Chapter 1: Sundas Service

3E 424

The Mid-Year sun blazed high and proud above the city of Kvatch, and below, the city scrambled on. Another Mid-Year, another Middas. Magnus rose, its ascent resolute.

Along the city streets, the beeches and dogwoods flushed in deep verdure, singing the praise of last month's heavy rain. They swayed softly in the cool wind that drifted over the city walls from the western shores of the Abecean Sea, and beneath their green branches, Nimileth sat on a shaded stone bench to catch the breeze. She dabbed at the sweat beading along her forehead and watched the towns-people bustle by. It was a rather unextraordinary afternoon, busy and noisy as it always was when the villagers came to the Middas market.

The Bosmer, only nine years young, sat in content silence, the corners of her mouth quirked up into the smallest grin. She closed her eyes. The incoherent chatter, the crunch of feet against the dirt, the jingling septims of coinpurses passing in exchange. She imagined the market place of the Imperial City sounded much the same, but somehow more luxurious. It was the capital after all.

Who would she be among the busy city-dwellers? A fruit vendor, a pick-pocket, or just another blurred face in the crowd of shoppers? She opened her eyes and gazed out at the sea of people. The poor street-vendors without canopies over their stalls had burned pink beneath the beating sun. She hoped she would not be one of them.

The head-mistress of the castle had sent the young maid into town hours ago with a simple task: Take fifty gold pieces and bring back vegetables for the evening Shepard pie and fresh flowers for the vases in the castle's dining room. A simple task though it may seem, Nimileth took her sweet time wandering through the marketplace, her basket now overflowing with lavender sprigs and assorted produce. She was distracted easily, as children often were, by butterflies dancing in the warm summer air, by speckled mushroom caps shooting out from the cracks of stone beneath her feet. The market stalls only made the temptation to stray grow stronger. She oohed and ahed over glittering trinkets, necklaces, rings, baubles that she would never be able to afford on a castle maid's salary.

When the breeze passed, Nimileth rose to her feet. The mistress would be furious, no doubt, but it was these scant free hours of wandering outside in the open air that made her time cooped up in the castle bearable. Although the stroll through Kvatch was far from her dreams of the white-walkways in the Imperial City, it sure as Oblivion beat the bleakness of the servants quarters she called home. She walked slowly, admiring the bloom of morning glories that crept their way up the sides of the houses, the grass growing in sparse patches along the cobblestone street. She enjoyed the green while she could. Winter would come soon enough in a town as bland as Kvatch, and once again everything would become ash-grey, dead, and cold to match her sentiments.

Finally, she arrived before the main plaza and the drawbridge leading to the Castle courtyard. She looked around for No-shoe Neville, an old Nord beggar who loitered about near the bridge on Middas to escape the bustle of the market traffic. Whenever she had left-over coin, she offered It to the poor man and in return, he picked through the town-peoples gardens for pretty flowers, smooth rocks, or animal bones. She liked all equally as much.

A loud snicker drew her attention to the right where she saw No-shoe Neville huddled against the plaza wall, his eyes squeezed shut as a rail-thin boy stood above him, laughing. In one hand, the boy held the handle of a metal pail and in the other, a ladle which he used repeatedly to dump water over the beggar's body.

She whipped her head around her, looking to the other men and women walking by.

Why was no one stepping in to help the old man? Could no one else see the boy's cruel antics? Did no one else care? Her stomach roiled with more hatred than should exist in a nine-year-olds body, and without a second thought, she marched up to the boy, an envenomed scowl twisting across her face.

"What in the sixteen planes is wrong with you!" Nimileth shrieked and swatted the ladle out of the boy's hands. "Didn't your mother teach you how to behave?" She stretched around him reaching for the bucket, hoping to knock it out of his grip, but the boy held out his arm to fend her off.

"This man needs a bath, look at him," he laughed. "It's a hot day, and I'm just trying to help him cool down."

The young adolescent boy couldn't have been more than three years older than her. He was swimming in a blue cotton shirt, two sizes too large for him. His skin was oily, marred by pock scars and little red bumps, and he wore a thin fuzz of a blonde mustache. He looked Nimileth up and down and then, finding her presence quite unalarming, proceeded to dump another ladle of water onto the beggar.

