A/N: Curtis having a bit of potty mouth again.
Disclaimer: What's Bethesda's is theirs, likewise for mod creators.
Chapter 25: Blackest Kingdom Reaches, p.2
John Henry hammered in the mountain
His hammer was striking fire.
But he worked so hard, he broke his poor heart.
He laid down his hammer and he died. Lord, Lord.
He laid down his hammer and he died.
"Curtis, there you are."
Curtis stopped singing and looked left and away from the bonemold pipe he was brute forcing into a broken bend of a Dwemer pipe. He sighed. Normally, he liked talking with Tolfdir, but ever since he'd returned from Raldbthar and his team had babbled about how his manic alter-ego (that wasn't Slitter) had manifested reality-bending powers of Alteration, Tolfdir had become keen on trying to teach him Alteration.
As it turned out, until now he'd never shown any talent for magic. Even the most untrained Dunmer could call a spark to light dry tinder, but not Curtis. And early testing had shown that Slitter had only a tiny magika pool that was expected of one who never took any training.
But now, after Raldbthar, Curtis was found to have a very large pool of power potential greater than any Master at the College except the Archimage. Curtis didn't know what to think. Gelebor and J'zargo had gone over events very carefully with him, recalling as much detail as they could about the magic he'd used and the way he'd used them. Curtis could think of no reason why he'd manifested a Dwemer persona. Gelebor had thought it a possession, but Slitter, with his limited understanding of magic and things mystical, had sworn to Colette that it was not an alien spirit or soul that that taken control, but something that came from Curtis. He called it an incarnation. The way he'd said it, the exact word he'd used was "Nerevarine."
Now that was bullshit. Curtis didn't believe in reincarnation. Okay, so he liked spooky stories like anybody else did. He'd done his share of watching those ghost hunting shows on TV, he'd loved the "Mummy" movies with the main characters recalling their past lives in Ancient Egypt, and who were reborn to fight the evil Imhotep. But he didn't believe in it. Besides, why in heck would he be this Dwemer master of magic?
One who knew how to turn on the Raldbthar defense system.
One who found all those little spiders that were scuttling through Skytemple and repairing the gemstone program boards and routing power lines.
One who could jury rig a key lock to one of the great lifts.
One who made him dream of the Dwemer game cities, but not as wrecked ruins, but as thriving cities with children racing spider cars through the corridors ventilation tubes, being chased by robotic nannies. Of sipping hot mushroom tea and listening to the music machines made when they were operating properly. Relaxing. Like the ambient noise on the bridge of a starship. Dreaming in the deep depths, listening to the thrum of the bones of the world as it danced in the void, bobbing in and out and through the musical waves of creatia.
One who looked upon the ruins of the Dwemer and wanted to desperately cry in pain and loss and the betrayal of dreams.
Who was he then? Fuckin' Kagrenac?
"Curtis, I had another idea for bringing out your power," said Tolfdir. "Perhaps our approach with standard basic instruction is wrong. I think—" Tolfdir broke off, concern causing a crease between his eyebrows. "Curtis, is there something wrong?"
"Sorry, Tolfdir. My mind was somewhere else."
"You do seem more distracted than usual. Perhaps you should take some time away. A few days at the Shrine of Azura perhaps?"
"Maybe. But … Nah, it just doesn't feel right for some reason. Not my goddess, not my religion. She likes her riddles and I really don't need any more riddles or mysteries or confusion. I'm way past my eyeballs here, Tolfdir. I don't think I can cope with anything more."
"I see," said Tolfdir slowly. "I believe the phrase you used before is 'reality bites.' So, it is gone beyond biting to savaging?"
"Yeah. And I'm lacking my rabies and tetanus shots." Curtis carefully put down his hammer. He didn't need to be holding anything heavy right now.
"What am I doing here, Tolfdir? Why am I here? People say, 'I'd kill to be where you are now.' Really? But would they willingly die for this dream? There's no guarantee they'd be the hero of the story, that they'd be the Dragonborn of Skyrim. 'Cuz I wasn't asked. 'Cuz if I was asked, I'd prefer not to die in the first place. I also wouldn't ask to be reborn here.
"It's not cool, it's not neat, it's not a blast. It's surviving, Tolfdir, 'cuz Raldbthar reminded me I'm not living the dream. It's not a dream I wanted. And I'm real tired right now of having to invent all these new connections. I'm feeling like I want to jump down a lift shaft. Don't worry. I won't. Slitter won't let me. He wants to live and he puts up with me 'cuz he believes he's got advantages that he didn't have before. Like Colette. Like influence and respect. Like friends. It's weird. He's the motivator now and kicking me to keep going. Stupid sonovabitch won't let me give up.
