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Chapter Text

It had been only two days since Sarros had last consumed any of his carefully rationed skooma, believing against better knowledge that it would last long enough to make it to Dagoth-Ur; but he was a fool, and the skooma had no mercy.

Roused from his dream, vaguely remembering how exciting it had been about to become, he scrambled to his feet, stumbling as far away from his bedroll as he could make it before bile made its way up his throat. His last meal was a distant memory, thankfully; he barely felt hungry these days, and appreciated not having to regurgitate bites of scrib jerky.

Less appreciated was the pain that had by now taken over his entire body. There was no way around it; he had to drink more of the sweet nectar or never make it to the facility. Maybe one day Wraithguard would be found with the decayed remains of his hand still in it if he died here; maybe it would be considered lost. Sarros could not bring himself to care.

Moon-and-Star caught in his matted, oily hair as he brushed it from his face to see the bottle he had dug up from his dilapidated old leather knapsack, and Sarros cursed as he tore his hand free, not caring about the strands he ripped from his scalp.

Hair, skin, pack, clothes; every part of him, everything he owned but the ring was a uniform grey from the continued ash storms that hounded him every step of the journey.

Not much red on Red Mountain, he thought as he uncorked it and took a sip. Oh, how he would have liked to drain the entire bottle in one go, and then continue with the remaining two he still had; but who knew when he would be able to get more? He licked his lips, ensuring there was not the smallest drop left on them, and, struggling against his desires, closed it as securely as he could, before shoving it back into his pack.

There was nothing to do but lie back on his bedroll and wait – it, too, was coated with ash, and smelled just like him; of sweat and dust and blood. Wounds that refused to heal covered his body, inflamed from lack of care and the inescapable ash; he had nothing to bandage them with, let alone any healing potions. It was pure luck that none of them were major – and the Divine Disease stopped them from poisoning his blood.

If he ever made it back to Sadrith Mora, he would make his first and only decree as Archmagister: Restoration would become a mandatory school of magic for every Telvanni to study, no matter how undignified his fellow dunmer considered its use.

Before long, the skooma did its work, to the limited extent such a small amount could, and he felt more alert, less drained; the pain faded from his body, leaving only the aching injuries. Time for the final steps of his journey.

One might expect the entrance to such a feared and ancient place as Dagoth-Ur to be a grand gate, embellished and heavily guarded, one that might open only for the creatures inside to tear them limb from limb, but it was an ordinary dwemer gate, like all the others he had gone through. There were no security measures at all, unless one counted the extreme heat from the caldera that threatened to knock him unconscious. Maybe he would melt if he stood here long enough? Sarros headed inside.

At first, he saw nobody; neither the feral, mindless slaves, nor their intelligent masters. Aside from the endless thumping, creaking and groaning of the ancient, arcane machinery and pipes that accompanied every dwemer city, it was quiet. Sarros had expected an immediate attack, or at least a curious group of cultists watching him enter, but he had to take multiple flights of stairs down into the bowels of the facility before he finally met someone. Something? It was an ash ghoul, clearly, but Sarros had never found out whether they were, as a majority, intelligent or not; most attacked him on sight, speaking not a single word.

This one was perfectly capable of speech. “The Master waits for you, Lord Nerevar”.

The voice, masculine, harsh and raspy, was oddly familiar, though Sarros had met too many people lately – or variants thereof – to place it. He sounded much like any other dunmer, really, if a little nasal; the appendage that had replaced his face surely played a role in that.

“How do you know me?” Sarros asked as he approached the creature. Once, he had feared them, but no longer. Ash creatures that spoke, he had learned, rarely attacked him unless he provoked them into action. “I know your voice.”

“Of course you do, Lord Nerevar, you have killed me before. I am Dagoth Gares; I had the pleasure to share the Master’s blessing with you. He anticipated your arrival and sent me to welcome you.” The thin-lipped mouth beneath his twitching trunk stretched into an unpleasant, manic smile. What a blessing the disease was indeed.

“I remember you, alright.” Sarros thought he should be at least a little irritated to meet the ash ghoul again, but he was far too exhausted. “I’m taking your Master up on his offer. Bring me to him, I have something he wants.”

The dunmer felt beads of sweat travel down his spine; not something he was used to, but the heat in the facility was oppressive, nearly unbearable. Gares was clearly not bothered at all; either ash ghouls were immune to the heat, or it was possible to get used to it. Either way, Sarros envied him as he followed him, aching for a sip of cold water.

On their journey, which they spent in silence, more and more of Dagoth Ur’s followers appeared, news of the Nerevarine’s arrival travelling quickly through the facility. A whole host of dreamers and ash creatures appeared in doorways, crossed their path accidentally, or walked past them in the narrow corridors, sometimes twice. All of them looked intrigued, at least those whose expressions Sarros could read, and he could hear them mutter as they passed. Fragments of their whispered conversations revealed a mix of excitement and doubt; was he the one? Another failure?

Well, considering he was about to surrender Wraithguard to Dagoth Ur, one might indeed call him a failed Incarnate…

…If one ignored that the purpose of the Nerevarine was not to take down Dagoth Ur, but the Tribunal; Azura’s prophecy was quite clear on that matter in Sarros’ opinion. Voryn Dagoth had been dead when the prophecy was made, and he never laid a hand on her beloved champion in violence. Or so Sarros believed; but she had yet to strike him down in fury for his betrayal.

As they neared the Heart – Sarros could feel its incessant beat, had felt it since he first passed the Ghostgate, growing ever stronger the closer he got – he saw mer among the dreamers who were notably different and very few in number. The one feature they had in common were three eyes, staring at him with the same fascination the other cultists wore on their faces.

One he remembered meeting in Kogoruhn, though his name escaped him. One looked ready to break his neck on the spot. One smiled at him with painted lips and kindness in his eyes.

Gares left him to enter the chamber where he was to meet Dagoth Ur on his own, and Sarros felt anxiety rise in his chest.

This place had not seen the hands of the dwemer, it seemed, beyond levelling the ground just enough to walk on. Large braziers lit the path before him, leading to a large, tiered structure reminiscent of the cult’s altars. There, he expected to see the mer who haunted his dreams, but the closer he came, the more certain he felt that he was alone.

A long staircase, set into the middle of the structure and flanked by the familiar dark banners, led to a pair of empty thrones. One of them, Sarros realized with an unpleasant twinge in his stomach, must have been reserved for him.

As he reached the bottom of the stairs, wondering if he should climb them, a pair of thin, long-fingered hands clasped his shoulders, their touch light, tender. Nevertheless, Sarros froze on the spot, heart seizing with fear; he could see claws from the corner of his eye, painted bloody red, and knew they could only belong to one mer.

“Welcome, Moon-and-Star. You must not fear me; too long have I awaited your arrival to cause you harm now.”

One claw grazed his cheek, sending a shiver down Sarros’ spine, followed by a sense of relaxation; Dagoth Ur had invited him here, had he not? Why would he hurt him?

He turned to face his host, and though he knew what to expect, his breath caught in his throat as he stared up at the mask, breathed in the scent of ash and incense that hung about the ancient mer. Sarros was utterly transfixed.

“Your soul calls to me, Nerevar,” Dagoth Ur continued as he cupped his face with one hand, keeping him from averting his eyes, “yet your vessel is full of doubt. I hoped…” this voice trailed off as he shook his head. “I waited three thousand years. I can be patient a little longer; take time to convince you. It will not do to move too fast.”

With visible reluctance, he removed his hand, and Sarros thought he felt his skin burn. The words barely registered as his eyes travelled over bare skin covering lean muscle, took in the sight of the black silk that was Dagoth Ur’s hair.

“I believe we have some business to take care of first – a small display of your desire to serve me. I see you have brought Wraithguard to me.”

“Y-yes, Lord Dagoth,” Sarros stuttered as he pulled back the threadbare sleeve of his robe, struggling to undo the ancient clasps holding the gauntlet in place with trembling fingers. Shaking his head, Dagoth Ur gently pushed his hand aside and undid them for him. Briefly, Sarros felt the weight of his betrayal on his shoulders; but the sensation faded as quickly as it had come. Dagoth Ur and Azura both longed for the downfall of the Tribunal; maybe this is what was how he was meant to achieve it.

“It has been so many years, and yet Wraithguard remains familiar in my hands. Finally, Morrowind will be freed from the yoke of the Tribunal and the filth of the Empire; all thanks to you, Nerevar.”

A sudden cheer startled Sarros from his reverie. Paying attention to the room behind the mer for the first time, he found it crowded with Dagoth Ur’s servants, crying out with excitement and reverence, some of them falling to their knees. Their words of praise for Lord Nerevar bled together into a painful cacophony, and Sarros felt the overwhelming urge to run, horrified by the attention.

“They love you, Nerevar, as they should. Rejoice, for soon you too will be blessed by the Heart, and they will be at your beck and call, ready to lay down their lives in your name as much as mine, like the chimer of old.”

If that appeal to whatever shred of Nerevar’s soul remained inside him was meant to calm him, it certainly failed, doing the opposite. On weak legs, Sarros stumbled backwards, shaking his head. “I- I don’t want them to serve me,” he muttered, inaudible over the noise. “I’m not worthy!”

This time, Dagoth Ur caught him by the arm to keep him from falling, and his touch was not so tender anymore, the claws digging painfully into Sarros skin. “You will not embarrass me,” he hissed, “with your misplaced fear.”

With that, he dragged him to a door leading off the side of the room, engraved with the visage of a dwemer and text in their language Sarros could not decipher. Not that he cared as he struggled to stay on his feet, barely able to keep pace with Dagoth Ur’s long strides.

They left the servants behind as the gate closed behind them, and Sarros thought that this was not at all what the dreams had promised.

Any thoughts about his situation were wiped from Sarros’ mind when the cavern opened up before him, revealing a gigantic construct of what he assumed was dwemer design, tall enough to pluck the Ministry of Truth from the sky, illuminated by the fiery core of the mountain. It was clearly not completed yet, but the tiny forms of labourers climbed and crawled all over it, and much of their work was already done.

Unlike any other dwemer construct, however, the giant was not made of metal, aside from its incomplete armour and the exposed pipes in its gaping chest; the closer they came, the more obvious it became that, aside from the bones of his ribcage and unfinished hands, it was made entirely of pulsing, reeking corprusflesh.

For the first time since entering the facility, Sarros felt cold. This was Akulakhan, he realized, as described in the plans Vivec had shown him.

Morrowind would be doomed as soon as the construction of this hideous thing was finished.

“Behold the fruits of my labour, Nerevar!” Dagoth Ur exclaimed, voice ripe with pride. “Akulakhan, god of my own creation, infused with the power of the Heart of Lorkhan. None will stand against us.”

Perhaps he expected Sarros to voice his agreement, cheer at the prospect of the construct taking down entire armies, but he was speechless.

Dagoth Ur appeared to understand his silence as approval, finally loosening his grip on Sarros’ arm.

“Alas, there is much work still left to do, and in the meantime, I will make you worthy of your place by my side.”

Hours later, in a ritual chamber, skin bare aside from a white loincloth, Sarros knelt at the foot of an altar, sweat beading on his skin, forcefully tuning out the atonal music that filled the chamber. It was a discordant chorus of dark voices, exhilarated at the prospect of witnessing their new Lord be initiated into the Sixth House.

A cleansing ritual had washed away the filth from Sarros’ skin, and with it, it seemed, his fears and doubts, leaving behind only anticipation of his future.

“Raise your head, Nerevar,” Dagoth Ur instructed. Sarros obeyed gladly, drinking in the striking sight of him; red silk had been draped over his body, and jewellery – the same he wore in dreams – adorned him now.

“To become one with the Sixth House, you must eat of my flesh and drink of my blood.”

On cue, two ash ghouls approached them from each side, one holding a ritual blade, the other a plate of corprusmeat. Sarros was to consume the flesh first. What would have made him sick at any other time now made him salivate, and it tasted sweet, not rotten as his teeth eagerly tore through it. A murmur went through the crowd once he had devoured it, and Sarros thought he heard approval in Dagoth Ur’s voice.

