#morrowfic

“House Dres needs to be put in their place, and I need to regain favor after…well. You know.” He was relatively safe here in Sadrith Mora, but they’d sent the Morag Tong after him a handful of times in the recent past. Shame, that. A waste of good fighters. Neloth fidgeted with a soul gem on his bookshelf until it stood just right to refract the sun filtering in through his window. It acted like a prism and washed the floor with shifting multicolored light. For a fleeting second, the pristine order of the moment brought him peace. “There’s things you’ll never have to worry about at your rank. Or even as Hortator, if you do choose to go be whatever it is the Empire insists you’ve got to be.”

Sero’s face twisted through several emotions before it settled back into the familiar, frustrated scowl he always wore. “The Empire can go f—”

“ —yes, yes, we know your sentiment. Spare me the histrionics, if you don’t mind,” Neloth interrupted with a flap of his hand, “because we do rather have things to accomplish today if we aren’t simply going to wreak havoc on the Mainland as I’d intended.”

“You know, we will have to discuss that topic again later,” Sero drawled, scratching the back of his neck. “As much as I don’t want to. For now, though, you’re right.” He huffed and crossed his arms over his chest. “Hortator. It’s madness.”

“I told you, you’re going to have to talk to Dratha first.”

“Neloth, she hates me. And you. And everyone, I think.”

“How on Nirn could anyone hate you, oh great Nerevarine,” Neloth droned dismissively. Sero shot him a glare and threw up his hands in disbelief. He muttered to himself in Dunmeris as he leaned against a far bookshelf, fiddling with some Dwemer gear or another Divayth Fyr had brought over the last time he’d deigned to visit Tel Naga.

Neloth grinned at his own minor victory and glanced over at the distracted Nerevarine, caught in the glare from the soul gem. His frown was etched into his face. Gods only knew the weight of all he was responsible lately was heavy enough to merit the dismay. Nobody seemed quite as capable of being so sullen over something as ridiculous as the entire Nerevarine situation. Well, perhaps now that it wasn’t quite a rumor anymore, it carried more weight. If any of this was real—though Neloth still had his doubts—it was a responsibility that came with expectations even Neloth would be remiss to shrug off in favor of this abolitionist nonsense. 

He knew Sero was procrastinating. Neloth had called him on it earlier, though the comment had been deflected. Regardless, like anything worth having, he’d eventually have little choice but to take the title. Or—Sero being Sero—convince himself he’d already earned it. The utter chivalry of the entire situation got exhausting after a while. What had happened to the slovenly bandit with a chip on his shoulder? Neloth could have sworn it hadn’t been that long—months, if that—since he’d first arrived looking for, of all things, employment. It was a valid path for a reformed criminal. But a bandit with a boyish face he’d still been, nevertheless. Apparently, prophecy and legacy did a number on one’s priorities.

Though, come to think of it, Sero had never really been the type who allowed himself to be pointed in a direction and told to stab. He’d always been too clever for whatever he’d believed about himself all those years before. Not that Neloth would be caught dead telling the fool that, though.

1) Light the Way (yet unpublished) Set in the 3rd Era, (and canon to World's fic universe) our Nerevarine Teldryn Sero has somehow convinced Neloth not to blatantly start a war, and to instead try a different approach to achieve his goals.

Sero’s face twisted through several emotions before it settled back into the familiar frustrated scowl he always wore. “The Empire can go f—”

“ —yes, yes, we know your sentiment. Spare me the histrionics, if you don’t mind,” Neloth interrupted with a flap of his hand, “because we do rather have things to accomplish today if we aren’t simply going to wreak havoc on the Mainland as I’d intended.”

“You know, we will have to discuss that topic again later,” Sero drawled, scratching the back of his neck. “As much as I don’t want to. For now, though, you’re right.” He huffed and crossed his arms over his chest. “Hortator. It’s madness.”

Neloth glanced over at the distracted Nerevarine, caught in the glare from the soul gem. He’d likely win a prize for brooding if such a contest existed. Nobody seemed quite as capable of being so sullen over something as ridiculous as this. Granted, it was a responsibility that came with expectations even Neloth would be remiss to shrug off in favor of this abolitionist nonsense. But, like anything worth having, he’d eventually have little choice but to take the title. Or—Sero being Sero—convince himself he’d already earned it. The utter chivalry of the entire situation got exhausting after a while. What had happened to the slovenly bandit with a chip on his shoulder?

Though, come to think of it, Sero had never really been the type who allowed himself to be pointed in a direction and told to stab. He’d always been too clever for whatever he’d believed about himself all those years before. Not that he’d be caught dead telling the fool that, though.

Neloth shuddered at the implications of admitting any kind of respect for a non-mage, first of all, and an otherwise nameless urchin besides. Imagine. The Council would be in hysterics, and the ruse would be dropped, and every ounce of power he’d clawed to himself would evaporate in the blink of an eye. No. Securing a seat on the Grand Council was imperative if he wanted to keep his status. One did not simply earn a seat the same as anywhere else. Connections—or honestly, more like assassinations and lies. No. There had to be concrete proof of concept. What, exactly, could one do as a Grand Councilor that would advance the House’s position as a whole?

