The Forgiving
Chapter One
I was only a child when I first came face to face with death. I met him tenderly, beneath a heavy roof, steadied by the hands of my mother and father on either side of me. The older I grew, the more dim the memory became, the edges fading into a soft light, the faces turning smooth and blank. My grandmother laid on her death bed. Her eyes were deep black pits in her once lively face, her skin a thin white paper. I hadn't known her well, but there she was before me, rotting from the inside out, the Aedra having taken no mercy on her. I bid farewell to this woman I hardly knew, listened as behind the hushed voices of my parents and the beautiful priestess, each of my grandmother's breaths grew more and more shallow, until at last she went quiet. I remembered hardly a year earlier my father had taken me to her farm on his big grey horse. His childhood home, tucked into the most peaceful corner of the Rift, every tree a different shade of copper or gold. Even decades later I certainly couldn't forget the mountains, how they loomed silently above, their presence ancient and grand. His own father had died at sea when he was a teenager. My grandmother had been a widow for the longest time, but took to it well, keeping one of the most successful farms in the hold. I remembered the bowl of soup she brought to me at the only table in her small home, and following her between rows of tomatoes and cabbage, sinking my fingers into the damp ebony soil as she and my father said their goodbyes. I was just shy of nine winters and there she lay before me, dead. I could feel it all around me then, heavy and cold. It never leaves you, that feeling. Once it's in your bones, bitter in your blood, there is nothing you can do.
Of course there was a second time. A third, a fourth. The world is awfully cruel, harsh in every way that it happens to be beautiful. But not one of those encounters could ever compare to the night just over ten years later than that day, the one where I watched my grandmother's body go cold. Someone once told me that the loss of innocence is no different than the loss of forgiveness. Until that day I could forgive again and again, do it until I was weak in the knees and light in the head. I learned it from my mother, the woman who celebrated love for a living, held it in the palm of her hand. I suppose if all of this death hadn't crept into my body and made a home there I might have followed in her footsteps, bowed my head at the shrine of some goddess I hardly even believed in, done it for the sake of faith or family. But before long I was too far gone. Not to mention the thing that lived inside of me, the thing that could never leave.
Leave all you would like, but I would only ask that you don't do anything of the sort without a proper good bye.
There were nights when my mother's words echoed violently in my head. Sleep shied away from me. My first night in Windhelm was one of them. I tossed and turned in the night, tried to listen only to the crackling of the fire in the hall, the voices that rose and fell with each hour, the Nords that never told each other goodnight and drank until it was morning, and then drank some more. These things did nothing to lull me into any sort of slumber. Eventually the silver light of morning in Eastmarch seeped through the high window of my rented bedroom. Exhaustion burned behind my eyes. What on Nirn was I doing in Windhelm, of all places? I wasn't far from home, Riften being only a day or two's carriage ride south, but everything felt so horribly foreign. The Nords looked suspiciously on an unfamiliar Breton roaming their streets, and a woman at that. It wasn't that the city was unpleasant - anything felt lovely compared to Riften. The rooms and food were cheap, the city fairly clean and rather beautiful, to say the least, with its high stone walls and arches, the ever brooding presence of the magnificent palace that lived in the northern half of the town. Those of the people who were obviously noble and native to the province, while cold and distrustful, were nonetheless imposing, with their towering builds and strong features, the women and their long, heavy hair, the men and their neat beards and thick, ropy limbs. I suppose the characteristic of Windhelm that managed to keep a chill down my spine at every moment was how dreadfully small the city made me feel. I couldn't even begin to imagine the way the Dunmer must have felt, being shunned to an entirely separate section of the town. I did not want to stay there long.
My mother's disappointment in me following my decision to leave Riften in search of an alchemy apprenticeship was immeasurable. She had always hoped that I would choose to join her as a priestess in the Temple of Mara, but the idea that I would make a living that way had never even occupied my thoughts. It was Ingun Black-Briar who inspired me to take up alchemy. There was nothing in the world that interested me more. As a teenager I spent most days at Ingun's side, soaking up every bit of knowledge I could. I dreamed of adorning the shelves of my own shop with every ingredient that existed in Tamriel, every potion and elixir and perhaps even poison. The mere thought made my heart swell with joy. I knew it would happen someday. There was no way I would live my life without the satisfaction of having followed a dream that I made for myself, entirely on my own. So not long after my twentieth birthday, just as the snow began to melt, I came to my parents with word of my plan. My mother shed tears, and my father didn't utter a word. I left the following morning with every bit of coin I had saved working at the stable. Leaving that town gave me the most wonderful feeling, a hopeful flutter that lived in my chest and did not leave for hours.
Ingun had learned practically everything she knew from Nurelion, who owned The White Phial in Windhelm. She said the old Altmer was, while similar to every other citizen of Windhelm in his aloofness, incredibly wise and quite kind as well, and always open to taking on apprentices. I knew that my fate resided at least briefly in that old, wintery city. The carriage driver accepted my gold begrudgingly. He wasn't eager to make the journey, for the roads north were harsh and the weather often brutal. But he was alone in his hesitation. The journey was all I had wanted for the longest time, and at last it was mine for the taking.