Without further warning, she pulled an ear of corn out of her basket and began swatting the boy on the shoulder, across the chest, against the side of his head, as forcefully as her tiny arms would allow.

They boy laughed… at first, but when it became apparent that the girl was no where close to letting up, even when beads of sweat began to form at her temples, his smile faded to a series of sharp winces.

"Ow! You crazy elf! Knock it off." His voice cracked with each shout, pitch rising and breaking unevenly. "I'm not even touching you! Stop it!"

Nimileth eyed the boy skeptically, mangled corn cob raised high above her. Slowly, she pulled away.

"I will show you mercy this time," she said, tucking what was left of the corn back into her basket as though sheathing a blade, "but I swear to the Nine, touch that man again and I'll run you through with the pith of my corn."

She looked around for Neville, but the beggar had long scurried off.

"Hmph," the boy grunted. "You wouldn't do it. You wouldn't hurt me, not really."

"You want me to beat you again?"

The boy bristled. "You only managed those hits cause I let you."

"Bah, I could grind you to meal if I so pleased!" Nimileth lunged forward on one foot, and the boy brought his pail up to his chest to shield himself. Water sloshed off the rim and onto the dirt below. "Scared?" she mocked and raised a carrot threateningly into the air. "A spineless sload, that's what you are."

"I'm not," he countered weakly, crossing his arms over his chest. "I'm just letting you toughen me up. Pa says it's good to build callouses young."

Nimileth looked the boy over, then plucked up one of his hands and ran her thumb across the smooth, pink skin of his palm. "You've never worked a day in your life," she scoffed with a roll of your eyes.

"Have to!" he shot back. "How'd you know anyway? I bet you never even killed a chicken before. Not even a mouse! I bet you let them go when they fall into your trap. I bet you've never even hurt a fly. You're one of those chapel-going girls with ribbons in their hair and all shined up shoes. I bet you're scared of dirt. I bet blood makes you all weak and woozy."

Nimileth crossed her arms and looked on with very little interest. "I have too killed a chicken. Killed one two days ago for lunch even. And why are you following me to chapel anyway?"

"Ma and Pa make me go with them on Sundas. You're always there praying and giving alms just like all the other brain-washed fools. The poors gotta help themselves, that's what my pa says. You're not doing them any good with a handout."

A load of rubbish, she thought to herself, for does Stendarr not say to be kind and generous to the children of Nirn? The local beggars knew her well enough for her small kindness, the little she could give. It may not be the most legal way of helping, to steal food from the castle larders and scraps after feasts to share with the hungry. She may have even fenced off a diamond ring or two, but if she didn't, who would? It's not like Count Goldwine was in any short supply. This boy, with his father's comfy cotton shirt and tight coin purse never had to live on the streets. Sometimes a bit of bread and some coin for a strong drink was the difference between making it through the night and giving up.

"Every little bit helps," she said.

"How are you going to help them beggars when you can't even help yourself, huh? Are you going to be a maid for the rest of your life and give all your leftovers to the poor?"

"Better than you who sits there picking your nose for treasure."

"Better than you who has no friends."

Nimileth scowled. "I bet you don't have any friends either. You're as pleasant as guar dung and you look like a netch fart with a face."

The boy kicked a rock into the small puddle that had formed at his feet. He brushed the sandy-blonde hair out of his eyes and squinted at the small Bosmer.

"Maybe, but at least I have parents. At least I have a real home."

Nimileth's eyes grew wide. She stared blankly at the boy, her nostrils flaring and the tendons of her fists pulled taut over her knuckles. He looked pleased with himself, and the expression sickened her. He wouldn't feel so smug if he were laying face down in a pile of mud. He wouldn't look so smug if she punched in that stupid smirk and ran him through with a—

She swallowed down those wicked thoughts. After a long moment of silence had lapsed, she placed the carrot back into her basket and shook her head dismissively.

"I waste my breath talking to you," she said.

She turned, and just as she stepped away, the boy reached out and stomped on the edge of her dress. Nimileth fell forward with a shrill cry, her small frame crushing the wicker basket beneath her. Quickly, she drew herself to her knees and scooped up the spread of flowers and vegetables that had tumbled out, but they were ruined now, pressed flat into the mud and broken. The mistress would have her head.