“Blood, to wash down your meal…”

The ash ghoul handed him the small dagger. Dagoth Ur drew it across his palm with no hesitation, blood spilling from the deep cut.

“Drink.”

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 eye.

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

Chapter Text

With no recollection how he got there, Sarros woke up in a bed. A real, soft bed, with proper pillows and a clean blanket. Aside from his sweat soaking through it, of course the room was as hot as every other corner of the facility.

It had nothing to do with the fact that his body already demanded another dose of skooma.

The noise of the dwemer machinery was distant here, and the walls, floor and ceiling were made of chiselled rock, rather than the usual metal.

By no means was it quiet here; wherever this place was must have been close to the Heart, as he could hear it beating loudly, matching the rhythm of the pounding behind his forehead. A thought bubbled up in his sluggish mind – What had been in the incense they had used during the ritual? – but it faded as he took in his surroundings properly.

The room was nice.

Of course, it was decorated to represent the Sixth House, in the inescapable red and black they loved so much, but aside from that, it featured the exceptionally comfortable bed, a desk, a wardrobe, a full bookshelf – far more luxury than he had enjoyed in months. For how much everyone insisted that he was supposed to be the hero to save Morrowind, nobody really put much effort into making the Nerevarine comfortable.

Still dressed only in the loincloth, he slipped out of bed onto a thick, soft rug, to splash some water from a washbasin in the corner on his face. Feeling a little more conscious, he noticed something unusual; there was a pipe leading from the ceiling to the washbasin, and another from the basin to the floor. A spigot had been attached to the pipe, like one would find on a cask of wine.

Realizing what it must be for, but in utter disbelief that something like it was possible, especially in the middle of a volcano, Sarros opened the spigot. Water splashed into the basin, and when he turned a knob at the bottom of the basin, the used water drained into the pipe.

“By the Gods!” he exclaimed, only to instantly feel stupid. Of course the dwemer would have running water. He had seen enough of their pumps, why would they not be used to make daily life more convenient?

He watched the water flow over his fingers for a bit, wondering how he ever lived without this. Next time he returned to Tel Uvirith, he would have to have a system like this installed, save himself the magicka to conjure water all the time.

Once the novelty wore off, he washed himself with some odd, dark soap – it smelled of ash, like everything else on Red Mountain – even if he was just going to be covered in sweat again in a minute.

‘Time to learn how to enchant things,’ he thought, ‘surely there must be a cooling enchantment out there to make this blasted heat bearable…’

A mirror had been mounted above the sink, and Sarros looked at himself with surprise. Someone seemed to have healed his wounds – his skin was not only whole, but free of scars. Thankful to his unknown benefactor, he dried himself off and explored the rest of the chamber, braiding down the mess of hair on his head as he did so.

Soap was not the only thing he had been given; on the desk, a large carafe of water and a cup sat next to his clothes, cleaned and neatly folded, along with a plate of bread and fruit. Comberries and a… Pomegranate? Sarros had never even tried one, they were far too expensive to justify buying.

Nibbling on a slice of bread after draining half the carafe, not bothering with a cup, he inspected another pile of clothes beside his. Light black robes embroidered with insects in red thread around the hems – ‘Imagine using different colours,' Sarros thought with a snort. When he unfolded them for a better look, a note fell out.

“You are expected to dress appropriately,” was all it said, with no signature. The handwriting was not that of Dagoth Ur, that much Sarros knew. To his shame, he had read the letter Gares had on him in Ilunibi over and over and would recognize it in his sleep. Had to be some servant, then.

“Fine, I’ll wear your clothes.” His own were much too heavy for the heart of a volcano, anyway.

The simple motion of slipping the sleeveless robes over his head made him dizzy, and the water and bread soon began roiling in his stomach. Warning signs of oncoming withdrawal. Without a second thought, he reached for his knapsack at the foot of the bed, holding a cork in one hand and an open skooma bottle in the other before realizing that he could not afford to use it while he was still relatively well.

Just as he reluctantly put the bottle away again, the door opened. Sarros expected a servant, but it was Dagoth Ur himself.

Shocked by the unexpected arrival, Sarros practically threw himself on the floor to kneel, muttering some incoherent mix of greeting and apology, immediately regretting the move as his dizziness turned into nausea.

“Are you a servant, Nerevar? Stand up.”

Sarros did as he asked. He looked up at the mask, ears deep red with embarrassment. At least the mer seemed amused rather than annoyed.

“I chose well, the robes suit you,” he continued, instead of lingering on his blunder.

Looking down at his body as if seeing the garment for the first time, Sarros thanked him for the compliment, and silence fell between them. A most uncomfortable, tense silence.

“I, uhm,” Sarros started, faltering as he stared at the gleaming mask. What on Nirn was he supposed to say to a god?

With a most worldly shrug, Dagoth Ur manoeuvred him to sit down on the bed, taking the chair for himself. “To be frank, Nerevar, I do not know what to do with you now. I expected that you would simply be yourself. Maybe we would discuss your betrayal, or engage in more… pleasant actions, but you are clearly not the man I remember.”

It was true, of course, although Sarros wondered how exactly he had come to this conclusion without any prior conversation. Surely even Indoril Nerevar would have been at least a little awkward when thrown into a completely foreign situation like this.

“I apologize, my Lord,” he muttered. The situation did nothing to help his headache, and he wished the mer would take his disappointment and leave the room so he could go back to sleep.

“Ah, there is nothing to apologize for. However, I request that you address me as Voryn. I am Lord Dagoth to my faithful, but you are my friend.”

Voryn. The name sent a wave of warmth through Sarros’ body that had nothing to do with the heat. Of course. He had not referred to Voryn as ‘Lord Dagoth’ since he had petitioned House Dagoth to become their Hortator-

Sarros blinked. He had never petitioned House Dagoth for anything.

“I will try, Lo- Voryn. Apologies, I just- I’m not used to being in the presence of someone like… Like you.” He had of course spoken to Vivec before, but in the middle of a temple, with respectful distance, not in a small, warm room, wearing robes so thin one could see the outlines of every shape of his body. And Vivec had certainly not considered him a friend.

“Please, do not think of me as your god when we speak in private.” With that, Voryn casually removed the mask, as if the sight of his face was not a long-awaited revelation to Sarros, who had spent many hours wondering…

Well, it was the face of a beautiful but ancient elf. Handsome, of course, and made strange by the set of three eyes, but normal otherwise. His features reminded Sarros of a high elf. Perhaps that was to be expected from an elf born chimer.

Voryn brushed a stray strand of hair behind his ear, smiling. If Sarros had not known better, he seemed nervous, as if awaiting some sort of judgement, perhaps a sign that he was not attractive enough – but surely, he was more confident than that.

“I will do my best… Voryn.” The word brightened the smile, as if the mere sound of it made him happy. Odd to be appreciated so by a total stranger. ‘He only ever smiles like this for me’, Sarros thought. “You’re beautiful,” he added, realizing that perhaps a compliment in return was due. The obvious relief on Voryn’s face was comical.

So that was the great villain threatening all of Morrowind. A self-conscious old mer.

“Am I? I am afraid age marred my skin, but that is the way of the world…”

Sarros nodded, and they sat in silence again. Fidgeting with a corner of his blanket the wizard wondered what the most appropriate topic of conversation might be. It did not help that all his mind really wanted to do was ask the mer if they had any skooma here that he could have.

Voryn turned the mask over in his hands, looking at his reflection in the polished metal. He so obviously had no idea what to do either – it was quite endearing, in a way.

“I’m sorry,” Sarros said, “I don’t- I mean, I would like to talk to you properly, but I’m exhausted, my head hurts, and, uh, it’s a bit difficult to think clearly.” Realizing that his words sounded like a dismissal, he quickly added that he was not trying to offend.

“I admit,” Voryn said quietly, “that I imagined a more… enthusiastic reunion… But I see how foolish it was to assume…” He closed his eyes, sighing deeply, and rose from the chair. “Please, help yourself to the food and get some rest. I will send in a servant soon to make certain you have all you need.”

A flash of pain in his kohl-lined eyes sent a shiver down Sarros’ spine as he realized that Voryn held far more affection for him – or the soul of Nerevar hidden inside him, to be more accurate – than he had imagined. Of course, the dreams had suggested a… Close connection, but Sarros had assumed it was simply meant to lure him in.

“I just need time,” Sarros muttered when Voryn left the room, putting the mask back on.

“You certainly do.”

The door closed behind him, leaving Sarros feeling guilty.

Voryn’s study, crowded by numerous book shelves and a large table at the centre that was currently covered in maps, rolled up reports and pieces of charcoal and fresh paper, was separated from Nerevar’s room by only a narrow corridor. It was difficult to imagine that Nerevar was this close after so many centuries, and yet being with him was so painful that Voryn would rather sit alone in the dark of his study, lit by only one of the numerous lanterns dotting the room.

Ignoring his work to stare blankly at the door, wondering what the dunmer thought of him, Voryn berated himself for overwhelming the vessel so. No matter how he looked at it, he should have treated the dunmer like they were meeting for the first time, instead of revealing immediately that his affections ran deep still, but there was no going back now. All he could do was wait for him to warm up, perhaps attempt to trigger some pleasant memories of emotional intimacy…

Forceful knocking on the very same door roused him from his musings, and before he could decide whether he wanted to see anyone or not, it opened. Any hope that it might be Nerevar who had just realized that actually, he wanted nothing more than to be with him right now, was dashed by the sight of his visibly anxious daughter in the doorframe.

She was the only member of the Sixth House to be so disrespectful, but Voryn could hardly blame her for it. For his part, he had certainly raised her to behave like this, until Nerevar made certain he would not be there when she grew up.

The familiar sense of melancholy at the thought was wiped from his mind the moment he saw that the crippled ascended sleeper she called her partner was right on her heels, as usual.

His brows furrowed as, with considerable effort, he reminded himself of their last conversation. “Ilara, I am in no mood to argue about the …treasury? The treasury, yes. Not again.”

While Ilara marched into his study, planting her hands on his desk, the sleeper had the decency to stop beside the door, leaving as much distance as was possible in the modestly sized study. She leaned heavily on a cane of carved obsidian, no doubt a gift from Ilara, paid for with gold from the coffers of the Sixth House. Voryn despised the woman; not because he wanted his daughter to have an elven partner instead – although he certainly did, ideally a man to carry on their bloodline with – but because he knew she poisoned his daughter’s mind against him.

Not to mention that the sleeper was Ilara’s servant, little more than a commoner granted his blessings because his daughter had demanded it. He struggled to deny her anything.

“The treasury?” Ilara gathered her black hair and threw it over her shoulder, getting ready for confrontation. Exactly like he would. “I’ve got the gold under control by now, thank you for asking. No, I’m here to discuss the Nerevarine. He seemed a little too eager during the ritual… Are you certain this is not a ploy to gain your trust?“

For one very long moment, Voryn stared at her in disbelief. He could not imagine that Nerevar had returned and put himself at his mercy just to betray him again.

“He handed Wraithguard to me, Ilara. What kind of ploy is that supposed to be, exactly? He gave me all the power I need to seize control of Morrowind. Only a true s’wit would not realize that he only lives now because I allow it.”

“Do I understand correctly? You simply trust him now? What if this is all part of a planned assault by the Tribunal waiting for him to open some sort of back door? Or perhaps they decided this is the only way to learn your true weaknesses to attempt to stop you?” She crossed her arms in a huff. “You’re never this trusting, father, where is your healthy suspicion?”

As much sense as her reasoning made, there was no chance he would admit that she was right.

“He is no threat to any of us, Ilara.” His gaze wandered to her companion, wondering if the sleeper had talked his daughter into this.

“I’m not here because Adrisu told me to doubt you, father,” Ilara hissed. She knew him too well. It was almost heart-warming how defensive she got the moment anyone dared to speak out against the sleeper, even if he hated to see his daughter act like a trained nix-hound guarding its master.

“I suggest,” Voryn continued, ignoring her words, “that you get to know him yourself. Allay your fears if you must.”

More importantly, speaking to her might trigger some memories of their past together. Nerevar spent far more time around young Ilara than her mother ever had.

“I know enough about him from Sadrith Mora.”

Sadrith Mora… Mushroom City… It sounded familiar, though he could not quite remember.

