On speaking Dwemer names

byValara Atran

“So how on Earth do they pronounce their names?! Achu… Nchu…Choo… Seriously, do I have to sneeze?” - Solitude blacksmith

-Dzinchaleft!

-Bless you!

All of Morrowind seemed to be silent the day Vivec emerged from the Clockword City with the bodies of his fellow Tribunes.

The Living God walked in a dignified stride in front of the few Buoyant Armigers who had accompanied hir. Lady Almalexia and Lord Sotha Sil draped lifeless over the arms of the two uncomfortable mer stationed behind Vivec. Holding the corpse of your deity was not ideal to the soldiers, but they had little choice but obey when Vivec told them to carry them. Crowds of nobles and peasants alike parted to allow the procession to pass through on their way to pyre where the Tribunes would be honorably cremated. Young children hid behind legs, while their mothers stared wide-eyed. Men looked to the ground with lumps in their throat as older, thoroughly religious women quietly wailed into the arms of their sons. 

The Dunmer were terrified. The Blight, though over, still weighed heavy on their souls. When the news that not one, but two of their gods had perished, chaos ensued. The Great Houses, Indoril especially, panicked. What did this mean? House Dunmer culture was rooted in their faith, how would this affect politics? Day to day life? Would the citizens turn their back on the Temple? Morrowind would surely perish without the Tribunes protection and wisdom. 

Their Lord Vivec’s expression was unreadable as ze took his god-siblings and placed them on the pyre. Deep inside hir, ze felt hir supposedly lost mortality flare in anger at the sight of the Nerevarine solemnly standing with her head bowed. But hir composure was kept as ze turned to face the fearful crowd. Hir speech was swift and short, unlike the usual beguiling words his people expected from hir. An uncomfortable grief had made itself home in hir, now was not the time to use metaphors and a magical tongue to confuse and reassure hir subjects. Ze allowed the Nerevarine to tell the story of the Tribunes’ demise- how a powerful sorceress had murdered the Clockwork God and released his mechanisms into Almalexia’s beloved city to lure her in and drive a sword through her heart. Ignoring the people’s bewildered expressions(how had one woman defeated two gods?), Vivec sent a subtle nod of thanks to the Nerevarine for her deception, for ze knew her words were fabricated without having been told. “Lady Almalexia and Lord Sotha Sil were once heroes, let them be remembered as such,” the Hortator would later tell hir. The irony of those words being spoken by Nerevar-reborn was not lost on hir.

Vivec saw how hir subjects looked towards hir for guidance. The Nerevarine was their hero of legend, and her presence was of great significance, but Vivec was their God. Ze was meant to be their guidance in trying times, to lead them to the next great chapter of Morrowind’s story. Ze had been there through terrible wars and occupations. Hir sharp tongue blessed them with laughter and hope and hir riddles gave them motivation to love and care for their homeland more than any race on Tamriel (even at the expense of others). Today, ze offered them nothing.

The Living God was weary, and hir weariness was continuing to grow into exhaustion. Divine power being drained out of you like a cosmic vacuum was not a pleasant nor an easy experience. Hir empire, once greater than the warriors of Yokuda, was dying. Hir Divine Brother and Sister (who he once called his friends, long ago) had fallen. Everything they’d built from the ashes of a troubled land had perished. 

And ze’d known the day would come. Ze was a god, after all. Ze knew everything and nothing all at once. What ze didn’t know was the grief that would follow. The aching sensation of a long forgotten feeling, deep in hir body, squeezing hir lungs and pounding on hir stomach. What was ze meant to do now? How could ze console an entire province, keep an entire race stable when ze can’t even predict hir own reaction to an event ze’d already foreseen? 

The Nerevarine followed hir with a watchful eye as ze retreated from the ceremony prematurely, dismissing the Armigers who attempted to follow hir. The crowd of Dunmer now hardly noticed hir absence in their mourning. She felt what ze was feeling, to an extent. Someone inside of her, someone she didn’t know but was a part of her, felt the same sadness; the same longing for a different time. A happier time. 

The Great Temple meant to house the remains of Mother Morrowind and Clockwork God took four months to build, from Rain’s Hand to Last Seed. Located in the heart of Necrom, it was a great temple of lava rock and stone, crafted by the finest materials Morrowind had to offer, guarded by the fiercest Dunmeri warriors. The magister’s of House Telvanni assisted in the construction, as the magic used to build this holy place could only be done by those adept in ancient Dunmeri practices, of course. House Indoril nobles bickered over schematics and design, and even House Hlaalu offered their finest craftsmen for the construction. All the while, Vivec stayed holed in hir chambers for most of this time, only accepting the occasional pilgrim. Ze never dared visit the temporary temple the Tribune’s ashes were being held during the construction. Did ze even dare visit the Great Temple after it’s construction?

Ze did. After a long while, of laying in piles of crumpled up parchment with failed poetry, ze made the trek to Necrom to visit hir friends. The temple was grandeur, far from hir own humble beginnings. The inside was littered with candles and offerings of all sorts; flowers and fruit and clockwork gears and unlit incense. Large, intricate statues of the ALMSIVI reached the ceiling. In the center sat the ash pit of Almalexia, Mother Morrowind, the heart of the Dunmer. To the left, Sotha Sil, and to the right, at Vivec’s request, an empty ashpit, meant for hir. 

“How sad of a sight this is, old friend,” Vivec spoke to Sotha Sil as if he were there, pouring a part of hir bottle of flin in the ash and settling hirself on the stone floor. “We’d spoken of this moment. What the other would have wanted of the temple. You, Ayem,” A memory of a smile ghosted across hir face and ze turned to Almalexia’s statue. “What a handful you are. You sent the Houses in circles trying their best to fulfill your wishes. But you deserve nothing less, my queen.” 

Silence, again. Such a quiet and cold room for them to rest in. Their souls were too bright for this. 

“We spoke of it often,” Ze continued. “However, we never considered that one, but not three, that two, but not all of us would go. What else am I to do now? How am I to look over our people without the other halves of me? I am unwhole.”

