Gwynileth Nerussa stood at the top of the Nerussa Estate's spiral staircase, dressed in the most divine dress of ruby and silver that money could buy. Her ebony hair was pinned in delicate swirls that seemed to float over the back of her neck, her hands were perfectly manicured, her ashen face had been washed and primed with fine cosmetics—and she hated every bit of it.

The first day of the new year was an important time for the noble families of Morrowind, this she knew. She also knew that her parents would flay her alive should she not make an appearance at the festivities; she could practically hear their scolding now…

As the heiress of the Nerussa Estate, you must adhere to Dunmer traditions!

Those words had been directed Gwynileth's way more often than not within the past few months. But it wasn't her fault…

She sighed and placed one of her pristine hands to her forehead. None of her pleads and explanations had garnered even an ounce of sympathy from her own parents before. There was no reason to expect compassion from them now. All they cared about was their legacy, their reputation: it was a hard pill for Gwynileth to swallow, but one that she needed to anyway.

Knowing that if she dallied much longer she would be shot a sharp glare from both mother and father, Gwynileth took a deep breath and began the descent down the stairs.

As expected, a number of eyes met her slight figure as she took dainty steps towards the grand ballroom. Gwynileth was no stranger to admiration or astonishment or lust. Twenty-five years of being paraded about like a golden trophy provided some degree of loftiness to it all.

Her heart began to race as her eyes transcended all of the faces within the ballroom. There was no mistaking the Telvannis, dressed in robes of velvet that revealed their magical aptitudes and accomplishments. They were all congregated in one corner of the ballroom, holding glasses full of imported wine.

Close by was the Dres family, although their general importance had lessened over the last twenty years. Their invite to the party had been more of a formality than anything; a strict adherence to tradition.

The same could not be said of those in House Redoran. They were one of the Three Great Families, whose values and influence were aspired to all across Morrowind. They respected Azura—as was expected by all—and held great respect for the virtues of duty, piety, and honor.

It's no wonder who inspires Mother and Father, thought Gwynileth with a sour twist of her lips.

And then of course, there were the Hlaalus. The family of which Gwynileth was most acquainted, the family of which her mother and father were desperately trying to get in the good graces of; the family of which she was the most afraid. Her eyes darted across them all with barely restrained panic, hoping beyond hope that he would not be there—

If only she were so lucky. Standing beside the beverage table in the company of her esteemed mother and father, Nihali and Lorth Nerussa, he was there. Smiles were upon all three of their faces, signifying that he had already been hard at work in charming Gwynileth's parents.

A lump appeared in her throat. She knew that her duty was to approach her parents and kiss the fingers of her father's hand, and so that was what she did despite the pounding in her head, the ice blood coursing through her veins, her every instinct telling her to get away from him.

"There you are, darling girl," said her mother, Nihali. There was a soft look upon her face, one of few in Gwynileth's recent memory. "I see you found the circlet I left for you. How do you like it?"

In truth, Gwynileth didn't like it much at all. It was slightly too big for her head and the metal was still cold, which was the last thing she wanted to feel in the dead of winter. But she knew that to say as much would be to invite a verbal lashing later in the evening: instead, she contented herself with, "It's beautiful. Thank you."

Her mother beamed, satisfied with this response.

"Jenithar was just telling us of Great House Hlaalu's preparations for the First Seed celebration," said Lorth, casting his daughter an indulgent smile. He reached behind him and pressed a glass of wine into Gwynileth's hands.

It took every piece of strength that she possessed to not drop the glass. The last time she had had wine, she had been in Jenithar's company—

"You are as radiant as Azura's blessed twilight, my lady," his voice said. Gwynileth had once liked the sound of his voice, strong and commandeering but soft at the same time.

Now, she could barely stand it.

"Thank you," she replied. She allowed her crimson eyes to drift just to the side of his smiling face, not daring to truly gaze upon him. "I pray you and your family are well, and shall be safe in Azura's benevolence."

