Эльфийская Песнь

"I am light like a feather. A feather you lost, my beautiful bird. Please forgive me, cease your flight for only a second, take me back. I am yours. All I want is to be with you, where you are, hear your songs.. don't leave me alone, my bird.." -Coilu

He knew it would happen. His mother warned him. He even knew why it would happen. His father told him. He was ready when the humans came and killed his parents. He was ready to die. His was too young and too weak to even try to escape the fate, let alone put a fight. And that woman meant to kill him, but her man stopped her. He said it was wrong and he won't let her. She didn't like it, but submitted to him. So Coilu became their slave. He wasn't Coilu at that point. It was the name the woman gave him, to replace his own, the one he didn't have the right to carry and even remember anymore. He knew what his new name meant, it was a meric wordplay, she called him 'Dead'. She laughed at him, but as insulting as it was, he meekly accepted the name, as well as his new self.

His parents' murderers and his captors were a noble couple from High Rock, and their castle became his new home. The man lost any interest in him soon after he was brought there. What kindness he might see in the man's actions before was replaced with an exaggerated harshness, no doubt meant to eradicate any hope for an indulgence in the young elf. In contrast, the woman appeared quite reasonable and benevolent, even showing a semblance of сompassion to him at times. It was still far from a comfortable relationship, but they understood each other, and trusted each other, in that sense. There was more in that trust than the people around, even her husband, would ever realize. It was both in the way they saw the world and in the past they shared.

Her job wasn't too different from what his parents did. They all played the same game, they just belonged to different sides, and this woman.. she was a killer, she won this fight of hers by merely eliminating the adversary. Though it was still her job, to him she was from the same league as were his parents, and he didn't feel hateful or vengeful toward her, maybe out of esteem, maybe just too broken to have any strong feelings anymore, and in turn she recognized him, not as her son, not at all, rather as a former enemy. She learnt to find an ease in his company, to enjoy his quiet attention, often he appeared the only one in the entire castle to understand her thoughts, she was with him when she should be with her husband. And once their son was old enough, they entrusted him into the hands of the elf. The boy became the elf's new owner..

Whatever the humans had to abuse or reward the elf with was always accepted with the same unfailing obedience, they never had a reason to suspect him of a rebellion or even a negligence. He was always loyal and responsible.. just in the rare moments of solitude he fetched his flute and played his sad tune about translucent sky-high towers sparkling like jewels in the last beams of the setting sun, about beautiful beings in flying ships that would arrive some day to take him home..

Лезвие Огня

"You gave me no choice. I owe you nothing!" - Aicanaro

"That was all done before I was born. I didn't ask for anything, I did nothing. Why would you expect me to fulfil any duty now? What I give you now is what I want to give you. It is MY decision, MY sacrifice. You say I am one of you, you say I must follow the code of your kind. I am my father's son, and he's the only one I respond to.." He didn't say it outloud. Some day he maybe will, but not today. Maybe he would never venture to oppose the clan so straightforward, but he didn't question his own courage, he was quite content with the excuse that such a recklessness would almost certainly put an end on his ambitions, let alone his relatively good terms with the clan. They were still ready to follow him, why would he destroy this fragile loyalty with his own hands. He just stood before them, quiet and solemn, patiently withstanding their crude rituals.. 

