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Chapter Text

The Nerevarine was meant to be one of the great heroes of Morrowind, savior of the dunmer, maybe even the world, but as Sarros Rothan knelt at the dark altar, bowing deeply, stealing brief glances at the golden mask that had haunted his every dream for so long, he knew his destiny lay elsewhere.

Skin bare in anticipation of his rebirth, only the gold and silver ring reflecting the light of countless red candles, the dunmer knelt before the steps, motionless as he breathlessly awaited the blessing of his new Lord, ready to take his place by his side as promised. All fear and doubt driven from his mind even in this moment of total vulnerability, he knelt patiently, exhilarated as his future called for him.

Around them, the ash vampires' ritual chant rose to a crescendo as his Lord held out his clawed hand, palm facing upwards, blood spilling from a deep cut. Sarros straightened, pounding heart straining against his rips in anticipation.

"Taste my blood to receive my power," his new god ordered, sonorous voice inviting, benevolent, and Sarros needed not be told twice; in a fervent moment of passion, he took the offered hand in both of his, running his greedy tongue over the wound, tasting bitter metal, the liquid burning in his throat, until Dagoth Ur forcefully tore his hand free. No reprimand came; and though he could not see the face beneath the gold, Sarros thought his eagerness should put a smile upon those ancient lips.

A single claw, sharp against the chin, held up his head. Its touch sent a jolt of electricity down Sarros’ spine as he stared into the red abyss that was his Lord’s third aye, transfixed.

"In my flesh and of my flesh, made immortal by my divine blessing, you shall serve me. Welcome, Lord Nerevar, to the Sixth House."

His words went unheard by the young mer at his feet. The blood's power spread through him, red-hot as it seared his veins, leaving nothing but agony in its wake. His thundering heartbeat drowned out all noise and Sarros collapsed, sweat beading on his skin. His small, thin body, reduced to little more than skin and bone - as he had filled his stomach with poison, not food, for weeks on his doomed journey - curled up, muscles twitching, nails digging into the skin of his face.

Under the watchful eye of his master, the center of his forehead tore open, blood spilling from the rapidly deepening gash. Underneath, the bone reshaped itself, forming a depression, the pain worse than anything Sarros had experienced before this moment. He could barely hear his own cries of agony, his entire being focused on his skull. The moment stretched into eternity, until…

It ended as suddenly as it had begun. The chant ended along with his cries, leaving Sarros' gasping breath the only sound in the cavern.

Blissful darkness overcame him, cutting short what was supposed to be his glorious ascension to Dagoth Ur’s side. He could not hear the fearful questions of the Heartwights, nor feel the touch of his Lord as he cradled him, demanding that he, no, that Nerevar wake up.

***

Deafening sounds of battle echoed through the citadel, metal clanging on metal, cries of pain and horror as one by one, its defenders and attackers fell at each other’s blades. The roar of raging fire drowned them out.

Coughing, sweating, he dragged his feet ever forwards, the shadows grasping for him, the heat boiling his blood as he made his way ever deeper into the bowels of the citadel, ever deeper, until only his heart awaited him.

Something called to him, whether it was the voice of a friend, the mad ravings of his exhausted mind, or destiny itself, he did not know; he had a task to do, against his will, but there was no halting time, these events had all played out before, in countless ways, each truth and lie, the inescapable result always the same.

The face of a friend waited at the end of his journey, bathed in the red light of molten rock, furious or fearful, he could not say; and before he knew it, before he could stop, before he could change what was to come, his blade plunged deep into the chest of one he loved, blood spilling on gold and silk.

Then the blade was gone, and his hand rested on a smooth chest, hale and warm, pale gold against dark bronze, the heart beneath his fingers beating rapidly. A pair of hands, slender and soft, reached for his face, pulling him into an embrace, but as he leaned in, his lover spoke but one word.

“Traitor.”

His sweet, heady breath turned rank with death, and the color bled from his dark skin as it turned grey as ash once more, the embrace growing cold.

***

In a dark chamber beneath Red Mountain, Sarros writhed under a thin blanket, his mind haunted by endless nightmares, his body revolting against the magic that tainted it. It was the same, over and over, betrayal and death and betrayal-

***

"You want me to play nursemaid to this pitiful creature? Look at him! He's barely alive! The blessing is wasted on him, I tell you, he'll be dead in a day or two!"

The muffled voice of a woman interrupted Sarros' prayers for the release of death. The room around him spun in the red light of a single candle as he opened his eyes to see her, only to find himself gazing at a closed door. Even the dim glow agitated the pounding agony in his forehead.

Another voice replied, this one male, and vaguely familiar, though Sarros could not recall from where.

"You wish to prove your loyalty to the Sixth House? Then do as you're told, woman. Lord Dagoth will not spare the blood in your veins a single thought if you allow him to die."

"Then why don't you help? You or your brothers? Should you not care about his well-being?"

"Get in that room and do your job, woman. Stop behaving like a petulant child. We must attend to other tasks, and you know it."

Violently tearing open the door, the woman that stormed in looked ready to strangle Sarros herself. His vision remained unsteady and blurred; he could barely see anything but red fabric and glittering gold.

"You weak little bastard," she hissed, barely above a whisper, but her voice drilled into his skull, exacerbating the pain tenfold. "I'm supposed to rule at father's side, yet I have to do what, feed you? Bathe you? Don't you dare expect me to-"

"Kill me," Sarros whispered, voice hoarse after days of crying out in his sleep. Thin fingers reached for her, digging into the fabric at her ankles. "It won't stop..."

"So it's pity you want?" she crouched before him, forcefully prying his fingers off her skirt. For a moment, she held them in her crushing grip, one he could hardly feel. "Don't you dare touch me, elf, I do not care whose reincarnation you are." She had come close enough for him to look into her disgusted eyes. "Next time I'll break your fingers, do we have an understanding?"

Sarros nodded, even if he doubted that he would even feel broken bones over the unending ache of his head, a throbbing pain from his forehead that drowned out anything else. At least, for the first time in months, his body's desperate cries to be fed more of the sweet poison that had kept him going long enough to reach Red Mountain were easily ignored.

***

It felt like an eternity, but it had barely been a week since the tormented wizard had arrived in the deepest chamber of the facility, drenched in the blood of uncounted ash creatures and his own, desperate for an exit, anything but the upcoming battle, struggling not to collapse then and there.

The sweet taste of moon sugar still fresh on his lips, he nevertheless marched on to meet the Devil that awaited him, but when Dagoth Ur spoke to him, not in dreams or visions, but in the flesh, towering above him, he found his words welcoming, reasonable.

No, he did not feel like he faced an enemy. He stood before a god, one who had nothing but kindness to offer him – he was an old, true friend. A distant part of his mind insisted that he should be afraid, that he should gather his courage to strike the first blow, but the sound of Dagoth Ur's voice filled him with such warmth it woke an ancient affection. He knew, then, that he had nothing to fear. That he had come to the only true home he would ever know. Falling to his knees, Sarros had gladly accepted the offer to join his side.

Dagoth Ur had taken off his mask, then, revealing a face intimately familiar but changed almost beyond recognition, handsome features marred by an eternity, the skin dried and dark, lips thin and cracked, the eyes sunken so deep they were reduced to a red glare in black sockets. His beauty was nearly impossible to see now, but Sarros found him all the more mesmerizing.

To his shock, his new god sunk to his knees, then, too, visibly overcome with emotion, grasping Sarros' face with both hands as he searched it for the features of long-dead Nerevar, his touch painfully gentle, the longing on his face near unbearable to behold. Sarros knew he would disappoint; he matched none of the depictions of the ancient hero, but to the wretched man before him, it did not matter.

"For millennia, I waited... Every incarnate, a spark of hope, only to fail, every time... But finally, you have come to me, sweet Nerevar."

Sarros’ hand reached out, brushing a stray lock of black hair from the ancient mer’s face, feeling, for a moment, how silky it had once been.

"Voryn." His voice barely sounded like his own, deeper, somehow, older, too, but the god so addressed delighted in its tone. "It has been too long. I… I will not betray you again.” Did something compel him to say this, or did he mean every word? Sarros could not tell. He barely felt his body, his mind suppressed by a force he could not understand.

"I will not allow it."

Dagoth Ur - no, Voryn, his friend, companion, lover - embraced him then, clinging to him like a drowning man, trembling under Sarros' fingers as he wrapped his own arms around him.

***

Drifting in and out of consciousness, the intensity of his dreams – every single one of them centered around that fateful death - slowly fading, Sarros caught glimpses of his unwilling caretaker. Sometimes, she paced around the room; sometimes, she read worn books. She had brought candles with her, lighting the room in gentle yellow, and soft cushions to sit on, wherever she might have found those. Sometimes, she touched him, cooling his forehead with damp cloths to ease the pain. The curses she muttered made it clear that she did not wish to do so, but her empathy forced her hand.

Sarros never spoke to her, not at first, too ashamed that he needed her care in the first place.

Until his gaze eventually caught her eye, and she addressed him first. "Awake, are we? About time." She slapped her book shut and knelt down beside him, wagging her finger in front of his eyes to see if the pupils would follow.

"What are you doing?" Sarros muttered, irritated. His head felt better, but the fast movement made his eyes ache in their sockets.

"You spent half your extended nap with your eyes open. The natural pair, at least. I have to find out if you're conscious somehow."

The natural pair. Sarros had all but forgotten that there was another now. Gingerly, he touched the closed eyelids to confirm it was still in place. The source of his pain, peacefully closed.

"It was caked shut with blood when I got here, but I managed to clean it off. Try to open it," she suggested.

"Only if you tell me who you are." Sarros had no real desire to open it, suspecting that the shock of his changed vision would send him back into a headache-induced delirium.

"Ilara, youngest survivor of House Dagoth. Or, to put it differently, the ash vampires are my uncles, and Lord Dagoth is my father."

This would have been an absolutely insane thing to say in any other place, but she certainly looked the part, and there was no way to benefit from lying.

"You must be very old then," Sarros mumbled. No less exhausted after his long rest, his body threatened to fall asleep once more, but he forced himself to keep his eyes open, focusing on her face. Severe lines, more handsome than pretty, ageless.

"Ah, how polite of you. But yes, I was born a chimer."

Even in his current state, it seemed impossible. Everyone knew only Dagoth Ur and his brothers had survived the fall of House Dagoth. At least Sarros thought so. It was a struggle to keep his thoughts in order.

"But the Sixth House was eradicated. Did he take you to Red Mountain and hide you...?" Sarros managed a small laugh as he felt his strength return, at least a little. It was time to look her in the eye properly, and Sarros sat up, struggling to remain vertical as a wave of dizziness washed over him. At least the pain in his skull had receded to a dull throb; a far cry from the prolonged agony after the ritual.

"Let me ask you a question.” Ilara tilted her head. “Would you kill innocent children?"

"No, of course not. But-"

"Well, neither did Lord Nerevar, and he forbade his House from doing so. The other Houses followed suit and the Sixth House children were rounded up and handed off for adoption. I doubt there were many happy childhoods, but many of today's dunmer are their descendants. I personally was adopted by a powerful Telvanni who taught me the secrets of survival. Lucky me, eh?"

Sarros searched her face for duplicity but found none. Either it was true, or she firmly believed a lie.

"Are you a member of the Great House, then?"

"Yes, on paper. I reached one of the higher ranks – God know I don’t remember the specifics of their politics - about seventeen centuries ago and decided to isolate myself right after. I've seen your robes; I suppose you are a fellow Telvanni?"

"Worse," Sarros replied, with a grin that showed off a few gaps in his teeth. The reward for being enamored with skooma. "I'm the reigning Archmagister, at the ripe old age of 47."

"You're someone's puppet."

"Absolutely."

He earned himself a small smile. Maybe it was possible to get along with her when she wasn't furious. Her anger had left such an impression he remembered it through the haze of his restless dreams.

"My name is Sarros Rothan, by the way. Not that it matters. I suppose I will forever be addressed as Lord Nerevar now." He scratched the side of his head; the shaved hair had begun to grow out. What was left he wore in a currently utterly limp mohawk. The only thing about him that remotely looked the part.

"My father will refuse to use your real name, and my uncles follow his example in practically everything. Every other member of the House either doesn't speak at all or does as they're told. None of them have a reason to care about your identity."

"And you?"

"I will call you Sarros. I would lie if I said I remembered Lord Nerevar, but he was no half-starved, pitifully short mer with no trace of muscle on his body. I suspect you're no great leader, either, or you would have come here with an army at your command as he would have."

Moon-and-Star had to do some heavy lifting indeed to get people to listen to Sarros, and only his title of Nerevarine had earned him much respect at all from anyone who was not some Telvanni underling fearing retaliatory murder for daring to show him any derision. A leader he was not.

"Accurate. Azura must be embarrassed of me."

"Or she's having the laugh of a lifetime. I suspect she would not be too disappointed if you banded together with my father and successfully destroyed the Tribunal."

"Is that his goal?"

"He's not fond of them, and if you asked very nicely for him to assist you with your revenge, who knows? Depends entirely on how willing you are to lean into his delusions."

Sarros blushed deeply as, for a moment, he imagined what 'asking nicely' could mean in this context. None of the previous incarnates he had spoken to in Azura’s cavern had mentioned receiving the type of dreams he had experienced, but he had certainly been shown... Things. Very pleasant things.

"I admit when I saw him... I was overcome with affection. Maybe Nerevar's spirit is more active than I thought."

Ilara shrugged off the idea. "He has the power of the Heart at his disposal; if he wants to compel you into unconditional, eternal love, he will do so. Just wait. He will shape you into the man he wants you to be.” She snorted again at the ridiculous prospect. “In fact, once you regained a little weight, you'll be taught physical combat. Two swords and all. I would prefer that pretty dagger of yours, if I were you, but you won't have a choice. Drawbacks of become a god’s favorite new pet."

Reaching for a black pitcher filled with fresh water that she had placed beside his bedroll, Sarros found himself dreading the prospect of combat. His grandfather, himself a veteran warrior of Great House Indoril, had attempted to teach him decades ago, and to call the results dissatisfying would be a horrendous understatement. Unless Nerevar's spirit decided to take control of his body, whoever was tasked with teaching him would not stand a chance.

"Who well get the doubtful honor?" Sarros asked, wondering if it was an ash vampire whose name he remembered.

"Gilvoth." Ilara's gaze became one of pity. "He won’t kill you, obviously, but you'll wish you were back in your bedroll crying because of a little headache."

Sarros' hand trembled as he attempted to pour himself a cup of water.

"Afraid already?" She took the pitcher from him and filled the cup.

"Withdrawal," Sarros mumbled. He had spent the worst of it unconscious, thankfully, but the craving was very much alive and well. The cup did not fare much better in his hands, and with a world-weary sigh, Ilara held it to his lips for him.

"I doubt Lord Nerevar would have been fond of skooma, either."

"Lord Nerevar didn't have to deal with Telvanni all day only to then be sent out to rob graves and descend into tunnels made of flesh." Remembering the bowels of Ilunibi, Sarros shivered. "I wasn't made for any of this. Though, honestly, if even one tale about him is true, he would probably have done it all blindfolded only to have a laugh about it later."

The water made him queasy enough to look around for a convenient bowl or bucket. His body did not feel like anyone would ever be able to fatten it up again. Building enough strength to walk to the door sounded like an unsurmountable difficulty.

"Now to get back to my earlier request... I think I told you enough about who I am."

"I really don't think opening the eye would be a good idea." He must have looked rather pale already, for she stood up and retrieved the bucket he had been looking for. It looked to be an ancient dwemer artifact that would have fetched a hefty price in the right circles.

"Nobody else will tell me what it's like to see through it. Come on, just for a moment." She shoved the bucket into his lap. "Don't worry; I've been here three days. A bit of regurgitated water doesn't scare me." Sarros doubted she would ever sound this much like a Telvanni Master again, the total disregard for his well-being at the prospect of having her curiosity satisfied making him slightly homesick.

"I'm so sorry for putting you through-"

"Open your eye."

It was an odd thing for his body to have accepted this unprecedented new growth so well, but Sarros had no issue sensing it or opening the new lids.

Much worse was the sight it offered. On one hand, he now saw the world from a different perspective, his brain struggling to make sense of three different points of view at once; on the other, the world had acquired glowing halo in the colors of the rainbow, and as he accidentally caught a glimpse of his enchanted ring, a sudden flash of light nearly knocked him out.

Ilara looked away as he evacuated his stomach.

"T-that was... awful..." Sarros stammered, "by Azura, what good is that to anyone..."

"So?" She handed him a cloth to wipe his mouth.

"I… I think I can see magic with it. That’s the only thing that could have been. My ring…” he swallowed, “my ring has such a bright aura when I look at it… And I get another angle of the world, of course." He retched again, but thankfully his stomach had nothing more to procure.

"Seeing magic sounds rather useful, don't you think?"

"Not if it hurts like that... It practically blinded me..."

Ilara shrugged off his doubt. "You need someone to teach you how to use it. I'm fairly certain it can be used to focus your magic abilities if you know how, I’ve seen my uncles do it."

"I will spend a lot of time among the ash vampires, won’t I...?"

"There is only me and them here, unless you want to spend time with those below your station."

Sarros blinked at her, confused by the sentiment. "My... I suppose I have a certain station here, but why would I let that get in the way? Maybe my future best friend is one of the ascended sleepers. They talk, after all."

Ilara laughed. "Yes, of course. They are the most social of all the ash creatures. They do like making music, maybe you can make friends if you have a nice singing voice."

"I do…” He missed music; maybe he was supposed to become one of them, sing to their ashen congregations. Too bad Divayth Fyr’s potion got in the way.

"There you go, time to make some friends." She stood up, taking the bucket from his arms. "I'll go empty this and get a rest in my own bed. Don’t worry, I’ll send one of the slaves to return it and bring you some food for later."

Resisting the urge to tell her to stay with him, Sarros watched her go. Company was nice. Without her keeping him awake, he'd just have more nightmares.

Chapter Text

Mournhold’s streets were near-unbearably bright in the scorching midday sun. Clusters of pale adobe buildings were slowly bleached white, and the trees, flowers and grasses that had been planted at every corner, an unusual sight in Resdayn outside its capital, had turned a uniform yellow. The heat had come three weeks ago and refused to pass; even Mournhold’s heat-hardened populace had begun to capitulate. Every sane mer had retreated to the cool interiors of their homes, only the omnipresent guards had no choice. They, and a singular figure covered head to toe in lightly woven white cloth to protect his skin and hide his identity from prying eyes, were the only living things in the sun.

It would have been a foolish idea, a secret meeting in broad daylight; at any other time that is. Life, however, had moved to the evening hours, with Mournhold’s citizens spending the nights out in the streets, working, shopping, going about their business.

Still, it was exhilarating to be out in plain sight. The figure relished in the guard’s ignorance, in the rare citizens who had to be outside against their will not sparing him a second glance. It reminded him of his youth, when nobody had known his name, and his destiny had been to lead his caravan, nothing more. Even a hint of the old freedom was a welcome relief from his burdens, the constant weight of politics on his shoulders.

Nerevar’s destination was an abandoned garden, far from the central palace. It had once belonged to a wealthy family, who had made it their private hideaway, formerly lush greenery and elaborate decorations hidden behind walls so tall a ladder was required to spy on anyone inside – not that anyone had a reason to, these days, since nobody in their right mind bothered visiting.

Around the garden had once lain a rather lavish part of the city, still visible in the facades of the old buildings, but many had fallen into disrepair; gold had left for greener pastures. It made it much easier to go unnoticed, the ideal place to meet with one’s closest advisor to... Discuss private matters.

It was not the first time Nerevar had come here, and he found his way with ease. Finding himself without observers, he headed to the crumbling gate, pushing it open. Rusty hinges protested, but nobody was around to hear. Once, it had been bolted shut, but the old bolt lay forgotten in the tall, dry grass that had nearly reclaimed the old dirt path. Here, only a few trees lived still, those whose roots reached deep enough to find water; every other plant had long succumbed to the sun.

Struggling to restrain himself from skipping down the overgrown path like a child, he walked as fast as he could without breaking into a run, eager to reach their meeting place.

"Nerevar!" the sonorous voice of his favorite advisor called out - subdued as to avoid being heard, carrying just far enough for the Hortator to hear. One more bend in the path, and there he was, an easy full head taller than Nerevar and wrapped up in the same fashion; except, instead of sensibly choosing a light color, the long shawl that protected his skin was a deep, bloody red, the skirt of black robes peeking out underneath.

"Voryn, you fool, you must be cooking alive under that fabric!" Nerevar exclaimed, exasperated; sure, Kogoruhn lay on the slopes of Red Mountain, but the glaring sun was much different.

They clasped hands in greeting, but neither dared to go further - yet. It had been months since they last met, politics and day-to-day administration of their respective domains keeping them separate; it had done nothing to curb their secretive relationship, but still, they needed to adjust.

"I am used to the heat, Nerevar, but thank you for your concern." He smiled, not the guarded, polite expression that failed to reach his eyes which he wore in public, but a genuine smile, filled with the adoration that enthralled and, occasionally, worried Nerevar in its intensity.

"So used to it that your skin is slick with sweat," Nerevar teased as he reached up, wiping beads of sweat off Voryn's bronze forehead, dark under his much paler fingers, "like you just took a hot bath.” He pointed at a nearby bench under an especially stubborn tree. "Let's get you out of the sun before I personally have to carry you to the nearest healer."

"Would that be so bad?" Voryn replied, letting himself be led by the hand, long, slender fingers entwined with Nerevar's strong, calloused ones. "I could imagine worse than having you cool my forehead with a damp cloth..."

"People would certainly ask why exactly I'm carrying my advisor through the streets of Mournhold," even if, as Nerevar knew well enough, they already fully suspected that their relationship had long stopped being a political one. “I have received complaints about favouritism. People are worried that I’m favouring House Dagoth above the others.” It was not true; whatever his relationship with his Lord High Councillor, he carefully weighed his decisions to ensure fair treatment of them all. Only those who scorned him insisted that he was unable to separate emotions from his position as Hortator; and they would take any excuse to depose him.

"You are simply building a strong connection to the Sixth House, guaranteeing our assistance during the next attack of the Nords." Voryn sat down, a little less gracefully than normal, visibly relieved to be out of the sun. With unusually unsteady hands, he removed his shawl. Underneath, his black hair, which he kept so neat that there was barely ever a strand out of place, was damp, plastered to his head. Up close, Nerevar heard his shallow breathing.

"You should have waited in the shade, Voryn," he chided. Suspecting that his advisor would come unprepared, if for no other reason than to attempt to maintain a facade of strength that was entirely unnecessary in the presence of his friend, Nerevar had brought a flask of water. "Drink," he ordered as he handed it over, "before you do pass out."

"Do not tell me," Voryn said after drinking half the bottle with greedy, unlordly gulps, "that you would not enjoy the sight of my supine, unprotected body-"

"Not if you're unconscious, my friend, I prefer you healthy and well." He took the bottle back to take a drink of it himself, only to taste the salt from Voryn's lips on it. It was difficult to remain stern with the constant reminders of the times he had explored the slender body under the red and black fabric. It did not help that Voryn made his own desires at this moment abundantly clear.

"I already feel much better," Voryn insisted. “Ready to attend to the business we came here for... Shall we commence?”

Without awaiting a reply, he bent down, leaning in for the first kiss of the day, gentle fingers guiding Nerevar's chin upward. Obeying gladly, Nerevar closed his eyes, reaching for Voryn's waist to pull him close, but as their lips touched, he did not feel hot, soft skin, but cool, hard metal.

Opening his eyes in surprise, he found Voryn's face gone, replaced by a golden mask, three eyes like embers staring down at him.

***

When next he woke, Sarros found himself alone in his small chamber. Only now did he take in his surroundings, as little as there was of them; it was barely large enough for three people sleeping next to each other. Most likely the room had been the living space of a dwarf, though nothing had survived but an ancient desk, made, of course, of metal. Sarros' knapsack had been stashed underneath it.

From his position he could barely see the tabletop, but, illuminated by only a single surviving candle, he saw a tray of food and a stack of clothes. Gold glimmered in the candlelight, waking his curiosity. Had Ilara or a slave left them? No doubt it was attire designed to be representative of the Sixth House. Sarros’ hand wandered to his forehead, sticky with dried sweat, feeling for the third eye.

“Yep, still blessed by Dagoth Ur...”

Memories of his dream faded quickly, leaving him only with the feeling of strangeness at the juxtaposition of the councillor against the vision of the living god. As tangible, as close as the dreams felt, it was impossible to forget the millennia that lay between them and the present.

Yawning, he stretched and stood up, making the two steps to the desk on wobbly legs. First, he searched his knapsack for his stash of sweets; but it seemed his new family wanted him sober. He became increasingly frantic as he looked through the bag once, twice, three times before emptying it on the floor, potions and a small selection of light valuables to sell upon his return clanging on the metal floor. Return. There was no return for him, if for no other reason that he would throw himself into the nearest magma pit if he could not get his hands on something to satisfy his cravings.

Convinced, and severely disappointed that there was nothing left, not even a single grain of moon sugar, he let himself sink to the floor and leaned against the table, attempting to calm himself with long, deep breaths against the rising anxiety. It was not his body, he realized, that called for it, but his mind; for what little difference it made.

He knew, of course, that taking it again would undo the perfect opportunity - all he had to beat now was his brain. The physical withdrawal symptoms had receded greatly during his extended rest, after all. It would be such a waste... But Sarros knew well enough that he would snatch the skooma out of the hands of anyone offering it to him and drink it without thinking twice.

As he spiraled into endless thoughts wondering how he would survive here, how he would meet everyone's expectations without the crutch that took up so much space in his head, he was interrupted by the door opening. Startled, he pulled the blanket tightly around himself, ready to give Ilara a piece of his mind for surprising him like his - for who else had time to go through his things? - but the shadow that fell over him was not hers. Its owner was much taller.

"Nerevar... I am pleased to see you conscious."

Any trace of anger, any thought of skooma, vanished immediately; in the wake of his dreams, the dark skin in the flickering candlelight aroused a rather different passion in him. For a moment, he forgot to be intimidated by the golden mask, even, as his mind took a moment to catch up with his flesh.

If only he would take it off again.

Dagoth Ur closed the door behind him – Why does he need privacy? Gods, I would accept any reason – and, to Sarros surprise, sat down opposite of him, back against the wall, folding his legs beneath him. It was such a casual position that Sarros blinked, as if trying to dispel a hallucination.

He was still far too tall to be at eye level, of course, with Sarros being much shorter than Nerevar had been – even for a dunmer, he was unusually small, his growth stopped sometime in the middle of his adolescence. An easy thing to feel inadequate about.

"L-Lord Dagoth," Sarros stammered, "it's an honour to-"

"Spare me the facade, Nerevar. In private, you may call me Voryn, as you always have."

The wizard nodded, though the attempt at familiarity did little to calm him down. Torn between fear and the near irresistible desire to climb into that lap and demand to be held close, just for a moment, he did not know whether to laugh or cry.

"Are you well? Hungry, perhaps?" He inclined his head towards the plate of untouched food Sarros had ignored earlier. "It's the same food my daughter consumes, if you fear that you are expected to live off corprusmeat. Even if the ritual had gone... Smoothly, you would still require sustenance, unlike the Heartwights. Or myself."

This situation was completely absurd. A living god sat cross-legged before him, asking him to eat. What was next, a little chat about the weather?

"My L- Voryn, may I ask a favour?" It was pathetic, surely, and he should accept that this was not one of his dreams, that there was some level of decorum to be maintained, but...

"Yes, if it is within my power to grant." There was no trace of annoyance or ill intent in his voice, to Sarros’ relief.

"May I see your face without the mask again? It is... disconcerting. Well, not that I don't like it, of course, the craftsmanship is-“
He cleared his throat, embarrassed by his own excuses. “It’s just that I have not seen your face in so long and-" He fell silent, not sure what to say. ‘And I want to kiss your lips so bad?’

To his relief, his lord obliged, smiling, even, though whether it was a friendly expression was anyone's guess. With difficulty, Sarros reminded himself that Dagoth Ur had worked hard to manipulate him for months, and the fact that it worked did not mean he could now let his guard down.

"I did not expect you to be frightened by a piece of metal, Nerevar. You’re in luck; in private, I merely wear it out of habit."

Sarros watched him run his claws through his hair, effectively combing it, and wished they were his fingers.
His stare did not go unnoticed. "You did always enjoy running your fingers through my hair, although I am afraid it is not quite as soft as you remember."

"I- I have no doubt that it's more than adequate," Sarros muttered, blushing deeply. Not normally one to get flustered around men he felt drawn to, this mer had thrown him entirely off-balance. It did not help that his dream lingered still, so real that could, almost, see his bronze skin again, glistening with sweat where fabric did not cover it.

Dagoth Ur - Voryn - was clearly fully aware of the effect he had on him. Of course, his behaviour was unusually... Casual; he had done as much as he could to plant the old memories and emotions in the Nerevarine and was most likely fully aware of his success. If Sarros had been so inclined, he might have blamed his desire on being Lord Nerevar’s reincarnation, but he knew well enough that none of this stemmed from an ancient spirit controlling his body.

And yet, as he sat there, desperate for something to say, eyes undaunted as they traced the lines of Voryn's body down to the inevitable conclusion, catching on the fine line of hair leading ever downward, Sarros could not help but feel like some part of the emotions, the attraction, was his own, and had nothing to do with dreams and dark magic.

His new god watched him, waiting patiently for Sarros to take the next step, perhaps hoping for a lapse in self-control that might lead to them making the dreams a reality, but a tiny, barely audible voice at the back of Sarros mind warned him. So, instead of attempting to explore the regions beneath the red loincloth, Sarros pulled the blanket even tighter around himself.

There was no obvious reaction, neither positive nor negative. "You must be famished," Voryn repeated with an odd – disappointed? - smile, "your gaze is hungry enough..."

With a sigh, he reached for the platter of food to place it at Sarros' feet. So tall was he, and so small the room, that he barely needed to move. "I will have to feed you myself if you refuse to eat, and you would not want that, would you?"

‘I wouldn't...?'

For a brief instance, Sarros imagined himself, head in Voryn's lap, being fed the small bowl of comberries one by one, slender fingers grazing his lips, accidentally, of course-

"It would be inappropriate, wouldn't it? A god feeding his subject..." Sarros smiled, hoping that his face did not betray every thought he had, and broke a piece off a small loaf of bright, fresh saltrice bread. Its quality startled him; he would have expected any food one might find under Red Mountain to be stale, cheap, an afterthought as few here needed to eat mortal food at all.

"If a god decides to feed his subject, it is his will and therefore, naturally, not inappropriate."

Sarros broke off another piece, but before he could put it in his mouth, Voryn leaned forward, taking the piece for himself. His fingers brushed against Sarros', electrifying him, and he was of half a mind to catch the elegant hand, bring his tongue to its palm again, tasting skin instead of bread... He watched the piece vanish between ancient lips.

"Is the bread to your liking, Moon-and-Star? I find it quite agreeable."

Wishing that he could feel the same tongue the bread did, Sarros shook himself, as if that would banish the thoughts from his mind. 'If this is how all our encounters will go, I'll need iron smallclothes.' He could not help a grin at this, but before Voryn could ask what amused him so, the door opened; Ilara stood in the doorframe.
"Sarros, I've had a slave prepare a bath for you, may- oh. Greetings, father." She bowed deeply. "I did not expect to meet you here."

"Obviously not, or you might have considered knocking." In one swift move, he stood up, not without plucking a berry from the bowl to pop into his mouth. Returning the mask to its place, he left without another word to the wizard or his daughter.

Sarros glared up at her for interrupting their moment, but she merely shrugged, devoid of shame or guilt. “You reek, Sarros, and your hair is about to start dripping oil. Do you really think you’re in any state for intimacy with your master?”

“He didn’t seem to mind,” Sarros mumbled, standing up, still in his blanket.

“Don’t you want to change into something more-“

“After my bath.”

Chapter Text

Being cooped up alone in a small room is a test for even the most patient of elves, and Sarros was hardly one of those. He had no clue how much time he had even spent here, but one thing was for sure: He had enough of the chamber. Ready to put on his travel attire, he automatically reached for the clothes he had arrived in – someone had kindly rinsed out the blood - only to remember the clothes left here that he was no doubt expected to wear.

It was not quite what he was used to; all loose fabric he had to tie around his body somehow, and no matter how he did it, it looked terrible. The cloth was not meant to cover much of him, in the fashion of Third Era House Dagoth, but revealing so much of his skin was out of the question. With a sigh, he reached for his freshly washed tunic and simple pants, tying some of the red cloth around his waist as a sash. It looked ridiculous, no doubt, but it was an attempt to wear Voryn’s colours, if nothing else. A bit of wax to keep his mohawk upright - the sides were growing back in, along with his facial hair, but he was in no mood to try and shave blindly.

Besides, now that he was here as an ally, he could explore the facility in peace! A much more interesting prospect.

He half-expected to see guards the moment he opened the door; there had not been any when he left for the improvised bath chamber in Ilara's much more spacious quarters, but she had been there with him to make sure he was safe – or to keep him from fleeing, no doubt. It was difficult to imagine that anyone here trusted him. Or perhaps they knew he stood no real chance to cause harm, the Tools had been handed over to Dagoth Ur the moment he arrived.

But no; the corridor was deserted, only the distant rumbling of hissing of ancient dwemer machinery, purpose long forgotten, could be heard.

During his first foray into a dwemer site, this incessant noise had made him deeply uncomfortable, so alien was it from anything else he had heard in his life. Now, however, the noise had become comforting, almost a calming heartbeat. The machines would not harm him, as he knew full well by now, and any constructs in service of the Sixth House would no doubt leave him alone.

Making certain to only take right turns to give himself some semblance of hope to find his room again, he slowly made his way deeper into the facility, surprised that there was seemingly no one around at all.

"Funny that I would find the absence of cultists more troubling than their presence... Wouldn't have expected that two weeks ago," he mumbled to himself. Where was everyone? Had something happened? What if there was an attack at the surface and everyone but him was fighting the forces of the Tribunal? Sarros stopped, a pit forming in his stomach. If they were under attack, he should not be hiding here like a coward! Except, of course, his legs already felt tired, even at the slow pace...

He leaned against the wall for a moment, closing his eyes and taking deep breaths, feeling queasy. The Tribunal had no reason to start attacking now; maybe the Ordinators had no idea that their masters were weakening, but Vivec certainly knew that they would be sent to their deaths in an unfair fight. If nothing else, the false god seemed to care for his people too much to waste their lives on such a large scale. The worst they had to fear here were rogue cliff racers pecking at the forces milling about outside.

