Another malfunction, this one much harder to fix with his waning divinity. The end was coming soon, he knew. What he didn't know was whether the Mechanical Heart would be ready in time. Rather than fear, a strange sort of amusement came over him at the thought.
It had been so long since Sotha Sil had been uncertain; the feel of it was rather refreshing.
He'd never liked the concept of gods. In his very early childhood, it was in imitation of his sister; how many times had she complained of rules and being told what to do? To him, in the simplicity of a child's mind, there was no difference in the admonitions of their parents or the Good Daedra. If Nall said they shouldn't have to listen to adults, then logically, they shouldn't have to listen to Azura, either.
Later, not much later, it was in fury. If the Good Daedra could stand idly by as Mehrunes Dagon, their kin, laid waste to Ald Sotha for no reason at all, then who were they to dictate the lives of the Chimer…or of anyone at all? Worship, he reasoned that night as he choked on the scent of smoke that clung to him and the screams still echoing in his head, wasn't only futile; it was an affront to mortality. And if he had his way, he would end it.
"What's happened to you, Seht?" Almalexia asked him once, a few centuries after their apotheosis. "I hear you've hidden yourself away."
"And who did you hear that from?" he asked. It wasn't a denial, which made it a confirmation. Golden eyes narrowed at him.
"Vivec, of course," she said. "He worries, you know. He won't say so, but he does."
"He still sees me as a soot-covered child." The words weren't scathing, they were simply a statement of fact. Of the three, Vehk had, unsurprisingly, always been the most in-tune with his emotion–the heart to Seht's mind and Ayem's will. Warrior-Poet that he was, he was drawn to the weakest moments of others–for those he loathed, to find where he needed to drive the knife; for those he loved, to find what he needed to shield. And, of course, tragedy made the best poetry.
"He worries about your fire," she corrected, her natural inclination to chide still making him bristle a few lifetimes after his childhood rebellion. Nall, he knew, would have hated her for that. Sil liked to think he could see past it, on his better days. "We both wonder what happened to the impassioned leader unafraid to rebuke the Daedra in the name of his people. Where's the mer who loved mortality so much he became a god?"
He never replied, and, to her credit, Ayem turned their conversation elsewhere. But he knew the answer well enough: that mer had died centuries ago, when he'd received his first prayer.
"The old gods are cruel and arbitrary, and distant from the hopes and fears of mer. Your age is past. We are the new gods, born of the flesh, and wise and caring of the needs of our people. Spare us your threats and chiding, inconstant spirit. We are bold and fresh, and will not fear you."
Vivec had a habit of embellishing his accounts, shaping words and memory to make events far grander and more poignant than they actually were. But that quote, that one he got right.
Now, Sil could see the words for what they were: a young man drunk on divine power, finally banishing what he considered the greatest imperfections on the planes of mundus. The cold gods of his youth who turned a blind eye to the destruction of his home, and especially the Prince that feigned warmth in the name of vanity, that tugged one of his dearest friends along and did nothing to help him live.
He'd experimented with the tools for this exact purpose, to give the Chimer the gods they deserved: flawed, broken gods, familiar with grief and rage and joy, who knew what it was like to be mortal because they were mortal. Gods that would listen, because they knew what it was like to go unheard.
He never thought beyond that. He was, after all, very young then.
While the power from the Heart might have been instantaneous, as had Azura's curse, it still took a generation before the Tribunal, respected as they were, truly became gods in the eyes of their people. That suited them just fine at the time. The three of them used their powers to establish the Dunmer, a race not beholden to cruel gods or an exiled past. A race that had all the world to gain and next to nothing left to lose. They were kind, mindful rulers; Seht in particular utterly devoted to the people themselves, in all their misery and joy.
And then, he heard his first prayer.
It was a simple one, a desperate one–utterly mortal in its plea and delivery. A young girl was terribly ill, and her father prayed to him, Sotha Sil specifically, that she would live.
This was what he'd waited for, the mercy he'd craved for himself and was now desperate to give. And he'd healed plenty of others before. He didn't even need to go see the girl himself; reality warped at his fingertips, and all of Nirn was open to his will. So, with singular focus, he pushed his power outward.
And stopped.
Two paths fell before him in his mind's eye, each splintering off to hundreds of possibilities. But they all started with one simple choice: the girl lives, or the girl dies.
The choice was obvious, of course. The girl lives. And the moment he decided, a flash of every possibility appeared before him: famine, misery, abandoned homes and skeletons of guars in the fields. A feeling of absolute certainty that all would come to pass settled on him. He should let her die.