Vivec sighed. A sound that carried through the whole temple. A mouse in the corner scurried into its hide. 

“They still love us, they still follow our teachings, but how long will that last? Time changes culture and tradition quickly and you are not here to help me guide it,” Ze whispered the next part quietly. “How long will Ilast?”

Somewhere, in a land unknown by anyone but herself, the Nerevarine woke with a start. An unbearable sadness settled through her and tears welled in her eyes. 

“There is nothing left for me in Morrowind, my dearest friends. I must leave.”

Vivec was standing now, slowly making hir way to the temple door. Hir legs ached and hir eyes were sunken. Ze was sickly. 

“Don’t be mistaken, this is not the end of us. We will not die out to history.”

The Nerevarine held her head in her hands, breathing harsh and fast. 

“The ending of the words is stillALMSIVI.”

Mournhold was different than Morgiah remembered it. 

When the Queen of Firsthold stepped off the silt strider and removed the heavy garments from her journey, the first thing she noticed was the cold. Colder than she’d ever expected a land of volcanoes to be; though, she suspected living in the tropical Isles had skewed her judgment on temperature quite a bit. The great city of Mournhold wasn’t only cold in temperature, but in appearance. The dark, stony Dunmeri architecture felt soulless among the cloudy air of the Deshaan. While located hundreds of miles away from Vvardenfell and subsequently Red Mountain, the region still had traces of ash in its breeze. The city was dreary and desolate of passion in light of the recent hardships of Morrowind. 

Despite this, and despite the fact that she’d spent much of her life on the other side of the continent, Morgiah was relieved.

For as long as she could remember, the Dunmer was forced to move and adapt to her surroundings in the name of survival. Soon after her father was killed in a peasant uprising, Morgiah’s mother, Barenziah, had promptly swept her and her brother to High Rock with no hesitancy or remorse for the life they were leaving behind. The culture of Morrowind, of her province and her people, was taken from her in the blink of an eye. Suddenly she was no longer praying to Vivec, but to Akatosh. Her Dunmeris dialect warped into the Breton language, just as the ashfall turned into rainfall. It was difficult to leave behind a culture so proud and, at one point, mighty. But, true to her house of Hlaalu, the young princess learned very quickly the necessity of assimilation, even if her heart was elsewhere. Barenziah taught her children to be cunning and resourceful, and in that the small family stayed true to their Dunmeri roots. 

Their life in Wayrest was bland, Morgiah had hated it even as a child, but they were comfortable and safe. As she grew, she knew nothing good would come out of her step-father’s wretched daughter Elysana. She’d been correct, of course; Elysana conspired against Morgiah’s brother Helseth for King Eadwyre’s throne. With a succession war on the horizon, she threw herself at the first reasonably handsome royal she met. After a bit of plotting and a few years of engagement, she did the impossible and married an Altmer king, Reman Karoodil of Firsthold. Once again the sly Dunmer was learning the customs of a new land, with her fingers crossed behind her back and a totem of Boethiah hidden behind her mirror. 

News of Helseth’s rise to the throne of Morrowind after the tragic demise of King Llethan and his heir was only slightly a slap in the face (<i>why hadn’t she thought of that?</i>), but nevertheless, she arrived in Mournhold only months after his coronation to formally congratulate him. A family of schemers were loyal and close-knit, if not entirely affectionate. 

Being back in the city made her heart yearn for a time that no longer existed. A time of childhood naivety, of chasing her older brother around the halls of the castle, of her father teaching her battlemage spells, and her mother reading her Almalexia’s homilies. A time before bargaining with nobles for all her life’s choices, and before being forced to water herself down in the worst ways. A life that didn’t involve being a Queen was no life for her, but, though she’d never admit it, she sometimes fantasized about who she could be if not a mere puppet of an Altmeri royal council. 

“Perhaps we could take a detour and stop at the Temple, muthsera,” The Hlaalu councilor accompanying her from the gates of Mournhold to the castle finally spoke, wrenching Morgiah out of her thoughts. Hlaalu Elethus Arenim was an insufferable mer, one she’d had the displeasure of speaking to through writing a few times. “It would be good for you to say a prayer to the gods. Bring you back to your roots. What’s left of them.”

His snide comments didn’t phase the Queen, only served as entertainment for the walk across the Godsreach district. The townsfolk eyed her and her royal escorts warily, and the Altmer who’d accompanied her looked back at them with just as much uncomfortableness. Outlanders were not uncommon on mainland Morrowind, especially not in Mournhold, but it was not everyday the Dunmer saw Altmer of such high stature in their city. Likewise, it was not often that the royal servants of Firsthold walked through the streets of a foreign capital.

Morgiah smiled at him, almost mockingly. “Why, Elethus, have you forgotten that I’m now a devout follower of the Altmer divines? Auri-El bless you, and all.”

The Dunmer scoffed, earning him a glare of disapproval from Morgiah’s most trusted counselor. While more open-minded than most Altmer, Valinwen still valued tradition above all else. This trip would not be easy for her. 

“Don’t worry, Elethus. I will pay my respects to the Temple once I’m settled in. Surely it’s reasonable for me to want to rest first, hm?”

Elethus didn’t respond, only grunted and quickened his pace so he walked ahead of Morgiah and Valinwen. As somewhat of an outsider, Morgiah couldn’t help but see the irony in the resentment the Altmer and Dunmer societies had for one another. While vastly different in many senses, the two cultures both harnessed an obsession with tradition and a resentment for outsiders. Yet neither side seemed able to recognize the similarities between them. 

Arriving at the center district of the city, Morgiah took the time to pay more attention to her surroundings. The gates to Mournhold’s castle were large, but not very extravagant, and the structure was built more like a military fortress than a palace. Where on a palace on Auridon there would be large, rounded crystalline towers, there were instead rectangular columns with sharp edges. The architecture was a strange mix of Dunmeri-Imperial, the spots that were rebuilt after Tiber Septim sacked the city obvious and out of place. It was intimidating, to say the least, and not very pleasant to the eye. The building loomed over her, so tall she could barely see the peaks. She suddenly felt foreign and small, and as if the eyes of a million of her ancestors were hidden in the stones, watching her. 

