Relvin Meru

“So, Relvin, have you ever experimented with magic before?” Anaril said, his face still turned towards the sun, basking in its warmth.

“Not really, no. My sister could make fire in her hands and would do these… I suppose they were like drawings in the air, made from fire. It was pretty. I tried to copy her but I couldn't. It was fairly embarrassing, you know, being upstaged by your little sister like that.” Relvin looked at the Jerall mountains in the distance, seeing the dancing fires Limaran made with his mind’s eye. “Anaril, do you have any siblings?”

“Hmm. Interesting, about the fire. And no, I am an only child, no siblings. I wished I had a brother or a sister sometimes, though, it could get lonely when I was a child.”

They sat in silence for a while, thinking of what could have been and old memories, feeling the warmth of the sun and listening to the slow bubbling from the hot springs and the distant forlorn call of a loon.

“Now, I suppose I'd better tell you why I brought you here, Relvin”, said Anaril and broke the silence.

“Oh, why is that? I thought you just meant a meal and a pleasant chat between friends”, Relvin replied with a small smile.

“I figured it was time I taught you a thing or two about magic. I've noticed the way you look at me when I use it, and I can see you're eager to learn.” The Altmer’s tone was friendly and his voice was calm, yet Relvin felt a small knot of worry twist in his stomach.

“Anaril, you're very kind to offer, but…” His face felt hot as he blushed and he was certain he had to be bright purple by now. “I mean, I'm no good with magic. Never have been. So I don't think there's any worth in you trying to teach me, you'll just be wasting your time.”

“That we shall see. We will start simple, and don't you worry about it; I asked you to come here, after all, it's no burden for me to teach you something.” Anaril smiled and looked at Relvin with kindness in his eyes.

“Well, all right then, I-I suppose…”

“Here we go, then. Relvin, I would like you to close your eyes and put your hands in front of you, palms upwards, cupping your hands.” Relvin did as he was told, feeling faintly embarrassed and hoping this wouldn't be a complete disaster.

“And now”, Anaril continued, “I would like you to imagine a fire. Right there, in your hands. Think about the way it looks, the way it feels, the heat of it, the scent of the smoke. Focus your thoughts on that fire.”

Relvin tried his best to think of a fire in his hands, screwing his eyes shut and trying to ignore all the other thoughts racing through his head, thoughts of how he was the family disappointment, upstaged by his little sister, how Anaril might laugh at the Dunmer without magic.

“I think that's enough”, Anaril’s voice cut through his thoughts, “now open your eyes…”

Relvin did so, and stared at his own empty hands, without any sign of fire, not even a single spark or a tuft of smoke.

“Well, let's just try again. Concentrate all your willpower on the fire. There is nothing else, just the fire in your hands…” Relvin followed Anaril’s instructions as best he could while silently begging his ancestors and the Three for help, prayers floating through his mind as he focused his inner eye on imagining fire. Still nothing to show for his efforts but empty hands and a blush that crept from his ears to his cheeks.

“No matter, give it another go, Relvin. Just close your eyes…” Relvin heard Anaril’s voice as though it was far away, so deep was he in concentration. Please, ancestors, hear my plea, I am Relvin Meru and I seek your guidance, Relvin thought while imagining a blazing orb in his hands. Ayem, Seht, Vehk, please help me, please.

And suddenly, something changed.

It was nearly imperceptible, but something about the wind from the Eastern mountains and the heat of the sun and the scent of ash and sulphur in the air changed him, went through him and inside him. He felt the presence of many people, their eyes on him, and the air seemed heavy with age and ancient dust. Every hair on his body stood up as though lightning was about to strike. He saw nothing but darkness, and the darkness thickened and formed shapes, figures, faces, mer of all genders and with grey skin and red eyes, some covered in wrinkles and others mere children, their eyes shining like coals. A susurration of voices arose, dry as dead leaves, old as ancient stone, sounding like the whisper of turning pages.

“Are you Relvin Meru?” the voices asked, papery dry whispers surrounding him, the words in Dunmeris.

“Yes, I am Relvin Meru”, he answered them, his voice loud and clear as a bell in this thick dry air, heavy with age and meaning.