But no, that was ridiculous. One small girl couldn't cause that much change. And even if she did, he would ensure that none of it came to pass. Reality was his to control, and he would wield it in a way that his people deserved.
And so the girl lived.
The girl living meant an extra mouth to feed. As she grew and married, there were now two mouths. Then three, and four, and five. The boost in population took its toll in the fields; there wasn't enough to go around. But Sil saw this, and he once again stepped in. At his beck and call, the crops flourished, putting out double, triple the amount of their usual produce; animals bearing twins and triplets. The girl's village prospered.
But even he couldn't call up something from nothing. The crops flourishing meant the nutrients in the soil depleted. Soon it could grow no more than the ash surrounding it. The animals were weak from the unnatural circumstance of their birth, and their descendants weaker still. Soon, there was nothing left but dead guar and dried up fields, and the villagers that survived the famine had no choice but to leave. One life saved, but so many others lost. All just as he'd expected.
There, he realized, was proof that he wasn't a god. He was merely a mortal who had gotten lucky, and his pride had been so great that he disregarded his logic. That, he knew, could never happen again. He would never doubt; certainty would be his curse, but it would serve the Dunmer well. And now he knew that failure was a possibility, but could not be an option.
A shrine to him went up, among the ruins of the village, in the years that followed. After all, Sotha Sil had cured a girl there once.
"Are we never to see you again, Seht?" The words were teasing, but in Vivec's peculiar way, entirely earnest. "I miss your dry remarks, you know, when you disappear for years on end."
"There's much to do." He left it there.
"Such as?" Unlike Almalexia, Vehk wasn't one to let a conversation go. Sometimes, Sil was grateful for it. Other times, irritated. This time, it was the latter. He didn't answer, instead focusing on the mechanism he'd been trying to perfect; it'd be easier if his brass hands were steadier, so it'd likely have to wait until he could get them upgraded. But it still served as something to focus on rather than his friend's two-toned face.
"Is it another barter with the daedra? Or is the great Mainspring Ever-wound still caught up in further perfecting his own perfect world?" A grin split Vivec's face as Seht finally looked up, a thoroughly unamused expression on his face.
"I hate that name."
"And yet it fits you so well. Ever-wound, ever-thinking, ever-tinkering." Vehk rested a cheek in his hand, elbow on his knee as he looked over Seht. He sat the same before the apotheosis, albeit with his crossed legs on the ground rather than floating three feet in the air. "You used to love the messiness of the world, you know."
"No, I never loved the world. I loved the people," he corrected, returning to his work.
"Then why not be among them? Ayem and I are present in Dunmeri life. They see us, they know we're there for them. And in turn, we see them: their triumphs, their failures, their joy and sorrows, their lives." Vivec's eyes–one scarlet like his own, one the pale gold he had been born with–traveled over Sil's face. "You, as I recall, hated the absence of the gods."
"I did. I still do." He adjusted a small spring. "But I am not a god. If I'm hated as one, then it only emphasizes the divinity I don't have."
"Belief begets divinity."
"No, hearts of gods and Dwemeri tools beget power that looks like divinity."
"There's no poetry in you, Seht."
"No, there isn't. I imagine that's why we have you."
It's a fond moment, one that was few and far between lately. As the years dragged on, the Tribunal knew infinitely more about each other than they ever could have before, seen more intimacy with each other than any mortal could hope for, and yet the rift between them always seemed to grow. The longer they were so-called gods, the lonelier it became.
"I still don't understand why you don't see the people who love you, who you know love you as a god in spite of what you believe of yourself. Don't you think that's denying them a kindness only you can give?" There's a question within a question; there always was with Vivec. For someone who painted so beautifully with his words, he left so much unsaid. It'd frustrated Sil in his youth; now, it was a language he understood fluently.
Why do you deny me the small kindness of your friendship, Seht?
Sil stayed very quiet; he could feel Vivec's resignation at not getting an answer–he often didn't. But this time, he would.
"I do what I must to make the world perfect for them," he said, voice soft. "Their nature, messy and tragic and destructive as it is, is beautiful, and it's something that must be protected. The walls of my world must be secure, the defenses must be insurmountable. I cannot rest until it is perfect, and I cannot let anything get in the way of it."
And you, Vivec, will only get in the way. He spoke Vehk's language, too.
"And will it ever be as perfect as you dream?"
No, was the correct answer. It would never be, because despite his certainty, despite his power, Sotha Sil was messy and tragic and destructive as well.