“…A Telvanni city, I presume?”

“Yes.” Ilara looked at him with exasperation. How he hated that look. “Their only city on Vvardenfell, in fact. You do realize that skinny little mer in that bedroom is their Archmagister, right? You read my reports?”

Arms crossed defensively, he leaned back in his chair, glaring daggers at her. He had more important things to remember than her inconsequential reports.

“Why do I even bother?” Ilara said, and he could almost hear her heart pound with barely suppressed anger. “You never-”

At the first sign of tension, her companion had made her way to her side. She placed a calming hand on Ilara’s lower back, which proved surprisingly effective.

Ilara looked down at her, pausing. “Fine. No arguing,” she said with a groan.

The ascended sleepers’ ability to telepathically communicate only with select people in the room never ceased to annoy Voryn, even if it was he who had given it to them.

“Would you like me to gather more information on the Nerevarine, father?” Ilara offered sharply. “Perhaps summarize what we already know as well, now that it is relevant to your personal interests?”

“Yes. Now get out of my sight.”

“Of course, father.” Voryn watched her turn to leave, saw her shoulders relax with relief to get away from him. Every single conversation of theirs went like this, and he was thoroughly tired of it.

“On the topic of Nerevar,” he added just as she reached for the door, watching the tension return immediately. “He needs a dedicated servant. Find someone trustworthy.”

“Yes, father,” Ilara replied, clearly forcing herself to sound neutral.

“He drives me insane,” Ilara exclaimed the moment the door closed behind them, rubbing her temples as they headed up the gallery. Dagoth Ur’s quarters had been built into a small cave system leading off Akulakhan’s chamber, halfway between the workers accommodation and material storage further down, and the exit to the rest of the facility above. A sense of vertigo accompanied Ilara every time she visited him, and she made sure to do it as rarely as possible.

“I’ve told you countless times to convince him to let you handle the day-to-day matters. This will happen again.”

It had taken Ilara quite some time to get used to the intimate sensation of hearing Adrisu’s voice inside her skull, but just like her appearance, it barely registered as strange anymore. One could get used to anything.

“He would forget about that arrangement the moment I’m out of sight, like he forgets everything else that isn’t Nerevar or Akulakhan.” She threw the construct a dirty look. “Or that I’m not eight years old.”

Walking as closely to the wall as possible, Ilara made her way up the broad path, slow enough for Adrisu to keep up. As usual, the sleeper took her hand; Adrisu did not fear the abyss beside them, and Ilara found her touch comforting.

“You need to have patience with him. It’s only natural that death and rebirth would take a toll on one’s mind.”

“I sometimes wonder if you have too much patience with him, especially considering he thinks you’re the one singular reason we argue all the time. How does he intend to rule Morrowind, let alone Tamriel, if he keeps forgetting that we’re in the Third Era?”

A small group of workers moved past them, dragging carts filled with gently twitching heaps of fresh corprusmeat, bowing their heads as they spotted the pair. Ilara wrinkled her nose with distaste at the grey mass. At least the workers reminded her of the perfect candidate for the position as the Nerevarine’s personal servant.

“Perhaps the Nerevarine will help ground him in the present.”

“Considering how his own House seems to deem him completely useless, I’d say you’re too optimistic, Adrisu,” Ilara muttered, earning herself a muffled chuckle.

“Things have a habit of working out in the end. You just need to have a little faith. Maybe a useless wizard is exactly what he needs.”

Dagoth Gares was many things, but not a manservant. The door to Lady Dagoth’s quarters slammed shut behind him – there was no way for her to hear, as unlike her father, she occupied an entire wing of the facility on her own, matching her ego, in his humble opinion. Fuming, he marched past the pair of ascended sleepers guarding her door. They said nothing, of course, but he could see one of them gesturing at the other in that sign language they refused to teach anyone else.

Everyone at the facility was a gossip. Gares could not wait to hear whatever rumours his little outburst would spawn.

“’Father requested a personal servant for the Nerevarine, and after your recent failures, I believe you will appreciate the opportunity to redeem yourself’”, he muttered to himself in a high-pitched voice the moment he was out of earshot, quiet enough for it not to echo from the corridor’s tall walls. Unlike most of the facility, this area had been designed to be as imposing as possible, but Gares had no thought to spare the masterfully crafted murals and reliefs adorning it.

Of course everyone would use the unfortunate events at Ilunibi against him for the rest of his life. It had been six months, damn it, and he had been a model cultist ever since. Not to mention that he already had an assigned task; oversee the work on Akulakhan. No doubt Lady Dagoth expected him to find a suitable replacement on the side.

It did not help that the Nerevarine was a Telvanni. Gares had spent enough time running a ‘temple’ in the damp basement of the Sadrith Mora Council House to thoroughly despise every single one of the damned wizards.

Still, no matter what he thought, an order was an order, and there was nothing he could do about it. At least the Nerevarine had so far not openly disrespected him.

“Lord Nerevar? Do you need help?”

A spindly hand on his shoulder woke Sarros from his first dreamless sleep in weeks, only to find himself in full withdrawal. Curled up in a tight ball, he was shaking uncontrollably, cursing the familiar pain.

“G-go away,” he demanded.

“I do not think so, my Lord.”

It was Gares again. Wonderful.

“I’ll be fine,” Sarros muttered into his pillows, refusing to face him. “Really, I don’t need to-“

“Of course you’ll be fine, as long as you get to drink your skooma in peace,” the ash ghoul interrupted him with a gratingly triumphant tone.

Surprised, Sarros rolled over, pushing off the damp blanket. Up close, he could see that Gares’ neck was covered in weeping corprus sores. “What did you just say?”

The ash ghoul wiped his hand on discoloured robes, as if Sarros’ sweat was somehow worse than whatever the ulcers were oozing into his collar. Even with most of his face missing, it was impossible not to recognize the disgusted look on his face as he pulled up the chair to sit down next to the bed.

“It is in your sweat, Lord Nerevar. That sweet smell, like overripe comberries and honey. Unmistakable.”

“Is recognizing skooma-sweats some sort of required skill to join the Sixth House?” Sarros joked meekly as a sense of humiliation washed over him. How many people had he met who knew his secret but chose not to point it out? “Gods, please don’t tell anyone.”

“Lord Dagoth and his ash vampires will not recognize it, but other members might. At least those who share my olfactory capabilities.” Pointing at his trunk, Gares sighed. “However, it will be obvious to anyone no matter how much they can smell if they see you in this state. I was right. You need help.”

“I don’t. All I need is more skooma. Or maybe some moon sugar. Either works.”

Gares’ trunk twitched as Sarros spoke, and he wondered if it was a sign of disapproval. What was he to do? Pretend that he wanted to stop taking it, at a time when he needed to try and keep up some sort of functional façade more than ever?

“In my personal opinion,” Gares said carefully, “you should slowly taper out your consumption until you can get it under control, but we do not have time for that, Lord Dagoth will not tolerate you withdrawing for months. No, I cannot imagine that you currently have a source for your… sweets. As your newly assigned personal servant, I offer to assist with that, if you wish.”

Wondering if his sleep was not dreamless at all, and he was still in the middle of it, Sarros stared at him, trying to gauge whether the ash ghoul was serious. As far as he could see, there was no duplicity involved.

“Of course. How am I supposed to serve Dagoth Ur without it?” Yes. That was his top priority.

Bending down to reach for Sarros’ pack, Gares nodded. “I assume you have some with you still? You do not seem to be in much of a panic.”

“Hidden pocket at the bottom.”

After a generous sip from a fresh bottle, Sarros felt like he could sit up without immediately passing out. Leaning against the wall and hugging his knees, he watched the ash ghoul carefully hide the bottle and shove the knapsack under the bed with his foot.

“How do you know so much about this?” Sarros asked, frowning. “Were you, uh, in the same situation…?”

“Of course not!” Gares said, insulted. “No, I was a temple priest for many years. I helped people like you for a decade or so when I worked in Suran.”

His words surprised Sarros, until he realized that all the cultists must have had some sort of normal life before joining the Sixth House.

“I assume you didn’t help them for free?”

Sarros earned himself a snort. “You assume correctly. Although our subjects were allowed to pay for our services once they were well enough to earn some coin. We were far more generous than most temples. There was certainly no such thing as help without upfront payment in Vivec City.”

“How kind of you.” Raised to pray to the Good Daedra, Sarros had little respect for the Temple. Dagoth Ur was certainly an upgrade from serving the Tribunal.

“You should be glad that I understand your struggle. It will take me a few days to acquire moon sugar – I do not think I will be able to procure skooma. Not that you are in any position to make demands.”

“I will be careful to continue rationing my supply, then.”

“That would be for the best.” Gares stood up, taking the carafe to Sarros’ washbasin to fill it with fresh water. “Lucky for you, I know how to cook. Would you like me to prepare you some dinner?”

Taking the water from him, Sarros tilted his head, vaguely suspicious. “You won’t feed me corprusmeat, will you?”

“You seemed to be more than eager to consume it during the ritual.”

Sarros shivered at the memory. Pleasant in the moment, incredibly repulsive now.

“Doesn’t mean it wasn’t the nastiest thing I’ve ever put in my mouth.”

“Never fear, my Lord, I am fully aware what dunmer eat, on account of being one myself. I was thinking roasted ash yams with kwama egg might be a good choice? You need something hearty. Put some meat on you so Lord Dagoth does not have to feel every bone under your skin.”

“What?!” Sarros exclaimed, choking on the water. “I- We don’t- I barely know him!”

“I suspect you will feel differently by the time you are no longer emaciated,” Gares laughed.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, fetcher. Get out!”

Chapter Text

“Back so soon, Gares? With an important matter, I hope?”

Ilara looked up from the mess of parchments strewn all over her desk. The contents of yet another random crate from her fathers’ private storage room, none of it sorted, half of it illegible. Ranging from two months old to sometime in the late Second Era. Needless to say, the ash ghoul was a welcome distraction from a quickly growing headache that not even the mug of freshly brewed tea, a sweetened brew of hackle-lo, marshmerrow and dried bloat, could cure.

The ash ghoul wore the least convincing friendly face she had seen in a while; clearly, he resented his new task. Ilara could not care less. Let him gripe and whine – nobody asked him to thoroughly fail to setup a functional operation at Ilunibi. Besides, she had her methods to punish disrespect, and no qualms about using them.

“My lady,” he said, in the most sycophantic voice he could muster, though a twitch of his trunk and the faintest hint of colour on his ears betrayed his thoughts, “I have an issue regarding the Nerevarine. Nothing major, of course, I will serve him as you ordered, but he has inflicted a certain… condition upon himself that I cannot treat easily.”

If there was one thing Ilara hated, it was people who refused to speak clearly. “Spit it out, I have work to do.”

“I need a secure supply of moon sugar, my Lady.”

“The Nerevarine is a skooma addict…?” A sip of tea from the steaming cup hid Ilara’s grin and stifled her laughter at just how unlucky her father was. The first one to make it to Red Mountain, and he was such a far cry from Nerevar. “Perhaps you should assist him in stopping this vice instead of supporting it.”

Letting his annoyance with her shine through, Gares sighed. “My lady, it is a well-known fact that it is nearly impossible to recover from skooma addiction, the mind will crave it long after the body is healed. Yes, certainly, I could let him writhe in bed in pain for weeks and then hope he has the willpower to resist its temptation in the future-“

Both of them snorted.

“-but I believe Lord Dagoth would prefer him as functional as possible. Not to mention the side-effects are not particularly attractive to witness.”

“I admit I do not want to deal with whatever mood that would put my father in.” Ilara shivered and took another sip. “I’ve had one or two groups of smugglers offer to increase the moon sugar supply for a fair price. I’ll sort out a deal. There’s some in storage already, help yourself. I don’t know of any projects requiring it at the moment.” She pulled a key from a desk drawer, throwing it at him. “Return it to me when you’re done. I’ll have one made for you.”

“Thank you, my Lady.” Key in hand, he bowed a little too deeply. As one of her guards escorted him from her chambers, Ilara could not help but wonder what other issues the Nerevarine might have.