She would be scolded severely for this, for her indolence and her mindless wandering through the market. Perhaps now, she'd be stripped from market duty for good, forced inside all week long. If only he hadn't stopped that boy! If only he didn't wear such a stupid, smug smirk! With a loud grunt Nimileth whipped around and lunged at him, gripping him by the throat and pressing her meager weight against him so forcefully that he fell backward into the puddle of mud, wind crushed completely out of his lungs.

She held him there with her knee pressed into his chest, the sleeves of her once cream-colored blouse now mud-soaked as he thrashed her about. But she held him there, watching with a morbid sense of excitement as he squirmed beneath her, eyes bulging. Eventually the initial shock of being knocked down waned, and he managed to pry a hand off of his throat. He tried to sit up, but this only further enraged the small elf, and she slammed her palm in to the boys face, meeting it with a crunch.

The boy was once more sent down into the mud, a muffled sob of pain escaping him. Nimileth pulled away and glanced down to her hands, found fresh, scarlet blood lingering in the creases of her palm. Murmurs, whispers broke out from all around her and she looked up in horror to find a crowd had formed around the mud puddle.

"Ah, to be young and in love," came the croaked voice of an old woman watching nearby. Her gaze flitted back and forth between the two youths, eyes twinkling.

Fast as she could, Nimileth picked up her basket and ran for the nearest alleyway to escape the questioning passersby, leaving behind a blood-stained boy in mud, shattered glass, and ground spices.

In the castle's servant quarters, an investigation was well underway. It was the fifth time in three months that the Countess had complained of a run-away locket. Prior searches of the maid's rooms had yielded fruitless results. Whoever made off with the jewelry had either hidden their stash outside their quarters or didn't work as part of the help. Or so it was believed for many weeks until an anonymous source had provided a new bit of detail which re-opened the investigation.

See, the guards had been tipped off that a small rust-haired bosmer had been dropping gold rings and 20-piece septims into the tins of old beggars on the outskirts of town. The informant claimed she saw the young girl drop a few sparkling rings into the hands of a shady man in exchange for a coinpurse before strolling toward the castle drawbridge, stopping only to give a few coins to that beggar, No-Shoe Neville. No guard had seen such an event transpire, and the captain shrugged off the warning until this morning when the Count's youngest son had reported his decorative cuffs had mysteriously went missing in the night. Hearsay wasn't enough to warrant an arrest, not that anyone would question it. Few cared if orphaned servant-girls went missing, and the castle had no shortage of help.

So, the guards set out for the servants quarters in the afternoon, turning over rugs and paintings, chests and drawers. Beneath one of the beds, they found a burlap sack containing several leather-bound books. The ornate letterings along the cover and spine and gold clasps suggested that these were expensive tomes, not ones that could be afforded by any of the kitchen maids. In fact, the guards discovered that they belonged to the Count's library. Of course, no one realized that a few books had gone missing and had they found only stolen books in the young girls quarters, the Count may have even overlooked the crime for the sake of childhood mischief and curiosity. But in the pillow case, the guards had recovered two diamond rings and a ruby necklace from the Countess's jewelry box. The cuffs were nowhere to be seen.

Magnus had settled over the Abecean sea, clearing the sky of all but a bleeding orange dusk. The busy streets had settled for the evening, and Nimileth had finally returned her basket of slightly muddied vegetables and mangled flowers to the kitchen. Thankfully, the Mistress was not around to see the sad state of the produce it had taken all day to purchase.

Hoping to unwind with the next volume of Mystery of Talara before she needed to begin preparing dinner, Nimileth had just entered the servants quarters from the kitchen when she heard the sound of the castle guards armor clinking down the hall. By the sound of their chattering voices, she identified at least four. Guards very infrequently passed through the servants quarters unless it was to pay visit to one of the chamber maidens late in the night after a good bit of drinking, and the sudden presence of so many at once alerted her that something was wrong.

Perhaps it was the lingering adrenaline coursing through her body that left her slightly paranoid, but she decided against continuing down the hall. She pressed herself against the wall, hoping to overhear their discussion when she felt her heart drop into the pit of her stomach. They were talking about her.

