"I remember. I do not feel it. I can, if I choose, remember the feeling. But I do not choose. It is very, very sad being mortal. There is happiness, yes. But mostly sadness. As I have said, "Count only the happy hours." For mortals, they are all too few. But for gods - for me - there is no more feeling. Only knowing." - Vivec
Candlelight filled the great room, and cast flickering shadows on the far walls of the shell. Dozens of Dunmer dressed in crimson and tan stood around the small round tables arranged meticulously throughout the hall. Some of them held earthenware jars of drink and engaged in conversation with those around them. Some sat quietly and looked towards the dais at the center of the room, where three richly attired figures stood. In the corner nearest to the door, a mer played a harp. The low notes flowed slowly in the cavernous space and seemed to come from every direction at once. The scent of heavy spirits and fragrant candlesmoke filled the room.
"Eerie, isn't it?" Nadene took off towards the end of the hall, and Gelebor followed. "Two hundred years, and the Redoran still can't throw a party without some measure of pain involved. The best we can hope for is some dancing later."
"I don't think I know how to dance."
"Don't worry. In this kind of light, no one'll be able to tell the difference." They came to a table half draped in darkness, where Kharjo sat nursing a large glass bottle. "Look who it is, Kharjo. He almost got carried away by that tall crone with the bracelets."
"Shameful." Kharjo shook his head. "Khajiit suspects this elf would never admit it, but when he went to get a drink she tried to seduce him as well. He nearly had to brandish his claws."
"Talk about a missed opportunity." Nadene and Gelebor sat. He was glad to have a rest, after the long walk from Raven Rock. "You might have accidently made this dinner interesting."
"I have had my fill of 'interesting' for this life, friend." Kharjo passed her the bottle. "Dull will do, for a time. No one ever died on a dull night."
"True enough," Gelebor chimed in. "Look. I think something's happening, on the dais."
The most physically imposing of the three gathered Dunmer stepped ahead of the others. All sound in the hall died in an instant.
"That's the Archmaster," Nadene whispered.
"I am a mer of few words," the Archmaster began. "And Councilor Morvayn is eager to begin. So I will keep this short. House Redoran gathers again, two centuries after the cataclysm that reshaped the world. We have endured. We have met the challenges of the Daedra and emerged from the other side with wounds immeasurable. Now Redoran stands as the most powerful of the Houses. Many have risen to strike at Morrowind in the past. The Nords, the Dwemer, the Sixth House. Dagon's legions, and the Argonians to the south. Now a new threat rises in the West, more dangerous than any we've faced. The Khajiit and Bosmer have already fallen. Cyrodiil, Skyrim, and Hammerfell have been ravaged by conflict and ruin. Someday soon we will stand alone. The fate of Resdayn is in our hands, brothers and sisters. We will not become a puppet of discord and disharmony. Morrowind will triumph in the wars to come, or Morrowind will burn."
The Archmaster stepped away, and excited murmuring rose in the gathered Redoran.
"Kharjo must admit, he is impressed."
"Talk is easy enough," Nadene said quietly. She drummed her fingers on the table. "I'm sure there were similar speeches in Elsweyr and Valenwood, so many years ago now. No one wants to submit to the Dominion."
"Morrowind may have an advantage, no?" Kharjo continued. "This country has already suffered many trials. The High Elves took my land by exploiting the faithful, but the Dark Elves have already been tricked in this way by their own kind. And the Thalmor seized Valenwood with a coup. I sense the people of this land would not turn easily against House Redoran, and no other faction has a comparable force of armed warriors. And should the Dominion come in force, they will be fighting in a land where the very air is hostile to their race."
"You've put a bit of thought into this," Gelebor remarked. "I didn't realize you were so into politics."
"Not politics, Knight-Paladin." Kharjo's whiskers twitched. "Life. Survival. There is a reason Khajiit chose to remain in Raven Rock while conducting his hunt, rather than return to Skyrim where he has friends and refuge. The same reason the Namira cultists have gone to Vvardenfell, he suspects. The Dominion and their associates do not interfere here. There are no battles yet, no rebellions or purges. Morrowind will someday be an enclave of desperation for those in the East who fear Thalmor entanglements."