For a moment, Sarros had the near irresistible urge to tell Gares that he loved him when the ash ghoul handled him a small, opaque jar filled to the brim with moon sugar crystals.

“Thank you, Gares!” he said as he dipped a wet finger into the jar and licked the moon sugar off it. As usually, his teeth complained the moment the sugar touched them, but it was a small sacrifice for the promise of a steady supply.

“Remember that this is meant to hide your affliction from Lord Dagoth. You are not meant to consume it to have fun.” To Gares’ credit, he hid his disgust well; years of experience with skooma-drinkers must have taught him to mask his feelings effectively. Or perhaps he saw it as a sickness like any other, although in Sarros’ experience, few people did.

“I will be as responsible as possible,” Sarros assured him.

Gares might have been skilled at hiding disgust, but doubt? Less so. “Of course, Lord Nerevar,” he said as he turned to leave, thoroughly unconvinced.

“Hey, don’t go yet,” Sarros demanded. “You know my biggest secret now, I want to know something about you, too.”

The loud, drawn-out exhale Gares produced was all he needed to show just how excited he was to spend more time around the Nerevarine, but to his credit, he took his duty seriously enough to turn around and take a seat.

“I have no interesting secrets, my Lord, but I am happy to answer your questions.”

Moon sugar travelling through one’s veins made it easy to ignore other people’s moods, and Sarros was nothing but delighted by his words. “Tell me who you were before you joined the Sixth House.”

Shifting with discomfort, Gares took a moment to weigh his words. “While I do not see why you would need to know this… There is not much to say. You already know I was a priest of ALMSIVI. I had parents of middling means who sent me off to the nearest temple to become an acolyte. I served the Tribunal faithfully in Suran. After an incident with a young noblewoman, I was sent to Sadrith Mora, where I dealt with the lovely accommodations provided by Great House Telvanni. Lord Dagoth sent me visions that convinced me to leave. Now I am here.”

He rattled all of this off as quickly as he could, with only the tiniest pause at the mention of the woman. “I hope this will suffice…?”

“Tell me about that woman.”

With obvious regret at having mentioned her, Gares continued. “It was nothing particularly interesting. We shared a few nights, she ended up with child, her fiancé made her admit who the culprit was, the temple sent me away. Hardly a unique predicament.”

“You have a child?!” Sarros asked. “How old? Where? What’s their name?”

“No idea, was probably never born. It was long ago, Lord Nerevar, and I have no interest in finding out more.”

“But-“

“Our… Affair meant nothing to me or her, beyond the pleasure of the moment and the excitement of breaking the rules. I was younger than you are now, and a fool.”

Sarros leaned back, stunned. “Did you have any other-“

“No close family left, my Lord.” Gares slumped a little in his chair, and had he been sober, Sarros might have wondered if the thought pained him.

“Do you ever wonder what it would have been like, to be a father? I wonder sometimes, but I don’t think I should even try. What child wants a skooma addict for a father and a mother he doesn’t even love,” Sarros prattled on. “I would try though. I would try very hard to make them happy.”

“No, my Lord, I do not wonder. I was content serving the Tribunal, now I am content serving Lord Dagoth. I escaped the prospect of growing old and frail, what more could I hope for?” Gares smoothed out his robes and stood up, clearly uncomfortable despite his words. “If you do not mind, I would like to retreat.”

“You’re, uh, dismissed,” Sarros said. The moment the door closed, he laid down on his bed – still marvelling at how soft it was – and closed his eyes, imagining what it might be like to have a tiny elf or two to raise.

“What a strange dream…” Sarros muttered as he disentangled himself from his blanket. Was it morning? Night? He had no way to tell how much time passed. It left him feeling disoriented, but there is nothing to be done. Surely, the dwemer had invented some method to track time underground, but if a device for it existed, he doubted the Sixth House had a stash of them ready for the taking.

Not sure what to do with his time, and not quite ready to have another painfully awkward conversation with Dagoth Ur – no, Voryn, he reminded himself – he decided to pick a book at random and try to eat the pomegranate that still sat on the desk. Being an unfamiliar food, it intimidated him, but it could not be bad, could it? Besides, someone had gone through the effort of opening it for him, cutting it into four neat sections, not to mention paid for it, so it was only polite to give it a taste.

He sat down on the bed, cross-legged, with the plate in his lap, and tried one of the seeds. The flesh was sweet and juicy, but he found the seed too hard to chew with his skooma-rotten teeth. With a shrug, he swallowed it whole and proceeded to do the same with the rest of the fruit.

Sitting here, on the soft mattress, the most expensive food he could think of in his hands, he felt as out of place as Nerevar had in his dream.

It was the first time he had ever been the Hortator of old in one of his dreams, and he wondered where it had come from – Voryn could have sent it, but then how did Sarros know what Nerevar thought and felt, like it was a real memory?

Sarros picked the most likely explanation; the moon sugar must have caused the unusual vision.

“I want to see him, Voryn, don’t be so selfish. Let the rest of us have fun, too.”

Leaning against the door to his quarters, arms crossed, Voryn looked his youngest brother up and down, brows furrowed at the sight of his attire. All sheer fabric, draped to emphasize his waist, only a narrow strip of fabric protecting his privacy. Voryn could imagine himself look breathtaking in it, and did not like it one bit.

“You do understand that Nerevar is mine, Araynys?”

It did not help that he had caught Araynys attempting to sneak into his quarters while he assumedly believed that Voryn was out of sight. He had caught the younger mer just in time, and the deep blush on Araynys’ face made it quite obvious that he had been up to some sort of… Mischief.

“Huh?” Araynys looked down at himself, as if surprised that the hint of fabric on him might be considered improper. “Too much?”

Voryn put his hands on his bare shoulders, looking deep into his eyes. “Who do you think you are fooling, brother? After the incident with that young Ashlander in Mamaea?”

“All I wanted him to do was model a few poses for me.“ Araynys’ smile faded, replaced by a defiant frown. “I know you’re no artist and can’t appreciate-“

“Nude,” Voryn interrupted.

“And he agreed to it! Besides, most great artists study the elven body in its purest form!“

“He believed you were about to kill him.”

“Well, I didn’t do anything to him, and Nerevar is completely different. I just want to see if he’s worthy of your time, Voryn. Get to know him. Maybe draw him, if he allows me to.”

Voryn did not have the energy to argue. Letting go and stepping aside, he beckoned Araynys to enter with a jerk of his thumb. “If you try anything untoward…”

“I’m dead, I know. Stop being so jealous, brother.” Araynys marched past him, head held high, hips swaying, perfect waves of black hair spilling down his bare back. How could he not mistrust him? The Nerevarine would have to be blind not to find him attractive.

Sarros nearly dropped his book – ‘The Horror at Castle Xyr’, a play – when the door opened and an elf who could only be a member of the Dagoth family entered. He knocked, at least, but did not bother with waiting to be let in. Not entirely unexpected, he was the spitting image of Voryn, or rather, Voryn if he was a couple of centuries younger, dressed somehow both in far more and much less clothing than any of the other Dagoths Sarros had seen so far.

Although his smile was kind, and his body language was that of someone polite and friendly, Sarros found himself intimidated. Whether this was because the elf was too pretty, or because he could gauge Voryn’s brothers even less, he could not say.

“Welcome to Red Mountain, Nerevar,” he said, still standing in the doorframe. “My name is Araynys. Voryn’s youngest brother.”

“I’m pleased to meet you,” Sarros said awkwardly. “Uh, would you like to come in…?”

Only when Araynys draped himself on the chair did Sarros notice that he carried an unlabelled book bound in pale, plain guar leather with him.

“Are you going to take notes?” Sarros joked, looking at the book. He hardly expected to be interrogated but could not quite imagine what else the mer was here for.

“Notes?” Araynys handed him the book. “Absolutely not. My memory works fine. Have a look, see if you can guess.”

Sarros blinked in confusion as he took the book. He opened it, not knowing what to expect, only to be met by a beautiful drawing of an elf he was not familiar with. Thoroughly impressed, he slowly flipped through the pages, finding everything from portraits to studies of everyday objects to intricately drawn landscapes. He had never seen such skill in person.

“I… Huh. These are wonderful. I’m a bit of an artist myself, but I could never…”

A drawing of Voryn made him stop. Araynys had not attempted to draw a flattering portrait, as one might think he should; Voryn looked away, eyes ringed with deep exhaustion, every line on his face captured in great detail, hair pulled back in a messy, half-unravelled knot.

“He visits me when he needs a break and someone to listen,” Araynys explained. “It’s rare that he looks this bad, so I had to draw it. Needless to say, he refused to look at the drawing.”

“Well, it’s masterfully done, but I can imagine why he wouldn’t like to see it.” Sarros could not stop staring; everywhere he looked, he spotted new details.

“The only reason I got away with it in the first place is that I’m his favourite brother.” Araynys grinned, taking the compliment in stride. “He practically raised me when mother died, you see, so we’ve got a bit of a special bond.”

Mother. Sarros attempted to imagine Voryn as a child. He failed.

“So, he’s good with children?” Sarros asked, immediately wondering what the deal was with himself and thoughts of parenthood today.

“No, he spoils them rotten,” Araynys laughed. “I was always well behaved and friendly for him, but everyone else got to suffer my childish wrath. Ilara is the same.”

“Who?”

“Oh, you have not met her yet? She’s his daughter.”

Araynys paused to let the revelation sink in, and Sarros was thoroughly surprised; he wondered if she had died with him at Red Mountain, resurrected by the Heart.

“I won’t tell you who the mother is, of course, Voryn always kept that information private. What I can tell you is that she’s ancient, and a Telvanni.” He winked. “I bet you’d get along! It’s true that you’re the Telvanni Archmagister, correct?”

Sarros looked down at the sketch book. Voryn’s tired eyes seemed to judge him now, as if he knew what a pathetic excuse for a Telvanni, let alone the Archmagister, he was.

“Well, I am. In theory. I mean, I have the ring.” He held up his left hand – the right bore Moon-and-Star. “However, I don’t rule them. My Mouth will just go with the majority every time they vote for something, and I let the Councillors do what they want.”

Araynys tilted his head, beaded earrings jingling quietly. “But you should rule them. You’re powerful, no?”

Coughing awkwardly, Sarros looked at a spot on the ceiling that had suddenly become incredibly interesting. “Well, I… I didn’t really receive much training until I was forty-five.”

“And how old are you now…?”

“Forty-seven.”

Silence fell as Araynys stared at him in shock, clearly speechless. Truly, his appointment to Archmagister had not been Sarros’ proudest moment.

“Alright, so I joined House Telvanni to become a retainer, nothing more. Did not think I have anything more interesting in me,” Sarros explained. “I just wanted to follow in my parents’ footsteps. But then I was tasked to speak to Archmagister Gothren, and things went… Out of hand.”

Araynys put his hand on Sarros’ knee, leaning forward to take back the sketch book. Up close, Sarros breathed in his sweet scent, of fruit and flowers, almost covering the smell of ash that seemed to permeate everything here. “How about I make a little drawing of you while you tell me all about that?”

“A drawing of…” Sarros started, but Araynys’ graphite pencil already began loosely sketching out the shape of his face. “Well, I can’t stop you, I guess. You see, what happened was…”

Not for the first time since he had reached Telvanni lands did Sarros wish the wizards would just build stairs into their towers. His levitation spell was weak and drained so much of his magicka that he ended up completely exhausted every time he faced one of the councillors.

Visiting Mistress Therana had nearly killed him when she decided, provoked by something only her deeply added mind could perceive, to try and disintegrate him on the spot. A powerful wizard without the mental faculties required to judge when to save her power, she was more terrifying than any of the others.

In fact, it had been one of her retainers who had cast a quick shield spell on him, clearly used to her outburst, and another had calmed her down, only for her to immediately forget what bothered her in the first place.

Needles to say, he had made his delivery and practically fled Tel Branora.

Gothren’s tower was less immediately dangerous; everyone he met there frowned upon the scraggly wizard who struggled with a simple levitation spell, but nobody so much as threatened him.

Nervous at the thought of meeting someone so powerful, Sarros’ sweat slowly drenched the missive he carried in his hand, completely unaware that he was actively making the document illegible.