She had dreamt of returning to Morrowind, to her homeland. But was this really her homeland anymore? Her previous relief suddenly began to fade. Judging by the looks she’d gotten from commonfolk, she was seen as little more than an outlander. But the insecurity threatening to arise in her was forced to the side for the moment, she rolled her shoulders back and raised her chin slightly. They were passing through the doors and any sign of weakness in front of the royal court wouldn’t do, especially not in front of Helseth. She was already nervous enough to see her mother and brother after so long, she didn’t need his incessant questioning on top of that. Her eyes stayed trained ahead of her as they passed through the castle halls, purposefully avoiding the gaze of the Dunmer watching her, the expressions on their faces a mix of disgust and awe. Hlaalu Morgiah of clan Ra’athim, a disgrace to the Great Houses of Morrowind, a Dunmer princess conniving with Altmer bastards. Conspiracy theories of her visit were surely already in the works. Was she here to spy? To threaten their traditions? Try to turn them back to worshipping the Aedra? 

If only they knew Morgiah was even less welcome in Summerset than she was in Morrowind. 

After what felt like hours walking in tense, discountenancing silence, Morgiah and companions arrived in the throne room. It was large, as expected, and the decor represented more traditional Velothi style rather than the modern and Imperialized outside. Grand rectangular windows with rounded edges let in sunlight through frosted glass, and dark green tapestries the color of dried hackle-lo leaves decorated them, tied together with gold ribbons. Mossy green and golden seemed to be the color theme of the chamber, excluding the sanguine rug that ran from the entrance up to the platform that housed the thrones. There sat King Hlaalu Helseth on a velvet throne, leaning to the side of the chair casually with his tongue stuck out slightly in concentration, a habit he’d had since they were children. He had his ceremonial robes and diadem on for the event of his sisters arrival, a sight that procured an emotion in Morgiah that she wasn’t quite sure was jealousy or pride. What she wouldn’t give to be on the throne of Mournhold; however, she’d always known her once timid older brother would be capable of great things. 

The Steward stepped forward and opened his mouth to announce Morgiah, but Helseth raised his hand to silence him. The siblings stared at each other for a minute, neither quite sure what to say, before his lips quirked into a sly smile, one that she returned quickly. 

“Queen Morgiah,” Helseth rose from his seat and set his crown on the table beside him, walking towards her with all the confidence of a king. A strange tension hung in the air, but not one of resentment or anger. An apprehensiveness, perhaps? It’d been four or five years since they’d last met in person. Not long by elven standards, but the two mer were still rather young. They hardly knew what to make of each other, especially not as rulers. 

She nodded. “King Helseth.” 

They looked at each other for just a moment longer, before the tension cut loose and her older brother pulled her in for a tight and much needed embrace. A wide smile found its way onto her face. Her uncertainty of Morrowind and vice versa had left her hurt and confused, but in it was the familiarity that was her family. Suddenly the room around her was much more familiar, images of her mother and father sitting on the throne while her and Helseth watched the court from the balcony flashed before her eyes. The smell of sweetpulp incense and boiled ash yams, the sounds of silt striders in the distance and bickering House councilors. A pleasant warmth ran throughout her body that was only intensified by the image of her mother standing next to the siblings, arms already outstretched for her. Morgiah hadn’t even realized she was bleary-eyed until the family of three pulled away from each other and regained the composure befit of royalty.

“To see you here, safe and unharmed…” Barenziah let out a sigh of relief, bringing her hands up to cup her daughter’s cheeks. “Every day I wake up half expecting a courier to arrive with news of your assassination, or imprisonment, or worse.”

Despite being over four-hundred years old, Barenziah barely looked a day over two-fifty. Faint lines did run along her skin, though she wore them with elegance and pride. Her hair was an alabaster-white, pulled tightly into an up-knotted style while a magnificent circlet fit only for the Queen Mother lay upon her forehead. Her mother had always been Morgiah’s anchor; her most trusted ally and respected advisor. Barenziah had centuries of experience as royalty and knew very well the fear and betrayal that often came along with it. She never once eluded her daughter into thinking it would be simple. Morgiah was entirely thankful for that, as her guidance had most certainly let her evade trouble multiple times. 

Morgiah smiled reassuringly and took her mother’s hands off of her face gently. “You needn’t worry so much. My husband is diligent about any threat to me or us, and I have many allies. More than you’d expect,” She glanced back at Valinwen. “Reman sends his regards, and apologies for being unable to make it. He sent gifts for both of you along with me, I’ll fish them out of my luggage in the evening.”

Helseth snorted. “Unable to make it. You mean, if both of you left the kingdom at the same time a usurper would be met with little to no resistance?”

“That’s always a very real possibility, yes,” Morgiah said. “But not as likely as you might think. Altmer society values royal bloodline highly. Yes, they want me gone, but they risk going against their traditions if they cast out Reman as well. That makes it infinitely more difficult for them. The Trebbite Monks-“

A cough came from behind them. Valinwen was looking at her with eyes that said <i>’a conversation for another time’</i>, while she glanced frantically at the other occupants of the throne room pretending not to listen to the family’s reunion. Morgiah figured discussing Firsthold intel openly was something her counselor would very strongly counsel <i>against</i>.

“I suppose I should introduce my entourage,” Morgiah winked at Valinwen, then beckoned them forward. The group consisted of four Altmer and a Bosmer; Valinwen, three guards, and a handmaiden. The Bosmer, Laena, immediately fell into a curtsy, while the others stood stiff as boards. They awkwardly bowed at Morrowind’s royalty after a pointed look from Morgiah, and she had to stifle a laugh. She introduced them to her mother and brother. Barenziah was much more gracious than Helseth, who let out a grunted “<i>welcome</i>”, then stalked off to speak to his advisors. 