“Good. We have awaited you, child.” The voices were distinct yet they all spoke in unison. He could hear the croak of old men, the high voices of children and somewhere he thought he heard traces of his mother’s intonation. “You seek magic, child?”

“Yes, yes I do”, Relvin said in crystal clear Dunmeris.

“You are a strange one. One borne of ash yet living in this land of ice and Northern men. We thought you lost until now. You have shown that you are still of house Meru, blood of our blood, bone of our bone, child of ash and fire, and for this we shall help you in your task.”

The voices echoed inside his mind and he could feel power all around him, flowing over him like a coursing river, yet at the same time he was the river and the power floated around him in the air and inside his veins and in the ground. He took a deep breath and thought of fire. A ball of white-hot fire rested in his cupped hands, and he heard the voices sigh with pleasure, a sound like the wind over dry plains, and the sound of a girlish giggle and the softest whisper: “Long time coming, brother”. He thought of fire again and saw the ball growing larger, fire travelling up his arms, his shoulders, his chest, flame without burning him, smokeless and soundless in this strange space, he let the flames rise—

“Relvin, are you all right?” Anaril’s voice sounded like it came from far away, and Relvin opened his eyes, blinking owlishly at him.

“Yes, I think so”, he said, his voice hoarse.

“Are you sure? How do you feel?” Anaril sounded worried.

“I feel…” Relvin hesitated, trying to put his feelings into words. “I feel good. Strong. How’d I do, did I do alright?”

Anaril chuckled, all traces of worry gone from his voice. “Alright? Oh, you did far more than that. I've never seen anything like it.”

“Really? What did you see?”

“You went all quiet, barely breathing, and then you got this huge ball of fire in your hands, white like the hottest smithy, and your entire body was covered in flames and it looked like you were almost floating in the air there.” Anaril had a wide grin on his face now. “I've never been able to study the magic of a Dunmer specifically, but I never thought I would be witness to something like that. It was beautiful but almost frightening, seeing you like that, completely covered in fire.”

“Huh. That's good, then, I suppose.” Relvin felt the smile spreading across his face, and he felt almost giddy, as though a great weight had been lifted from his chest. “You know, I'm pretty hungry, how about some food, huh?”

It had started as a fairly simple job. Help a woman with the skeevers infesting her basement. The things, though ugly as sin, fell easily to the iron mace, and Relvin was careful not to get bitten, clawed or to have their blood on his skin lest it spread disease. He wore a grey-green, striped scarf over his mouth for more protection, making sure no foul vapours could enter his throat and poison his lungs. It might seem like overkill, but he would not fall to some stupid rats and whatever filth they could spread. He returned to the woman, mace bloody in his hand, and received his reward. If things went on like this, soon he'd be able to pay off Keerava and Talen-Jei.

She came back two weeks later, complaining that she'd paid good money for a job half done, and Relvin agreed to follow her into the basement again, finding five more of the vermin. They fell like grass to the sickle, and in the brightness of the two lanterns the woman carried into the basement, he noticed what seemed like tracks. Leading out, out to her garden and into the forest.

He was nothing if he was not true to his word, and so he promised to find the nest and root them out, upon his honour. Nothing to ruin a man's career and future like being thought of as dishonest and a liar. She'd made a suggestion that there might lie a few septims in it for him too if he completed this task, and how can you turn away the offer of gold for beating some stupid rats in a burrow somewhere?

The peat and moss were soft underneath his feet, and the soft mist turned the golden-red leaves of the birches into blurred flames in the distance. The nest was easy to find. The skeevers had burrowed underneath a fallen pine tree, the upturned roots the teeth of a gaping maw or long stringy knotted fingers, exactly the thing mothers warn their children of crawling under. He'd brought some pork trimmings from the inn to lure them out, but found he needn't have bothered as they all scrambled out to fight him anyway, grey-brown furs matted with filth and hideous boils on their skin. It was good that he had his scarf to cover his mouth and nose, and new fur gloves to protect his hands from blood and claws and teeth, as these things were positively crawling with filth and disease. They were not hard to kill. He felt slightly bad about killing the young ones, but realized that anything with those kinds of boils that would crawl from its mother's teat to claw and bite and screech was a danger and not to be left alive.

