Title: Clan Ules Reunion
Summary: An exiled daughter of Clan Ules comes home for a funeral.
Warnings: Deals with complicated family relationships and relationship to culture. Death. Funerals. Unpleasantness.
Edit: Made somewhat major revisions.
...
Every window was closed. Scrapes and scratches hit like bolts of lightning inside sturdy homes. A dark cyclone hovered over the estate. Through the gusts of ash, it was a struggle to see ten feet ahead. Still, drums. A slow beat, growing louder as figures indiscernible in the storm passed by each window. Such a march typically involved a legion of musicians. Only drums could pierce the ash.
A woman, veiled head to toe in dark red, led the march. The Patriarch of Ules had taken ill at the death of his last son. Imhira was the only daughter strong enough to carry the body to their Ancestral Tomb. Mura Ules had no comrades of equal station. He had been too young to truly enter society. The only other option was to summon one of their retainers, a member of a lesser family.
Mura Ules was wrapped in gold silks. It was a feminine way to prepare the body of a warrior. Deliberately avoiding extra burdens, he wore no ceremonial armor, no jewels, carried no weapon. The shame of a lesser Dunmer touching him in death was too great.
Imhira's sister and mother wept while her grandfather recited the Lamentations of Almalexia behind her, though their voices were drowned through the drumming and the wind.
At the very end, behind lesser mourners, the drummers, and the Dunmer servants, Marco Bertolucci followed. He remained a respectful distance from the others. Just close enough to not get lost in the storm. Negotiations with Morvayn would begin soon enough. Mura's burning would be a day in honor of House Hlaalu and their customs.
Heads bowed against the ash; the procession made its way to the Ancestral Tomb. Imhira's mother and sister hurried ahead to the door, trails of black silk following their stride.
"Ancestors, we bring you an offering," Serja Odura Ules braced herself against the door, holding it open, her eyes downcast. She refused to look directly at the body, or her daughter carrying it in slightly unsteady arms, "Allow us into your home, we bring you an offering."
A collective breath was taken as Imhira stepped over the threshold. The train of people condensed awkwardly as they all shuffled into the tomb. Arms shaking, Imhira made her way to the firepit in the entrance hall and set Mura on the coals. The form looked so small ensconced in the silk. Flames caught the trim.
Inhira collapsed, laying her head against the warm stone of the ancient pyre. The deed was done. Her mother and sister followed.
"Ancestors, we bring you an offering. Accept him into your home. Educate Mura in the ways of the Honorable Dead."
Imhira could not summon any tears. She left home years before Mura was born and save for a few blood-born features they shared, the boy's face was that of a stranger. The sadness was abstract. Empty. A brother she may as well have never had. It felt wrong to meet him this way, to return home only for a funeral. The sweat on her forehead dripped onto the stone.
Pressed against the door behind servants and lesser Dunmer, Marco Bertolucci bowed his head. He dug his nails into his palm. Human tears were disrespectful.
By the time the burning was over, the ash had settled. It was deathly quiet. The tomb emptied – servants, lesser Dunmer and Marco Bertolucci first. The grandfather grew weary of the tomb and left on his own. Even Imhira's sister left uneasily. An atmosphere of tension replaced the grieving. Imhira was alone with her mother. She had been waiting for an opportunity to speak with her in private all day.
Odura Ules stared into the family ash pit. Mura's remains were mixed in perfectly with the lot, with his brother Nestor, and his uncle, "I feel a deep, foreign hostility from you, child. Speak."
"How long has Nestor been dead, mother?" Imhira struggled to keep her voice low.
Odura wrapped her veil around her shoulders and turned around, "Within the year."
"And I suppose you forgot to tell me –"
"You were in Cyrodiil," Odura wrapped her veil around her shoulders and straightened her back, "I was never any good at sending out letters."
"Until you ran out of strong family members to carry the dead."
"Imhira –"
"How could you?!" Imhira spat, breaking the sacred hush of the tomb.
Odura's eyes burned but she returned no reply.