After what might have been the longest moments of Morgiah’s life, she was shown the way to her guest quarters to rest after her long journey. Valinwen and Laena fell close on her heels, and when the door shut, her handmaiden immediately began a bath while her counselor sat herself into an armchair with an incisive look. 

“A land of fungus and insects and ash, where murder is legal and gods walk among mortals,” Valinwen held a small and delicate pipe between her fingers; made of shell glass and filled with a sweet tobacco native to the Isles. The Altmer was obviously attempting to assess all she’d learned of Morrowind from the short time they’d been there, her brow crinkled and honeyed eyes seemingly distant. She was of a noble family of Sunhold, apparently, but other than that had a past shrouded in secrecy. Morgiah suspected she’d been of an intelligence guild, as she doubled as Morgiah’s own personal spymaster at times, and the part fit her well. 

“It’s a bit more complicated than murder being <i>legal</i>,” The Dunmer began undoing her own corset, but didn’t resist when Laena rushed to take over. “There are steps one must take, it’s not like I could go out and stab the Dres noble down the hall with no consequence. In fact, I wouldn’t be stabbing anyone personally. It goes through the Morag Tong.”

“Yes, the Tong. I’ve had the displeasure of working with them once or twice.”

Morgiah raised an eyebrow but said nothing, letting her maroon gown fall to the floor once the corset was loose enough. 

“I still think this was a mistake. A mistake to trust the people of this province enough that they will accept your being here. A mistake to trust your brother.”

“Helseth wouldn’t harm me,” Morgiah said, a twinge of impatience in her voice. They’d had this conversation one too many times and she was growing tired of it. Valinwen insisted Helseth couldn’t be trusted, citing sources she refused to give. Her brother was selfish, yes, and Morgiah wasn’t sure if he wouldn’t act against her in some way if he deemed it necessary to his reign. But he would denounce his claim to the throne himself before he would put Morgiah in any real danger; and he had no reason to do so anyway. 

“I never said he would hurt you, at least not on purpose. I don’t know your relationship,” She sighed. “But you can’t tell me you’re not worried that once the nostalgia subsides he’ll grow suspicious. As a king his allegiance to his kingdom comes first, and you’re married to the king of an enemy.”

“Not an enemy. Morrowind and the Isles are both Empire provinces.”

Morgiah knew how ridiculous that was the minute the words left her mouth. She pursed her lips together as Valinwen barked a laugh. 

“Saying the Isles belong to the Empire. We’re almost entirely self-governed and the Empire has little say in anything. It’s all for show.”

“I know that!” She snapped, and Valinwen threw her hands in the air. “It doesn’t matter whether we’re both part of the Empire. Morrowind and the Isles may not exactly get along but we’re not at war. He has no reason to distrust me and even if he did my mother would put him in his place. Enough about this!”

Morgiah hadn’t even noticed Laena slipped from the room without being dismissed.

“It’s not about war. A king who gains his throne under suspicious circumstances is a paranoid king,” Valinwen sat the pipe on the glass side table next to the armchair. She stood, walking past Morgiah and towards the door without so much as a glance in her direction. “Whether you aspire for said throne or not, he might believe you have a good claim; as you weren’t involved in the supposed unauthorized assassination of Llethan. Sooner or later, you’ll be little more than a threat to him.”

-

The Tribunal Temple of Mournhold was one of the many wonders of Tamriel, or so the Dunmer always said. A grand, Velothi palace made of indigo stonework and striking metallic-gold plating. The curvature of the architecture, especially around the entrance, gave the building an inviting character while the high spires on either end sought to intimidate those without the purest intentions. A testament to Almalexia herself. 

It was evening when Morgiah walked the high steps to the Temple; alone, despite the many misgivings heard from Valinwen and her mother. A setting Magnus gave a subtle orange glow to the city around her, and the moons were beginning to become visible in the darkening sky. A sickening nostalgia set in the queen’s stomach, painful memories from childhood threatening to rise. Morgiah had been forced out of Mournhold before what would’ve been her first meeting with the goddess. She didn’t expect to see her today, it was after hours, but that didn’t stop the nervousness of simply being in such close proximity. What would Mother Morrowind think of her? Of her distance from her ancestry. Her connivings with non-Velothi. Would she look at her with the same contempt and disappointment as her subjects? 

As much as she didn’t wish to admit it, the thought brought such an intense distress to Morgiah it was almost hard to bear. She didn’t want to disappoint Almalexia. She was only slightly religious, it was a wonder the Tribunal Temple’s teachings had stuck with her for so long in any capacity, but with her lack of cultural identity came a desperation. She <i>wanted</i> to belong in Morrowind. She wanted to belong to the Dunmer, to the Temple, and she wanted the living gods to accept her as they accept all their followers. Little was known to her about the Tribunal’s personalities beyond what one prayed to each for. Was she just as much a traitor to them as she was to House Hlaalu?

It took her a minute to gather the courage, but eventually she pushed the large doors open. As suspected Almalexia was not present in the foyer, but instead sat a single Hand. The woman was a Dunmer, of course, only visible due to her helmet being sat to the side of her. She was scratching at a piece of parchment intently, and only at the sound of the doors creaking shut did she look up from her writing. Her brow furrowed at Morgiah in what could’ve been confusion or annoyance, then she placed her tools beside her and stood. 

“Lady Almalexia is not seeing any pilgrims today. Is there something I can help you with?”

“No, I know that, I-,” Morgiah swallowed, glancing at a shrine in the corner. “I just wanted to see the Temple. Pay my respects and give thanks for my safe journey. That’s all.”

The Hand of Almalexia seemed to notice her foreign garments and warped accent, and recognition flashed on her features. The look of slight suspicion on her face melted into a warm smile. Morgiah was relieved at that. 

“I’m glad you‘ve come, Princess Morgiah.”

“Queen,” She corrected, almost instinctively. 

The woman’s smile didn’t fade. “As long as you are in our lands you are our Princess. Come. I’ll lead you to the main shrines.”