"I look at Gelebor and think how he's depending on me to bring back his people in their pods. And I'm reminded how I totally failed in my last life. Sure, I tell myself, it wasn't my fault. I trusted somebody who stabbed me in the back. I didn't deliberately let my clients, my friends, my people down, but I had to take responsibility. It was my company, my reputation, my obligation to make things right. And I died while trying to do that.
"And I gotta start all over again? 'Cuz that's what Raldbthar is telling me. I screwed up. Again. And I gotta make up for it. I'm a fake, Tolfdir! I don't know what I'm doing and I'm just winging it."
He was feeling calm again. He stared hard at Tolfdir. "Yeah, you keep plastering me with that calm spell, but it ain't fixing the foundation. It's a patch and it won't hold long.
"Don't worry. I've got enough to continue to do what I was brought back here for. We'll get those people out, then my part's over. I suppose I can break down then, but not before. Gotta complete the job first." He picked up his hammer. "'Scuse me, I wanna finish with this pipe."
He went back to listen to the comforting rhythm of hammer on metal and bone, and was still deep in moody dreams as he called up power to activate the new flux formulation recently created by Brother Tellion, the project's newest industrial alchemist, to create an airtight weld between the two materials.
Tolfdir, silently watching, pursed his lips thoughtfully.
X—X—X—X—X—X—X
While he was at Raldbthar, Colette had done as she said and had talked with Joric of Morthal. Convinced that the boy was not delusional, she'd introduced him to Talos priest Olve and Auri-El priest Brother Salindil. Both judged the boy authentic in his calling.
Magically, though, for all his having once been Archimage Gaulder, his talents had tested out as slightly above average for a beginner, but not spectacularly so.
Curtis had been drinking hot, mulled wine while staring out through a courtyard window eastward towards Morrowind. Even from here he could see the smoking tip of Red Mountain. He had been humming the Morrowind theme song when Joric had popped up beside him.
"Good morning, Master Curtis. Master Tolfdir said you had some questions for me about Archimage Gaulder?"
He hadn't, but he supposed Tolfdir had a reason to send the boy to him. Considering his fit of melancholy a couple days ago, Tolfdir likely had a sneaky reason to send the boy to him.
"Oh, I'll bet you're bored by now of the same question—" He began, but Joric's amused snort interrupted him.
"No, I don't remember much about being Gaulder. Most stuff I picked out of the same books everyone else has access to. And one would think that 5000 years ago people knew how to write stuff down, but if they did, it never made it here. Even if there were more, I wouldn't be interested in studying them," the boy declared.
"So you don't want to remember anything of your life as Gaulder? Why not?" asked Curtis.
"Why should I?" Joric countered. The boy turned partially away to look out to Red Mountain. "He had his turn; this is mine. I am Joric, the son of Idgrod Ravencrone and Aslfur Blackwing. My sister is Idgrod Ravencrone the Younger. We're Nords. She's gonna be the Jarl someday, and I'm gonna be the next Archimage of Winterhold. This is the Fourth Era. Gaulder was a Breton and born 5000 years ago. He married a Falmer, and her name was Shiren of Clan Lorefaroth, and her family were builders and groundskeepers of the Western Gate of Auri-El in the sacred vale of the Heiroc Mountains. They had three sons. He lived his life as a mage and advisor to kings and was respected by Man and Mer. He thought if he worked with Skyrim's High King, he could stop the Nord campaign to kill all the Falmer. He was wrong. The world has moved on since then." The boy glanced back at him and blinked, a shadow of resentment on his face.
"When I think of Gaulder, I feel sad and lost and my heart hurts. The world starts feeling not real. It's too strange. I don't like feeling like that."
Yeah. Curtis remembered that in the Game Joric was always running around town. Now he understood the child Joric was back then was trying to escape the emotions and the memories that weren't his, that he had no intellectual way to cope with, and that all his instincts were telling him to run. Run far, run fast. Constantly running away. "Okay, I get you."
"Oh, good. It's like how you had to forget all of who you were to be happy with who you are now."
Curtis froze.
"I came from another place," he protested. "I remember perfectly well who I was, where I was born."
"Yes. After you left this one." Joric looked away again and suddenly started fidgeting. "Then they brought you back and put back the memories you left behind. Um, I really need get to the Arcanium to study for tomorrow's Restorations test, Master Curtis. May I go now?"
"Yeah, sure."
Joric spun away and sprinted towards the Hall of Elements.