"I just hope I'm far away when that day comes," Nadene said. "I'm done bleeding for the Dunmer, and I'm done watching them bleed. Maybe Divayth has the right idea with Black Marsh. I heard the Argonians gave Dagon a right thrashing during the Crisis."
"Not very cold there, though," Gelebor pointed out.
"Different kind of heat, at least. Bet it's good for growing plants."
"Thank you, my friends and countrymen, for making the long journey to Raven Rock," Councilor Morvayn spoke at the dais. "Five years ago, this island was a long forgotten shadow of progress, near unworthy of being an outpost of Redoran. So much has changed since those dark days."
Someone snorted at a table near Gelebor, and then there was an angry whisper and the sound of an open hand against skin.
"Unfortunately." Morvayn cleared his throat. "Unfortunately, the mer responsible for so much of our success can not stand among us on this day of celebration. Jaxius Amaton. The Nords called him Dragonborn. As far as my dealings with him went, I knew him only to be a loyal servant of House Redoran. He uncovered a plot to assassinate me and wrest control of Solstheim from our House. Without him, none of us would be here today. Amaton exemplified our sacred words in his every action. We must never forget."
He raised his cup. Every Redoran in the hall did the same, with much clinking of glassware and sloshing of liquid.
Nadene had no drink, which Gelebor thought was probably for the best, so she just crossed her arms and glared in the general direction of Councilor Morvayn. Kharjo took one look at her and wisely kept his cup on the table.
"Duty. Gravity. Piety." Morvayn bowed his head.
"Duty, gravity, piety," the rest of them repeated with some measure of cohesion.
"Fetcher lived in Skyrim most of the time," Nadene whispered. "I bet his idea of gravity was shouting someone off a mountain."
Her idea of a whisper seemed fairly different to his. A third of the heads in the room swiveled to look in their direction, and Gelebor smiled politely.
"Speaking of our words," Morvayn continued. "I've chosen them as the three tiers of the dinner tonight. A tired choice, some of you may be thinking. I prefer to see them as tried and true. And where better to celebrate our most cherished beliefs, than under a crab shell constructed in the fashion of old Under-Skar? The first word is duty. Duty to our honor, to our clan, to our faith. Anyone can preach of their duty when everyone is watching. But the true bearer of honor follows the true path even in darkness."
Every candle in the hall went out at once. There was excited whispering and the squeaking of many chairs. Mer were moving around in the gloom.
"Wow. Turning out the lights. Real creative, Morvayn." Nadene spoke. "Must have blown all his gold on the construction."
"The effect is somewhat wasted on Kharjo," Kharjo said. "He can see many Dark Elves stumbling around like blind kittens."
"I'm tempted to cast a sight spell, myself." Gelebor could almost feel Nadene studying him in the darkness. "But we should play along. Might be fun." Her voice turned up at the end, almost questioning.
"Yes," Gelebor agreed. "Let's go."
They felt for each other's hands across the table.
"I'm always surprised when I touch you," Nadene said. They moved carefully in the direction of faint lights in the center of the room. "I expect you to be cold. But you're warmer than I am."
"Life is warm," Gelebor replied. "My brother told me that, once. Everything that truly lives is burning hot. Men, elves, slaughterfish, dragons. He said it's the light of Auriel inside them."
"Do you still believe that?"
"Belief has naught to do with it." They were close enough now that Gelebor could see many round tables set in a circle, with glowing plates atop each. "My sovereign is the most powerful entity in creation. My loyalty to him changed nothing, and my lack of loyalty changes less still."
"I just don't understand, sometimes." She took a deep breath. "How you can still think that way, after so many years wasted on that bastard. You threw off the yoke of servitude. That has to mean something. "
"I suppose I'm still trying to figure that part out. There's no precedent for this, Nadene. No one in the Chantry ever left, you know. Such an act was unthinkable. It's just...when you've been one way for so long, it's hard to change. There's no one out there who can help me."
"Oh?" Her hand fell away from his grasp. "I used to think that way, once. Didn't seem to really get me very far. I'm going to go try to find Morvayn, see if I can't knock some sense into him concerning Vvardenfell. You go mingle, okay?"