"It must be," is what he said.
The first statue of him was erected a century after the Battle of Red Mountain. Many followed, of course, but the first was the one that haunted him. He hadn't received prayers yet, but many petitions, and an awe-filled silence followed him as he walked through the streets. He hated it, more than he ever thought he would. It was the first of many times he'd consider hiding away.
The statue was meant to be a surprise. Sweet, in its way–devotion to god-like saviors who had delivered them from the daedra and ushered in a new age, in the only way a mortal could fathom to do so. He knew it was coming, and yet he didn't–it took another half-century or so before he could really sort the constant stream of information that came to him. So, when the three statues of Almsivi were revealed, his shock was, more or less, very real.
Vivec was delighted, as he was wont to be by any grand displays. Almalexia, ever the graceful queen, thanked those present, like a mother would when given a trinket by her child. And Sotha Sil was silent–it was then, he thought, where he first gained his reputation for being mysterious.
It was a faithful likeness, and the craftsmanship was something to sculptors knew their subject well…except for the face. The stone countenance was animated, near-wild with joy and possibility. One could practically hear the declaration coming from it.
"We are bold and fresh, and will not fear you."
It was the face of a new god.
One day, not long after, the statues of Vivec and Almalexia still stood tall, but Sotha Sil's had crumbled into a pile of rubble. Some blamed the daedra; others blamed the craftsman for shoddy work. Many vowed that, should the vandal be one of their own, they would be dealt with swiftly.
The culprit was never found. And, strangely, no statue quite like the first could ever be made again.
He regretted, some centuries later, that he had never been as friendly with the Dwemer as Nerevar had been. He'd admired their work, but always from afar, and always with the intention of improving it. They weren't allies, despite Neht's constant attempts to make them so; they were rivals.
And they still seemed to taunt him, even now, having gone somewhere even he couldn't suss out. He had questions, and no one to answer them.
Well, then. He would make new answers from what was left behind.
Dwarven ruins, as a whole, were very dangerous places. But near-divine powers kept much of the still-active defenses at bay, and Seht enjoyed the solitude he found there. Gears and cogs and springs were simple; they always made sense, so long as you knew how to put them together. So it was fitting that his new world, his perfect world, would be built from them.
Sometimes–not often, but sometimes–he could practically hear Nerevar's laugh as he tried to piece together his plan. How many times had he praised his cleverness, had he gladly told everyone that his wisest advisor–his teacher, he would even call him in his fondest moments–was this spindly youth from a forgotten house? And alternately, how many times had Neht warned him that his tendency to overthink, his need to fix and fix and fix would be his undoing?
Sil wondered often, as he crafted his prototypes, what his old friend would think of his grand project. Whether he would be disgusted by such a blatant act of hubris, or whether he would find the attempt noble, no matter whether he succeeded or not.
He never could find an answer to that, either. Nor could he ever craft a new one. Nerevar could never be part of this equation, because if he was, this problem would never exist.
Idly, every few centuries or so, Sotha Sil considered ending this charade of his. Never seriously, there was still far too much to do and not enough time to do it. But he couldn't say the temptation for a bit of peace wasn't an attractive one.
He wondered, in those same moments, if he even could. Akatosh and Lorkhan both died–in doing so, they gave the world life. What would the suicide of of a creature like him result in?
He came up with different possibilities every time, but one thing was constant: no matter what the result, he was certain that Vehk would be able to make it into quite the poem.
Their pilgrimages to the Heart of Lorkhan didn't used to be an annual affair. In fact, it took several centuries for them to even realize it was necessary to do so.
In the time between the apotheosis and their first pilgrimage, it had to be said that Ayem wore her divinity well. She, it seemed, was born to be a god; she had always sought to be untouchable, and she had leaned into her natural savagery to do so. Now, by virtue of her very being, she could lay down her arms and play into the fantasy she'd always wanted. Away went the Face-Snaked Queen, the warrior-bride of Nerevar; now here was Mother Morrowind, with infinite children she could guide from birth to death. Her ruthlessness never quite went away, but softened into being the ever-scolding parent, who was only harsh because she wanted the best.
For Vehk, on the other hand, his divinity was a curse, though he would never say so–and, possibly, never even considered it as such. But even as a mortal, Vivec had always wanted to be more than he was, had always been unhappy when reminded that he could be no more than Vivec. Now, with his power to craft his reality as easily as his words, he sought after what he so desperately had wanted. He shaped himself as all in equal parts: male and female, Dunmer and Chimer, god and mortal, warrior and poet. And yet, when all was said and done, he could still be no more than Vivec; arguably, he was more Vivec now than he had been as a mortal. No doubt it was an irony he would appreciate, if it wasn't so close to his heart.