"I thought he stopped writing me for no reason," her eyes grew hot, and she was close to crying for the first time since she'd received notice of Mura's – and Nestor's – death.
"Oh, your brother wrote to you?" Odura said this as if it were of the same consequence of meeting an old tutor by happenstance.
Imhira seized in rage. Words were simply no substitute. It took real, tangible energy, to swallow that fury. Her limbs trembled. "Every month."
"A string of such grave news would have no doubt interrupted your education," Odura murmured.
"Now it counts as an education."
"An inferior education is still an education."
She couldn't hold it anymore. Fire blazed under the surface of her skin, her blood raged, Imhira sobbed, "Fuck you!"
The word echoed. Both syllables tapped the stone, fanning out to the void. The sacred place was profaned with her display, and Imhira knew it.
Odura's lips pressed into a thin line, "You were warned, child."
Imhira swallowed further tears but her body shook. Her knees buckled. The red veil came dangerously close to slipping off. When she thought she had enough composure to seek a breath, she had to hold, for tears threatened to fill the gap.
Feeble lights shimmered across their faces. Darkness inched upwards from the depths of the tomb, where ancient ghosts patrolled the halls. The last of the funerary candles faded into the dripping wax.
"Your father considers your debt to Clan Ules paid," Odura said stiffly, "Welcome home."
"No, mother. I belong in Cyrodiil, with the other filthy outlanders. Call on me if we have a nephew or third cousin to carry."
Odura struck her. Only once. The look Imhira returned filled the aging woman with fear.
Marco Bertolucci stared at the blank parchment. He'd written so many letters about these Dunmer to the Imperial Legate. When did he give up on requesting mediation between the clans? The third letter? The one he took to Fort Nibenay and shoved in the Legion's face himself? He sighed, tugging the corner of his thick mustache.
This past year was an exercise on why they had Imperial Mediation in the first place. A textbook example of a blood feud evolving into a massacre.
What to tell them now?
Mura Ules, a boy of twenty years, has been killed. As you consult citizenship records, keep in mind that height and weight have little bearing on the maturity of young elves. This is roughly equivalent to the slaughter of a thirteen-year-old human child. My hope is that you will recognize the severity of this crime and work with Clan Ules and Morvayn to establish just restitution and an end to
Marco cursed and tossed the quill aside. He stood up from his desk. It was getting harder at his age and weight. Hurt his knees.
The Empire made their decision. They'd be useless. Morvayn was with House Redoran. Empire wanted to get on their good side. They wanted to appear 'fair'. Watch like blind idiots as it escalated and escalated. Fuck them to Oblivion! Fuck them all!
When Odura Ules knocked on the door, Marco had been pacing. The man was red in the face. Muttering to himself. He stopped, turned, and nodded solemnly, "Serja."
"Mr. Bertolucci," she whispered, eyes sunken in, "Do you… do you believe the Legion will change their minds? Will they help now?"
Marco swallowed hard, "We'll see, Serja."
"The East Empire Company…?"
"They responded," Marco nodded, "And the Company does have something. They're offering to escort your younger daughter to Cyrodiil –"
Serja Odura Ules cradled her head in her hands, red eyes peeking between grey fingers, "Ysra will not go. She will stay and die… if it comes to that. If Morvayn will wring the blood out of this feud until we are all pale."
"That girl is a member of Dephiri, now. If she dies it'll be unprovoked murder. Even the Morag Tong would refuse to do it," Marco tried to soothe, "We know even the boy's death wasn't planned..."
Odura looked stricken. Marco had gone so far as to strike himself, too. His soul hurt.
"My apologies, Serja."
"I know you adored our sons. Mura…" she dropped her voice, "He saw you as his round-eared grandfather. And I know you're grieving as I am. Your grief doesn't insult me."
The two exchanged stares, and he wanted to throw his arms around her shoulder and comfort her like an old friend. He couldn't. Marco Bertolucci was a tutor – and their lifeline to Imperial resources they desperately needed. Instead, brow furrowed, he asked, "What of your husband? How is he doing?"
Odura's eyes fell to the floor. Like a flower losing its last petal.