One breath, two, three... Sarros's heartbeat calmed down and he opened his eyes, only to be startled into a most pathetic yelp. Before him, seemingly having materialized out of nowhere, stood one of the ash ghouls, patiently... watching him? Could they see?

"Well, if it isn't Lord Nerevar!" he said. His tone, muffled by the appendage dangling from his face, was an odd mix of reverence and excitement. Sarros could see a smile behind the disturbing trunk. Impossible to tell if it was genuine.

"Did you sneak up on me?" Sarros asked, feeling idiotic the moment the words left his mouth. Obviously.

"Why of course not! I always move quietly. I did not want to interrupt your moment of..." he seemed to give it sincere thought for a moment, "prayer? Listening to the words of Lord Dagoth?" His voice sounded increasingly familiar the more he spoke.

"Something like that..." Sarros grinned awkwardly. The ash ghoul did not quite need to know that the thought of fighting for his House made Sarros sick to his stomach. "On another note... Do I know you...?"

This question seemed to delight the ash ghoul, who seemed to grow a little taller as he straightened. "You remember me, Lord Nerevar? I am Dagoth Gares! I am honored that you would recognize me!"

"But I... Killed you."

Gares clearly took this as a sign to mean that Sarros regretted his actions. "Yes, my Lord, but that was to be expected. All part of Lord Dagoth's plan! I cannot fault you for carrying out the will of the false gods. Surely you have been enlightened by now?"

"I... Yes, I have abandoned the Tribunal. ...Do all ash creatures come back from the dead...?"

No, my Lord, only those deemed worthy, if we have served loyally enough to deserve the blessing of Dagoth Ur. The others... The others have not received enlightenment yet."

"You do strike me as extremely loyal," Sarros agreed, trying his best not to think about all the gold he wasted on potions to recover from encounters with ash ghouls only to find that killing them, too, had been utterly pointless.

"Why thank you, my Lord, that is a very kind compliment." His trunk twitched a little, and Sarros wondered if this was a gesture emphasizing his gratitude. It moved this way and that as he spoke, but not all movements appeared random.
'Too bad it would probably be rude to ask to explain how he feels about having that thing grow out of his face...'

"You're welcome," Sarros said instead, making a note to befriend an ash ghoul at some point to find out. Maybe Gares, even, who seemed to enjoy his company more than enough, although his obvious reverence was quite off-putting.

Silence fell as Sarros attempted to come up with a way to continue the conversation, but Gares was apparently more skilled at this type of interaction.

"My lord, have you been shown the chamber of Akulakhan?" he said, barely missing a beat, pride saturating his voice. "If you have no other matters to attend to, I am happy to guide you there. You must see what Lord Dagoth is working on."

"No, I haven't." He suspected that the chamber was the location of the Heart, which he would certainly have seen in combat, but instead he had been handed over to one of the Heartwights when Dagoth Ur - Voryn - had his fill of ensuring that Sarros was real by means of squeezing the breath out of him. Assuming that actually happened; it was difficult to say. Sarros barely remembered his arrival.

"Well, then you must come with me. You will be impressed by the Master's work, I promise."

"Certainly," Sarros replied, curious. He had no clue what Akulakhan was, but the ash ghoul beamed with pride. He let Gares lead the way and chatter on about the Sixth House and his life as a minister. Busy wondering - anxiously - how the Heartwights felt about him killing every single one of them at some point and whether they would be as agreeable as the minister, Sarros barely noticed where they were going.

When he heard a lull in the conversation after his last "Yes, certainly," he decided to fill it with a question of his own. "Gares, why are you here? Do all of you reappear here in the facility when you die?"

"You care, Lord Nerevar?" Gares looked down at him, proceeding to not quite answer his question. There had to be some way for him to see with his ruined face, considering how watched Sarros felt under his eyeless gaze. "I have not been sent back to Ilunibi since there is no point in returning. The outlanders have taken over after you thoroughly sent the Master's servants back to the dream. There are other shrines, of course, but I wished to see your arrival, making myself useful here in the meantime."

Unsettling. "You expected me to come here, successfully, and... join?"

"Yes, of course, my Lord. You received the first of the Master's blessings, how could you not? The House Dunmer and Ashlanders alike do not understand corprus as the divine boon it is, but certainly you, out of all people, would."

Divayth Fyr had called the disease divine, too, but Sarros found that only after his cure had it truly been a blessing to him - even if the idea of eternal life sounded rather unpleasant. Not to mention that using methods like this to achieve immortality were frowned upon by the Telvanni, who preferred that wizards put in the actual work. Not that it mattered; he would be declared dead soon enough for another to take his place, or so Sarros assumed. Archmagisters typically did not abandon their posts to join cults, who knew what the House would do.

"You do have a point," Sarros conceded. "I would not have made it here if you had not infected me." This, again, was the right thing to say, with how obviously Gares took this as a compliment. It was disturbing to see how much his words excited the ash ghoul.
'He does realize I'm not a god he has to please...?'

It got hotter around them, nearly unbearably so, and Sarros regretted his false modesty. Wearing nothing but a loincloth suddenly seemed the most prudent choice. His clothes were meant to protect him from ash getting through his outer robes, and the tightly woven fabric trapped the heat. His mohawk began to droop with sweat, and he braided it down as they walked, surprised by how long it had grown since he had first arrived on Vvardenfell.

Eventually, they entered a corridor that seemed vaguely familiar and passed through an engraved door he knew he had seen before. Gares had led him back to the chamber that had changed his life.

Dagoth Ur was not present, this time, no doubt busy running his House, or whatever gods did all day. Maybe he should ask; it could not be worse than trying to get a straight answer out of Vivec.

Gares led him to a heavy stone door Sarros had either forgotten or failed to notice during his first visit. "Behind this door lies Akulakhan," Gares declared, "Prepare yourself, Lord Nerevar; I promise you have never seen anything like it in this life or the previous."

***

The door opened into a large cavern, its ceiling illuminated by the familiar glow of magma. Sweat dripped from Sarros' forehead, but he hardly noticed; He was indeed impressed. Speechless, even.

From the entrance, one could only see a small section of it, but it was obvious what Akulakhan was. Behind the ledge Sarros approached, the gigantic head, it alone easily rivalling Tel Naga, of a construct towered from the deep pit at the center of the vast cavern. Its likeness reminded Sarros of the dwemer he had seen in ancient illustrations in their books. In fact, had not one of them described one of the constructs - Baladas had been uncertain in his translation with what little material Sarros had provided him - that had looked just like this?

As he walked closer to the edge, he did not notice that Gares remained behind at the door, giving him time to take it all in in peace. It was obvious that this thing – Akulakhan - was meant to be some sort of legendary weapon, one that was still under construction, he quickly realized. Part of him was relieved to see that it was no immediate threat.

He reached the edge and looked down into the pit, finding it indeed filled with magma. Had Akulakhan's feet been constructed first and then submerged? Keeping this thing in magma like this was an odd choice. Maybe he could get an explanation one day?

A bridge led into the construct's open ribcage, and it took Sarros a moment to realize what he saw there - the Heart of Lorkhan, embedded in its chest, giving him an idea of how destructive this thing would one day be. It was a dreadful thought, no matter his newly formed allegiance.
‘Especially now that Dagoth Ur has access to all the Tools...’

"What do you think, Nerevar?"

Once again, he found himself startled, jumping and almost losing his footing at the edge. For the briefest moment, he teetered, already seeing himself be burned to a crisp in the depths, but a strong hand caught him, claws digging into his tunic and the skin beneath as Voryn hastily pulled him back. In shock, Sarros clung to his arm for a moment, before letting go as if burned, awkwardly taking a respectful step back. These people needed to stop sneaking up on him.

"Th-thank you, Voryn," he stuttered, looking up at the mask. Craning his neck, even. Dagoth Ur was simply too tall. There was not a drop of sweat on him, Sarros noticed with a hint of envy. If only he could be so unbothered by the heat.

"You must practice your awareness, Nerevar, I have never been able to catch you off guard so easily," Voryn scolded, hand still on Sarros’ shoulder. "Since your ascension... Went awry, I do not know if the heart will resurrect you."

"Awry...?"

"You were meant to rise to your feet, radiant with power and life," Voryn explained. "Your reaction was... Unexpected, and I cannot say with certainty whether you have the power you should. Your eye, for example - are you able to use it?"

Without waiting for a reply, let alone giving a warning, he reached for Sarros face and pried open the third eye, bending down to get a better look. Looking at Voryn was at least as bad, if not worse, as looking at his enchanted ring, and Sarros forced his eye shut immediately, groaning as pain shot through his skull. At least this time he did not feel nauseous; being sick on the feet of a god seemed ill-advised. Voryn steadied him as he swayed on his feet, dangerously close, again, to falling. Sarros found himself guided away from the edge and down into a sitting position.

"This obviously should not happen," Voryn commented, audibly annoyed. "You of all people need to be able to use your new power... What did you do to yourself? My blood is too powerful to resist. Especially for one blessed with my divine disease."

Voryn crouched before him, the flickering flame of a nearby brazier setting the mask aflame with reflected light. Sarros struggled to focus on an answer as his brain seemed to turn into sludge under the searing pain.
"I... I don't..." Sarros had to look away from the nightmarish visage before him.

"Remember? Think, Nerevar. A spell someone put on you, perhaps..."

Nothing of the sort had happened, of course, unless... "I.... I drank a potion to suppress the negative effects of corprus... One that k-killed the other afflicted at the... at Tel Fyr, but n-not me.”

He earned himself a growl as Voryn forcefully grabbed his chin and made him look up at him.
"Who? Who dares interfere with my work like-"

It was too much. Once again, Sarros passed out.

***

Ilara sat in her father's study, sifting through stacks of packing lists. Gold had gone missing somewhere in the trade with the smugglers, and it was on her to find out where, exactly.

When she had asked Dagoth Ur for an opportunity to make herself useful, paperwork had not been what she envisioned. There were traces here of a system, of order, but apparently the madness that had befallen her father after his death had affected his organizational skills. She would never find out if anyone was skimming gold without creating her own books from scratch...

Sighing, she put down another list - fascinating, truly, the one thing she truly cared about were shipments of Sixth House themed crockery.

"Who is even going to use this? Dessert plates for corprusmeat?" she muttered, making a note in her journal to find out who kept ordering something so unnecessary. Maybe that was it; nobody skimmed gold off the top, they just wasted it all on pointless luxuries.

Just as she dipped her quill in the obsidian inkwell - emblazoned with the House's sigil, obviously - the door flew open, revealing her father with unconscious Sarros slung over his shoulder.

"Again?" Ilara groaned. "Gods, out of all the incarnates, he's got to be the weakest. What happened this time? A stiff breeze?"

"Clear the table," Dagoth Ur ordered, ignoring her quip. "You failed to mention that he cannot even open his third eye without losing consciousness!"

Gathering the papers as quickly as she could, Ilara readied herself for being scolded like a child, but as luck would have it, her father was too distracted by his anger at someone else.

“Someone ruined my design for his ascension, and I need to know who,” he continued as he put Sarros' limp body down on the large worktable, normally used to work on the plans for Akulakhan and the conquest of Tamriel. “He mentioned Tel Fyr. Have you heard of it?”

Ilara caught a stack of maps he roughly brushed off the table, rolling them up neatly. "Tel Fyr?” By now it did not surprise her anymore that her father seemed to know nothing of the world, but she had mentioned the stronghold before. Multiple times.

“Of course I know Tel Fyr. I lived there. For centuries. Remember? Divayth Fyr was my master?” She shook her head; it was pointless. Few things that did not directly concern his plans or Nerevar seemed to sprout roots in her father’s memories.

“What does he have to do with Sa- Lord Nerevar?" Ilara had not seen the ancient wizard in years, not since that unsavoury business with his daughter-wives. She looked down at Sarros' perfectly healthy – at least when compared to the average corprus victim - body. "Wait, did he catch corprus and tried to have it cured? Successfully?"

"He was fed a potion that removed part of the side-effects. Nerevar is immune now to disease, old age, and apparently, my blessing!" Her father leaned heavily on the table, claws digging into wood. "He is useless to me like this... Not to mention a poor replacement..."

Obviously, he was furious, but nowhere near as much as she would have expected; apparently, being near unwell ‘Lord Nerevar’ tempered his fury with worry.

"I'm certain there is a way to fix it," Ilara said carefully, "you both have all the time in the world-"

"Of course, and that is why you, my sweet daughter, will head to him and demand a sample of the potion. I cannot afford the time spent guessing. Get the recipe, if you can."

"Father, he will not want to talk to me, we had-"

"Now!" he ordered, the depths of his eyes flaring bright red. "Your personal squabbles are of no interest to me. Get out of my sight and do not dare return without results. Have I made myself clear?"

The magma pit was a more appealing destination, but there was no point denying Dagoth Ur. "Yes, father, I shall get ready and leave within the hour.” She gestured at Sarros. “Do you need any help with him before I leave?"

"Out!"

***

The moment the door closed behind her, Voryn took off the mask to rub his temples. He could feel a headache grow, a sensation he had not felt since his death. It was as if the weakness of Nerevar's vessel infected him.

"This is not how I envisioned your return, Nerevar," he chided the unconscious elf, "We should be getting ready to take down the Tribunal already... Get revenge for your death." Ah, how he looked forward to seeing their blood spilled in their halls. Mournhold first; he would make sure Almalexia died by his own hands. Sotha Sil he cared little about; he doubted the engineer-sorcerer had been the architect of Nerevar's death. And Vivec... It would be a pleasure to see Nerevar drive a spear through his chest.

None of that could happen while the vessel was in such a state, and Voryn had no illusions about the difficulty of the fights; even in their weakened state, the Tribunal made formidable enemies. No, he needed Nerevar by his side to even the odds.

'Not to mention that you have not the slightest idea about the workings of the outside world, Voryn...' a little voice at the back of his mind reminded him. With a groan, he bent down, resting his face in his hands to calm the pounding behind his forehead. The table creaked, and Nerevar produced a muffled whimper.

Startled, Voryn looked up, but the elf remained unconscious. "A pity," he said as he took Nerevar's right hand in his, gently stroking the slim fingers with his thumb. Not a trace of callous in sight; it was time Gilvoth got his hands on the young mer to teach him how to wield a sword. “It could have been so easy...”

***

Sarros did not wake in his room, but a chamber that looked like a study, the walls hidden behind shelves upon shelves of books and scrolls, none of them magical. Records? Plans?

He looked at the world from an odd angle, and it took him a moment to realize that he had been placed on a table. On a chair close to him, a hastily rolled up map was on the verge of escape to the floor. Not the kind of study where his insides would be the object of exploration, then. The Sixth House turned out to feel a lot safer than Great House Telvanni.

"Azura give me strength," he muttered as he sat up, worried that his body would rebel again, but it cooperated.
"You have no need for any gods but me, Nerevar, neither the spiteful Daedra nor the traitors of the Tribunal. Although I must appreciate that Azura has returned you to me."

Voryn sat on his desk near the back wall, watching him, maskless and visibly exhausted - or did he look a little ill? It was hard to tell. Maybe Sarros imagined it entirely. Why would a god be tired?

"My apologies for passing out," Sarros said sheepishly, "It seems my body cannot handle the third eye too well..."

"A masterful deduction." Voryn leaned forward, pressing his hand against his forehead. 'A headache? Really?' Sarros swallowed his urge to acknowledge it.

"My daughter is on the way to bring me the potion you've been given. I will find a solution to this issue."

Ilara knew where Tel Fyr was? Was Divayth Fyr the Telvanni who had taught her 'how to survive'? 'The heir of House Dagoth raised by the most powerful Telvanni sorcerer of all time. A bit much, isn't it...?'

"No doubt," Sarros agreed, "if anyone knows how to help me, it's you..."

Silence fell as they looked at each other. Sarros wondered how long, exactly, he had been lying here, and if Voryn had watched him the entire time. He had certainly not bothered sending dreams. An odd thought, to be so exposed to him, odder still that Sarros knew with certainty that he was in no danger here.

Before his mind registered what his body was doing, he slid off the table and sat down next to Voryn instead – with absolutely no grace, as the desk had been made to accommodate his impressive height. With a quiet chuckle, Voryn took him by his arm and helped him up.

“You were never near my height, but Azura really did not bless this new body of yours.”

“Next time I will levitate instead.”

“Not something you used to do in the past.”

“Well, your skin wasn’t ash-coloured.”

Voryn looked down at him, rubbing his temple again. “How much do you remember?” he asked, a trace of anxiety in his deep voice. It was clear which answer he did not want to hear, but Sarros was forced to disappoint.

“Nothing. All I know comes from the dreams you sent me.”

“I see.” The clawed hand fell into his lap, joining the other. He kept his face neutral, but it was as if Sarros had stabbed his own heart. Guilt flooded him – ‘Guilt? How am I supposed to remember?’ – and he placed his hand on Voryn’s. A spark of joy when the ancient mer did not pull back.

They sat like this, in silence, for what seemed like an eternity, both wanting – what, really? Intimacy? -, neither ready to give in, until Voryn sent Sarros back to his chambers.

Chapter Text

Ilara's arrival at Tel Fyr was announced by the rumble of a stack of crates, displaced by her materializing body, falling over. Summoning a small magelight, Ilara found that the small room where she had lived as an apprentice had been repurposed for storage, and the sheer amounts of dust and cobwebs that settled on her hair and clothes made it clear that nobody came here anymore. She swallowed any stirring of emotion at the thought – it was pointless to dwell on the past.

A swift telekinesis spell moved the crates out of the way, and with an added flourish, the crates stacked themselves neatly against the wall. The lock was opened with similar ease, and Ilara blinked against the warm, yellow light of the kitchen. It would have made her feel utterly homesick if the light had not been blocked immediately by a reminder why she had left in the first place.

Beyte Fyr.

“Ilara? What in the world are you doing here?”

Ilara had no personal issue with the woman. Beyte had always been rather kind, even when Ilara had greeted her with nothing but spite, but she could not get over her feelings at the circumstances of the woman’s existence. No wonder she had given up on rising to power among the Telvanni; Ilara lacked their tolerance for unethical magical experiments.

"Greetings, Beyte. I won't be long." Ilara dusted herself off and marched right past the woman, only to immediately be held back by the arm.

"You can't just appear in our storage room and expect to go where you please without an explanation." Beyte's tone was unusually stern.

"Well, this was no storage room when I left a mark here,” Ilara quipped. “I wonder what you did to my things.”

"You know very well that that's not what I mean! If you're here to upset Lord Fyr again-" Beyte had always been the most attached to the old mer, even decades ago, but her worry was misplaced. Nothing Ilara had to say could possibly upset the ancient mage.

"Upset? Lord Fyr? Beyte, you know he could not care less about my opinions. Besides, let him be upset then; I'm not the one who cloned herself women to bed." Ilara could not help the disgust in her voice. "I'm here for business, nothing else. Leave me alone, I'll be gone in no time, and you can go back to playing housewife."

Beyte ignored her jibes entirely, her gaze caught on the amulet dangling from Ilara’s slender neck. "You're consorting with the Sixth House," she pointed out. The amulet bore the House's sigil, and Ilara made no effort to hide it, too proud of her ancestry to bother. "There are dozens of corprus victims languishing downstairs, many of them dying horrible deaths, and you work for its creator. In what world do you have moral superiority over anyone? Lord Fyr is cleaning up the messes your people are making.”

Everyone at Tel Fyr knew about Ilara's heritage; it was an open secret, really, although it never left the tower's walls. Making it all the more annoying that Beyte bothered questioning her choice at all. Why would Ilara not join her father?

"I don’t understand your surprise, you know who I am. Obviously I work for my father now that he has returned, why wouldn’t I? Aren’t you loyal to your family, too, Beyte? Now let me go before I have to force you." A tiny sliver of magic, just enough for the spellsword to sense, served as a warning; under Ilara’s glare, Beyte quickly removed her hand. Not, of course, without a disapproving look.

"Fine, do what you want. But don't come back crying and begging to be let back in when the Nerevarine destroys that cult you call family."

Ilara snorted at the thought of Sarros destroying anything but his teeth. "You have no idea what you're talking about, Beyte."

Leaving her standing, Ilara headed for the upper level. A sense of relief wormed its way into her heart when she realized that practically nothing here had changed; she could still find her way with her eyes closed. For a moment, she felt like her younger self again, excited for whatever lesson Divayth would have for her. Too bad those days were long gone. Time for a lecture by her old master.

***

The upper tower had not changed either, being the same utilitarian and endlessly intriguing place it had always been. Divayth Fyr was easy enough to find, bent over a workbench covered in books and soul gems in one of the four rooms connected to the central shaft. Everything was haphazardly strewn about, as it always was when he was engrossed in his studies, too busy unravelling the mysteries of Nirn – or the realms beyond – to bother cleaning up spent, broken soul gems. This too was a nostalgic sight. If she had more time, she would have perused the book shelves along the walls to see which books he had recently acquired…

"Ilara," he said, without a trace of surprise in his voice, or any emotion at all. Did he recognize her by her footsteps, or by her magical signature? She wished she could ask, have a normal conversation again, but today was not the day. He did not even bother turning to face her, though at least he put down his quill. "I know why you're here."

"Do you? If you think I'm here to mend our relationship-"

"Obviously not. You return reeking of ash and dwemer oil, after vanishing in the exact moment reports of Sixth House activity appeared. Not difficult to deduce where you’ve been. I presume your father sent you because I interfered with the Nerevarine. Lack of corprus symptoms causing issues?"

It did not matter that he spoke the words entirely without judgement, simply stating facts; Ilara immediately felt defensive anyway. This was not the time to argue, however; with a deep breath she kept herself from bursting into some childish rant. At least she would not have to explain anything to him if he came up with all the answers on his own.

"Correct,” she replied instead, carefully keeping her tone even. “The Nerevarine is unable to fully receive father's blessing, and he blames you."

"And from that I assume that Dagoth Ur wants the recipe for the potion I fed the poor sod. Surprised to learn that he even made it to Red Mountain. A poor imitation of Lord Nerevar, is he? Your father must be disappointed.” He sounded amused. “Since the Archmagister is apparently still alive, I assume he is now under Dagoth Ur’s control. Willingly, or as a prisoner…?”

“Willingly,” Ilara replied without thinking twice. “Threw himself at father’s feet, I’ve been told. He’s currently in the process of being turned into a proper reincarnation, hence the blessing. You’re right, of course, I need the potion. Ideally the recipe.”

She felt ridiculous even asking for it, as if anyone in their right mind would help the Sixth House. Anyone who was not born into it, that is. Sure, the ash creatures and dreamers served willingly, too, but they were hardly sane.

Finally, Divayth turned to face her, expression serious. Cold. Ilara realized she missed his smile. He had been proud of her once, when she worked herself into the ground to excel at every task he gave her, succeeding at most of them. 'Well, I cast myself out from polite society, what do I expect?'

"I expect that you will threaten me with Dagoth Ur's army at my doorstep if I don't hand it over, or worse, attempt to fight me yourself?"

Even the thought was ridiculous. Past loyalties aside, it would be idiotic to try and force him. "I don't-"

"Lucky for you, I doubt the potion will make a difference. Maybe Dagoth Ur will be able to strengthen his pet, maybe not, but what makes him dangerous is the power he already has, not a recreation of an ancient hero in the body of an average mer of middling magical talent. I doubt the Archmagister has any of the talents that made Lord Nerevar successful."

“That’s… True. Sarros is a liability more than anything.” Was he actually about to give her what she wanted…? Ilara’s hands fidgeted with the sash tied around her midsection, worried what his conditions would be.

"You should know that if you want something out of me, you'll provide a gift first. A trade. Information about corprus will do the trick. Dagoth Ur writes me a polite letter about the inner workings of the divine disease, I give you the recipe." There it was, his old smile, but it was far from reassuring.

"You’re making the greediest schemers of House Hlaalu look bad. Working with Dagoth Ur just to gather knowledge?”

"With yet another failed Nerevarine – he’s the real one, is he not? - Morrowind will need a cure for corprus or be subjugated by the Sixth House. There will be nobody left to rule or rescue once every dunmer is locked up in the Corprusarium to die."

'Maybe you should try to fight instead', Ilara thought. With his considerable power at their side, the Tribunal's forces might just be able to enter Red Mountain and use the Tools themselves to destroy the Heart; but Divayth Fyr was a Telvanni at heart, as bothered with the welfare of Morrowind as the rest of them. Ilara could not blame him.

"Father will not send such a letter." Or would he? He did enjoy bragging about his achievements. Still, a letter was too easy to steal, could get into the wrong hands.

"He is free to visit me in person. Or to invite me to his citadel!" Divayth laughed. "Is the Nerevarine as precious to him as the rumors suggest? Surely, he is willing to handle a small inconvenience or two for his sake. A god has nothing to fear from me, a simple wizard."

They both knew it was not true; unlike Sarros, Divayth was competent. Bringing him to Red Mountain was dangerous, no doubt.

"I will ask," Ilara conceded, already readying herself for a very uncomfortable conversation, "but I cannot make any promises."

"In which case he may just have to make do without the recipe." Divayth shrugged. “Now if you would excuse me, I have research to work on.”

Ilara turned, casting a mark on his study to avoid running into Beyte or one of the other daughter-wives next time. “Thank you,” she said quietly before leaving, “for listening to me.”

***

After being left to sit in his room, alone, once more, Sarros was glad to find himself following Gares again, this time in silence. Solitude forced him to think about his situation, his feelings, the surreal circumstances, and Sarros preferred the feeling of anxiety that made his heart pound in his throat. At least for now.

He felt as if one might see his heart if giving his half-bare chest a closer look; the ash ghoul had assisted in dressing him 'appropriately for a Lord of the Sixth House', meaning most of his body was naked. Declaring himself Sarros' personal servant, Gares had woken him, only to take the wizard to what felt like his upcoming slaughter. Still better than trying to deal with his emotions, but…

Gares was about to deliver him to Gilvoth.

Having only met each of the ash vampires once - to fight and kill them, nonetheless - Sarros could barely recall which one was which, but Gilvoth he remembered. The only one who had not even bothered to tell him how little he cared about him before attacking, with his bare hands. The others had used magic, or weapons; Gilvoth wanted to break his neck.

By the skin of his teeth and with his entire arsenal of spells, Sarros had survived, drinking enough healing potions afterwards to make himself feel ill. He had no recollection how much time exactly he had spent on the floor of that room, so exhausted he could not manage to sit, every muscle and bone in his body aching from the beating he received. Who knew - maybe one of the blows to his head had driven him to submit to Dagoth Ur later. ‘You tell yourself that, Sarros…’

Today, Gilvoth would not try to strangle him, hopefully, he would use a sword instead. Blunted, of course, Gares insisted, but with enough brute force a blunted sword could still pierce a heart.

"Gares, I don't feel so well," Sarros said as they approached the chamber where his training was meant to take place. "I don't think I’ve recovered enough." In fact, maybe stewing in his thoughts was preferable. Or maybe he could go on a walk outside the facility. Away. Towards Molag Amur. Tel Uvirith needed its master back, surely…

"Nonsense. Lord Dagoth insists you are ready. I understand you are nervous. His brother is a formidable fighter, but he will cause you no real harm."

"I sincerely doubt that," Sarros insisted, "he already hated me before I killed him, now he can add revenge to his motivations to destroy me."

Gares placed a surprisingly – for the temperatures down here - cold, clammy hand on Sarros' naked shoulder. A long strip of red fabric was slung over the other, tied at the waist with a belt. All the protection he had against the sword. "Lord Nerevar, you must believe me. No doubt you will end up with marks, but his honour forbids him from killing you."

Sarros muttered agreement, not particularly reassured. When they reached the door, his anxiety rose dramatically, making him appreciate the lack of breakfast. Gares opened it and bade him enter.

***

The chamber behind the door was an empty square with four columns at the center, making for a serviceable arena, complete with spectators. It must have housed some sort of large-scale machinery before, as the ceiling had a square hole, and through it, Sarros saw his worst nightmare. Leaning on the old railing around the opening, every Heartwight looked down at him, joined by Ilara, two dozen servants ranging from ash slaves to a single ascended sleeper, and, worst of all, Voryn himself. At least his mask would hide the disappointment he was about to endure.

Missing, of course, was Gilvoth, who was in the chamber with him, looking ready to separate Sarros' head from his body. He wielded a black longsword in the by now very familiar style of the Sixth House, which did not look particularly blunt at all.

With a jerk of his head, Gilvoth, who was both the shortest and physically most impressive of the brothers, indicated a rack by the door. "Get a sword, I don't have all day to waste on you."

Another similar longsword awaited Sarros, and his heart sank as he removed it from the rack. He could just about lift it with both hands but had no idea how he was supposed to swing it, let alone perform a proper attack. He was used to light, fast daggers, and even with those he was just proficient enough to occasionally defend himself and kill unsuspecting victims. If they had their backs turned to him.

"No magic," Gilvoth reminded him, though Sarros had never bothered to learn a feather spell anyway.

"I can't wield this," Sarros complained, "it's too-"

He turned around at the sound of footsteps just in time to see the ash vampire charge at him. Knowing that there was no way he could raise his sword far or fast enough to block his attack, Sarros threw himself on the floor instead, rolling gracelessly out of the way while dragging the sword with him with an ugly noise of metal scraping over metal.

"Fight, you coward!" someone yelled from above, others laughed. Sarros refused to look up at them and see their mocking faces. He stood up again, raising the sword with a heavy grunt, but of course his attempt to land a blow with it was easily averted by Gilvoth, who swatted the blade aside with his hand, throwing Sarros off balance.

"I never liked Nerevar myself," Gilvoth hissed, "but you are a pathetic excuse of a reincarnation even I find insulting. You really think you’re worthy of Voryn's affection, do you?" So that was the reason for his anger...

Gilvoth did not leave him time to ponder and brought his weapon down in a wide, slashing arc, which Sarros was too slow to evade; the blade could not cut properly, but the tip lodged itself between his ribs anyway from the sheer force. Gilvoth tore it free, ready to strike again, laughing without humor. "Look, Voryn, this is who you want to elevate to-"

But as Gilvoth looked up, he could not see the golden mask anymore. His distraction gave Sarros, who clutched the bleeding wound, an opportunity to ditch his sword and sprint towards the other side of the room.

He did not get far; Gilvoth caught up easily, knocking him down with an elbow to the spine. Sarros rolled over on his back to stop the oncoming death blow with his arms - as if brittle bone could defend against Gilvoth's raw strength - but instead of forcing the blade into his heart, Gilvoth aimed for his neck, forcing him to lie still as the tip pressed gently into his jugular.

"Any last-" Gilvoth started, but an all-too-familiar voice interrupted him.

"Stop,” Voryn ordered, towering above them both, eyes behind the mask ablaze with unbridled fury. A part of Sarros that remained entirely detached wondered with amusement if he had sprinted down some stairs, the sound of his bare feet echoing from the walls…

Gilvoth took a step back, blabbering some incoherent apology, but it was not he who had Voryn's attention.

"Weak," Voryn growled as he yanked Sarros up to his feet, "you’re an embarrassment to the Sixth House!"

His claws dug deep into Sarros' flesh, drawing blood, and it felt like the temperature in the room rose, as if Red Mountain itself was frustrated with him. Fear flooded Sarros' mind, and without thinking, he unleashed an explosion of pure magicka that sent Gilvoth to the floor and Voryn stumbling backwards.

“Enough! I'm a wizard!" Sarros yelled, "A fucking Telvanni! What makes you think I'd learn how to wield a sword because you throw me in the ring with that rabid hound of a brother? Either have someone teach me properly or let me fight how I want! I'm not your precious Nerevar, I have no idea how to even hold a sword!"

Upstairs, someone cheered. "I told you so, Voryn!" another voice added. Sarros looked up to see his unexpected allies, finding two of the ash vampires smiling down at him, one he thought he remembered from Kogoruhn, the other he could not quite place. "Teach him proper control of that magic," the cheering one suggested, "you're the best sorcerer here!"

The servants watched the exchange in utter fascination, Ilara looked horrified at the disrespect, and the other ash vampires ranged from exasperation to delight.

"Leave us," Voryn ordered, refusing to engage his brother, "all of you."

"Think about it, Voryn, if you train him to match your skill, you two can just level all of Vivec with magic in an afternoon!" Kogoruhn-brother called over his shoulder as they left the gallery. Gilvoth practically fled the room, too relieved that he was not the subject of Voryn's ire to try and maintain any kind of decorum.

Sarros looked down at the streaks of blood on his arm, silent as they waited for the door to shut behind him. At least the blood was drying up already; unlike the cut to his chest. It ached with every breath he took, droplets of blood oozing from the wound when his lungs filled with air.

“I’m sorry,” Sarros finally said, though he knew his words were true. “I should… I should have said that to you in private. Or not at all. I’m ungrateful, I-”

Voryn brought his finger to the lips of the mask, and Sarros stopped talking. “Perhaps I should have… Considered the advice of my brothers before handing you to my ‘rabid hound’,” he admitted, to Sarros’ surprise. “I would prefer if you would refrain from insulting my family in the future, however.”

“Of course. Please accept my apology,” Sarros blurted out, as breathless as he was grateful that he was not on his way to be thrown into the nearest pit of magma.

“Apology accepted…” Voryn took the mask off again, revealing an oddly nostalgic smile. “Besides, you always stood up to me when I made mistakes. It is only right that you continue to do so now.”

Before Sarros could realize that the tension in the room changed, Voryn closed the gap between them in one long stride. Sarros shrank back, expecting to receive some sort of physical punishment after all, but no such thing happened. Instead, Voryn lifted his chin, careful to avoid scratching Sarros with his claws again.

“Forgive me, Nerevar, but for old times’ sake…”

He bent down deeply, his other hand drawing Sarros’ in for a kiss. Utterly taken aback by the sensation of Voryn’s dry lips on his – they should be soft, smooth -, the strong taste of ash, the heat of his tongue, Sarros could not help but return the kiss before his brain caught up with his body and reminded him that he was supposed to be hurt and furious.

Anger promptly flaring up again, he broke the kiss and pushed Voryn away, the taste of salt and ash, deeply unpleasant but impossibly intriguing lingering on his lips. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, but it hardly did anything.

"What are you doing?" he spat. "You can't just- I got hurt because of your mistake and all you can think of is a kiss? What is wrong with you, Voryn?"

Voryn tilted his head, the smile returning. "Only you would speak so openly to me, Nerevar..."

"I just told you very loudly, I'm not-"

"You are correct, Nerevar. I mistreated this vessel, failed to see it for its true value. I will assign you a better teacher - you must get stronger, there is no way around it, even a spellcaster must have sufficient stamina to fight, and be able to defend himself without his magic if it fails him - but we will focus on refining your spellcasting, first and foremost. You were born into this body, not that of a warrior..."