So, when they first felt their power wan–early enough that they were still bound together, but far enough in to have prayers that needed answering–each of the Tribunal reacted as one would expect: Sotha Sil with grim acceptance, Vivec with profound melancholy, and Almalexia with vicious denial. As Seht drew up simulations and theories of what they would need to do to care for the people, and as Vehk drew up speech and sermon to assure the Dunmer they were still in capable hands, it was Ayem that suggested they return to the Heart, immediately.
Sil and Almalexia had never been particularly close–certainly not as close as Vehk or Neht had been to the both of them–but he had always admired her direct manner of solving problems. She was a mer of action, whether it was charging into battle or milling through crowded streets of worshippers. If it weren't for her insistence of getting the most straight-forward solution, they may have lost their divinity much, much sooner.
In later years, he wasn't certain if he should love or hate her for that.
But in that moment, he was grateful, as was Vivec. They bathed in the power of the Heart of Lorkhan, and returned from the mountain as the gods the people expected. Things could stay as they were, for a little bit longer, at least.
But something did change that day, between their descent and ascent. There was a desperate ferocity to Almalexia as they made their way down to the chamber below Red Mountain. She led the way, savage as she had been the last time they'd fought here. But her single-mindedness left her with tunnel-vision, and a particularly reckless slash nearly sent her careening down into the lava below–a mistake that, in their state, would be fatal. But Sil was quick, catching her arm and pulling her back to safety.
He was thanked by Hopesfire's tip pressed to his throat.
Nothing was said between them, but in the wild gold of her eyes, her thoughts were plain. How dare you touch me? How dare you doubt me? I am a god, the true god, and I should kill you for your impertinence.
Her arm dropped, free hand going to brush a copper curl behind her ear. No apologies or questions from either of them; it was such a quick moment, it was easy enough to pretend it never happened at all.
But along with his rejuvenated powers, Sotha Sil was left with a new certainty: one day, his dear friend Almalexia would kill him.
He was never sure when the Anticipation theory started getting passed around, much less when it became a theological fact in the eyes of the Temple. It was one of the few times he regretted being as absent as he was outside of his city; perhaps he could have talked some sense into whoever had come up with it.
He could understand the correlation between Vivec and Mephala well-enough; carnal proclivities aside, Vehk's abilities to spin lies came long before they'd come near the heart. He had always twisted others–and himself–into believing his grand fictions; now, he just had the power to make it true.
Boethiah and Almalexia, that went without saying. Disdainful as he was of the Good Daedra, even Seht had seen glimpses of He-Who-Destroys and She-Who-Erases in Ayem on the battlefield. And as for deceit, and treason, and conspiracy…well, it was wise of the Temple to not look too deeply into those aspects.
But for Azura to be his anticipation felt like a cruel joke. There was nothing to compare the two of them. Yes, she loved the Dunmer, but only when it served herself well. Yes, his pride was immense–he knew his faults–but he had reason to be, unlike Twilight and her hollow vanity.
He wondered sometimes, when he had the time to spare for it, if she was equally insulted. Or, perhaps, she was in on the joke. He supposed it depended on what was stronger: her pride, or her hatred of him.
He didn't ever try to guess at what her answer would be. It'd just prove the Temple right.
Sotha Sil wasn't given to idle pleasures; he only did what he felt he must. So it took much longer than it ought have for him to finish the Elegiac Replication. When he enjoyed his work there, it felt like folly; when he hated it, it felt like a waste of precious time. But with such potent reactions to it, he realized that it really was something that must be made.
It was meant to be a place for himself–out of the Cogitum Centralis, in the midst of his creation. It was a solitary place, outside of the Brass Fortress, but far from closed off and perfectly open for anyone to come through. Of course, when he was there, he was often left alone regardless. He was never sure if that was a blessing or a curse.
Nall was the first projection he crafted. A childish desire, he supposed, to show his beloved sister all he'd done in the lifetimes upon lifetimes since he'd last seen her. He'd paused in his construction then, for a couple years, content to just have her beside him again.
But his life hadn't ended with hers, for better or worse, and there was much more to ruminate over than the brief moment of his life in Ald Sotha. He crafted Vehk and Ayem next–considered, for a moment, showing them as they were before the apotheosis. But, in all truthfulness, their divinity was an essential part of who they were–their truest selves. So the projections showed them as they were now: Warrior-Poet and Mother Morrowind. It was a shame that they never came here; perhaps then they'd realize how much he thought of them, even in his isolation.