Aicanaro, as his mother called him, or Umuulak, as he was known to the orcs, was born in an unnatural union of an Orsimer chieftain and his Altmer concubine to a small Orcish clan somewhere in the swamps of central High Rock. As much as the old orc cared for his women and the progeny they provided, he would never think of Aicanaro, who inherited his mother's appearance almost perfectly, as his heir. At the moment the chieftain was about to quit the Mundus though, the mongrel appeared the only child of his still alive and capable of prolonging the orc's both bloodline and reign. The fact that his comely boy survived mostly because he was never entrusted with any critical task and nobody would imagine him putting a claim on the clan or presenting any other threat only made the choice more harrowing to the dying chieftain. He departed without outspeaking his last will, and the burden of the choice fell into the hands of his closest friend, his brother in arms, a seasoned orc warrior, as vigilant as harsh in his decisions. He was indeed the right person to do it, and he knew what the clan expected from him. His own son, a proper orc, with strong mind and strong body, would be one accepted by the clan as their new leader, one to lead them for many decades. His own blood told him to do it, he earned this privilege. But he trampled on all the reasons and all the temptations, he couldn't betray one who was his friend and his chiftain, one who trusted him. And he went against the clan and against his blood. He made this Altmer, who was still an Orc to him and the legitimate heir. He forced his son and the entire clan to accept his decision, and said to himself that he will deal with his own doubts later, sometime. With that the reign of Umuulak, also known as Aicanaro, was started. 

He was neither shy nor weak. He knew what he wanted and he knew how to obtain it. He couldn't compete with the orcs in raw power, let alone toughness, despite his spectacular, for a young Altmer, physique, but he had what nobody of them did. However impure that was still the Altmer blood he felt boiling within him, goading him forward and showing him the ways. He never looked for the academic magic, they were way too formal for what a wild being he was, he needed something suiting both his attitude and his most pressing needs. And the right answer was right there. The witchery. It wasn't particularly satisfying, nor they were outright willing to open their secrets without him putting himself into yet another service in addition to his responsibility for the Orcish clan, but it was still something to start from. Soon he found what he thought they missed, something for just himself. He was still too young, too naive and too impatient, and he rushed into what breach in the wall he saw. He made it his second nature.. 

The orcs didn't have to know. They were his soldiers, the force he'd use to fulfil his ambitions, even if it meant the end of the clan. He wasn't sure whether he would really be able to betray them, leave them behind or send into abyss, but he liked to think that he would. Their ways coincided as far as Aicanaro ventured to look into the future, he did mean to lead the clan toward power and glory, he just knew his union with them wouldn't last forever. They might grow loyal to him, recognize his abilities, even consider him a true Orc, but he didn't want to be one of them. Even the role of a lonely warlock doing a menial work for the local Breton lords seemed more appealing to him, and often he just left the clan to become his other self, only to come back every time though and use his recently obtained experience for another advance of his Orcish brethren. 

Тень Звезды

"They robbed me of everything I had, everything I was, they took my very self. They thought I'd never know. They were wrong" -Ellome.

The Hidden Snake

All he knew of himself was the undeniable fact that he was different and the necessity to hide the fact. He learnt it early, the art of disguise, even before he learnt the word 'Illusion' to name it. Though while it could hide his appearance, to the degree enough to pass for 'just another elf', it did nothing hide his hunger, his determination bordering on foolhardiness, and that feeling grew only stronger as grew his ability to fulfil it. He still didn't know what was it, that.. something he craved for so much. Nobody taught him, quite the opposite he always suspected they just didn't want him to know. Even those few he had to trust.. His mother and that one-legged man, his mother's 'friend'. No, the latter wasn't his father. He never knew his father. When he grew old enough and asked his mother, all he found out was that he must not ask her of that, ever. He accepted it, he already understood it very well at that point how important it was to see the walls around, if he didn't want to be crushed against one of those, but it still didn't stop another feeling rising deep in him, a hatred for his mother. He didn't like that man, her 'friend' either, but the man wasn't one of them, he was only a human, it just didn't feel like what treachery he saw in his mother.

They were so alike, he and his mother, the consanguinity seemed even more overwhelming for there was nobody around even relatively resembling them. They two were alone in the whole world, he didn't even question it, even though the world he knew wasn't that big and the truth about the extinct meric race came out to him much later. But there was still something to make him feel even more special, make him different from his mother. At first he saw it in his own eyes. No, not the predatory slits, crossing his golden irises veritcally, the feature he learnt to hide from everyone in the first place. It was rather what he saw behind those alien eyes every time he was alone with his reflection in another mirror, what was lurking within him. He was something more. It took years of him before he started to recognize what it was, before he gave it a name. "Father..", he whispered, pressing his lips to the cold glass. And then there were years of his meek, never answered plea, before he came to his grim conclusion. It was missing. What belonged to him, by birthright, just wasn't there. It was stolen. He never doubted he had it, he didn't allow even a thought of how futile his assumptions might be, no, the emptiness he found only reinforced his confidence, he grew only stronger in the desire to regain it, regain himself. The only question, still lingering, was about the nature of his loss, he still had no idea what he was longing for, he just knew it must be something great, way above these lowly beings he was forced to live among, way more sublime than what he could call his life so far.