Sarros stared at him, understanding that Voryn truly believed that there was no Sarros Rothan, just Nerevar, hampered by the weakness of the unlucky elf he happened to be trapped in. It stung more than expected.

"Yes," he muttered, feeling the unwelcome burn of oncoming tears. “That’s… That’s reasonable.” There was nothing to do but accept that it was not he who was welcome here.

***

Back in his room, Sarros lay on his stomach, his pain reduced to a dull ache. Healing potions had been brought to him, strong enough only to close the wounds but not heal them properly, as if attempting to teach him a lesson.

He wished he had never left Windhelm.

Chapter Text

As usual, Ilara found her father in Akulakhan's chamber, overlooking the construction, but he was not involved in the process at all; shouting no orders, an idle spectator. He did not notice her approach, only turning to her when she stood beside him, loudly clearing her throat.

"Yes, daughter?" His tone was unusually distant, distracted. His eyes remained fixed on his creation.

"I've returned from my trip to Tel Fyr... Father, is something the matter?" He was fidgeting with the wrappings around his wrists. Fidgeting. Dagoth Ur did not fidget!

"Hm? Oh, yes. Tel Fyr. The potion. Were you successful?"

He should at least have been cross with her for not approaching him immediately - Sarros' little humiliation session would have been the perfect opportunity - but he barely sounded like he cared at all anymore. "Not quite. He will give you the recipe, but only if you explain the divine disease to him. In detail." She braced herself for some sort of outburst, but there was nothing.

"I suppose I will write him a letter, then." His quiet voice was difficult to make out over the sound of the labourers hammering bolts into the countless metal plates that covered Akulakhan’s body.

"He wants to create a cure for the divine disease, father! You can't just send him a letter with your secrets and help him!" Ilara massaged her neck, feeling beginning stiffness and pain. If this was the first sign that Dagoth Ur lost his hold on their operation, she feared the trouble he would get them all into.

"We will simply infect more people." He shrugged, indifferent. "The Sixth House will persevere. Is there anything else you wish to discuss? I will prepare the letter when I am able." Conversation apparently over, he walked past her, heading down the gallery along the cavern’s walls, towards the Heart. Chafing against being dismissed so, Ilara followed him and grabbed him by the wrist.

Finally, he deigned to look at her, and Ilara wished she could see through the mask, as she was not yet particularly skilled in reading his body language, not having spent enough time under Red Mountain.

"Father, what is wrong with you?” she demanded, swallowing her rising anxiety. “Did something happen? If we are in danger..."

"No, we are not." The tilt of his head was easy to understand, at least. Confusion that she would even ask such a thing.

"Is it Lord Nerevar, then? I know he embarrassed you, but he mainly humiliated himself, I don't think anyone will respect you any less for it." Well, aside from Endus and Uthol, who had found the whole situation a little too amusing. Not to mention Odros, but Odros refused to behave as would befit his role in the Sixth House – he took nothing particularly seriously.

"Go, Ilara. Do some work," her father replied softly, but she could hear the faint traces of a threat in his tone. Finally, a normal reaction. Also, proof she was right. It would be foolish to pry when he obviously was not interested in replying, but Ilara needed to know. If he failed, it would be on his heir to lead the Sixth House to success; she needed as much information as she could.

"Fine, I will leave you alone, but-“ he tensed visibly, “-if that elf causes lapses in your judgement, we-"

Reacting so quickly and rashly that Ilara had no chance to anticipate, he interrupted her with a slap across the face. "You will respect Lord Nerevar, child,” her father hissed, “and you will not doubt me."

Ilara took a step back, bewildered. Physical discipline was hardly unheard of in dunmer families, but not of adult children. At least he had been careful not to scratch her. A warning, then; his claws could easily take out an eye. "My apologies, father. It will not happen again."

She bowed and left him standing, heading to the exit with no particular destination in mind, hand on her cheek the entire way, shocked more by his sudden change in mood than any lingering pain. No past subject she had brought up, no matter how annoying, had provoked such a forceful reaction. It seemed Sarros was a worse weak spot than she had thought.

***

A cacophony of whispers haunted the shadows of the dark corridors Sarros stumbled through. The only source of light was a red candle in his hand, hot wax dripping painfully on his fingers, but letting go would leave him with no light, alone in this endless hall, easy prey for the things lurking in the gloom.

He knew where his path would end, had walked it many times, knew it was not worth it, but there was no stopping his feet, legs moving on their own volition whether he liked it or not.

There it was, a table or altar, glowing bright with the illumination of dozens of candles driving away the voices. Sarros added his to the others, the only red in a sea of white and yellow, and bent over the altar. The body lay where he expected it, but he refused to be afraid. Instead, after a quick prayer to Azura, he reached for a loose end of the ancient, stained fabric that hid the body, ready to uncover the face that haunted him, the face that had supposedly been his, once.

But when the cloth peeled away, so did the face, leaving the skull covered in blood and viscera, only blue eyes staring blindly at the ceiling, and Sarros cursed; he wanted to know the man, wanted to know what he looked like; and then the remaining skin turned from golden yellow to the warm grey of his fingers. His hair turned dark, the eyes red.

Staring into his own desecrated face, Sarros' felt his stomach turn, and then he-

***

Woke up in the quiet warmth of his chamber to a pair of gentle hands dabbing a cool ointment on the wound between his ribs, humming an unfamiliar tune that hurt Sarros' ears with its discordant notes. Either this type of music was completely unfamiliar to him, or the person producing it had not an ounce of talent. Opening his eyes revealed the trunk of Dagoth Gares, of course. Who else? Ilara had left him alone for days.

"You're a healer now?" Sarros muttered, flinching as the ash ghoul accidentally poked the wound in surprise.

"No, my Lord, I found a book of helpful potions and ointments. My skill in alchemy is quite limited, I am afraid, but there are no real healers here. We don't need them. At least until now we did not." He wiped his hands on a rag. "Will you please sit up so I can bandage your chest? This ointment stains and sticks, you would not want it on your clothes."

Sarros did as asked, raising his arms and waiting patiently for Gares to finish his work. The ash ghoul struggled, the bandages catching on still sticky fingers. "You brought me those potions, didn't you?"

"Yes, my Lord, I could see your injury from the gallery. It seemed prudent to help."

"That's very thoughtful of you, thank you," Sarros said, earnest. He certainly spared his wellbeing more thought than Ilara or Voryn did.

"It was not much, I know," Gares continued, though he did smile at Sarros' words, "but it was an unfair fight, and you do not deserve to suffer for it." He tied the bandage in place, making sure it could not slip anywhere. Not that the ointment would let it.

"I agree," Sarros said, "but it was humiliating, nonetheless. Nobody under this mountain will ever respect me now." Chances had certainly been slim before, but now… He could not help but resent Voryn for putting him on the spot like this, knowing full well that Sarros was perfectly capable of magical combat. ‘I worked so damn hard on my skills only for them to go ignored…’ He had acquired a damned skooma habit just to be able to study more, and having all his efforts go unappreciated stung worse than his failure.

Gares shook his head, shushing him. "I respect you, my Lord, and the Heartwights are intelligent, aside from that brute. They know what impossible odds look like."

"I don't think they would appreciate you referring to their brother as a 'brute'," Sarros cautioned, but with a barely supressed grin.

"But they call him that themselves, my Lord! When they think nobody is listening. Nobility forgets that servants move silently..." Gares picked up the rag again, aggressively scrubbing his fingers to rid himself of the residue. It clearly was not about to come off.

Sarros took the small jar he had brought and sniffed it; there were no unfamiliar ingredients he could detect. He was only a middling alchemist himself, but he had experience with just such an ointment. "If you add saltrice flour to this, it won't alter the properties enough to matter, but it won't stick to your fingers anymore."

"Thank you, my lord, I will try that,” Gares replied, sounding utterly impressed by all the skills Sarros had. It was like speaking to a Telvanni hireling, except that the ash ghoul either reacted honestly, or acted so well Sarros could not make the distinction.

"You can use my washbasin, by the way. Watching you is making my hands feel sticky in solidarity."

"Thank you, my Lord, very kind. I will get you fresh water immediately," Gares promised as he dipped his fingers in, clearly relieved that water and soap washed the ointment off with no issue.

"May I ask you something?"

"Of course, Lord Nerevar. Anything you wish."

"The brothers who spoke in support of me. Where can I find them? I would like to speak to them sometime. Introduce myself, apologize for, uhm..."

"We expected you to kill us, my Lord, as I have told you before. I doubt apologies will be necessary, but all the Dagoth brothers are proud; it will certainly improve your standing. Do you wish to go see them now? The brothers in question are Lord Uthol and Lord Endus. Lord Uthol, at least, should reside in his study, from which he administers our remaining forces in Kogoruhn. Easy to find.”

“The Sixth House simply took over again the moment I left, hmm?” So pointless. All the suffering he had gone through, for nothing. His time would have been better spent marching directly to Kogoruhn to join. Sarros was glad he did most of it under the influence of his beloved poison. Besides, Voryn would still be missing Wraithguard otherwise…

“My lord, your hands are shaking. Do you need help?”

Sarros clenched his fists to stop the tremors, with little success. Every mention of skooma reminded his brain that he still craved it. “No, you can’t help me with this. But a distraction will. Let’s go see Uthol then.”

***

"I have been waiting for you," Uthol greeted Sarros behind yet another unassuming round dwemer door, leading him into a room that was more study than private chamber. A heavy desk of dwemer make dominated the place, shelves and closets lined the walls. It was not particularly inviting and the chaotically stacked shelves - most of them filled with scrolls and books with the appearance of ledgers and journals, rather than actual reading material - suggested that it had only been moved into recently.

"I couldn't help but notice that you seemed to support me during that combat training mess, at least a little," Sarros said, sitting down on a crate Uthol gestured at. Uthol himself remained standing, arms folded, a curious expression bordering on friendly on his face. He looked much older than the other brothers, his braided and beaded black beard shot through with strands of grey. "I thought everyone would agree with Vo- Lord Dagoth."

"Call him Voryn, Nerevar, I know my brother is doing everything he can in his current situation to rebuild the intimate relationship you once had.” Uthol snorted. “He demanded that we treat you like family long before you arrived."

Sarros would just have to get used to nobody caring about his name, it seemed. "I… see," He replied, more sharply than he intended, but Uthol ignored his tone.

"To return to your original statement, I don't necessarily support you," Uthol continued. "Frankly, I do not care. But my brother is pleased to have you here, and I think he should make the most out of the situation, instead of condemning you to death before the end of your first month with us. He is so disappointed every time an Incarnate fails."

It had not occurred to Sarros that Voryn might be happy to have him around, feeling like he was a cheap replacement of a real thing that was now unattainable. Blood rushed to his ears at the thought.

"I know nothing about you, Nerevar, aside from you being a spellcaster of some sort. Enlighten me; I might be able to give you better advice, for your sake and my brother’s, if I have an idea who you are."

The story of Sarros' life prior to his arrival in Morrowind had been rather uneventful, and he skipped through most of it - mentioning only that his parents had died when he was an infant, and that he had been raised in Skyrim by his grandfather.

Uthol’s nostrils flared in distaste at the reminder that Sarros was an outlander, but he did not interrupt.

Slouching in embarrassment as he noticed the other’s expression, but refusing to acknowledge it, Sarros explained his journey through Great House Telvanni and how it had been rather accidental. How little education he had received overall, that he had to largely teach himself from books beyond the sparse training the wizards provided. His skooma habit he left out, just like the less savoury steps he had taken. The murder anyone would expect, but the times Sarros ended up in the bedroom of one of the Masters... He wondered how shameful such behaviour would be considered by House Dagoth but preferred not to risk worsening his reputation more.

"An Archmagister with the skill of an apprentice. I always knew the Telvanni were a little... Closer to Sheogorath in their behaviour than the rest of us, but that..."

"I don't doubt that Master Aryon meant to use me to further his goals, he just didn't get an opportunity to,” Sarros added hastily, feeling obliged to protect the honour of his House. “The Telvanni do nothing without an agenda.”

"So, you became Archmagister and immediately set out for Red Mountain?" Uthol questioned.

"Well, I did spend half a year studying magic as much as I could, or I would be dead now."

Uthol nodded. “Lucky for you, I anticipated something like this. Unlike Voryn, I found you a proper teacher; Endus will bring you up to our standards. All of us, except for Gilvoth, are skilled sorcerers, but Endus is by far the most patient and willing to teach." He pointed at Sarros' bandaged chest. "On the topic of Gilvoth, how is the injury doing?"

Sarros’ eyes brightened at the prospect of becoming student to someone willing to train him; Morrowind’s wizards had proven useless to him, and the court wizard of Windhelm whose apprentice he had been had not fared much better, having used him as an errand boy most days.

"Better. I was given some healing potions. One of the ash ghouls is kindly taking care of me."

"'Kindly'. They are supplicants, Nerevar, attempting to gain your favour to in turn impress Voryn. Be sensible and don't trust any of them, no matter how sweet their words. All the ash ghoul hopes for is for you to praise him in front of someone more powerful. They want to ascend, nothing more."

Before Sarros could explain just how honest he thought Gares was, behind him, without warning, the door opened, to an exasperated sigh from Uthol, and two more of the Heartwights entered. Where Uthol was of a stocky build, his thick beard accompanied by heavy curls, braided back to keep it out of his face, the newcomers resembled Voryn, both tall and slim, with the same silky hair. One let it fall uncontrolled around his shoulders; the other kept it coiffed with golden jewellery. Their skin was darker than Uthol's, as well, and Sarros wondered if they had a different parent.

"May I introduce you to Endus and Odros?" Uthol pointed at each of them, respectively. "I told you not to enter my study unannounced," he scolded them. "What is it? An urgent problem, I hope?"

"No," Odros, the casual-haired one, replied, "we questioned that ash ghoul who keeps following around our latest member, and found out you're having a chat. Thought me might join."

"Did he already tell you that I'm to be your teacher?" Endus added, smiling at Sarros. It was the smile of someone looking down at an interesting insect. "I hope you're a little more talented than the original Lord Nerevar, who was supposedly as skilled as one would expect from a caravan leader..."

"I informed him, yes. Did you know he is Archmagister of House Telvanni?" Uthol chuckled. "Barely grown up, yet someone decided to put him in charge of a Great House... No wonder Morrowind has fallen to the Empire."

"Must be that ring." Odros shrugged. "It makes people listen to you, doesn't it, Nerevar?"

"I didn't have the ring yet,” Sarros replied. He shifted nervously on the crate as all of them stared at him with three eyes, an incredible disconcerting sight. His discomfort was not helped by the fact that they formed a semicircle around him, their height forcing him to crane his neck. Besides, he still wondered how anyone could stand using the cursed eye.

"A magic trick of your own then? Or a strong potion to increase your charisma?" Endus crouched before him. "Truly, the enchantment is strong, but not strong enough for such a feat. I mean no offense, but I would not follow you into battle, let alone take orders from you in matters of politics."

"You don’t have to be likeable to rule Great House Telvanni," Sarros said, “You just have to…” Have to what? Have the support of a Master pulling strings in the background? He brought precious little to the table otherwise.

Endus reached for his left hand where Moon-and-Star gleamed in the warm dwemer lights. "Let me have a better look. Yes, that looks right... Uthol, does it look familiar to you?"

"Didn’t bother looking, I remember neither the ring nor the original Nerevar."

"I think I do. I’ve definitely seen the ring before," Odros added, then motioned for Sarros to stand up, proceeding to inspect him closely.

To the amusement of Endus and Uthol – and Sarros’ displeasure - Odros poked and prodded, comparing Sarros to Nerevar down to the shape of his ears. "Yep, big Mora ears, similar cheekbones, eye shape... More or less, with him dying a chimer... But very short. He could never quite reach Voryn's height, but you're tiny. Did your family not feed you? Also, you should shave that ridiculous beard right off. Voryn doesn't like facial hair."

Sarros started to complain, but Endus spoke right over him. "Get some scars on your face while you're at it," he suggested, "Everyone recognized him by the scars. The Ordinators wear them on their helmets, don't they?"

"Yes, they do, I saw them at the Ghostgate," Odros confirmed, earning himself the angry glare of both his brothers. "What? Nobody knew I was there."

"And they call me irresponsible," Endus said, with a theatrical sigh.

"You could have provoked them into attacking long before we were ready, Odros, how difficult is it to follow your orders for once?" From his tone, Sarros got the distinct impression that Uthol was used to herding his siblings.

"I only caught a glimpse, Uthol, I made sure to remain hidden. You know I can create strong disguises, only a highly skilled mage would have noticed I'm not really a netch trapped on the wrong side of the Ghostfence."

"A netch?" Sarros interrupted, laughing. "That's creative, but how... A levitation spell while maintaining the illusion?"

"Yes! I had to practice, mind you, but it works well. Nobody suspects a netch, and even an Ordinator wouldn't waste time and magicka attacking them."

"Would not work in a city, though..." Sarros continued.

"Ah, a rat does. I have a whole repertoire of disguises... It gets a little boring sometimes, guarding a dagger all day."

"Keening," Endus corrected, "it’s not just 'a dagger'".

"Same difference, either way I was stuck in my citadel doing nothing all day. It was a relief when Nerevar here came to kill me, at least I got a break."

"About that..." Sarros said, eyes fixated on his feet, earning himself a curious look from all three. "I hope you can forgive me. For, you know. killing you."

Uthol shrugged, Endus grinned, and Odros laughed. "You don't remember what I said to you, eh, Nerevar? No hard feelings. I told you, we all come back. Do it again, if you must, maybe after Endus gave you some lessons. No enchanted robes this time." Odros winked, leaving Sarros relieved. And slightly taken aback.

"Well, Gilvoth seems to resent me for it. So I thought…"

"Gilvoth resents you for breathing, Nerevar," Uthol said dryly. "In his... less than sophisticated way, he is protective of our brother. You hurt Voryn in the past. He cannot forgive that.”

"Gilvoth needs a war to fight, all this waiting is driving him up the walls," Endus said. "He's civil with us, but always on the verge of a raging outburst. In any case, you should keep away from him for a while. Make a notable effort to make Voryn happy, he'll like that."

"How...?"

"Try using those lips, his eyes were glued on them through your entire, ahem, lesson…”

Sarros blushed deeply, ears and cheeks on fire.

"Don't torture him, Endus, He's barely half a century old,” Uthol threw in, “probably barely knows what he’s doing when it comes to romance.”

"If you ask me, that’s old enough to know his way around a c-"

A deep desire to die on the spot filled Sarros.

"Odros!"

"I wonder what Voryn would have done if you had turned out absolutely disgusted by other men," Odros continued, undaunted. "Alter his body to be attractive to you?"

Sarros snorted at the thought of Voryn with breasts. Then again, he already had the waist and hips to match. "Maybe the eighth trial of the prophecy is that every Nerevarine must be attracted to men," Sarros joked. "Though I suspect Azura was not too worried if we would be compatible in... In that way."

Uthol cleared his throat. "This conversation has taken a turn for the ridiculous. Get out of my study. You too, Nerevar. I need to get back to work."

“You’re no fun, Uthol,” Odros protested, but complied, taking Sarros and Endus by the arms to usher them out. /p>

“Thank you for your time!” Sarros called over his shoulder.

***

Outside, they ran into Gares, leaning against the wall opposite the door, looking uncharacteristically displeased.
"Look who it is, the little spy, thwarted by Uthol’s muffling spell," Odros exclaimed. "My apologies, Gares, but we're taking Lord Nerevar with us. To discuss his studies. In Endus' chamber."

"What? Do you want to get into my brandy reserves again?"

"In Endusal?", Sarros asked as he eyed Gares with suspicion. Really, he did not think a servant waiting for his chosen Master like this was too far outside the norm, but what if Uthol was right? Could he be trusted?

"Obviously." Endus sighed. "Not the brightest, are we, Nerevar? Did you remember mark your chamber at least? Assuming you know how the Recall spell works."

Odros laughed, and Sarros would have denied that he was lacking intelligence, but he had not even thought of a mark. "No," he replied quietly, earning himself a pair of raised, perfectly arched eyebrows, a wordless 'I knew it.'

"Then we shall head to your room first!" Odros declared cheerfully, dragging both of them with him and leaving behind a less than happy ash ghoul.

Chapter Text

Endus' quarters were very obviously lived in, and not only that, he seemed to value comfort; he, Odros and Sarros were seated on thick, comfortable cushions around a low table, each sipping brandy from their house's elaborately crafted cups. Sarros wanted to drink slowly, suspecting that he was far weaker to the liquor than the ash vampires, but he had no real taste for it – instead of savouring it, he emptied his cup quickly to avoid tasting it.

The brothers, apparently attempting to find out exactly how much alcohol it took to render Sarros unconscious, made sure to refill his cup.

Sarros was not quite certain how long they had been here. Odros regaled them with what he considered humorous stories about his brothers, half of them getting interrupted by Endus whenever they became a little too embarrassing. Sarros attempted to listen, but it all blurred together, his mind sluggish.

"H-how can people drink this over-" Sarros hiccupped "-skooma?" he asked, covering his cup with his hand so Odros could not refill it again. Not only was he most certainly drunk, he also felt melancholy set in, a good sign that he had enough.

Endus eyes wandered to a small jar on one of the bookshelves. “A skooma-drinker, hmm? That certainly explains your… life choices. I might have something for you…”

"Endus, no," Odros said, while Sarros' brain struggled to keep up with what was happening. “Look at him, he’s about to pass out.”

"Voryn would kill me, in any case, risking his precious pet..." Endus mused, "but I always wanted to experiment with it. He's the only test subject we have. At the very least, I want to see its effects, considering how many of those foolish adventurers coming here thinking they are the Nerevarine carry it with them."

"What?" Sarros asked, to be ignored. A familiar sensation filled him; as the two excluded him from a conversation he felt he should be able to follow but could not, he began to feel lonely, so lonely in fact, that it made his eyes sting. He rubbed them, biting his lip to stop it from quivering.

"What do you even expect to get out of him? Visions of the future? Moon sugar causes hallucinations, doesn't it?"

"If we temper them with magic..."

"Oh, so that’s where this is going? Moon sugar and magic? Are you sure you’re not trying to take down the entire mountain in an explosion of magicka? All this time reading those dwemer books is driving you mad, brother. Forget about- What are you doing?"

Odros looked down at Sarros, who decided to fill the sudden void in his heart with the first warm body in sight, hugging Odros' waist, forehead pressed against his side. The brothers heard quiet sniffling.

"Uhm," Odros said, awkwardly patting Sarros on the back. "Is... something wrong?"

Sarros shook his head. “Jus- just one hug. Maybe t-two." His speech had become utterly slurred as the brandy wreaked havoc on his brain.

"I'm not dealing with this," Odros said, but found that he could not pry the scrawny elf off his side, as if Sarros had suddenly acquired unnatural strength.

Endus struggled to control his laughter at the sight. "I have... I have an idea," he managed. "We just need to transfer him."

"Transfer?"

"To Voryn!"

***

With her father off to cuddle with the Heart - or whatever he did with it all day - Ilara let herself back into his study. She had an enchanted key to get the otherwise practically impervious locking spell her father had cast on the door, taken from an ash ghoul who had been tasked with cleaning the place. When she was through with the poor creature, he seemed to question for the first time why he had joined the Sixth House. A bit of intelligently applied magic could convince even the most loyal of Dagoth Ur’s followers to surrender to her.

Considering Dagoth Ur had spent millennia beneath Red Mountain - even if he had been asleep for much of it - the study was quite empty. He owned books and scrolls, obviously, and his small alchemy lab in one of the corners was well-stocked, but otherwise it looked barely lived in. Dunmer enjoyed their trinkets - often disguised as useful, especially when it came to shiny amulets or rings imbued with a spell to justify the emotional attachment - but there was nothing here that could be remotely considered personal.

Well, aside from the painting behind his desk, which Ilara presumed was new – she could still smell the paint on it. It was simple work made by skilled hands, the portrait seemingly staring at her no matter which drawers and boxes she snooped around in, hoping to find a journal that would give her insight into her father's mental state. If not that, then he might at least have documented the inner workings of the facility. If she needed to take over because he lost his mind to Sheogorath...

Ilara remembered the man depicted well enough, he who had been subject of her hatred and the endless nightmares for so long, and even if she had not, the location made it obvious; it was a portrait of Indoril Nerevar, of course, finishing touches made with gold leaf. His likeness had been captured perfectly, but the piece was on the gaudy side, the artist – it could only be Araynys – clearly having had his fun with colours. She would have expected any art found here to be traditional, dour, but apparently, her uncle had different ideas.

Only after she had turned half the study upside down did it occur to Ilara that the portrait might be enchanted, the eyes following her not a clever artist’s trick, but quite real. Absent-mindedly, Ilara rubbed her forehead. ‘Wouldn’t it be nice to have the ability to see magic?’

Just as she did her best to undo a rather intricate locking spell on a desk drawer, she heard the quiet click of a door closing.

“If you are looking for shipping records, daughter, you should search the bookshelf instead.”

The magic dancing between her fingertips fizzled to nothing as Ilara froze in place.

“I do not appreciate you torturing my subjects into betraying me,” her father continued, “though you have certainly revealed a weak link.”

Of course, that damned creature had run straight to his master. Ilara cursed herself; how shortsighted… She turned to face her father – if he decided to attack her for her transgression, she wanted a chance to defend herself. Leaning against the wall by the door, he did not seem in much of a rush to disintegrate her on the spot.

“Father! I… I really needed…” Yes, what did she need that could warrant breaking in?

“You are looking for journals revealing that I am rapidly losing my grasp on reality, I assume? Proof of my increasing madness?” Dagoth Ur gave a most humourless laugh.

“I-it’s for the sake of House Dagoth, father! If you lose control, the Tribunal might swoop in and destroy us!”

“And what did you plan to do, if such proof had made itself known? Fight me for leadership of my Great House, daughter? Me?”

He crossed the room, Ilara bracing herself for another slap, but it did not come. Instead, he put his hands on her shoulders as she looked up at the mask, trembling slightly.

“It appears I need to be honest with you, Ilara, or you will refuse to trust me until I have to take drastic measures.”

“I assumed you were already honest with me, father,” she could not help but blurt out. He let it slide.

“I have loved Nerevar in his original form just as much as I love him now. I ran our House whether he humiliated me, hurt me, or deigned to grace me with his affection; not once has it been to the detriment of my people. I may need to adjust, still, as I expected to be forced to kill his vessel, but he will not distract me from my purpose, child. He will be turned into an asset for our war efforts.”

There was no point questioning Sarros’ usefulness. “It has been millennia, father. How can you still feel so strongly about him?”

“How can I not? My loyalty has never waned, and my heart remains true. He has been with me in my dreams, alive and well…”

This was not what Ilara had wanted to hear. How could he think his words would reassure her? He turned away, as if forgetting that the mask hid his face. Just for a moment, he stood there, shoulders slumped, the weight of the long years of loneliness bending his spine – but he caught himself quickly enough.

“I will not punish you this time, as your fears, while unfounded, stem from care for the Sixth House. You may go,” he spoke, voice steady. Neutral.

Once again, Ilara wished she could see through the mask – but did she really want to see his face in this moment? Counting her blessings, she left the study.

***

Banishing his daughter from his study was a small act of control, which alone would have made him feel more like himself, but speaking to her so openly was what returned Voryn to his senses. His words were true, yes, but he did not simply need to adjust to an unexpected situation. Really, he had fantasized about the Incarnate ever since waking from his slumber. There were few possibilities he had not thought through. And yet, the vessel surprised him with how much influence he had over him – how much he threw him off.

It had been foolish to kiss Nerevar like that, simply enough; too soon, too sudden, unwarranted - but in that moment, finally speaking his mind and openly revealing his emotions, the vessel had looked so much like the chimer he so missed. The same gleam in his eye, the same show of teeth, the same furrow of his brow. How could Voryn resist? Still, it had done nothing but remind him of his own weakness. Whatever he might shape this new Nerevar into, he was a liability now. Perhaps Ilara was right.

Voryn shook his head. No. He was too strong to let the vessel ruin all he had wrought.

Realizing what the problem was hardly dispelled it; worse, his mind refused to stop thinking about the kiss. The vessel tasted different, his lips nowhere near as soft, but Voryn had changed, too. It was to be expected. His scent, however...

Leaning back in his chair, looking up at the dark rock of the ceiling, Voryn tried to force himself to focus on other things. He had just received new reports from spies in Vivec's temple that he needed to think through, there was the letter to the Telvanni mage lord to be written - a ridiculous idea, but he felt the information to be gained was too valuable to waste the opportunity.

Putting together the bones of the letter in his mind, he managed to forget about Nerevar - for a moment, until the door to his study opened. Endus and Odros, with a visibly drunk Nerevar between them. They all reeked of brandy, in fact.

It was practically unheard of. Certainly, the ancient liquor reserves were enjoyed on special occasions, but not in such quantities.

"You... You got him drunk," he stated the obvious, feeling a twinge of the unusual headache return. There had been no need for headaches before Nerevar's return, it seemed like his body attempted to tell him to remove the vessel from his mountain and wait for the next.

"We didn't know he cannot hold his liquor," Odros declared, his own words slightly slurred. Endus, meanwhile, was too busy laughing to comment. "Anyway, he really needs some love right now-"

"Yes!" Sarros agreed, who had an arm around each of the brothers' waists. "Life is so- so lonely."

"-and you like him best, brother." Odros nudged Nerevar forward. "We could hand him over to that ash ghoul, but who knows what he would do to him."

"I don't like his trunk," Nerevar said, nodding. Behind Voryn's temples, the pressure rose. He was of half a mind to get his hands on some Dagoth brandy of his own.

"This is unacceptable," Voryn said, stunned by their behaviour. Odros was known to act a little less noble than he should, but Endus? Voryn made a note to get him away from Kagrenac's work for a while. Apparently, too much exposure to the dwemer's inscrutable writing was bad for his judgement.

Said brother finally got his laughter under control. "I sincerely apologize for this, Voryn, I should not have let them get into my brandy reserves." He bowed, but the grin remained plastered over his face. "I shall excuse myself; my studies will sober me up in no time."

Odros and Voryn looked at each other, both doubtful.

"Leave Nerevar with me then, Odros." Voryn took a deep breath. He would have to lay some new ground rules, it seemed. This was the type of task he had Uthol for, but apparently the oldest brother had failed in his responsibility to keep the rest of them in line. His brothers bowed just long enough to be polite, then immediately used their recall spells to return to their respective strongholds. Nerevar swayed on the spot, in silence.

"You cannot behave like this, Nerevar," Voryn began, bemused by what had just happened. "You are meant to prepare to rule by my side, not... Indulge in alcohol."

"I'm sorry," the vessel replied, not sounding quite so much like his old self anymore. 'He's but a child compared to the old Nerevar,' the intrusive voice at the back of Voryn's mind spoke up again. Reason. The last thing he needed in this moment.

Nerevar looked ready to burst into tears, and Voryn's heart softened. He stood and offered his hand to the wizard. "Come. You need to sleep this off."

***

Voryn needed no sleep, like his brothers, but just like Endus, he enjoyed his comforts; there was a tiny bedchamber, barely more than a closet, attached to his study, where he would sometimes retreat to read books brought to him by servants seeking his favour.

None of them seemed to have an idea what he would like, resulting in the large bookshelf carved into the wall being a chaotic mix of everything from romantic poetry - gifted by an undeniably infatuated ash slave - to dry works filled with alchemical formulas. By now he even possessed all thirty-six sermons of Vivec, which he enjoyed reading when he needed something to make him laugh.

As such, the bed was piled with cushions to lean on, which he shoved aside to make space for the incarnate. Nerevar thanked him, profusely, as he curled up on the bed while Voryn lit an oil lamp for him.

"You may rest here as long as you like," he said. "Keep in mind that I am working; stay quiet."

"No." Voryn heard a rustle, and when he looked down at Nerevar, he was upright again, hugging one of the large cushions. 'As pathetic as a lost nix hound pup'. "Don't leave me, I can't stand being alone."

"I told you, Nerevar, I am working. I have a House to run."

"Can't you work here? I promise I won't snore."

Voryn considered it for a moment. A memory wormed its way to the forefront of his mind; Nerevar asleep in an armchair by his window after an especially long discussion about petty squabbles between two of the Great Houses - which, he could not recall. Himself leaning on his hand, stealing glances at his peaceful face, dripping ink on the correspondence he was busy writing. The evening sun bathed Nerevar's skin in warm light. He had been so beautiful then.

"I suppose I can write letters from here, too," Voryn conceded. The back of a large book was good enough as a makeshift desk.

***

With the letter long written and the reports studied, Voryn knew he should return to his study for whatever task needed to be taken care of next. Instead, he sat with his back against the wall, leafing through one of his books - a collection of old dunmer tales and legends one might read to a child. It reminded him of home, even if the book had been written long after the Battle of Red Mountain.

He could not leave, yet - Nerevar slept curled up against him, one hand on Voryn's thigh. The skin of his palm and fingers was smooth, the hands of someone who had neither worked a single day in his life, nor wielded a weapon; more like Voryn's, the hands of a mage. Not what they should be, but pleasant, anyway. Holding the book and flipping the pages with one hand, he ran the fingers of the other through Nerevar's hair. Soft and thick, it matched his memories, and looking away, it was easy to imagine the white strands of old.

They had all the time in the world - he was stronger than ever, the Tribunal growing weaker by the day. He could afford a moment of peace.

***

Stale and thick with rot, the air of Kogoruhn irritated Sarros' nose and throat and lungs, and his wet, painful coughs echoed through the empty hallways. It was as he had left it, the corpses of dunmer and ash creatures piling up around him, every single one dead by his hands. A trace of fear remained as he remembered his struggle, the loss of hope as the Sixth House threw itself at him.

So many cried out for their master in death, begging to be released from the nightmare, to be brought home - not to their families, no, home to Red Mountain. They were silent now, the only sound the endless, slow thumping of the Heart. It reverberated in Sarros' chest as it grew louder, his own heart mimicking its beat, and the deeper he went, now surrounded by so many dead that he had to climb over their bodies, hear their bones crunch beneath his feet.

He knew now that they had hearts and souls, their own fears and dreams. Every single one, no matter how mad or deformed. The farther he came, the worse the guilt.

The bodies at his feet soon changed, their skin turning to gold. A quick glance at his own hands revealed that his had done the same. Ash and dust turned to fresh blood sticking to his feet, soaking the hem of his cloak. The stench was overwhelming, worse than the rot.

Sarros broke into a run, horrified by what his hands had wrought, tears leaving streaks on pale, blood-stained cheeks, dripping on golden armour and blue fabric.

There had to be an exit, he knew where to find it, and yet every door led nowhere. Some were not doors at all, but the shapes of doors embedded in the ancient stone. He saw himself die here, among bodies piled to the ceilings, his soul condemned to walk the halls forever with them. Unmourned.

