"Each Event is preceded by Prophecy. But without the Hero, there is no Event."
-Zurin Arctus, The Underking
The prisoner slept fitfully on the floor of the hold. His eyes fluttered now and again, but he remained silent as he twitched and turned on the thin bedroll he'd been provided. His dreams were strange, disjointed, vistas passing in front of his eyes that felt familiar in his soul yet unknown to his waking mind. Tall mountains bristling with granite teeth rushed past him, opening onto lush plains of grass, then turning out towards the sea. He caught sight of a great monument, the statue of a woman holding a stylized star and moon in each hand, then a small lighthouse standing against the sea as a torrent of rain came down around its blazing bonfire. As he slept and dreamed, he heard a voice whispering in his ear. It was an ancient voice, soft in its tone but resonant with unimaginable power.
"Fear not," it said soothingly, "for I am watchful."
He wanted to answer that voice, wanted to know who it was and why it was watching over him, but all he could see were the vistas laid out before him. The last thing he saw was a stone wall, inscribed with the ancient hieratics of Daedric script. The only part of the inscription that he could make out read, "Many fall, but one remains." Then the image seemed to disappear, shimmering as if under the surface of a lake broken by raindrops. He felt somebody's hand on his shoulder, hearing an rough burring voice.
"Wake up. Why are you shaking? Wake up!"
The prisoner's eyes snapped open, the dream image overlaying his field of vision faintly. He saw an old Dunmer standing over him, one eye permanently closed by a long slashing scar, the other eye a brilliant red.
"You were dreaming," the old Dark Elf said.
"Yes," confirmed the prisoner. He almost said "bad dreams," but thought better of it. They were surreal and a little confusing, but they weren't bad. If anything, there was a faint feeling of safety, as if coming home from a long journey.
"What's your name?"
The prisoner rolled up and on to his feet. "Averren," he answered.
"A strange name for a Dunmer."
"Breton foster mother, gave me that name when I was little, never got rid of it." Averren stood looking at the old elf. "Were you up last night? I fell asleep . . .but I can't remember when exactly."
"I've been up a long time. There was a storm, though I think we sailed through the edge of it rather than the heart. I heard the guards saying we'd be reaching Morrowind by daylight." The old Dunmer looked up to the ceiling of the hold. "Damned if I know what time it is now."
"Morrowind? They're taking us to Morrowind?" Averren asked with a tremor of uncertainty in his voice.
"They're taking you to Morrowind for sure. My fate, I think, is not quite so clear." The old Dunmer rattled the chain attached to his shackles. "I do wish I could walk the streets of Vivec one more time before I die. Lovely city, really. Stand by the canals, watching the gondolas passing from one canton to the next. Very peaceful." A smile lit the Dunmer's face as his good eye closed. "So many good things, and so many wonderous places. And not just in Vvardenfell. The capital city of Mournhold. The southern reaches near Black Marsh." Sighing softly, he looked at Averren. "You're an outlander, but you are a Dunmer, and you are going home, my young friend."
A scraping sound echoed softly throughout the hold, then a series of small bumps rocked the ship slightly. "I think we have made landfall, wherever it is they've decided to put you." The old Dunmer gripped Averren's shoulder and smiled. "May your road be level and your sword swift, should the Daedra try to take you."
Averren smiled a little. "Don't think I've heard that phrase before."
"A very old Dunmer blessing," replied the old Dunmer. Glancing back over his shoulder, he frowned a little. "Best be quiet. The guard's coming to collect you."
The door to the makeshift cell opened, and a ruddy faced Cyrodiilic man in leather armor stepped through. "Let's go, prisoner. Get yourself up on deck. I've no intention of staying in this nasty little spot any longer than I have to." He made a move to grab Averren's shoulder, but the Dunmer pulled away and scowled at him.
"I've got two feet, and I can walk just fine." Looking down, he glanced at the shackles around his ankles, then smirked at the guard. "Though I could move a bit faster if I wasn't wearing this cast iron footwear."
Grumbling, the guard tossed Averren the key. "If you think I'm stupid enough to bend down there to take those off, you're wrong. Take them off yourself, and get moving." Averren knelt down and quickly undid his shackles. He glanced around to see if he could slip the old Dunmer the key, but couldn't find him. Perhaps he was hiding in the shadows somewhere, but from what Averren could see, the old elf had simply disappeared into thin air.
The guard's hand clamping down his shoulder brought him back into focus. "Move, you worthless fetcher!" Averren was half-led, half-dragged out of the cell and up the ladder to the mid-deck. With a shove, the guard snarled at him. "Up the ladder, Dunmer, and keep things as civil as possible." Averren didn't think the guard caught the irony of the statement, but wasn't going to stand around and try to enlighten the man. He stepped up through the hatch into the sunlight.
