The first few weeks were a blur to Aredhel. Time lost its meaning as she and the other initiates were forced into a rigorous schedule the likes of which none of them had ever been subjected to in their young lives. Even simply thinking became a struggle under their new overlords, the tall and foreboding Thalmor in their austere robes, whose demands were steep and whose wrath was always swift. Tests of strength, cunning and endurance were a daily feature and those who failed were denied luxuries such as sleep and food.
At first Aredhel didn't understand the point of these contests, but after a month and half of training she learned why her masters were so intent on driving the children so hard.
One of the boys, Erancar, didn't wake up one morning. Aredhel and the others gathered around his bed only to be shooed away by their trainers. They watched silently as Erancar's body was removed from the bed and carried away; Radolmar, the vicious observer who always judged the children's progress from afar, made an offhand comment that Erancar had grown too weak and passed away of exhaustion. Aredhel didn't like Radolmar one bit. Not only did he go out of his way to make her miserable during training, he would sometimes come into the children's quarters at night and watch her while she pretended to sleep. She especially didn't like how he seemed to approve of the fact that Erancar had died.
But as always, the harsh training made her forget her unease and turned her musings into gray, meaningless static. All that mattered was winning, making sure she earned the privileges of nourishment and rest. She never hesitated, never stayed her hand when her survival was on the line. As much as she would like to have friends among the other trainees, the rules eliminated any chance of friendship. Everything was a contest and she had to win at any cost. Sometimes she didn't come out on top, but at least she was never one of the losers at the bottom of the rankings. Soon she forgot to feel upset when one of the least capable children died. They were rivals, opponents, others; they were too incompetent to be people. Aredhel remembered believing otherwise once, but it that life seemed more like something from a distant dream than a memory.
Her body changed along with her mind, losing baby fat and growing lean from the constant exertion. She learned how to fight more effectively with her bare hands, how to duel with knives and swords, how to swing heavy two-handed weapons and how to block with a shield. The combat master, who had seemed to like her the very first day of training, always offered a word or two of advice after each sparring session. She decided he was a good man despite his perpetual frown and heavy brow. He never coddled any of the trainees, but neither did he act spiteful without cause. Sometimes he would glance over at Radolmar in a manner that almost appeared disdainful. That alone was enough to win Aredhel's approval.
One day as the recruits stood in formation and listened to Radolmar speak on elven supremacy, she risked a glance at her comrades and realized they didn't even look like children anymore. They were soldiers now, smaller versions of the warriors in gilded armor who patrolled the castle grounds. There was something about the sight that didn't set right with her, something that bothered her, but she couldn't quite place what it was anymore. It was getting harder how to recall what her parents had even looked like, how their voices sounded. It was as if she had been born into this life – as if she had never existed to do anything but this. Thinking about it too much would surely cause her to falter, so she cleared her mind and paid attention to the speech instead.
As the months passed and turned into years, she kept on clearing her mind and ignoring those conflicting thoughts, until they turned into abstract concepts and became idle fancies with little meaning at all. When the children weren't learning to how to fight, they stood and listened to lectures on many subjects: mathematics, philosophy, religion, thaumaturgy, and several other disciplines. Aredhel learned how to stand absolutely still without fidgeting, how to stare straight ahead without letting her eyes wander; those who failed to do so were thrashed. Anyone who failed to answer a question correctly following lecture was similarly punished. Excel or suffer, the instructors always said. Win or die.
Win or die! The words echoed in her head as she outstripped and beat down her opponents, as any trace of compassion or mercy in her young mind was stamped away by desperation. Win or die. Win or die.
One day she killed one of the others, a freak hit in hand-to-hand combat that broke the girl's nose and sent it straight up into her brain. All Aredhel could think as she watched the blood pool was that her opponent must not have been worthy enough. She didn't even cry. Crying is for lesser beings, she told herself when her eyes began to sting. Why mourn when you've won? You're still alive.
Nobody looked at her as if she were a monster for the act. The others shared her drive for success, knew the price of failure. It created an unspoken bond between them, an understanding that even if it meant killing one another, each would strive to be the very best. There was no alternative. None of their eyes held innocence anymore; instead they were cold and sharp, aware and alert. Their numbers had dwindled from three dozen to twenty-five by now. Pretending to be shocked over death was a waste of time and energy.