Morgiah followed the Hand, wringing her palms together in anxiety. The temple was utterly beautiful. It wasn’t a surprise to her, how stunning each corridor and every piece of artwork was. Another thing Morrowind and the Isles held in common: extravagance. Though, in different ways. The Altmer were obsessed with perfection. Symmetry. Bright colors and large, unblocked windows to let in as much sunlight as possible, as every inch of artwork must be seen. With the Dunmer, everything was much more subtle. While there was no denying the beauty in the architecture or decor, sometimes the best parts of it had to be searched for. A mirage of small details that made the whole picture come together. 

“How has your visit to Morrowind been so far, sera? Do you remember much?”

“It’s been lovely,” Morgiah answered, almost too fast. In reality, it’d been anything but lovely. She felt alienated and confused and <i>lonely</i>. She never realized how much cultural identity she’d lacked, and painfully fond memories of her father and early childhood did not help her conflicted emotions. “The city is beautiful, though it’s been so long since our departure that I remember very little. I hope to become well acquainted with Mournhold while I’m here.”

“Hopefully House Hlaalu sees to it that you do.”

“I’m not sure House Hlaalu wants anything to do with me, in all honesty.”

The woman laughed, but not in an unkind way. She pitied Morgiah, in truth. So far away from her traditions for so long that she was as much of a stranger to them as they were to her. 

“You’ll have the best luck maintaining a relationship with Hlaalu, of all houses. They are diplomats; they certainly value whatever advantages having the Kings’ sister married to a King of the Isles can bring Morrowind. Or them specifically.”

They came to the shrines, housed in a large room at the end of a circular corridor. It was dimly lit, but Morgiah could make out the silhouette of three triangular statues, one for each Tribune she supposed. The room smelled of a piquant ceremonial incense that tickled her nose but made her feel a bit woozy from the intensity of it. 

“I certainly don’t feel valued,” She stepped forward towards the shrines, while the Hand stayed back and observed. A magelight appeared and floated towards the ceiling as Morgiah got closer, allowing her to see the daedric inscriptions along the statues and the many offerings along their base. She brought herself down to sit on her knees, and took out the small potion vial she’d brought as an offering. She decided her actual gold would be of better use going straight to the Temple, rather than sitting on the shrines for who-knows-how long. 

It could’ve been hours that she sat like that. Staring at the shrine, attempting to feel what other Dunmer described while visiting the Temple, the vial still clutched between her hands. The Hand, who’s name she’d later find out was Ilyne, guarded the Queen and kept a respectful distance as she prayed. 

Morgiah didn’t know what to pray for. She was not so blind to Temple traditions that she didn’t know <i>how</i> to pray, but sitting there in Mournhold’s Temple, surrounded by those who were raised with no other faith in no other land, what could be only meters away from Almalexia herself, Morgiah again found herself feeling out of place. At first she prayed for what was expected of her. For the safety of her husband in the Isles, for the health of her mother, and success for her brother. She prayed for the less fortunate and for a plentiful harvest. And when she came to her own desires, a selfishness she allowed herself at that time, she prayed for belonging. She never belonged in Cyrodiil or High Rock, she certainly didn’t belong in Firsthold, and now she didn’t even belong in Morrowind. Just once, since her childhood, she wanted to feel comfortable and like she wouldn’t be forced to pack up and flee at any moment. 

“The last time I’d attended a Dunmer ceremony was my father’s funeral,” Ilyne started for a second when Morgiah spoke after so long. The queen still sat in front of the shrines, but her eyes were open and looking at nothing. 

She continued, “This was a different service than the memorial service held by the Empire. This was a proper Velothi funeral and the last time any of us—my mother, Helseth, and I—saw Morrowind for a very long time,” A sigh escaped her lips and she began to her feet, accepting a helping hand from Ilyne. “I was fifteen. It was seven years after he died, when we finally got the chance to properly put him to rest. I was so overcome with the returning grief that I did not get to appreciate the ceremony for what it was. I regret that now.”

Ilyne was studying her with a sad smile. “You were young and in mourning, Princess. Do you remember it, at least?”

“I remember the procession. I remember being angry at my mother for dredging up memories. I remember the potent smell of the Ancestral tomb-“ Ilyne’s nose scrunched up at this. “-And how my mother wept over the ashpit. The whispers, though. The whispers of the ancestors in the tomb, my ancestors, still ring through my mind like it was only yesterday.”

“Do you remember what they said?”

The Queen of Firsthold glanced at the shrines one last time, her solemn face reflecting dimly in the stone. 

“I’m not sure I want to.”

these are two excerpts from a mini-fic i’m writing about morigah just to try and give her a story post-daggerfall. also serves as a backstory for my hok. i really want to portray how morgiah, barenziah, and helseth are still very much connected to dunmeri culture in their actions and ideas, but also how they may feel disconnected from it at times (especially morgiah).

1.

For as long as she could remember, the Dunmer was forced to move and adapt to her surroundings in the name of survival. Soon after her father was killed in a peasant uprising, Morgiah’s mother, Barenziah, had promptly swept her and her brother to High Rock with no hesitancy or remorse for the life they were leaving behind. The culture of Morrowind, of her province and her people, was taken from her in the blink of an eye. Suddenly she was no longer praying to Vivec, but to Akatosh. Her Dunmeris dialect warped into the Breton language, just as the ashfall turned into rainfall. It was difficult to leave behind a culture so proud and, at one point, mighty. But, true to her house of Hlaalu, the young princess learned very quickly the necessity of assimilation, even if her heart was elsewhere. Barenziah taught her children to be cunning and resourceful, and in that the small family stayed true to their Dunmeri roots. 

Their life in Wayrest was bland, Morgiah had hated it even as a child, but they were comfortable and safe. As she grew, she knew nothing good would come out of her step-father’s wretched daughter Elysana. She’d been correct, of course; Elysana conspired against Morgiah’s brother Helseth for King Eadwyre’s throne. With a succession war on the horizon, she threw herself at the first reasonably handsome royal she met. After a bit of plotting and a few years of engagement, she did the impossible and married an Altmer king, Reman Karoodil of Firsthold. Once again the sly Dunmer was learning the customs of a new land, with her fingers crossed behind her back and a totem of Boethiah hidden behind her mirror.

