it, when his atelier had been intruded upon. He stood in silence with Avonase, but she saw in his shoulders, in the slight twitch of his mouth. The atmosphere had changed. She had never thought of her lord as sorrowful. No; brilliant, erudite, a stabilising force in a world that seemed on the verge of unravelling at every moment, but never that. Now, as she looked on his dark face and saw how his eyes slid shut with a sigh, sorrowful was all she could think to describe him as.

"And so, it ends," he said softly, and his words were a weight in the air.

Memory One-Hundred and Forty-Three: (Aem'uvus)

The projection was repulsive to gaze upon.

It was a creature, its visage red and furious, a single eye inset above a mouth that unhinged to an alarming degree. Its screech was painful to his ear. Aem'uvus could not turn his face from it, however, frozen to the spot as it shrieked and shook the three malformed arms that protruded from its side. Part of him wondered for what reason the pit would show him this – what this even was – but his mind was riveted by disgust. Deep down, he even felt some pity for it.

Summoning his willpower, the lord stretched out his hand and focused once more. The image before him morphed, and soon he saw another creature appear, this one more elaborate, but no less repulsive. From the suddenly-hot embers, her visage appeared; spider-like limbs, eight in number, and a body not unlike that of Mephala's minions, her hair a mane of fire wherein faces screamed. Her face reminded him at once of a Dunmer and a Breton, and her eyes were flanked with lashes that moved with the heat of the pit. When she looked on him, Aem'uvus felt a perverse sense of familiarity.

"So, I'm summoned once more," she said in the language of Oblivion, though her mouth remained closed. She pointed one of her many arms at him almost in accusation, and the lord's brow furrowed. "The last time, I watched my brothers and sisters die in battle. I was slain and cast back into the darkness. But here you stand, Aem'uvus, beautiful and whole. How could this be?"

He hesitated. "I don't know you, Daedroth."

"What?" She paused, her eyes narrowing until they were mere slits in her face. "Do you toy with me, Aem'uvus? Do you enjoy watching us suffer? Revenge for our failure, perhaps?"

"Revenge? Why would I want revenge against you?" He questioned. "I've never had a pact with your kind."

"My kind? Such harsh words, brother, for your own sister."

Aem'uvus' head recoiled. His mind came to a complete halt, and he was struck in a sudden, terrible silence while the creature before him tilted her head in confusion.

"Brother?" She questioned.

"I—" He started, but his voice was warbled, bewildered; not the voice of the Clockwork Son. There was a pause as he regained his composure, straightened himself and shook his head. "I have no siblings."

"What happened to you, that you would forget the thousands born in our mother's brood?" She asked.

"Thousands? That seems doubtful, Daedroth. Why, then, have I never seen you, nor heard of you before, if so many of you exist?"

The creature crouched down. He had the sense that she was inspecting him, and a queer sense of sentimentality came over him. If he opened his mouth again, he feared he would offer her assurances that he was well.

"I've thought often about the fate that befell you after our failure," she told him. "I've considered what tortures you would face, how painful your sentence would be. But to have erased your mind so thoroughly…" She shook her head, then returned to full height and looked down on him. There were no more words, but her sadness seemed to dull the Well's fires and make the embers grow cold and sullen.

The lord faced her despite the tremor in his heart. "If I were your brother, would I not be as terrible to look upon? Why is your face so different from mine?" Her chuckle was dark and ominous, and he had the awful sense that he was truly at the point of no return. If he decided now to flee, he would forever wonder; and if he did not, he would know, truly, if Veya had told him the truth.

"Because I am the firstborn of the Banquet, brother, and am cunning and lithe, stronger than a thousand mortal men. I am a warrior. I am Ihneroth."

At the utterance of her name, Aem'uvus felt his heart quicken and his muscles constrict. It was an echo of an echo, a low and vengeful whisper that at once upset and comforted him. He met her eyes, his back rigid and posture prone, and he asked:

"Banquet?"

"The Pomegranate Banquet," she replied. For a moment there was silence.

Then Aem'uvus started to laugh.

"The Pomegranate Banquet?!" He howled. "That invention of my uncle's wild imagination? Please – I'm no longer a child, firstborn Ihneroth. You would have me believe that not only did it truly happen, but that I'm a product of it? That my uncle is truly my mother, and my father is the vile Prince, Molag Bal?"