Destroy another house—especially one intent on encroaching on one’s own—by any means necessary.

2) The World on Our Shoulders, Chapter 31 The Embassy Arc begins and Athis is reeling from his encounter with someone some of you may find a bit...familiar :>

“You have no chance here,” the Altmer said. Athis paused and glanced at the man, eyebrow furrowed. His tone was matter of fact, like this was Gods-given truth. “They will find you and you’ll be no better off than I am.”

“We have a werewolf on our side, actually,” Athis said dryly as he scraped at the lock with his knife. “They’re welcome to try.”

“You are in over your head, Athis,” the Altmer said. Athis froze. For a second, he felt his heart all but stop. He exhaled through his nose. The man had to have heard Avulstein bellowing orders like he was leading the charge. That was the only explanation. The Altmer laughed, a mirthless thing. “Yes, just as I thought. I know who you are. We’ve known for a while now. Tell me, have you any idea where Nyenna ended up?” Athis slowly backed away, dropping the hunter’s knife in favor of his sword. The Altmer grinned crookedly and let out a low chuckle. “Because I do.”

Who was this?

“I’ll leave you here,” Athis warned, anger or bile rising in his throat, “and when Farkas is done here, there’ll be nobody left and you’ll rot alone in the darkness.”

“You wouldn’t, despite wiser advice,” the Altmer said, picking a thread off of his roughspun tunic. “That’s not who you are, from what’s been observed.” His voice had taken on a matter-of-fact tone. He was right, but Athis was still reeling.

“What do you know of Nyenna?” he asked after a moment, voice wavering. He swallowed hard. He had so many other questions, but the mention of her in a place like this… He had to know.

The Altmer seemed to ponder the question for a moment. “She’s on Solstheim. In a bit of a bad way, the last I’d heard, but the Telvanni are working on resolving the problem.”

“You’re lying.” Athis felt a knot form in his gut. A bad way? He knew then that listening to Aela’s advice had been a horrible mistake. That, or he’d fallen into some kind of trap.

She had, after all, foreseen her mother’s death. That, too, was another Sign. It was the heaviest of them, and she had trusted it to only one other—Sul-Matuul. He was her best friend—and perhaps the only true friend she had. When one was marked by the stars as she was, there were few who would look past the perception of power bestowed by her eventual title. But Sul had known the shape of her soul since they were children. Azura knew he’d likely known her across every lifetime. She felt their connection to be a foundational truth of the universe, and had told him as much. Despite her current worries, she smiled at the memory of his response. He’d woven his fingers through hers and sighed in exasperation, only to laugh his agreement at the sentiment. He’d insisted he’d never been one for poetry, or he’d have said it himself.

Nibani was positive that in every lifetime, she’d have to be the one to proclaim such truths—and would do so again, and again.

She set down the basket she had been carrying and smoothed the stray strands of her thick, auburn braids, pulling them back over her shoulders. Sul was there across the plains, sparring with Zabamund—though she wished he wouldn’t. There was a reason Grandmother’s voice would not empty from her mind this day. It was imperative to talk about it. He would try to understand, and would remind her of her strength all the while. For now, he was preoccupied. He had a role to fill, too—he would be named Ashkhan, though the Gods only knew when. It didn’t stop his father from insisting he act as if the title was already his.

To the hearth there comes a stranger, journeyed far 'neath moon and star…

Drelayn scooted closer and leaned his shoulder against Teldryn’s, winding his fingers through his. He could feel the tension in them, under the bruises, the callouses. Under the ring, too—Moon-and-Star—whose enchantment buzzed like a distant hive of bees. He brought Teldryn’s hand up and kissed the back of it. That earned him a look, a tiny quirk of a smile. And then he was distant again, head full of plans. Fears. Doubts.

This was the last stop. Everything he’d been through, every deed done, and finally, Aryon would name him Hortator. And that would be that. A prophecy complete. Aside from the runs to Black Marsh he’d been doing for the Lamps, Drelayn had been here much of the way. He smiled to himself and watched as Teldryn hugged his knees to his chest with a sigh and rested his chin on them, making himself small. Always so melancholy. Always worried about the next step.

Drelayn had been there before, where every decision felt like the wrong one. Mercenary work was not for the soft. He’d built up walls, and let ice collect in his core, to numb the shock of having both no voice at all and the specific kind of power it took to hold other people’s lives in his hands. These jobs ranged from watching the blood drain from the neck of the otherwise-innocent, to recapture of…escaped assets. The work was cruel. And he’d gone cold enough that even when it all fell apart, and there wasn’t anything left tying him to Vvardenfell, he still felt nothing. He had been cruel. Before that, his twin sister had taken all of this in stride, and was able to compartmentalize the pieces of this life that made him ill. He often wondered how she’d managed. Sometimes, he still did.