…
The bedroom was just as she remembered. A green silk blanket over a circular bed. Imported frame. High Rock. Protective netting draped over it. The books Imhira never read were still on the shelf beside her door. This used to be home. But it was a home she never felt at ease in. A family that didn't see her as family until it was convenient.
No… that wasn't an entirely honest thought, was it? Nestor's last letter was still sitting in her rucksack. He was lazy. Spent his days hidden among the rocks, reading, writing notes in his books. Nights he found himself at cornerclubs, embarrassing the family in less obvious ways. He drank heavily. He amused himself with men and women.
At least Nestor was smart. Talented. A true mage, rare among members of Clan Ules. He was less of an idealist than Imhira but still enjoyed a debate.
They confided in each other, their struggles, their goals. Nestor knew about her other life. He knew long before Mother sent bounty hunters to drag her out of Balmora.
A deep, dark hurt bloomed in the pit of Imhira's stomach. She eyed the books. Perhaps Nestor wrote in them? Before long, all of them were strewn across the floor. She flipped through the pages for his handwriting. Maybe a doodle. Nestor liked to draw. Finally, she stopped at a drawing between chapters in the second volume of 'A Brief History of the Empire'.
Vivec leaned back lazily, only a line to indicate the two halves, Dunmer and Chimer. The living god held a skooma pipe in his left hand. A speech bubble asked, 'What if I'm Tiber Septim…?'
Oh shit, this would've gotten Nestor in so much trouble. It also wasn't as detailed as she remembered his art. He was probably young when he drew this.
Someone knocked and opened the door without waiting for a response.
Ysra. Little sister. She was a clear foot shorter than Imhira, too. "I heard you were leaving."
"Yeah. It's true," Imhira gently ran her thumb over the drawing.
"Why?" Ysra's pitch went distressingly high.
"I have work waiting for me in Cyrodiil. The Guild's been patient, if I delay any longer –"
"Half your family's been murdered. I'm sure they'll understand if you need to take more than half a week to process it," Ysra winced at the books strewn around the floor, "Doing some reading?"
That same page was still open. The very back. Half blank. Stupid little doodle, stupid little Vivec. Imhira shook her head, "Remember how Nes was always writing in his books? I hoped there'd be some of his notes. No such luck, but I did find one of his old artworks."
Imhira passed the book to her sister.
Ysra frowned, "Mother would've sold him for this."
"I guess she never discovered it. Nes really was lucky that way."
Ysra gripped the book tight, "He started the feud. Did anyone tell you that?"
The mere idea was stupid: Nestor starting a blood-feud. Though inappropriate, Imhira laughed in disbelief, "And what'd he do? Fall asleep on Morvayn property?"
"He killed one of Serjo Movayn's nephews," Ysra hissed.
Ice. Nausea. Piercing Imhira's stomach like a dagger. "No. No, that doesn't sound like him."
"He came home covered in blood. His knife -"
"Nes wouldn't kill anyone!"
Ysra shook her head, "How would you know, after so many years?"
That silenced Imhira for a moment. She had often filtered the ugliest parts of her life from her letters to Nes - it hadn't occurred to her that Nes would've done the same thing.
The drawing of Vivec stared at the ceiling with unshaded eyes.
Imhira looked at the floor.
"...Do we know why?"
"He came home sobbing and drunk, couldn't remember a thing the morning after. Father thought it had to be an accident. Mother insisted he must've been defending himself. And Nes, he... he wanted to turn himself over to the ordinators," Ysra swallowed hard, "No one had a chance to learn anything. Serjo Morvayn was at our doorstep demanding Nestor's blood within days. You know Father. He couldn't stand for it, not his son getting lashed to death like a common criminal."
"And I suppose it wasn't Nes who died over all of this first."
"Father sent Nes to our uncle," Ysra's voice quivered, her face turning white, "And then Morvayn sent people to take him by force. Mercenaries. Common thugs."
Imhira was lit up with secondary shame. Irrational shame, she reminded herself.
