My father sat beside me. Our home is small, the walls were stained stones from the passage of time. The fire in the middle of our small but comfortable living room gave heat to the entire home. Though Morrowind does not suffer the brutal climate of Skyrim, it does get colder than usual during the winter months. I wasn't used to the cold at the time. I huddled next to the fire like a Guar pup seeking the warmth of its mother. But instead, in my hands I held a bowl of hearty potato soup my father had made. The crackling fire and the clinging of our spoons against the bowls could be heard. Sometimes my father would slurp.
"Hmm," he muttered, his eyes staring down at the contents of his ceramic bowl. My eyes found his, but he looked at me as if the mere act of it was painful beyond belief. Mother died during winter… I was born on the 24th of Evening Star. A day that should have been a nice holiday turned into the worst day of my father's life.
"I don't blame you," he spoke softly, never looking at me. "It was not your fault."
He said that all the time during that season.
It always sounded like he was trying to convince someone other than me.
—
It's raining today. I find myself sitting in a dark corner of the Roxey Inn. I'm sure the innkeeper has all but forgotten my presence the moment I stepped into the shadows. That happened often, now that I know how to do it. I simply melt. I melt into the darkness, my ashen skin becoming one with it. My eyes are hidden by the dark. I take a bite into the bread I ordered, the cheese sitting beside it and telling me to hurry up and eat it. I would, if it weren't for the fact that the innkeeper is a Nord woman and thus my entire body is prickled with my hairs standing, eyes placed firmly on her face.
She was so happy to meet my eyes. She squealed that damn word, Champion, and smiled and served me faster than I have ever seen anyone rush to find a pint. I scarcely doubt she is that quick to serve herself anything. Just a simple bread with cheese and some milk. It's all I want right now. I sat in the shadows while she was away, and it was as if I had never been there. She did look around, but I will wait until she looks away again to make my move forward.
I keep my eyes on her. I watch as she scrubs down the inn's counter. She shines the apples in the woven basket as if they were the jewels of Barenziah's crown. I want to spit in her face. I want to scream. I want to leave, but I was hungry, and I hadn't packed properly for the trip. Otherwise, I would have kept on the road to Cheydinhal. It is strange… I can be before any race and not blink an eye. Not think twice about their mannerisms. I do not question if the Imperial wants to harm me. I do not question if the Argonian wishes to tear my clothes from my body and gut me. I do not even think to wonder if the Redguard, the Breton, the Altmer, the Bosmer, if any of them want to chain me in their basements.
But when a Nord comes before me, I cannot hold my composure. I shiver and shake and I want to scream. I know why. I know why I am this way… is it fair to judge an entire race based on the actions of a few? Perhaps not. Perhaps I am the evil one, holding golden moral scales above the heads of an entire race that I can barely swallow. I have considered it before, yes. That I am the evil one. I find it difficult to defend myself.
Even now, as she turns to take stock of her mead, smile in place as this is just another day's work for her, I can feel hands all over my body and I leave quickly. She hears the knocking over of the chair, but I am not there for her to see.
I lean onto the wall, using my hands to guide myself to the stables. Slow and steady. Slow, so I don't end up vomiting everything I just ate… I didn't eat that cheese like it was telling me to. "Fucking Snowback…" I mutter to myself, blaming her for my current state. Of course, I could have left the inn. But I was hungry… now I just wish I had left, my screaming stomach be damned. I look up to my horse, and Shadowmere stares at me with a gaze I can almost call sympathetic. The horse wandered over, but the lack of human or mer expression on his face made me doubt that it was out of concern. Or I could be wrong. It wouldn't be the first or the last time that I was wrong.
I mount Shadowmere and stroke her mane, the beautiful black strands seemed so sharp contrasted against my skin. I am an attractive woman: I have pitch black hair that reaches down to my waist in waves, with a soft yet angular face and a nicely squared jaw. My eyes are narrow and hold a gaze as if I could see the contents of your soul; whatever you try to hide, my red Dunmer eyes can see them. My ears are pricked like all elves, and like all elves my cheekbones are high and a tad sunken. My lips are like rose petals, and my eyelashes are fanned out along my eyes. My body is curvaceous, lithe, with large breasts and large hips accented by a thin waist and thick thighs. I have been called Dark Dibella by a few of the men I have come to in my life… and women, too.
Even some of the priests had commented as much on it… Dark Dibella. That's what I am. Instead of blessing you with beauty and love and all things wonderful, I wedge a knife in your heart and tell you that that's what love is.
Unless the person is a Nord. Then I'll just stab you in the back and do a nice little dance.
—
The rain didn't really stop me. I continued galloping away from the world around me, enjoying the cold air of the mountains that bit at my heels. Nothing like Skyrim, that was a certainty. I like Bruma, but I can't live there due to both the bitter, teeth-chattering cold and the heavy focus Nords have with the mountain town. But even Bruma's cold pales in comparison to the freezing mountain peaks of Skyrim. I spent a few months in Winterhold and I still remember how sometimes even moving was painful because my muscles were threatening to freeze up under my skin. Cyrodiil, being surrounded by such lush mountains and fresh valleys, does get cold, but it's a light breeze compared to the provinces up in the north. Dunmer were not made for the snow. Give me a broiling summer any day.