They never understood it. They might feel something disturbing about him, might find him obnoxious or impressive, hopeless or promising, but they always failed to foresee his next step, always underestimated him, and paid for it, more often than not.

The Beginning

Nobody in Wayrest paid much attention, beside maybe some idle curiosity, to the arrival of a poor elven woman. There was nothing unusual about it. What kind of mer or how old she was would be hard to discern, but she didn't look important enough to burden anyone with those questions. She was pregnant and looked for a shelter. Luckily someone took pity on her, an aged Breton man, apparently a veteran of some wars, well weathered, battle-scarred and missing his left leg. His service hasn't earned him much fortune, but he owned a small house on the outskirts of the city and appeared happy to share it with the woman. Whatever it was behind his benevolence, sentimentality, romantic interest or just his kind heart, they got along surprisingly well. One might even assume there was something between them in the past, should the very thought of the two possibly having something in common come to anyone's mind. They though would be surprised even more to find out how close to the truth the guess was, if again they would care about such an insignificant detail should the true story of the elven woman be revealed to them.

Soon she gave birth to a single child, a boy with silvery hair like hers and glowing golden eyes like his father's, and for a decade the three seemed to resemble a happy family more and more every year. The life wasn't easy, but they never starved, always had decent clothes, and they were content with it. There was still a tension though, they were always ready for something to come, they prepared for it. And one moonless night it found them. As ready as they were for it there was little they could put against it, other than their determination to protect what it came for, the boy. It was a power far above their physical or magical abilities, but it still failed to reach its primary target. They hid the boy, and it withdrew admitting its fail. The price of the victory though was high, the woman died fighting for her son, and one might only assume what an eerie creature should that mysterious power be, how much she should fear it to prefer what hole she hid the boy in to whatever fate that power meant for him. She threw him into the very bottom, the sewers of the society, put him among the most despised criminals. She'd rather have her son lost forever with the vermin than give him to the one that sought them all those years and found eventually. The boy's father.

The Pit

The street became the boy's new home. There was nobody to take care of him or even pity him. He knew his mother was dead, and even if she weren't he probably wouldn't want to see her anymore. What she did looked to him an utter betrayal, and this feeling grew only stronger every day of his shattered life. He had no idea whether her friend survived that night, and he didn't really care, other than maybe randomly enjoying the thought of his father killing the man slowly and painfully. When he met the man again, in few years, he was almost disappointed, finding little difference from what he remembered of the man, save just a new scar across his entire face, rather disgusting, though hardly making the face uglier than it already was. At that point though the boy had seen too much and, what was more important, understood a lot about himself, he wasn't a boy scared of everything and everyone around anymore, he earned a place for himself in that cruel world, took it despite the world trying hard to devour him, and he didn't see a warden in the man anymore. They two didn't even need words, a mere glance was enough. They didn't become friends, they didn't even stop being enemies, but they recognized each other's truth and accepted it. Some day maybe they would have to fight, and one of them would maybe kill the other, but till that day it was a strange union. They needed each other, the man needed something in his deserted life and they boy needed a safe haven in the madness of his existence. However illusory it might seem it was still a semblance of a family.

