Chapter 4
"We are children of the Twilight. Beings who are to be guided from the darkness into the light. And from the light into darkness."
-- Aranea Ienith, Priestess of Azura
6 First Seed, 450, 2E
It had been a while since the royal caravan had left the Ghostgate. All the while, they had been discussing their sights and discoveries along the way. Much of it was theological in nature, as well as the history of the Dunmeri people. Rythe especially seemed interested in his role within it all. As the troupe marched along the roads, ignoring the muck and mud that often seeped up through the ground with each step, as well as the abysmal terrain they had found to take up most of southern Vvardenfell, they spoke on the Tribunal, the Temple, and the state of politics in Morrowind itself.
“I can’t help but wonder,” high king Rythe began one day, “if the Tribunal would be so supportive of the Temple at times if I didn’t march into Vivec city myself and declare it protected by my own arms?”
“Wouldn’t the Tribunal oppose you in that?” Nethyn asked.
Rythe laughed, “They haven’t opposed me so far, have they? And with that dunderhead Farwil on the seat of the Temple, I think they would find me a proper change. Who knows, perhaps Almalexia would like my company on the island’s colder nights.”
The rather crude reference to Amalexia caught Nethyn off guard, but he merely smiled and nodded. The high king did not notice the grandmaster’s temporary loss of countenance, and continued speaking:
“And Vivec, of course, perhaps I could have him explain some of these more ponderous riddles he’s written in his-”
“Your highness?”
It was one of the retainers. He had been clutching his sword at his side, and had just tapped the king on the shoulder. Rythe turned around, rather upset he had been pulled from what he believed to be a good conversation, but softened his expression when he saw the retainer appeared very serious and was pointing to their east. When the grandmaster and king looked in that direction, they saw a rising hill, with the tall mushrooms and tall rocks common in this part of the island scattered about thickly. The fog had descended, causing everything to be wet or dripping dew. Despite this, it was not hard to make out the movement of shapes not too far away, past several patches of tall mushrooms far ahead...shapes resembling tall, dangerous looking men.
“How many?” the king asked, lowering his voice - all humor in it had been instantly taken away.
“Possibly twenty, maybe more,” the retainer replied, “they’ve been following us for a while.”
“What can you make out, grandmaster?” Rythe asked Nethyn.
Nethyn peered his eyes, trying hard to visualize what was shifting through that fog. Despite the fact that the figures were mere shadows, given their distance and the thickness of the mist, he could see some clear, distinguishing features that made the figures different from one another.
“Nords, and Orsimer, by the look of them,” Nethyn replied, “that is all.”
“There are only ten of us altogether,” the retainer said, motioning to the rest of the troupe, “do we stand and fight, your majesty, or do we try to push for the next town?”
“They’re too close,” Rythe said, slowly drawing his own sword from his scabbard, “they’ll be upon us in no time...we stand here. Besides, I think they’ve noticed.”
Sure enough, the group of bandits had seen how the party had stopped along the trail, and was looking in their direction. They knew that their cover was blown, and that their potential prey seemed to be preparing for any attack.
“Have you ever fought in a battle before, Nethyn?” the high king asked as he drew back his cloak, wrapping his gloved fingers around the hilt of his sword.
Nethyn looked nervously to the king, then to the figures up on the hill, “No, sire…”
“Then you are lucky,” the king declared, “for today, you shed Outlander blood!”
Trusting in their brute force, the bandits pulled out their maces and battle axes and charged forward. They let out a collective shout that sent a chill up Nethyn’s spine, and suddenly made him realize just what was happening. They were in battle. They were being attacked. They were being attacked by men who would probably kill them for any little thing they could take from them. Nethyn had never been in a real battle before - especially against a larger party, and one bent on his death.
The few mages in the troupe acted first: one cast fire, another cast lightning, and both found their targets, burning or shocking a bandit to death. The other Dunmer drew their swords, charging forward, meeting the bandits as they came charging down the hill. Rythe was the first to strike, ducking as a Nord swung an axe at his head, then driving his sword hilt-deep into the Nord’s belly. He pulled it out just in time to swing and decapitate an orc that was coming at him from behind. The king’s men proved to be capable fighters, and though they broke a sweat in the fight, they still held their own. The mages continued to take down some of additional bandits, whittling the numerical advantage little by little.
Immediately in the battle, Nethyn found himself face to face with an orc carrying a hefty, two-handed mace. The beast swung at the Dunmer’s side, as if attempting to gash him in the ribs. Nethyn held up his sword and placed his palm against the flat end. The head of the mace struck the blade against the flat side, bending it from sheer power. The orc attempted to pull back and try again, but Nethyn quickly swung, moving the sharp end of the blade along the fur armor of his opponent. Despite the bend in the blade, the sword was still sharp enough to slice through, causing the orc some pain. Nethyn then swung down, driving his weapon right into the orc’s chest. The beast was struck right in the heart and fell instantly.
To Nethyn’s dismay, however, his sword had become fastened into the orc’s chest, caught in the rib cage. He tried to frantically pull on the handle, but to no avail. It was stuck. At that moment, he heard the king call his name and looked up. A smaller Nord had appeared, and swung one of his two axes at the Dunmer’s head.
Nethyn was struck hard on the side of his face and fell. His head landed hard on a patch of dirt. That was the last thing he remembered before everything went black.