Finally, after several years, the time came when Aredhel and the surviving children no longer needed to be provoked into reporting for their lessons or keeping proper posture; it came as naturally as breathing. They recited the Thalmor mantras with shoulders squared and backs straightened in pride, trained dutifully for the sake of achieving mastery, excelled in their studies to hone their intellects to a razor's sharpness. Every day was a new chance to prove one's worth and uphold the Aldmeri commitment to perfection. They were allowed to grow their hair out now, allowed to dress in Thalmor robes as their superiors did, even allowed their own rooms; Aredhel relished this, embraced her role with eagerness born of ambition. For the years spent suffering through those first stages of training had planted seeds which now bloomed into certainty.
All that mattered was fulfilling her destiny as one of the Dominion's chosen ones. The gods had surely spared her unworthy life for this purpose. There was no family but the family she had earned her place in. There was no truth but the fact that she and her peers were the pinnacle of Altmer superiority, bright lights in a world of shades and shadows. Her life was one of stability and fulfillment now. Aredhel never thought of asking for anything else, because what could possibly exist outside this world of enlightened flawlessness? Only churls and filth.
Yet still the problem of Radolmar remained. A problem that grew more and more aggravating each year.
Her passage into womanhood came and went, an unremarkable time of minor adjustment as her body prepared itself for the possibility of childbearing. Aredhel didn't even bother slowing her stride, dealing with the less pleasant changes as she dealt with all things: efficiently. Indeed, many of the other female initiates had already grown out of the juvenile form by the time she did, but Radolmar's unwanted attentions only increased. He was the breath down her neck, the prying eyes always at her back. Aredhel despised the man. He always preached about Thalmor ideals, but she suspected his mind was far from devoted to higher things. He seemed more concerned with her, and not in a respectful or didactic way.
And then there were the dreams; intrusive visions that filled her sleeping mind with wild imagery and left her with questions upon waking. The soothsayers who trained her in magecraft had always warned of possible omens, portents, slivers of the mystical unknown that commonly plagued magically gifted folk; but still Aredhel found it difficult to stomach some of what she saw in the dreams. Faceless elves in fine robes beheaded by a masked man with a monstrous axe, piles of dead children, Radolmar's leering face glaring down at her larger than life... and then there was the most unusual dream of them all. Always the same image: an impossibly tall mountain with a snowy peak, colorful auroras dancing overhead, and a ragged gray dragon perched at the mountain's apex. Waiting. Somehow in the dream-world she knew him to be kind.
But there are no kind dragons, she thought to herself. There are no dragons at all.
Yet there was one dream that brought her an odd sense of comfort, of delight. The dream of flying – the sensation of soaring through clouds to heights of thin and frigid air, under majestic skies filled with starlight. It stirred something primal within her that yearned for such power and freedom. An odd sort of wistfulness that tugged at her heart especially when she meditated in the high tower that gave her a view of the coastline and the sea beyond; as she gazed upon Alinor's beauty she realized that despite its grandeur, it was not enough. It would never be enough. She wanted more. This hunger remained her most carefully guarded secret as she continued to progress through training, for she knew the masters would not understand. You belong to the Dominion, they always reminded the initiates, but Aredhel couldn't help feeling they repeated themselves to ensure that their charges would never bother to think otherwise.
Do they truly think us stupid? She thought one day as she sat in the library, a Conjuration tome in hand as she watched her fellows study other magical volumes. It was an out-of-nowhere thought, a thought whispered by some inner aspect of herself she had forgotten existed. The tenth anniversary of her arrival to the citadel had passed barely two months ago. I cannot even recall my own surname, but I know there is a life beyond these walls. A life I was meant to live. It felt terribly wrong to question the wisdom of her superiors yet it was deliciously satisfying. Part of her still clung to the idea that since the Thalmor had given her everything – food, shelter, clothes, training, resources – she owed them nothing but absolute obedience. Indeed, she could come up with no single good reason to break from the system she now belonged to besides pure and utter ingratitude. Shame colored her cheeks as she returned her attention to the task at hand. The Dominion needs us to aid in the establishment of true order in the world, she reminded herself. Without this place, what might I have become? A street rat, a beggar, a pauper condemned to a miserable existence with no purpose? I am here for a reason. There is no glory in selfishness.