Which the boy needed only more as he matured. He became self-sufficient years ago, at least he could afford more than what he'd want to have or, rather, what he had a chance to keep. He was a successful thief, and he wasn't squemish at all, he had a reputation of a person capable of virtually everthing, any misdeed. When nobody appeared daring enough to do a particularly dangerous or dirty job, they sought him. It seemed the worse job was the more it suited him. He did welcome a challenge, apparently it always was a part of appeal in another theft to him, as if he always needed to prove something to someone. But there was more than just that. He despised them all, despised them the stronger the more they accepted him as one of them. He wasn't like them at all, he knew it. He wasn't even like those of the higher classes he freed of their treasures. He was something different, not from this world. And that old man's house became a place where the boy could be just himself.

The Foul Blood

He was sixteen when he killed for the first time. Of course, he could be accused of murder in his earlier years, but he knew he didn't do it, not intentionally at least. Maybe there was a degree of his guilt, maybe he was just framed, but he didn't see himself as a murderer at all. That day it was different, he meant to kill and he did it. One might still say that he killed because he had to defend himself, and it really looked like that, but Ellome himself didn't even think of excuses. He was calm and focused, it didn't even took an effort of him. Maybe he was still too immature to really comprehend the meaning of his deed, lacked what ethics make one a human, but it felt just natural to him to take a life. At that moment. He didn't even gave the corpse of the huge Nordic man, that was so careless to try and manhandle a seemingly frail young elf, another glance before leaving the room, not because he didn't want to see it, there was just nothing special to him.

But it changed him, woke something in him, something so teasing and so unapproachable. It was torturing by itself, but there was quite a physical pain to make it even worse, as if his body tried to reshape itself and kept failing with it. He stayed in the old man's house for many days, maybe weeks, wandering aimlessly from one room to another or sitting at the floor against the small fireplace staring unblinkingly at the fire. The old man made few attempts to help his fosterling, tried to talk to him or at least feed, and was about to just give up when Ellome suddenly spoke to the man himself, surprising the latter even more with what he asked for. The boy wanted to learn, he wanted everything the man could give him. Ellome didn't even mention his father, even though it was the first the man would expect from the boy, and he would perhaps tell what he knew, tell of that night and more, the story of the beast. But Ellome wanted something different, he asked the man to share his own wisdom, his skill and his worldview. Again, they understood each other without saying anything, the man only sighed and lowered his head, he knew what the boy wanted him to participate in and why, yet he agreed.

The Serpent's Fangs

It wasn't about Ellome becoming a deathdealer that bothered the old man, even though it was exactly what he had to teach his ward. In a sense he even welcomed the chance to teach the young elf some code, provide him a ground to stand on and at least a way to distinguish light and dark. But he knew already that Ellome was after something far beyond a role of a mere fighter. They still didn't speak of Ellome's father, but the man knew he was guiding the boy the same road his mother carried him along, just the opposite direction, back to the beast. His technique itself didn't mean much to the elf, the man remained mostly clueless about what his student really learnt, could never tell beforehand whether another of his lessons would be perceived eagerly by Ellome or annoy him instantly, and eventually the man returned to his initial intention, to make the boy as resistant to the inevitable darkness as possible. He even started to believe that it was exactly what Ellome needed from him.

Soon though it ended up with Ellome knowing everything his mentor could tell him, he gained his own experience and at times asked the man's opinion on another of his jobs, most of which though the man could react to with only a somber nod. The boy was indeed good at whatever they hired him for, be it guarding a life or taking it, but the circumstances of those tasks and the way Ellome treated them were far from what the man used to do himself or what he taught the elf. Of course, the lithe young elf with comely face and an innate affinity with illusion magic to enhance his features in any way he wanted it, inhumanly fast and agile, capable of staying still, nearly dead, waiting day after day for his victim, and all other weird things the man wouldn't even try to understand, was plain different from him, just too talented to care about standard methods of the Imperial military or special forces. But the man thought of something different, the reasons of those who ventured to hire a dangerous and uncontrollable monster like this, and then he understood how they always meant to use and drop Ellome, and how he never gave them a chance. The man couldn't even decide who he sympathized more, which of the prey, Ellome or those trying to kill him and dying.

