Guide:
Dwemeris
Thoughts
"Speech"
"Dovahzul"
Warnings/Disclaimer: see chapter 4
Chapter Warning(s): TRIGGER WARNING. Implied Mind rape at the very end, SKIP IT if that sort of thing triggers you!
Last time…
I scramble to make sense of the situation even as I decide to just roll with the punches for this one – These Dwemer… Did they survive after all? Did they manage to bypass whatever it was that destroyed my entire race? Or… am I back in the past?
Chapter 62 - Kinsmer
"I seem to have gotten lost. I was supposed to head to Mzulft." I somehow manage to lie with a straight face.
This time, both of them laugh at my apparent misfortune.
"Nay, kinsmer. This is Kagrenzel. Perhaps we were lax with our concealment barrier, if a youngster such as yourself managed to pass by it and end up here." The first Dwemer remarks thoughtfully, turning and stomping down the narrow corridor ahead whilst muttering under his breath. A Falmer – not yet, not entirely, those are eyes in its skull even if they've been blinded – scurries away from his heavy boots when the Dwemer researcher absently kicks at it.
I want to cringe at seeing it, being reminded that no matter how tolerant my own family used to be, most of my race consisted – consists? – of hard-headed conservatives, basking in their own sense of superiority and blind to the suffering of races they view as simple beasts.
The other researcher sighs, looking quite put upon as he gestures for me to follow. More at having to take care of me rather than the abuse towards the Falmer, no doubt.
"That would be N'dak, my Master. He has always been like this. Slow to catch details, fast to see the humor of a situation… Only to get distracted by the next thing to cross his mind."
A pause. "I am Er'thk of Mzinchaleft. I caught the attention of Master during my studies and now I research here. I take it you were on your way to Mzulft for an apprenticeship in Trapmaking?"
How to answer this?
I suppose a little white lie cannot hurt, especially when it might help me to build a rapport with these Dwemer. Dwemer, honest to gods members of my own race.
Why do I not feel kinship with any of them?
I feel like an outsider.
"Yes. I was supposed to accompany my cousin Mellte, but we… He's dead."
In another time. A Time I must find a way to get back to before my two weeks are out. I don't know much about meddling with the flow of time, but surely if that purple-robed figure warned me so specifically, I shouldn't wait around for a way home to come to me.
"May his spirit rest with Xrib and his mind contribute to All Knowlegde." Er'thk mutters. Then, he continues:
"Your armor is strange, but as you are Kin, I assume you plucked it off of the corpses of the ones who slayed your cousin. Ground rules here in Kagrenzel are to stay silent in research areas and to stay clear of Head Researcher Kvaldi of Bthardamz. We'll go there now. Beds are down the corridor in the tower – west, kitchens are under the lake. Slaves are for research purposes only. We have another shipment of them coming in 3 days. Research is focused on -"
I stay silent as if in contemplation, while, really, I'm just trying to make sense out of the Dwemer manner of speech – haphazard, and without clear structure to most races. A conversation between Dwemer relies heavily on implications and jumps in logic, and I've grown unused to such things after all this time spend without another member of my race.
Not to mention that I am far from fluent in the consonant-rich, abbreviated, article-less language after spending what feels like an eternity without it.
Nevertheless, I manage to decipher the most important cues – and they strike me as being rather… off.
Kvaldi of Bthardamz? A strange feeling sets in my stomach, because the name 'Kvaldi' is one that strikes a too-familiar chord within me.
"Kvaldi of Bthardamz?" I prompt after the silence between us stretches, reaching into the depths of my mind to remember proper etiquette so that I will not offend anyone here. Offenses, I know, can quickly lead to either battle or some form of punishment, depending on how far the offended party outranks me.
And if they've pegged me for an Apprentice without a Master, I am most definitely lower in standing than Er'thk.
"Aye. Did not even want to have the honor. Wife and kid left behind in Bthardamz, I heard – Kagrenzel is a highly classified research location. Nearest blood kin all the way to Nchuand-Zel, too. Now he is obsessed with the Time Mirror, genius but touched by the Madness. There's talk of bringing in a successor. You did not introduce yourself at first Words. The fall is quite high, aye?"