Word soon came of war in the north. Excited whispers of the Dominion's decision to punish the Third Empire's insolence by invading Hammerfell and Cyrodiil simultaneously, of elven bravery and strategic genius against the Men who dared act as though their petty pride was worth spilling blood over. Training was accelerated; a new phase began in which Aredhel and the others were taken outside the fortress to perform missions in Alinor's countryside. Simple maneuvers gradually escalated into full-on mock battles, skirmishes which forced the initiates to fight in varying climates and environments. Aredhel rose to every challenge with determination, deploying atronachs and casting powerful wards even as she swung her bound sword and smashed her opponents with a glass shield. They battled through swamps, through dense forests, through snowdrifts several feet deep, learning the very same lesson that had begun the first day of training: adaptation. Wild animals interfered and were slain for the annoyance. The strain, the discomfort, the danger – it rekindled the primal spark within and goaded her to seek more. But her focus had grown strong, strong enough to keep such urges from obstructing the here and now. The Dominion is my home. My family. I will not forsake it on a wild whim, she resolved.
But it was during one spring eve's meditation that she finally settled upon the real reason why she could not bring herself to forsake the institution within which she had been raised. Curiosity and introspection coupled with long hours of quiet stillness to yield a nugget of honesty, a rare and raw thing that seared through the layers of indoctrination and burned unapologetic in the forefront of her mind. I do not love anyone, she mused. I bear no real affection for my peers or my teachers. I harbor no true zeal for the Dominion. There is not one ounce of true conviction within me that binds me to these principles. I have benefited from this system and thus I continue to operate within its confines. Perhaps once I wholeheartedly believed in the Thalmor creed, but I have learned well how to follow the motions. A terrible shadow of melancholy settled on her then, a realization to accompany the harsh truth taking shape. Why then do I lie so convincingly, so earnestly that even I believe my own farce? What is it that holds me here? If not love or loyalty, what then?
Power, a subtle little whisper breathed.
It was a revelation that left her despairing for many days and nights. But the despair was merely an after-effect of having the thick wall a childhood filled with brainwashing had erected around her consciousness shattered like brittle glass. It soon faded as she continued to train, throwing herself into her duties with a newfound single-minded determination that only served to augment her skill. Suddenly the world seemed brighter, as if she were viewing it with her own two eyes for the first time as opposed to peering through a dirty glass. Repressed memories came back in vague scraps, barely enough to discern but sufficient to fuel her blooming ethos. Power is victory, she told herself. Victory is survival.
Radolmar and the other masters were cold. Powerful in their own right, utterly self-assured, but frigid and content to remain comfortable in the roles the Dominion required them to play. Aredhel burned with a heat that drove her to mastery not for the Dominion's sake, or any other's; her heart was a furnace, a flaming coal that warmed her even on the coldest days. The time for shame and hesitation was long behind her; no longer did she trouble herself with accusations such as ingrate. No longer did the world exist as a vast and inexorable machine bound by the expectations of others, in which she only toiled as a slave permitted to live by grace. I control my destiny, she resolved. I am, and always have been, the one who will live on.
Hubris, perhaps. But it was hardly unjustified. As news of the war continued to trickle in, rumors began to abound that soon the most capable of the initiates would depart the citadel and journey to participate in battle. Aredhel knew she would be among that number; the results she yielded in training spoke for themselves. It was a prospect that fanned the flames of her ambition even higher.
She dreamed of flying through the skies over alien lands now, exploring civilizations she had never seen before, experiencing wonders reserved only for the bravest and most skilled of adventurers. Sometimes in the dream, she walked the earth and odd shadows passed overhead, vast shapes that brought with them a rush of wind and the sound of great wings beating. But instead of fright, the distant roar carried by the wind evoked a sense of wonderment. Come, it seemed to say. See.
And oh, how she intended to.