It was then, as he rounded the corner, that he spotted the pair of dremora appear beside the old mer, in what Sarros believed to be a cowardly attack on the Archmagister’s life. One he thought might be blamed on him, and so he dropped the missive, pulled out his dagger – he did not have a drop of magicka left, but his skill with the blade was much better developed, anyway – and sprinted towards them.

Before Gothren or the daedra knew what was happening, Sarros blade found its way into a gap between armour pieces on one of the nearest dremora’s arms, where it did little more than annoy the creature. Suddenly, both dremora were on him, and the Archmagister followed, and it was only now that Sarros realized that he must have summoned them, perhaps anticipating a stranger who might cause trouble.

Well, Sarros certainly was causing trouble now.

Any attempts to calm the situation by yelling at the Archmagister that all of this was a misunderstanding were met by spells and daedric weapons, which Sarros barely dodged, and when he made an especially daring escape from a jagged-edged sword, dagger held high as he stumbled back towards the other dunmer, his blade slipped and ended up in the worst place possible.

In seconds, the dremora vanished as Gothren’s blood flowed from his severed jugular, drenching Sarros hands and robes as he tried to close the wound with a pathetic attempt at a healing spell. Unsuccessfully.

By now the Archmagister’s steward entered the room, followed by a few guards, all of them ready to fight – only to recall their spells when they saw that Gothren was dead.

“I- I’m so sorry!” Sarros cried out, sick with horror at what he had done to who was to him an innocent old man. “Please don’t kill me, it was an accident, I thought the dremora wanted to attack him and then-“

The steward snorted. “New to House Telvanni, are we? In a duel between two wizards, whoever survives wins the argument. He should have killed you first if he did not want to die.”

Sarros blinked up at the mer. It was true, he had been told just that, but figured it applied to a Master killing a servant, not… This. He looked down at Gothren, pale in his blood-soaked robes.

“In all honesty, his unwillingness to make decisions made my life hell. Not to mention that of his Mouth. We should put you in his place out of pure gratitude!”

With that, he was sent to Tel Vos, where he reported to Master Aryon and subsequently made his way up through the ranks. Aryon smelled the opportunity to grasp power through him, with Sarros to shield him from the Councillors’ anger at his suggestions. He was not particularly popular due to his progressive ideas, after all, and Sarros being not much of a threat to them might have an easier time avoiding their wrath by virtue of not being taken seriously.

In the end, Sarros not only held the position as Archmagister, he owned his own mushroom tower with a newly grown town to go with it.

As embarrassing as the story was to Sarros, it amused Araynys. “You… Stumbled. With a knife,” he laughed.

“Not a drop of magicka involved,” Sarros reiterated, awkwardly running a hand through his hair. “So you see why the Telvanni consider me a bit of a joke, and why I’m not even trying to lead them. Besides, I don’t know enough about Morrowind or the House to make changes – for all I know, things are going smoothly. All I do is… Oh.”

“Oh?”

“Master Aryon and I sent letters back and forth. It was already difficult when I headed to the Ashlands, but he’ll wonder where on Nirn I’ve ended up now that he can’t reach me at all.” Though, in all fairness, Sarros’ Mouth was more qualified to answer the letters, anyway. Aryon would make do.

“I suggest you don’t worry about it,” Araynys said, shrugging. “You’ll be a member of House Dagoth soon.”

“I’m not…?”

Araynys shook his head. “You joined the cult, sure, but you have not earned the right to call yourself Dagoth.”

“Please tell me I don’t have to…” Sarros gestured at his nose. “You know.”

“No, you will become a Heartwight like me and my brothers, I assume. Unless Voryn intends to just marry you, but- are you unwell?”

Sarros blanched, breaking into a cold sweat. Marry. There was no way in Oblivion he was going to marry anyone, let alone Dagoth Ur.

“Look, Nerevar,” Araynys continued, picking up on his reaction, “you don’t have to marry Voryn. You could pick me instead!”

“I- by the Gods-“ colour returned to Sarros’ face in the form of a deep blush. “You’re very-“

Araynys shushed him with a slender finger to Sarros’ lips, laughing. His claws were much shorter than those of his brother, though they both painted them a deep, dark red. “I’m joking, Nerevar. It is true, you would make a worthy partner, but unlike my brother, I would like to get to know you first.”

Wiping the nervous sweat off his face, Sarros managed a relieved smile. “It’s all very complicated, and I really don’t mean to step on anyone’s toes...”

“Oh, it sure is.”

In an attempt to cool down, Sarros poured himself a cup of water, while Araynys returned to the drawing. After letting Sarros catch a glimpse of the initial sketch, he had positioned himself just so to make certain Sarros could not see the progress he was making. An hour or so passed, during which they spoke little; Araynys focused on his work, and Sarros returned to his book. It was a comfortable silence, he found, thinking how nice it would be to befriend the mer.

It was pathetic, really. No god should stand in front of the door of an inconsequential mortal, listening for unwanted sounds, but most gods had not been mortal and had to deal with the mortal feeling of jealousy. And Nerevar was hardly inconsequential.

Voryn huffed, reaching for the door, but stopped himself. Waiting here in the empty, dark corridor was bad enough, but bursting into the room to make certain everyone was dressed? That Nerevar did not look at his brother the way he was supposed to look at Voryn?

‘I have nothing to fear,’ Voryn thought, ‘Araynys would not betray me. Let alone lie with a stranger.’

It was a good, objective thought, but objectivity had little meaning to his heart. As he caught himself pacing up and down the corridor, he was thankful that, with the excuse that anyone making it this far had the right to face him in person and be killed by his hand, he had never bothered to station guards in his quarters who could see him like this.

And then Araynys laughed – one loud, cheerful laugh, and Voryn had enough. Stopping himself at the last moment to take a deep breath to enter quietly instead of storming in, he opened the door, to find Araynys presenting a drawing to a visibly impressed Nerevar.

“You’re amazing, I-“ they both looked up at him when he entered, Nerevar confused, Araynys disappointed.

“-Voryn? I-is something wrong?” Nerevar asked.

“Out,” Voryn barked at Araynys, who snapped his sketchbook shut, shaking his head as he pushed past his brother, ‘accidentally’ bumping into him with his shoulder. The door closed behind him, leaving Nerevar huddled against the wall, eyes wide as he stared up at him.

This time, Voryn did not take the chair, but sat down on the bed with him, leaning against the wall, too.

“I will not hurt you,” he said quietly, “no need to be afraid.”

“We didn’t do anything inappropriate,” Nerevar rushed to reassure him. Voryn could hear annoyance creep into his voice. Even he knew he deserved it. “I know you wouldn’t like that.”

“Would you bed him?” Voryn asked, looking at the opposite wall, suddenly terrified by the idea of looking into Nerevar’s eyes.

“What? You have lost your mind!” Nerevar blurted out, only to immediately add an apology. “I mean… You don’t own me, Voryn, and we’re not in a relationship yet. I can sleep with whoever I want, and yes, Araynys is attractive, and under other circumstances, why not? If he wanted to…”

Taking a deep breath to calm the inner voice telling him to smite Nerevar where he sat and wait for the next Incarnate, Voryn pondered what to say.

“I… I would sleep with you too,” Nerevar continued, crossing his arms. “But I don’t find jealousy very charming,” he added quietly.

Voryn’s heart threatened to burst from his chest as he heard the words spoken so plainly. “You… I thought you need time.”

He met Nerevar’s gaze and found it incredulous. “Of course I do! You’re not some… some random sailor in a tavern. I’m not just going to-“

His words failed to register, and before he himself knew what he was doing, Voryn pressed his lips to Nerevar’s, startling him so much that the mer did not fight back for a few sweet, beautiful seconds, until he pushed him off.

“Don’t ever do that again!” Nerevar shouted, fuming, wiping his lips as he fled the bed, an angry blush on his face, hands shaking visibly. “I cannot believe this! I… I’ve got to go.”

Before Voryn could say a word, Nerevar left the room, throwing the door shut behind him.

There was only one thought on Sarros’ mind as he aimlessly marched up the gallery, not paying attention to anyone or anything around him.

He felt as if Voryn’s ash-tasting lips had been made to kiss him.

Chapter Text

“Nerevar!”

Sarros woke up to Voryn’s golden mask filling his entire field of view. The mer leaned over him, hands splayed on the mattress beside Sarros’ head.

“Wha…?” he managed, wondering if this was another dream.

“It has been pointed out to me that you have not left my quarters in a week. I must admit that I find it difficult to keep track of time on such a minuscule scale, and hope you forgive your unexpected imprisonment.”

He spoke too quickly, and his tone was off; reminding Sarros of himself when he was too generous with the skooma. In contrast, Sarros had not had his daily dose of moon sugar yet and felt particularly sluggish.

“I… Of course, I’m happy to get some rest…”

Sarros sat up, clutching his blanket as he slid backwards in his bed to put a bit of distance between himself and the mer. Moods like this could sour quickly, even if it was the touch of Sheogorath affecting Voryn rather than something as mundane as skooma.

“Well, enough of that. I have received some information about you, Nerevar-“ Sarros frowned “-and while you are a promising incarnate, there is certainly… Room for growth.”

Not even Sarros believed himself to be promising. Either Voryn attempted to fool himself, or someone had fed him lies.

“If you believe so…” he said carefully.

“For now, I have picked two trusted members of my House to teach you the intricacies of the arcane arts. Of course, I would be more than capable of teaching you – but my duties allow me no such luxuries.”

Sarros wished he would take the mask off so he could see his expression; with how awkward every encounter between them had been since the unfortunate attempt at a kiss, Sarros doubted he was ‘too busy’. After all, he could delegate any task he wanted to his followers.

No, he was certain that Voryn wanted to avoid spending time with him. Sarros had spent far more time with Gares and the bookshelf than with the man who supposedly wanted him to rule Morrowind by his side. Though in all fairness, Sarros had no desire for more unwanted kisses and was happy to keep his distance. Making this close encounter even more uncomfortable.

“I’m sure you chose them well,” Sarros said diplomatically. Whether or not they were good teachers, he was curious about them.

“Naturally. Get dressed – I will introduce you to them today.”

***

“Voryn? May I ask you a question?” Sarros asked when the gate to Akulakhan’s chamber closed behind them. The construct unsettled him just as much as the first time he had laid eyes on it, and of course Voryn had made him take another good look at the progress they were making. Apparently, things had sped up greatly, perhaps explaining Voryn’s good mood.

“Yes, Nerevar.”

“Akulakhan is made of, uhm, corprusmeat, isn’t it?” Sarros asked between laboured breaths, struggling to keep up with Voryn’s long strides.

“Only the divine flesh is worthy of such an endeavour.”

Sarros sincerely hoped Voryn did not expect him to refer to the meat as ‘divine’. Not after seeing it up close. Images of Ilunibi’s flesh-caverns had forever been burned into Sarros mind; sometimes he still felt the brush of writhing tendrils against his skin, expected mindless eyes to burst forth from the walls – it was a relief, he thought, that Dagoth-Ur seemed to have none of that.

“So where is all that coming from? It’s… so much.”

“Are you worried, perhaps, that my own servants’ bodies are sacrificed? I am hardly a cruel god, Nerevar. We harvest the flesh from other sources. It is a detour, certainly, but worth it, let me show you!”

Chopping up corprus beasts was probably the least horrifying way to harvest the meat that Sarros could think of. It seemed like a mercy, really – he had killed quite a few of them, and sometimes, he could have sworn he saw gratitude in their eyes.

“Oh, you really don’t have to,” Sarros replied, certain that any alternative could only be much worse.

“No, Nerevar, as my future second in command, you must know such things. You will be impressed!”

***

And what a detour it was. Gares had dragged Sarros down the same corridors, though he remembered little of the journey. Walking them with Voryn was an oddly similar experience, except this time, the cultists stared at their Master, not Sarros.

Whether he did this because he was in a particularly good mood, or because it was custom here, Sarros did not know; but every once in a while, a cultist fell to their knees in front of them, and Voryn would place his right hand on their forehead, muttering a quiet blessing that left the cultist in question elated.