Right. So if I understood all that correctly, this Kvaldi was brought in unwillingly from his home, kidnapped probably, and was forced to stay in Kagrenzel. And Er'thk thinks I did not give my name because I was off-kilter from the fall down the supply shaft, rather than because of a breach of etiquette.
"I am Fjaldi of Bthardamz, though I am citizen of Nchuand-Zel."
The researcher nods, suddenly seeming rather distracted as we continue our way through the facility. As we walk, the floors and walls, immaculate and clean, are slowly being twisted and distorted, showing millennia of decay and dirt and Falmer architecture…
I blink and the world stops moving around me, suddenly feeling rather exhausted. Er'thk doesn't seem to have noticed my lagging, and so I hurriedly catch up to him, still reeling inwardly.
What in Oblivion was that?!
"Your hair clasp is… highly unusual. A family heirloom, I assume?"
Hair clasp..? Oh. Oh! Idgrod Ravencrone's gift! Shit. I hadn't realized it's not of Dwemer make. I'd best keep him from getting even more suspicious and not let him examine it too closely.
"Aye. A gift from my… Aunt."
Close enough.
The remainder of the journey, down several sets of stairs until we're underneath the lake, where the roaring and hissing of steam pipes greets me in a cacophony of sounds, is spend in stony silence.
The familiar hum of machinery and the cadence of Animunculi and Dwemer scurrying about make me, if possible, feel even less at home. I'd much prefer the crackling of an open fire, the clanking of full mugs spilling drink and the roaring laughter of patrons of a group of Nords in the background even as some upstart bard warbles 'Age of Aggression' with varying levels of success. That is comfortable.
This is just painfully awkward.
I find myself growing more nervous by the minute.
I only have two weeks to find the Elder Scroll and make my way back to Fal Zhardum Din. I don't have the first clue where to find the damn thing, or how I am to go about covering the distance to Raldbthar, gaining access to the caverns without killing every Dwemer in my way, going to the Tower of Mzark without gaining suspicion, AND then call Vulthuryol hoping to gods that he shows up.
Two weeks.
Ugh. I don't do well with deadlines. Putting everything off to the last minute has got to be one of my greatest weaknesses.
When Er'thk gives me a questioning glance over his shoulder, I merely shake my head.
I need a drink. Wish Ondolemar was here, he could sneak me some even under the noses of all these Dwemer. He smuggled mead all the time in Markarth.
But Markarth doesn't even exist as "Markarth" yet, if I'm really in the past.
Homesickness hits me hard, and my footsteps falter. Vaguely, I wonder why I keep thinking of home, and the past. I'm sure I'm missing something important.
"Kinsmer, are you ill?" He asks without infliction, clearly not much caring for my feelings. Perhaps I'm too used to humans and their high empathic ability, but I grit my teeth at his clear dismissal of any 'illogical' emotion I may be showing that cannot be scientifically explained.
"Nay. Merely… Contemplative."
He presses his lips into a thin line, beads clicking, but doesn't comment.
Before I walked out into the Fourth Era's sun for the first time, I had been secretly ashamed at my family showing emotion so freely even amongst other Dwemer. Now I know better, and wear the implicit disapproval of Er'thk with pride.
We turn another corner, down one final flight of stairs that seems to go on forever, the equally spaced lights casting the world in blue. I never questioned what powered the lamps in Dwemer ruins. I don't think I want to know.
Er'thk comes to a halt in front of large, double golden doors, no different from others as far as I can see - with the exception of the Dwemer heads serving as door knockers, large rings clutched between their snarling teeth.
My throat is tight, my kinsmer's lips curled downwards as if he'd eaten something foul as pale blue fingers lift the rings and knock three consecutive times.
Muffled shouting from behind the door, harsh and berating.
Er'thk turns unnervingly clear eyes to me, silver and ebony beads in his beard and hair shifting soundlessly as his deep black gaze focuses on me and me alone. But I've faced dragons and draughr, and remain calm.
"He is expecting you. Go, Kinsmer, may Sithis be merciful to you this day."