It took several years before he could craft the final projection. He had countless false starts, only to be stopped by doubt, or guilt, or grief. It was then that he was the most tempted to tear the whole thing apart–his garden, his city, the legacy he'd built for himself. But it must be done.
Even so, he was selfish in his crafting of Nerevar. He didn't want the cold face of the Ordinators, or the idealized bust of the saint that haunted him across Morrowind. He didn't want Azura's Champion or even the Hortator. If he was to remember Neht, it had to be how he had loved him best: as a trusted mentor who trusted him in return, as his friend. And so he pulled from one of his memories, from so very, very long ago, a moment of the two of them conversing.
It was nearly perfect. Nerevar was perfect. But the mer talking with him, with golden skin and a body wholly composed of flesh and blood, with a face that conveyed absolute certainty when, in truth, he didn't know a godsdamned thing–that wasn't Sotha Sil. At least, it wasn't anymore; now, he wondered if it ever was.
The fix was simple enough. A quick tweak, and it was the truest reflection he could hope for: Neht, frozen as he was then, and Seht, frozen as he was now. Later, in one of the times he sat reflecting, he wondered if it was a bit of wishful thinking on his part. Logically, he knew Nerevar would never forgive him for what he'd done if he were to come back. But even knowing so, he would give anything to talk with him once more, to receive friendly counsel not wrapped up in deference or worship or self-imposed divinity.
But, he supposed as he lingered there longer, that was the price of what he had done. The clarity was harsh, but welcome. And it proved that the Elegiac Replication was not a waste of time after all.
Twenty-two minutes. That was all he had left, in the best case scenario.
Millenia of work, all coming to an end in less than half an hour. Vivec would appreciate the drama of it, if he were here. Sil hoped that word would get back to him; he'd trust no one else with his obituary.
Twenty-one minutes. Prospect: Almalexia had come to pass, just as the simulations had shown, just as he'd been certain of beneath Red Mountain. He knew better than to hope he'd be wrong, now. He knew better than to hope at all.
Nineteen minutes. How often had he thought of his death? How often had he considered bringing it upon himself, or hoping against hope that his powers would fail in the midst of a grand battle? He and Ayem had been close, once, hardly even a decade ago; he remembered the terror in her eyes at the prospect of mortality, her utter gratitude–however quickly forgotten–when Vehk had arrived and rescued them from Voryn–Sharmat–Dagoth Ur and his forces. For that moment, even amidst their waning divinity, Vivec seemed like the god he'd always wanted to be.
Fifteen minutes. What would it mean, for him to die? He'd wondered that often, but he'd never been able to come up with a satisfactory answer. Souls existed, and for all that was said of him, he knew he still had one.
Thirteen minutes. Would he go to Oblivion, then? Finally be reunited with the rest of his House?
Twelve minutes. Would he see Nall?
Eleven minutes. Would he see Nerevar?
Ten minutes wasn't enough time to ponder. Nor was it enough time to truly act. He heard her coming, all the fury of the Chimer's Warrior Queen once again on display. He needed to get into the control center; it would only take a moment to give his final instruction and seal off the Mechanical Heart, to ensure his one small piece of perfection outlived him for eternity.
Nine minutes. Once he was in, he'd be lost in his dreams. He wouldn't be able to greet his death, as he probably should. He certainly wouldn't be able to stop Ayem from killing him. Hopesfire was already dashing his defenses to bits; he was sure she was enjoying it, destroying the creation that he hid inside.
Seven minutes. He must get in the controls. No more time to waste.
It was an eternity and a moment later when she burst in.
"Your time has come, Sotha Sil! All these years you've looked down on me. Have you any last words?"
Oh, so many and so few. But what was the point of last words? A romantic notion, but he had much work to do and so little time to do it. There had never been enough time for him.
"Why are you silent? What are you hiding?! Speak, curse you."
But, of course, he would not. There were more important things to do; the chamber was nearly sealed. And, if his calculations were right, he had just enough time to do it.
"Fine then. Die, old friend."
He heard nothing else, felt nothing else. His task was done, and his final certainty rewarded with the Mechanical Heart being sealed away.
Time and circumstance had lead to their logical conclusion, as they always did. He'd never been more than a mirror at the best of times, but perhaps every now and again, he had managed to reflect a bit of the divinity he'd always so denied.