She could feel his smile upon her, just as she could with her parents'. It was easy to please them; if Gwynileth performed her mindless day-to-day activities, said the proper greetings and farewells with a pretty smile upon her face, they would be satisfied. Everyone who watched her would be.

Jenithar reached out to place a hand upon her shoulder—she flinched away.

Now their smiles were gone.

"Would you be willing to save me a dance this evening, Lady Nerussa?" asked Jenithar, who had retracted his hand upon seeing her recoil.

Gwynileth took another deep breath, unable to stomach the thought of him touching her again. She spared a desperate look towards her mother, hoping that for once, her mother would take her side.

She didn't know why she bothered. Nihali was staring at Gwynileth with pursed lips; her grip was tight around the stem of the crystal glass, which was nearly empty. Upon catching her daughter's eye, she snipped, "Well, go on, dear. There's only time for one dance before Lorth and I must make our announcements."

"Right," said Gwynileth. Her voice and heart both were hollow. "Of course, mother."

Left with no other choice, Gwynileth turned back to Jenithar. He might have been handsome, dressed in fine clothing the colors of sapphire and silver, the colors of which complimented the darker shade of his skin. His usual smile was waiting for her, the one that she had thought charming only four short months ago.

He extended a hand.

Gwynileth swallowed the bile rising in her throat and was grateful she had not taken a sip of the wine her father had given her, for surely if she had, it would've reemerged onto the ballroom floor. But she took his hand and prayed to Azura or Mara or Kynareth—even though she was not supposed to worship those latter two deities—that the following dance would only be a short one.

Jenithar's hand was warm within her own, but Gwynileth could take no comfort from the gesture. She was silent as they approached the ballroom floor, silent as the musicians began to play a popular waltz.

Her silence was duly noted. Taking care to keep his voice low, Jenithar said, "Gwynileth. I've wished to speak with you the last number of months, but—I have yet been unable to, to my great regret. There are many things running through my mind now that you are here… I have little idea where to—"

"If you have something to say, Jenithar, please say it," interrupted Gwynileth. Even though the grand ballroom was stifling, filled with numerous bodies of pompous lords and ladies of various Great Houses, there were prickles upon her skin due to the chill in her bones.

Jenithar eyed her; he lowered his head in what was supposed to be shame. "I'm sorry."

Silence again. Gwynileth thought back to the last evening that she had been alone with him and instantly regretted doing so. She could not escape the feeling of his lips forced upon her own, his hands prodding her breasts, pushing her legs apart—

The nightmares had only been growing worse.

"Sorry will not be enough for me to forgive you," she stated, and the jagged edge of anger and desperation was the proof of her words. Her blood-red eyes were daggers embedding themselves within his own as she continued, "You stole from me that day. My maidenhood, my trust, my dignity. None of those are things you can give back with an apology."

They danced in between other couples, all of whom had joyous smiles upon their faces. Noblemen and women were laughing, under the influence of fine wine from Cyrodiil's Empire, completely oblivious to the shadows that lined the faces of the Nerussa heiress's face.

For the first time that evening, Gwynileth stared at her suitor head-on. The shadows had not been restricted to her own face; they decorated his, too. It seemed as though Jenithar was, for once in his life, at a loss for words. What he could not say was present in his eyes—there was regret within him.

And yet… there was also longing: desire. Whether that desire was for the relationship they once had or the feeling of laying with her, she could not tell.

"What must I do?" he asked, and the way that his voice cracked shocked her.

Gwynileth took a deep breath. Thoughts whirled through her head: what could he do in order for her to forgive him?

They had been close once. Jenithar had been a friend even before he had become a suitor, one of seven that were vying for her hand in marriage. As a member of the Great House Hlaalu, he had always been her parents' favorite candidate. They adored him, just as Gwynileth used to.