The Dust

Ellome still was in his late teens when he earned quite a fame around Iliac Bay, though it was mostly his reputations, he had little to nothing in common with many of the crimes they credited to him. And often it didn't even compliment his talents. The elven mongrel appeared just too useful as a universal evil, guilty of everything that happened in the region. He didn't mind it. At first he even enjoyed it, but soon the image became just another face of his, a part of the illusion he surrounded himself with. As proper it felt to him to be a top predator, it wasn't what he sought. The emptiness within him grew more and more torturing, it threatened to devour him entirely at some point in his way to the power. The more he advanced the more distinctly he saw it, the lack of something. Something that belonged to him and was stolen from him. He still couldn't overcome himself and ask his mentor about his father, maybe too scared of what the man might tell him, maybe just rejecting the very idea of speaking of that with his enemy. Ge tried to find the answers by himself. With little success. And then the old man died, in a foul puddle in a dark alley, stumbled and couldn't get up anymore. All Ellome found was a modest grave, the last debt The Legion paid to the veteran. Ellome spent half an hour sitting by the grave, staring into the dirty cloudy sky of Wayrest, he didn't try to speak to his lost teacher, didn't pray, did nothing of what one might assume from the scene. It was only a sign of honour, what Ellome thought the man would appreciate from him most. He esteemed the man, as a dedicated enemy warrior. They both remained faithful, even if to different ideals, and their battle wasn't over. Ellome swore his oath on the man's grave, and even if the latter couldn't hear it, Ellome knew the man didn't even doubt.

Ellome never asked for a legacy like this, he didn't even think of inheriting anyhing from the man, let alone from his mother, but that ramshackle house and its mesirable contents appeared his property. He couldn't own it legally or even save it from inevitable ravage, but he still saw it as his duty to at least try and collect some trinkets the old man might value, and he stayed in the house for the next night. Marauders already paid it a visit, most of the furniture was missing, and the walls sported a number of uneven holes, the vermin hoped to find a cache. Maybe they did, maybe the man merely had no treasure to hide, but there was only dust left to Ellome. Dust of the past he didn't want to remember. He couldn't help it though, he remembered it all. It was the part of the legacy beyond the marauders' reach. It wasn't just memory though. Some of those from the past were still alive. And to their bad luck Ellome needed them now.

The Mice That Caught A Cat

Not every person sacrificing his life to The Legion ended up like Ellome's mentor. Some had families and children, some were rich and respected. A friend of the old man was both. Ellome heard the story of the battle brotherhood that fell apart, he knew the price of the well-being, the dishonour. It was the time for them to pay. Ellome didn't mean to deliver a justice, he only wanted the answers. It wasn't his guilt that his questions appeared that drastic. Whether he really touched what he shouldn't, some senstive secrets of the Empire, or the man considered himself too important and demanded a protection from his superiors, Ellome suddenly faced an exaggerated activity of the local Imperial agents. He had no idea who they were, represented what secret service, but it was certainly too much to him, a level he never was at. He still outplayed them, they knew even less of what they tried to deal with, but the answers Ellome got from the man were his last words. He knew little, but it was something already, a thread Ellome squeezed in his hand and wouldn't let go. Many decades ago the two men were a part of a special operation, they tried to chase down a dangerous cult somewhere in the swamps of central High Rock, and that cult was led by an ancient creature of god-like power. The operation failed miserably, many of the men perished, killed or lost forever in the swamps. It was where Ellome's mentor lost his leg and was rescued by his friend, this one, who dragged him on the back for many days, till they stumbled upon Breton militia.

Ellome now knew, nothing in the story was a matter of luck. They all were involved somehow. He didn't doubt the demigod they hunted was his father, and he understood now what it was between the old man and his mother. Still the puzzle missed a handful of important pieces. He knew his father was what the man and his mother had in common, but it didn't explain why and how they met. And, what was even more critical, he didn't know where it happened. The swamps the Imperial forces sunk in could be only a start of his search, and very doubtful at that, given how long ago it was and how little his father's actual wereabouts might be related to that place. Though he found out what he didn't expect at all, the Empire. His father somehow was a threat, and the Empire tried to stop him. Which meant, there were secrets they hid, and, more important, there were those who did it. Ellome now knew what to do.