"A short Bosmer with reddish-brown hair. Scour the Castle. Savlian, take the South Wing. Nerus the North. Jesan, alert the guards at the main entrance and then check the basement. I'm going to speak with the mistress to find out this little thief's schedule."

The footsteps split up, most travelling away from her but a very clear thud thud thud echoed off the walls coming toward the door she had just entered from. Her eyes darted around the room for a place to hide. For an escape. The door was in clear view of the hallway, rendering the kitchen exit impossible. She spotted a small cupboard that held bottles of cheap wine, a barrel of potatoes, and a window. Without second guessing herself, she slid a chair up to the counter, pulled herself onto the window sill and leapt out to the ground below.

It was an empty night the Chapel of Akatosh, the pews vacant save the lone priest who sat reading in the front row. His duties done for the evening, the Priest relaxed. Quiet, the temple, his only company the flicker of oil lamps and the turn of the pages beneath his fingers.

Then, from behind him, came the creak of the great wooden doors, and he looked over his shoulder toward a small Bosmer girl who had entered alone. She stood there, face visible through the cracked doorway, peering into the entrance and taking in the vast emptiness of the large stone chapel. She looked to the stained-glass faces of the Nine painted along the windows, then quickly lowered her gaze. She grimaced.

From across the room, the priest could see that the girl was trembling and clutching her arm as though pained. Quickly, he shut his book, giving a small wave before he approached. She seemed nervous, shifting in her stance as he drew closer, looking over her shoulder as though readying to flee. When he was mere feet away, she pulled her shoulders back into a defeated cower, and now in the light of the wall torches, the priest swallowed back a sharp breath. Blood trickled down her cheek and dripped to the clean white floor below. Her face was wan with fright. She had been beaten, with muddied, torn clothes and a trail of scratches criss-crossing down her skin.

The priest clenched his fists until they paled. Who could do something to such a young child?

"Hello there," he said, his voice soft and quiet, afraid that speaking any louder might cause her to shatter.

She did not look up at him, and when she spoke, the sound could have been mistaken for the squeak of a mouse. "Hello."

"Are you alright? Your arm appears to be causing you pain."

"I-I've fallen down."

"That's quite a tumble you've taken. May I?"

The girl looked up and nodded. She tried to stand straighter but could not quiet the tremors racking her body. The priest knelt down beside her and began to inspect her arm. He attempted to roll up the sleeve of her blood-stained blouse, but she winced sharply, and he set it down.

"Do your parents know you're here?" The priest asked. He had seen her before, he was certain of it. Whether around town or in the chapel, he couldn't quite say.

The girl shook her head. He glanced up at the window above the doorway, found livid indigo where Magnus once hung. The sun was gone, disappeared completely for the day, and the orange light faded now to velvet dark. The priest frowned. He couldn't send her out alone at such a late hour.

"It's good that you've come," he said, "but I'm sure that your parents are very worried about you. They will want you see a healer straight away. Tell me where you live. I will look for them if you want to stay here and rest. It shouldn't take long."

"Is it broken?" the girl asked.

"No, I don't think so, but it is very badly bruised and some of these cuts are quite deep." The priest waited for the girl to respond to his previous comments. No doubt she was scared. Maybe she thought she would get in trouble, and he doubted that the wounds he saw were due to a simple fall. Met with silence and soft sniffles, he decided to ask again. "Where are your parents, dear child?"

"In Aetherius."

"Oh. I see then."

Although the girl was dressed in muddy, torn clothes, she didn't look like a street urchin. She was well-fed with healthy, russet skin, not sickly and skeletal like most of the orphans the chapel would pull off the street. The most likely conclusion that he could think of was that she was a servant girl at one of the wealthier estates, perhaps Castle Kvatch, but that idea brought with it more troubling thoughts. She had obviously had not acquired such grave injuries from a mere tumble.

The priest opened his mouth to speak, to question her further on how she had happened to fall down, but he paused. Her lips bled pale and frightened, and she kept her gaze down, always away from his. She was terrified, and someone else was responsible for her pain. The priest felt his stomach burn, red like a newly fed-fire. The monster who did this should be reported to the guards and punished. If only she would give up the necessary information for a report.