Taking a look at his surroundings, Averren saw a small pier off to his left, leading to a building at the edge of what looked to be a small town. Thickly trunked trees soared up to dominate the small buildings scattered around them, stringy hanging moss draped over the lower branches, the hum and buzz of small insects mixing with the sound of the water lapping against the shore. Behind him stood a small stone lighthouse. Averren shuddered unconsciously. It was the lighthouse from his dream.
A coughing sound snapped the Dunmer's head around. A Redguard wearing a chainmail hauberk smiled at him. "If you'll head down the gangway there, your escort will take you to the Census Office for processing." Peering down, Averren saw a man standing in a suit of armor belonging to the Imperial Legion. Did all prisoners get this sort of treatment when they were transferred to Morrowind? Managing a weak smile at the Redguard, Averren walked down the gangplank to the pier and turned to face the Legionnaire.
"Good morning," said the Legionnaire politely. "We've been expecting you. If you'll follow me, the Census Office will take down your particulars, and you'll be sent on your way."
As they walked up the pier to the Census Office, Averren tried to strike up a conversation with the guard. "When you say I'll be sent on my way, you mean that I'm being transferred to another prison? Or a labor camp?"
"Neither," answered the Legionnaire. "As I understand it, once you've been processed, you'll be a free man. Sellus Gravius can tell you far more than I can." He stopped in front of a door that led into a squat, two story building. "Just step inside, and they'll start processing you."
"Thank you." With a small gulp, Averren stepped inside.
The office was tastefully decorated, though its decor spoke of strict and efficient business. A large tapestry depicting Tiber Septim's assault on Summerset Isle hung along one wall, the other walls stood lined with tall bookcases crammed with thick volumes and scroll racks. A large desk sat almost directly across from the door Averren had stepped through, a quill and inkwell standing ready to take down information, a thick ledger opposite that, and a wizened old Cyrodiilic man in a simple brown robe sitting behind it all.
"Ahhhh, good morning. Come, come. We've a lot of work to do. We were advised of your arrival, but we've had almost no information about you in particular." The old man reached into the deck and pulled out a sheet of parchment. "The sooner we finish up here, the sooner you can be on your way. Name?"
Averren stood silently, unsure of what to do.
"Are you a mute?" asked the old man curiously.
"No," replied Averren. "I'm just. . . a little overwhelmed."
"Yes, that happens from time to time." The old man snapped his fingers twice, and a Legionnaire came in carrying a chair. "Do sit down and make yourself comfortable." Averren sat down, looking at the old man. "Now, let's begin again. Name?"
"Averren Couerlayn."
The old man scribbled, though he raised an eyebrows as he wrote. "Strange name for a Dunmer."
"It's been observed." replied Averren dryly.
"Date of birth?"
"The 2nd of Frostfall."
This brought the old man's head up. "The Tower?"
"Yes, sir."
"Interesting." The old man looked back down at his parchment and scribbled. "Occupation?"
"I've been in prison, but I doubt that counts as an occupation."
"Quite correct. Let's go over your skills, see what you might be best at."
The next two hours were mind numbing as Averren described his skills and talents as best he could without alluding to his former occupation. Eventually, the clerk jotted Averren's occupation as "adventurer," which suited Averren as being nicely non-descript. After blotting, sanding, and sealing the parchment, the clerk handed the document to Averren.
"Now, if you'll take this to Sellus Gravius, he'll handle the final paperwork for your release." The clerk pointed towards the door the Legionnaire had come through when bringing out the chair. Averren stood, smiled, and turned to the door.
After walking down a short corridor, Averren turned right into a spartan little dining room, a table and a pair of rough benches set along two sides. A dagger had been buried point first into the wood, tacking a short note in place. Whoever wrote the note was asking for the dagger to be sharpened, and Averren guessed that whoever had sharpened it was proving the job had been done. Averren took the dagger and the note, folding the latter up and tucking it into the waistband of his trousers. Turning around, he spied a small box sitting on a shelf that was otherwise laden with dishes. On top of the box sat a single lockpick.
He knew he shouldn't take that pick into his hand. He knew he shouldn't try to open that box. But something prodded him to do it, to see if he still had the right touch. Taking up the lockpick, he inserted the tip and began to work. After ten minutes, he still didn't have the box opened, which frustrated him badly. The sort of lock on the box was cheap and simple. A child could have opened it with less sophisticated tools than what Averren was using, and he knew it. Removing the pick, Averren smacked the box with a disgusted grunt. He heard a faint click and saw a hairline crack open on the facing of the lock. His lockpicking skills had suffered greatly in prison, but he still had that magic touch, the one that had opened more doors and locked chests for him than he could easily count. Inside the box sat a small stack of ten septims. Not much, but more than Averren had seen in a long time, and certainly enough to live on comfortably for a couple weeks. However, the problem of getting them out without anybody noticing was something that gave him pause. Hitting on an idea, Averren cut a small slit into the inside of his trousers' waistband and fed the coins in flat. Hopefully, he wouldn't be jumping up and down anytime soon. Once that was finished, he stepped through the door at the far end of the dining room.