The Swamp

He didn't feel at home there, not at all. The place appeared as grim and unpleasant to him as it would to anyone else. He regretted coming there before even starting his investigation. The swamp itself consumed all traces of the battle, just as he expected. Even if anything remained intact, it would be impossible to find. Ellome gave up after a day of what torment his expedition was. The human memory though happened to be more reliable, they only needed a proper stimulation.to untie their tongues. Between telling him what he wanted to know and shutting up forever they always prefered the former. Their stories were mostly useless, often desultory or plain brainchildren, many heard of 'the swamp monster' and about as many were ready to tell another harrowing story about him, but nobody knew anything real. Ellome moved to the east gradually, led by the course of his interrogation, almost half-way to where he came from, Wayrest. It started to seem pointless, and he already considered cancelling the journey and going straight to Wayrest, to proceed to his second option, the Imperials, when he heard it. The call. He wasn't sure if it was something there or just his own internal voice, but he already knew he found it.

Ellome was so certain in his success, that even the sad fruitlessness of his subsequent search couldn't discourage him. He just knew it was there and kept looking. Eventually he was rewarded for his determination, but what he found left him even more lost and desperate. He found his father's underground temple in a small secluded island among the swamps, his true home, the very walls, every stone there were permeated with the truth, he was conceived there by the god of the temple, but the huge halls were empty. The temple was thoroughly ravaged and whatever dwelled there was burnt to ashes. It happened a decade or two ago perhaps, given the layers of dust, but the oily scent of the conflagration was still disturbingly fresh. Surprisingly that vague voice still spoke to him, and it didn't sound funeral. Ellome could almost see all those burnt alive in the caves, but, what mattered to him, he didn't see his father among them. The god was still alive and he wasn't there anymore. That was what Ellome found out. He had to look elsewhere.

The Empire

Ellome should be grateful to his mentor for those lessons. If anything they made him familiar with the Imperial culture enough to earn an entrance into the more private chambers of the Empire or at least avoid a bloodshed in his way there. Many of the new acquaintances would be positively surprised should they somehow find out they welcomed one of the most notorious criminals into their homes. Then again they maybe wouldn't really mind it. Those problems that bothered the people of the provinces appeared little more than amusing to the populace of the Imperial City, everything seemed a game from within the walls of the capital, either an entertainment to spice up their existence or a way to gain some points in their permanent battle for a higher place in the Imperial hierarchy. As rich of opportunities it was, the place wasn't a pasture full of sheep to Ellome. He was far not the only predator there, and far not the strongest of them. Still given what little he wanted Ellome had good chances to stay unnoticed, and those chances were still better with what little interest in the military matters the capital had. The Legion was neither too popular there nor watched too closely, and the men always had an assortment of complaints about everything. Ellome was even bewildered at first what disloyal and unreliable bunch of rowdies the Imperial military appeared. Just after having a number of long and intimate conversations with them he realized the laxity was the other side of harsh discipline and devotion, their job was to die for the Empire and they saw no need to prove their loyalty in any other way. Ellome readily esteemed it, but there was still his pursuit for the knowledge, and they were only pawns to him.

He was indeed stuck with the soldiers, they were of no use to him, should he want to get into the more secret departments from the regular military, but he didn't really need it. Random pieces of what he wanted to know were scattered all over the Legion itself, he only needed to collect them and he already had the glue to put them together. He knew what they were speaking of, the places and the names, he was there, he saw it himself, he touched it with his own hands, smelled its scent. Every new piece made the picture more coherent and meaningful. Soon he knew enough, and perhaps he knew even more than did those in the dark basements of the Imperial secret offices. He knew who his mother was and why she was with that man, knew who helped them to meet, and he eventually knew what was his father, what was he himself. He had to ponder carefully on what he found out before even trying to make conclusions, no matter how impatient he was. He crawled to this treasure for too long, through too much pain and humiliation to ruin his trophy now, out of mere haste. He felt that he might need more evidences, more accurate information, which he could only obtain in the well guarded offices though, and he didn't want to risk it all now. For the very first time in his life he was hesitant to test his talents. He merely left the capital, heading back to the north-west, wistful, lost in the perplexity of his thoughts and feelings.