"Come with me," he said instead and led her to the front of the chapel. The girl trailed behind, eyeing the stained glass images of the Gods above and quaking. The priest watched her. She bowed her head, lips quivering and eyes brimmed with tears.

"What's your name, miss?" The priest asked.

"Nim-" she began then stopped, swallowing back her words, nearly choking.

"Nim?"

She nodded her head. The priest stood beside the altar and motioned for the girl to approach.

"Nim, place your hand on the well and let us say a prayer together."

"Why?" she asked quickly, eyes widening to reveal reddened whites. She clutched her arm to her chest with her free hand.

"As servants of the faith, we will ask the Divines for mercy and your good health."

"Oh no, I can't. The Nine- I've never asked for their help before."

"They welcome their followers to the altar. The relationships we form with the Gods are one of mutual love. They would not want to see you here standing in their house wincing in pain."

Nim looked up at him with dark, glassy eyes. She reached up with her good hand, wiped a budding tear away.

"No. I'm sorry, I can't. I shouldn't have come."

She took a few steps away from the priest, nearly toppling herself backwards onto a pew. He reached out to stop her.

"Don't go, please," he pleaded. "I have seen you here before, haven't I? You come to our service every Sundas."

She gave a small nod.

"Why then do you look so frightened now? You must know that the Gods are happy to listen to such a pious servant of their teachings."

The nervous expression had returned, and the girl looked up at the stained windows. She rubbed her arm again, then began to cry softly.

"They know," she said, hanging her head. Tears slid down her cheek, mixing with brown streaks of dry blood, and she sniffled louder as she wiped the bloody stream across her face.

The priest could do nothing but watch. "Know what?"

"That I'm not worthy of being helped."

"And why would they think you are not worthy?"

"I-I hurt myself. I have sinned. I must be the cause for this misfortune that plagues me. Why would the Gods help such a stupid child?"

"We are mortal," The priest said. "It is in our nature to err, and the Gods are forgiving beings. You walk in the path of the Nine, do you not?"

The girl paused before nodding. "Imperfectly, but I try. I pray. Every night, I pray and ask them to forgive me."

"What could you have done to seek forgiveness?"

"I'm not a good person, that's why the Gods have cursed me with his wretched life."

The priest frowned. "The Gods do not curse children."

"Then what would they have me do with this life I am given? Spend the rest of my days cleaning and cooking for those who mock the hungry while gorging themselves every evening? Watch as they turn up their noses to the beggars outside their home but call themselves Gods-fearing men of the faith? Zenithar says to work hard and be rewarded, but I will never have the gold like them to help those in need without being forced to work until I die. And so I have stolen and I have betrayed him. There is no escape from this life. I want to thank the Gods for giving me all I have but sometimes I get so angry. I get so angry, and I wish for ruin. I wish for the pain of others.

"I-I know it's not my place to judge them, so why do the Gods let them carry on in such a way? I don't know why they have given some people everything and made them sick with greed while giving other people nothing, not even enough to survive. I hate it. From the very bottom of my soul, I hate it."

The priest listened in silence, the words dry on his tongue. The girl looked at him with flame behind her eyes and guilt eating its way into her expression. He motioned for her to sit on the pew behind her and then took his own seat. He pointed at the huge windows above them, to where the Divines smiled down with open hands. The sky behind the glass was completely purple now, the first few slivers of starlight peeking through.

"Julianos smiles upon your curiosity," he said, his voice warm. "He has blessed you in a way few will ever have the fortune to know. You are wise to question the fairness of the life, but I disagree. Each day is fleeting. We are no more bound to the life we live today than to the one we will live tomorrow."

"But I don't see how I can make a difference. I open my heart to Stendarr," she sniffled. "Protect the weak and give what I can to those in need, but nothing changes. I've been laughed at, called a fool for trying, but there will always be those with too much and those with too little. I have such evil thoughts in the night, ones that the Divines must frown on me for. They must have cursed me for this wickedness too. So I pray and come to service every Sundas in hopes that they will take these thoughts away. I pray they lift this burning hatred from my soul."

"Child, you must listen to your own words. Few have such a pure heart."