2.

Arriving at the center district of the city, Morgiah took the time to pay more attention to her surroundings. The gates to Mournhold’s castle were large, but not very extravagant, and the structure was built more like a military fortress than a palace. Where on a palace on Auridon there would be large, rounded crystalline towers, there were instead rectangular columns with sharp edges. The architecture was a strange mix of Dunmeri-Imperial, the spots that were rebuilt after Tiber Septim sacked the city obvious and out of place. It was intimidating, to say the least, and not very pleasant to the eye. The building loomed over her, so tall she could barely see the peaks. She suddenly felt foreign and small, and as if the eyes of a million of her ancestors were hidden in the stones, watching her. 

Morgiah had dreamt of returning to Morrowind, to her homeland. But was this really her homeland anymore? Her previous feelings of belonging were suddenly beginning to fade. Judging by the looks she’d gotten from commonfolk, she was seen as little more than an outlander. 

Avrusa had nearly turned the entire room inside out. 

Bed sheets and once-folded robes thrown about the floor, furniture tipped over. Notes from the desk drawer falling through the air as the mage searched and searched for a clue, a drop of blood, something, anything to give her a hint as to where the assassin had gone. Her hastily lit magelight (as she’d been too frantic to take the time to light candles) flickered and went out, and she made a frustrated grunt. She tried to conjure another, stronger one, but her mind was filled with too much worry and her magicka wouldn’t agree with her. Avrusa clumsily lit the candles in the room with a match, too panic-stricken to calm herself down enough to control her magicka properly. 

It was as if the other Dunmer had simply disappeared! Until the tornado that was Avrusa Ra’athim came into the hideout room, nothing had been out of the ordinary. The bed was properly made, there were no signs of any sort of scuffle or forced entry into the hideout. The bowl on the table that normally held ash yams was empty, but that was the only thing that wasn’t normal. Did the ash yam thief kidnap her? No, again, there was no sign of anything like that. No Morag Tong assassin would go down without a fight. But if they found her in her sleep…

Avrusa wracked her brain, any and all enemies she could’ve made coming to the forefront. She cringed. Too many daedric princes she’d managed to get on the bad side of came to mind. Nocturnal was too calculating, and Sotha Sil had at the very least severely wounded her. Clavicus Vile? That was a possibility. Maybe he wanted to strike her before she could-

No. That was ridiculous. Princes rarely, if ever, meddled with the mortal world. She would be naive to think one would go so far as to kidnap her… friend, just to get vengeance. She wasn’t that important. A lesser daedra, perhaps? Or maybe not even a daedra at all. Some remaining followers of Vox or Chodala. Someone her house had angered, getting revenge at the Hlaalu council through her. Did they know she was an assassin? Avrusa melted to her knees, suddenly lacking the energy to search through the mess she’d made. Short, harsh breaths were forcing their way out of her lungs. Damn the Great Houses and damn their housewars. Damn the daedra and Pact and the Morag Tong. If Naryu was harmed she would raise Oblivion through all of Vvardenfell and Deshaan and-

“What’s this, then? That magic of yours finally get to your head and leave you soulsick?”

The mage’s head snapped up, her eyes glassy with tears threatening to spill. The air was knocked out of her lungs in relief; Naryu Virian stood before her, very much alive. The assassin stared at her with a smirk that attempted to mask her absolutely bewildered state. She was dressed in the leathers of her organization, her hair longer than normal, falling just before her collarbones. Avrusa wanted to tackle her right there, to take her into her bed and never let her go again. Why would she just leave like that? Why would she make her worry? What was she doing?

“Where were you?” She asked innocently. She was surrounded by crumpled parchment and drawers that had been torn out of their dressers. Jet black locks of hair that were normally pinned neatly into style were wild and frizzed and her makeup was smudged from exasperated gestures. Naryu didn’t know if she wanted to laugh at her or kiss her. 

“I had other matters to attend to that didn’t involve you, for once,” The words could have sounded harsh but Naryu said them in the same light-hearted teasing tone that they so often spoke to each other with. “I am a Morag Tong assassin, if you remember. We have duties from time to time.”

“…Ah.”

A faint flush was beginning to appear in Avrusa’s cheeks, embarrassment at her actions starting to overcome the relief she felt at seeing Naryu alive. She tore her gaze away from the other Dunmer and looked at her hands, fiddling with a piece of rogue paper. Three, this was humiliating.

“Were you… worried for me?” Naryu had a smile on her face that was much too large for Avrusa’s liking.

“No!” Avrusa coughed. “No, I wasn’t- I simply was wondering why you weren’t here. I figured, maybe…”

“Maybe I’d been taken by some new dark enemy of yours? Do you have that little faith in me?” She knelt down besides Avrusa’s ashamed face, pushing clutter out of the way. “How would you know I hadn’t run off with some secret lover?”

Avrusa scoffed and jumped to her feet. She neatened her hair the best she could and began cleaning up the mess she’d created. Of course Naryu was just trying to push her buttons, but that didn’t make it any less obnoxious of her. Whatever they’d had these past months, this odd little affair was confusing and treacherous waters for Avrusa, but she did not take it lightly. She never took anything lightly, to tell the truth.

“If that’s the case then why are you here? Shouldn’t you be sunbathing in the Isles with said ‘secret lover’?” She turned her nose up at Naryu and began putting books back on shelves. She was scared for a moment that Naryu was going to continue the playful bickering, but to her relief she felt gentle but firm arms wrap around her waist and a chin set on her shoulder. She let out a breath. 

“When I’m not out and about murdering House nobles, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be than with you, my darling,” Avrusa smiled and held the women’s arms close to her. “And to your credit I find it adorable that you were worried for me. Not that you needed to be, I could take down a daedric prince in an instant.”