Some even went so far as to touch him, overcome with affection, and just as Sarros wondered how intrusive it would feel, someone reached for his legs and hands once they were done with Voryn. Sarros forced himself not to recoil with disgust at the touch of their hands, slick as they were from open sores.

“Lord Nerevar!” the cultist – an ash zombie – called out with terrifying reverence. “You’ve returned to save us from the Tribunal!”

Not knowing what to do, Sarros looked up at Voryn in a silent plea for help, receiving none.

“I… I am merely here to assist Lord Dagoth,” Sarros mumbled, deeply embarrassed. “I’m just a mortal…”

“Please, my Lord, your blessing…”

Sarros felt utterly trapped as more of them came, demanding the same, as if he had any idea what to do or say, did they expect magic? What was he meant to do?

Perhaps he heard Sarros’ quickening breaths, or felt his racing heartbeat, but Voryn took his hand and placed it on the cultist’s forehead, covering it with his own, muttering something about honouring the Tribe Unmourned. Sarros felt the spell he cast at the same time; it seemed to do nothing more than restore a bit of energy to tired bodies, but it felt warm, comforting.

“Please, my children,” Voryn said, with the calm voice of a preacher speaking to an overly excited congregation, “Lord Nerevar appreciates your affections, but you must be patient; only now that he has joined us does he know anything but disdain from the people of Morrowind. He will give you what you desire when he has settled in and recovered from his arduous journey.”

He placed an affectionate hand on Sarros’ shoulder, pulling him a little closer, and for once Sarros was glad to feel his touch. Convinced, of course, by anything Voryn would say to them, the cultists retreated obediently, but not without the one he had touched quietly bragging to the others.

One more gesture, and they all dispersed; and for the rest of their journey, the two were left in peace.

***

When they finally reached their destination, Sarros wondered if Voryn just had nothing else to do. It must have taken them an hour.

Once again, he stood before a dwemer door like all the others, but this one was flanked by two braziers and had the scarab of the Sixth House painted on it – but that was hardly all. The air here felt different, thick and damp.

He had felt this before.

Unease trickled down Sarros’ spine as one of two dreamer guards in full obsidian armour opened the door for them.

It was dark inside, and Sarros could not help but wish it would stay that way; he heard faint groans of pain, raving and mumbling, felt dread wash over him. This was too familiar.

The doors behind them closed, but only left them in darkness for the briefest of moment. At Voryn’s behest, red candles lit up around them, leading towards a large altar unlike the six-sided ones the Sixth House favoured; this one looked like one might prepare a body for cremation on it, or perform dark magic on the dead. Columns lined the path, so tall that the ceiling was hidden in the gloom, and the light reflected off their brass surfaces. Ancient plinths, their statues gone, stood between them, and upon each rested an effigy of Dagoth Ur, ruby eyes alive in the candle light.

What lay behind the altar was hidden in the darkness still, but as they came closer, more candles sprung to life, revealing a gargantuan mass of pulsing flesh, tendrils growing from its base like roots, snaking around the nearest columns and braziers that remained unlit. Even so, its wet skin gleamed in the dim light, its numerous eyes reflecting it. They only thing Sarros had seen in his life that remotely came close were depictions of Hermaeus Mora in books on daedra worship, but compared to this crime against nature, the Daedric Prince seemed enticing to behold.

This grey thing was nothing but an abomination to be put out of its misery, reeking of death and blood, covered in veins that fed large, bursting tumours all over its surface.

“By the Three,” Sarros muttered. This was Ilunibi again, but so much worse, the scale of it incomprehensible. It seemed to draw him in, and the damp tendrils seemed to make their way towards this body – one touched his bare foot, and with a scream of pure horror, Sarros turned to flee, only to find Voryn standing in the way. Sarros wrapped his arms around him, clinging to him, begging him to take him away and never let him look upon this thing again.

Voryn did not oblige immediately; perhaps he enjoyed a Nerevar who sought comfort in his embrace.

Every day Ilara spent at the facility, it became clearer to her that her father had nothing worthwhile to do. Servants built and monitored Akulakhan, Uthol took care of the slow reconstruction of Kogoruhn, and Ilara performed all day-to-day administrative tasks. What else was there to do but occasionally preach to the cultists?

The fact that he appeared in her study, unannounced, with a pale, wide-eyed ‘Nerevar’ in tow, was just more proof to her that he had to be bored. She did wonder what happened to Sarros - the poor thing looked like he had gone to Oblivion and back and clung to her father for dear life.

“Father…?” Ilara asked, looking Sarros up and down. The Archmagister was pathetic at the best of times, but this…

“I showed him where we source the materials for Akulakhan.”

That was one way to get your reluctant lover to seek out physical contact. “With no warning, I assume? Gods.”

Close to Ilara’s desk, lounging in her usual seat, a large distinctly non-dwemer armchair, Adrisu produced an annoyed snort, before rising with a groan and a loud creak that could have been her back as well as the chair. Without a word, she headed off to gods knew where. As usual, she and Ilara’s father ignored each other entirely; only Adrisu got away with it, as he refused to acknowledge her existence anyway.

One might feel pity for Sarros. Ilara remembered her first encounter with the mass; only years of studying less than savoury magic had given her the stomach to handle the sight. Not to mention that she had not eaten any of that nightmare. Adrisu had gone through a very similar experience and absolutely refused to talk about it, and she was a strong woman. No wonder she had no desire to listen to this.

“So,” she asked her father, “do you expect me to do anything about that?”

“No, he will recover soon enough.” Doubtful, judging from Sarros’ expression. “He is here for entirely different reasons. You see, I need someone to teach him magic, and you are a highly skilled wizard, my daughter; you will be one of his teachers.”

Ilara dropped the quill she had been holding onto the letter she was in the middle of writing. A requisition for some building materials that did not involve corprus. “Father, I have a lot of work to do already-“

“And you are handling it beautifully, Ilara. I am proud of you. No doubt Nerevar will learn quickly and require little more than a sliver of guidance. You will manage with ease.”

Heart fluttering at his words, even though she knew full well they were as calculated as it got, Ilara knew she would not be able to deny him his wish.

“I suppose I have to, then-“

“Perfect, thank you for your assistance,” he interrupted her, and she could imagine the satisfied grin on his face under the mask. “I shall inform his second teacher of his new role; Nerevar can stay here with you. I suggest you take the opportunity to assess his abilities or discuss a plan.”

Before she or Sarros could argue, he vanished into thin air.

Ilara felt no desire to be kind to the short mer, but his stare was rather unsettling. Clearly, none of what was said had registered with him, and she could not bring herself to be cruel while he was so visibly shaken. If only she had any idea what to do with him.

“Do you… Want to sit down?” she asked, pointing at Adrisu’s armchair. “Collect your thoughts, maybe?”

The door opened behind him before he could make a move, and Adrisu entered, precariously balancing a tray of tea and tiny cakes in her free hand.

“You,” Adrisu commanded, pointing at Sarros with a trunk, “are coming with me. I’ll take care of him, Ilara.”

“Thank you, Adrisu. Go, she won’t hurt you,” she said to Sarros, who appeared rather reluctant. Perhaps Adrisu reminded him of the thing somehow. It was difficult to remember sometimes that outsiders tended to find ascended sleepers rather disturbing.

It seemed like he was not listening at all, until Adrisu gently poked his foot with her cane, waking him from whatever living nightmare he was going through.

Sarros followed the ascended sleeper as if in a trance, still thinking about the touch of that abomination. To think that Voryn was happy to use this to build Akulakhan – could he not just use brass like the dwemer did? Ebony? Steel?

Only when they were halfway down the corridor to the main hall did he realize that he made someone who struggled to walk carry refreshments that were likely meant for him. Not that he expected an ascended sleeper to provide him with food and tea, but he had seen quite a few of them up close and they had no mouths to eat with, so…

“I’m sorry, do you need help with that?” he asked, reaching for the tray.

“Thank you, very polite.”

Sarros knew to expect telepathy from these creatures, but it made the sensation no less uncomfortable. At least they did not seem to be able to read minds.

As he followed her in silence, he realized that she must be the first female of her kind he had seen. Not that it seemed to make much of a difference really, any discerning traits were hidden under those robes, and the last thing Sarros wanted was to see any of the ash creatures nude.

Strange that she acted like a domestic servant, considering the roles these creatures usually took, or that she had addressed Ilara without any kind of honorific.

A small, cozy spot beside Ilara’s great tree had been covered with thick, beautiful rugs and cushions, with a small, low table in the centre. The sleeper motioned for him to put the tray on the table and sit down, then picked a nearby cushion for herself.

Still not speaking to him, she filled a plain obsidian cup with steaming tea and placed it before Sarros, gesturing at the cakes.

“Help yourself, Lord Nerevar.”

“Thank you,” he said, taking a bite from one of the cakes. They were of a plain dough, filled with sweet saltrice and honey paste – quite good, really, if a little unusual for someone used to Skyrim’s sweetrolls. “They’re nice,” he said between two mouthfuls.

“Gares made them, he cooks for you and Lady Dagoth.”

“Makes sense to have only one cook,” Sarros said. Gares certainly knew how to make a good pastry.

While ascended sleepers had no eyes, they were still perfectly capable of making him feel watched, and Sarros began to feel a bit disconcerted by the attention.

“So,” he said, blowing air on his cup of tea, “what’s your name?”

“Dagoth Adrisu.”

“Pleased to meet you,” he muttered. “Uhm, may I ask what… I mean. I don’t usually have ascended sleepers bring me tea.”

Adrisu snorted, amused. “No, that privilege is reserved for Lady Ilara. However, you looked like you need a break. I know what you’ve seen today, and I know how it feels to do so unprepared. Especially after having consumed some of it.”

The cake suddenly felt heavy in his stomach. Her words undid the welcome distraction at once.

“It was… Horrifying. I don’t want to sound ungrateful for Lord Dagoth’s hospitality, but I wish I would have known beforehand…” Sarros took a sip of the tea; the flavour was pleasant but unfamiliar; it seemed to calm his nausea. Quite the foresight on Adrisu’s part.

“Nobody can take away the memory – well, not without causing you harm – but perhaps understanding would make you feel better?”

Sarros nodded. “Worth a try…”

“It feels like the thing is conscious, like it’s trying to call out to you, perhaps asking for help, or to join it… But I need you to know that the flesh is not a person. What you hear when you are near it are thousands of dreaming sleepers, all connected by the magic of the Heart…”

As she ‘spoke’, Adrisu reached for one of the cakes, broke it open, and sniffed the contents with what seemed to be the main trunk. It was a rather comical sight at first, until he realized that this was as close as she would get to tasting anything.

Perhaps not even realizing what she was doing, she continued. “The base of it is a tumour cut from a corprus beast many years ago, which is no pleasant thought, I know, but it is not a victim of the disease endlessly mutating and growing. Nobody is suffering in that hall.”

“But why does it draw you in so much? I felt like it wanted to merge with me.”

“Some may tell you that it eats people, but from what I have learned in the last twenty years, this is just a rumour meant to scare the more simple-minded of Lord Dagoth’s followers away. What you feel near it is the same thing you felt in your dreams. Dagoth Ur calling you to join him. That’s what the sleepers dream of, and it’s what the thing projects.”

Her explanation made sense, Sarros supposed, even if her words made him feel no better about consuming a piece of it – but at least he was less likely to have nightmares about being eaten alive tonight. He felt foolish for reacting so strongly to the sight in the first place. What had he expected, asking such a question in the first place?

“I understand,” Sarros said, taking another sip. His fingers trembled slightly. “Still, I wouldn’t expect someone like you to try and cheer me up…”

“You looked like a scared child, and I cannot help but feel sympathy.” If Sarros statement insulted her, she showed no sign of it. “Besides, Lady Ilara would have made it worse. I don’t think Lord Dagoth would appreciate you returning as an absolute wreck.”

Adrisu snorted again, and Sarros managed a small smile. It surprised him how kind she seemed; but then again, she could project whatever she wanted into his mind. What was he supposed to do, read her expression to know how she truly felt?

“I want you to know that everything will be alright, Lord Nerevar. You will go through a lot here, but it’s all for the best. Soon, nothing Red Mountain has to offer will feel strange anymore, let alone scare you.”