The dance was finished, and all of the party's attendees were applauding the musicians that were crammed in the corner balcony of the ballroom. Each person here was the same—dressed in ridiculously expensive garments, puffed up and prodded until they could barely breathe, spouting the same half-assed well-wishes and pleasantries to each other in the room.

"Gwynileth?"

She blinked and glanced back to Jenithar. The disgust that had been harboring in her heart for the nobles surrounding her was now turned towards him; the answer to his earlier question suddenly rushed into her mind and she knew she had to say it, expectancies be damned.

"Leave my life and never speak to me again," she said. She swiftly removed her hands from within his own. "There are certain lines that are never to be crossed, and you crossed all of mine on that day. I will never forgive you for what you did to me, Jenithar."

Before he could utter another word, she turned on her heels and pushed her way through the crowd. No one knew how to escape a gathering like Gwynileth did, and she used that to her advantage as she snuck towards the kitchens.

The moment the door closed behind her, she exhaled harshly and slumped against the door. All of the servants within the kitchens stared at her for the briefest of moments before returning to their tasks, knowing that to be caught 'slacking' would invite derision from the Lord and Lady of the House.

Despite knowing this, Anya still rushed forth, sliding to her knees next to her mistress. She did not speak, but she did hold out a butter-bun filled with fresh raspberry jam for Gwynileth to eat.

"You always know what I need," murmured Gwynileth. She took the treat with shaking hands and nibbled into it, taking the time to savor its sweet taste.

Anya raised a hand towards Gwynileth's hair as though to run her fingers through it, before realizing that it would be unwise to undo the style that her mistress's hair had been so meticulously placed in. Her voice bitter, the handmaiden asked, "He went to you, didn't he?"

Gwynileth sighed and swallowed her miniscule bite of pastry. "He was already with my parents when I arrived, schmoozing his way into their good graces as he does. I didn't have any other choice, and he knew it…"

"Bastard," said Anya unabashedly.

A number of the other servants gasped and stared at Anya with wide eyes. They knew how dangerous it was to speak poorly of a member of one of the Great Houses—the very walls sometimes had ears.

But Gwynileth just smiled. "I both share and appreciate the sentiment, Anya, but you must be careful. Should my mother or father catch you talking like that, your pay will be docked again."

"My pay is the least of my concerns," said Anya, who was not bothering to conceal the blatant scowl that had overtaken her lips. "You are my friend of twenty years, Gwynileth. I will not see you married to a rapist if I have any say in it."

As much as Gwynileth wished that Anya could have a say in it, the possibility of her handmaiden's words having any effect on her parents' desires was less than zero. Anya's entire family had dedicated their lives to serving the Nerussa Estate; over fifty combined years of unwavering loyalty.

Even that wouldn't be enough to warrant Anya's opinion.

"I don't want to talk about him," said Gwynileth. She finished off the last of the butter-bun and rose to her feet, smoothing out the wrinkles that had formed in her dress as she did so. "Show me what else you're baking. I haven't been able to visit the dessert tables yet."

And so Anya obliged, directing Gwynileth towards the stoves and ovens within which some ash yam dumplings were baking, as well as snowberry crostatas, and lavender cakes. The other servants happily showed their lady the baking process for those cakes, as Gwynileth was the most fascinated by those and expressed her desire to eat at least three of them before the night was up.

Gwynileth had always preferred the company of the working men and women of the estate to that of the other nobles. The servants of Nerussa Estate simply seemed more… real. More genuine.

They looked out for one another as well; something the nobles rarely did.

Right as she was about to ask whether there were any extra snowberries that she could steal, the door to the kitchens slammed open. Standing in the doorway, looking both exasperated and angry, was Nihali Nerussa.

"What are you doing in the kitchens?" she hissed, storming inside and grabbing at Gwynileth's arm with fingernails that should've been classified as talons. "Get back into the ballroom! We cannot make our announcement without you!"

"You didn't say that," Gwynileth replied.

Her mother seethed and continued dragging her away from the servants.