So it was official. The weird kid said he'd been here before. Who had he been then? Why had he left? Curtis wasn't sure he wanted to know that answer. It brought out that inexplicable, tearing pain in his heart. The same pain whenever he remembered his family back in Seattle, on Earth, that third rock from the sun. But in a way, it was worse because there were no faces, no memories, nothing to point at and say "I still remember." Instead, it was, "I lost something. I can't remember what. I still miss it. It hurts not to remember. It hurts because I don't remember. I don't know why. Why don't I know why?"
Dammit. Now he was Dory the ditzy, amnesiac blue fish in that "Finding Nemo" movie.
Curtis bolted awake that night. Vague memories of battle. Of screaming. Of dying.
Jesus H. Christ, his head hurt from the pounding of every heartbeat!
He needed a drink. Hell, even Slitter was agitated and spoiling for violent action. A compromise. Curtis got his strong drink and then laced on boots, threw on a thick coat and his Dwemer claymore, and went for a long jog down from the College and along the coast in the general direction of Dawnstar.
He came across a group hauling in boats and unloading stuff. In the middle of the night and not at any port? Riiiiight. Smugglers. Unfortunately, they detected him.
He was glad. Stupidly glad. He drew his claymore and charged, yelling like a Nord.
X—X—X—X—X—X—X
Zzzaaappp!
Dammit! Damn lightning must have hit a transformer somewhere and he lost power right in the middle of a boss fight! He grumbled and carefully felt around the tool drawer of his desk until he felt the strap of his headlamp. As he put it on, he suddenly aware that he had a massive headache. "Not an aneurysm. You're imagining it," he told himself.
… I'm having pain sensation in a dream? …
He went to the kitchen and got a beer. He peeked out the kitchen window. Total black. So he wasn't the only one in the neighborhood without lights. Come to think of it, there was no rain, no thunder, no lighting. Weird.
But, fuck, he was just getting into the fight with Dagoth Ur and, stupidly, he hadn't saved before entering Red Mountain. Now he'd have to start all over from…
Someone was sitting at his kitchen table. So he laid down in his bed, which made perfect sense in a dream for there to be a bed in the kitchen. So it was going to be another one of those dreams where he knew he was dreaming he was awake in a dream reality.
"Yo, Nerevar, how you doing?"
Yup, it was his game character. More or less what he always pictured in his head despite the limitation of preset character skins of the Morrowind game. Big Nord, honkin' Roman nose (from his Italian grandfather he claims), longish black hair with blond sun streaks, viking braids on the side, no beard, hazel eyes. He'd been modeled after a high school friend from the Ballard part of town which had once had a high Scandinavian population that faded in 80s and 90s from attrition and with the 90s tech boom bringing in a lot of California people. Developers pounced, razed the old homes for fast, shoddily-built condos. His friend had died in a car accident almost a decade ago.
"Well enough, friend," replied Nerevar. The Nerevarine, if you want to be specific about it. "How are you feeling?"
… Just keep swimmin', just keep swimmin'…
"Well, considering I'm dreaming that I'm talking to a game character during a blackout caused by a thunderstorm and I can't figure how I'm still asleep — I'm doing great."
"A game. What game is this then?"
"Morrowind, of course, Elder Scrolls 3. You are the hero, the Nerevarine, and my avatar kinda looks like you. Not perfect, but close enough. Shitty time for a blackout. We were just about to go for the boss battle, you know, with Dagoth Ur."
"Voryn," said the Nerevarine, and sighed. "My fault. I forgot the Heart of Lorkhan was still the heart of a god. There was no way he could have withstood the will of a god when I set him to guard it."
"Yeah, well, my friend Kagrenac really fucked up there, doing all those experiments behind my back. When you think 'dead god,' you gotta ask, what is death to a god?"
— Not right, not right! You're the crazy one! Outworder, Dwemer, and a talking blue fish? I may be the stupid one, but at least I knew who and what I was! —
Nerevar blinked slowly at him. "Indeed. What is death? Just another waiting door, yes?"
"Yeah."
…swimmin', swimmin'…
Man, why was his head hurting in a dream? Fucking pounding. It was hard to think rationally. He wanted to find the damn Taiko drummer and beat him and his buddies with their own mallets.
"I have to wonder what door you went through," said Nerevar softly. "You didn't go with your people."
"I died before them, you know? Funny how the Nords actually got that part of history right and the Dunmer got it all wrong. Deliberately wrong, I think. The Tribunal rewrote it; bad PR otherwise.
"You and me, we did quarrel. I was embarrassed. And pissed. Real pissed about this secret project with the brass god. If anyone had come to me with the idea of building a time and dimensional controlling supercomputer incorporating the unstable powers of a fallen god of chaos, and then all of that controlled by an experimental AI that sucked in and patterned its neural network from this same chaos god's unconscious mind, you think I would have approved of the project? No! Fuckin' Oblivion no!