Sarros smiled at her, and Adrisu leaned back, stretching and massaging her lower back. “Do you by any chance know restoration magic?”

“Uh. No. Telvanni don’t-“

“Value healing spells.” Disappointed, she let her shoulders slump, producing a muffled groan from the depths of her throat. “There is not a single healer here but Lord Uthol, and I am not to keen on asking that mer for help. Every member of that family frowns upon me for-“ she paused. “-it would not be appropriate to ask a Heartwight for help.”

Suddenly, the gate swung open, making both Adrisu and Sarros jump, and Araynys marched into the hall. Dressed much more modestly today, and without his sketchbook. He approached them with a bright smile, one that was directed entirely at Sarros.

“Nerevar! Voryn told me the good news!” he said as he pulled up a cushion next to Sarros and sat down, sparing Adrisu exactly one quick glance; it was an ugly one, filled with disgust. She had certainly not exaggerated.

Apparently, Sarros let his confusion show, for Adrisu addressed him again. “Don’t mind his looks. They don’t like that I am close to Lady Ilara – we’re good enough servants, but the high and mighty Lords of House Dagoth don’t see us as people worth their time.” Adrisu pulled herself up with her cane, leaving with an even less steady gait than before. “I shall go fetch her.”

“Told you something nasty about me, did she?” Araynys asked when Adrisu was barely out of earshot. “Deserves every bit of that pain she’s got. Took Ilara and manipulated her into falling in love somehow, cannot deal with the consequences.”

Sarros looked at him, wide-eyed. “She’s… Ilara’s…”

“Hard to imagine, isn’t it? I doubt my niece is actually attracted to her, look at that thing. The ascended sleepers like to say they can’t influence minds, but I think they like to keep secrets because they know nobody will question them.”

Araynys took the cup of now barely warm tea and smelled it. “Doesn’t smell of anything particularly magical, but be careful about accepting food and drink from her.”

Growing annoyed by his behaviour, Sarros snatched the cup, spilling a few drops on his robes, and drank the rest. “She’s been very kind to me.”

“Getting on your good side.” Araynys’ eyes narrowed. “Look, she’s a commoner who did nothing to deserve her ascension. Ilara can have someone better than that.”

“I’m a commoner, too, and an Outlander, and I’m pretty sure Voryn thinks I’m good enough for him.”

Araynys huffed loudly. “You’re the reincarnation of Nerevar. That’s completely different.”

“Is it? The rest of Morrowind doesn’t think so. Anyway, since Ilara is supposed to help me improve my magic skills and I’ll be here all the time, the last thing I’ll do is antagonize her… Partner.” It was difficult to imagine, but who knew, maybe in a few months Sarros would find Gares attractive if he saw him enough.

“Do what you want,” Araynys snapped, arms crossed. Sarros ate another one of the cakes, mostly to annoy him, only for Araynys to look at the cakes, back at an obviously still breathing Sarros, then eat one himself.

“Not bad, eh? Gares made them.”

Soon, Ilara joined them, fuming. Adrisu had not complained – she rarely did, and Ilara often wondered if she secretly believed every cruel word her uncles threw at her – but it was obvious from the way her entire body tensed up when she announced Araynys’ arrival.

“Araynys, you damned fetcher,” Ilara hissed, hands on her hips, “what did I tell you about respecting Adrisu?”

Araynys looked up at her with obviously feigned boredom. “Oh, my apologies, I didn’t realize I have to follow commands from my niece.”

“I’m going to marry her if you s’wits won’t stop mistreating her,” Ilara threatened loudly, “at least unlike you she is there for me when I need her!”

“There’s no way in Oblivion you’ll get married to that creature,” Araynys replied, matching her volume, “even if our family tomb was still around, our ancestors would never let it happen!”

“Maybe I’ll go to some imperial temple and have a priest of Mara do it! Put an illusion spell on her, see if they notice!”

After nearly two decades of her uncles complaining about Adrisu, Ilara was just about ready to do it. There were multiple ways – she could cast a disguise on Adrisu, certainly, but it would be far more entertaining to use a calm spell… Perhaps even capture a priest and force them to perform the ceremony in front of the Heart, really add insult to injury…

“Fine, we’ll throw you out of the House then! Voryn would rather have a dead daughter than one who would spit on our traditions like that!”

“HEY!” the Nerevarine yelled, daring to interrupt them. Adrisu had done well; he did not look white as a sheet anymore. “There are only nine people left in your family, how about you two get along?”

Both of them stared at the preposterous little elf, and Ilara had a feeling that Araynys was itching do disintegrate him on the spot – at least that was what she would love to do. Ancestors knew she did not have the patience or time to deal with his education, just because her fellow Telvanni had thoroughly failed to teach him.

“Fine,” Ilara said, annoyance with Araynys redirected at Sarros, “if he apologizes for insulting my beloved. It hurts me, too, Araynys, I know you don’t care about her feelings, but you should at least try with mine.”

Araynys looked down at his hands, examining his long, black claws with sudden great interest. “I apologize,” he mumbled, “but I still think we shouldn’t lie with ash creatures.”

“You are an ash creature, uncle,” Ilara could not resist pointing out, “you just happen to have a pretty face still.”

Ignoring his scowl, Ilara sat down on the empty cushion beside the Nerevarine, taking half a cake off the small tray. A telltale sign Adrisu had ‘shared’ Sarros’ meal. The couple did this all the time; Ilara often wondered what it might look like to outsiders, the supposed monster sniffing her food before she ate it. Like Adrisu might check her food for poison, perhaps, but she was awful at recognizing poisons.

“Anyway,” she said to Araynys, “I forgive you for now, I know how superficial you are. Just can’t help yourself.”

“Lady Ilara-“ Sarros said, in utter disbelief, though her uncle could not suppress a grin. Everyone knew that there was more to Araynys, but it was hidden behind a flawless veneer. He always ensured every strand of hair was perfectly in place, the black paint he used to decorate his eyes perfect, and no doubt expected the same from any potential partner.

“Well, you’re blind, niece,” he retorted playfully.

“I’ve got eyes for a good heart.” Ilara stretched out her tongue at him, feeling like a petulant child, but Araynys and her were, when it came down to it, so close in age that he felt like her brother. Her little brother, even though he was a few decades older. It was difficult to take Araynys seriously.

“We should discuss my lessons, I think,” Sarros interrupted their bickering. “Oh, and the good news-“

“Oh yes,” Araynys said, brightening. “I’ll be your second teacher. No matter what Ilara might think, she is not the best destruction mage in the House, that would be me.”

Ilara loudly cleared her throat. First of all, they had never actually proven who was stronger, and besides, no member of the Sixth House was allowed to suggest that they were better at anything than her father.

“…Aside from Voryn, of course. Who is using the Heart to enhance his abilities…”

Sarros and Ilara rolled their eyes synchronously, and Araynys moved on. There was not much to discuss, it turned out; Araynys declared any schools of magic other than Destruction too boring to spend time on, offering lessons in art and the traditions of House Dagoth instead. Ilara raised her eyebrows at the Nerevarine at the mention of art lessons, though he seemed to brighten at the mention. She, of course, knew the value of a more well-rounded education, but decided not to overwhelm Sarros; Mysticism and Alteration would do for a start.

“Surely you already have some experience with Alteration”, she said, “at the least, you should be able to levitate.”

The look he gave her said it all. “So… The Archmagister needs potions to climb the mushroom towers…?”

“I can do one levitation spell every few hours. Sometimes. Doesn’t always work,” the mer admitted. Ilara hid her laugh by taking another bite of pastry. Incredible.

“I suppose I have my work cut out for me. I’ll hand you some books to study… Don’t bother coming back here before you understand the basic principles of each school.”

Soon, Araynys and Sarros – the latter carrying a dozen books, without her uncle’s help, obviously – left her alone. Finally.

Ilara’s quarters were buried as deep in the mountain as Akulakhan was, but by no means was there a direct route between them. Instead, multiple stairs and corridors connected the two, and by the time Araynys and Sarros were ready to part ways, Sarros was dripping sweat, gasping for air. The thick tomes Ilara had given him had made his arms numb by now, and the stairs had done nothing but add to the torture.

Meanwhile, Araynys cheerfully regaled him with stories about his youth, how his brothers had taught him how to cast spells – not all of them had the required talent, Sarros learned, their only magic coming from the Heart.

Sarros nodded along with no hope to remember who was who. It was not that he did no care, but the longer he walked, the more energy was taken up with struggling not to drop the books.

“Nerevar?” Araynys asked as they neared his quarters, one level above Akulakhan’s chamber, “why don’t you use a feather spell on the books?”

The books hid Sarros’ scowl well. He had to look awkwardly around them to see where he was going and could not see Araynys at all. “I don’t know one,” he grumbled, “I sure hope there’s one in these books.”

“A shame, really, it’s so easy to cast.”

“Then why don’t you do it?” Sarros demanded, exasperated. “Instead of watching me suffer…”

“You need to build your strength. We won’t turn you into a warrior, but you should be able to take a few stairs.”

“How about we build your strength instead?” Sarros asked, suppressing the urge to throw one of the books at his no doubt smug face.

“Me? Oh, muscle would not suit me. Besides, I wouldn’t want to chip a claw – it takes a long time to grow them to this length!”

Sarros did not dignify this with an answer, besides, there were footsteps coming their way, and he worried that it would be more of the servants ready to grovel before them – once per day was enough.

“Uthol! Gilvoth! Have you met the Nerevarine yet?” Araynys called out beside him, taking enough books off the stack for Sarros to see the pair.

The name Uthol rang a bell, and Sarros thought he recognised him, though he did not recall from where.

The pair had little in common with Araynys and Voryn. For one, they were much shorter, though taller than him, and of a stockier, stronger build. One of them was shaven bald with a thick, barely trimmed beard, the other, Uthol, with a head of wiry black curls kept in check with a few strategically placed braids. He, too, wore a beard, but decorated it with golden beads, and looked much older – grey hair interspersed the black.

Neither dressed to be especially attractive, the older wearing simple, if clearly well-tailored robes, the other favouring heavy armour pieces. But while they gave the impression of being rather different, both wore a matching expression of disapproval at the sight of the sweaty, rather unkempt Nerevarine.

“Greetings,” Uthol said, his tone neutral, while the other acknowledged Sarros with a jerk of his bald head. He had the distinct feeling that he would not get along with either of them.

Only when Araynys pointed out that Uthol was responsible for the maintenance of Kogoruhn did Sarros finally remember their previous encounter. Having gone through Kogoruhn with enough skooma coursing through his veins to kill people with lesser tolerance, Sarros had no idea what they talked about. After Ilunibi, he had thought it smarter to not be very conscious for the journey.

“We have met before,” Uthol echoed his thoughts, “I admit I did not expect you to make it here.”

“Neither did I,” Sarros replied. By Oblivion, nobody believed he would even make it out of the stronghold, and technically, he had not done it alone – he had gone with his Mouth in tow, only dropping off the assortment of random things requested by the Urshilaku on his own.

“Did your companion survive? He seemed far more capable.”

“He represents me in Sadrith Mora.”

Gilvoth tilted his head to think, as if he had either never heard of the city or forgotten about it – Sarros did not know how old the place was, perhaps it had not existed when House Dagoth last had any contact with the other Houses.

“Vvardenfell seat of House Telvanni, is it not?” Uthol asked, eyes narrowed in sudden suspicion. “Why would you need representation there? One would think a loyal member of the Sixth House would break off all ties to the others. Even if Telvanni is certainly not the worst of the lot.”

A trace of pride for his House made Sarros bristle at his words, but he swallowed his annoyance. “I’m the Archmagister.”

Uthol raised his eyebrows, and Gilvoth burst out laughing.

“And it did not occur to you to use a feather-“

“I’m out of magicka,” Sarros lied quickly, praying that Araynys would not immediately point out the truth, “I had a sparring session with Araynys earlier.”

“I made him show me true magical prowess,” Araynys added with an admirable straight face, “and when I offered to help with the books after he drained himself to prove his abilities, he declined. Said it would be good to strengthen his body while he has the chance.”

“Well, Archmagister,” Uthol sneered, “I hope you will use your great magical power for the good of House Dagoth, then. Use your… political influence for us, will you?”