The Serpent

Apparently his mother was of a presently extinct meric race, a snow elf, as they called it, she wasn't the only one alive of the kind, but all others were hiding or hidden, and Ellome had no interest in them. As much as he resembled them he just didn't feel anything about them, and the fate of the race, no matter how tragic, didn't touch him much. He wasn't like them, he belonged to his father. And it was where his thoughts faltered. He was a son of a Tsaesci. His mother's kind might be exotic and rare, but what she still was just another mer, just like those he could easily see around. Nobody knew anything of the Tsaesci. What they told him, what he read himself in the books he found made little sense to him. He tried to study himself, listen to his own body, compare it with what the Tsaesci were believed to be, and this experiece only confused him more. He did feel it, the serpent within him. It looked at him from any mirror through his own eyes, golden with vertical slits, it spoke to him with his own forked tongue. His fangs didn't drip venom, but he always knew there was something suspicious about them. Yet neither nothing of that alone nor all that together answered his main question. What was his father? What was he himself? And there was still that irremovable, ever anguishing emptiness in him. He didn't know what that hunger was or how to satisfy it. There still was no answer.

But Ellome knew at least, that his mother was a concubine of the Tsaesci. He didn't even realize till that moment how in fact old she was. They met eons ago, both alone against the entire world, theywere fated to stay together. She would never leave, no matter how cruel the Tsaesci was to her. Till something extraordinary happened. The Tsaesci tried it countless times, and eventually he got what he wanted, impregnated her. It was both a great joy to him and a catastrophe. She wouldn't do it for herself, but she did it for her child, she escaped. Ellome didn't even hope to discover the story in such a detail, at least without his father himself telling it, but there was another woman. An Imperial agent intruded into the cult. At some point she likely became a double agent, working for both her former superiors and her new god, the Tsaesci, before betraying both. She was the one whose career revealed all the details to Ellome, and she was the one who helped his mother to escape and meet that man. Moreover Ellome knew already who she was. Unluckily she was presently missing, most likely dead, murdered by her own husband, a Breton noble, out of jealousy, if Ellome was to believe the local rumours, and he suspected who might be that rival of her husband. The noble was still alive, Ellome even saw him briefly, and there was her son. These two were next in Ellome's list. He only needed to gather and arrange his thoughts before approaching them.

The Spawn Of The Serpent

The castle was big enough to suit a duke, and some time ago it was perhaps rich and maintained well enough for that. Now it was plain deserted, the walls already showed signs of degradation, succumbing to the weather and ever present vegetation, some of the buildings within the walls collapsed, likely damaged by fire, the internal halls lacked furniture or decorations, other than random remnants. Ellome didn't see many Breton castles to have a strong opinion on the state of this one, but it was at least dismaying. Nobody showed up to greet or stop him, and it took a long walk of him before he found the lord of the castle. The man was deathly drunk, sprawling immodestly on his bed. A scrawny young Altmer sat nearby, perhaps the last loyal servant to watch over the lord. Whatever Ellome heard of the tragedy in this house wouldn't prepare him for the sight. Ellome asked them both, first the Altmet, and then, in half a day, when the man at last woke up, the lord himself. Neither of them was in a state to avoid the answers, they told everything, even more than Ellome wanted to hear. Or, rather, what he didn't want to hear at all. Not only it was a waste of his time, but Ellome felt the burden of their grief in his chest long after he left them to their distress. He grew too sensitive, too weak in the proximity of what was his origin. At least now it was one and only person he needed, Ellome knew where to find him and, more important, why.