"Err, very well." But Nadene had already gone. He had the sinking feeling he'd failed some sort of test. But damn, how am I meant to know what to say? There seemed to be a thousand conflicts in his head, now, all fighting for dominance in the mess of emotions and broken beliefs.
Thousands of years guarding the Forgotten Vale had not prepared him for navigating romantic situations. And now I stand alone in the darkness, amidst this celebration of a people not my own. It was remarkable how lonely one could be made to feel, in a massive crab shell stuffed with elves. Every scent and sound Gelebor didn't recognize depressed him further, reinforced the omnipresent belief that he simply didn't belong in a place like this. He imagined Kharjo must be feeling similarly, and felt a pang of sympathy for his friend.
Gelebor's stomach rumbled. He pushed aside his stresses and surrendered to the biological side of his nature. One of the tables with glowing dishware seemed to call to him. He sat before a steaming bowl that seemed to be some variation of crab stew. Fortunately, the light of the enchanted ceramic was bright enough to assure the spoon's safe passage to his mouth. Gelebor indulged himself for nearly a minute before noticing someone had joined him at the table. The figure's upper body was cloaked in shadow, but two gray hands rested on the silk spread.
"Oh, greetings. Pardon me, I was distracted."
"Remarkably so, my boy."
"But it couldn't be." Gelebor set his spoon down and studied the darkness. "Lord Fyr?"
"Quite right. Came to check in on you children, before the midnight excitement is upon us. Left a few atronachs behind with Athtera and the scribs. Nadene's thrown you to the nix hounds and scurried off, eh?"
"Not at all," Gelebor replied, and regretted the sharpness in his voice. "She's gone to speak to Councilor Morvayn about obtaining some assistance for our upcoming trip."
"Little chance of that, I can tell you now." Divayth delicately sipped his stew. "Redoran built their capital city on Vvardenfell a stone's throw from Dagoth Ur's fortress, but for all their preaching of honor and duty it was the outlander Nerevarine who came to save them from the Sixth House. She had to cut down their Archmaster just to be named Hortator. Surprised the new one invited Nadene here at all."
"I believe it was Morvayn who did that, actually." Gelebor scratched his chin. "Say, how did you get in here? Being a Telvanni?"
"Do you really have to ask?" Divayth chuckled. "If this was a House concerned with security, one of their dinner tiers wouldn't involve putting out all the lights. That's one point in the Redoran's favor. If this were a Telvanni or Hlaalu event, you'd find more than a few very stiff guests after relighting the candles. Maybe there's something to their rambling about honor. Too bad for them it only works if everyone in the room agrees it does."
"That is a shame."
They ate in companionable silence. Around the room there was the rustle of cloth and clinking of silverware, indicating the other diners in the dark. There were hushed conversations and excited whispers. Gelebor still wasn't sure how not being able to see nourished his sense of duty, but the Dunmer, at least, seemed to be enjoying themselves. He wondered if Nadene had found Councilor Morvayn yet.
"You and Nadene have become quite close," Divayth remarked. "And no, that's not a question."
"Well." Gelebor looked down into his bowl. "Seems you know everything about it. What is it you want from me?"
"Settle down. And remember who you speak to, son. I'm just looking out for my best patient."
"I apologize." Gelebor put down his spoon and ran a hand down his face. "It's true. Nadene...I like her. I like her a lot. But I don't know what I'm doing, Lord Fyr. I think I'm going to spoil it all. And then...then, I'm going to die. Because I can't go back to how it was before. Not anymore."
"I told you to call me Divayth." He leaned forward, so the tip of his crooked nose and the faint glow of his eyes were just visible out of the gloom. "Listen to me, now. I won't drop to such levels of sentiment for just anyone. I've known the Nerevarine for longer than any other living being. A long time ago, she was just a sick girl who stumbled into my tower. A bright girl, well-meaning. Naive. I was certain, so certain, that she'd be a permanent resident of my Corprusarium. But Nadene left my front gates as cured as any corprus victim I've ever seen. And I never saw that girl again."
Gelebor forgot his stew entirely, and waited curiously for Divayth to continue.
