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Chapter Text

Depending on whose tales you hear, and more importantly whose you believe, the prince Namira can take many forms. Spirit Queen. Lady of Decay. The Great Darkness. Ur-dra. Black Fly.

The Void.

That is a thing which I have come to know quite well.

If you ask the Khajiit, they will tell you that Namiira is the darkness that corrupted the heart of Lorkhaj, that she is ruler of the Dark Behind the World. They will say that it was by her hand that the world was made full of suffering, and that she is a thing to be feared, seeking to bend the spirits of mortals into unnatural forms after death, and causing them to walk once more among the living as monstrous shadows of their former selves.

Most will say that she is lord over pestilence and revulsion, primarily, knowing only the tale of Wheedle by which to define Namira. They know only that she is the patron of those less fortunate, the diseased and destitute, the maimed and the forgotten, invisible to most and repulsive to all. They do not understand just how far this prince’s power extends, unable or unwilling to open their minds to the truth. Which is truth, and which is mere legend is difficult to distinguish, certainly, though if recent events are anything to go by, then the only thing I can be sure of is that her power is far greater than most would suspect.

After all, the Prince of Schemes would not have suffered his displacement by just any domineering aspect with a taste for mortal pacts; it takes something very powerful to see that done.

The men of The Reach, I think, have the closest approximation. For them she oversees not only the spirit world and the darkness that dwells there, but also new beginnings. This duality seems, at least to me, to align far more with reality than the beliefs of other cultures. Does not a fallen tree nourish young saplings with the decay of its body? For life to exist, there must also be death. For light to exist, there must also be darkness. The Reachmen will tell you that Namira receives their spirits after life. Sometimes, she will send them back into the world to live again.

After all I’ve seen, I refuse to believe she had no hand in this.

That is not to say I believe hers to be the only power involved here. As a matter of fact, I doubt it. Otherwise why would I no longer hear the Heart’s whispers in my mind? Unless it too is gone for good? I wish I knew for certain. In fact, I wish a good deal of things that I cannot have, even now. There must be a purpose to this new development, there must be. Events of this magnitude seldom occur without there being some catch, some entity either Daedric or Divine, which has some stake in how things will play out.

Personally, my bets are on the former. There has been enough Daedric influence in my life that it is really more a question of probability than of possibility. I cannot immediately write off the idea of Divine intervention either, though, however unlikely I think it. At least I have experience dealing with Daedra, with both Bal and Namira at one point laying claim to a part of me. I will say it, the moment in which I felt my soul change hands is something I would not wish on my worst enemies. I would like to avoid repeating it, if possible.

My memories of the past few years (Centuries? Millennia? I am uncertain at this point) are hazy at best. For that, I have the Dark Heart to blame. Existing in a state of meditation so deep one ceases to be aware of the shadows creeping in and out of sight, time bleeding together and separating out again in thin tendrils of light that twist and blend until memories are laid over each other with no barrier between what is real and what is remembered, with only the whispered screams of damned souls seeping out of the Heart to hear… I nearly lost my mind on more than one occasion. But I knew that if I succumbed to madness the world would be utterly destroyed in a very short amount of time.

That was the gamble, you see. I stayed to guard it from being used for darker purposes, to keep it in a state of low-energy stasis, assuming that I myself would not in turn attempt to use it for anything more than to sustain my own existence.

For a while, it worked.

I think.

But something happened, something catastrophic.

I don’t know what that was, but I know I’m not there anymore.

Gone are the walls of stone and brass, gone is the sphere of dark power that was my source of life for so long, gone are the eerie green tendrils that were my only source of light since the day I bid my family goodbye and sealed myself away with the Dark Heart for good.

Now, there is sun on my skin. I can see my breath come in puffs of vapor, feel the gooseflesh over my arms as a chilly breeze hits me. It takes my breath away, for a moment. How long has it been since I’ve felt the air move around me? How long have I been sealed away in stagnant caves? How long has it been since the heat of the sun has touched me, warmed me, lit my way?