“You’re right. If it had been you in the Clockwork City, Nocturnal would’ve barely stood a chance.”

“I’m glad someone finally recognizes my capability.”

Naryu turned Avrusa around and laid a gentle kiss on her forehead before guiding her to the bed on the right wall of the small room. Ignoring the chaos around them, they opted to shed their armor and spend the night with a bottle of wine in eachothers arms. 

There were many things Avrusa didn’t know. She didn’t know what would come of the Three Banners war. She didn’t know if the Ebonhart Pact would survive, or what would come of this mysterious call to the Summerset Isles she’d gotten. What she did know for certain was that the Morag Tong assassin in her arms was the only thing grounding her to sanity through it all. And by the Three, was she in love with her.

Morrowind was not a pleasant place. Seyrena had known that even before the prison ship had docked in the waters of Seyda Neen. Even the other Dunmer in Cyrodiil spoke of the ashy air, unpleasant patrons, and the lingering scent of tar that followed wherever one went. The province was disagreeable even at its best, and on nights like tonight she longed for rolling hills and sweet-smelling lavender fields of Cyrodiil.

Because… well, Cyrodiil was her home, was it not? It was the only place she ever remembered being. Cyrodiil was where she grew up, where she learned her trade and fell in love for the first time and where she’d made her mistakes. Mistakes that had landed her here. In Morrowind. A hot, unfamiliar, wretched land.

It should be unfamiliar, at least. Recently it had felt more and more like home. She did not want Morrowind to feel like home. She never asked for any of this. She never asked to be the savior of an ancestral land she’d never even been to. She never asked to be the incarnate of a man who’d died so long ago his existence was unfathomable. Never asked to be forced to bring the downfall of three fervently worshipped gods, one of whom had given her a welcome she did not deserve. Never asked to have to stand over the corpses of two mer who she apparently once called friends in a life she didn’t remember. Never asked tofeel like she’d killed her own friends. 

Seyrena sighed deeply and took another swig of the unknown drink. It tasted like guar piss but it got her intoxicated and that was all she cared about. That, and the fact that the patrons of the small tavern in Pelagiad hadn’t a clue who she was. If she had to hear the title ‘Nerevarine’ one more time she would certainly slice the fingers off of whatever poor soul it was who’d said it. 

No, to the Dunmer of the Halfway Tavern she was just any old Empire-assimilated Dunmer. An outlander; a term she’d hated when she first arrived in Morrowind but longed to be called again. She was an outlander. Her own personal feelings of the Empire aside, she was of the Empire. Raised in Cyrodiil. There was nothing else she knew and nothing else she wanted to know.

A year ago that was how it had been. The alcohol in her hand let her pretend that’s how it still was.

“If you’re not careful there, elf, you’ll drink yourself to death with that,” A voice mumbled from a few feet beside her. She looked up from the corner she was sitting in. A grizzly-looking Nord man sat on the bench to the right of her, watching the bard sing and swing with harsh eyes. His clothes were splattered with dirt and grime and his hand gripped a large wooden mug. The stench of alcohol filled her nose even with his distance from her and she wondered how he was one to talk.

“I can handle my drinks just fine, Nord,” She replied coolly, also averting her eyes to the bard. A pretty young Breton woman playing the lute and singing tales of dragons. Seyrena was glad there were no songs written about her feats just yet.

The man laughed a hearty but mocking laugh and she scowled at him. She hadn’t said anything funny.

“You Dark Elves wouldn’t know drink if it slapped you in the arse,” He was looking at her now with a dangerously mocking smile. 

“Well, I grew up in Cyrodiil so I’d wager I know more than you think I do,” She took another sip of her drink as if to prove a point. “And whatever this is, it’s certainly better than that poor excuse for alcohol you call mead.”

He laughed again, and again she did not know what she said that was so funny.

“Imperials are even worse!” He managed to breathe out between howling laughs. He was obviously very drunk if he found a conversation about beverages so hilarious. Seyrena turned away from him and went back to festering in her own misery and regret and longing for a life that no longer existed. She’d rather that than any sort of conversation with a drunken man.

Apparently the gods were again, not on her side and Nords were unable to take obvious hints, because he continued speaking to her. Spoke to her about his homeland(“If this were Skyrim I’d teach you a thing or two about mead, lass”), about how he was grateful the Empire was reigning in the uncivilized Dunmer(“Imperials are good for something, at least”), and finally, about the pretty little Breton girl dancing along to her tunes. 

“They don’t make them like that in Skyrim,” He grunted, watching the bard with a look that made Seyrena’s stomach twist. “We Nords are beasts of men, good for fighting and drinking. But it makes for unflattering women at the very least.” 

Her anger was only growing at this point, fingertips clenching into her own fists. The young woman was simply trying to make coin, perform, and havefun. She didn’t need some malodorous man twice her age commenting on her appearance. If Skyrim was so much better then maybe he should return. 

“Is that why you’re here instead of Skyrim? Because of the unflatteringwomen?” Her tone was cold but the man was too drunk to notice.

“Ha! No, despite her flaws I’d return in a heartbeat, if I could. I’ve been exiled for one reason or another.”

Well, wasn’t that poetic. 

The Nord stood, steadying himself on a wooden post and slamming his mug on the table. Seyrena narrowed her eyes. 

“Well, I’d best be off. Better if I talk to the bard before some other skeever can get his hands on- hey! W-What’re ‘ya doin’?”

Perhaps it was the alcohol, or her desire to protect the Breton girl, or maybe it was just because she’d had the worst year of her life. But Seyrena found herself with her longsword drawn and pointed to the Nord’s throat, his eyes wide with fear and hands up in surrender. So much for the mighty warrior. 

She was also, suddenly, very aware of the people in the room with her; as they’d all turned to stare at the quiet Dunmer in the corner with her sword to a man. Pelagiad was a quiet and no-nonsense settlement. They weren’t quite sure what to make of the scene. And then, her voice rang out from the crowd. 