"But Kagrenac knew that since I wasn't the genius tech overlord he was. He knew if he threw enough technobabble at me while I was too busy juggling interracial and international politics, I'd be too overwhelmed to really think about the projects he wanted me to approve funding for. And I trusted him like you trusted Voryn. I rubber-stamped his projects.
"Kagrenac, being a true atheist, didn't believe a dead god might be able to call upon its followers to rescue it from being resurrected back to some mechanical imitation of life like some docile, damned Robocop.
"But Lorkhan woke up. He wasn't happy. He got to Voryn, and Voryn went to the Nords, and the Nords invaded, answering the call of the jihad to rescue the heart of their god from us evil, godless mers. Voryn led them right to us. 'Lexi, Sotha, and 'Vec…
"Fuckin' sorry, Nerevar. We gave it our best, but my people couldn't see yours as equal because they rejected technology, and yours were fanatic about living the simple Velothi Life and our alliance was a threat to it. Your counselors and generals deliberately held back, kept your armies from coming to our rescue, and let my people take the full brunt of it.
"The Tongues and the Nords and the Orcs punched through my army and rampaged through my cities. Alandro used Wraith Mail and was the heat shield that took the all that crap Lorkhan threw at us and lead you and me to where the Heart was. Voryn and Wulfharth were right behind us. Alandro killed Wulfharth. I got my hits on the Heart with Sunder and knocked Lorkhan loose of his power, his protections, all the while Voryn was working his way through my armor to stab me in the back.
"And since I was already dead and on my way to the eternal chorus when the blast hit from your final strike, I got blown sideways into another dimension. Your people's betrayal saved them, I guess, since they weren't there when Lorkhan died again and he dragged my people back with him to wherever dead gods go."
"Well, the Chimer didn't escape entirely," Nerevar murmured. "They got stuck with my traitor wife and faithless friends."
The batteries were dying. The light was fading. His heart was pounding louder and sound of coursing blood and power was the doom of collapsing stone. The scream of a god in the hollow bones of earth came closer to shattering his mind.
"Gods dammit! Stick a knife in me already!"
"Never, Dumac. I can't lose you again."
X—X—X—X—X—X
Zzzaaappp!
Curtis woke. He was in bed in his room. Last thing he remembered was that beach and that damn smuggler mage throwing a lightning ball at him. He sensed movement on his right.
Whoa. It was his game character. More or less what he always pictured in his head despite the limitation of preset character skins of the Morrowind game. Big Nord, honkin' Roman nose (from his Italian grandfather he claims), longish black hair with blond sun streaks, viking braids on the side, no beard, hazel eyes. He'd been modeled after a high school friend from the Ballard part of town which had once had a high Scandinavian population that faded in 80s and 90s from age attrition and the tech boom bringing in a lot of California people. Developers pounced, razed the old homes for fast, shoddily-built condos. His friend had died in a car accident almost a decade ago.
The Nord smiled widely with humor and warmth, and Curtis was aware he'd been rudely staring. He tiredly lifted a hand to his eyes and rubbed, hoping to pass it off as temporary bad vision from sickness.
He looked at his hands. They seemed okay. He touched his hair. Oh, a lot of crispiness there. Yeah, a lot of healing had been done, but spells can't restore burned hair.
Well, since the stranger wasn't volunteering anything… "Hi. I'm Curtis. Who are you?"
The stranger blinked and his smile faded, the hope, the warmth slowly dying. Curtis felt inexplicably bad about that, but he didn't understand why.
"Severus Timberwolf. I and my companion saw you battling a band of smugglers. We went to help, but didn't get there in time to stop their mage from blasting you."
"You weren't hurt I hope?" Curtis asked.
"No. We know how to handle mages."
"Just the two of you?"
"You did a good job of keeping all their attention on yourself. Interesting fighting style."
"Severus, Severus" Curtis murmured, lying back and looking up at the ceiling. "That sounds familiar. Oh! Naw. This ain't Harry Potter and you ain't Snape."
Severus made a sound, a faint chuckle of a man in pain yet making effort at civil conversation. "No. Who is 'Harry Potter?'"
"Don't mind me. I'm babbling." Curtis gave a big sigh and ventured to raise both arms straight up to the ceiling. He rotated them slowly as if turning invisible knobs. A simple action to encourage blood flow in his brain by triggering neurons controlling muscles and coordination, a gradual chain-reaction stimulation that led to small, subtle stretches. "So, um, you guys brought me back here?"
"Yes."