But then, against all odds, a door opened, the tall figure behind it more familiar to him than his own face, holding out a hand for him. Surely he would free him from this ancient tomb, and Sarros did not hesitate to take it.

As the slender fingers closed around his, their grip like steel, the figure pulled him in, so close that their lips might meet if Sarros moved ever so slightly-

"This is your fault, Nerevar," the figure spoke. There was no malice in his voice; it was a statement of fact. "Once you ordered your followers to raze Kogoruhn, once you slaughtered its people yourself. Twice we welcomed you as a friend, twice you turned on us.”

'I did not know!' Sarros shouted, but his mouth, the mouth of an ancient stranger, refused to obey. 'The prophecy... I thought...'

"You are lucky, then, that I refuse to let go of my love for you," the figure continued. Sarros stared into dark, red eyes, silently imploring the figure to listen, to let him speak, but it was of no use. "I forgive you, Nerevar. For as long as you remain by my side, I forgive you..."

***

The cushion under Sarros’ fingers felt oddly smooth and warm, almost like... He blinked. Elven skin. Voryn's leg. Mortified, Sarros let go.

"Don't-" Voryn's voice had none of the intense authority of his dream, the single word a soft plea. Only now did Sarros notice the fingers buried in his hair. They felt as if they belonged there, were made to play with it.

"You had a nightmare," Voryn stated.

A nightmare, indeed. Just the type of nightmare Sarros had become intimately familiar with in the last months. Drowsiness faded, as the remaining alcohol in his blood enhanced his frustration.

"Which you sent me, no doubt," Sarros hissed, making no attempt to banish the accusation from his tone. "I'm here, in your bed, happy to fulfil whatever orders you give me - if you are ever going to start giving me orders that is - and yet you still torment me in my sleep." He sat up, ignoring the brief sense of cold as the hand retreated. Sarros leaned against the wall next to Voryn.

"Nerevar, I have not sent you a single dream since you began your journey to Red Mountain."

There was no sign of a lie on his face, but if Nerevar’s memories, buried deep in Sarros' mind to surface when he was most vulnerable, were any indication, Voryn needed no golden mask to hide his emotions.

"Not a single night have I slept without seeing you in my dreams and you tell me you had no hand in that?" Sarros' body finally caught up with his mind. He felt ill. Not from the nightmare, but the aftermath of the brandy.

"What need is there now? Once you chose to take the path to my citadel, any attempt to convince you, I would have made in person. You finally are where I want you, as you state so accurately. I do not need to send you nightmares." He emphasized the last sentence, gaze as intense as in Sarros' dream. "I cannot say with certainty that your current dreams are not a side effect of my… Influence, however."

"So I'm simply doomed to have nightmares about blood and death and your face? Your... Your old face."

"I dreamed of you, Nerevar. Centuries of sleep, always haunted by your presence. Always wondering why. Reliving the moment of my death at your hands. You think a few weeks compare?"

There was nothing Sarros could say to this; he could hardly imagine such a long time to begin with. They sat in silence as he cast his eyes down, noticing the gouges his fingernails had left in Voryn's skin.

"In my dream, I was trapped in Kogoruhn," Sarros said finally, "I'm... I'm sorry."

"I never returned there. It must be a pitiful sight."

"Yes," Sarros muttered, barely audible.

"I have little need of it now. It served as a means to circumvent the Ghostfence, nothing more. If you wish to apologize to anyone, it should be my daughter, who witnessed its downfall with her own eyes, as a child."

Sarros had not spoken to Ilara since his recovery. 'She must hate me,' he realized, 'hate everything I stand for...'

"I do not remember their names or faces," Voryn continued, "the people of ancient House Dagoth do not haunt me."

"That must be a relief." Sarros could not imagine forgetting about the stench of blood in his dream, or the carnage he had wrought in person. Self-defence, of course, at the behest of a goddess who had done nothing to assist him in his journey but return the ring that was his to begin with.

"Perhaps it is. Perhaps not. Others must mourn them in my stead."

'I bet Ilara does.' Sarros felt ill.

The silence stretched between them again. Not knowing what to say, Sarros instead remembered a weak healing spell he had learned what seemed like an eternity ago. Hands touching the skin marred by his nails, he muttered the incantation, leaving the skin smooth again.

Sarros stole a glance at Voryn, who smiled at the gesture.

"How long was I asleep?"

"One and a half books. Children's tales and poems - not very long."

"Poems?" Sarros could not imagine Dagoth Ur being partial to poetry, but Voryn? Maybe. “Show me.”

Voryn handed him the book with a barely audible chuckle.

"'Confessions of a Love-Sick Temple Priest?'" Sarros read, unable to keep himself from laughing. "Where on Nirn did you get that?"

"It was a gift from one of my loyal subjects. Like all the books here. Most are a window into modern Morrowind, but some…"

Sarros flicked through the pages. He had no interest in poetry and found it difficult to judge the quality of the lines his eyes caught on.

"They are better than the title might suggest," Voryn explained. "A bit modern for my taste, but they speak earnestly of the longing for someone utterly out of reach."

Sarros closed the book with a sigh. Everything led back to Nerevar.

"I should let you get back to work," he said, moving to the edge of the bed. "I barely remember anything, but I could swear you were doing something important."

"I always do."

Voryn followed his movements, swiftly standing before Sarros could come to terms with the weakness in his knees. Sarros did not take Voryn’s hastily offered hand as he stumbled, barely keeping himself from falling right back on the bed; it reminded him of the dream. Half-expecting them to be stained dark brown, Sarros looked at his own hands, finding them the warm, healthy grey they should be. Clean.

He stood up again, a little steadier. "The dream..." Sarros shook his head. "It doesn't matter. Thank you for staying by my side."

Voryn replied with a wistful smile.

Chapter Text

There was a section of Dagoth-Ur that Sarros had failed to explore so far; even the ash creatures needed living quarters, to some extent, so they had all been corralled in the same halls, sleeping on old bedrolls or the floor. Those of higher rank did not need spaces to sleep, for them, the area had ample opportunity to pray - as Sarros made his way through, he passed by numerous ash ghouls kneeling before small altars, too engrossed in their contemplation of their faith to notice his passing.

The living dreamers paid more attention. It was odd to see them calm; during his travels, they had always been the most vocal, the most aggressive. Now they behaved much like Gares, bowing as they saw him, expressing how honoured they were by his presence. Their words rang hollow, of course, and Sarros suspected that the moment he was out of hearing range, they had less kind words to say about him.

Really, it felt just like Sadrith Mora with more decrepit bedrolls and corprusmeat.

Ilara's accommodation was hidden away deep inside this section, at the end of a partly collapsed tunnel. An odd choice for the heir of Great House Dagoth, but a closer look at the parts of the walls that remained intact revealed elaborate décor; abstract designs carved into polished metal and rock. Whatever chambers could be found here must have been far more luxurious than the glorified closet Sarros slept in.

Ilara's rooms confirmed Sarros’ suspicion - when she let him in with a mumbled greeting, he found himself in a large chamber filled with dwemer furniture that was of much better make than anything else he had seen in their ruined strongholds. Reliefs on the walls depicted ancient scenes that were no doubt of relevance to dwemer history – they told him nothing, of course, their abstract designs too difficult to decipher on the spot, and besides, he had come here to talk.

The most impressive feature, however, was not art, or well-made chairs; in the centre of the chamber, on a raised platform, stood a large square planter from which grew a tree. A hidden light source bathed it in what seemed like daylight; daylight that had nothing in common with the muddy light of Red Mountain. Taken by surprise that there was beauty to be found in the facility, Sarros stopped in his tracks, staring.

In short, it looked like these chambers would have been fit for Dagoth Ur.

"Remarkable, isn't it?" Ilara said with some satisfaction when she spotted his jaw hanging open. "I don't know who lived here, but I would not be surprised if it was Kagrenac or Dumac himself - maybe during royal visits? I believe the dwarven capital was elsewhere. And no, I don’t know how they managed to recreate daylight. It cycles through day and night, though the schedule is wrong."

"I can't believe nobody claimed this place for themselves before you arrived," Sarros said, taking a closer look at the variety of colourful, bioluminescent mushrooms planted around the tree.

"Ah, simple, it was entirely inaccessible. During my exploration of the facility. No doubt you saw that the corridor leading here was designed to be aesthetically pleasing. I ordered the servants to clear it for me. Naturally, I moved in. All I needed was a mattress, everything else was perfectly in order."

"You couldn't use magic to clear the tunnel?" With the tunnel already damaged, no doubt further rock falls could have killed the servants. A cruel choice, in Sarros’ mind, but Ilara had different ideas.

"Why waste the magicka?" Ilara snorted. "That's what servants are for. If I spent all my life on menial tasks I wouldn’t be where I am today."

Sarros, of course, had grown up in relative poverty, sharing one large, rundown room with his grandfather, and found the concept of making a servant do what he wanted odd, still. Even in Tel Uvirith, he had avoided the servants that had been provided for him as best as he could, preferring to do the work himself. Many times, the lead servant had scolded him for daring to touch the broom, insisting that an Archmagister should not be sweeping.

"I suppose that makes sense," Sarros said diplomatically. "I'm just not used to it."

"Mhm.” Ilara walked up to one of the columns beside the planter, leaning against it, arms crossed. “Well, let's get to the point. Why are you here?"

“I need to talk to you about something,” Sarros began. “I had some dreams lately…” He trailed off, realizing how stupid it was to bring them up at all.

"Really? Dreams? Here? Unique, aren't we?"

"Of Kogoruhn." Sarros said quietly. “And what happened there.”

"That, too, is hardly special." She kept up the annoyed facade, but her tone changed; some of the edge was gone.
Taking a deep breath, Sarros continued. "I know you where there when... When the attack happened. Voryn said it was Nerevar's fault, and I... Well, I wanted to know if you..." he paused for a moment. Ilara said nothing, waiting for him to continue.

"Do you blame me, Ilara?"

"You? No. You're a pathetic little wizard; you barely even look like him. I sincerely doubt you're man enough to give anyone orders, let alone something like this."

Sarros winced. "Well, everyone here insists on acting like I am him, so-"

"We went over this before, they repeat what father says to them. Most of them are smart enough to see you like I do. Even the zombies, when they stop obsessing over furniture for a moment." Ilara's eyes were firmly fixed on the tree now, as if inspecting it for new branches. "I don't care whose reincarnation you are."

"I just wanted to say that, well, I'm sorry."

Ilara looked at the tree in silence for a long moment. Sarros felt a crackle in the air – magicka. Telltale sign of an angry, powerful mage.

“Have they taught you nothing in Sadrith Mora, Sarros, that you would seriously come here and waste my time by being a sappy fool?”

Her glare alone was enough to paralyze him on the spot.

"Your apology is worthless. Even if you transformed into Nerevar himself, it would do nothing for me. What makes you think it’s your apology to give in the first place? How audacious of you to think that your words, that are clearly meant to relieve whatever guilt you’re feeling, have any value to me. You soft-hearted s'wit. If I had an issue with you, I'd outright kill you."

Privately, Sarros doubted she would risk her father's rage like this but knew better than to mention it. "I… I didn’t mean to… To anger you. I just hoped to make amends.”

"You failed,” Ilara hissed. “In fact, you achieved the opposite.”

"Can I at least do something for you?” Sarros hastily suggested. “Some chore you need done or-"

"No. Get out!"

Sarros did not need to be told twice; one recall, and he was gone.

***

By herself again, Ilara let the facade drop, reining in her magic, and sat down on the edge of the planter. Taking deep, calming breaths to slow down her heartbeat. The mix of emotions she felt overwhelmed her; anger or grief, she could not discern.

"What made him think I want to be reminded of that?" she said out loud, knuckles white as she held on to the planter. "What kind of idiot would knowingly bring up something so... So..." Another deep breath, held as she slowly counted down from ten. Two times. Three times.

The nerve to try and apologize to her for it, as if that could fix anything! As if it would stop the nightmares or erase her memories! To think that her father wanted to waste his affection on such an utter fool... It was hard to believe. Ilara wrapped her arms around herself with a dry sob.

Of course, there was a trace of truth in his ideas; no, she did not delude herself into seeing Nerevar in his stead, but he was never far from her mind when she had the misfortune of being around Sarros. The worst part was his hair, worn in a fashion so outdated she suspected that even members of House Indoril would not be caught dead wearing it – but it was characteristic of the dead warlord.

Just like her father, Ilara had dreamed of Nerevar’s face countless times throughout the millennia, every line of it committed to memory against her will. Sarros' face was young, not yet tempered by age and battle, but it was similar enough to sting every time she saw him. Especially the damned ears. Even his voice sounded similar, but this, too, would get worse with age.

Ilara did not truly blame him. Objectively, he was a simple elf born three millennia after the fact who had nothing to do with what happened to her and everyone she had ever known. Her heart, however, was not objective, forcing her to swallow her anger whenever she saw him.

Not to mention that she was undeniably jealous. Her father barely treated her like family, while that pitiful scrawny dunmer had immediately been uplifted to lordship, even if he refused to act like it.

At least the blessing had failed. If her father thought her unworthy of it, at the very least Sarros should not have it. The power of the Heart would have been wasted on him.

Fuming, she jumped to her feet, marching towards a door leading to a partly collapsed corridor she used to practice her destructive spells. Blasting something with fireballs would calm her down. Maybe she would imagine Nerevar’s face in her target dummies.

***

Returning to his cramped room felt like coming home by now, and Sarros was glad to be back. His guilt felt a little smaller here, where his few belongings reminded him that none of this was his fault.

Sarros found a note on his desk, written in some of the worst handwriting he had ever seen. Glad to have a distraction from just how badly he had messed up with Ilara, he summoned a magelight and squinted at the words, struggling to read them. Even the language itself was odd. It was obviously Dunmeris, but the spellings were ancient. Signed by Araynys – unlike Voryn, he had apparently not bothered reading anything written past the First Era.

It was an invitation to Aryanys’ chambers, but the convoluted directions were both hard to decipher and did not make much sense. All Sarros could glean from them was how to identify the ash vampire's door - there was a mural of Red Mountain that was impossible to miss, according to the description.

"Time to find Gares, I suppose." No reason to wait and stew in his embarrassment.

Finding the ash ghoul was an easy task at least; there was a shrine nearby where Gares seemed to spend most of his time. Understandable as it was that he was filled with religious fervour that needed an outlet, Sarros could still not fathom spending so much time alone in prayer or meditation.

***

As he headed towards the shrine, mind still on religious practices, he thought back to his past and the pilgrimage he had undergone directly after his arrival in Morrowind. Spurred on by everyone referring to him as an outlander with a disdain he had never experienced before, he wanted to prove that not only was he a true dunmer like the rest of them, his respect for dunmeri traditions was as great as theirs, if it didn’t surpass them entirely.

His faith and traditionalism had not come out of nowhere; raised by his pious grandfather, he had little choice in the matter. The old elf had been a loyal follower of Almsivi, even joining House Indoril to be employed in Almalexia’s service – he had never made it to Hand, but did guard the city of Mournhold for many decades.

When his daughter left Mournhold to study magic in Sadrith Mora, Sarros’ grandfather had done everything by the book, praying and leaving offerings of gold for her safety – until a retainer from Great House Telvanni appeared at his door, holding Sarros, barely two months old, and a letter informing him that the boy’s parents had been murdered. His daughter died for the crime of wedding a man she loved and having his child; one of the powerful wizards wanted her, and when he could not, he decided that no one should.

Feeling that his prayers had been ignored, that the so-called gods of the Tribunal who claimed to care deeply for the well-being of the dunmer were powerless liars, in his unbearable grief, the old mer had turned to the Good Daedra for comfort, praying to Azura, Mephala and Boethiah - and he had raised his grandson to do the same.

He knew, of course, that the Daedra did not care anymore than the Tribunal, but there were no false pretences. In their scheming, selfish ways, they were more honest than so-called Mother Morrowind and her equally useless companions. Not even the fact that his daughter continued worshipping the Temple, at the cost of her social standing among the Telvanni, had done anything to protect her.

Little Sarros had of course absorbed every word, was inundated with his grandfather’s anger. All he wanted was to make him proud, and so he copied him. Four decades later, his belief had was the only thing he had left after his grandfather passed away.

Words were not all his grandfather provided, but books, too; through many individuals of doubtful trustworthiness, he often got his hands on writings that predated the Tribunal Temple. Copies of copies, handed down through generations of dunmer who refused to accept the idea that the good Daedra were anticipations of the false gods. All of them were banned by the Temple, of course, so Sarros had to leave them behind in Windhelm with a trusted family friend who shared their beliefs - it was easier to practice the ancient traditions outside of Morrowind, where the Tribunal Temple had no footholds.

One of them had described ancient rites and sacrifices that the most faithful of Daedra worshippers had performed to please them, ranging from religious tattoos to elven sacrifices. Only Azura, of course, had no rituals that involved spilled blood; she preferred her children alive and whole.

Sarros wanted to be marked in their name, one symbol for each, and when he found another book describing the locations of their ancient shrines, he had set out to find their surviving priests. His pain and blood, freely given, would prove to anyone that-

"Lord Nerevar!"

Too busy reminiscing to watch where he was going, Sarros tripped over Gares kneeling by the shrine, similarly lost in reverie, and knocked them both over.

"Gods, I'm sorry," Sarros said, awkwardly standing up and praying that nobody witnessed anything. His knees stung, and he found them bloody like those of a careless child. "I wasn’t paying attention..."

Gares, of course, not only did not complain, but immediately pulled out a rag from his robes to wipe away the blood and make sure the injuries were minor, forgetting that it was already stained with the weepings of an open corprus sore on his neck. They both looked at the cloth for a moment.

"You aren't going to use that on me, are you?" Sarros asked, feeling a little sick at the thought.

"...No, my Lord.”

It was another opportunity to use the minor healing spell, and Sarros found himself a little proud of himself with how quickly the wounds closed.

"Oh," Gares said, "so you are a healer, then, my Lord?"

"Not really, it’s the only spell of the Restoration school I've ever learned, from my grandfather. It won't keep anyone alive through serious injuries." Restoration magic went mostly ignored by the Telvanni, and since Sarros had little intention to get hurt often, let alone frequently help others, he had not bothered, either.

Using his marginally cleaner sleeve, Gares wiped Sarros’ knees clean after all, making him thoroughly uncomfortable, but it was clear by now that the ash ghoul enjoyed doing these things. When Sarros helped him up and commented on the now bloody sleeve, he smiled. "It is proof of my servitude, my Lord. I could not be more honoured."

"If it makes you happy," Sarros replied. He would have bet money that Gares’ robes, if they had ever seen water and soap before, would not do so again. "I was looking for you, Gares. Do you have time to be my guide again?"

Of course, Gares jumped at the opportunity. "Let me guess, my Lord, you wish to visit Lord Araynys?"

"Well. Yes. How-"

"I saw him exit your chamber while you were gone, my Lord."

'You're watching my door...?' Maybe the ash vampires were right to distrust the servants. "I... See. Well, let us go then."

"Of course. If I could make a recommendation before we go?"

"Hmm?"

"Lord Araynys is known to appreciate gifts. You want to be in the Lords' good graces, correct? You should bring him something."

"What would I even bring a three-thousand-year-old immortal?" Sarros asked, "even if I knew him enough to choose, surely he already has everything he could possibly want or need."

"Lord Araynys is an artist, my Lord, he always needs materials. I found something in a nearby storage room, a few supplies he would appreciate. A convincing gesture, if you ask me."

Sarros perked up. "I had no idea! I'm a bit of an artist myself, though I doubt I am nearly as good as Lord Araynys, with all the time he had to practice. Let us go, then, maybe I'll get something for myself later, too."

There had been no opportunity to create anything, not even a simple, tiny sketch, on Sarros’ journey, and the thought of finally drawing again filled him with excitement.

***

Araynys’ letter had failed to prepare Sarros for the beauty of the mural. It was not simply a vista of the mountain, recognizable but simple, but a detailed painting showing not only the volcano, but the settlements on its slopes. Stylized, of course, in traditional dunmer fashion – or chimer, more likely. Sarros immediately recognized Ald’ruhn and thought he saw Mar Gaan as well. Being the only Heartwight who had been stationed nowhere near the heart of Vvardenfell, he must have had ample opportunity to explore the outside world.

When he knocked on the door, Sarros’ heartbeat sped up with anxiety. This was an opportunity to make a friend; someone he had something in common with, unlike everyone else he met here. He clutched the sheaf of paper and new charcoal sticks tightly, hoping his gift would be well received.

The door opened to reveal a slender mer. Sarros had been to Mamaea, but he had forgotten just how beautiful Araynys was. Even alone in his chamber, he accentuated his eyes with masterfully applied kohl, his lips painted black.

“Nerevar! I did not expect you to get here so quickly. Come in!”

Araynys’ chamber was rather spacious, though it hardly compared to Ilara’s palace, and in the short time he had lived here since moving to the facility, he had decorated it from top to bottom. The ceiling and walls were covered entirely in fabric, in red, black and purple. There were numerous wall-hangings, one representing the Sixth House, the others different art pieces that did not match at all but were certainly interesting to look at. Rugs hid the metal flooring, and every shelf in the room was filled with scrolls of paper, jars of pigments, and books. A large desk in a corner was covered in candles and located directly beneath one of the ancient dwemer lights.

„That looks so cozy…” Sarros said as he spotted a pile of pillows and blankets that took up a large niche to the left of the entrance.

„You like it? I tried to turn his place into a home. My chamber in Kogoruhn was like this, too, until… Well. Now give me that paper before you soak it in sweat.“

Sarros handed over his offerings, earning himself a smile. He wondered if Araynys had been any older than Sarros was now during the Battle of Red Mountain – even frozen in time and altered by the Heart, he did not look old at all.

“So, someone told you how to buy your way into my heart?“ Araynys dropped the supplies on his desk and turned back to Sarros, gesturing at the pillows. „Sit down, you look awkward standing there.“

„Thank you,“ Sarros mumbled as he picked a large cushion to sit on, cross-legged. Araynys followed, draping himself on the pillows. If Sarros had not been… Involved with the Master of the Sixth House, he would have been more than intrigued by his beauty.

“I’m not trying to buy your friendship,” Sarros explained, “but I was told you’re an artist, and that you could probably use some supplies.”

„Thank you, I was running out of charcoal, actually. Whoever it was knew me well, it seems. Most people gift artists expensive inks or notebooks too precious to use…“

„But none of the day to day supplies you always need, yes.“

„Spoken like you are an artist yourself,” Araynys replied, grinning. „It would be lovely to have someone here who understands, my brothers are so focused on this conquering-of-Morrowind business and all their battles.“ He sighed. „So dour… At least Endus and Odros will lighten up if you share a drink with them, but I prefer sobriety…“

„I sure am, but I could never hope to reach your level of skill.“ Sarros rubbed the back of his head, flustered. „You would laugh at my scribbles, no doubt.“

„I would never! If your drawings are not where you want them to be, you need to practice more. Maybe we should draw together! I could teach you, give you some advice…“ His eyes lit up as he jumped to his feet. First, he pulled out a wide wooden board from behind a closet to place on the pillows, next he fetched some of the paper and charcoal.

„Portable desk,“ he said, pointing at the board as he sat back down across from Sarros. „What do you like to draw?“

„Uhm. Scenery? Portraits? Not sure. Sometimes I try to draw my dreams, but they‘ve all been… A bit…“

„All about Voryn, hmm? On the horrific side? He tried that on all Incarnates. I think you‘re the first where it actually worked.“

Sarros certainly wanted to draw Voryn, but lacked the confidence to ask him to sit for a portrait. Especially since he also lacked confidence in the results.

„Not all of the dreams were horrific,“ Sarros defended him, „I‘m Nerevar in a lot of them, and those are always. Well. Lovely.“

„The type that makes you wake up sweaty under a damp blanket?“ Araynys laughed. „I see, now those would be more enticing. You should draw him how he appears in those dreams. He would love to see himself pretty like that again, him and I are the vainest brothers, even if he doesn’t really bother anymore. Voryn taught me how to paint my face.“

Sarros was not the type to apply colour to his skin, but he could not help but think that he would enjoy Voryn doing it for him. He felt heat in his ears at the thought. „Not without a lot more practice,“ he muttered. “I’m not very good at drawing from memory.”

„Good thing you‘re here now, and I have nothing better to do than teach you. Draw me. Just one moment, we need better light…“ He dug around under a stack of pillows, pulling out a few thick candles, which he placed on the board and lit with the touch of his fingertip. „I hope that‘s bright enough.“

„I don‘t want to insult you…“ Sarros said. Nervous sweat beaded on his forehead. This he was not prepared for.

„You won’t, I promise. Draw my face as you usually would. Just a sketch. After that, I‘ll tell you what you could improve or change…“

At first, Sarros was so anxious not to fail that he could barely draw a straight line, but with Araynys‘ encouraging words, he soon managed to produce something somewhat acceptable, and just as promised, Araynys did not laugh.

The second go was different; Araynys pointed out shapes to look for, how shadows worked together to give the face volume and depth, and under his instruction, Sarros managed to capture his likeness much better. Amazed by the result, he looked at the finished drawing in awe.

„I made that…“ Sarros whispered, holding it up to compare to his model. „It looks like you!“

„See? That wasn‘t so hard, once you know what‘s important. You should find other people to draw, get some different faces.“

„A challenge where I draw every one of you… Except Gilvoth, he wouldn‘t let me.“ Sarros laughed. “I don’t think the others will be up for it, either, they’re probably busy.”

„Gilvoth could be the big challenge at the end! But it doesn‘t just have to be us. Ilara‘s face is fun to draw.”

Ilara. In his excitement, Sarros had completely forgotten about their failed conversation.

“I… I don’t think Ilara would want me to draw her.” He looked down at his drawing, avoiding Araynys’ gaze.

“Huh? Did you get yourself in trouble with her already?”

“I suppose so.” Sarros explained what had happened, wondering if Araynys’ would throw him out for hurting his niece.

“Nerevar,” Araynys said sternly, “what on Nirn made you think this was a good idea? Reopening the wound like that. You couldn’t have caused her more hurt. Do you want a stranger to come to you and remind you of the worst moment of your life?”

“I just wanted her to know how sorry I am,” Sarros mumbled. “I didn’t really think that far.”

Araynys sighed. “Well. A portrait of her is off the table. She’s too proud to forgive you any time soon. You’re a s’wit, Nerevar.”

“I know.” Sarros shifted on his cushion, hugging his knees. His inability to do anything right was exhausting. “I’m sure you’re angry with me too, since she’s your niece…”

“It’s hard to see her as my niece. Mortals – well, if you can call her one – have a habit of growing and changing, while I feel like I have not aged a day. It feels strange to call her niece. She’s more of an abrasive great aunt.” He placed a gentle hand on Sarros’ shoulder. “I have no issue with you, Nerevar, this is a problem between you two. Now how about we talk about your road to becoming a master artist again? I have some more suggestions for subjects. You should try drawing some of the ash creatures. Ascended sleepers are fascinating. You could draw that ash ghoul who followed you here, too.”

“Gares? He’s my guide. Frankly, I couldn’t make sense of your directions.” Sarros laughed, relieved.

“Now that is a personal insult!” Araynys laughed. “I forgot you have no way to know the facility inside and out like I do. Good thing you have him then. Let me guess, he always waits for you in a convenient location to serve you any time of day?”

The shrine. “Yes. Why?”

“I felt like someone watched me enter your room. I suppose it was him. Be careful, Nerevar – you don’t know his intentions.”

“Your brothers said the same.”

“Because it’s correct! Make use of his services as much as you want but keep your secrets from him.”

“I suppose I will do that and use his services as a drawing subject.” It was somewhat suspicious that Gares followed him everywhere. It occurred to Sarros that Voryn could have sent the ash ghoul to spy on him. Or maybe Gilvoth had? If he truly only had Voryn’s wellbeing in mind, having an informant would be useful…

“Talking about drawing, I asked you to come here to draw you. Too bad I didn’t get the chance before you drank the blood…”

“Why?”

“To document your development, of course. From a regular dunmer to whatever Voryn has planned for you. Now sit still, I promise it won’t take long…”

***

Chapter Text

Once again, Ilara had returned to Tel Fyr. This time, she brought a sealed scroll with her. Straight from Dagoth Ur's desk. She had chosen to make the journey in the middle of the night to avoid the daughter-wives; not remembering ever seeing Divayth Fyr asleep, she safely assumed that he would be awake.
She assumed correctly.

"Back so soon?" he asked when Ilara materialized before him, not the slightest bit startled. "Either you failed, or..."

"Father didn't need much convincing. The recipe is too valuable. Frankly, you should have asked for more." She handed him the scroll and took a respectful step back, awaiting his reply.

The seal was of magical nature, obviously, and was no challenge to the ancient wizard. Ilara could have broken it, too, broken and resealed, but had not bothered. Corprus was not something she dealt with; it did not particularly interest her. Besides, who knew what lies her father might have written to send to Fyr.

"Ilara, did you read this?" he asked after a moment, looking up from the paper. A scowl darkened his face – for a second, Ilara felt like an apprentice again, about to be scolded and punished for some minor mistake.

"No. I assumed it's confidential. Your business, not mine."

"It clearly is so confidential that he's doing his best to keep me from reading it,” he said, exasperated. “It's in Dwemeris!"

Ilara snorted. She doubted her father was trying to be funny, most likely he either attempted to obfuscate the letter’s contents, or assumed that Fyr, with his thousands of years of knowledge, would speak the language. It had once been common among scholars, that much she knew, and he could just as well have chosen Dwemeris to show respect.

"I suspect he believes you can read and understand this," she said, "he's not very.... Good with reality. Probably forgot that it’s been lost to time for the rest of us."

"I certainly understand some of it, and Yagrum should be able to help to some extent, but neither of us remembers much. After three millennia, who would? I must see him immediately. You wait here. Have a look at the new books; there should be something of interest to you."

He hurried past her, only to stop dead in his tracks and turn back to his former apprentice.

"…Your father is fluent enough in Dwemeris to write letters."

"Yes." Ilara laughed. "So are half of my uncles. Two of them study Kagrenac's writings - one is focused on the mechanics, the other on tonal architecture." Of course, Endus and Tureynul would never share their knowledge, unless House Dagoth rejoined society. Unlikely.

"You had access to this resource the entire time and did not once bother mentioning it? Did you at least make use of it? Write down some of their knowledge for the rest of the world?"

"Setting aside the tension between us, you would have to come to Red Mountain to make use of this ‘resource’. And pledge yourself to Dagoth Ur. I didn't see that happening. As for stealing my uncles’ research, no, it hasn’t occurred to me." This, of course, was a lie, but Ilara had looked at their notes, and found them impossible to understand. Dunmeris filled with so many strange terms that it made no sense to her at all.

"If that dreadful excuse of a hero had done his job and killed him, all of this knowledge would have died with him! What else did you fail to mention? Does he know what happened to the dwemer?"

"No. That was one of the first things I asked. He didn’t witness anything, sadly, and is too busy to bother to do the research. If my uncles have an idea, I don’t know. Maybe, if father gets his way and takes down the Tribunal, he’ll dedicate some time to it? I’ll let you know.”

Privately, Ilara doubted that the answer would ever be found; her uncles would have stumbled upon it. Maybe even Kagrenac had not had the slightest idea what would happen to his people. The only surviving documentation of the event was his plan book, but that also merely described the design of the Tools. Along with numerous other entries Fyr would probably murder to read. Better not to bring it up.

“It would have been too good to be true,” Fyr said, excitement deflated. “Well, perhaps I can avoid having to wait for a translation. I’ll be back soon.”

“Say hello to Yagrum for me.”

“Do it yourself.”

With Fyr gone, Ilara took him up on his offer to have a look through his books. It was odd to be left alone like a trusted member of the household. Fyr operated outside conventional notions of good and evil, since he had little reason to care. Still, she could hardly be open of her new allegiance with anyone else.

The books were mostly works on magic, interesting, but not enough for a closer look. However, he had acquired some recently written works on the dwemer, published by researchers from Skyrim and Morrowind, both provinces being full of dwemer sites. She would have to make a trip to Vivec to acquire them for herself. Jobasha would be able to source them with no issue, no questions asked. Comparing contemporary research with Endus' and Tureynul’s findings was one of her favourite pastimes.

A scrap of paper and quill were easy enough to find, and soon her list of books to order had grown to half a dozen. Nothing the Sixth House could not afford; while its individual members had little use for gold, the House's funds had grown to a sizable amount from the sale of dwemer artifacts, ever since the imperials had outlawed it.

This spending, of course, would not be recorded anywhere; nobody needed to know that Ilara was skimming gold, too.

Finished going through the shelves, Ilara picked one book at random and settled into the closest chair, wondering how long it would take Fyr and Yagrum Bagarn to give up on trying to translate the letter.

***

The ancient door to Endusal opened, revealing a sweaty, ashy, and blood-soaked Sarros, thoroughly regretting his lack of foresight. One single enchanted piece of jewellery. Maybe an amulet of Recall. Maybe a ring. But no, it had not occurred to Sarros that even with all the ash creatures now leaving him alone, getting to the other strongholds was hardly a relaxed walk. Or a short one, for that matter.

He passed by multiple servants, whose concerned questions about his wellbeing he ignored. The last thing Sarros wanted was to be fussed over. Besides, he was late.

Endus waited for him in the study that had once belonged to Kagrenac and had by now turned into a sizable library. At the sight of Sarros’ ruined clothing, he raised his eyebrows.

"Cliff racer blood," Sarros explained, "I'm fine."

Endus paused for a moment, tapping his chin, as if to parse his words.

"How did you get soaked in blood fighting cliff racers? A single fireball is enough to burn them to a crisp. From a distance."

Sarros shrugged. "I used a dagger. More convenient." By now he knew exactly where he needed to stab them to kill them in a single blow. It was one of his more valuable skills.

"A dagger." Endus put down the book he had been leafing through - Sarros caught a quick glance of the cover, it bore the symbol of the Destruction school – and silently crossed the room to stand before Sarros. He placed both hands on his shoulders, bending down.

"You are the Archmagister of House Telvanni," he said, in utter disbelief. "How is a dagger more convenient for you than a basic destruction spell?

"I run out of magicka too quickly," Sarros replied, refusing to feel embarrassed. "I came to study with you for a reason."

"Running out of magicka... Uthol warned me that you're little more than a novice... But I did not expect that..." Endus steered him to a large table in the centre of the room. One end was covered in ancient books and plans, a single glance confirming they were all of dwemer origin and meaningless to Sarros. The other end was covered in considerably more modern books.