"The girl died at Red Mountain, you see? Or maybe sometime before that. When she found out what the Tribunal did, maybe." Divayth leaned back, and rummaged around in his pockets. "Damnation. Left my kreshweed behind. Anyway, back to what I was saying. The girl died. Nadene carries three souls in her, from my perspective. Indoril Nerevar, our beloved general, murdered by the Tribunal. Nadene Othryn, the young Dunmer girl from Cyrodiil, who stepped off the boat in Seyda Neen and was killed by the truth. And then...the woman who you travel with. Bitter. Lonely. Furious. Mostly at beings who are long dead."
"So what do I do?" Gelebor wrung his hands on the tablecloth. "Tell me how to help her. Please."
"Only Nadene can save Nadene. I saw the girl I tried to cure return a few times, during your stay at Tel Mithryn. Mostly when she spoke of you, or spoke to you. Everyone wants to be happy, I've learned. Some of us just make it remarkably hard for ourselves. Either because we think we deserve the pain, or because we've forgotten how to love." Divayth sniffed. "Gah. Listen to me. Prattling on like a priest of Mara. Here is what you can do for my patient, Gelebor. Stand by her, no matter what happens. Listen to her troubles, and reassure her of your love. And never forget that you're in a partnership. When Nadene wants to help you, let her come past your shield. Even when it hurts."
"I...I will." Gelebor's thoughts caught on that word: love. "I'll do my best."
"Don't do your best. Do what I say." Divayth stood. "I believe this tier is coming to an end. I'll see you again at Tel Mithryn. Good luck, snow elf."
"Thank you."
The candles lit up one by one, casting their circles of faint brilliance like an armada of lighthouses in a boundless oily sea. The talk around the manor gradually ceased. There were many tables around him with Dunmer couples sitting across from each other, but no sign of Nadene. And Divayth had vanished without so much as a puff of smoke. Maybe she's gone the same way.
"So concludes the first stage." Morvayn spoke again from the dais. Gelebor searched the faces around him for Nadene, with no success. "I hope your discussions in the dark were, shall we say, illuminating?"
There was no response from the sitting Redoran. Evidently, this was not a House that went in for pity laughter. Second Councilor Arano coughed pointedly.
"Well. Right, then. On to the second tier. Gravity. The essential seriousness of life. We must judge, endure, and reflect upon our hardships with due care and earnestness. And what better way to consider the gravity of a situation, than to fall into the arms of the one you trust the most? Oftentimes, I've found that the solution to a problem comes to me when I've already surrendered to my own helplessness. Move closer to your loved ones, my friends. Consider your trials and troubles as you dance in the candlelight."
Redoran guards came out to move the tables to the outer boundaries of the room, and the councilors and other elites began pairing off. The harpist began a slightly more exciting course of music, and the light notes filled the smoky air. Gelebor stood outside the circle of dancers, feeling a bit lost. He saw Kharjo with the tall braceleted Dunmer who'd tried to seduce him at the front doors. They were swaying side to side near the center of the room. Gelebor caught Kharjo's eye and tugged part of his cloak aside to reveal the armor underneath. He tapped the white steel and raised an eyebrow. Kharjo smiled, his fangs revealed, and shook his head.
"No one to dance with, mate?" A voice asked. Gelebor turned to see a thin Dunmer man in formal clothes sitting in one of the few chairs still around. "Take a seat. No use standin' around like a conjurer's forgotten pet."
"Not a bad idea." Gelebor sat. "From what part of Morrowind do you come from?"
"Blacklight, m'lord. Name's Traldus. But I'm no councillor, no sir. A harpist, I am."
"Oh?"
"Oh's right." Traldus crossed his legs and pointed off into the distance. "On break, now. My son's takin' over for a little while. Good lad. Really knows how to pull a string."
"I would certainly say so," Gelebor responded politely. "You must be a fine teacher."
"Hah. More like, he's becomin' a fine player despite my scrib-brained teachin'. Expect he'll be better than me, in a year or so." Traldus held up his fingers. "Got the shakes, you see? Started happenin' 'round my hundredth."
"I'm sorry to hear that." Gelebor glanced at the crowd, still looking for Nadene. "Have you considered seeking a mage or a healer for help?"
"On what I make? That's a laugh. 'Course, it doesn't help that our s'wit Archmaster isn't payin' me a blighted coin for this dinner."