"Miss, we've arrived. I suggest you put on something a bit warmer before you set off on your own."
The driver's voice pulled me out of a deep sleep. I was unsure when I had drifted off - the last thing I remembered was passing the hot springs. My bag was safe at my feet, my coin purse still heavy within. I lifted my gaze and took in what I could of Windhelm. All that waited before me were the tremendous bronze gates and icy bridge that led into the city, as well as the stable, which was surprisingly small, the horses brown and stocky, their coats kept heavy and thick by the never ending winter that they lived in. I thanked the driver and carefully stepped out, swinging the only fur cloak I owned over my shoulders. It was ratty and thin, the fur probably wolf or dog, and hardly warded off the terrible chill. With that I set off toward the city that I was certain I would soon call home.
The guards didn't say a word as they opened the gates, allowing me inside. They were massive men, with war hammers strapped to their backs, their faces hidden by steel. The city seemed to fall in on me. It was all too much - the stone and ice beneath my feet, the cold glares from the Nords, even the beggars huddled on their sides in the snow, their poor faces raw from the cold and their bones practically bursting through their skin, sent an uneasiness through me. I walked quickly.
The White Phial was much finer than the alchemy shop in Riften, inside and out. Every surface was beautiful, dark mahogany, and an antler chandelier hung over the counter, obviously crafted by someone with immense talent. The bottles that filled the shelves were beautiful, with slender, dainty necks and fine ivory caps, made in practically every color that existed. A snow bear pelt lay just beyond the front door, the thing's dead mouth pried open in a permanent roar. Upon stepping inside I had to stand for a moment and take everything in, all of the beauty that was so much more than I had imagined. I didn't even hear the old elf greeting me, not until his voice turned gruff.
"Can I help you, ma'am?" The silver haired man's voice was dry. I turned to him quickly, my face hot. For a moment I was petrified. I had entered the shop blindly. For a majority of my travel there I had gone over what I would say to him relentlessly. But as I timidly explored Windhelm, and finally stepped into the shop, my head was empty. I had no clue how I would approach him with my proposal. There was nothing I feared more than rejection from this person I had placed on such a pedestal.
I gathered myself and stepped up to the counter. "My name is Emmaline. I'm a friend of Ingun Black-Briar's. She has told me much about you, sir."
The old elf sighed. His expression, however, softened. "Ah, yes. I have not heard from Ingun in ages. I hope she is doing well. May I ask what it is that brings you to Windhelm? I have not seen you around before."
I sucked in a dry, cool breath. "If I am honest, I am not much of an alchemist. Ingun has taught me what she can, but I have much more to learn. I wish to perfect the craft, sir."
Nurelion folded his arms and lifted his chin, narrowing his large amber eyes. "If you are here seeking out an apprenticeship, I'm afraid you will be disappointed. I have already taken on an apprentice, and have no time for another."
My shoulders deflated, and my eyes dropped to the floor. "Is that so?"
Nurelion nodded. "My apologies, miss."
"I've no idea where else to go."
The old elf turned and retrieved a scrap of parchment from the counter behind him. Pulling a chunk of charcoal from a pocket in his apron he scribbled something down, his mouth twisted in focus. "I am going to give you a name," A young man descended the stairs carrying a precarious tray of frost salts. The boy opened his mouth to ask his mentor a question but the elf raised his hand to silence him. "Not now, Quintus. Listen here, Miss. I have known Lami for years and years. Her skill in the craft does not measure up with my own, and I cannot guarantee that you will enjoy Morthal any more than you do Windhelm, but I am certain that Lami would not be opposed to taking on an apprentice, and I'm sure she could teach you a thing or two. Best of luck to you, dear."
With that the old Altmer strutted off, cursing at his apprentice. I did my best to hide how defeated I felt and took the scrap of parchment in my hands. I read the name over and over until it was bold in my mind. Lami. I'd never even heard of the woman. I knew hardly anything about the town of Morthal, except that it was right in the middle of a cold swamp. But what other choice did I have? I could afford one more trip, and Morthal wasn't far. My feet felt horribly heavy as I left the shop and set off toward the inn.
My second day in Windhelm was not going any better than the first. I hadn't gotten a wink of sleep, and the bed at the inn was hard, the room cold, and the food far from noteworthy. I bought a cheap breakfast, a hunk of bread and small wedge of cheese, and gathered my things. I considered visiting Nurelion once more, but decided against it. The old elf seemed to have plenty on his mind as it was. I was more than happy to leave the city behind, and climbing into the carriage once more I could hardly bear to glance back at it one last time. I thought of all the faith I had placed in it, all that I had dreamed up for years and years. Perhaps someday I could return. Perhaps Windhelm was my fate after all. But I would not know that for a long time. For now, I had to focus on what was ahead of me. Morthal, and Lami, and another chance at this dream of mine, possibly my last.