"And the smugglers?"
"Let those who surrendered live for now. My friend worked a strong pacify spell and we had them stack their goods in a dry place and led them back here. The Jarl will decide their fate."
"Who's your friend?"
"Taliesin."
"Taliesin, Chief of Bards?" Curtis let his right hand fall to smack himself on the forehead. "Of course not. Sorry. Guess I'm still lagging in Lala Land."
"Well, he is a bard," Severus conceded. "He's an excellent instrumentalist. So is his sister. I believe you know her. Helsette Faro."
A Dunmer leaned into the room. "Tolfdir's ready to meet with us, Uncle Wolf." He saw that Curtis was awake and came in to stand by his bed. "Well, hello there, stranger. Hope you learned charging into a group of a dozen heavily armed smugglers in the middle of the night was probably not a good idea?"
Severus nudged him reprovingly. "Curtis, this is Taliesin. Taliesin, Curtis."
Taliesin grinned down at him. Curtis grinned weakly back. He had good feelings about this guy. "Hey, I woulda had 'em if one of them wasn't a mage."
"Yes, well, try explaining that to the two angry ladies I saw heading this way. Gods be with you," he concluded as Colette and Ilya marched into the room. "Come on, ser," he said to Severus. "No rescuing him from this."
The two quickly escaped. Colette silently checked him over. Satisfied with her examination, they both sat down and stared hard at him. "Fuck," he flipped his blanket over his head. It was childish. He could feel their disapproval increase exponentially on the other side of the wool.
"Look, I'm sorry! I got spooked by a really bad dream. I wasn't thinking!"
"And what dream is this, Curtis?" asked Colette.
He thought about it. His nerves over their anger faded to a clinical calm. "Another 'me dying' one. But different. I'm not drowning. I'm not falling. I was swinging a sledge, doing demo on something, and some goldskin keeps stabbing me in the back. Then the whole reactor blows and everybody in my city dies. Boom. End of the world. And Arnie doing his 'I'll be back' voiceover."
"What is 'demo'?" asked Ilya.
"Hm? Oh. Demo is short for demolition. I was trying to break something apart. Clear obstacles, rubble, to make way for new construction. For rebuilding. For remodeling." He went quiet under the blanket for a long while. When He pulled his blanket down. His eyes were wide in shock.
"Who was that guy in here? He called me 'Dumac.' Dumac as in King Dumac of the Dwemer House Strong Shield? House Vvardenfell?"
X—X—X—X—X—X
Taliesin, mage and bard, had showed up on bardic Fridas night with an expensive looking two-stringed instrument he called a hu'uchir, looking and sounding like that two-string Mongolian snakeskin violin. He volunteered to play with Curtis. Curtis let him. He'd listened to Taliesin playing some Morrowind tunes and he could hear that the other was a very talented instrumentalist. He was sure the mage could do harmony even if he'd never heard before the song Curtis was going to sing.
Heck, Curtis hadn't known he was going to sing it when he took the stage. It had just come to him as he saw Colette and Ilya and between them was Severus Timberwolf. They watched him. They were there for him. The Akatosh priests sat with the Talos priest. Also there for him at another table, the kid's table, was Savela and Elden and Joric with with his owl. He felt strangely happy. He was still reeling with confusion from this morning's revelation. It wasn't Game; it wasn't Lore. But he didn't care. He was ridiculously happy today.
In troubled times,
it's hard to get straight answers.
Between the lines
that border wrong or right,
the homeland cries
and struggles with confusion.
But this feelin' still remains
like shelter from the rain
We live of faith
in the hands of those who guide us
and tear the page
on the fear we left behind.
We set the pace
for every born survivor.
Don't turn the other way
when I need to hear you say
Allies — with our backs against the wall.
I will answer when you call
and take on the odds
for what we believe is true.
Allies in a world of too much choice.
I only need your voice
to tell me you care,
I'll be anywhere for you. Allies.
We search our hearts
to justify the reason
and draw the line
to meet somewhere halfway.
If faith is blind,
through darkness it will guide us
'cause the spirit still remains
with the keepers of the flame.
Allies — with our backs against the wall…
Songs: "John Henry" by Pete Seeger; "Allies" by Heart
GalacticHalfling: In Joric's case, have you ever seen those paranormal shows where parents claim their kids (usually less around 3 or 4 years) recall past lives? And in Curtis's case, I'll go with 'special case.' The new O.W.L. god of Apocrypha, if you've never done a backup reinstall from an archival disk, old opsys to new, it's so easy to mess up.
Ted Hsu: Yup, Slitter has a strong self preservation instinct. *just keep swimming, swimming, swimming…*