"That doesn't seem like House Redoran's way." Gelebor frowned, now giving Traldus his full attention. "Surely you're being recompensed in some manner for your work."
"Naw." Traldus chuckled nervously, and looked around in the manner of one preparing to divulge some great secret. "The Archmaster get me out of a trouble spot a few years back, and the fetcher's been holdin' it over my head. Gets a free night of playin' every now and then."
"That doesn't seem particularly honorable."
"Them words didn't mean much when Redoran wasn't at the top of the mountain. Now there's all sorts of wheelin' and dealin' behind the scenes. I've seen a lot, living in Blacklight. Things you wouldn't believe. This House has a dark side, believe you me. 'Spose it was inevitable."
"I don't follow."
"Well, makes sense, don't it? Redoran had to change, after Ald'ruhn fell. Change or die. Took a little of Hlaalu, a little of Telvanni. Even a little of the Legion, though you won't get any of these fetchers to admit it. And now look at 'em." Traldus closed his eyes and let the sounds of the harp wash over him. "Look at us, I ought say. I'm Redoran whether I like it or not. Change or die, mate."
"Hey!" Nadene emerged from a circle of candlelight, her black dress slightly wrinkled. "I've been looking all over for you. Who's this?"
"Harpist," Traldus answered. "My son's playin', now. Real good, ain't he?"
"He's lovely." Nadene grabbed Gelebor's hands. "Come on. I'm sick of dancing with mer who want something from me."
"How do you know I don't want something?" Gelebor let her lead them to an open spot among the dancers. Here, the harp was louder and the candlesmoke more hazy.
"Difference there is, whatever you want…" Nadene moved his hands to her hip and lower back, and looked up at him. "I might want it too."
They moved slowly, comfortably, like two netches swaying over a beach of ash. He found it easy enough to mimic Nadene's movements, though he did step on her foot once or twice.
"Sorry," Gelebor said quietly.
"I'm sorry, too." Nadene rested her head on his chest. "For earlier, when I left you alone. I just can't stand it, sometimes. You know? Thinking about the gods, and all they've done to us."
"I understand why you're angry." Gelebor rubbed her back. "You just need to know...Auriel, the Chantry, the Vale...they'll always be a part of me. Of who I am. There are parts I want to remember. My childhood, some of the priests I knew. I loved my brother, Nadene. I never would have made it here without Vyrthur."
"You're right." Nadene bit her lip. "There are people from Vvardenfell I wouldn't like to forget, either. I just hate looking back at those unhappy times, now that we have each other."
"I don't think the past can't hurt us." Gelebor smiled. "Lord Fyr made an appearance, earlier."
"Really?" Red eyes blinked up at him. "Anything to worry about?"
"No. He just imparted some wise advice."
They swayed in harmony. Gelebor felt the warmth of her skin through the dress, and everything else in the hall seemed to fall away. The other dancers, the lovely harp, the scent of candles and drink.
"I'm dreadfully afraid. I meant to tell you earlier, but you already looked so stressed."
"What are you so scared of?"
"That I'll lose you." Gelebor swallowed. "That what we have is doomed to ruin."
"Of course it is. That's why it's precious, you sweet fool. I've done a lot of thinking, these past few weeks. About why I chose to be alone for so long." Nadene reached up and stroked his cheek. "It was that same terror, that you're feeling right now. The fear of loss. But now I've come to an understanding, I think."
"And what's that?" Gelebor bent his head.
"Everything ends, Gelebor. Everyone dies. And that's okay."
"I love you, Nadene."
"Show me."
Gelebor bent lower and met her lips, and his hands tightened on her waist. His insides turned to mush and a dreamlike calm filled every iota of the space around. All his worries and haunting memories faded away, and in that instant he couldn't imagine ever being bothered by them again. Not while he was with Nadene. He closed his eyes and surrendered to the warmth of her mouth against his, and thought: this is the greatest moment of my life.
"I love you too." She smiled, her cheeks flushed. "Now kiss me again."
He happily obeyed, and they remained in each other's arms until Councilor Morvayn came to the dais again and all movement around them stilled.