The young noble, the only son of the lord and the heir to his titles and property, was disinherited and thrown out of his home soon after his mother disappeared. The old lord knew of the Tsaesci and, just as Ellome thought, suspected his wife of treason, moreover he was certain that the lady of his castle gave birth to the child of the Tsaesci, not his own. He didn't have a proof though, and his servant swore the lord was indeed wrong with the assumption, still it defined the boy's fate, and Ellome couldn't help a lousy feeling of uncertain jealousy, even if he might have no reason for it. For his entire life he was the only son of his father, his father was his, entirely, with no reservation, he believed his father presented in him, was him, and now his entire world was about to crumble. He hated his possible half-brother already, more than he hated anything in his life. He knew their meeting would answer everything, ultimately, perhaps one of them would die. Ellome was in fact certain that only one of them would survive it, as there just couldn't be two of them.

The Treachery Of The Serpent

It was so unlike everything Ellome did before. He knew precisely what, where and why he would find his target, yet he had no idea what he would do with it. Whatever he could assume just failed to withstand a simple reasoning. He didn't know what to expect, and he wasn't ready at all. And he didn't know how unready he was. He recognized it right away, he didn't even need to look at the Breton, that was just few years younger than Ellome himself. Or, rather, he didn't even want to see him, when he saw it within him. It was right there, that tempting mystery, right what he missed so much. He found it at last. Ellome didn't care about the lord being correct with his suspicions or the Altmer lying to him. He didn't need their statements when he saw it himself. There was nothing Ellome would say to his brother or to himself. It was decided right away, nothing was needed, even the names. A fight, open and straightforward, not a murder, just a fight to the death.

The Breton tried to avoid it, said something, but Ellome didn't hear him and gave him no chance, he couldn't wait any longer. If he was meant to die, he would rather it to happen right then and there. He won though, too easily and too fast to even start feeling the frenzy of the battle, his blades appeared way too quick and precise for the Breton to even try to evade the number of cuts that put an end on his life. He merely drooped on the ground like a sack, dying before his face hit the dirt. Ellome knew his rival was dead, it was his job to know when a victim frees its soul. He stood still near the corpse, waiting for something to happen, or at least something to feel. He got nothing, no matter how long he waited. Nothing changed. Ellome descended on a knee and grabbed the dead Breton by a shoulder, rolled him on the back. Only now Ellome realized how inhuman the body looked, he couldn't even tell what it might resemble, other than maybe a golem or another artificial creature. The skin was deathly pale, nearly colorless, smooth and seemingly greasy, the eyes were still open staring sightlessly into the sky, evenly pitchy black, without any sign of iris of pupil. Ellome leaned closer to look into them, his nostrils trembled inaling the scent, the same oily scent he remembered from his father's burnt temple. And then he felt it. It was like a fume rising from those bottomless black eyes, a pure darkness vapouring, streaming through him. Ellome felt it flowing through his body, washing upon his interiors, filling him. He knew it was what he missed, what he longed for so desperately. And that feeling was a pure bliss, just as it was a torture Ellome couldn't even imagine. It didn't stay in him, it teased him, fondled him, and then it left with no trace other than a despair consuming Ellome's entire being. With a voiceless scream he collapsed on the corpse of his victim.

The Shadow

Ellome survived the defeat. He didn't even try, but he did. His body merely denied to die, despite his mind searching a demise. It even denied to stop. He never knew he had such a strength, this tenacity for life and fight. He had no goal in his existence anymore, but he still existed, didn't dissolve in the dark, maybe right because the darkness didn't want him. He needed something to keep himself busy, needed something to do, somewhere to go. And he found it right there, within himself. With everything else gone, even his father, the one he dedicated his entire life to and the one that betrayed him, there was only one thing worthy of his loyalty, the only mystery deserving his curiosity. The darkness itself. He wanted to understand it, what it was, what it meant to him and why it rejected him. It wasn't easy, they were rare and secretive, suspicious and unwelcome everywhere, but he found them, the Shadow Mages, his first step to the mystery.

[To be continued]