The moment they were back in view of the other guests, however, Gwynileth's mother had released her arm and was all smiles again. She quickly said hello to a few party guests lingering about the entrance to the kitchens but excused herself from conversation before it could get too deep.

Gwynileth trailed after her mother, knowing that it would be unwise to do anything else. While she had long since learned the rules of the upper-class, she had not mastered the art of interacting with the nobility. It was fascinating—in a somewhat revolting sort of way—to watch her mother deftly navigate each situation, each person, with grace and dignity.

It only took a minute or two for them to reach the head of the ballroom, where her father was already waiting with a refreshed wine glass in hand. He handed another to Gwynileth, who grimaced at the appearance of the drink.

"Don't like this one?" asked Lorth. He waved a hand to the table behind him, upon which a number of other drinks were in a neat line. "Take your pick."

This was a small freedom, but better than not having one at all. Gwynileth set the wine upon the table and opted for a simple glass of water, which she knew would be safe.

Once she held it in her hands, her father raised his own glass and tapped on it with a clean silver spoon. At once the conversations in the ballroom were halted; each guest was staring expectantly up to the House of Nerussa, the up and coming family that was whispered to be the future of Morrowind, should their legacy continue to spread.

"Good evening, my esteemed friends, and welcome to our abode. On this night of all nights, at the beginning of another promising year for all of us gathered today, we of House Nerussa are beyond honored to host you, my dear Redorans, Telvannis, Hlaalus, and Dres."

There was a polite round of applause after each Great House was listed. Based on the smug smiles upon many faces, Gwynileth figured her father was at least amusing them, if not stroking their already inflated egos.

The muted claps died down before long, signaling her father to resume with his speech: "In times such as these, we are reminded of the importance of unity and cooperation. It is vital that we continue to foster goodwill amongst ourselves not only for us, but for the benefit of all Morrowind. The common-folk look to us upon the Grand Council to lead the political ramifications of this country, which is not a duty that should ever be taken lightly."

A few nods met the Nerussas from the crowd, which seemed to reinvigorate Gwynileth's father. He raised his wine glass in preemptive cheers and declared, a smile upon his face, "Just as all of you understand this responsibility and have accepted it with open arms, so House Nerussa strives to follow in your lead. To that end, we are pleased and humbled to announce the engagement of our heiress and beloved daughter to the honorable Jenithar Hlaalu, as a gesture of unity, a binding of kin, for the good of all Morrowind!"

The approving roars of the crowd were drowned out by the rush of blood that had just appeared in Gwynileth's head. Everything had grown weak and numb in her body with this last sentence and now it was so hard to breathe, just to breathe— Her glass of water fell from her hands and spilled onto the floor, but no one even seemed to notice. The members of Houses Redoran, Telvanni, and Dres were already busy congratulating those of House Hlaalu and Lorth and Nihali. Their attentions were not on Gwynileth at all; she could've fainted upon the lifted pavilion of the ballroom and no one would've uttered a sound.

In the middle of the crowd, she saw him surrounded by a crowd of noblemen, all of whom were slapping a hand upon his back or shaking his hand with excess vigor. A large smile was upon his face, as though he were happily in love, as though this was the best news that he could've received all night.

Gwynileth spared a glance back to her parents. Both of them were already deep in conversation with the heads of House Hlaalu, speaking of the future preparations that would need to be addressed…

She took a deep breath and removed herself from the pavilion, from the ballroom, and walked through the hallways. Her normally grey skin was so pale she was almost white, like one of those Imperials or Nords—it was like she was a ghost, floating upon the plush carpets of the Nerussa Estate and back to her own room.

Seeing as she wasn't followed, Gwynileth entered her bedroom, closed the door behind her, and locked it. She took out the pins from within her hair, wiped the powders off of her face with a warm towel, stripped off the gown that her mother had spent thousands of septims on.

And then she extinguished the lights of the candles, climbed underneath the covers of her bed, and sobbed.