The door opened up into a small courtyard, or what would be a courtyard in more affluent surroundings. There were no flowers, fountains, statuary, or anything of particular note, save for a rain barrel next to a door on the opposite side of the yard. Averren suddenly felt very thirsty. All that talking with the clerk had dried him out considerably, and some water would be just the thing. Unfortunately, the rain barrel was bone dry. Aside from a small cobweb and some dust, the only thing in the barrel was a small leather pouch. He pulled the pouch out and opened it, then emptied the contents into his hand. All that fell out was a single ring, an unmarked band with a small blue stone set in the center, just big enough to fit on his smallest finger. Since prisoners, even recently released prisoners, didn't generally wear rings, it seemed like a good idea to keep this one out of sight. Averren put the ring back into the pouch, then tied the drawstring to the leg hole of his underwear. Taking a breath, he opened the door.
This office was smaller and more furnished than the front office. An armor stand sat in one corner with the steel and electrum inlaid field plate of a Knight Protector of the Legion neatly displayed. A small desk sat along one wall, and behind the desk sat a square jawed Cyrodiilic man, undoubtedly the owner of the armor. The man stood up and came over to Averren. "Sellus Gravius, at your service. You must be Averren."
"Yes, I am," Averren replied slowly. "I am also very confused."
"Understandable, given the circumstances. Come, sit down and have a drink." Gravius led Averren to a chair in front of the desk, then went to a small cupboard and pulled out a bottle and two short glasses. "Is brandy suitable?"
"Very," replied Averren. It'd had been ages since he'd last had a sip of Cyrodiilic brandy, and the anticipation warmed him greatly.
Gravius poured the brandy into the glasses, then handed one to Averren and sat down. He began by looking straight into Averren's crimson eyes. "I don't know you. Until yesterday, I had never heard of you. Yesterday morning, a courier came from Ebonheart, carrying a package marked with the Emperor's seal, and strict instructions on how that package was to be opened. Inside that package was this document." He reached into his desk drawer and handed Averren a thin folded piece of parchment, held closed by a wax seal showing the Emperor's signet. "Open it."
Averren broke the seal with his thumb, unfolded the parchment, and read it, his eyes widening with every line. "This. . . this is. . . is a full pardon."
Gravius only nodded slowly. "From the Emperor himself."
Averren sank back in the chair, setting his glass of brandy on the desk. Full pardons were rare, but they could be bought if you had the money and knew whose palms to gild. Full pardons from the Emperor were almost unheard of, and absolutely impossible to buy. Men and mer alike had a better chance of being kissed by a goddess than getting a pardon from the Emperor.
"I see from your expression that you know no more about this than I did yesterday. The courier explained to me what that document was, and to explain it to you if you were unable to read. You seem to have friends in high places, or you've got the Divines pulling strings for you." Gravius sipped his brandy, watching Averren, waiting.
He could only sit quietly in the chair, his own glass of brandy just out of reach. Averren didn't think he had the energy to reach out to it, much less drink it. Ever since he'd been pulled out of his jail cell in the middle of the night, he had been carried, pushed, dragged, carted, and shipped out on a boat to a place Averren had heard of but never visited. He had no idea where he was, he had no friends any longer, and he had just been given a second chance by one of the most powerful people in the world.
"Do you have any questions?" asked Gravius gently.
"Where am I?" asked Averren, his voice becoming slightly hoarse.
"You are in the town of Seyda Neen, though 'town' might be too generous a term. We are located in the Vvardenfell district of Morrowind. And once you hand me the census information that Socucius Ergalla gave you in the front office, you will be a more or less free man."
"More or less?"
"Yes. It seems the Emperor's magnanimous gesture is not without a price. In exchange for granting this pardon, the Emperor asks you to deliver a package from this office to a man in the town of Balmora. The package is sealed and is not to be opened by anybody under any circumstances except for the intended recipient, one Caius Cosades. The courier did not leave any information on the exact whereabouts of Serjo Cosades, so I imagine you will have to get curious. The courier did leave another small gift for you." Gravius reached underneath the desk and put a small leather pack on the desk. "Inside is a change of clothes, trail rations for a week, and a purse with one hundred septims, along with the package that you are to deliver. You have your new life ahead of you, Averren. Make the most of it."
Averren gulped the last of his brandy, placed the census information on the desk, then stood up and slung the pack over his shoulder. "Thank you, sir. I will." He turned and stepped through the last door of the Census Office and into the street.