After the deed was done, he took out a small birchwood jar from his pack. This one had been a bit difficult to get, given that there simply is no way for anyone to ask for cat piss without sounding fairly mad. However, he had finally gotten it when the woman had stopped laughing, fresh from the source as he'd happened upon her cat relieving itself in her garden. He'd scooped up the dirt and put it in the jar, and now spread it around and inside the rat nest. This was a trick he'd learnt in Windhelm, that the rats would not go near any nest that smelled as though a cat had been near. Of course, the Nords managed to twist the news of rat-free houses in the Grey Quarter into a rumour suggesting that the Dunmer ate the rats.

As he walked back to Riften for his reward, he found a small camp. A fur and leather tent, the remnants of a small campfire, some wood chippings. He stood, half-crouched and ready to run for it, listening for signs of the camp owner (owners?), looking through the mist for any signs of movement. Nothing. The camp was abandoned. The campfire had been put out for quite some time judging by the looks of things, and an arm's length away laid a pile of ash with shards of bone peeking out. Whoever owned the camp must be from somewhere up north, where people burnt their trash because the frozen ground was impossible to dig in. The smallest child would know that you either burn or bury it, lest animals are attracted to the scent and visit your camp. There were many wild pheasants and rabbits in these woods, so the ash pile was probably just the refuse from someone's breakfast.

Taking one deep breath and reminding himself that he had a mace at his hip and the comforting weight of a crossbow and good steel bolts on his back, he went inside the tent. Not much there, a bedroll, a small backpack, a collection of food, and... oh, yes, a small stack of books. Nothing on the covers, though. Could they be journals?

He shouldn't have done it, so of course he did. Relvin picked one of the books at random and went back outside to read it. If they really were journals, perhaps he'd learn where this particular bandit planned to strike next, or the reason a hunter from the north set up camp near Riften, or whatever reason the camp owner might have for camping here. He nudged the ash pile with his foot and discovered a piece of chainmail amongst the ash. Recoiling in horror, he almost dropped the book he was holding. Chainmail. Armour. He had stepped upon a body, burnt to ash. It had to be, unless the rabbits had discovered blacksmithing. Shivers ran down his spine and he decided to read the book instead, to distract himself. The last-used page spread fell open, saving him the trouble of skimming through the book. “Some bandits. Easily taken care of. The ruins nearby though, they might be tough. Learning can be so joyful and yet so difficult.” There were no date markings in the journal, just some kind of strange symbols he could not read. “It’s strange how the locals regard me with suspicion. I was born here. I am as much of Skyrim as they are. Yet they assume. Still, they gave me some help, more than I’ve gotten from certain people.” As he read, he felt a prickling sensation at the back of his neck, and every hair on his body raised up. He heard a noise too, almost too quiet to be heard at all, but it was enough to startle him. He spun around, holding the book like some sort of makeshift shield, his other hand reaching for his mace, readying himself for a fight.