It doesn’t burn like it used to, and that is perhaps what surprises me the most. I finally look down at my hands, and find that they no longer carry the sickly, snow-white pallor that they used to. No, they are the sun-kissed gold of my youth, a shade I have not seen in myself since long before I gave my soul away. I quickly run my tongue over my teeth and had I a mirror I would immediately look at my eyes to confirm my suspicions. But the absence of the unnaturally long fangs that have occupied my mouth in centuries past is proof enough for me.

It has been literal ages…

I am alive again, and I am free from the curse that I have carried for thousands of years.

I finally break my dazed stare away from my hands and look up. Tall pines rustle in the breeze, their needles moving in waves with the wind. I can make out snow-capped mountains not too far off, steep-sided and contrasted with sharp crags of dark stone that stand out beyond the tree-line. Wild lupine and foxglove grow between the tree trunks in defiance of the wet snow that tries to freeze them out. It feels like early spring, just warm enough to threaten the frigid grasp of winter that holds onto this forest with a death grip. Songbirds fill the silence with their music, squirrels chitter as they chase each other through the branches of the pines.

Things have changed, certainly, since the last time I walked the surface of Tamriel. But this looks like Skyrim, or perhaps Cyrodiil. Unless the climate of the world has changed enough that new mountains have been made elsewhere, or rain now falls freely in the Alik’r. I suppose there is no way for me to know right now, but that fact bothers me less than perhaps I think it should, as I watch a hare dart into the forest.

I’ve missed the beauty of this dance of life and time.

But a stray pebble shakes my attention, and now I am realizing that there is more to my circumstance than simply being freed of my afflictions.

I am pitched forward as the wagon wheel collides with the pebble, but somehow manage to stay in my seat. It is a good thing, too, because it has taken until now for me to realize that my hands are bound, and I would not be able to catch myself if I did fall. There are others in this wagon with me, all strong, burly men, all similarly bound, one of them gagged with a strip of cloth. The temporary surge of joy I felt at being alive again dissipates like a mote of dust in a hurricane as the realization that we appear to be prisoners of some kind sinks itself into my soul.

I suck in a long breath, trying to maintain what little composure I have, bound as I am in nothing but sackcloth rags and bare feet. I haven’t felt this powerless in a very, very long time. I must have made a noise, or perhaps my anxious shifting was finally enough to draw the attention of one of my fellow prisoners, either way, one of them finally looks up at me and speaks in the rough, thick accent of Skyrim’s Nords:

“Hey, you, you’re finally awake.”

Chapter Text

The events of Helgen leave me rattled for several days.

Luckily, Hadvar’s family is more than willing to put up with me for that time, in return for helping Alvor out with his forge work. It isn’t anything glamorous, not by any means, but a little arcane fire can go a long way in ensuring the steel is heated to the perfect temperature to work with. There is something relieving about watching the flames lick my fingertips and knowing that they will not burn me near as much as they used to, should such a spell be turned back on me.

I feel a bit like I’ve started over, my whole life a blank canvas before me. I may be an escaped war criminal (though I wager a good deal would doubt the validity of that label), but everything before that, everything before Helgen… I’ve been missing from the face of Nirn for an entire era. In a way, I really am starting over.

I tried to get as much information from Alvor as I could, regarding the general state of the world, without sounding suspicious. I’m not entirely sure why I feel like that sort of ignorance is something I should hide, but I suppose it is better to be safe about these sorts of things until I know more. For now, I know that I am, in fact, in Skyrim, now one unified kingdom, or at least more so than it was when last I saw it, although it seems like that may be changing, depending on several factors. A rebellion out of Windhelm would see the province operate independently of the Cyrodiilic Empire, though apparently there is much debate over whether or not that is the wisest course of action.

I will have to conduct more research to learn just how the world came to be in such a state.

