“Spare me! I beg of you! I will not resist imprisonment!”
Celayane’s heel dug deeper into the brutish mans throat, her face set like stone and the tip of her sword pressed against his cheek. The man let out a pathetic whimper, eyes darting to the bodies of his fallen brethren, their blood seeping into the snow around them. The elf had been stronger, faster, better than any of them had anticipated. Two Atmorans lay dead in the snow before the others even had time to register what she’d done.
The mer’s brow furrowed and her stance faltered as the man continued to beg. She wished she was still clueless to the language of the strange invaders, she wished she could pretend his words were insults and taunts. Instead she picked up broken snippets of words like ‘surrender’ and ‘please’, and she was not so deluded as to believe he was saying anything but a surrender. She knew the man didn’t deserve her mercy. He wore the same face as the ones who killed her brother and strung him in front of Eculbal for all of Tamriel to see. He lived the same life as the ones who’d humiliated and enslaved her. The longtime peace her people had developed had been tarnished because of him. He did not deserve sympathy.
Her ice blue eyes fixed on him for a long moment, before she stepped away harshly spat out a word, “Auta.” The Atmoran didn’t understand her language, but the meaning was clear. Go, before I change my mind.
Celayane watched him stumble away as he disappeared into the wind and snow, and continued to stare where he had been long after he was no longer visible. The Lyrbor she knew would have been proud of her, though that gave her no comfort. Would he still have smiled at her weakness if he had seen the things she’d seen? If he had watched as their people were slaughtered by the thousands, if he had seen her bloodied and bruised dressed in a slave’s rags? He had been the kindest mer she’d ever known, but she doubted even he would have mercy on the man.
It had been weeks, quite possibly months, since she’d escaped the half-built city. The days were filled with nothing but snow and ice, her only source of warmth was her own magicka. Only the tears in Aetherius assured her she was travelling northwest, though she had no idea how far she needed to travel. She had left Atmoran territory, but every settlement she’d come across had been burned to the ground. Was the Prince even still alive, or had he too succumbed to the men? Nothing was clear anymore.
Some days she considered laying in the snow and allowing the frost to take her. It was not the worst death. It was custom for willing Falmer, sickly from illness or old age, to let the snow peacefully take their souls. Would that be so awful? To die in a traditional way, never allowing the men to take that from her? But every time the thought crossed her mind, she realized it would be. The intel she’d learned while being held captive was too important. Her people stood little chance, but with the information she held the chance increased greatly.
Besides, her death would never be peaceful. Not until her empire knew peace as well.
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.
Long after the events of Skyrim, a dying Einarth reflects on the fatal misjudgment that led him to High Hrothgar.
I miss my voice as one might miss a limb. I am not quite whole without it. When I had it, I never put it to good use. I have served the world better this way, and I did not come here to be made complete.
Even before I made my vows, I knew that silence was beautiful—lonely, but beautiful. I have never known the two to live apart. So it wasn’t a sacrifice when I left home to live and die at the Throat of the World. I came here to better love my lifelong companion. In silence, there is solace. I am welcome. I am safe.
I defy my vow by writing this. But have I not served well, and faithfully? My tongue is all but severed. I have lived longer than Men were meant to. My Voice has been made into a weapon I cannot use. I am a vessel, a conduit. There is so little of me left.
Brothers, if you ever felt love for me in all our soundless, hallowed years, if that one human thing has not been taken from us, too, then I beg you to indulge me.
The hardest thing to give up wasn’t the sound of my own voice, the sight of my own face, or the warmth of another living being. It wasn’t the blue sky in the morning, or the steady roar of the river at night. It was the color green—the verdant flush of the Reach in full bloom swallowing the valley whole, and me along with it.
I can still see it in my mind. The mountain flowers turn sunward. The birds swoop low and skim the grass. The valley sings.
You must listen for it. It is not something you happen to hear. You must anticipate it, and expect it.
Saved posting this… but here are the disaster lesbians themseves: Brelyna Maryon and Myfanwy Caldevwin for @dumpsterhipster’s fic “A Fistful of Stars” over on A03 ♥
Please read the fic btw, I cannot recommend it enough. If you love cozy coming-of-age stories, WINTERHOLD, mages, magic and idiot babies, this is the fic for you <3 <3