It takes an embarrassingly long moment for me to dredge up the proper, formal reply to his farewell, in which his eyes narrow at me warily.
"…And may He be but a distant shadow in your future."
He nods stoically, still unnaturally focused on me, before sharply turning and leaving. I'm left alone before the doors, the doorknockers grimacing at me mockingly. The doors turns out to be firmly locked. I wait. Wait. And wait some more.
Fed up, I go to better inspect the new obstacle in my path.
A lock.
There is a lock in the center of the door.
Why would Er'thk leave me here without as much as a key?
I've been standing out here uselessly for like, an hour. Feels like an hour, anyway.
There's no way –
Except.
Frowning, I take out the key that Delvin gave me, holding it next to the intricate mechanism. It fits. Perfectly. As if the man had given it to me, just for this occasion.
Er'thk would likely have left me standing here until I crawled back to him for help – or until the head scholar opened the doors for me, to which he doesn't seem inclined, considering I've been standing here for half an hour.
Cautiously, I push the doors open, holding my breath as it slides open with nary a sound. Before me hovers a platform, barely long enough to take three steps before falling into the inky blackness below, though I hear the faint dripping of water far underneath my feet. There's a single lever to the side of the platform, fixed against a stone pillar bare of any of the usual Dwemer decorative architecture.
In front of me is a large chasm, light being cast from the far walls like blue eyes in the darkness and light from above creating a comparatively painfully bright halo onto a circular center platform, showing a scene straight out of my oldest nightmares. The mirror is shaped like a clam. Like the ones I broke open for chowder on the shores of Winterhold.
The platform holds nothing beyond a stone pillar in the center, surrounded by bloodied chains, and a long table with all sorts of knickknacks and research materials. The pillar is about my size. I don't want to know its use.
The second part of the platform, that gives it it's clam-like shape, is a dull golden, circular, concave mirror rimmed with blue Aetherium, strange symbols inscribed all over it – not Dwemeris, not Dovahzul, not Common or any Daedric script. All the symbols are cast in the same Aetherium blue that gives me flashbacks to Fal Zhardum Din. There doesn't seem to be anyone on the center platform at first glance, but I heard the shouting and know someone else is here.
After a deep breath and a long hesitation, I pull the lever, watching solemnly as the same path from my dreams unfolds out of the shadows, creating a bridge towards my goal.
There's an ominous 'click' behind me as the doors lock themselves. I still have the key - but what is its use? There's no going back now. I'm already here.
In for a Septim, in for an ingot.
I cross the bridge, the sense of vertigo I get after a glance over the edge enough to prevent me from walking slowly, even if doing so would give me a better chance at observing what happens in the center of the… room?
The moment I set foot onto the platform, the bridge behind me shudders and sinks back into the lightless abyss that I really don't want to fall into.
"Who's there? Who dares to trespass into my domain?" The voice sounds again, just as harsh as earlier. Unforgiving. Cold. Hysterical.
I swallow thickly. "Fjaldi of Nchuand-Zel, born in Bthardamz. I am here with questions." And hope you can give me the object I seek so desperately.
The voice cackles, and I still see no-one. Cautiously, I take a few steps towards the table. The mirror shows nothing now, but I know it has been used to spy on me, through space and time, and I don't think I want to know who made or uses something so awe-inspiringly horrible.
"Oh? Answers, he seeks? Answers he hopes I can give. Hah! As if I would ever! I answer nothing, answer to none, for all I held dear has betrayed me!"
The scholar steps out from behind the mirror, wearing robes far more elaborate than the ones my guide here wore, but still sticking to the basic design. They look like what I'd seen of the Arch Mage's robes, only less… drab.
The coloring is vibrant and the threads are golden and electric blue, the triangular shoulder padding sticking out from underneath a thick, black beard held together with more beads than I'd ever seen on a Dwemer not of the nobility. The hair on the scholar's head is tied back into a braid tight enough to tug at the skin of his forehead as he frowns, swaying with every step, the white ribbon holding it together barely visible.
White is the color of mourning. Of winter, and of the death that comes with the snow and cold.