Standing there, perhaps two paces away from him, was a robed figure with a fireball in one hand, poised and ready for attack. Altmer, judging from the golden skin and pointed mer features. “Explain yourself. Now. Any sudden movements and you’ll taste fire. Understood?” The Altmer’s voice rang out, clear, as though all other sounds of the forest had been silenced. Relvin’s heart beat like a drum inside his chest, and his hands felt as though stung by a myriad silver needles. “Muthsera, please, don’t hurt me”, Relvin rasped, his throat dry. “Did I mention my patience is quite limited?” As the Altmer said this, the flame in his hand sparked and crackled wildly, sending strange shadows over his face. “D-don’t hurt me, please, I meant no harm! I thought there might be bandits and just had to take a look, is all!” “Good one. Do continue, sera”, the Altmer said, his pronunciation of the word sera sounding stilted and strange. Relvin slowly bent down to put away the book and just as slowly stood up again, showing his open palms to the mage before him. “See, no weapons. Look, if you’re going to rob me then go ahead, I’ve got nothing on me worth your while anyway.” It was true. All he carried was the iron mace he’d bought back in Windhelm, his crossbow heavy on his back, his all-too-light coinpurse, the small jar of cat piss, the iron knife for daily use, some grilled rutabaga wrapped in birchwood bark, a tinderbox and of course the locket. The ALMSIVI carved in Daedric writ inside the locket would probably mean little to an Altmer. He might be able to sell it on the market but it wouldn’t be worth killing for. The weapons were decent but not really worth a whole lot anyway, and what use would a mage with fire at his fingertips have for some Nord-forged iron, anyway? As Relvin stood there, he felt a strange calm envelop him as he calculated the risk of his own death. Unusual. Not the typical heady mix of fear, anger and bloodlust that he usually felt when being robbed, beaten or threatened by thugs. “All right, let’s say I believe you. Let’s say I trust you. Let us pretend, for a while. Why are you here, Dunmer?” “I… Like I said, I was just l-looking. Thought there might be bandits nearby, that this was their camp. Please, just let me go in peace.” The Altmer looked at him through narrowed eyes shining like glowbugs, lit by the fireball in his hand, his expression unreadable, and gave but a small nod as an answer. “I’m sorry I read your journal, I was curious and I’m sorry. You killed the bandits, didn’t you? W-with your fire. I promise you, I am no threat.” If he kept talking, maybe it would help. He wasn’t sure if he could stop talking now that he’d started, words just kept pouring out of his mouth like rushing water.

The Altmer’s expression changed, something shifted in his eyes, and the flame in his hand died out in a flourish of smoke. “I understand. My apologies. You know how it is, can’t be too cautious in these parts and these times, eh?” Relvin blinked a few times. Relief filled him from head to toe and he felt a strange urge to start laughing. “Thank you! It’s all right, I know how it must have looked. Are you new here? There’s a city not too far from here, Riften, in case you didn’t know.” The last part was probably pushing it. The man was an Altmer, of course he’d know about Riften, they live long lives. But he felt giddy with relief and could not stop himself. “Oh, Riften? I have heard of it, but I’ve never really been there. I came here in search of a cave, as I’d read there was interesting magical phenomena going on nearby it and I thought that there might be some sort of magical artefacts inside. This is my first time in Riften Hold, you see, do you know these parts?” The Altmer smiled slightly as he started speaking of the cave, all previous hostility forgotten. “No, I’m new here too. I work in Riften, though. It’s a decent town, it’s good to get away from the cold for a while. I must warn you, however: the Thieves’ Guild are holed up there and you’ll notice that very, very soon. Pickpockets, good old-fashioned robbery at knifepoint, things like that. Some utter bastards even take advantage of innocent mer enjoying a bit of drink.” Even the memory of it, the embarrassment mingling with the hangover and the sinking dread of finding out his coinpurse was missing, was enough to make him grimace. “Hmm, that does sound unpleasant, I’ll remember to keep my eyes open while I’m there. I just have to ask, though: are you, by any chance, a practicioner of the arcane arts?” “Oh. No, I’m afraid I’m not, never really been much for magic, if that is what you mean.” “Ah, I see. Don’t the Dunmer have some affinity for fire magic, though, or have I been mistaken? I’ve not known many Dunmer, you see. In fact, you’re the first mer I’ve spoken to in quite some time.” “Oh, that. Yes. There is that. Fire runs in our blood, just as ash colours our skin. You can see the red flames in the colour of our eyes.” His mother would remind him of this whenever he complained of being called a grey-skin, that he should wear this name with pride as it was just a foolish Nord’s word for its true meaning: a child of Morrowind, borne of ash and flame and as strong and hardy as the land from where they came. That nothing would take that away from him, and nobody should make him feel less for it, especially not some filthy ice barbarian. “As we carry flames within us, fire has a gentler touch upon us than it does for the other races. That’s what my mother used to say, anyway.” He almost heard her voice as he spoke, using her words as closely as he could remember them. He wished he had her way with words. Perhaps it would come with age, Moraelyn seemed to know just what words to use as well.