"I thought I would work with you on specific weaknesses. Would have picked books to match. But I think it’s best if you just read them all. If you’ve ever been called apprentice by anyone, they should be ashamed of themselves.” Endus shook his head, jewellery clinking quietly. “Running out of magicka while fighting cliff racers. Unbelievable. You’ll never live this down, Nerevar."

"You don't have to tell anyone." Sarros reached for the closest book. Mysticism.

"I have to tell Odros, obviously. My apologies, but this cannot be kept a secret,” he said with a solemn face.

"What? Of course it can! You can simply forget about it!"

"Read your books, Nerevar. If you behave, I'll imbue one of those earrings with a Recall spell. Don't want you to fall in battle against a cliff racer."

Sarros sighed. Arguing with Dagoths was pointless.

***

Akulakhan made great progress, the latest report given by one of the exhausted ash slaves greatly improving Voryn's mood. A month, maybe two, and it would be ready. Just a little more patience…

Of course, he would not be able to use it right away, Nerevar needed too much work still. Not just when it came to his abilities, but his affections, too, if Voryn truly wanted to be able to trust him in battle. The vessel showed some interest him, but hardly enough to match their relationship of old.

If only Voryn had any experience wooing anyone; but in the past, suitors had sought him out, and his relationship with Nerevar of old had grown organically as they shared battles and worked together. He could hardly start the last phase of his war too early just because the current Hortator refused to fall in love with him. He would have to find something else that would allow them to grow close.

Footsteps approached from behind, distracting him from his thoughts. Ilara’s long strides.

She returned holding the same scroll he had sent her off with. Voryn tilted his head, surprised.

"Was he not satisfied?", he asked.

"No, he can't read Dwemeris, father. What were you thinking? Not even Divayth Fyr can remember a language for three millennia without anyone to speak it with. The dwemer in the Corprusarium forgot, as well, thanks to a corprus infection. Fyr asks for a translation."

Voryn ignored her criticism, as usual. "He has a dwemer in his care...?"

"He was in an Outer Realm when Kagrenac erased his people from the face of Nirn." Ilara sighed. “Came back to find them all gone. Even I find it hard to imagine how that must have felt. The poor mer spent centuries travelling on the search for other stragglers but never found one.”

"...How lonely."

Ilara tilted her head at his comment, surprised at the unusual show of empathy. As if Voryn had never been abandoned before. "Indeed. In any case, if you want to avoid him showing up on your doorstep, I recommend you send him a translation. Quickly."

Now that was an idea. Voryn could not deny his curiosity about the mer who had raised his daughter, even if he had done so like the Telvanni he was; through servants and potentially deadly experiments disguised as ‘lessons’.

“Perhaps I should invite him,” he mused, “surely there must be something here he would be interested in beyond my divine disease.”

“Anything dwemer-related will do the trick,” Ilara said, “but you cannot seriously consider inviting the most powerful wizard on Nirn to your home. What if he decides to fight instead of having a chat?”

“Would he be foolish enough to try? I doubt it. Not to mention my immortality.”

“Why would you even want to speak to him? You haven’t left here for two eras, and suddenly you’re interested in an outsider? You didn’t even know who he was the last time I brought up Tel Fyr.”

“He is the closest thing to a father you had; I would like to speak with him at some point."

"Now that he’s useful to you, you remember him?” Ilara sighed. “I didn't know you care." If he had not known better, he could have sworn Ilara looked touched. Voryn had not been generous with affection, certainly.

"Pure curiosity,” he lied, ignoring her questions. Of course he remembered him. He owned at least two books written by the mage lord.

Her face darkened with disappointment. Good. He could not afford to create a bond with her. The time for this, too, had not come yet.

There was no complaint from her, as usual. She shared his skill of swallowing one’s emotions, even if she had never learned to hide them properly. "Talking about curiosity... Fyr made a great point earlier. About how your death and that of your brothers would erase the only people who still speak Dwemeris, and all access to dwemer history beyond educated guesses based on their ruins."

"We are immortal. There is little reason to worry, now that the Nerevarine is on our side and provided me with Wraithguard."

“What if he betrays you? What if there is more than one true Nerevarine, and someone more powerful and... Restrained will do what he should have? You should pass on some of that knowledge. Teach me their language."

"No." Voryn trusted her as much as Nerevar’s vessel – in her case, he feared that if he provided her with everything she wanted, she would cause issues, perhaps even try to fight him for control. Child of House Dagoth or not; she had been taught too many Telvanni traits.

"Well, if you lack the time, surely your brothers could-"

Voryn knew they would be happy to help. Ilara was as popular with her uncles as she had been in the past – as long as she did as she was told. Their loyalty to him was paramount.

"You will not distract them for their work, Ilara” he said, keeping his tone gentle. “They will know to decline."

She was so obviously insulted that he felt the tiniest sting in his heart. When life had been… Different? Normal? He had never denied her anything. Her nurses and governesses had been there to uphold rules – he had spoiled her, did everything in his power to make her smile.

"But father-"

"You do not need to speak Dwemeris – if you ever have need of their technology, my brothers will assist you, and your potential scholarly endeavours have no priority to me. Another time, perhaps, not now." Once the Tribunal was dealt with. Once he had control of Morrowind and she had proven her patience.

Without a word, Ilara turned away and stormed off. Voryn ignored the twinge of guilt.

Besides, she had reminded him of something. The solution to the vessel-problem. All he needed was an excuse…

He followed her at a safe distance, as he, too, was blocked from using any teleportation magic in Akulakhan's chamber. Endus had some books he needed.

On the way, he could not help but reminisce.

***

The campsite lay in quiet darkness, broken only by the occasional whispers of the guards and the distant cries of wildlife. In the largest, most comfortable yurt, the Lord High Councillor sat cross-legged on one of the bedrolls, documenting the day’s events in his journal. He was exhausted from endless negotiations with the ashkhans, struggling to produce remotely readable handwriting. Still, he found it easier to sleep when all his thoughts had been committed to paper, rather than being turned over in his mind until morning because he tried to be sensible about rest.

Around him, everyone else was fast asleep, some snoring, others tossing and turning in their sleep. Nerevar's highest-ranking followers. Privately, Voryn wished he shared the yurt with the Hortator, and the Hortator alone; but soft-hearted Nerevar had made sure to fit as many of his people into the comfortable yurt as he could.

He had, at least, chosen the bedroll beside Voryn's.

Looking down at his Lord and friend with an affectionate smile, Voryn could not help but wonder how the rest of their group would react if they found him huddled together with the Hortator in a single bedroll in the morning, and how warm and comfortable he would be in such a position.

His fantasy was short-lived, for Nerevar opened his eyes, looking back at him. He looked tired, too.

"My Lord-"

"You're still writing?" Nerevar asked with mock disapproval. "The poor pack guar must be struggling to carry all that ink for you."

"I was about to finish and go to sleep,” Voryn muttered defensively. No one else dared to question his habits.

"Were you?" Nerevar's whisper became so quiet Voryn had to strain to make out his next words. "It seems you were watching me sleep, instead. Quite fascinated, too."

"I was... thinking, my Lord." Thinking about how beautiful Nerevar was, bathed in the warm light of his candle, pale hair painted golden by the flame.

"I can imagine the kind of thoughts hidden behind that smile."

Heat rushed to Voryn's ears. "Nothing untoward, my Lord." Those images were reserved for his dreams.

"Ah, my Lord this, my Lord that. Will you call me Nerevar already? No need to pretend we're strangers when nobody else is awake to see. Not to mention I sure hope your thoughts were untoward. Inappropriate, even. After that night..."

The blush spread to Voryn's face, as heat made its way through his body. "I will try to keep it in mind, Lo- Nerevar."

"Good. Now, as your friend, I have a request."

"Hmm?" Request or order, Voryn would do almost anything for him.

"Our alliance with the dwemer would surely be strengthened if I could communicate with King Dumac without a translator."

Without Voryn. He trusted nobody else with the task. To his surprise, he found himself hurt, a little. "If my work displeases you..."

"No, it doesn't. I think you work too much. That said, my request will add even more to your plate, so if you decline, I understand. Teach me their language. For now, simply speaking Dwemeris well enough to show my appreciation for their ways would be enough, though I would like to be able to speak and write fluently, eventually..."

Voryn's heart, which always beat a little faster around the Hortator, fluttered; an excuse to spend time with Nerevar, in peaceful seclusion, bent over a book as he pointed out the words and their meanings? The tiny injury to his pride faded immediately.

"Of course, Nerevar. Anything you want. It is a sensible request, and a good idea. We shall start as soon as possible. Whenever you are ready."

"I have a feeling you would start right now if I asked." Nerevar grinned at him, the boyish smile he refused to age out of. The smile Voryn could not get enough of. Especially after their shared intimacy…

"Obviously."

"We'll have to finish the negotiations with the Ashlanders first. And besides, you need rest. Go to sleep, Voryn."

As if he had any chance to fall asleep now.

"Yes, my- Nerevar." He put his journal aside and laid down on his side, facing Nerevar, who in turn reached out and took Voryn's hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. "Good night, Voryn."

***

A forlorn smile on his face, Voryn materialized in Endus' study, startling Sarros into dropping the book he had struggled not to fall asleep reading. He missed studying at Tel Uvirith, with a steady supply of moon sugar keeping him alert and focused...

"Nerevar," he began before Sarros could wonder about his expression. He ignored Endus’ glare at having his new student distracted from his task. "It has occurred to me that you will need another skill to truly be able to rule at my side and have access to all the required knowledge. Not to mention a method of communication that is practically impossible for anyone but my brothers to understand."

Sarros straightened - Voryn had his full attention now. "Telepathic communication?" he guessed, which seemed the most logical choice. A type of magic he had not even considered attempting before.

"No. Telepathy can be intercepted by a skilled wizard. I will teach you the language of the dwemer."

From his side of the worktable, Endus snorted. "Good luck, Voryn. It will take him years, if not decades. He has no deep elves to talk to and practice on, our brothers won't want to spend their time as a practice dummy, and I certainly don't have the leisure either."

"I taught him before; I will teach him again. Perhaps we can wake memories of the past, speed up the process."

Memories of the past. Suddenly it was blatantly obvious what Voryn wanted, but still. Being able to read ancient dwemer texts... Surely, if Sarros ever wanted to be respected by his fellow wizards, knowledge this arcane and ancient would impress them enough.

Besides, he would not mind those memories at all.

"I would like to try," Sarros said, "you can always give up on me if you feel I'm not making enough progress."

"I will never give up on you," Voryn replied a little too quickly, his tone eliciting a weary sigh from his brother.

"I'm still in the room, Voryn, if you don't mind taking the romance elsewhere..."

Romance…

"The only thing I need to take elsewhere are books I can use to teach him."

"You mean the children's books? Certainly, I have no other use for them."

Endus opened a locked closet at the back of the room and blew dust off the stack of thin books he retrieved.

"Keep them as long as you like." He winked at Sarros. “No doubt it’ll take you many, many hours to learn…”

Voryn peered down at them through his mask for a moment, as if to reminisce about some distant event. Sarros wondered why on earth they even had books for dwemer children. He cared little; he found himself too busy looking forward to spending time with Voryn that had nothing to do with him being too stupid or uneducated for something that was second nature to everyone else here.

"I will leave you to your studies, Nerevar,” Voryn said, satisfied with his spoils. “You will be summoned soon."

Only then did he pause.

“Why are you covered in blood? I assume you are not hurt?”

“Oh, it’s nothing”, Sarros said, “I’m fine. Just a little bit of an accident on the way here.” That was really all Voryn needed to know, Sarros had been embarrassed enough today-

“It’s cliff racer blood! He fights them with a dagger! A DAGGER!” Endus proclaimed. “A wizard! With a dagger!”

“Will you get over it already?” Sarros groaned. “I promise I’ll use magic in the future.”

Voryn snorted. “If nothing else, it serves as exercise… No need to be cruel, Endus.”

“I’m not cruel, I’m shocked. Anyway, as you can see, he really needs to get back to his books…”

“I shall leave you to it.” Voryn vanished as quickly as he had come.

“A dagger…” Endus muttered once more.

Chapter Text

It had been a while since Sarros had last experienced one of the familiar, repeating nightmares. Instead, he dreamed of magicka. Numbers. Endless incantations. Frankly, he wanted the nightmares back; at least they did not make him think.

Endus insisted that theoretical knowledge was the base of all magic, that it all came down to mathematics, and that Sarros could practice his spellcasting once he understood what exactly he was doing in great detail. Therefore, the ash vampire hounded him with endless lessons on magical theory, mixed in with what Sarros assumed was arcane dwemer knowledge that made absolutely no sense to him.

Annoyingly, however, Endus was right. During Sarros’ secret practice sessions, where he applied the principles he understood, he finally learned how to preserve his magicka, how to manipulate the spells to his desires within the new rules he had been taught. In practice, this meant that he was finally capable of summoning a proper magelight, or shield himself for hours, or levitate without having to think twice.

His previous teachers, if one could call them that, had done little but told him incantations to memorize. He wondered if they themselves truly understood what they were doing, or if they too simply repeated what their masters had told them. There was no such doubt with Endus. For all his teasing and willingness to go along with whatever nonsense Odros came up with, he was a rigorous teacher who could answer practically any question Sarros could come up with.

Only once had Sarros managed to test his patience – when he had asked when it was time for him to be given new spells to memorize. He spent the rest of that day wiping dust off every surface and item in Endus' study, to give him time to think before he spoke.

Needless to say, Sarros soon found himself exhausted from his training, and Endus gave him a couple of days off to get some rest. "I forgot you are a simple mortal," he had said, voice weary with all the trouble Sarros put him through.

Sarros did catch up on some sleep. At first. Then he immediately returned to his practice sessions, to fascinated by his quickly growing skills to let an opportunity to use them pass by. And so, when Gares next knocked on his door, the ash ghoul found him floating cross-legged under the ceiling, studying his notes.

"Lord Nerevar, I brought you dinner..." he said, at Sarros with concern. Sarros wondered if he questioned his sanity; if so, he at least honoured House Telvanni.

"Thank you," Sarros said, floating gracefully to the ground. Inwardly, he was overflowing with pride at his growth, happy for the chance to show off. He did not actually land, levitating a finger's breadth over the floor, nowhere near high enough to look down at the ash ghoul. It was all about the sensation of the magicka being under his total control.

"Perhaps you should take a break, my Lord? I doubt Lord Endus wanted you to exert your magicka at all times like this." He placed the small platter on Sarros' desk. Dinner today was a simple meal of scrambled kwama-egg and bread, with a side of netch jelly for flavour. Sarros had yet to find out who cooked the meals, but so far, he had not been let down by the food on offer.

"See, I'm hardly putting in effort to maintain this," Sarros said, though he did finally cancel the spell. "That's the point. Endus taught me to be efficient with my magicka use. Or rather, he taught me how to do it in theory, and I simply applied it to the spells I already knew."

"Even small efforts will drain you over time, my Lord. And if you are too stubborn to rest, you will fall into the same trap as every other young mage who ends up needing a healer because they fell from the sky, or accidentally turn their own fire against themselves because they are too tired, or harm someone else in the process... All because they thought they had everything under control and refused to listen to their bodies." Gares scoffed. “They all rely on someone being there to clean up the mess, sometimes literally. You are better than that, my Lord.”

Sarros stared at him. It was a far cry from Gares’ usual flattery and reverence, a taste of his true personality.

"You speak from experience, don't you?" Only now did it occur to Sarros that Gares, too, must have had a life before the Sixth House. He wondered what reason the ash ghoul had had to join in the first place.

"Yes, my Lord," Gares said, "I used to lead a small temple of Almsivi before I found true enlightenment in Lord Dagoth's teachings."

Another thing Sarros had little clue about was what Voryn preached to his followers, aside from hatred for the Tribunal. And when. In dreams? Or had Sarros missed out on proper sermons? His stomach grumbled, distracting him from his thoughts. He bit into the small loaf.

"And let me guess, you had mages come in after those incidents, demanding healing?" he said, chewing.

"Yes, my Lord. For free, usually, especially the outlanders. Many times have I heard the same excuse that the shrines in Cyrodiil and Skyrim offer free healing." His trunk twitched in annoyance. “Many times have I reminded them that they are in Morrowind.”

"Where was that, then? I can't think of too many Almsivi temples in places with novice mages."

"Why, in Sadrith Mora, of course. Lots of mages, no funding for a proper temple. Surely you must have seen it - a single chamber underneath the Council House. Just myself and two overworked healers." Gares scratched his neck, where more of the sores had appeared.

"I vaguely remember a request for proper living quarters..." Sarros had, at least at the start of his life as the Archmagister, made attempts to do paperwork. That lasted about a month before his skooma use became too much to focus on administrative tasks.

"Which you no doubt failed to grant." Gares grinned at him.

Sarros nodded. "Not too fond of the Tribunal myself. Unrelated to this business with the reincarnation, I wasn't raised in the faith."

"It was Lord Dagoth who opened my eyes to their treachery and duplicity," Gares said, "he spoke to me in my dreams, and once he found me an attentive listener, explained to me the truth about them." He scoffed. "No, their priests deserve no better than the treatment the Telvanni give them, believing and perpetuating their lies..."

"Such as their story about Nerevar's death," Sarros said.

"Have you read the Thirty-Six Sermons, my Lord? Examined them closely? Of course, they were not to be taken literal, as it was the lessons, not the specific words that the reader was meant to take with them, at least so I believe. Perhaps Vivec believes the dunmer foolish enough to believe his stories word for word..." He laughed. “Perhaps Vivec is a fool.”

"No, I haven’t read them. My grandfather would have cast me out had I asked for the books, and they are not the preferred reading material for aspiring Telvanni mages." Sarros shovelled egg into his mouth, plate in hand. "I cannot imagine that the full Thirty-Six Sermons exist in Sadrith Mora, even spread out across every single citizen. " He swallowed, finally. Gares’ patience for watching him speak with his mouth full was remarkable.

"The interesting part is the hidden message – Vivec confessed what the Tribunal did, right there between the lies he created to legitimize their claim of divinity. Vivec may blame Nerevar's death on Lord Dagoth, or the dwemer-king, or perhaps his broken heart, when he speaks to you in person, but his written words tell the truth."

"Oh yes, he lied to my face without hesitation,” Sarros said around a mouthful of bread.

"Maybe I'll get my hands on the books one day to have a look." Another bite. The bread was incredible, as usual. "I guess it doesn't matter, we'll just kill all three of them soon enough.”

"My lord, can you please stop speaking with your mouth full?" Gares finally said.

Sarros's ears flushed. "My apologies. I wasn't... I spent a lot of time alone lately."

He cleared the plate and put it down, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Gares picked up the platter to take it away, but Sarros kept him from leaving.

"How about you stay for a bit? Not to serve me or anything. Araynys gave me a task to fulfil that involves you, but all you need to do is sit still. And maybe tell me more about your life while you’re here."

"You wish to draw me, my Lord?"

"How did you guess that?"

"What else would Lord Araynys ask of you, my Lord? Although I am curious why he would want you to draw me." He sounded both flattered and self-conscious – rather endearing, Sarros had to admit.

"Oh, he wants me to draw one portrait of every type of ash creature, I figured I'd start with someone I know."

Sarros summoned a proper light and motioned for Gares to sit down on the cushion beside his bedroll. He had taken more supplies from the storage room, which he pulled out of a drawer. Using the emptied platter for support, he sat down on his bedroll and directed Gares to turn his head just a little for a better view.

"Give me a moment while I put down a rough sketch..."

During the next hours, he learned much about the ash ghoul, all of it surprisingly ordinary. Sarros had always imagined that the volunteers in the Sixth House had led lives of depravity or poverty that they were desperate to escape, but at least for Gares, that was not the case at all.

He had grown up on a successful farm somewhere between Vivec City and Suran, as the youngest of three children. His parents owned the farm and a handful of slaves, making them quite well-off. Poor parents might have kept their son at home as a farmhand, but they had no need, happily sending him off to join the Tribunal Temple. With gold in his pocket, a promise that their door would always be open to him, and a healthy amount of pride.

His journey through the Temple had been just as uneventful as his comfortable youth, going well enough that he had, eventually, harboured aspirations to one day make it to Archcanon.

"Not that I would have reached that position, anyway; I lacked the required popularity, not to mention that Vivec had no idea I existed. Whether that could have changed, I do not know - after a minor scandal, I was sent off to Sadrith Mora. Nobody receives a promotion after being sent to the Telvanni."

"A scandal?" Sarros looked up from his work. Gares’ trunk was easier to draw than he had expected, and he had already made much progress. "What kind of scandal?"

Gares looked away, picking at a fresh scab on his neck. "Well, I suppose there is no reason to be embarrassed anymore, is there? The man I was is dead."

"If it helps, my lips are sealed."

"Obviously, my Lord, I trust you not to reveal my secrets." He folded his hands in his lap. "It is quite simple - I fell in love with the wrong woman."

"Not a scandal by itself,” Sarros said, disappointed that it was such a mundane thing.

"No, unless you are caught in the arms of an imperial priestess in your quarters at the temple." Gares laughed. “My fellow priests were not pleased, to say it lightly.”

An unbidden vision of Gares appearing just as he did now, trunk exploring the face of a human woman, forced itself into Sarros' mind. "I... I guess that was not allowed?" he said, trying to banish the image.

"Technically, the was no rule against it. But it was highly frowned upon. If we had been caught in an inn, my superiors might have let it slide, but the fact that I brought her to the temple made it somewhat... Blasphemous. Of course, the fact that she was an outlander did not help."

"I can imagine..." Sarros fell silent, returning to his drawing.

Unlike with Araynys, Sarros did not struggle at all to capture Gares’ likeness. Yes, his face was odd compared to that of a normal dunmer, but the trunk was an easy shape to understand. His sharpened charcoal practically flew over the paper as he spoke to him

"If you don't mind me asking... What did you look like, before all this?" he asked eventually, wondering how inappropriate of a question it was.

An unusually sly smile spread beneath the trunk. "Ah, you wish for a more pleasant image than an ash ghoul in the embrace of a woman?" he suggested accurately. "I am afraid I was not particularly interesting to look at before my blessing," he continued, "a simple, middle-aged dunmer with greying hair. Neither especially attractive nor the opposite. You would not have picked me out of a crowd, certainly not as interesting as Lord Dagoth."

Ears burning, Sarros eyes remained fixed on his drawing. "I don't know what you mean."´

"Lord Nerevar, you say his name in your sleep in the most affectionate tones."

Sarros might have asked how he knew that, if shame had not instantly flooded him. "It's because he sends me dreams of his past with Nerevar," he mumbled. "I assure you, I'm merely a loyal follower."

"Of course, my Lord. May I ask how the drawing is coming along?"

Thankful for the change in topic, Sarros held up the piece of paper. To his satisfaction, Gares looked honestly impressed. And a little... Disconcerted.

"That is a beautiful drawing, my Lord," he said, taking it. It was nearly finished already, as he was simple enough to capture. "I... I knew what I look like, but I did not..." His free hand wandered to his face, gingerly touching the appendage sprouting from it. The more Sarros watched him, to more certain he became that he had thoroughly disturbed the man.

"I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable," Sarros said, taking the picture back. "If you’d like me to stop... I can finish this without you if you need a moment."

"Thank you, my Lord," Gares muttered, shifting in his seat. "I think I would like to have some time to pray."
"Of course. You're dismissed. I will see you, uhm, later."

Suddenly, it became very clear why there were no mirrors anywhere.

***

***

Just as Sarros put away the drawing, swallowing a nagging sense of guilt for, apparently, hurting Gares, he heard, no, felt that he was being called to Voryn's side. It was the first time the mer had contacted him directly like he would any of his other servants.

A pit formed in Sarros' stomach. Was this a sign of trouble?

As he made his way to the Heart chamber, his legs felt heavy, worse with every step he took. Scenarios played out in his head, one worse than the other. Had he displeased Voryn somehow? Made some sort of mistake? Or had something happened that required Voryn's unbroken attention, so he could not visit Sarros in person as he might usually have?

***

He found Voryn on a chair by his alchemy table, tapping his claws on the ancient metal. There was not a hint of worry or anger about him, in fact, he looked unusually relaxed. His maskless face bore an expression of satisfaction with whatever he had done.

"Voryn," Sarros said, breathless. He had broken into a run for the last few corridors. "Is something wrong? What happened?"

Voryn tilted his head, confused. "All is well, Nerevar. Did anyone tell you there is an issue...?"

"No, I thought... I mean, you called me telepathically. That's new. I thought it's urgent." Urgent and convenient. Sarros felt ridiculous for spiralling into anxiety like that. He wiped the sweat off his face, wishing he had some water to drink.

"It is. I prepared a potion for you. Sit down." Voryn indicated a chair by the worktable.

Sarros was in the middle of sitting down as he spotted the new portrait of Nerevar on the wall. It was unmistakeable.

Odros was right; they did have the same ears.

Transfixed by the image, he did not notice that Voryn now stood beside him, until the ancient mer shoved a small, black potion bottle into his hands. It was not the usual, simple design, but beautifully blown glass covered in a pattern vaguely reminiscent of long, many-legged insects. A little too precious for an ordinary potion.

"What...?" Sarros asked, as he pulled out the stopper, sniffing the content. It barely had a scent at all, and what was there, Sarros could not place.

"I acquired the recipe for the potion that made you... immune to my blessing. This should neutralize the effect, without allowing the corprus to transform your flesh. My servants have their own beauty, obviously, but it would be a waste to lose this face." He ran a finger over Sarros' cheek, sending heat through his skin, down his spine. Sarros found himself leaning in, while Voryn looked to the painting, sighing.

"The closest I can get to you, Nerevar," Voryn muttered, as if Sarros was not present. Jarred, Sarros straightened, swatting away the hand that followed his movement.

Voryn looked back at him, into Sarros' darkening eyes. "You will accept who you are soon enough, Nerevar," he said quietly, returning Sarros' glare with one of his own as he bent down to lean on the back of Sarros’ chair, hair falling like a curtain around them both. "I have waited so long... I can wait a little longer. Now drink the potion."

Bitterness bloomed in Sarros’ chest. "What if I don't?”, he spat, “what if I just don't play along, Voryn? Will you kill me, hope another Nerevarine appears, maybe one that is just as pretty as he was? Just as strong?"

The calm, controlled expression on Voryn's face vanished in an instant, replaced by a hateful, three-eyed grimace. "You think I will let you go that easily? You think you are free to do whatever you please, Nerevar? You belong to the Sixth House now. You are mine. Drink the damned potion."

Refusing, Sarros ducked under his arms and stood up, clutching the bottle tightly as he faced the portrait. Larger than life, too beautiful to have ever been a real person, Nerevar stared back at him with bright blue eyes.

"He's dead, Voryn. He's dead, there's only me, and you better learn the difference. He's not coming back, no matter how much you want him to."

Sarros braced himself for a spell, or a set of claws raking his back, but Voryn stood where he was, eyes on the back of Sarros' head.

"You're a vessel, elf," he hissed, "I do not care to know your name, or your history, you are nothing to me. That soul inside you belongs to him."

Hurt, Sarros looked back at him for a moment. His knuckles turned white as he clutched the bottle, a hair's breadth away from breaking it, cutting his fingers to bloody ribbons; but instead, without thinking, he threw the bottle at the painting, where it shattered into a thousand pieces and the dark potion inside stained Nerevar's flawless face.

For a second, all was still as they watched the liquid ran down the canvas.

"No!" Voryn cried out, rushing past Sarros to try and wipe the potion off with his bare hands. It reacted with the paint, and Voryn’s hands smudged it, destroying the warlords’ smile. "No, no, no," he muttered endlessly, shaking in panic. It was a sight so pitiful that Sarros felt, for a moment, the urge to comfort him and apologize; instead, he turned away, leaving the study and the pathetic sight behind.

***

Red candles illuminated Sarros' chamber, and the sound of discordant notes, played on something vaguely reminiscent of a flute, filled the air. The dunmer slept, but it was not natural sleep; it was a dreamless abyss, one he could not wake from unless allowed to.

His room was filled with the crooked shapes of various servants, two of which lifted him onto a litter covered in black fabric. They spread one of the Dagoth banners across his barely dressed body before they proceeded to carry him away, past one of the ascended sleepers, who produced the notes with their flute-like trunks. A ghostly procession, led by another sleeper. None of them spoke.

Soon, they reached a chamber close to the Heart; here, too, red candles barely staved off the darkness. The room was dominated by one of many flat, six-sided altars that could be found all over Vvardenfell, but this one did not hold the customary ash statue representing their god. A cloth had been spread out in its centre, long enough for a person to lie on, and it was there the ash slaves placed Sarros' motionless body.

The moment his back touched the cloth, Sarros eyes opened, darting around in panic as he realized that he was not in his bedroll anymore, and that his body was completely paralyzed. A cloying, acrid incense burned somewhere nearby, burrowing into his skull, every breath causing a sharp jab of pain, turning the flickering candlelight into a blinding inferno, the awful notes the sleeper produced into a pounding cacophony. Surely this was another one of the damned nightmares, but it felt too real.

As he fruitlessly attempted to remove whatever spell kept him subdued, two shadows fell over him, and then two faces entered his field of view - one Voryn's mask, the other Araynys' beautiful face. Pleading with his eyes, Sarros begged the latter for help, but the artist's three eyes, seemingly aglow with their own fire, looked right through him.

Someone Sarros could not see handed Araynys a bowl and long needle, And Sarros' body went cold. He was all too familiar with the implement. What on Nirn had they planned?

Voryn nodded at his young brother, who produced a stick of charcoal and proceeded to draw lines on Sarros's face, from the old lines tattooed on his face to his jaw, and more on his chin. All the while, Araynys' face remained blank, betraying no emotion, his gaze mesmerizing. Sarros gave up the fight - if the spell could be stopped at all, it was far beyond his abilities.

Araynys looked up at his brother, who nodded. The needle, now dipped in black ink, descended on Sarros' skin, cutting into it, lightly, over and over. Sarros wanted to scream in pain, heightened by the noxious smoke that filled the air, but no sound escaped him. All he could do was endure as Araynys did his work. Dimly, he sensed a warm hand on his shoulder, the thumb massaging his flesh, in what was no doubt meant to be a calming gesture. It had little effect.

When Araynys finished after what felt like hours, he rose to his feet, whispering an apology, and left; with him left the servants, and the room fell quiet. Voryn bent over him, fingers tracing the bloody marks the needle had left.

"Do you understand now, Nerevar? I will make you worthy of his soul. You will never leave me."

He pressed the golden lips of the mask against Sarros', and everything went dark again.

Chapter Text

Pain woke Sarros in the morning, immediate confirmation that the disjointed images plaguing his mind were not the lingering memories of a nightmare. Summoning a tiny flame that danced on his finger, he lit a candle by his bed, revealing his pillow stained with blood and ink. Gingerly, he touched a freshly tattooed spot on his chin, finding it hot, the skin taut under fresh scabs. If only he had a mirror to see what Araynys had done to him…

Sarros sat up, relieved that there was no trace of the night’s paralysis left. A spell, then, not some potion.

"Nerevar?"

Speaking of Araynys – it was his voice, soft and anxious. When he emerged from the shadows, the candle light revealed a face devoid of paint, hair braided as if for sleep. Wrapped in loose robes, he looked as if guilt had kept him awake all night; no matter that the ash vampires did not need sleep.

Awaiting no invitation, he sat down beside Sarros’ bedroll, long legs folded beneath him. A hint of perfume mixed with the scent of ash that clung to all the brothers. “I came to have a look at… At your face,” Araynys said quietly. "May I have a look?"

Tired and utterly dejected, Sarros did not protest as his gentle fingers turned his face this way and that, examining the lines, finding them raised and irritated. “No sign of inflammation. Looks like it will heal well, at least.” No doubt the corprus had saved Sarros from infection – nobody had bothered to provide clean bedding, let alone treat the wounds with a soothing ointment to speed up the healing process.

It was not really the tattoos Sarros worried about, anyway; having seen Araynys’ art, and witnessing his steady hands, he expected that they would heal beautifully. "Did he force you to do this to me?" he asked, heartbeat speeding up with sudden anger. His fingers dug into his blanket as he struggled to keep himself from lashing out. “I… I thought you would be more trustworthy than that,” he added. Foolish, of course – no matter how harmless Araynys seemed, he had overseen just as many horrors in Mamaea as his brothers had in their respective bases.

"Yes and no," Araynys replied, casting down his gaze. "He is the head of House Dagoth and my family - I cannot refuse his orders. And when he stood before me, out of his mind with hurt and anger, I did what I thought was necessary." The image of upset Voryn seemed to wipe the guilt from Araynys’ mind, as he met Sarros’ eyes again, frowning. “He’s my brother, first and foremost, and I will take his side.”

"All I did was stand up for myself,” Sarros replied, frustration echoing in his words. “I don’t deserve to be punished for demanding respect. Would Nerevar have accepted this? Doubtful.” He wished, sometimes, that he could communicate with the warlord’s spirit, but even so, he doubted the king of Resdayn would have let his advisor walk all over him.

Still, he had a gnawing sense that he did deserve what Voryn had inflicted on him, that it was to be expected from Sarros’ lack of gratitude. Voryn revered him, in way, perhaps Sarros needed to be more appreciative?

"You don't understand at all," Araynys scolded. "It's not about what you said to him, or your demand for respect. Not once did he mention what exactly you said to him, but he told me that you rejected his potion, and therefore his blessing. Not to mention the destruction of the painting – I don’t need to tell you how much it meant to him, recent gift or not. You might as well have stabbed him through the heart.” Araynys straightened, no longer remotely repentant.

“Not to mention that I spent countless hours perfecting it and would have expected better of you than to destroy a fellow artists’ work like that. The potion ate through the varnish, the paint, and the canvas beneath, I cannot even repair it! A year of labour for nothing. Is this how artists treat each other in Skyrim?”

It was on Sarros to feel a pang of guilt now. The only one he had wanted to hurt was Voryn, an attempt to wake him, to make him see reality for once.

On the other hand… He wanted Sarros to drink a potion this destructive? How on Nirn was he supposed to survive something that melted canvas?

"I'm sorry about the painting," he said, "I really am. It was beautiful, no matter the subject."

"All he wants is to love you like he loved him," Araynys continued, mollified by his apology. "He waited three millennia for your return, Nerevar. I doubt he would want you to know this, but sometimes he has… Moments of clarity, when Dagoth Ur is all but forgotten. In those moments, all he did was yearn for your return. Not a word about revenge, or the Heart; just you.” The pain in his voice was impossible to miss – no doubt he hated to see his brother suffer.

"But it wasn’t me who made him wait," Sarros replied. "I did not ask him to project his memories on me. He drew me in with his visions, only to act like I, Sarros Rothan, don’t exist. You must understand!"

"When we died," Araynys said softly, ignoring his protest, "we were men with normal lives. Some of my brothers were married, two had children of their own. Nieces and nephews whose names I cannot recall anymore – no doubt I would have forgotten Ilara has well, had she not made herself immortal.”

