There was exceedingly great joy in the House Hlaalu. A war which had appeared lost at first had now been turned around, and ended with peace being restored to the Hlaalu lands. Nethyn was seen by all as a capable ruler, and one who could (surprisingly) handle himself in battle. Many of his councilmembers commented that he seemed to walk with more self-assuredness that he had before, albeit with no sign of pride or haughtiness. He now ruled not merely as someone in charge, but truly as a ruler.
Meanwhile, the entire Kingdom of Morrowind once again experienced war. Archcanon Farwil, still desiring to place a puppet of his on the throne, declared war on 4 Frostfall, 461. He gathered what forces he had left and landed upon the mainland, hoping to strike quickly. High King Rythe once again led his troops against the Temple forces and destroyed them, driving them back to the island. The war ended on 3 Sun’s Dusk, 464, with the Temple once again humiliated and returning home to more and more hostility from the Ashlander tribes still under their control. In fact, two more independent realms had popped up in Vvardenfell, with the Urshilaku tribes, inspired by the success of the Ahemmusa and Zainab tribes, rising up, creating the states of Ashlands and West Gash. By now, Vvardenfell was split in the middle between the Ashlander north and the Temple-held south.
The king called a celebratory feast in Mournhold to commemorate the recent victory; a feast which was held on 3 Evening Star, 464. Although he had not taken a direct role in the war, Nethyn was, of course, invited.
Everything was as he had remembered it before: the glory of Mournhold, the succulent food on the tables, the various nobles and heads of house from across the kingdom, and the fanfare and celebration that came with performers and musicians. The only thing that had changed was High King Rythe himself. Ever since Nethyn had come to know him, he was always cheerful and ready to show a sarcastic wit out about something, be it religion, politics, or the conundrum of day-to-day life. Now, however, everything had changed. Although he gave his guests and personal advisers smiles and courtesies, there was something under the surface. In the eyes of the high king, Nethyn saw a dead, unhappy look: he was breathing, he was talking, and he was moving...but inside, he was a dead man.
Feeling concern for his monarch and close associate, Nethyn stepped closer, making his presence known. When Rythe saw the Hlaalu head, his eyes did light up a bit, and he seemed, for a moment, to regain some life. He excused himself from his current conversation partners, and then approached Rythe, taking him aside as he had in the last feast.
“It is good to see you,” Rythe said, “refreshing, even.”
“Your majesty,” Nethyn began, cutting to the chase, “you do not look well.”
The high king frowned. His dark, dreary red eyes looked into Nethyn’s, then looked away. With a sigh, he said, “Am I so transparent? I suppose I am to others. A pity. I suppose people are curious about why a king who has won so many wars in his reign and kept Morrowind together would feel ill.”
“I am curious for your sake,” said Nethyn truthfully.
“Thank you, my friend,” Rythe said, and there seemed to be some tenderness in his voice that Nethyn had never heard before, “you have a right to know, I suppose, after all we have been through...I have been pondering things since our pilgrimage together. I win victories, and I solidify my rule...but what has it gotten me? Dunmer live a long time, but how long do we live? I have been thinking of that as well. When I am dead, what will everything I have done matter? Will I receive victory in the afterlife? Will I receive praise? I can see why the Nords are so fond of an afterlife with drinking and revelry - it makes death so much better.”
These words stung Nethyn, for he could not understand why Rythe would think this way. He gave a gentle smile, placing a hand upon the high king’s arm, whispering, “You have much to be prideful about, your majesty. You have held the factions of this kingdom together, and you have defeated the Temple twice in war.”
“Thank you for those words,” Rythe said, though there was no change in his tone, nor did he lift his eyes to meet Nethyn’s, “however, I have thought of that as well. I have seen Ordinators and Temple mages scatter and flee like any other Dunmer would in a defeated battle. I have brought the ALMSIVI’s personal toadies to their knees. And for what? Is it fully in my destiny to command my life? I cannot command death, however. The Dwemer thought they could, and were proven wrong. Everything I’ve done, Nethyn…” Only now did the high king lift his eyes to the grandmaster. “...what will it mean, in the end?”
The look in the high king’s eyes, and the words he spoke, left a mark on Nethyn that haunted him all night, and still haunted him as he made his trip back to Narsis.
Some years later, Nethyn was sitting with Athyn, his chaplain, in the manor’s library, discussing these things. Athyn, as he always had, served not only as Nethyn’s household spiritual advisor, but as his personal spiritual advisor as well. Nethyn had come to trust Athyn in all things, and found it easier and easier to chat with him about even the most difficult thoughts that entered his mind. Although Athyn was not afraid to tell Nethyn what was right and wrong, or black and white, he always did it in a spirit of love, and with an understanding that he, too, had crossed that path before. Now, the two men sat in among books and scrolls written by men of the past and present, and spoke of the future.
“I fear for the high king,” Nethyn said, “ever since Vvardenfell, he has suffered greatly. I can tell. Something has begun to eat away at him on the inside.”
“How do you know the cause is Vvardenfell?” Athyn asked.
Nethyn sighed, “Because as I look in his eyes, and hear his words, I can tell he is pondering eternity. He does not know where he fits.”
“I see,” said Athyn, nodding. He paused a moment then, in order to choose his words carefully, and then asked, “You are saying that he has tried to go under a crown, over a throne, and above a kingdom, and has found nowhere to hide his mortality?”
“That is a good way to word it,” Nethyn said, “I simply cannot understand, after all the fulfillment and enlightenment I have felt after the visit to Vvardenfell, the king has not felt likewise.”
Athyn nodded again, waiting for his grandmaster to continue speaking. When Nethyn seemed at a loss for words, the court chaplain replied, “There was a saint of old who said that the same sun which melts the snow also hardens the clay. The blessings which give peace to one man will give judgment to another. Good sir, you are the snow, and Rythe is the clay. Vvardenfell has melted your snow and brought you to spring, while Rythe is attempting to resist and harden against what you yourself are realizing.”
Another sigh left the grandmaster’s lips, “It simply saddens me to see him like this.”
“It saddens everyone when they realize what someone they know is really going through,” Athyn said, “all you can really do at this point is pray that Rythe will awaken from his stupor, and come to his senses.”
It was then that the door burst open. Athyn and Nethyn both leaped up, their hearts skipping a beat. It was a Hlaalu officer who had come in, his helmet under his arm and moving in quick steps. He glanced at the two men, who stared back at him, and he realized, with some embarrassment, that he had made a breach in protocol. After an awkward pause, he came closer to Nethyn and bowed low:
“Forgive me, grandmaster, but I and the bearer of urgent and horrifying news - High King Rythe is dead.”