"Uncle Idris died in the fight, but Nes lived. He lived in turmoil, scarcely able to eat or sleep, but he lived," a few thick, heavy tears rolled down Ysra's cheeks, "He stayed at the estate until he could stand it no longer. One evening he slipped away, just to... just to go outside... we found his body floating in the well. Not an hour after we realized he was gone. Almalexia's mercy, the blood! Our water was red! Soiled!"
Imhira pulled her sister into a tight hug.
Ysra buried her face in Imhira's shoulder, "Please don't leave. Please. This land is death and I'm surrounded by ghosts."
Imhira pulled back, brushing the hair out of Ysra's eyes like she used to, "You're right. Leave this place with me. I... I didn't tell Mother, but I own a villa. It's not as grand as one of Hlaalu's estates, but sister, it's warm and beautiful. I travel so often that letting you stay would be nothing. Stay as long as you want."
"...And just leave home? Ignore our suffering clan?"
"Yes. Why not?"
"It's abandonment," Ysra said this firmly, "I may be able to leave. But can Mother? What of our lesser families?"
"They'll find someone else to serve."
Ysra's eyes widened, as though the mere idea was deeply offensive and shocking, "You say that like that's easy. A lesser family finding a new Clan to serve is as difficult as one of us trying to switch Houses. Some of them would have to sell their daughters."
"Oh? Is slavery bad or something?" Imhira snapped.
"No need to be coy about Father's slaves!" Ysra finally raised her voice, matching her sister's volume, "Where will they go? Do they get pawned off to the Telvanni? Or perhaps they'd do better toiling in the rice fields in the South. Clan Morvayn needs a few for their ebony mines, maybe he can sell to them."
Right. The veil was an heirloom – that would stay. Two swords. Dried meat and rice. Robes, underclothes, a dagger… Imhira stuffed everything carelessly in her rucksack. The boat leaves tomorrow and Imhira would be far away.
"Father bought them. They're in his name. He could let them go, if he's so concerned about the well-being of his 'servants'."
Ysra sighed, low and defeated, "He won't do that."
With her stuff packed, Imhira started setting the books back to where they belonged. Every book, including the book with Nestor's drawing. They were all ghosts. Even the living. Clan Ules was no longer family. She hadn't seen any of them in years and, until now, everyone preferred it that way.
"…You could let them go," Ysra spoke quick as a flash of lightning, quiet as a fish beneath the ice.
Imhira nearly dropped a yellowed copy of 'Boethiah's Glory' onto the floor. After all that death, she was technically the eldest, with no male relatives of equal standing to take priority, "There are twenty-five men and women waiting for me to return to Cyrodiil."
"But you have a responsibility!"
"My company is my responsibility," Imhira snapped, "I forfeited my place among Clan Ules years ago. Don't you remember?" she pointed to the scar across her cheek, clean and deliberate, "Father told me himself that if I returned, he would send someone to kill me –"
"That was years ago -"
Imhira ignored her, continuing forcefully, "He said my blood would soil his blade. That I was filth! He didn't even have the balls to tell me our score was settled himself. Now you all want me home, because…" she shivered, "Was this the plan all along? To… lure me back to Morrowind with Mura's funeral? Why? Why not you, Ysra? I'm not a true Dunmer anymore. It's your birthright, too."
Ysra folded her arms and glanced at the floor, a bit ashamed, "…I'm married."
So that was it. They needed an heir. Imhira was the only valid one left. Fuck that. She slung her pack over her shoulder and made for the door.
"You can't go right now, can you? The boat doesn't leave until tomorrow," Ysra protested.
"I'm not sleeping here tonight. Father can send the Morag Tong for all I care – in fact, he should. I encourage him to do so. I'll die to be an outlander if I have to."
Before another word could be spoken, Imhira's walked faster, breaking into a run. Her boots echoed through the long halls.
If they needed a warm body to hold their properties so badly… they could weep as they lost everything. Clan Ules didn't matter. Nothing on Vvardenfell mattered.
…
Dunmer from Vvardenfell liked to speak in a pseudo-whisper. It was easier on the ashen throat. Put enough of them in a room even that whisper could become a dull roar. The Cliff Face Cornerclub was full of strangers with quiet voices. Imhira hunched over the bar. She stared at her drink, a hard sujamma spiked with whiskey. It tasted awful.