Without a further word, and with a snickering Gilvoth in tow, he passed them, leaving Sarros wanting to scream. He knew full well how embarrassing his lack of ability was, and did not need his nose rubbed in it every half hour.

“Come, let’s head into my chambers,” Araynys said gently, taking a few more of the books. “Don’t pay them any heed – Gilvoth doesn’t like many things, and he hated Lord Nerevar, and Uthol is… Well. A bit arrogant, sometimes. They have good hearts!”

Sarros doubted it but was happy to follow him. The last thing he needed was to have Voryn ask him about the damned feather spell too right now, so avoiding his quarters seemed like a reasonable plan.

Araynys’ quarters were in sharp contrast with Voryn’s. The plain walls of rock and metal were covered by tapestries and wide panels of simple fabric dyed in various hues of red, purple and blue, the ceiling painted to resemble the night sky – or rather, a vividly coloured version of it. The moons had been placed at the centre, and the various signs had been arranged around them. For a moment, Sarros simply stared, not even noticing that there was no rough stone beneath his bare feet, but thick, soft rugs.

“You like my ceiling, I take it?” Araynys asked, depositing his stack of books with a loud thump on a desk that was not the metal the dwemer furniture had been made of, but a beautiful, dark wood. Dried paint and ink stained it in countless layers – Sarros thought it looked better that way.

He could not keep his eyes on the furniture long; it was as if the ceiling opened with how much depth the mural had. “It’s breathtaking… How long did it take you to paint that?”

“A year, perhaps? You have a lot more time when you don’t need sleep. In concept, it’s rather simple; blend the colours, dot it with stars. Wait for the paint to dry between applications. Come, put down your books.”

Sarros did as asked. He felt a flash of envy when he realized just how much expensive colour was stuck to the tabletop - he had never been able to afford the pigments required to make proper paint, sticking with charcoal, thin ink and graphite all his life.

“Don’t worry, it’s all dry,” Araynys said, mistaking the brief change of expression for worry about the books. “I prefer using my easel these days.”

It stood beside the desk. Fascinated by the ceiling, Sarros’ eyes had skipped over it, only now that it was pointed out did he see the painting Araynys was currently working on.

He had never seen the mer whose portrait it depicted before – but it could only be Nerevar. Sharp, blue eyes looked back at him, beneath thick, pale brows; the hair on the sides of his head had been shaven, leaving only an impressive mohawk; and symmetrical, ritual scars crossed his face. The shade of his skin was familiar; Sarros had worn in it in his dreams.

The piece looked finished to Sarros, until he spotted a plate of gold leaf sitting at the edge of the desk. To decorate the armour, perhaps.

“For Voryn,” Araynys explained, “he… Was hopeful that you would be the real Nerevarine and had me paint him… you… to celebrate.” He shrugged. “Frankly, I’d rather look at the living, breathing man who stands before me in the present, than wallow in desire for one who is thoroughly dead…”

“Well,” Sarros muttered, coming closer to take in the details of the golden armour, the brush strokes defining the strands of hair, “I cannot hope to be this attractive.” It was a statement he wholeheartedly believed, and there was no self-pity in it; Sarros looked half-dead, even now that he was fed regularly and slept much better, and he knew it.

“Give yourself some time to put on a bit of weight,” Araynys said, pinching Sarros’ hip bone through his thin robes. “You look like a half-starved pilgrim because you are one. Half a year and you can pick and choose any man or woman you want…”

Sarros had to remind himself that the only elves Araynys saw regularly were his brother and corprus victims in various stages of the disease, otherwise he would have thought it a hollow compliment meant to… To do what, really? Endear Araynys to him?

“Men,” Sarros said, “women are not quite, uhm.” He had never once felt the desire to lie with one, let alone felt romantic attraction.

An unreadable expression wiped away the smile on Araynys’ face as he turned away to rummage in one of his own bookshelves.

“My brothers,” he said, “have no love for Nerevar. Neither should I, or Voryn, although I have to admit I don’t believe the story that he personally ordered the destruction of House Dagoth.”

Startled by the sudden change of topic – not to mention the unexpected revelation – Sarros could only look at his back in confusion while Araynys pulled out books, shaking his head at each of them.

“It’s why they reacted to you like that. Gilvoth and Uthol lost more than the rest of us when House Indoril attacked Kogoruhn, and while they aren’t like Voryn – they understand that ‘reincarnation’ does not mean ‘one and the same person’ – they’ll have difficulty getting to like you. Maybe they never will.”

“Why do they look so different?” Sarros asked, not quite ready to dwell on the intricacies and consequences of Nerevar’s soul residing inside him.

“Mother had two men, a chimer husband and a dwemer paramour,” Araynys explained matter-of-factly. “Don’t be surprised, House Dagoth had a much better relationship with the dwemer than anyone else. How do you think Nerevar was introduced to them?”

“Oh.” It made sense, though he was surprised to hear Araynys speak so nonchalantly about his mother’s lover. Different times.

“I wonder how many dunmer have dwemer blood to this day,” Araynys mused, turning around and handing a singular, thick book to Sarros. His jovial smile had returned. “I wouldn’t be surprised if there were more children born from mixed parents once Nerevar united everyone. Or perhaps they all died when the dwemer vanished. Can you imagine, half your blood gone?”

“I’d rather not.”

The book, an ancient spell tome, was written in rather archaic Dunmeris, Sarros found when he flipped through the pages. It would be a difficult read.

“Much of the spells in it are severely outdated,” Araynys said, “and could probably be cast much more efficiently with modern techniques. Still, you’ll find things in there no Telvanni will teach you because they simply forgot about them. They should be helpful in combat. Surprise your enemies.”

If Sarros understood correctly, the spell he was currently looking at would turn its target inside out. Not something he wished to experience, neither as the victim nor the caster, but he could see how it could be quite demoralizing to one’s fellow combatants. Also, a nightmare to have reflected back at you.

“If you don’t like it bloody, I recommend chapter five, it’s got a beautiful variety of spells that cause pain without injury. Some favourites of mine…”

Sarros stared, speechless. Araynys was full of surprises today.

“What? Not all of House Dagoth’s terrible reputation was fictional. Interrogations were one of our specialties… Ask Voryn about it sometime, he gave the orders, after all.” He winked.

“Maybe…” Sarros said, not particularly keen to learn about whatever horrors Voryn had inflicted upon his prisoners.

He flipped through more pages, until he reached the section about frost magic. Many dunmer mages never bothered with it, but if he was to fight the Temple sometime, it would be quite effective against the Ordinators…

“Come, sit down,” Araynys ordered, rather than asked, pointing at a section of the room separated by walls of wood and paper. Every piece of furniture in the room was made of wood, in an odd style Sarros had never seen before – perhaps a recreation of ancient fashion? Did the Sixth House employ carpenters…?

The dividers hid a pile of large cushions and pillows surrounding a small table. This, too, was stained with ink. An open book lay face down on it, its spine revealing that it was a copy of “Words of the Wind” – Ashlander poetry. Sarros had seen this book in various shops. As common as it was in other places on Vvardenfell, it felt oddly out of place here.

He picked one of the cushions nestled between piles of pillows, leaning back to look up at the ceiling. One of the ancient wall lamps dotting every dwemer ruin illuminated the secluded space, covered in sheer, orange fabric to provide warmer light. It would be a nice place to sleep, he thought.

“I’m not really in the mood to have our first lesson today,” Araynys admitted, draping himself across a large cushion on the opposite side of the table. “You go read a bit first. Start with Ilara’s books – she might just punish you if you’re lazy.”

“I hope they’re a little more modern,” Sarros admitted, “it’s not like I can’t read, but ancient Dunmeris is a bit of a challenge.”

“She brought them with her from all over Vvardenfell and the mainland. Should be relatively recent. Ilara is our main connection to the Third Era.”

“Must be isolating to be stuck beneath Red Mountain,” Sarros muttered. He certainly felt like he had stumbled into a different world he might never escape again.

“I was stationed in the West Gash for a while. Mamaea. But it was just another cave, really. I miss the open sky, but Voryn says it’s not safe for us outside.”

“Are you… real vampires?” Sarros asked, thinking sunlight might be the issue.

“What? No. We don’t even call ourselves ‘ash vampires’, I think Ashlanders coined that term. The magic of the Heart created us, we don’t need any sustenance, let alone blood. No, Voryn is worried about other dangers. Like the Ordinators, or… Hmm.”

“Cliff racers,” Sarros joked.

“Are there still so many of those? Terrible nuisance back in the day.”

“Worse than rats,” Sarros confirmed, “you cannot go anywhere in peace.”

“Someone should exterminate them,” Araynys said, “I bet the dunmer would worship them. I should suggest it to Voryn.”

Sarros imagined a small army of ash creatures systematically hunting down all cliff racers. If they wanted to convert dunmer to their cause, this might be slightly more effective than fear and corprus.

“So,” Sarros said, “what are we going to do with the rest of our day, then?”

“Why, make art, of course! I’ll get you an empty sketchbook…”

Voryn waited for the Nerevarine in his small bedroom, tapping his claws on the metal of the desk in impatience. Magic lessons should not take multiple hours for someone who barely had the magicka reserves to cast a greater fireball, and the delay had thoroughly evaporated his earlier positive mood.

If one had asked him why he waited here, rather than in his study, where he could perhaps engage in something more useful than sitting around doing nothing, he would have refused to answer; but he knew he hoped to find Nerevar still shaken from his earlier ordeal, perhaps in need of some more comforting. His daughter would certainly not have provided any.

Instead, the door opened to reveal Nerevar, humming loudly, balancing a large stack of books with ease. There was no hint of distress, until he unceremoniously dropped the books on his bed. They barely made a dent; someone must have put an enchantment on them.

“Voryn?” he asked, jumping when he saw that he was not alone. Voryn hated the expression of distrust on his face. “Is something wrong?”

“No, I have been waiting for you. I am curious about your lesson, with how long it took…”

“Oh, I didn’t really have lessons today, or I would be dead in a corner. It’s been what, half a day? No, I got to know Ilara’s partner a bit, spent a lot of time drawing with Araynys… I suppose I did get a lesson in art.”

He smiled, a forced smile. Jealousy twisted Voryn’s heart at the mention of his brother, overshadowing his distaste for the mention of Ilara’s lover.

“I would love to see your drawings,” Voryn said, doing his best to keep his tone cordial, “when you feel ready to show them.”

“I’m… I mean, I’ve seen his work. I’m not that good. That portrait of Nerevar he’s working on… It was like it looked at me… Not in a hundred years will I reach that level.” He gave a self-deprecating laugh. “I can see why you like him so much. Nerevar, that is. If that is what he looked like, he was incredibly handsome…”

“Araynys drew him according to my descriptions. They may be biased,” Voryn admitted. “Many people found themselves attracted to him, in any case. He had quite the reputation.”

Nerevar blushed, looking away as if remembering something. “When I’m… Well, I’ve had my fair share of lovers too,” he said quietly. Taking a seat on the bed, he looked up at Voryn. “Doesn’t take that much. A nice smile, a well-timed touch here and there…”

That was a touch Voryn would very much like to feel, but he knew Nerevar was far from ready. Nevertheless, he felt heat gather in his groin at the thought of the Nerevarine’s fingers caressing his skin, and decided it was time to leave. Clearly, Nerevar was well and had no need of him.

“I can imagine,” he said, standing up a little too quickly. “In any case, you are alive and well and have much to study, so I shall leave you to it.”

“Oh.” Nerevar looked up at him, bemused. “Yes, I’ll do my best to make Ilara proud.”

“Good luck,” Voryn said, half out the door already. “I will see you tomorrow.”

Once he closed the door, he leaned against it for a moment, taking a few deep breaths. He felt like an adolescent as the desire flooded him – clearly, millennia spent without the touch of another had not done him any good.

As he stood there, he heard Nerevar’s voice behind the door – singing. It was a welcome distraction from his flurry of emotions. Deciding that he had some time to spare, Voryn remained where he was, relaxing as he listened.

The song was foreign, but the voice was beautiful. Perhaps he could convince Nerevar to sing for him one day?