“What are you getting at?” Sarros interjected. It was all very tragic, of course, but undeniably the result of their choice to support their brother.

“The reason my other brothers are perfectly functional is that we forgot. Friends, family, we can barely recall them, let alone feel grief for their loss. Who knows why; perhaps the Heart needed us to abandon our past when it woke us.” He sighed. “Voryn’s love for you, however, survived the process; not even the heart of a god could destroy it.”

Sarros swallowed hard.

Araynys straightened his robes, to banish anxiety or calm his frustration, Sarros could not tell. “At the core, his driving force is his undying love for you. He wants revenge on the Tribunal for your sake. He wants to free Morrowind from the Empire to give it to you, make you king once more. Whether or not you want that doesn’t matter.”

Sarros felt like his body turned to ice, his aching skin all but forgotten. He did not care if the Tribunal lived or died. He did not want Morrowind, of all things.

"I would never be a worthy ruler," he said, mortified at the mere prospect. He was just Sarros. The best he could hope for was to become a true Archmagister within the next few centuries. To be left alone as was Telvanni custom. "I don't want Morrowind. I don't... I don't remember the Tribunal's friendship or betrayal, why would I want revenge? They didn’t kill me. They betrayed a different man!"

Araynys grabbed him by the shoulders, practically yelling in his face. “That’s not the point, Nerevar! I need you to understand just how deeply you wound him with your rejection!”

"But I cannot pretend to be what I'm not just to make him happy!" Sarros tore himself free, blinking away the tears threatening to spill. He could not, would not wear a mask for his sake, no matter how much he wanted to see the real Voryn smile like he did in his dreams. “Araynys, don’t you see how difficult it is for me to return his love if he does not care about me at all? He calls me a vessel, of all things! I would do anything for him if he loved me, by the Three, I would, but not like this!”

"Sometimes we have to pretend," Araynys said, unflinching, gaze fixed on some point behind Sarros. "The world isn’t fair. Ancestors know I wish it was. If you want him, you must accept his flaws. If you don't, you must leave, return to the people who see you with nothing but disgust for the crime of growing up in a different land. If that is what you want..."

It was true, of course. Only the Sixth House would ever welcome him. He had no family, no real ties to Skyrim, and Morrowind rejected him at every turn. Was it not better to play a role than to have no place at all?

"I don't want to leave,” he concluded, anger deflating. “This… this place feels more like home every day.”

"Then swallow your pride and behave,” Araynys hissed. “Go to him and apologize.”

Sarros nodded. He had to. A piece of his soul, perhaps Nerevar, perhaps himself, demanded it.

“For what it's worth,” Araynys added, “I am sorry for the damage I've done to your face. You will be no less handsome for it, but I never thought I would do something like this against someone's will."

"You had no real choice," Sarros said. Remembering the odd, trance-like state Araynys had been during the night, he wondered if Voryn had not helped him along, guided his hand, so subtly that the ash vampire could not recall any influence at all.

"No, I did not. My… My family comes first."

He took a deep breath, fraught with emotion Sarros could not decipher.

“Regarding your face,” Araynys pulled a note from his robes and handed it to Sarros, "this is a recipe for an ointment to soothe your skin. I am a horrendous alchemist, and my brothers are busy. Since Voryn ordered this, he should make it for you.” He pressed the slip of paper into Sarros’ hand.

A wry laugh escaped the wizard - as if Voryn was going to make it for him. He had no alchemy skills of his own to speak of, either. If only restoration magic did not have a habit of pushing the ink from the wounds – even his pathetic ability in the field would be enough to soothe the pain.

He thanked Araynys, anyway. “Maybe he’ll be willing to make it for me after I apologize.”

“I’m sure he will. He wants you to be well, Nerevar.” Araynys stood up, smoothing down his robes. “Thank you for indulging me, Nerevar. You could have thrown me from your chamber the moment you saw me.” He smiled, that damned beautiful smile. “Still, think before you act next time. Oh, and if you want to make up for what you did to my art, go ask Ilara to order more gold leaf from the smugglers so I can start over.”

“But Ilara doesn’t-“

“I know she doesn’t want to talk to you, convincing her will serve as an act of repentance.”

“I didn’t think you’re that cruel.”

With a wink, Araynys left the room. Sarros hugged his knees, groaning. “Why does everything have to be so complicated?” he asked the empty room.

***

But for the quiet sound of a knife chopping ingredients, Voryn’s study lay in silence. Almost cutting his fingers for the third time in a row from the tension in his heart, he took a moment to breathe, looking up at the vacant spot where the portrait had been. In time, Araynys would present him with a replacement, perhaps more beautiful than the first painting, but nevertheless, its absence made his heart ache. He had already made a habit of talking to it, as if his ancient friend was listening still.

“It is foolish to dwell on it,” he reminded himself, words ringing hollow. “I cannot give in to grief because of a simple piece of art, no matter how skilfully made it might be.”

His gaze returned to the task at hand; a piece of trama root he was cutting into paper-thin slices. Part of the concoction that was supposed to cleanse Nerevar of Fyr's potion. The vessel may have decided to waste the first bottle, but he would drink it soon enough.

This time, he did not need to summon the mer; he could sense the wizard before he hesitantly knocked on the door. Voryn bid him enter, curious to see the results of Araynys’ work. It was not quite what Voryn had wanted – he had demanded that the vessel would receive the same ritual scars Nerevar had – but Araynys had insisted that ink would suit this Nerevar better than scars.

It was true; even with the telltale redness of the fresh marks, it enhanced the dunmer’s face. For a moment, Voryn felt almost giddy at the sight.

Nerevar was less happy, clearly; standing with his neck bent by the weight of his actions, he sought to explain himself, struggling to find the words, boring Voryn with his rambling. ‘At least’, he thought, ‘my lesson seems to be a success.’

"You have paid for your actions," he interrupted Nerevar's undignified stammering. "So long as you will not repeat them, I see no reason to hold a grudge, Nerevar.” Smiling graciously, he held out a hand to the vessel. “My brother informed me that he would send you with instructions for a healing ointment – not that I need them, but he insists that his recipe is the most effective.”

Nerevar was visibly surprised by his words, and Voryn found himself saddened as he took the scrap of paper.

"Thank you," Nerevar muttered, "I did not think that you would-"

"That I would perform some minor task to aid you?” Voryn asked, unable to banish the hurt from his voice. “When have I ever refused to assist you, Nerevar? I have followed your every order since I met you and done anything in my power to help you during hours of need. I will hardly stop because of a minor incident like this."

“I just…” Nerevar looked down at his bare feet, wringing his hands. “I’m sorry. I thought you wouldn’t… Araynys said I caused you a lot of pain with me behaviour.”

“My brother is keen to exaggerate if needed to drive home his point,” Voryn dismissed him, as if he had not felt his heart shatter at the sight of the portrait’s face melting away under the potion. He had half expected bare bone to appear beneath the paint, and the thought still sickened him.

"I…” Nerevar took a deep breath. “Will you accept my apology?”

"Naturally,” Voryn replied, taking care to keep his voice neutral. “However, I would appreciate if you would refrain from making these apologies a habit."

"I will do my best,” the vessel replied, with a smile that faded quickly. He looked utterly forlorn.

Voryn did not want to send him away – because the potion was almost finished, of course – and remembered the promise he had made not too long ago. “Sit down,” he ordered the dunmer, “I have a task for you.”

A moment later, a table of dwemer letters complete with their daedric equivalents, as well as a few scraps of paper and sharpened charcoal were spread out on the table. The vessel had the decency to look intrigued.

"I promised you lessons in Dwemeris," Voryn reminded him. "Before you can hope to memorize the words, you must learn to read them. Copy the letters until you've committed them to memory."

Nerevar nodded as he picked up a piece of charcoal – he was so eager to please. Voryn flashed him a kind smile before returning to his work.

***

Hours passed, and the atmosphere in Voryn’s study remained tense. From Sarros’ perspective, it was clear that he would have to prove himself if he truly wanted to be forgiven, no matter what the ancient mer said. The change from the utter despair when Sarros destroyed the painting, to the cold of the ritual chamber, to this feigned serenity, was deeply unsettling.

It was a shame; instead of excitement that he was beginning to study a language forgotten by the world and coveted by so many scholars, he continued to feel guilt – and an undeniable sense of fear of the future. ‘Obedience is the key’, he thought. ‘He’ll be happy with me as long as I do what he wants.’

What would be the cost next time Sarros dared to speak up for himself? At least there was not much else Voryn could realistically do to make him look more Nerevar, short of bleaching his skin. Perhaps he could be reshaped with corprus to be taller and stronger?

Voryn did not speak a single word as he worked, first on the potion, then the ointment. This far into the mountain, the sounds of dwemer machinery were not audible, and the faint beating of the Heart - was it louder for Voryn? – was too quiet to truly interrupt the silence. The only tangible noise was the bubbling from the alembic slowly distilling Voryn’s concoction into a concentrated solution that was more likely to kill Sarros than undo the effects of Fyr’s potion. Endlessly copying letters did nothing to distract him or quell the growing anxiety, not to mention he was simply bored.

Music. Music would make him feel better, help him focus. Back in Windhelm, when he had studied the few books on magic his grandfather had been able to scrounge up, he had often done so at the corner club where he worked night shifts to improve their income. There had always been someone playing the flute, at the very least.

Here, the only music was the dreadful droning the ascended sleepers produced, combined with bells and gongs, free of melody or rhythm. No doubt to minds addled with corprus, it sounded beautiful; to Sarros, it was deeply painful noise. Had music been like this in the first era? Did Voryn enjoy it? Surely it was the product of the cult’s shared madness.

‘Maybe it’s worth a try to make my own…’

Eyes firmly fixed on the paper still, acting like he was barely aware that he was doing it at all for the sake of deniability, Sarros began humming to himself. A simple melody one might scrub a floor to or wash some dishes.

There was no reaction at all – taking this as approval, Sarros switched to singing, an old ode to Azura his grandfather had been particularly fond of, often asking his grandson to sing it when they prayed at their small shrine to the Good Daedra on Azura’s summoning day.

This caught Voryn’s attention, and he put down his mortar and pestle – he was in the middle of grinding up ingredients for the healing salve – to listen. Sarros stopped and looked up at him. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“I remember that song,” Voryn replied, a melancholy smile on his face. “Have not heard it in so long… Continue, please.”

Heart beating a little faster at the attention, Sarros picked back up, louder and more confident this time, to Voryn’s obvious delight.

Only when the song was over did Voryn speak again. "I did not take you for a singer," he said, with what sounded like genuine admiration. "You have a beautiful voice for one who breathes the air of Vvardenfell."

"Thank you. I haven't spent a moment outside without a thick scarf," Sarros said, blushing at the compliment. "And I didn't spend enough time here to get sick."

It was common for dunmer, especially those who lived closest to Red Mountain, to lose their ability to breathe freely around the time they reached adulthood; the damage caused by the ash storms, even for those who were fastidious with covering their faces, caught up with most of them. Healing spells did little to repair their lungs once the damage began, and so dunmer who could sing were quite rare. In fact, once was most likely to find them secluded in shrines, brought in as children and practically never permitted to leave.

As such, few people ever heard their traditional songs in Morrowind, and only dunmer like Sarros who grew up elsewhere were able to casually sing whenever they wished. Instead, dark elves had a vast variety of musical instruments, and many who played them beautifully.

"So I must keep you inside, then? It would be a shame for you to lose your voice."

"I found the ash storms don't irritate my lungs and throat anymore since I was infected with cor- the divine disease," Sarros replied. "In fact, I've already been on the slopes of the mountain, to visit Endus and to... Well, I cannot catch a breath of fresh air or enjoy the sunlight out there, but it's nice to see something that is not a dwemer tunnel for a change."

"You went outside," Voryn repeated, smile fading. "Why am I not aware of this?"

"Well, it was only two or three times, and nothing happened, it's not like the dangerous creatures out there will attack me now." Sarros shrugged, just as Voryn slammed his fist down on the alchemy table. The wizard jumped, heart pounding.

"Who allowed this? Were you protected at all? You cannot go out there on your own, Nerevar, a cliff racer will stand no chance against you, but what if the Tribunal attacks?" Voryn rubbed his forehead as if dealing with yet another headache. Sarros wondered if they were a regular occurrence, or if they were all caused by his presence.

"I... I didn't think I have to ask. I came to Red Mountain on my own, Voryn. I killed your brothers, even if it was with great difficulty. Aside from Odros and Araynys,” he added, “I don't think they actually fought back properly..."

"The Ordinators had no reason to attack you when you came here, but they certainly do now! We fight them back regularly, Nerevar, especially near Endusal, as it easiest to reach from the Ghostgate. You are obviously one of my followers now, they will not hold back just because you are the Nerevarine!

Sarros was not about to let himself be locked up. "Voryn, I'm happy to take a guard of your choice with me next time, but I will not let you imprison me here. Ordinators are visible from miles way, it’s really not that dangerous out there."

Arms crossed in defiance, he leaned back in his chair, refusing to look away from Voryn's piercing gaze.

"You will take two ascended sleepers with you next time you leave," Voryn ordered. "I will assign someone."

"That’s a bit much-" Voryn glared at him, “-fine. Two ascended sleepers. If you don't need them for anything else."

"Your protection is a top priority, Nerevar, obviously I will send my most powerful servants. I would prefer sending Uthol and Gilvoth with you, but my brothers are busy."

Sarros shivered at the thought. Surely Gilvoth would drag him right in front of any Ordinators and inform them that Sarros had become Dagoth Ur’s servant, only to watch him be hacked to pieces.

"Araynys doesn’t seem busy,” Sarros offered. Tattoo forgiven, he would have liked spending more time alone with the ash vampire to work on their friendship.

"Araynys is a talented mage, but he will not fight unless his life depends on it, not yours. Take him with you, along with your guards, if you must, but I will not put your life in his hands.”

Sarros sighed but knew better than to complain.

“In any case, with this question settled..." Voryn continued, previous smile returning. "Surely you know more songs. I would like to hear them while we wait for the potion to cool down."

Voryn sat down opposite of him, resting his face in his hands as he listened.

Starting with more traditional songs from Morrowind, Sarros eventually swapped to cheerful Nordic songs – Voryn did not seem to mind. Only when his voice grew too tired did he stop, with a distinct feeling that Voryn would have wanted him to go on forever.

“I… I didn’t think you’d like my voice that much,” Sarros said, clearing his throat. “I’m hardly that talented.”

“Ah, your voice reminds me of summer evenings, listening to the musicians of House Dagoth… Or Mournhold. The ash storms were much less frequent then, and singers common.”

“I would have liked to be there,” Sarros said.

“But you were, Nerevar… Right beside me, exchanging whispers when you grew bored.”

There it was, the smile Sarros coveted, but of course it was not directed at him. Not really. Time to change topics.

"So… Do you think the potion is ready? I might as well drink it now to get this over with. The sooner I can learn to use the eye properly, the better.”

“It is more than the eye that you are missing,” Voryn corrected him. “You were meant to become as powerful as my brothers, but you have not.”

He checked the potion receptacle for temperature, and deemed it cool enough.

When Voryn handed the bottle to him, Sarros vividly remembered what had happened to the painting. “Voryn, I know you would never intentionally harm me-“ unless he made someone else do it for him, “-but… Are you certain it’s safe for me to drink?”

Sarros cleared the table before him of study materials, in case his body would react the fluid outright.

"It is likely to have unpleasant side effects, but it will not kill you or cause permanent damage," Voryn said, not quite meeting his gaze. “What I cannot say with certainty is whether it will work; I can only do so much in theory, but to test it, you have to drink it.”

Not the most reassuring thing anyone had said to Sarros. "No time to waste then, eh?" He put the bottle to his lips, taking a deep breath, and downed its entire contents in one go. It tasted dreadful, an acrid, acidic flavour, and burned all the way down. It could not have been more obviously poisonous.

Eyes watering, Sarros bent forward, clutching his stomach in pain. There was no nausea, at least, a small comfort at the agony that spread through him. The image of flesh melting would not leave his mind, surely the potion was eating through his stomach – by the Three, over the span of his entire life he had never felt as much pain as he had in a few weeks with the Sixth House.

Whether he could not do anything to stop the pain or did not went to for the sake of the experiment, Voryn simply stood by his side, running his hands through Sarros’ hair, waiting for his pain to subside.

After what felt like an eternity, the pain faded – Sarros prayed that it was not a sign that his insides were too damaged to feel any more of it.

"How do you feel?" Voryn asked when he heard Sarros’ breathing slow down, but Sarros did not reply. Instead, he slumped over on the table, barely realizing that he was being talked to.

Worry laced Voryn’s voice as he spoke, obviously suspecting that the potion was far more dangerous than he had let on. "Nerevar?"

A clawed hand on his shoulder, shaking him gently. Sarros blinked. "I don't feel so good," he slurred. His eyes fell shut again, and this time, he fell unconscious.

Again.

With no choice but to be patient, Voryn carried him to his bedchamber.

Chapter Text

A hand drags Sarros, no, Nerevar through a colourful crowd, in the warm light of hundreds of candles and lanterns. It was a clear, starlit summer night, the fragrance of Mournhold's most exquisite flowers heavy in the air.

Around them, the faces, most of them complete strangers, were all smiles and cheer - until they saw who was weaving past the wedding guests. Whispers followed them, bits and pieces of rumours, worries about 'her'.

"Voryn," Nerevar said, his tone pleading. "Everyone is watching. Let us return before word reaches her ears-"

He looked about frantically, expecting the queen to show up any second. His queen.

"No," Voryn replied simply, continuing to lead him by the hand. "Remember your promise."

Further they went, until they were finally free of their curious audience, with a quickly applied invisibility spell getting them past the guards.

"You.... You could have done that the entire time, and yet you waited until all of Morrowind saw us?" Nerevar asked, incredulous. "Voryn, have you gone mad? It's your reputation on the line, too..."

Satisfied with the distance he had put between them and the court, Voryn finally stopped, turning to him. Nerevar struggled to read his expression – a mix of anger, amusement, lust, even. At least he did not look hurt anymore; Nerevar had caught glimpses of his face during the ceremony, pained looks that seemed to drive a spear through his heart every time he saw them.

Keeping up his own enamoured smiles at Almalexia, faked, of course, to make a good impression on the guests, had been difficult. So difficult he almost forgot to recite the ceremonial words that had been drilled into him beforehand.

Golden jewellery glittered on the tall, slender mer before him, a red gem resting on his forehead reflecting the moonlight just so; but its beauty paled compared to his eyes, their red so deep one might lose themselves in them. Tempting to imagine him an Ayem’s dress…

"One might think you are my bride," Nerevar joked half-heartedly, unable to resist the urge to run his fingers of the golden collar that adorned Voryn's slender neck. “With all that jewellery.”

"If only."

Oh, how his words dripped with yearning. In a different world, perhaps, under different, easier circumstances…

"But a sad wife you would be, in these robes.”

Voryn had not opted for the usual red and black of his House, nor the blue and gold of House Indoril - his robes, finely crafted, layered silk and lace, were of an ashen grey. The colour of mourning.

"Am I not beautiful in them?" Voryn asked mischievously, as if the choice had not been a conscious, aggressive one, designed to ensure the entire court knew how he felt about this union.

"This is not a funeral, my friend, as you know full well."

"And yet, it's difficult not to feel unbearable grief," Voryn whispered, leaning in close to press his lips, painted black tonight, against Nerevar's damp forehead. Sweat; he was nervous, fearful of what awaited upon his return. "For it's her bed that you will sleep in tonight, not mine."

"Voryn..."

"Of course I wouldn't make us invisible any time sooner. I want them to see that you're still mine, Nerevar, and I need the queen to remember that this union is entirely political!"

The Lord High Councillor was a passionate man, but one who hid his emotions well; his open jealousy was as unusual as his lack of care for the reputation of House Dagoth. By Azura, if this insulted Ayem enough, Nerevar’s future as the king of Resdayn was on the line as well.

And yet, all Nerevar desired was to push him down into the grass for his insolence, free him from the mournful cloth, and take him right here where the guards or stray guests could find them any moment. He found it impossible to resent Voryn, even for this.

"I cannot bear the thought of you consummating your marriage tonight, Nerevar."

"You knew from the start that this would have to happen,” Nerevar replied quietly. His fingers brushed a stray lock of hair from Voryn’s damp forehead. “That we will have to try for an heir, as much as I would prefer not to." That, of course, was not quite true; he felt a different love for Ayem, perhaps not one as deep, and the image of her, holding his child in her arms, was a pleasant one.

"Adopt one. Elect one,” Voryn insisted, a quiver in his voice. “You gave yourself to me. You said we would-"

Nerevar did not let him speak, interrupting him with a kiss, one less gentle than he would like, hands greedily travelling to the delicate golden belt that held the robes in place.

"Nerevar?"

***

"Wake up, Nerevar."

Sarros blinked against the bright light of a lantern. He could still taste Voryn's lips on his, feel the heat gathering between his thighs-

"You appeared restless," Voryn, now grey again, with no robes in sight, said. Sarros wondered how bad the mourning colours would clash with his skin. "A nightmare?"

"You cannot tell?" Sarros asked. There was no edge to his words this time; the dream lingered. "That explains why you woke me right before it got interesting."

He sat up, only to find himself so dizzy he nearly fell sideways off the bed, but Voryn caught him, holding him just a smidge tighter than absolutely necessary. Sarros made no attempt to free himself, listening to the slow, steady thumping in his chest, matching the beat of the Heart.

"I cannot access your dreams without the mask, Nerevar,” Voryn replied quietly. "Perhaps I should have watched this one?"

"I was Nerevar again, in Mournhold..." Sarros' voice trailed off as he wondered if he should explain more.

"A pleasant memory, then," Voryn assumed.

"Am I supposed to believe you had no negative experiences with Nerevar, that every dream I have of him would be a good one?" Sarros laughed, the sound muffled with his face against Voryn's chest. "I think if the dream had gone on long enough there would have been problems," he continued, "did you really try to make Almalexia jealous on her wedding day...?"

If it had happened at all. Sarros had long given up attempting to tell whether his dreams were memories or fabrications of his mind. Likely a bit of both.

Voryn hesitated to answer, perhaps struggling to remember, or considering whether or not he wanted to admit to it.

"Voryn?"

"I believe I had much to drink that night, after having to sit through the ceremony..." He cleared his throat, as if to hide embarrassment. "I was jealous, of course. She had what I wanted. In a... Lapse of judgement, I decided to give her a taste of my anger. It took a lot of work to undo the damage to my public image after that."

"Couldn't find an excuse for dragging Nerevar away from his wife?"

"I could not find an excuse for the soon-to-be crowned king of Morrowind thrusting himself into me in public. I remember it well, alcohol or not; a guard caught us, and soon after, it seemed all of Resdayn knew." Voryn chuckled, and Sarros wondered if he had considered this remotely funny back in the day.

"So, you really did wake me right before it got interesting." Sarros sighed dramatically.

Silence stretched between them for a moment.

"We could-" Voryn started.

"I don't think-" Sarros blurted out, blushing. “It wouldn’t be right.”

"No, it is too soon." Voryn looked away for a moment, and Sarros thought he could see the slightest tinge of red on his ears, too.

"Yes. Much too soon. Not to mention my stomach still hurts. That potion was... Unpleasant."

Apparently, Voryn was more than happy to change topics. "Yes, the potion,” he replied quickly. “Do you feel any other changes?"

'Well, thank you for worrying about the damage you may have caused me.'

"I can't tell if I've become more powerful of not," Sarros said. Hesitantly, remembering the pain all too well from the last time he tried to, he opened his third eye, he looked up at Voryn’s face, dragging out the anticipation for a moment as he let his gaze wander over his earrings. Sarros could not tell what enchantments they carried, but it did not matter; he could look at them without issue.

Now if he tried to walk like this, he would probably fall over two steps in until his brain learned to handle the strange perspective.

"It worked," Sarros whispered, as if it was not blatantly obvious. He reached up to Voryn's ear, running his fingers over the jewellery, smiling. "Enchanted, all of it."

Voryn closed his eyes at his touch, leaning into it, goosebumps on his skin going unseen by Sarros.

"You should not be caressing my ears like that," he breathed, gently capturing Sarros' wrist and pressing a kiss on his palm before Sarros could withdraw it.

It was on Sarros to feel a shiver creep down his spine, heat blossoming again in his core. "What do you want to do now?" he asked to distract himself from the growing want he had no desire to give in to. "I heard I can use it as a focus for my power, maybe I can ask Endus to teach me."

"Yes, he will have to train you, it does not come naturally. But you should feel a surge of power... I believe we will have to repeat the ritual. I must prepare…” Voryn’s voice trailed off. The satisfied smile on his face said it all.

"And then I will be bound to the Heart as well." Sarros would not be a god, of course; the goal from the start had been to turn him into another Heartwight. He would make a dreadful deity; then again, neither Voryn nor the Tribunal did a particularly good job.

"True immortality," Voryn muttered, brushing his lips against Sarros’ palm again, "and divine power. As you deserve, Nerevar."

It did not have to be so difficult to stay calm, but the soft touch was much too arousing. A distraction, he needed a distraction.

"Is it true that you want me to be king of Morrowind?"

Voryn laughed. "We will worry about that once we have defeated the Tribunal and conquered the Great Houses... House Telvanni aside, obviously, Archmagister." He turned Sarros’ hand over, placing a kiss on the Seal of the Archmagister in mock reverence.

"I am their puppet, Voryn, nothing more. I suspect even the Telvanni would not tolerate my allegiance to the Sixth House.”

"Well, you shall become my puppet, then!" Voryn laughed. "And I will aid you in seizing the control and power you should already have. The House is an asset to us, and I intend to use it."

'With violence or diplomacy?' Sarros thought. 'Perhaps both.'

"For now, I have to recover from that potion. I feel like I’ve been poisoned…" Sarros muttered. "And grow as a wizard. Leave the responsibilities for later."

Voryn sighed. "It was not my intention to cause you pain. I shall prepare a healing potion for you."

"That would be much appreciated," Sarros replied.

Voryn left, not without a brief kiss on Sarros’ forehead, right atop the third eye, so casual one might think he had done it a thousand times before.

The sudden familiarity stunned Sarros for a moment, until he remembered the ache in his stomach. With a groan, he curled up, pressing a pillow against his stomach for warmth.

Only then did he realize that Voryn had almost suggested that they- No, that was a thought for another time.

***

The parchment in Ilara's hands trembled with her barely constrained... Rage? Envy? A sense of abandonment, perhaps? as her eyes scanned Adrisu's latest report. The ascended sleeper in question - one of Ilara's handful of personal servants - waited patiently for her next orders.

The information presented was not entirely unexpected - apparently, the Nerevarine would soon receive Dagoth Ur's blessing again, after he cured the wizard of whatever Fyr's potion had done to him - but nevertheless, it stung. And the fact that Sarros was also receiving lessons in Dwemeris after her father denied her hardly sat well either.

"I want him gone," Ilara hissed, crumpling up the paper. "If I ever want my father to dedicate but a minute thought on me, the Nerevarine has to go."

Adrisu shook her head and pulled a small notebook from the depths of her robes. Unable to speak in the traditional sense, and Ilara refusing to drop the shields around her mind that kept her safe from prying magic, writing was the main method the sleeper used to communicate.

"Lord Dagoth will destroy you," Adrisu wrote, "you will not be blessed instead." Her slanted, spidery handwriting was near impossible to read for most people, but Ilara had enough practice to make out the words with little difficulty.

"I won't openly murder him," Ilara said. "No, I'm thinking sabotage. Make father want to get rid of him."

"How?"

"We have three weeks, and the Nerevarine has one weakness that'll be easy to exploit. Skooma. I can easily obtain it from the smugglers, although... It will take too long for any level of subtlety."

"Addle his mind with moon sugar?"

"Precisely. Make father see that he is worthless, make him assume he was never the true incarnate to begin with, perhaps... Or, if the changes are too drastic, disappoint him enough by making him believe Sarros went behind his back to consume skooma again."

Adrisu tilted her head, not bothering to write a comment.

"You think this is far-fetched, hmm? Foolish, maybe? I know what father expects from 'Lord Nerevar'. I must simply ruin his reputation, make him even weaker than he already is, until not even father can delude himself into believing that Sarros deserves his attention." Ilara tapped her chin with a slender finger. "But where to get moon sugar to start with...?"

"Lord Endus," Adrisu wrote quickly. "Used it on an ash slave. Bragged about it. How to get it to the Nerevarine?"

"Gares feeds him, doesn't he? I will simply have to make him do what I say." Ilara smiled up at the sleeper, pleased with herself. "A straight-forward plan. Sarros will soon begin failing even tasks that should come easily, and once father thinks he brought it upon himself intentionally..."

"Won't work," Adrisu wrote. "Gares is loyal. Lord Dagoth is no fool."

"He is a fool concerning the wizard," Ilara countered. Adrisu was the only individual she could speak to so openly, after the sleeper proved herself trustworthy time and time again. She was also the only person at the facility - aside from her father - who always gave her earnest opinion.

Adrisu produced as sound somewhere between a snort and a whistle, one Ilara recognized as a laugh by now. "Love makes fools," she scribbled. "Will have Gares summoned."

"Thank you, Adrisu. One more thing..."

The sleeper nodded.

"What is this...?" Ilara held up a short letter her father had sent barely an hour earlier. "You're supposed to guard the Nerevarine when he exits the citadel?"

Adrisu nodded. "Me and Dagoth Reler."

"Two ascended sleepers? You'd think the Archmagister can defend himself."

"Safety."

"And he chose you, of course. My personal servant." Ilara rubbed her temples. "This is clearly intentional. He's doing this to annoy me, the question is why."

"I am powerful, Lady Ilara. Reler too."

"You all are, Adrisu, I suspect you'd be evenly matched with almost every other ascended sleeper. Not to offend; but he made you this strong. He could have sent Ulen if he thinks Kogoruhn doesn't need to be protected."

A shrug was all Adrisu had to add.

"Fine, nothing I can do about it. Go fetch Gares."

***

As she waited for Adrisu to return with the ash ghoul, the humiliation simmered in Ilara’s stomach. She should be her father’s top priority, not a weak little dunmer who could barely cast a simple fireball.

“Soon, Ilara,” she muttered to herself. “Just a tiny nudge to remind him that Sarros has nothing in common with the perfect Hortator he imagines…”

How had the idea not appeared sooner? With her new position handling the trade dealings with the smugglers – with no oversight - it could not be simpler to execute. Alas, better late than never. Sarros would destroy her father’s trust little by little, without even noticing what was happening. Once he was reduced to a drooling, skooma-eating fool, her father could finally see how much more he could accomplish with her by his side instead, a talented, skilled made with the power needed to bring down the Tribunal – not some novice barely out of childhood.

It was risky to use Dagoth Gares in her plan, but she knew the Nerevarine trusted him. No one else had as much access to Sarros, not to mention that he would have an easy time stealing from Endus. None of the brothers paid the servants much attention.

Soon, Adrisu returned with a nervous Gares in tow, who looked up at Ilara with what she assumed was confusion, based on his body language. He was easier to read than Adrisu, but not by much. Was this why her father took away his servants’ faces?

“Thank you, Adrisu, I’ll take over from here. Come, Gares, I have need of your help.” Ilara shut the door to her quarters behind her and locked it with a spell, going unnoticed by the ash ghoul.

“Certainly, Mistress Ilara, how can I assist you?” he asked, the twinge of annoyance in his voice impossible to miss. No doubt she had interrupted something he deemed important; ash ghouls and ascended sleepers alike tended to overestimate their importance. They were, after all, intelligent and ambitious men and women who had risen through the ranks of the Sixth House, their servility little more than a façade. Her father handpicked those suitable to be elevated to these ranks, and he tended to choose well.

“One of my uncles, Endus, hides a jar of moon sugar in his quarters. You will retrieve it for me.”

The ash ghoul laughed. “Steal from the Heartwights? Your own family? You must be toying with me, Mistress. Surely, Lord Endus will be happy to provide it for you.” He tilted his head, arms crossed. “No doubt you require it to further the goals of Great House Dagoth?”

“While my aim is indeed to increase the glory of our House, my methods must remain secret for now. No, I cannot ask him myself. You, however, are a servant; likely to go unnoticed. He has no use for the moon sugar himself. It’s little more than a keepsake.”

“I will not steal from my Lords, Mistress Ilara. Lord Dagoth would disapprove.”

“Lord Dagoth will never know, Gares, I’ll make sure of that.” In truth, Ilara had little experience forcing servants to do anything; at Tel Fyr, there was no such thing as servants questioning her orders, and even here, they obeyed. Usually. The incident with the key made it clear that the ash creatures could not be trusted, but she had no time to wait weeks for the next shipment. It was simply a matter of applying enough pain.

“How, Mistress? He sees all.”

‘And he is but one man, god or not, who cannot have his eyes everywhere.’

“He sees only Lord Nerevar,” Ilara replied with a snort. “A lowly minister will hardly attract his attention. And, of course, you will not talk.”

Shifting his weight from one foot to another, Gares tensed visibly. Any trace of amusement was thoroughly wiped from his disfigured face. No doubt he was suddenly very aware of her Telvanni background.

“I will not?” His tone turned nervous as he took an instinctive step backwards, fingers twitching as he readied himself to cast a shield spell. “It seems you are asking me to commit treason, my lady. I have to inform the Master.”

Ilara gave him no time to protect himself, and before he even finished speaking, a flick of her wrist and a simple incantation froze him in place, paralyzed. He had no eyes to show fear, but Ilara did not need to see it; she could practically hear his heart race in his chest.

“How about I give you a taste of what awaits you if you refuse or decide to rat me out?” she asked sweetly, laying a gentle hand on his neck. Long, thin, and covered in sores that would immediately infect anyone with corprus; an enchanted amulet kept Ilara safe. It could not stop the disgust as the sores wept their thin, yellow fluid onto her fingers. “Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot you cannot speak. Or defend yourself. At all.”

With no further warning, she sent a jolt of magicka through his nervous system, a spell she knew would make him feel like his entire body was on fire from the inside out – only his shallow, panicked breaths and skipping pulse revealed that it worked. Another jolt, to drive home the message. She had spent hours improving it after the previous failure, and after the reactions she had gotten from the dreamers who had willingly served as her test subjects – anything to rise beyond their low rank – she was certain that Gares would get the message.

She dispelled the paralysis and watched him fall to his knees, gasping for air, clutching his chest where his heart struggled to recover. Fluid dripped from his trunk – ash ghoul equivalent of tears? Her handiwork was satisfying to watch.