There is a small part of me, the part that makes my heart flip over every time I see Alvor pick Dorthe up under the arms and swing her around as she squeals with delight, that aches to know what happened to my family. The chances that any of them have survived this long are slim, at best. I know Adusa did her best to hold the house together during my first absence, and she did an exceptional job of it, but… an entire Era leaves a lot of time for things to go catastrophically wrong. Not even the best of leaders can foresee every possibility, plan for every eventuality. There is every chance that they survived and flourished, and are waiting for me back home in Rivenspire… but at the same time, there is every chance that they were wiped out, or picked off one by one over the centuries, and all that waits for me is the derelict shell of a castle fallen to ruin, empty save for a few broken coffins and skeevers.

I think there is also a part of me that is afraid to know the truth.

“You alright, elf?” Alvor claps his hand on my shoulder in true Nord fashion, the closest he’ll probably ever come to showing concern. I don’t blame him, that’s just his culture.

“I’m fine, only lost in thought.” I’m sure my tone is far from reassuring, what with how I can barely keep my voice from quivering, but he doesn’t pry. He is a good man, but I cannot be his eternal houseguest. I’ll need to move on soon.

It makes me feel rather lost, thinking on such topics. I keep asking myself where I should go, what I should do, and the answer is always the same: Home. Go home. But the more I think I should, the more I realize I can’t. It is simply too risky. It’s a long way from Riverwood to Shornhelm, and an expensive journey to make if I’m to do it safely. What if I’m followed by vampire hunters? What if House Ravenwatch has been taken over by hostile vampires? I don’t carry Bal’s curse anymore, they would have no reason not to make a meal of me.

Even if they aren’t hostile, they would have no reason to take me back.

Would they even recognize me?

I shake my head, trying not to dwell on that thought.

“I’m thinking about moving on, soon. Maybe finding a more permanent living situation.” I try to reorient my train of thought by adding a bit more heat to the forge. Luckily Alvor says nothing about me nearly burning the steel he’s got in the fire, only smiles kindly at me.

“Well, I know Lucan at Riverwood Trader was looking for some assistance the other day. Maybe he’ll have a job for you? And you can always try your hand at finding work in Whiterun. Big cities like that tend to have more opportunities for someone with your skill set.”

It seems reasonable to start with Lucan, and so I do. His request isn’t outlandish, and after having survived a dragon attack with naught but my wits and a few spells, I wager delving into an old barrow after some petty thieves will serve, if nothing else, as a decent way to test just how much skill with magic I’ve retained. I feel out of practice, like the threads of the world that I would normally tug upon for powerful spells have shifted just out of my reach. It is frustrating to think that I will have to start from the ground up in this too, but I suppose there is nothing to do but work from where I am.

Faendal offers to accompany me, still glued to Camilla’s side while I spoke with Lucan. Honestly, I am glad for the company. He knows these lands better than I, and it will be good to have another set of eyes to watch out for trouble.

We set out just after dawn the next day. Even though we will not have the cover of darkness to aid us, we will at least not have to worry as much about freezing to death, should a storm pick up and leave us stranded on the mountain. Hopefully the sun will burn off any snow storms that might try to crop up while we travel.

It isn’t even halfway up the mountain before Faendal proves his worth, one of his arrows springing up seemingly out of nowhere in a bandit’s throat. Had it not, the man would have cleaved me in two. He blushes at my thanks, and my appreciation of him only grows for it. He reminds me of Fenn, in that way, how just the barest hint of a compliment would leave him flustered and scrambling for words through his dual embarrassment and joy. Despite his floundering, it was always clear that he lived for those little moments of praise.