“Rena? What on Nirn-“

Mehra pushed her way to the front of the forming crowd. She looked as beautiful as ever, dressed in a quaint traveler’s garb with her hickory-colored hair let loose to fall over her shoulders. She looked quite different from the Temple-apprentice Seyrena had met what felt like so long ago; older, only by a year, but her eyes held the same burden Seyrena’s did. Seyrena swallowed. Mehra didn’t deserve to be weighed down by her troubles.

Mehra pulled her ash-cover down from over her face, looking incredulously at the scene Seyrena had created. Seyrena couldn’t fully tell if the look on her face was one of disappointment or defeat. 

Before her lover could even get a word out, Drelasa came marching over, huffing something about outlanders. Seyrena rolled her eyes. 

“Mehra, I am fond of you but if your friend is going to cause scenes in my tavern you’ll never see the inside of it again!” Drelasa wagged her finger in Mehra’s face and Seyrena had the impulse to swing her sword and cut it off. 

“I know, Publican, I-“ Mehra turned to Seyrena, her eyes pleading. “Rena, please. It’s a day long trip back to Seyda Neen.”

Seyrena scoffed and looked back to the Nord who was now backed up against the wall. “You leave that girl alone or I’ll cut off your hands and stitch your lips shut.”

The Nord nodded, and she lowered her sword. He scurried off like a mouse out of the Inn to the border of the Ascadian Isles and the Bitter Coast. 

She defeatedly let Mehra take her sword from her and place it back in its sheath on her back. The Publican was still watching them, arms crossed and tapping her foot. 

“It won’t happen again, Drelasa. I apologize on behalf of both of us.” Mehra sounded sincerely sorry and Seyrena felt a pang of guilt. 

“You’re damn right it won’t happen again. B’vehk, it’s every other night with you two.”

Mehra took Seyrena’s hand and led her to their room. The latter Dunmer’s head was held low, not out of shame but in an effort to keep any patron from doing a double-take on her. “Hey, aren’t you that…”

When the two reached privacy, Mehra’s fist promptly collided with Seyrena’s shoulder. Much harder than she’d expected the mage would’ve been capable of. 

“Ow,” She muttered, rubbing the raw skin. Mehra’s gaze was as fiery as her palms in battle, and Seyrena found herself unable to meet it. 

“Why do you do these things to us? Do you want to have to walk miles in ash to find a new place to stay again?”

“He was being a s’wit,” She silently cursed herself for using the Dunmeris term. This was not her home.

“So was the Imperial Guardsman in Suran, and the Telvanni Noble in Sadrith Mora, oh! And, of course, the poor fellow who simply wanted your autograph in-“

“Alright! Alright, I get it. I ruin everything I touch. I’m sorry.”

Seyrena took a seat on the bed and pulled Mehra to stand in front of her. Apologies weren’t her strong suit. It was hard to apologize to someone else for your actions when you couldn’t forgive yourself for them. So, she intertwined their hands and looked up at her with the most apologetic eyes she could muster, her actions speaking the words that got lost in her throat. 

Mehra sighed. “You don’t ruin everything.”

“I do.”

“You don’t. In fact, you make many things quite grand,” She smiled and Seyrena, who smiled back despite herself. “You saved me, for instance. You saved Morrowind. Twice.”

Seyrena’s smile dropped and she moved away from the other woman, laying down on the bed and turning the other way. She wished Morrowind just did not exist at this moment. 

“I doomed it, more like,” She said. “Doomed to it to a future of political discourse and perhaps even religious wars.”

“That is inevitable for this country.”

Seyrena made a sound of exasperation and sat up again. “You don’t understand, Mehra. I know what is good for Morrowind. I don’t know how and I truly wish I didn’t, but I do. And this was not. Yes, Dagoth Ur had to die. The Blight had to end. But how can you diminish everything a country believes in, how can you kill-“ Her voice caught and tears threatened to spill from her eyes, which she absolutely would not allow. “How can you kill a goddess who has spent thousands of years keeping a country and it’s people afloat and expect everything to be the same, or better?”

“Almalexia went mad. It wasn’t your fault.”

“But she wouldn’t have!” Seyrena cried, frustrated that Mehra couldn’t understand what she was saying. “She wouldn’t have if it wasn’t for my existence! Everyone keeps telling me I am a blessing, that this prophecy Azura created is a blessing; it’s a curse, Mehra. It’s a curse of vengeance and I don’t want to be a part of it. I never did. I don’t want this,” The Moon-And-Star ring slipped off her finger and was thrown across the room. The tears were now falling freely from Seyrena’s face. “I’d rather have been executed for my crimes in Cyrodiil. It would’ve been merciful.”

Mehra was quiet, and now she was the one who couldn’t look at Seyrena. It was silent for what could’ve been hours. 

“There’s so much blood on my hands and no matter how often I wash them it won’t go away. Please, just make it go away.”

Still not speaking, Mehra pulled the Nerevarine into her arms and held her as she sobbed. There were no words that could be spoken to comfort her at that moment, she knew that. But it broke her heart to watch the woman who she viewed as a hero come undone before her. 

Eventually Seyrena pulled away from her, dried tears stuck to her face. Her eyes were wide and bright and Mehra wanted to latch onto her before she realized the vulnerability she’d showed and promptly went to bed. 

“I want to go east,” She said, surprising Mehra. 

“East? Like, back to Azura’s Coast? I suppose-“

The Nerevarine shook her head. “No. Farther. I want to leave Tamriel. I want to see something else, anything else.”

Mehra’s mouth opened and closed a few times. “But-“ She’d heard stories of other continents on Nirn, and none of them were good.

For a moment she believed her beloved had lost her mind right there and then. That the stress was too much to handle. But Seyrena’s eyes were dead serious and her composure was eerily calm. 

“Will you join me?”

ESO: Morrowind is free to everyone starting now

Just an FYI for those who don’t own it or haven’t played it yet! Starting now and for the foreseeable future, Morrowind is free to everyone.

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