“You will steal the moon sugar for me, promptly. Try anything, and I will show you what it feels like to be exposed to this for hours. It cannot kill you, not to mention I added a lovely little quirk – it keeps you conscious, too. There will be no escape. Do you understand?”

“H-hours?” He sounded genuinely afraid. “Mistress, I… I will do as you say.”

He rushed to the door without waiting to be dismissed, and Ilara graciously unlocked it for him, satisfied with herself. The previous ash ghoul had not been nearly this terrified of her; surely, this time all would be well.

***

Hours had passed since Sarros’ drank the most potent healing potion of his life. He had taken a nap afterwards – his head in Voryn’s lap, falling asleep to the sound of his grandiose plans for their shared future as Morrowind’s new rulers.

More than once, Voryn referred to the province as Resdayn – not that it registered with Sarros, who was filled with too much bliss to take notice.

Awake and recovered, Sarros had hurried to Endusal; he was late for today’s lesson.

"Now that's a beautiful third eye," Endus said when Sarros greeted him with a three-eyed smile. "Have you gotten used to walking with it open, yet...?"

Sarros leaned on a chair to combat the sense of disorientation and vertigo. "Not quite." He blinked. "I suppose I have to practice."

"Let's have a duel,” Odros suggested from a corner of the room; he had a habit of joining them during their lessons. If he was not already in the room - apparently, Odrosal did just fine without its master, with how much time he spent here. The chair he occupied was practically his at this point.

"What?" Sarros asked, not particularly excited at the prospect. "Why?"

"To test your powers, s'wit. You're supposed to be a better mage now."

"Voryn said I would know if my power increased, and I don't feel any different. In fact, he wants to do the blessing again,” Sarros quickly explained. In truth, Sarros did not know how difficult Odros actually was to fight when he put in effort, and he was not too keen to find out.

"Not that ritual again," Odros groaned, "seeing you naked once was enough."

Endus cleared his throat. "You do realize being naked is not required for the ritual..."

Sarros stared at him. If he had known… A sense of violation gnawed at him. He had told himself that there was some good reason to expose him, even if he could not think of one. Who was he to question some ancient ritual, after all? "If not, why would he-"

"Look, Nerevar, unlike the rest of us, who will do something about our needs when necessary, Voryn is sitting in his chamber all day, alone, nothing to look at but Akulakhan and the ugliest creatures the Sixth House has to offer. Let the man appreciate some skin, even if..." Odros' eyes travelled up and down Sarros' chest. "There isn't that much to see."

"Hey!" Sarros threw a tiny ball of fire at him, hitting him squarely in the chest but, naturally, doing no harm. At least the playful insult distracted him, if only somewhat. "Next time it's ice!"

"I am hit!” Odros fell back dramatically on the chair, clutching his chest, where the fireball had left behind nothing but soot. “Endus, bring me a healing potion!"

Endus rolled his eyes at his theatrics. "Stop fooling around. Nerevar is here to learn."

"Look, Lord Endus acting all mature again. You're an hour older than me, don't tell me what to do."

"You're twins...?" At least that explained why they appeared to be joined at the hip.

"I know, it's difficult to tell, what with my superior wit and beauty." Endus winked at Sarros. "Back to the matter at hand? The spellcasting?"

***

Being a research facility first and foremost, Endusal hat no dedicated chamber for combat practice of any kind, and up to this point, it had not been necessary. Instead, Endus led them to the longest corridor available. As they rounded the corner, they came upon an ash slave sweeping the floor. When she spotted the three mer, her eyes widened, and she rushed to vacate the corridor.

"Do you practice your magic on the servants?" Sarros asked, watching her flee. "She forgot to bow. They never forget to bow."

"No, Telvanni, I don't usually practice combat magic on my servants. We cannot simply buy more, as you surely understand?"

"I have not bought a single slave," Sarros replied. He was deeply uncomfortable with doing such a thing... If he was the one to do it. His Mouth had not bought many slaves in his name, but they very much existed.

"Then someone did it for you," Endus rightfully pointed out. “In any case, I don't know why she would be afraid, I do not recall causing it any harm. It’s exceedingly rare that we have to punish our servants for misbehaving; Voryn’s influence keeps them in line, especially the lesser ones."

He spoke about the slave like she was little more than an animal… ‘He may not be a Telvanni, but he sure sounds like one.’

"It's possible that I might have used one or two for target practice," Odros muttered from behind the pair. "This one might remember me. You cannot deny the results... Nothing trains your aim better than someone attempting to run away."

“Odros, you have your own slaves, keep your hands off of mine!”

The two immediately began arguing, with Odros insisting that it was fine as long as he did not kill anyone, and Endus insisting that his property was not for him to play with. Sarros listened with growing unease, as if this was somehow worse than the slavery the rest of the dunmer relied on; or perhaps it was simply the reminder that no matter how well he was treated here, outside the occasional incident, House Dagoth still conquered the province though sickness and violence, and cared little for the people they claimed to fight for.

"I think," he said quietly, "that it's not very fair to treat you loyal servants like training dummies, or toys that your brother shouldn't play with."

"Both whipped around to glare at him – Sarros briefly wondered how he could miss that they were twins. Their expressions were an exact mirror image of each other.

"Look who thinks he has the moral high ground," Odros drawled. "Didn't you come here to bed Dagoth Ur? You betrayed your people, Nerevar, like you betrayed him, and there is no doubt that your inaction causes deaths left and right. Why don't you keep your opinion to yourself next time?"

"Remember that you are safe here because Voryn's servants kill everyone foolish enough to pass through the Ghostgate,” Endus added, sneering. "People with families and friends die on the slopes of Red Mountain every day, Nerevar, should you not be more worried about them than a lowly ash slave, who came here willingly?"

'It's for the greater good', Sarros was tempted to say, but he knew well enough that was not the truth. Not for the first time did he remember the words of the Urshilaku wise woman; “He hears laughter and love, but he makes monsters and ghouls. He woos as a lover, but he reeks with fear and disgust.” The only one who truly believed that their cause was as divine as it was positive was Voryn, no doubt.

"You're right. I apologize," he muttered instead.

Endus ignored his apology, gesturing to his brother instead. "Odros, make yourself useful. Keep your shields up while he's throwing spells at you."

"I don't get to return the favor at all?" Odros asked as he marched past them to the end of the corridor.

"We want him in one piece, remember? Not that he’s particularly deserving of our mercy.”

‘Great, they’re going to hold that grudge, aren’t they?’

Sarros resisted the urge to insist that he could defend himself. He hardly even knew if he had fought any of the Heartwights at full power; even Gilvoth had seemed too blind with rage to truly show off his abilities. The others might as well have gone easy on him to make sure Voryn could get his hands on him. And invade his physical privacy, apparently. Sarros shuddered.

"What do you want me to do, exactly?" Sarros asked cautiously. Better to deal with angry ash vampires than to think about Voryn abusing his skooma and exhaustion induced vulnerability. "Destruction spells?"

"What else? Do you have a hidden talent for illusion magic you failed to reveal so far?" Endus snapped. "Go. Every spell you studied, now."

Unsure whether he should feel annoyed or guilty for insulting the pair, Sarros dutifully cast every offensive spell he knew at Odros, who blocked them with bored ease.

Endus, meanwhile, took the opportunity to critique his spellwork. Leaning back against the corridor wall, arms crossed, he commented on every spell.

"No focus at all... Mispronounced incantation... Your gesturing is a mess... A gust of wind could interrupt you in that stance... Have you ever used shock magic before? That was an absolutely embarrassing display."

Sarros was more than relieved when he ran out of magic to cast. He still found it easy to preserve his magicka, not to mention that his abilities would cause far more damage to an unshielded target now than they ever had, but he had clearly put the twins in too much of a bad mood to receive even the tiniest sliver of praise.

"Absolutely no challenge," Odros added when he rejoined them, "not even an ash slave would have to be afraid of you."

"There is no increase in power to be found, not to mention that none of this is remotely suitable for what Voryn plans to do with you. You did study as I asked you to...?"

Now it was on Sarros to feel insulted. "By the Three, I said I'm sorry. There's no reason to be cruel. I spent every waking moment studying, as you very well know!"

"Honesty does not equal cruelty, Nerevar. Clearly, your ‘studying’ did not bear fruit.” Endus shrugged. “Your forbear had practically no magical talent, but at least he made up for it in physical combat. Of course you are not particularly skilled in that department, either..."

"I haven't had a chance to prove that I can fight," Sarros retorted. "You have no idea whether or not I can fight if given the correct weapons. Of course, I’ll fail at using a longsword if all I ever use are daggers."

"Send him to Tureynul, brother, let him prove his short blade prowess," Odros suggested. "Perhaps we'll be impressed."

Endus snorted. "I doubt we have enough fatigue potions in the facility for him to last long enough to prove anything, but I'd enjoy watching, certainly... Another time.” He glared down at Sarros. “For now, I’ll let Voryn know that the second ritual better be successful, if he ever wants to get any use out of you except, perhaps, warming his bed. Go home and think before you speak next time, yes?"

***

Back in his chamber, Sarros wished he could talk to someone friendly, someone he had no strange tension with. Gares was the only one who was not going to side with the twins, and even he was nowhere to be found.

Frustrated, and in severe need of a distraction, he decided to work on Araynys' task, specifically the most challenging one; drawing Voryn as he appeared in his dreams. This he would not be able to do in one session; but it certainly took his mind off the angry brothers.

Chapter Text

Serving the Incarnate was odd, there was no question about it. The young mer had finally stopped performing every single servant duty himself at least, only after much convincing that Lord Nerevar should not be on his knees, scrubbing the floor of his chamber, let alone take care of his own laundry, but he was still so unlike the Dagoth brothers.

If for no other reason that he seemed to be asleep constantly. That, at least, would be over soon. Gares sighed as he crouched beside the bedroll, ready to wake his master for another magic lesson.

The mer curled up on the bedroll before him drooled onto his pillow, a small, thin creature, with the manners and grace of the poor and uneducated. Half his teeth had not survived the skooma. The ash ghoul wondered if Lord Dagoth even considered touching, let alone kissing the elf – the Nerevarine was an odd consort for a god, certainly. Constantly in need of reminders to bathe, late for every appointment Gares did not personally drag him to; keeping him civilized was far more work than he had bargained for.

And now Lady Ilara demanded that he make this task even more draining. Gares could imagine how tedious the elf would be once his blood was constantly tainted with moon sugar.

"Lord Nerevar, you must attend your lesson with Lord Endus," Gares said loudly, shaking the dunmer by the shoulder. In turn, the Nerevarine slowly rolled over, blinking up at him in confusion. Same thing, different day. Clearly, once again, whether he liked it or not, he would be dressed by Gares. As drowsy as he was, he would never make it to Endusal otherwise.

"I'm not going," the Incarnate said, with the tone of a petulant child, turning away from him again. "I pissed Endus off, and Odros too; let them calm down a little. Maybe tomorrow. I'm tired."

Gares sat back on his haunches for a moment, resisting the urge to strangle the mer on the spot. Was this how parenthood felt? It was a good thing he never had to deal with children of his own. Perhaps a commanding spell would work to get him to behave…

More important, however, was that his whining provided an opening to get Gares into Lord Endus’ study – the quicker he could get that unsavory business over with, the better. He had no desire to experience Lady Ilara’s wrath again.

"My Lord, you must attend your lessons. I have received no notification that they are cancelled. Do you want to disappoint Lord Dagoth? Surely not."

"He'll have to live with it," the Incarnate mumbled into his damp pillow, before covering his head with his discarded blanket. With how warm the room was – and how his hair stuck to his sweaty skin - the blanket was little more than a tool to annoy the ash ghoul. "It's just one day."

"You are expected, Lord Nerevar,” Gares replied in the most neutral tone he could muster. “I doubt your teacher will be any less irritated if you waste his time on top of whatever you did to anger him."

"I just don't want them to be cruel to me," he complained, like a young novice unwilling to attend prayer sessions. No doubt whatever ‘cruelty’ he referred to was drastically exaggerated.

"My Lord, if you do not wish to go alone, I will accompany you. If nothing else, I will provide a distraction." He smiled, radiating nothing but kindness and submission. Gares could not help feeling like he needed a bath every time he had to play the servile sycophant, but it seemed to work; the Nerevarine trusted him.

"You would do that? You'll be bored out of your mind, Gares. I spend most of my lessons reading in silence, while Endus works on his research. I barely get to cast spells at all."

"I am happy to serve as needed." Gares wished, not for the first time, that he had eyes to roll. The little annoyed twitches of his trunk tended to go unnoticed by anyone but his fellow ash ghouls. The Nerevarine especially appeared to be immune to learning his body language.

When the dunmer sat up, Gares got a whiff of his scent; Oh, how he wished to throw him into the nearest body of water. Alas, if his stench proved bothersome enough to someone with a less sensitive sense of smell, Lord Endus might be so distracted that Gares could steal the moon sugar with ease.

Instead of emptying the Nerevarine’s washbasin over his head, Gares fetched the cloth to drape over his body.

"I can put this on myself by now," he complained, but Gares ignored him, as usual.

"We have no time, my Lord, Lord Endus is waiting. You know you'll be tugging at it until midday if I let you."

"That problem would be solved with real clothes."

"I assume you are meant to learn humility from being exposed so," Gares muttered as he tied the belt around the mer's waist.

"Lord Dagoth exposed my entire body to his brothers and a crowd of ash creatures. I'm not sure how much more there is to learn from this daily humiliation."

"You must not question your god, Lord Nerevar." With deft hands, he shaped the mer's hair into the usual mohawk, the wax still in it more than sufficient for this task.

"Now," Gares said, standing up and holding out a hand to the Nerevarine, "let us head to Endusal."

***

There were only so many things a god could do to fill his time; with no need to sleep, the curse of immortality, and the ancient oath to protect the Heart trapping him in his fortress, Voryn often found himself bored.

He had imagined filling all this empty time with the Nerevarine, enjoying each other’s words and bodies, but the vessel seemed unwilling to speak freely outside of the occasional furious outburst, not to mention he appeared much less forward than his old friend had been in matters of the flesh. Perhaps he could be convinced, if Voryn put his mind to it, but after three millennia, he did not want a partner he needed to convince. If anything, Nerevar should be on his knees, begging for a taste of him.

It was only natural for Nerevar to need time, however, and there was nothing to do but wait patiently and give them ample opportunity for closeness and privacy. Once Endus was through with him for the day, Voryn would call on Nerevar for his own lessons, hoping some time bent over the ancient dwemer tomes together might break the ice further.

A shiver of excitement wandered down Voryn’s spine as he recalled how the vessel had made no effort to stop his kisses, chaste as they were – hopefully, he would be inclined to do the same today or be the initiator.

Either way, it was hours away, and his schedule for the day was barren. Work on Akulakhan progressed smoothly, his brothers ran their respective citadels with no issue, Kogoruhn and Falasmaryon remained under the Sixth House’s unchallenged control… What to do?

Voryn leaned back in his chair, claws tapping on his desk, looking around the room. No potions to make, no books he had not read a hundred times. The lesson in Dwemeris could not start enough.

Dwemeris...

"Oh," he exclaimed, remembering his idea to invite Ilara's teacher to the facility. Of course. He might as well send the Telvanni lord a letter. Paper from a drawer, his favorite quill and some ink - time to see if the mer was willing to trust him.

"Lord Divayth Fyr,

I wish to extend my sincere gratitude for your assistance. With your aid, I was able to create a solution to neutralize the effects of your potion.

Furthermore, I am of course aware that you as good as raised my only child, and I consider myself in your debt regarding this matter. But what payment have I to offer one who already has power and everything an elf could possibly desire? Naturally, you will be granted freedom and peace once I have liberated Morrowind from its illegitimate gods and the yoke of the Empire, but I would like to offer an additional, more immediate reward.

My daughter mentioned your interest in the lost civilization of the dwemer, and I believe you would be fascinated by the research of their culture and engineering my brothers have carried out. Perhaps you would care to have a look at Kagrenac's journal and planbook, as well as the fully functional machinery and carefully stored artifacts in our possession?

Such an offer might sound like the product of madness, and I thoroughly understand, but it is my desire to learn about my daughter’s life from the man who took my role as father when the opportunity was taken from me, if you are willing to indulge me.

Ilara will take you to Red Mountain if you wish to pay House Dagoth a visit. It should not need to be said, but you will obviously be safe from my servants during your stay.

Eagerly awaiting your response,

Lord Voryn Dagoth, Dagoth Ur"

Carefully blotting the ink, he wondered if Fyr would realize the sincerity of his words. Even if Ilara did not know it, he wished nothing more than to travel back to the First Era, undo the needless deaths at Red Mountain, and be her father once more; but even he did not have the power to do so.

With a sigh, he folded the paper and called for a servant to bring it to his daughter.

***

Watching the Nerevarine read for three hours straight was about as interesting as expected, but Gares was too tense to be bored. So far, no opportunity for theft had opened up.

Lord Endus simply ignored him, as the brothers usually did, barely deigning to look at him when he followed the Nerevarine into the room, and his twin, who inexplicably joined them, was no better. Still, while he stood next to the shelf he needed to get to - he knew what the jar looked like, it had been part of servant gossip for quite some time – he could not help but feel watched.

"Would it not be better to have Lord Nerevar use some of the spells he is reading about?" Gares asked on a whim. "Surely he will have an easier time honing his skills if he is not limited to theory. Please pardon me if I am overstepping."

Endus and Odros both glared at him for daring to interrupt the silence.

"Yes, you are overstepping," Endus hissed. "Remember your place, ash ghoul. Be grateful you are allowed in here at all, for whatever reason Lord Nerevar deems it necessary."

He shot the Nerevarine a questioning look, who was listening attentively. “I, uh…” the mer started, and Gares prayed he would something stupid enough to grab their full attention. Perhaps something along the lines of...

"You two were so angry at me last time I left that I wanted to bring some backup," the Nerevarine blurted out. "I didn’t think you would have already forgiven me, and I was scared to come alone."

Odros burst out laughing, and his brother could barely suppress a giggle of his own. "That's all? We don't hold grudges over something like that."

In the Nerevarine’s defense, it was impossible to know ahead of time what mood the brothers would be in, each one fickler than the other. Every servant who had to interact with them knew well to be careful at all times.

Both of the twin’s attention was now firmly on the red-eared elf, and Gares quickly slipped the jar into a pocket hidden by the folds of his loose robes.

"Well, I..." the Nerevarine continued, so embarrassed it was painful to behold.

"My Lord," Gares interrupted him, taking pity on the flustered mer. "I believe you are expected in Lord Dagoth's study later today. I would be wise to take the time to prepare you for his company, yes?"

"He does reek," Endus agreed, "no perfume can cover this. Go, you've studied enough."

***

Sarros' quarters were part of a larger residential section of the facility, which had gone entirely unused until he had moved in. The dwemer must have valued relaxing baths, as one of the many chambers was built around a large, heated pool, ancient machinery relentlessly cycling and cleaning the water, as if its owners would soon come back to wash off the dust of whatever place they had sent themselves to.

Gares went off to gather towels and soap, while Sarros slipped into the water, taking a deep breath and submerging himself. The embrace of the hot water was more comforting than that of a lover could ever be, and he almost regretted having to breathe.

When he could hold his breath no longer, he surfaced to find the supplies by the edge of the pool, and Gares gone to give him some privacy, for whatever good it did him; there was little of Sarros he had not seen before. It was appreciated, however, and the thought of the ash ghoul watching him bathe sent a wave of discomfort through him.

"Gares", Sarros called towards the open doorway, "I have an appointment with Lord Dagoth today? Nobody told me."

"That is because there is no appointment," Gares replied. "It was merely an excuse to remove you from an embarrassing situation. However, you did need a bath, my Lord."

"Oh..." Disappointing. Sarros worked the soap through his hair; should Voryn decide to desire his company anyway, he might as well be ready for it. He could almost feel the ancient lips on his skin, still; perhaps this time, Sarros would dare to return the favor.

'Too soon, Sarros,' he reminded himself, 'and besides, have you already forgotten that he exposed your body to half the House for his personal enjoyment?'

But maybe that was not half as strange to Voryn and the others as it was for him. Who knew what traditions the Sixth House had, maybe nudity had been practically meaningless to them, once? It was impossible to miss just how much skin everyone but the highest-ranking ash creatures put on display...

'Or maybe you're finding excuses. Your body isn't his property. He wouldn't have done that to Nerevar, and you know it.'

Hair rinsed, Sarros gathered it in a quick knot atop his head and reached for the razor and shaving soap - time to tackle the stubble on his scalp. The practice came so natural to him that he did not bother with mirrors, let alone asking Gares for help.

"I should just look past that," Sarros replied to himself, too quiet to be heard over the steady noise of the pumps. "It was part of a ritual, I was out of my mind of skooma, who knows, maybe I ripped my clothes off myself."

'You are lying to yourself, s'wit.'

"Or maybe I just don't want to anger him again. He's been respectful ever since, at least when it comes to this."

'Aside from that one kiss you definitely did not ask for. And having Araynys tattoo your face hardly counts as respectful.'

Sarros sighed. It was difficult to deny, but on the other hand...

He had come here for a purpose, had he not? And it was certainly not to perform the murder Vivec had asked of him. In truth, he waited for an opportunity to take the role of Nerevar, even if it was just once. To experience the love Voryn had felt for the king of old. To have his own body be the object of his desire… Putting the razor down, Sarros groaned and dipped under the water once more, attempting to clear his head. He needed to stop thinking with his groin.

Unless… What if he swallowed all his frustration with Voryn and simply embraced his role? Perhaps call himself Nerevar, stop insisting on a name that meant so little in the grand scheme of things? He did not even know the parents who had given it to him, had no connection with his father's side of the family. A Rothan in Sadrith Mora had enchanted most of Sarros’ equipment, and the man had not thought twice about the connection. A cousin of his mothers’, Sarros found out later.

'Everyone calls me Nerevar, anyway, what does it matter?'

Muffled by the water, he heard Gares' voice. Surfacing again, he found the ash ghoul standing beside the basin, mouth a thin, impatient line.

"A slave informed me that Lord Dagoth asked for you after all, Lord Nerevar."

"Good news! I suppose your excuse is no longer a lie." Sarros flashed him a smile that was not returned. Gares was oddly tense today, but Sarros knew better than to try and get an explanation out of him. Instead, he climbed out of the pool, taking a towel Gares offered him, and rubbed himself dry.

"How soon?"

"As soon as you are ready, my Lord."

A second towel wrapped around his waist, Sarros headed towards the door, Gares in tow. Time for fresh clothing, if one could call a rectangle of fabric that. A well-controlled flame spell dried his hair as he went - he could hardly pretend to be Nerevar without the mohawk, now could he?

***

"Your father wants me to do what?"

Half the Fyr household, sat around the dinner table, stared up at Ilara. She had interrupted her meal, not caring in the slightest what time of day it was, let alone whether she inconvenienced them. The less welcome she made herself at Tel Fyr, the better, for otherwise, the warmth and familiarity of the cozy room around her might provoker her into making a foolish mistake.

Such as apologizing for her past behaviour and asking whether he might be welcomed as guest on occasion, like the family member she had been.

"I wouldn't know, as we've established previously, I don't read your mail." Ilara shifted her weight from one foot to the other, not nervous, per se, but feeling uncomfortable, put on display. Beyte and Uupse regarded her curiously; there was no trace of the other two.

"Grab that cushion and sit down," Uupse said, with her typical, caring tone; the only one here one might call ‘motherly’. "You look tired and awkward, standing there like you’re on display."

"I'm not tired, thank you," Ilara replied, but took the offer anyway. It was her old spot by the table, and most likely her cushion, too. An odd feeling. Before she could say anything else, Uupse handed her a full plate of diced ash yams and seared slaughterfish.

"And you're thin," Uupse added. “Even the most powerful wizards need to eat.”

Divayth watched the display with amusement, leaving Beyte to tap her fingers on the table, impatient.

"My Lord, the letter,” she reminded him.

"Ah yes. This-" he folded the letter with an exasperated sigh, "-is an invitation to Red Mountain."

Beyte's mouth fell open, Uupse shook her head. Ilara snorted.

"You are not even considering that, are you?" Beyte asked the old wizard. “The dangers-“

"Did he mention why?" Ilara interrupted, the only one not surprised in the slightest.

Divayth laughed. "He wants to learn about your upbringing. Unbelievable. Offers me access to all the knowledge about the dwemer he has, for the sake of having a chat with me." He handed the letter to Ilara. "Read it for yourself."

Ilara read the letter without particular interest, until her father mentioned that he could not raise her. Did she imagine it, or was the writing a little clumsier here, as if the hand holding the quill had not been quite as steady as before? She felt a twinge of warmth in her chest. If the words were true…

She rubbed her forehead. No, her father had given no implication that he cared about her, why would he do so in a letter to Fyr? Clearly, she was simply misinterpreting his words. Wishful thinking it was, nothing more.

Beyte snatched the letter from her hands, the woman about to burst with uncontained curiosity.

“How sweet of him,” Uupse commented, leaning over her fellow clone’s shoulder to read along. “The words of a loving father wishing to reconnect to his child.”

“Uupse, you cannot be that naïve,” Beyte hissed. “He’s clearly writing whatever he thinks sounds the most convincing. This is just another attempt to manipulate someone to do his will. Who knows what he truly wants. Maybe,” she turned to Divayth, “he wants to trap you, find a way to use your power. Or kill you, to make sure there is one less powerful man in the world who can stand up to him.”

“In fairness to my father, I don’t think he believes anyone can stand up to him,” Ilara interjected. “He’s convinced that he’s a god, just as powerful as the Daedric Princes.” Or at least his arrogance when discussing his plans for Morrowind suggested as much.

“Nobody in their right mind would believe this letter is real,” Divayth mused. “A trap would be the most likely explanation. But we have clear proof who sent it, and he kept his word when I asked for information… Ah, Ilara, it may please you to know that I have made great strides on my search for a cure. The subjects now survive multiple days after being given the treatment!"

“Impressive,” Ilara replied, earnestly. “Just… Make sure to not create a flood of immortal dunmer once you’re able to cure the negative effects completely.”

“Perhaps if the cure sterilizes them… Otherwise we would quickly be overrun with so many hungry mouths, the province would collapse. Not to worry; I am aware of the possibilities. That is a matter for another time. How sincere do you think his offer is?”

“I don’t know,” Ilara admitted. “He’s a stranger to me, a mad one. Who knows what goes on in his mind? You might as well take him up on it and see for yourself. As long as you don’t let him trap you in the Heart chamber, you can simply recall whenever you want.”

“The letter only promises you safety from his servants,” Beyte cautioned. “He could still want to attack you. What if he incapacitates you, imprisons you where you can’t get out?” She leaned forward on the table as she implored her Master to be sensible. Not that it had much impact.

"If anyone has nothing to fear it would be you, Lord Fyr," Uupse said, between bites of fish. “Personally, if I had that power, I'd go, purely out of curiosity. The Corprusarium can do without you for a day."

Divayth nodded, while Beyte looked ready to tear Uupse’s head off for supporting this madness.

"I believe the blanks that could be filled in our knowledge of the dwemer is well worth it,” Divayth concluded. “I will go, but not immediately. Return to me in a week, Ilara. He is, after all, not a real god. For now, you may stay for dinner, if you wish.”

***

"You sent for me?" Sarros asked as he entered Voryn's study, wondering what mood he would be in today. His mind was settled; he would give the best impression of Nerevar he could.

Sat at the table, which was once again covered in study materials, Voryn smiled up at him; not that he was much shorter than Sarros, even seated. It was an all too familiar smile, the one he tended to wear in Sarros' good dreams. A good start.

"We need to continue our lessons, do we not? Sit down. Once you have proven that you still recall the alphabet, we will begin work on your reading ability and vocabulary."

Sarros took his seat with a sense of relief.

***

They worked for a couple of hours, with middling success; Voryn meant well, but was not the best teacher. When he had taught Nerevar the language so many years ago, it had been in active use, and Nerevar had already picked up bits and pieces from his contact with Dumac and his followers. The vessel had no such prior knowledge, and it was difficult to remain patient.

Or focused.

Before Voryn fully realized what he was doing, his hand found its way to the back of Nerevar's neck, wrapping the soft, fragrant waves around his fingers.

Shivering with apparent pleasure, Nerevar did nothing to stop him as Voryn played with the loose strands. Admirably, he attempted to continue to decipher the words before him, doing his best to concentrate on the letters and the pronunciation of their various combinations. He was not doing particularly well, as one might expect, but the original Nerevar would have given up an hour in, becoming bored too quickly of such a dry task.

"I wish," Voryn murmured, interrupting the vessel's sounding out of the words, "we were back in a small yurt, just the two of us. Warmed by the fire, no sound but our voices and the wind whistling between the rocks..." He sighed as a wave of nostalgia washed over him. "Do you remember those days?"

"I dreamed about it," Nerevar replied, unbothered by the interruption. He looked up from the page, smiling. "Those are good dreams. Feels like coming home when I have them. "

"And your home in Skyrim? Do memories of it make you feel the same?" Still his fingers were buried in his hair, grazing the dark skin beneath.

"Not in the same way," Nerevar said. "Windhelm never felt quite like my home. My grandfather did what he could, and we followed dunmer traditions, but reminders that we did not belong were everywhere, be it in the nordic architecture, or the people in the streets beyond the Gray Quarter. They treated us much better than the argonians at the docks, but we never fit in."

"You were an outlander there as much as you are here…” Voryn replied. Nerevar frowned; the term did not sit well with him. Voryn vowed to himself not to use it again.

"Grandfather never wanted us to assimilate with the local culture, I think. He left Morrowind because he could not stand living under the Tribunal anymore, but I think he always wanted to return. I'm glad he taught me about the Good Daedra instead of the false gods..."

A twinge of jealousy. Nerevar had no need of the Three, did he? In the arms of a god, he needed no Daedra. "You have me now," he said, a sharp edge to the words. "You need not pray to them anymore."

The vessel’s dark eyes reflected the light of the many candles burning around the room as he pondered his response. His newly marked skin had nearly healed already, and for a moment, Voryn saw the old scars instead.

"I have prayed to them since I could speak, Voryn. I cannot abandon my worship of them, and besides, I don't need to pray to you, do I? You are right here with me." With a smile and a content sigh, Nerevar leaned against him. "Azura brought me to you. She deserves some praise for that, doesn't she?"

"Perhaps," Voryn said, wrapping his arms around the dunmer's waist to hold him close. Eventually, Nerevar would realize on his own who held true power; let Azura take the credit for now.

"Also," Nerevar continued, "yurts are still common. Perhaps we could acquire one, travel around Vvardenfell. Just one night, to gaze up at the stars, then go to sleep by the fire. Akulakhan will be built anyway.”

The usual unease at the thought of leaving the facility reared its head. Good, then, that the Heart would not let him go, whether he wanted to or not. "No," he replied, "I must disappoint you. My ancient vow to you binds me to the Heart; I cannot leave."

No matter, the idea of leaving Red Mountain, of being exposed and vulnerable far from the ancient walls, chilled him. He would find a different solution; surprise the mer right here, on his own terms, safe.

"I'm happy to be here with you," Nerevar said, "as much as I would like us to travel together. If we could… I would love to visit my family's ancestral tomb, and that of House Dagoth, if it still exists."

Now that desire was entirely unexpected, not to mention the implications…

"Perhaps traditions have changed," Voryn said, amused, "but that is a desire reserved for lovers. Those who wish to marry or have recently done so. It is part of the ritual to create the bond between the lovers’ families."

Nerevar sounded genuinely surprised. "Really? I don't know anything about marriage traditions," he admitted, "it has never occurred to me that I might need that knowledge someday."

If they were ever to enter such a union, it would not be soon. Still, the idea that this time, he would have Nerevar's hand, not Almalexia, was a pleasant one. Comforting.

"Perhaps you will, perhaps you won’t. Either way," Voryn added, "the Dagoth ancestral tomb has been buried, all traces of it wiped from the face of Nirn. It is close to Kogoruhn, but even I barely remember where its entrance would have been. It would be a difficult task to visit."

What would the spirits of his parents think of the young mer, of his insistence that he was simply Nerevar in a different form? His father had been a romantic, who would understand, and his mother had been devoted to her husbands; but she, at least, would call him delusional. Perhaps he was. Or perhaps they would not speak to him at all after having been abandoned for three millennia. Such ancient spirits were difficult to wake, and it was ill-advised.

"Maybe when your plans bear fruit, we could search for it," Nerevar suggested, "it would be a shame if you could never visit your ancestors again."

"Certainly." Voryn doubted they would, control over Morrowind or not. Forget about his ancestral tomb; for a moment, he indulged in a vision of himself and Nerevar, leaving offerings at his family’s shrine. The vessel’s family. The Mora tomb was as lost to time as the Dagoth one. "Tell me, where is yours?"

"Close to Ald'ruhn, to the West. I found it on my search for Ilunibi." Nerevar covered Voryn's hand with his, entangling their fingers, and continued in a much more sober tone. "It was father’s family, but my mother was buried with him. Their ashes sharing one urn. I don't know if that's the normal custom, but I like the thought that they will be together for eternity, after they were so senselessly ripped apart..."

Voryn knew as little about modern burial customs as Nerevar did, not to mention that House Dagoth had always had its own ways of honoring the dead.

"Were they Telvanni, too?"

Nerevar nodded against his ribs. "I likely would have joined the House anyway, at least to become a student of their magic, but my father's family had a long tradition of membership, and my mother joined independently before they met. My grandfather always regretted letting her do so, kept insisting she would have been safe in House Indoril, with him."

"Huh," Voryn said, surprised. "House Indoril?" Of course, Nerevar had no heirs, and the vessel could impossibly be related to him. Still, an odd coincidence. Or maybe not so odd at all, with Azura's hands in his destiny.

"I thought you knew that," the vessel said, laughing. "Yes, my grandfather was a member until his death. He told me all he knew about Nerevar since I was a small child, though the tales were so fantastic that I doubt any of it was true, besides him being Hortator and king of Resdayn. Maybe you can imagine how weird it was to be face to face with Vivec after growing up on stories about how much of a loyal follower he was to Nerevar.”

"Truly, his loyalty knew no bounds,” Voryn muttered. “I admire your restraint in his temple.”

“Restraint? Voryn, I cannot face a god on my own, even a false one. Vivec would have wiped the floor with me. Much easier to get Wraithguard by talking. Even if he carefully danced around answering all questions that were not related to…” Nerevar cleared his throat.

“To my destruction.”

“Yes. He never even acknowledged your connection to Nerevar, let alone that there had been more between the two of you than friendship. Until I learned the truth, I believed you were some sort of monster, unrelated to the man in my visions of the past."

"As he would no doubt want you to." Voryn could not bring himself to feel anger at the thought; to him, Vivec was an insect, growing weaker by the day. No doubt he was too desperate to risk allowing the Nerevarine to have second thoughts.