I desperately tamp down the urge to do anything more intimate than clap Faendal on the shoulder, in the fashion of the Nords he lives with. He is not Fennorian, nor will he ever be. I… will probably part ways with him immediately after we retrieve Lucan’s bauble. I cannot risk growing any more attached to the Bosmer than I already have. Besides, he is young, and in love, and does not deserve to be dragged into danger like this. Life as a sellsword is rough, and though it may turn out to be a lucrative source of employment for myself, I would not take him away from his safe and steady work at the mill. He deserves better than that.

The thieves turn out to be more of a challenge than I had hoped, but although I am rusty with my spells and slower to dodge than I once was, we eventually emerge victorious. It will take more than a few vagabonds, giant spiders, and undead to kill me. The undead are concerning, and might once have been the subject of a lengthy investigation to find and put a stop to the cause of their restlessness, though that would have been in days long since passed. It would be foolish to pursue such an inquiry on my own, without the resources of House Ravenwatch to back me now. I would likely be dead within a few weeks, at most.

There are, however, other things that I do take the time to examine.

First is the etched concave wall in the final chamber of the barrow. The marks are shallow, worn down with age, and barely decipherable. I use the term ‘decipherable’ very liberally, I suppose. I cannot read it. The runes are in a language that I am unfamiliar with, though I do my best to copy them down on some parchment for later study. In another time I might have written to a colleague with access to a wider library of linguistic knowledge, though by now I doubt anyone who might have fit that description still draws breath.

The thought makes me feel very lonely.

Even though I cannot read the runes, there is one section of them that stands out to me. Not even a section, I suppose, but a single word. The more I stare at it, the more its meaning settles in my mind, despite being completely unfamiliar with the language itself: Force.

There is clearly some arcane component to this wall, one that will need to be studied in-depth if it is to be fully understood. Unfortunately, that will have to be a task for a much later time, if I am able to undertake said task at all. I know I have seen them before, or at least ruins that resemble them. They were not uncommon to happen upon in Skyrim’s wilds the last time I walked the face of Nirn.

The second thing that I stop to investigate is the intricately carved stone that was found on the body of the undead monstrosity that guarded the chamber with the wall in it. It is etched with a rather ornate outline of the province of Skyrim, with several points marked over its landscape. More runes, similar to the ones on the wall, are carved into the back of the stone, though their meaning is just as lost to me as those were.

I once again find myself shaking my head and wishing I was able to consult half the colleagues I once did on topics such as this. But alas, for the moment these mysteries must remain just that. Mysteries.

The important part is that we have successfully retrieved Lucan’s ‘golden claw’. He pays us well to have it back in his possession, and with the conclusion of that business, I immediately send Faendal back to his beloved’s side. He seems conflicted over it, like he might have enjoyed the adventuring lifestyle, but at the same time is quite content here with Camilla. I hope they have a bright future together.

The next morning, I set out for Whiterun, with strict instructions from Alvor to warn the Jarl of what happened at Helgen before seeking my fortune.

The trip itself was almost eerily quiet, the roads almost completely devoid of people, save for a group of soldiers escorting yet another war criminal to someplace I do not want to follow. I do well to keep my head down as I pass them. When I reach the city gates, I discover just why the roads were so empty: The city gates have been barred on account of the dragon sightings. A reasonable precaution, but one that I easily bypass, after notifying the guard of my intent to bring further warning to the Jarl.

The people in the streets seem tense as I pass them, and I cannot help but shrink into myself at their stares. Logically, I know that they are scared of what they have been told, that a dragon is probably coming to burn their city to the ground, and that I, as an outsider, should be treated with suspicion. I stick out like a sore thumb, several inches taller than the tallest Nord I can see and golden-skinned like some sort of ripe fruit. It would seem that High Elves are not common here, and with what Alvor told me before I left… I am beginning to understand that their caution has nothing to do with the threat of dragons.

Whiterun stands upon the edge of a knife, neutral for now, but will likely be forced to choose a side in this war sooner rather than later.

And Altmer aren’t known for being mediators of neutrality, at least not here, not anymore.

They probably think I’m here on behalf of their oppressors.