Once more he fell about into laughter, until there were almost tears in his eyes, but soon Aem'uvus felt her silence. The lord wiped his cheeks and turned towards her to find Ihneroth staring at him, and the weight of her gaze – the sincerity he saw in those black-sea eyes – filled him with dread.

"It's—It's a tale, yes?" He clarified. "Meant to confuse mortal men. Come, it can't be true…can it?"

Her voice was small, almost soft when she replied, "Yes, Aem'uvus – we are the children of the Pomegranate Banquet. The children of Vivec and Molag Bal."

He stared at her. His mouth was dry, and suddenly the room appeared as if it was spinning, a thousand pieces clicking into place as he staggered and narrowly caught a table before he fell. As he leant against it, fighting for breath, he started mumbling to himself, "No, no, no…"

"Our mother betrayed us. Murdered us in cold blood, and you sought vengeance. You led a war against him, resurrected our siblings for our worthy cause. You wanted to wash Vvardenfell in a wave of blood and march us into Coldharbour. To end the Tribunal, and bring about a new era of worship."

"But—But I've lived here my entire life," he reasoned, his voice stammering. "I've only ever left the Clockwork City once. You're lying to me!" There was a new edge to his tone as he leapt to the floor and pointed an accusatory finger at her. Ihneroth's boned brow furrowed, but she did not react to his anger with her own. Instead, when she spoke, she did so carefully, as if the wrong word would tear them both apart.

"We failed, brother," she explained. "I died before I could reach you again. We have lingered in the darkness since, uncertain of what become of you."

Aem'uvus was frozen. His heart ached. In his mind he pictured his father – the man he had idolised and emulated in all things, fought at the side of and worked with for a better future. The idea that he had lied to him cut like a knife. But then he thought of his cryptic words all of those years before, and how dearly Vivec had treated him when he was a child, and how Seht had reacted when he had come close to Nocturnal's influence. He had forever been able to read and understand Oblivion, and when he reached out to it, it had reacted to him as if he was meant to be there, even if his shape did not entirely fit.

"My father…" He fell to his knees, a sob escaping his throat as he dropped his head into his hands. "My father lied…"

"What happened to you, Aem'uvus? Tell me, so that I might comfort our siblings."

It was a moment before he was able to speak. "I—I don't remember. I don't remember anything. All my life, I've lived here with my father—with Sotha Sil."

"The Clockwork God is devious. Perhaps he erased your memory? Tortured you so that you forgot?"

"He's never lain a hand on me," he insisted. "But I don't understand. If Vivec is my mother, then why not tell me? If I led a war on Vvardenfell, why raise me here instead of killing me? This…I just don't understand. I'm so…lost."

Aem'uvus sat on his knees, his hands bundled in his lap, staring down at the floor as he tried to remember what he was uncertain was even real. But as he thought, he heard that voice again. Its hot breath was against his neck, breathless, as if he stood on the precipice of even more woe.

"The Deep Deck."

"The Deep Deck…?"

He lifted his head. Ihneroth's mouth had curved in a soft smile, but in that moment he felt no warmth. He could not remember her. She was his sister, but he had no memory of ever being at her side, laughing with each other, playing the games that children played. Were Daedra even born as children? Or just larva, the first stage of terrible life?

Aem'uvus hauled himself to his feet. His eyes hardened, and when he looked at her he spoke with such venom that even the gods would have flinched.

"My answers are elsewhere," he said, "and you, dear sister; if what you say is true, then you are a danger to all in Tamriel. Begone, and do not return."

The lord reached out. Ihneroth cried out – a word, mangled and incomprehensible, that sounded much like a plea – but in a moment she had vanished from the Well and its embers became cold and dead once more.

He turned. Before him a portal opened. Its light played against the iron of his face, and his lips twitched in a half-formed snarl.

"So, Father," he said as he moved forward. "Let's see what you've kept from me."

More footsteps. Whispers. Bang, bang, bang somewhere in the distance – broken factotum. Sleepless nights and no more drink. Earplugs useless.

He's in my mind, like he was Dirith's. Perhaps Aem'uvus succumbed to his Daedric self. Perhaps Lord Seht had to murder him, or contain him, or he's died somewhere else and returned to his siblings. Perhaps he defected to Molag Bal's realm and plots our end. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. I just wish he'd leave. Never felt so tired.

Final star's ahead. Finish this, go home, take a bath. Ask Mother's forgiveness. The past is in the past.