Still, she settled into that feeling of anonymity. A local even raised an eyebrow at her, that look betraying skepticism and distrust. She wasn't from here, after all. The knots in her stomach unwound themselves. All that was left was the sadness.
Imhira knew how to deal with being sad.
Bottoms up.
"Those things are going to kill you, sera," the barkeep, a khajiit woman with white fur mottled by ash, hesitantly mixed another drink.
"I'll be gone before these things kill me," Imhira murmured.
The barkeep's ears flattened, "Last one."
A younger Imhira would've argued with her. Made a scene, probably. She was wiser now. Or maybe just burnt out.
She couldn't escape the familiarity of the walls. The building, the cornerclub itself. This place was one of Nes' haunts. On an evening like this, he'd be sitting at a booth, his chair backed up against the corner. Glass of wine precariously close to the edge of the table. Always wine. He didn't drink the hard stuff. Imhira used to tease him about it, back when she was bitchy enough to make a fuss over drink preferences.
"Room for one more?"
Imhira seized. Another recognizable voice. Unwelcome. She almost reached for her sword. Instead, she turned to see an aging Imperial. Grainy brown hair. Thich mustache. Very, very, fat in his age. "Mr. Bertolucci," she nodded, "Look, if you're here to try to get me to stay –"
"Gods, no," Marco sat down beside her and ordered an ale, "I tried to tell your mother it was a bad idea. You've lived in Cyrodiil for… hm… it's been… how many years has it been, now?"
"Twenty-three."
"That's a long time," Marco shook his head, "You could have easily been married before your sister."
"If I was married to an outlander, it wouldn't have counted. They'd try to convince me to make my husband secondary. 'No shame in keeping a lover, child. A marriage is an exchange of power first,'" Imhira choked down half of the spiked sujamma, "House Dunmer are nauseating. They don't even realize it."
"Ha. Imagine how I felt, listening to them argue and trying to sort it out," Marco sighed, "Can't involve Morag Tong. Scandalous. Can't involve ordinators. Corrupt. Let's express our feelings with art: painting doors with guar blood," he smiled, "And you're wondering if it was your clan or Morvayn who did that one."
Imhira chuckled but it faded quickly, "Mura died for it."
Marco just drank more of his ale, saying nothing.
"Nestor wrote to me about Mura. Sometimes praising him. He said the boy was strong for his age, like I was. That he was... brave. Not as reckless as I was, just eager to move forward. Sometimes he complained about Mura, too. At one point he was waking poor Nestor every other morning... Nestor hated early mornings. He told me that the boy was acting as his shadow. That he clung to his every word, copying him without understanding, as children do," Imhira's hands started to tremble, "It's insane. Killing a child for honor is insane. I saw the body before they wrapped it up, they butchered that boy..."
No one could argue with that. The barkeep poured a pitcher of water and pushed it towards them. She seemed more relaxed now that Imhira had a companion.
"…I don't blame you for trying to stay out of Vvardenfell. Especially after so many years of exile," Marco stared at his hands, "They wronged you. That scar…"
Imhira sighed, "Father's hands never trembled when he did such things. Don't get me wrong, it hurt but it was always fast. Hesitation makes it worse."
The empty cup clinked as Marco set it upside down, "He believed in Mephala. Decisiveness in all violence."
"Praise be Mephala," she said bitterly, raising her empty mug.
A few locals peered over at her and muttered to themselves in disapproval.
"I can tell you why your father hasn't spoken to you since you've arrived. But only if you want to know."
Imhira turned to look at Mr. Bertolucci and his sad, grey eyes, "Mother. Ysra. They're desperate, I can feel it. My father's dying. Maybe he's already dead. But that's not my problem. Not after they told me my life would be worthless if I ever came home."
Marco dropped his voice, "Why did you come to the funeral at all?"
Why, indeed. Dead bodies didn't crave honor.
The doubt returned. Unwelcome. Familiar.