"Is it true," the vessel asked, "that Nerevar took your life? It's such an awful thought, I believed you said that to convince me to come speak to you."

"I have no need to lie to you," Voryn replied, swallowing his indignation at the thought. The most agonizing moment of his life, a lie? For a moment, his claws dug into the mer’s soft flesh. Nerevar winced. "I did mention it in hopes of appealing to your memories, but it is the truth."

"Then you cannot know if the Tribunal killed him, can you?"

"I believe the words of his shield-brother, Alandro Sul. The nords filled the gaps in their knowledge with fantasies, and the Tribunal built their temple on fabrications. Vivec is a poet, a masterful storyteller; however he tells it, the people will believe him. Few see past his beautiful words."

He wondered how much this Nerevar knew about the Vivec of old; he had certainly not sent him any visions of the cursed trio, but he had not sent the dream about the wedding, either. In fact, he would rather have kept that memory hidden; he played it off as an amusing incident, but the embarrassment at his immature behaviour sat deep.

"I understand," Nerevar replied, "I suppose I wouldn't trust the Tribunal's words, either."

'So you trust me...?' Voryn smiled, unseen by the mer. It would have been a good moment to kiss him, he felt, but Nerevar had other ideas - satisfied, apparently, by the all too fleeting moment of closeness, he bent over the book again.

"Listen to me, blabbering instead of studying. Let's get back to work, shall we...?"

Voryn bent over the table, too, resting his chin in his hand, pointing out flaws in Nerevar's pronunciation with the enthusiasm of a man being told to watch grass grow. Not only did Nerevar apparently not feel much of a spark at all, whatever had inspired him to seek such close contact not return for the rest of the lesson.

***

Once he left Voryn's study, Sarros made his way not back to his chamber, but to Uthol's study. The small puncture wounds on his stomach stung with every step, they were easily ignored. The thought of the ancestral tomb would not leave him - he would never be able to find it for Voryn, but the master of Kogoruhn, with all its forces at his fingertips...?

"Enter," Uthol called out as Sarros knocked, throwing him an impatient glare before returning back to his work as Sarros closed the door behind him.

"What do you want? I believe I mentioned that I do actual work..." he demanded, not looking up from his desk again.

"I have a request, if you have the time and servants for it..." Sarros stood where he was, back against the door, ready to escape if his request angered the ash vampire. "Not for my sake, but for Voryn. Perhaps for yourself, too, if you care about matters like this..."

"Spit it out, Nerevar."

"I need a way to enter the Dagoth ancestral tomb," Sarros said, earning eye contact.

"You want..." Uthol tilted his head. "What, do you want to ask my brother for his hand in marriage...?" he shook his head. "I have servants I could send on a search, or to go digging, but all you would achieve are angry spirits coming after you, many of them once belonging to powerful mages. You don't want to risk it, Nerevar."

"Yes, I do. I'm happy to help calm the spirits down, given someone tells me how to appease them. And no, I don't want to marry your brother right now, I just want to learn more about your family, I suppose."

A hint of disbelief in Uthol’s gaze, but what did he know about Sarros’ feelings?

"I will have to ask Odros... He is most likely to remember the location of the entrance... But it will not be fast. I can only spare so many servants to dig.” He shook his head. “Not to mention how risky it would be to let you leave the Ghostfence and go there on the surface, so a tunnel would be required no matter what…"

Sarros cheered internally at his success.

"We have all the time in the world," Sarros said. "If I could see it at all, I would be more than happy, even if it's a decade from now."

"It won't take that long, my men aren't fragile argonian slaves." Uthol shrugged. "We will see, won't we? You are right, I would like to visit it myself. I'll let you know of any developments.

"Thank you!"

"Yes, yes, now leave me be."

Chapter Text

The kitchen in Dagoth-Ur, if one wanted to refer to it as such, was an old dwemer forge not too far from Sarros’ chamber. Since there were only two people in the entire facility who not only regularly ate, but required food that was not touched by corprus, there was nothing but a turning spit above the central lava-pit, and a large, open kettle to be hung from said spit. There was also a small icebox imbued with an enchantment that kept out the oppressive heat – rumour had it that a powerful daedra’s souls had been used to make it strong enough.

Gares neither knew nor cared, as long as it worked.

Among his many chores, cooking was his favourite; not because he was particularly good at it – he was not – but because the kitchen was the only place in the facility where nobody came to bother him. Cooking the meals for Lady Ilara and the Nerevarine was his domain only.

While he had never been much of a cook. He was perfectly capable of reading and following instructions, and over time, had learned to make do with whatever ingredients they could get through the smugglers or harvest on the slopes of Red Mountain. The Sixth House had its own egg-mine, not to mention that and prepared correctly, cliff racers could make for a tasty meal. Lady Ilara would bring spices and non-perishables from her trips to Sadrith Mora and Vivec if she wanted something different, and the Nerevarine did not get to make demands.

However, there was one thing Gares had barely practiced: sweet foods. He lacked a sweet tooth, and Lady Ilara was not too fond of desserts, either – but there was no way he could disguise enough moon sugar to have any effect at all in a savoury dish without making it practically inedible. Even the Nerevarine with his low standards would notice, and he ate everything Gares made with pleasure, even dishes the ash ghoul would have been embarrassed to serve to anyone else. In Gares’ opinion, it was probably the only likeable character trait the mer had. He appreciated the respect.

Wiping the dust off a cookbook entirely dedicated to sweet treats, one Gares had never even opened, he flicked through the pages to find something simple. He settled for saltrice pudding, which seemed to require very little skill beyond patience. He would sweeten it with the moon sugar and add some honey to make it less suspicious.

Time seemed to pass excessively slowly as he stirred the sweetened mixture of saltrice and water, but the book had a warning in large, bold letters that letting one’s attention lapse for just a moment would cause the entire thing to stick to the pot and burn in an instant. A little dramatic, perhaps, but who was Gares to question the author? It tasted quite acceptable in the end, and a generous dollop of some comberry jam that had turned out a bit too sour, he even had something to cut through the barely tolerable sweetness.

Once he had prepared the rest of the day’s lunch, he used his amulets of Recall – of which he possessed a large collection for all sorts of marked locations – to deliver the meals.

***

Saltrice pudding. Yawning, Sarros looked at the tray of food, feeling oddly touched. Not once had Gares prepared any kind of treat for him, let alone one requiring effort. And he had not even given him a chance to thank him, handing over the tray and leaving the mer standing to stare at an empty doorframe before he could utter a single word, barely awake enough to respond. What Gares called lunch tended to be breakfast for Sarros.

Of course, he wanted nothing more than to eat the pudding immediately, but his grandfather had not raised a man who ate dessert first. Besides, everything Gares cooked tasted good; today, it was a crab meat stew just like Sarros’ cook at Tel Uvirith made. Sitting down on his singular chair by the old desk, he practically inhaled the contents of the bowl before tucking into the pudding.

It was nothing special, really, but for one who had nothing to satisfy his endless cravings for sugar, it was a feast. Sweet it was, certainly, Gares had been generous indeed with the honey, and it made Sarros’ remaining teeth ache. A feeling he was used to ignoring, and the pain quickly stopped, replaced by an odd sense of giddiness. Not to mention that any remaining drowsiness faded along with the toothache.

Blaming the odd burst of energy on not having had anything sweet in such a long time, Sarros did not think much of it as he put away the tray to make space for some paper and pulled out the unfinished drawing of Voryn as he saw him in his dreams. It had intimidated him so much that he had drawn only the most basic of sketches before abandoning it for simpler drawings, but he felt a sudden wave of confidence and that he simply could not waste.

It seemed like he knew exactly which lines were good, and which had to be redrawn; the charcoal stick practically flew over the paper. Sarros felt like he had drawn the mer countless times, even though he knew for a fact that Nerevar had been no artist at all, and realistically speaking, he should struggle to get anything drawn at all. But for once, he could so clearly see Voryn’s face before his mind’s eye that all he needed to do was put the vision on paper.

No time seemed to have passed at all when he was done, admiring his work; and he took the opportunity to immediately start sketching Endus and Odros from memory.

‘Araynys will be impressed,’ he thought as he marked the proportions of their near-identical faces. ‘I wish I had this much energy to draw every day!’

It did not dawn on him at all that there was perhaps something unnatural about his state; he trusted Gares, and the dish had not tasted strange at all.

Whistling one cheerful song after another, he drew for hours as his lantern slowly ran out of oil, only stopping when the room turned dark.

***

While technically, Dagoth Ur’s servants neither required oversight nor instruction regarding the completion of Akulakhan, an overseer was meant to be present at the construction site at all times, if nothing else to have someone to blame mistakes and delays on. Gares had not been involved in the process at all until recently, when one of the ash ghouls responsible had flat-out refused to get anywhere near the chamber again. Something about staying as far away from Lady Ilara as possible. From what Gares had been told, they had been stationed in some backwater cave somewhere in the West Gash instead, after one of the Heartwights took pity on them.

He scoffed at such weakness. Had he asked to be stationed elsewhere because of a little torture? Hardly. What it meant for him was a new task; he had been in earshot while the ash ghoul’s shift was discussed, naturally it had been assigned to him. At least it was not too long – he had to tend to the Nerevarine, after all – and watching the obedient ash slaves work in what appeared to be a perfectly choreographed rhythm was rather satisfying. They were surprisingly fast; alas, Akulakhan was so massive in scale that work seemed to progress at a glacial pace, anyway.

With the food delivered and his shift about to start, he entered Akulakhan’s chamber and made his way to the gallery. As usual, Dagoth Ur was there, watching the proceedings and taking no notice of a single ash ghoul slinking past him to avoid additional orders, but unlike usual, he was not alone.

Gares stopped dead in his tracks when he realized who was with him. Even from a distance, the red and black armour was impossible to mistake. Looking out towards Akulakhan with him, and engrossed in conversation with the master, was Divayth Fyr.

‘What on Nirn…?’

His shift all but forgotten, Gares stood and stared for a moment. Perhaps he was seeing things, he thought, but how many dunmer casually wore full daedric armour and were somehow worthy of being spoken to by Dagoth Ur himself? Peacefully, nonetheless?

Back in Sadrith Mora, Gares had seen him a few times. Of course, Fyr had not set foot anywhere near the temple priest, but he had occasionally visited Tel Naga, perhaps to borrow some rare books or artifacts from Neloth’s vault. Gares, who had been the designated liaison between the temple and the Telvanni – which, in practice, meant that his fellow priests sent him when it was time to ask yet again for better lodgings because he feared the cantankerous old wizard the least – had seen him there, and asked the awe-struck retainers what was so special about the visitor.

He looked around for a hiding spot from which he could listen in on the pair, too curious for his own good. Was Dagoth Ur attempting to gain a powerful ally? Maybe he had convinced Fyr to join the Sixth House?

A brazier next to a rock formation close to the pair would have to serve as cover, and Gares quickly made his way over, going entirely unnoticed. The construction crew could wait – he would make up an excuse about the Nerevarine needing some sort of special attention. This was too interesting a conversation to not eavesdrop on, after all. Frankly, it was too easy to listen in on Dagoth Ur, who tended to forget the world around him if he was not acutely reminded of its existence. Fyr, of course, had never spared him a glance in Sadrith Mora and would hardly do so now.

If there was any insight into potential alliances to be had, Gares had come too late; they were engrossed in a conversation about Akulakhan, and how its construction echoed the previous Numidium – not something Gares knew enough about to understand. Conversations about anything remotely related to the dwemer, even if held in perfectly normal Dunmeris, had a habit of being entirely unintelligible for the uninitiated.

“So, in short, you are copying Kagrenac’s plans? Every single detail of them?” Fyr asked Dagoth Ur with audible amusement. The ash ghoul bristled at the accusation of lacking originality, but the living god clearly did not mind at all.

“It worked, did it not?” Dagoth Ur replied with utter certainty. “If one is to put centuries of work into something, they might as well keep to what is tried and true.”

From that perspective, it made sense…

Fyr scoffed. “With all due respect, Lord Dagoth, I recommend tempering your confidence. Your predecessors were stopped, and so will you.”

“I intend to succeed where others have not,” Gares’ master replied. “The first step was to break through the Nerevarine’s conditioning to recruit him to my side, but that is not all. Kagrenac was no god, and he never got to perfect his construction. You will find us stronger, and better prepared.”

‘How hard could it be to recruit that sad excuse for a wizard…?’ Gares suppressed a laugh.

“Your Nerevarine is just another failure.” Even from his position, Gares could see his master’s back stiffen at the words. “Not to mention that there was no Nerevarine in the past, and the Numidium was taken down. You underestimate the people of Tamriel.”

“Is he a failure, or did he take the obvious path to victory? His precious goddess desires revenge against the Tribunal; at my side, he will give her the satisfaction. What chance would he stand against the false gods, otherwise?”

Gares half-expected the ancient wizard to insult him by calling him a false god as well, as so many did, but Fyr was too intelligent to antagonize Dagoth Ur. The ash ghoul, naturally, assumed this was due to respect, but to anyone else it would have been obvious that Fyr needed him happy for whatever he intended to gain from this.

“We shall see the outcome of this endeavour,” the mage replied in a most diplomatic tone. “For now, I am far more interested in your offer of dwemer knowledge. Not to mention you invited me to speak about your daughter. And perhaps you might be willing to give me an ash creature or two to have a closer look at?”

Dagoth Ur nodded, and, in a much more subdued voice, asked about Lady Ilara. What was her life like, had she been close to anyone, had she been treated well, perfectly reasonable questions for a parent to ask. Gares sighed quietly – why waste this opportunity on questions Lady Ilara could answer herself…?

“Much like I assume you did before the unfortunate events at Red Mountain, I employed a governess to take care of her needs. If I wished to raise children, I would have my own. Ilara had what she needed to grow up healthy. Not too interesting until she turned old enough to become my apprentice.”

“So you did not take on the role of her father.” There was an odd mix of relief and regret in the master’s voice.

“No, and considering her unwavering obsession with you, I do not see how anyone could have. She is one of the oldest dunmer alive, and yet she still behaves like an abandoned child…” Fyr sighed. Perhaps Gares imagined it, but he thought he heard a trace of affection in his voice. “To my knowledge, she was never close to anyone. Would not have told me, I suppose. There are no secret grandchildren or buried lovers I know of.”

As someone who had been quite close to his parents up to the point where he joined the Sixth House, Gares found it rather saddening to imagine what a lonely life Ilara must have led. ‘Explains while she is a cruel old hag,’ he thought. Her treatment of him put a limit on his compassion.

“Who brought her to you?” Dagoth Ur asked after a pause – perhaps he too found the thought painful. In any case, it was a good question; everyone knew who had raised the woman, but how she had gotten there in the first place was an often-discussed question. Exactly the type of gossip Gares’ fellow ash creatures would love to hear.

“Has she not told you? I am not aware of the exact timeline. Frankly, I do not remember. But at some point between the fall of Kogoruhn and Nerevar’s death, Sotha Sil handed her to me, riddled with guilt. I never asked why exactly he felt the need to have her cared for, that is his business; but he convinced me to take her in.”

Dagoth Ur’s shoulders sagged; and when he spoke again, his tone was rather subdued. “He knew her, and she liked him. I can only imagine that Nerevar asked him to collect her. His last order, perhaps?”

“Who knows. I would tell you to ask him yourself, but I have not heard from him in decades. Perhaps he has become one with his Clockwork City by now.”

“It does not matter. She got a chance to live. I thank you for… For taking her in. I wish-“ he shook his head, as if stopping himself from revealing something too personal. “So… She received a Telvanni education. How many times did she barely escape death?” He laughed, but it was a hollow sound.

“I did not keep count,” Fyr replied. “Ilara was always happy to assist with any experiment I could think of. Rarely got hurt, though. Only memorable incident was that time she got burned when a host of flame atronachs escaped my control, but I had a healer ready for just this type of situation.”

Gares expected Dagoth Ur to fall into a rage at the thought that his daughter’s health had been risked so, but he merely shrugged. “It happens. No doubt she learned a thing or two about overestimating one’s abilities that day. Now, regarding experiments… You mentioned that you wish to have a closer look at my followers?”

Fyr nodded. “I am curious to learn more about the differences between the controlled transformations, and the seemingly random mutations and growths ‘regular’ victims of corprus experience.”

“Without the magic of the Heart, you will be unable to replicate the changes, if you wish to create an army from the sick in your Corprusarium.”

The mer stared at Dagoth Ur for a moment, surprised, maybe, that he would suggest such a thing. “By the time the victims come to Tel Fyr, it is much too late to make use of them. In any case, I need no army; my interest is purely academic.”

“Speak to Ilara then,” the master replied. “Let her find you some suitable volunteers. Be cautious; they will fight back if you attempt to injure them. I need them alive and functional.”

“That ash ghoul behind the brazier could show me the way and be my first ‘volunteer’,” Fyr suggested. Gares froze.

“How did you know he is there? The stench?”

“Anyone who deals with corprus would recognize it. That mix of acidic sweetness and rotten flesh is unique.”

Gares left his hiding spot, wiping the ulcers on his neck with his sleeve, self-conscious. He had not even realized that he smelled unusual.

It was impossible to tell whether his master was furious or not, he stood still as a statue and did not say a word. Fyr, on the other hand, grinned at him. “Surely he will be more than happy to cooperate to repent for his behaviour.”

“Yes, my Lord,” Gares muttered, averting his gaze.

“What is your name?” Dagoth Ur asked. At the back of his mind, Gares was disappointed; if Dagoth Ur had no clue who he even was, he had never been anywhere near ascension.

“Dagoth Gares, my Lord.” The ash ghoul bowed. “I l-live only to serve you. I sincerely apologize for-”

“Nerevar’s personal servant?” the mer spoke over him, clearly uninterested in apologies. “Make certain he will still be able to perform his tasks, Lord Fyr. He is keeping Nerevar and my daughter fed.”

“Of course, Lord Dagoth. I have… Refined methods. Now if you would lead me to a quiet place…?”

***

“…There we go, three vials. Impressive. With the lack of meat on you, I expected you to faint. But then again corprus creatures without whatever ‘blessing’ you received will not faint, either…”

Trunk bright pink with humiliation and anger, Gares slipped his robes back on. Fyr had demanded to see the number of sores on his body, made a few comments about how incredibly thin the disease had made him – was Gares some sort of brute that needed to be muscular? Obviously not! – and collected samples of weepings from various ulcers in different locations. At least he had not demanded that Gares undress completely, if for no other reason than not wanting to see what lurked below the remaining fabric.

“I hope they will help with your research, Lord Fyr,” Gares said. Of course, he did not care, and found the fact that Lord Dagoth allowed this rather confusing. But who was he to doubt the master’s plans? Perhaps he intended to take the cure for himself and use it as part of his campaign to sway the people of Morrowind to his side.

…Gares realized that even if Dagoth Ur offered them a cure, they were well aware where the divine disease had originated and would hardly be grateful enough to drop their faith and follow him instead. But Gares was no god and could not hope to match the master’s brilliance.

“Greatly, no doubt. Now that this unpleasantness is dealt with-“ Fyr wiped his fingers with a cloth, looking down at his dry but certainly not clean hands with disapproval, “-a few questions, if you will?”

“Certainly, my Lord.” Unlike the poking and prodding of his ulcers, questions at least did not hurt.

“Please explain to me the transition from healthy dunmer to your current state, with focus on the changes to your face.”

Surprised, Gares tilted his head but obliged.

“It began with dreams from Lord Dagoth. I found the visions convincing, far more than the teachings of the Temple. I left my home behind and travelled to Telasero, the closest Sixth House base I could locate. No doubt I passed many smaller hideouts, but this was the only one I learned of from fellow travellers.”

Gares smoothed out his robes as he stood, while Fyr took a seat on one of the many chairs scattered around the room. It must have been a place of discussion, once, furnished with a large, rectangular table and a dozen chairs. After three millennia, nothing else was left, but if this was some sort of dining room, there was nothing remotely resembling a kitchen nearby.

“I yelled that I wanted to join Lord Dagoth before I even saw anyone, with my hands up to show I was not armed. The dreams said that volunteers would not be harmed, but I could not imagine that every lowly ash creature would follow that instruction, let alone so far away from Dagoth-Ur. I know better now, and as you can see, they left me in one piece.”

“For better or for worse,” Fyr muttered. “You joined the Sixth House, as was already blatantly obvious. When were you infected?”

“Soon after. The corprusmeat is contagious when ingested, and I had to eat a large chunk of it to prove my desire to serve.” It had been difficult, he remembered, the worst thing he had ever eaten. It was different, now; the corprusmeat tasted better than any other meat he had ever consumed now. He did not mind his entire diet consisting of it.

“Ah, I assumed the meat is contagious but have not been able to get my hands on any samples. I must remember to take some with me for analysis. How long until the changes started?” The old mer’s eyes were bright with interest now, and Gares found himself enjoying the attention.

He explained that the process had been the exact same as for those unlucky souls who turned into mindless, deformed husks – except that once the disease progressed far enough to start causing sores that would eventually be covered by new growths, Dagoth Ur had cast a spell on him, directing the transformation into the desired direction.

“Explain the spell to me,” Fyr demanded. He had procured a small notebook and charcoal from the small satchel that now held vials of blood and ichor, and jotted down completely unreadable notes.

“I cannot, Lord Fyr, I was too delirious to remember something so complex, and besides, at the time, I knew nothing of such magic. Since I never wished to become a healer, the Temple trained me to be a simple priest.”

Gares scratched the spot on his wrist where Fyr had cut him to extract the blood. Wounds on his body healed rapidly, though they left vile-looking welts and bumps. It itched terribly.

“Disappointing, but perhaps your master will be willing to give me details. What happened next?”

“The skin on my face, it…” Gares shivered a little. He had not thought about his transformation once since it happened. “Well, it shrunk away from… From what’s beneath. Everything I did not need anymore, it- it receded. One morning I woke blind after a night of agony, and the skull under my fingers felt wrong.”

For a moment, he felt the pain again, smelled the stench of the soiled pillow he had slept on that night. Horror at the memories seemed to freeze his heart in place for a moment, and his stomach roiled at the thoughts. At this stage in the process, the reshaping of the skull had only started, and he could still feel his fingers sink into the remains of what had once been his eyes…

Shivering, Gares pulled up a chair of his own, sitting down as his knees seemed to take on the consistency of the pudding he had fed the Nerevarine.

Whether it was because of some sort of kindness, or because he was not interested in gruesome details, Fyr did not ask him to explain in more detail what had happened to his bone and tissue.

“I assume you sprouted the trunk next?”

“Yes, my Lord.” Gares spoke quickly, ready to be done with the conversation. “But not immediately. First, I had to learn to see with my mind, rather than my eyes. I… I cannot tell you how it works. All I know is that I had vivid hallucinations that slowly turned into real visions of the world around me, and eventually I could see clearly with no eyes at all. This process ends before the growth starts.”

He gave the wizard a moment to catch up with his note taking.

“Once I could see again, I had to prove that I was able to follow orders and learn to cast spells; an ash ghoul served as mentor for a small group of us. I was the only one who could cast magic, the others remained in that state, we call them ash zombies.”

Ash zombies were trapped in a constant state of fear and confusion, tormented by hallucinations. It was impossible to get them to talk about anything but furniture – Gares counted his blessings for having been spared this fate.

“When I convinced the master that I was worthy, he cast another spell on me, and then the pain started again.”

It had been worse, somehow, a burning agony at the back of the gaping hole. Gares could not eat or sleep for weeks as the trunk forced its way from the reshaped bone.

“Once the trunk finished growing, I found that I can move it,” he finished, “and it is a natural part of my body now, no different from the nose I used to have.” He bent it to demonstrate, though compared to the appendages of an ascended sleeper, it was fairly limited in range and applications. “It comes with a much-improved sense of smell.”

‘And yet I had no idea I reek.’ Gares decided to take a bath the moment Fyr was done with him. It would sting in his wounds, but he felt disgusting.

“Thank you. The magic, then, appears to be used to force the desired outcome. Is there any natural progression from here?”

“No, I will be elevated to ascended sleeper status if I prove myself worthy.” As unlikely as it seemed.

“Is eavesdropping on your master conducive to such goals…?” Fyr asked, sounding rather entertained by Gares’ antics.

“If the knowledge gained is useful? Certainly.” Not that he had learned much today that could get him anything beyond a few interested listeners among his fellow cultists.

Fyr chuckled at his audacity. “Well, I may ask more questions as they arise. For now, lead me to Ilara.”

***

Ilara lay on her stomach on one of the benches surrounding the tree in her quarters, writing her daily journal entry, while Adrisu sat beside her on a large cushion, legs crossed and deep in meditation. She was rarely far away, unless Ilara specifically ordered her to leave, and the mer liked it that way; Adrisu never bothered her and always seemed to sense what was needed of her before Ilara could utter a single demand.

The only real difficulty was communication, and Ilara often observed Adrisu flexing her fingers and wrist as if in pain if she had to write many notes at in quick succession, but so far, Ilara could not bring herself to lower the shield protecting her mind from intrusions. What if Adrisu just waited for the right moment to get into her head?

Ascended sleepers were enigmatic creatures, and Ilara often wondered if even her father knew every detail of their abilities. None of them were particularly forthcoming with information if asked, even by the heir to House Dagoth.

Finished with her account of her daily business – it had become somewhat repetitive, but keeping journals was a deeply ingrained habit Ilara refused to neglect – Ilara closed the journal and sat up, stretching. A yawn escaped her; exhaustion was gnawing at her mind and body. It was easy to understand how moon sugar could tempt so many people. A strong stimulant would be more than welcome.

Roused from her meditation, Adrisu threw her a glance Ilara knew all too well; ‘Go to bed’, it said.

“Maybe later. I need to look through some documents – issues with smugglers in Molag Amur…” She should force Sarros to take care of this problem, considering he had a tower and quickly growing town at the heart of the region, but she might as well task a child with the job.

Before she could ponder the matter further, the pair heard a loud knock. A crystal kept beside the door, enchanted to detect magic, glowed with rapidly increasing brightness; it was a powerful visitor, then.

With little surprise, Ilara opened the door for Divayth Fyr. More puzzling was the presence of Sarros’ ash ghoul, out of all the servants he could have brought instead. Gares stood with his head bowed, refusing to look at her.

“Greetings, Master, come in. You go back to whatever you’re supposed to be doing,” Ilara ordered Gares, who bowed deeper and retreated so quickly it looked more like an escape.

Closing the door and turning to Fyr, she found him at least slightly impressed by her accommodation.

“The tree has its own day and night cycle, I assume?” he asked. “Off by a few hours, and longer than that of the surface?”

“Indeed.”

“About thirty hours and fourteen minutes, to be exact…?”

Of course he knew. Maybe she should let him have a look around, have him try to explain the machinery around them. Her uncles would know more, but she missed having normal conversations with the old Telvanni.

“Correct, as usual.”

She led him to an adjacent chamber with proper seating, but they did not get very far.

“Oh, that is exactly what I was looking for!” Divayth exclaimed, with a tone that tended to spell doom for anyone at the wrong end of his magic. Apparently, Adrisu had caught his eye.

“What do you need an ascended sleeper for? Anything they can assist you with, you can do yourself.”

Adrisu stood still as he approached her for a closer look, fascinated. “I have never seen one of them outside of rough drawings. Could not quite convey the reality of things…” His eyes trailed down the sleeper’s numerous trunks. “How does it communicate?”

‘It?’

“Via telepathy, obviously. Try to be a little respectful, Adrisu is a person,” Ilara added, bristling. “My most trusted servant, in fact.”

Arms crossed, Ilara stood beside her, a half-head taller than her servant, but much less impressive. Adrisu showed no sign of anger at the disrespect, waiting patiently for whatever the wizard wanted.

“My apologies,” Divayth replied, not particularly convincing. “Telepathy… That is quite the step up from the ash ghouls. Surely you still shield your mind like I taught you?”

“Yes, we communicate in writing. What do you want?”

“Your father kindly gave me permission to have a look at his ash creatures and their mutations. Sent me to you to find me some volunteers.”

“Well, Adrisu won’t volunteer.”

Adrisu, meanwhile, opened her notebook, scribbling.

“It does not have to be her, but the convenience…”

“Who is this s’wit?”, Adrisu’s note read. “Disrespectful!”

“Well, I don’t happen to have a room full of bored ascended sleepers waiting for someone to come and look at their trunks. If you want one, find someone and ask nicely. Make sure to wear your shield enchantments, they throw nasty destruction spells.”

Unperturbed, he continued to look Adrisu up and down, no doubt wondering about the purpose of her transformation.

“I do not like how he stares,” Adrisu’s next note said. “Get rid of him. Not one of us.”

“This is Divayth Fyr, by the way,” Ilara explained, “my old master. A very curious man. Please don’t attack him; he’s stronger than us.”

“Don’t care.”

“May I ask you a few questions?” Divayth asked politely, though he clearly did not take Adrisu seriously. As a reward, faster than he could react, Adrisu’s longest trunk wrapped around his wrist, yanking him forward and squeezing hard enough to cause pain.

“Adrisu, stop! He is fathers’ guest!” Ilara shouted, aware that Adrisu could easily break bones. With all her trunks.

At the same time, Divayth freed his hand with the help of quickly applied shock magic, and Adrisu took a step backward, examining the damage, with hands that shook with rage.

“I think it’s best if you leave, Master,” Ilara said, as a vivid vision of Adrisu torn apart by magic forced its way into her mind; it made her heart ache.

***

A healing potion took care of Adrisu’s minor injury, but it did not make Ilara feel much better. She should have handled this differently, introduced the sleeper first, perhaps, enforce a polite conversation instead of this mess. They sat beside each other on one of the benches. Not upset to still be exhausted, Ilara yawned again, in the middle of the fourth apology.

“I am fine. No more apologies. Go to bed.”

Mortality, even if stretched across a dozen lifetimes, continued to be humiliating. Ilara yawned again; it was time for her monthly night of sleep. There were a million other things she could be doing, and as usual, she had drawn things out as long as possible, but her eyes were falling shut.

Ilara looked at Adrisu, spotting that tell-tale wrinkle at the base of her trunks, the way the smaller ones entwined with each other whenever Adrisu was worried.

“Are you sure you won’t go after him the moment I lie down? If you’re angry, we could spar-“

Adrisu tilted her head and put her small, bony hand on Ilara’s shoulder, not bothering with another note.

“Fine. I’ll go to bed.” Ilara could not think of anything she wanted to do less. It was a coin toss whether the nightmares would be bad, or horrendous.

Followed by Adrisu, she headed to her bedroom, foregoing her bedtime routine; baths could happen when she woke up, and the faster she got it over with, the better.

There was one ritual that was absolutely necessary, however – braiding her long hair. As usual, Ilara brushed it out at her ancient vanity table, before Adrisu, who was far more dextrous than her when it came to these things, braided it. The sleeper took her time, ostensibly to make sure she did the work properly, but they both knew that Ilara enjoyed the feeling of having her hair braided. It relaxed her.

When Ilara curled up under her blanket, Adrisu took on her other role; she sat with the mer as she slept, watching over her and comforting her when she woke from her night terrors – Ilara needed to know she was not alone, and Adrisu’s fingers gently squeezing hers served as a welcome reminder.

Adrisu usually spent the time meditating, on what, Ilara, unwilling to pry, had not yet dared to ask.

***

Tonight, her mind decided for the horrendous option; Ilara tossed and turned, tortured by images of burning Kogoruhn, rivers of boiling blood flowing down its corridors, by visions of her father, her uncles, her governess, all brutally slain as she encountered them, stumbling through the halls without realizing that they were dead.

Muttering pleas for escape in her sleep, she drew Adrisu’s attention, and soon, a hand reached for her, dragging her from the dark corridors to a much brighter place. Ilara opened her eyes, looking up at Adrisu’s distorted face, blurred through tears. The hands that held hers might have looked more dead than alive, but it was warm and gentle, the skin smooth where corprus had not ruined it.

Adrisu sat on a chair beside her head, watching her with palpable sadness. It occurred to Ilara sometimes that the sleeper was the only one in the Sixth House who openly cared about her, far beyond a master and servant relationship. She was the closest thing to a friend Ilara had.

“I dreamed of Kogoruhn again,” Ilara said, as if Adrisu did not know. She always dreamed of Kogoruhn. “The version of the nightmare that has everyone’s moving corpses hounding me…”

Adrisu handed her a neatly embroidered handkerchief for her damp cheeks. Embroidery was another thing her small hands excelled at.

“Thanks,” Ilara muttered, drying her face. Another yawn escaped her; her body was nowhere near done demanding rest, but she dreaded returning to the nightmare. If only…

“Adrisu, ah, this is a bit of an unusual request, and I understand if you refuse. But…” Ilara looked up at her sheepishly, feeling incredibly immature. “When I was young and had nightmares, my governess would sit in bed with me, holding my head in her lap and running her fingers through my hair until I finally calmed down…”

With an amused snort, Adrisu climbed into her bed, surprisingly nimble for her stature. Ilara could not tell if she was simply fulfilling an implied order, or acted as a friend wanting to help her, but it did not matter; her pillow wandered into the sleeper’s lap, and Ilara rested her head on it, sighing with relief.

***

This time, Ilara woke from dreamless sleep, feeling unusually refreshed. Adrisu was still there, sitting cross-legged and still; it seemed she had fallen asleep, too, or whatever passed for sleep in the ash creatures.

Beside them lay another note, one that had been written more carefully than usual.

“I hope you slept better this time. I wish I could take away your nightmares, my lady, though I understand such wishes are futile.

Thank you for defending me. Surely standing up to your old Master must be difficult. Few see us as people. Sometimes we forget, too. I appreciate the reminder.”

Ilara smiled and sat up, gently nudging Adrisu from her sleep. “Good morning, Adrisu. I did sleep better, thank you. And… You’re welcome. You’re a friend to me, why wouldn’t I defend you?”

Adrisu massaged her lower back, which was not made for sitting in one place for such a long time, and nodded. The gesture was so mundane that it was almost jarring; the sleepers did not usually show weakness without removing any witnesses first. ‘You trust me as much as I trust you…’ Ilara thought. It warmed her heart, and she had an idea.

One quick gesture, and the barrier around her mind dropped.

“I don’t think we’ve ever spoken without the notes,” Ilara said, “no wonder I barely know anything about you.”

‘My lady?’ Adrisu’s voice, deep and measured, filled Ilara’s mind. Back pain seemingly forgotten, she sat up straight, as if worried that something was wrong.

“Yes. No shields. I want to have a proper chat with you. Look at me defending your personhood, without ever having talked to you.”

Adrisu squeezed her hand again. ‘No harm done’, she replied. ‘Frankly, I do not like writing that much.’