"But it's not pure. This hatred blinds me and now I have no hope that any good can ever be done."

The priest reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief to offer the young girl.

"Thank you," she whimpered softly and then cried into the wrinkled fabric.

"I see the opposite in you," the priest told her. "You have opened your heart to the Nine, and Dibella has gifted you with more love than your heart can hold. That is all you need to begin the life you wish to live. I was once the same."

"You were?"

"I wasn't born a priest, you know. My father was but a humble farmer. We struggled. We worked hard, and now here I am, a Priest of Akatosh. I have dedicated my life to serving the Nine, and I chose every day to let them spread love and light to their followers through me. Let me show you."

The girl watched in awe as blue light radiated from the Priest's hands. He placed them over her arm and felt her tense as the magic light grew warm and tingly. Slowly he peeled back the torn sleeve of her blouse to find that pink new skin had begun to grow over the deep gashes that once existed beneath them. The skin darkened before their eyes, turning a rich ochre brown that matched the rest of her body.

"How did you do that?" she asked, her voice a whisper. "Was it magic?"

"The Divines work through me to help those who walk the path of light."

"I've never seen anyone perform magic before. I've read about it in books, dreamed about what it might appear like many times, but never—" She paused, and her eyes grew wide and luminescent like two shimmering pearls. "Are all priests healers like you?" she asked, running her finger over the fresh skin. She took the Priest's hand in hers and brought her face close to inspect every crease in his palm, poking and prodding to find the source of the blue light that healed her. "I don't want to clean and cook for the rest of my life. I could heal people too. How do I become a priest? How do I learn magic to heal others?"

The priest chuckled.

"It's not as difficult as you might think. Keeping faith in the Divines is the most difficult part of the journey for many. I can teach you, if you are willing and dedicated."

"Do you think I could do it?"

"Of course, we are all connected to Aetherius and its magical reserves. Stendarr gave to all mortals on Nirn the ability to wield magic if they so choose. All you need is the time and patience to practice."

"But I mean, do you think I could be a good person? Keep faith and help people one day, like you? I have nothing to give, even to myself. How can I offer anyone help?"

The girl sucked in deeply and wiped her cheeks with the back of her palm. Her doe-eyes, brimmed with awe, followed after the priest as he stood to his feet and offered the girl a smile.

"I think this problem can be easily remedied. Come in on Sundas before our sermon and I will show you how we can work with the Nine to aid others in need."

The girl nodded and met him with a toothy grin short of one incisor.

"Are you hungry?" he asked. "There is food in the chapel hall."

"I am quite alright, thank you. I will say a prayer now to thank the Gods for meeting you."

The Priest turned toward the stairs leading to the undercroft and chapel hall with an ineffable warmth brewing in his chest. He left to give her privacy and also to retrieve a cup of tea for the young girl. As he sat there waiting for his kettle to whistle, he couldn't stop thinking about what the girl had said.

What tragedy must she have faced to think of herself in such negative light? The Gods worked in strange ways like that, and even while he steeped a pouch of tea for the small Bosmer, he felt them working through her to reach him. He was thankful, whatever she had been through, that she turned to the Nine for solace. Too often had he seen lost youth join gangs of thieves or bandits, even turn to Daedra worship, in desperate attempt to seek the validation and comfort missing from their lives. The priest knew all too well of the allure those alternative paths had to offer. The Divines had mercy upon him.

Swirling a cube of sugar into the cup, he reflected on his position in the chapel. Never before had he felt so invigorated by his duties as a simple mortal servant. There was power in words, in healing, in teaching, and he thanked Akatosh silently for granting him the opportunity to wield it.

The priest proceeded slowly up the steps, but when he returned to the altar, he found himself staring into an empty chapel. He called out the girl's name and received only echo. Perhaps she had enough for one day. He didn't blame her. Sipping the tea slowly, he realized he hadn't ever told her his own name, and on Sundas, Brother Martin waited by the door for the girl, Nim, to appear. She didn't show. The next week, he waited outside, scanning the sea of people who bustled by with their baskets and jingling pockets of coin. With each villager that entered, the priest felt his heart sink. She had presented such promise, such devotion to the Nine. Had he said something to turn her away?

The girl never came to Sundas service again.