The towers of Cheydinhal pierce the sky, making me tilt my head up to stare. The towers made of strong brick and mortar were the pinnacle of craftsmanship, and already I could just envision the wooden homes behind those walls. Cheydinhal has a very Dark Elf aesthetic. We are many in this town due to it's proximity to Morrowind, and thus the town has taken it's architectural influence from my kind. The Count and his insipid sons are both Dunmer, too. So it is no surprised for me to be greeted by Mivryna Arano, a Dunmer stablehand who cares for her horses next to her, I assume, husband Tovas Selvani. She looks up from her work of putting the horses inside of the stable to avoid the rain, and smiles, waving to me.
"Good morning, Champion!" Oh, for fuck's sake. "I hope you're well. Are you going into the city, back home?"
I force the smile, "absolutely. I'd like to rest from all that trekking about and adventuring. And I'm sure Shadow here could use the rest too." Shadowmere whinnies, agreeing with me. "Just want to go home and work on my flowers, if I'm honest with you." It's almost disgusting how… dishones I sound.
"Yes, indeed. You deserve the break after all these past few weeks. I hope you can get some rest!" Poor girl is lovely, but the word Champion had soured the interaction for me. I am the Champion of nothing and no one. I do not have Saryr to come home to. Not anymore. I couldn't save him when he was attacked. I had seen that Sithis-forsaken Dremora Churl head right towards him… the fool had followed me into the blasted Oblivion Gate. He wanted to prove himself to me… didn't he know that he didn't need to? He was just a child, he was only ten years old, and he didn't—
I stop myself. I put Shadowmere into the stable, wave to her and ask her to send Tovas my well wishes and push on into Cheydinhal.
A beautiful town full of beautiful people, I find myself having to sneak away. Many look to me to smile and talk, others want to sit and ask me insipid questions about Martin and the Temple. So I hide into the shadows as I crawl towards the well.
The Sanctuary is dark. The skeleton Guardian patrols the halls with his creaking bones holding onto that might axe. If he had skin, I'm sure the knuckles would be pure white. I like this Sanctuary, but if I am honest, I prefer my house up on the surface. As soon as I peek my head out, I notice Ocheeva speaking to her brother Teinaava. They are discussing a recent contract that Teinaava had just finished, but when they noticed me walk in, the slits in their eyes widened and I was almost sure they smiled. Maybe. Argonians are very hard to read.
"Well, well. If it isn't the Champion!" Teinaava was laughing, but I had to hold back the bile, "savior of Cyrodiil and all of that, right?" I chuckled, but the pat he gave me on my shoulders assured me there would be no more of that. I thank him quietly, he knows.
I'm approached by the others. Ocheeva believes a celebration is in order, Antoinetta is already offering to become the chef for the night, Vicente congratulates me and reminds me I have brought honor for the Sanctuary, Gogron demands for me to tell him all of the gorey and brutal details while Telaendril listens and celebrates me as an Elf of high esteem, and M'raaj-Dar is not nearly as bitter as he was. He had been becoming kinder to me, less hostile. His congratulations were the ones I cherished the most, given how antagonistic he was towards me for a moment.
After the celebration was at hand, I can smell the food. Roast pork with a delicious side of potato mash. It's a familiar smell, one that you could find in the Sanctuary whenever Antoinetta was particularly excited. While they continued to prepare for the festivities, an odd sight to see a group of cutthroats preparing their underground abodes for a feast, I was cutting nightshade flowers in what had once been my room. Seven perfectly cut nightshades, still beautiful from when they were last picked. I make sure to take special care of these flowers.
I walk past the ghosts of all these people, walk past their shadows and acknowledge them with smiles when they ask for my opinions on silverware and platings, reminding that I have to tell them all about that mighty battle with Dagon that will keep me awake for the rest of my days, likely. I enter the room that held all of our chambers, and I walk down the steps. The pet rat we kept is not there anymore, discarded ages ago. The family that had been violently ripped away from me was returned to me in them. I can't express how much I love them.
I'm so fucking sorry.
—
On the table, I notice a letter. The envelope is a crisp cream and the edges still sharp. The seal is almost perfectly round and non-descript. But I know it's from Lucien LaChance, the Speaker of the Black Hand. I am his Silencer, after all… I recognize those letters anywhere. I open it, and he is urging me to return to For Farragut. I nod. Even if I don't want to, I have to go. But first, I need to do what has become a weekly ritual for me since just three weeks ago.
They all gather around me, and so begin the soft whispers that turn into tufts of hair on my head. I begin to set the nightshades on their beds.
"You were following orders," Ocheeva muttered.
"The heart of the traitor does not beat, or has it always beat inside of your own chest?" Teinaava pondered.
"A job's a job," Gogron grumbled, angry with me.
"Sister… why?" Telaendril's voice echoes with a sad hum.
"Why would you do this to us?" Antoinetta is less sad.
"I knew you could never be trusted. I knew it. Foul smelling ape…" M'raaj-Dar hisses through the night.
And finally, Vicente's cold voice speaks through the petals of the nightshade as I set it down on his cold stone slab, "a beautiful vision from the Night Mother you are… and just as cruel, it would seem." As always, he is the one who ponders the most. His head tilts to the side as I drop to my knees and unite my hands in prayer. What do I pray for? I don't know anymore.
"Was it worth it, Taya?"
"I didn't…" My voice cracks, for the first time in a long time. I thought I wasn't capable of that anymore. "I didn't want to do it, I just… I had to…"
He stares at me, and asks me again:
"Was it worth it?"