I can't afford to stand still and wonder what it is he mourns. He looks too mad for such emotions.
His eyes are the same blue at the Aetherium. Bright, glowing, no pupil or sclera in sight, only an even surface so bright as to almost be blinding in the surrounding dimness. The hairs on the back of my neck rise at the sight – like he replaced his eyeballs with marbles. He mutters continuously under his breath.
"Was always mine. Went without us, doomed us all… How did he do it? My beloved… I must know, I will know. I See. I See. The Mirror never lies. I seek, dig, delve, and my answers will come to me. He will answer, Yes, Yes... He betrays me. Betrays all. But he is still mine. I've Seen it. My traitor blood…"
There's something off about his voice, I realize. The pitch shifts and tilts and trembles, like two people are talking rather than one. I suppose that is why he is insane.
I ready myself, my hands falling to my axes without thought, one foot shifting back to make a smaller target and my muscles tensing as if to pounce.
A suspicion niggles at the back of my mind.
Surely, it couldn't be…
I can't help but ask, though.
"Who are you?"
The scholar laughs, head thrown back and beads dancing and laughing alongside him. He moves to the table, and only now do I see the large scroll strapped to his back.
"The Elder Scroll..!" I breathe out, barely even gasping for air in my shock. The scholar whips around at hearing the other language, front facing me and hiding all but the tip of the scroll from my sight, to my dismay. Those bottomless blue lights discern me carefully.
"Ah. It is you. I would ask how you came to be here, when you have not been, should not have, and never will."
I scowl. "What do you mean?"
The scholar tilts his head and rolls his left shoulder. Something about the simple gesture is so painfully familiar that it has me floundering. Then, he chuckles, and the puzzle pieces start to fall in place right before my eyes.
But it's impossible. It cannot be. Almost subconsciously, I take another few steps forwards, drawing one axe threateningly.
"Who are you? Answer me!" I demand harshly, pointing the blade at his throat as my eyes flash dangerously, my teeth bared in a silent snarl even as the mirror rattles with the force of my Thu'um.
The scholar tuts and shakes his head, stepping closer, closer, until the sharp end of my black rests against the cloth covering his collarbone, pressing into the hairs and unavoidably cutting through some of them.
A single bead clinks to the floor when the scholar grins, the expression unholy.
"Is it not obvious? My name is Kvaldi, scholar of Time, Watcher of the mirror. Born in Bthardamz, I am son of Kvidvr, son of Eldva."
My eyes swell in disbelief, even as tears spring to their corners and my breath leaves me in a choking sound. My knees wobble unsteadily underneath me, and the grip on my axe loosens as it tips towards the floor. I can't bear to look at him.
I know those names.
No.
"I am Lost. I am Scholar. I am husband of Saarimda…"
The Dwemer who holds the Elder Scroll, who spied on me in my sleep, thousands of years into the future, who is mad and unfeeling and whose eyes scream of nothing but ice –
This can't be true. He wouldn't… Why would he..?
He reaches a hand out to me, cupping my face almost gently, coaxing me into meeting his eyes. Inside them I see a silent scream, a call for help, an agony so bone-chillingly deep that I can't move myself away even as tears flow freely down my cheeks, onto his cold, sickly pale hand.
"…And your father."
He activates the Calling, forcing himself into my mind, my head, and memories start to play by faster than I can process them, my head explodes into pain, so much that I can't even see straight anymore, and the world is reduced to agony, white-hot and burning and invasive and the laughter of an innocent child, the taste of simpler times on my tongue, warmth of a bear hug, endless nights of patience and fear and missing, missing me so dearly…
Blissful nothingness.
A/N:
AH, the old chiche of "I am your father". lol.
Dwemer language translations are just that to me: translations. Even grammar-wise I imagine Dwemeris to be very different from the Latin-based languages I grew up with. I imagine that a sentence like:
"Go, Kinsmer, may Sithis be merciful to you this day."
Would look, if followed by grammar structures I headcanon, be more like:
"Go, Kinsmer. Today, Merciful be Sithis to you."
But that would read weirdly, so yeah.
Do you guys have any interesting Dwemer headcanons?