"I hope you've all had a pleasant time so far," Morvayn said. "We arrive at the final tier. Piety. Respect for the gods, and the virtues they represent. On this night we will remember our ancestors. Every Dunmer must know that they stand on the ashes of thousands who have come before. Reach into your satchels and backpacks, and take out the ash masks of your honored dead. Wear them proudly, and join my family in sacred prayer. Or retire to the outer boundaries of the hall, should you wish to conduct your worship in private or obtain some small refreshments."
"Ash masks?" Gelebor asked.
"Molds of the faces of the deceased," Nadene said, half-smiling. "Rich families have them made special before putting their dead to rest. So many of them lost access to their tombs after the Red Year. It's a relatively new tradition. Trying to rebuild some of what was lost, you know."
"Interesting." Gelebor noted she didn't speak with the usual bitterness she demonstrated towards her people. He remembered Divayth's words. Sometimes, the girl returns. "Do you have a mask?"
"Nope," Nadene said. Her smile wavered. "Orphan, remember?"
"I remember." He pulled her closer, and stroked her hair. "I prefer this way. I like your face, quite a lot. Why cover it up?"
"Oh, what a charmer." Nadene laughed and pulled him away from the dispersing dancers. Many were wearing their ash masks now, and Gelebor couldn't help but find the sight unsettling. Rigid gray shapes, the faces of Dunmer no longer in this world, greeted him in every direction. Some had rubies placed over the eyes, in a grim facsimile of living mer.
They stopped near a few empty tables at the edge of the hall.
"I'm going to go get a few drinks, maybe try to find Kharjo." Nadene squeezed his hand. "Go find us a good seat, not too close to any of the mask wearers. Prayer depresses me."
"Got it." Gelebor was reluctant to let go of her hand. He watched her disappear into the crowd, his heart singing.
He searched for a good spot, distantly wondering if Elder Othreloth was in attendance. The piety stage of this dinner had certainly brought him to mind. I've so much to share. If Auriel wanted me to find out for myself why I'm still here, I have an answer for him.
"Gelebor," A reedy voice called out. Traldus the harpist was beckoning him towards a table. He was wearing an ash mask of his own. "C'mere, mate."
Gelebor didn't particularly want to talk to this mer, but it would probably be rude to decline his invitation. He joined Traldus.
"Enjoy your dancin'?" Traldus sat stiffly, his head turned slightly away. "Quite the lass you've got, I saw."
"I had a good time." Gelebor grinned. "A wonderful time, actually. How about you?"
"Oh, y'know. Ups and downs."
Gelebor laughed politely.
"What's funny?"
"Err. Was that not a joke about dancing?"
"Oh. 'Course it was." Traldus' head fell forward slightly, so wisps of his long black hair fell over his mask. "Glad you've had a pleasant time. You're going to want to hold on to those memories."
"Pardon me?" Gelebor studied Traldus' posture. "Have you hurt your back, my friend? The mer I'm with knows a simple healing spell."
"Knows more than that, I'd wager." The mask on the harpist's face slid down, revealing one of his eyes. The red pupil stared sightlessly, enlarged in the candlelight. "Maybe necromancy."
"I don't think so." Gelebor registered in some distant corner of his mind that Traldus had learned how to pronounce the "g's" at the end of words. "None of that, no."
"Maybe how to make a dead man talk, so you can lure someone in close. So you can close your hand around his ankle."
"I…" Gelebor felt long, cold fingers touch him. "Please."
"She knows teleportation. I've been watching for a while. Pretty useful spell, it seems. And not too difficult to copy."
The mask fell off of Traldus. Bloody saliva dripped from the dead mer's lip onto the tablecloth below.
"Gelebor?" Nadene stared at them, eyes wide. She held two glasses. The sound from the harp abruptly ceased. There was a flash of fur somewhere beyond Nadene, as Kharjo sprinted across the hall.
"Sanyon," The corpse of Traldus corrected. "You killed my friend, remember?"
"Hold on-"
"Time for Vvardenfell at last, dear. The day of prophecy nears, and Namira has been waiting ever so patiently."
The fingers around Gelebor's ankle tightened, and the glasses fell from Nadene's hands. He reached for her, desperately, futilely, as the air around him was sucked away. His hand brushed the fabric of her dress, cool and light.
He didn't hear the glasses shatter.