It happened too quickly. There was no chance for him to say anything, or give parting words, let alone even think. Yet as the blackness quickly overcame him, and he found himself overcome by shadow, it suddenly fell upon Nethyn that he might be dead. It was a strange sensation, for he was uncertain how to feel about it. It was simply as if a sudden reality had been revealed to him, one that was merely part of his being. It was as if he was simply who he had been all along - a member of the void, a child of the darkness. He had come from the dark womb and was now being cast into the darkness of the grave. Would he be raised by his family to guard his tomb? Would he be remembered as a hero? He did not know, but at the moment he could not care. At the moment, he was coming to grips with the darkness all about him...the darkness that had engulfed him and become part of his very being.
This is it, then, his thoughts said, though how they existed he did not know,
I am dead. I will never again see my homeland...
“You are not dead,” said a voice. It was a distinctly female voice, and one all too familiar. In a moment, Nethyn realized just where he had heard it before - it was the same voice he had heard in Vivec City, referring to the Ministry of Truth. It was the voice that had spoken of their children being locked away in the Ministry of Truth.
“Who are you?” Nethyn asked openly, though again, it was difficult to ascertain how he had done so, for he could not feel his lips moving, or feel his voice leave his throat. “I have heard your voice before.”
“The Queen of the Twilight, of the Dusk, and the Dawn, of the Period of Transition,” the voice continued.
It was then that a light appeared before Nethyn, though how it appeared was something altogether strange to him. It was as if his eyes were opening, and yet it was also as if the sun was rising. It was as if he were opening his eyelids, and this ability was permitting a sun to shine light onto the world. This only happened to an extent, however, as something did not permit the light to shine too bright, nor for the “eyes” to open as fully as they could. It was then that Nethyn realized he was gazing at twilight, but this twilight was existing only so far as his eyes had been permitted to open.
Then, without any warning, a female figure appeared. She appeared before the light, as if she was apart from it, and yet the soft glow behind her seemed to highlight her body all the more. She had a round hat upon her head, and robes that draped down her feminine body, with fabric cascading down under her arms, rising back up to tie around her wrists. In her right hand she held aloft the moon, softly emanating light in a crescent shape. In her left hand, she held the sun, rotating slowly and glowing a bright, golden color.
“I shall spare you from death,” she said to Nethyn, “for I shall use you. Go to your own country, to your own kindred, and to your own house. From there, I shall educate and edify you. You will grow in knowledge and understanding of the things that must be. This will happen by my mercy, and my love. You shall be used by me to return my people to their glory, though they have forsaken me. They have gone and worshiped that which pretend to be gods, and forgotten about the generations who I led out of the Somerset Isles, into their new homeland. Yet they will return to the worship of the true Tribunal, and they shall worship as their ancestors worshiped, and do away with their transgressions. Their fathers are dead, but yet shall they live, through their life devoted towards me anew. And you shall be my instrument for seeing this begun...I spare you now, not to glorify you, but to show my love for my people…”
And then, in an instance, blackness returned. The woman, the light, the moon and the star...they were all gone. What Nethyn could sense, however, were all his natural senses returning. He let out a soft groan, and heard a familiar voice not too far away:
“Thank the merciful ALMSEVI! He’s awake!”
Slowly, Nethyn opened his eyes. He saw that he was in a room somewhere, and was surrounded by some of the retainers in his traveling party. Looking down at him from above the bed was Rythe, grinning and patting his shoulder:
“You had me worried out there, Hlaalu grandmaster! I must say, you took the axe to the face better than most men do a rebuke.”
Nethyn suddenly realized that there was a sharp pain on his face. He lifted up his hand, feeling the bandages wrapped around the side of his head, and felt a stinging sensation from his forehead down to his chin. As his mind gradually returned into an awakened state, he could only figure out that he was somewhere safe, that the battle against the bandits had been won, and he was now being tended to.
“The bandits,” Nethyn began, stammering a bit in his pain, “did they take anything?”
“No, they’re all dead,” Rythe said, “we showed them not to mess with a Dunmeri king. You were the only one wounded, my friend - quite early in the battle, I might add.”
It was an obvious jab at Nethyn’s expense. In past times, Nethyn might have responded with a friendly jab back, or some snide remark, or at least felt a little bitter. Not this time, however. Now, something else happened...namely, nothing happened. He felt no anger, no offense, and simply smiled back at his high king. In a low voice, he said:
“I shall have to train in my combat, I’m afraid. Thank Azura for that revelation.”
“Thank Azura?” Rythe said, raising an eyebrow and looking about. “Careful, Nethyn, we’re in Vivec. You know how nervous those priests are...they might think you’re a Nerevarine or something. I don’t want to be forced to kill bandits and Farwil in one day...that’ll offend the bandits.”
In truth, Nethyn was not certain why he had said “thank Azura.” When he was in a good mood, he would sometimes say “Thank the ALMSEVI,” especially if religious friends were around to impress them. However, without even another thought, he had thanked Azura. Why? Was it because of that dream he had just had?
No, it wasn’t a dream - it couldn’t have been. It felt real, and yet it didn’t. Was it truly Azura who had spoken to him? Had Azura, the Daedric Prince of old, truly told Nethyn that he would be her instrument?
“Are you alright?”
It was Rythe again. The grandmaster grinned at the king, giving a small nod as he whispered, “Yes, I think the bump in the head just made me a bit delirious for a moment.”