I awaken. I must record what has happened, lest it slip away; I cannot trust my memory alone, that has been made clear, but this I must remember, I must.

After I lay down the quill and set to staring, measuringly, at the collection of skooma bottles, I felt the familiar static upon my skin, heard the faintest echoes of ancient bells and turning pages. My hands were pulled, gently, insistently, to lay against the tile of the shrine. I could not fight, would not; when have I ever fought the will of my Lord? I twisted my body slowly, dragged my shuddering, wearied bones to kneel upon the prayer-rug. There were intangible hands upon me then, holding my head still and bowed, imploring me to look. The flames of the candles bathed my skin in gold, the shadows in velvet. I could clearly see every bone and tendon, dried blood like ebony beneath my nails and on my palms, rough against the smooth tile. My hands were turned without my will, to force me to see the ragged wounds where my nails had pierced them.

Words filled my head, the inarguable, all-silencing voice of the divine, and I trembled.

FOOLISH VIMER. HOW CAN THE VANQUISHED EARTH BE MOVED TO THE SERVICE OF THE AIR?

The unseen hands grew more numerous, pierced painlessly through my skin to stroke flesh and bone from within. My breath grew thin and tight, those fingers warm and passing up through my stomach, through my lungs, pressing them, crushing them like muck-sponge. My vision darkened, my heart battering at my ribs, then fluttering, then shivering. I felt the chill of the Void, absolute and endless, and I was afraid. I was afraid that this is how I would die: a wretched disappointment and a shame upon the name of Vimer, found wanting and worthless by the terrible gaze of Vehk-and-Vehk.

SO SOON THE FRIGHTENED CHILD FORGETS THE SUN, ONCE NIGHT HAS FALLEN. STANDING WITHIN THE PYRE WILL NOT RESURRECT THE HEAVENS, AND THE WOLVES DO NOT CARE WHY THE PREY SUCCUMBS, ONLY THAT IT DOES. THE FADED DREAM WILL NOT BE RETURNED FOR WANTING.

My head was tilted back. Vapour filled my throat, flowing out of me in a burning stream that tasted of sweet nightshade. I coughed air back into released lungs, my eyes clearing to see the last of the silver smoke leaving me and wreathing my body to give ethereal form to the hands that held me. As I watched, the dried blood on my hands crumbled to dust and fell from me in unfelt wind, the wounds of my palms knitting slowly whole again with pale letters gleaming beneath it.

THE LIONS HAVE EATEN THE SUN, BEDECKED IN PENNANTS MADE OF WARNINGS WRITTEN IN GOOD FAITH AND TRUE-ANGLED SWORDS. POOR STUDENTS HAVE BEEN SWAYED TO RED-FACETED PROMISES WITHOUT TEETH, MASTERS BECOME SLAVES BECOME EARTH, YET EVEN STILL SALVATION IS CRUSHED AND FORGOTTEN IN SHAME. YOU KNOW BETTER THAN SUCH DOUBTFULNESS. GUARD AGAINST THE GNAW OF BITTER KNOWLEDGE-MEDICINE, AND SWALLOW IT WHOLE AND THANKFUL; THE COST OF MASTERY IS REGRET.

My closing wounds filled with dark purple bile, trickling onto the altar where it, too, became as powder and drifted away. My heart slowed from its hammering, aching in fatigue, and I felt myself falling limp, held up only by the ghostly hands carding through my hair and skin and bones. Warmth was worked into my body, fever breaking into cleansing chill, and I felt new tears wetting my face.

GREAT PERFECTIONS HAVE BEEN MADE WITH MERE BONES, AND WILL AGAIN. I HAVE EVER BEEN THE TAILOR AND BUTCHER AND SMITHWRIGHT OF THE BETTERED SOUL, AND MY LOVE IS BITTER TO THOSE THAT WOULD TASTE IT WITHOUT GRACE. GO WITHIN THE GARDEN, WELL-BLED PILGRIM, A DIFFICULT BLADE TEMPERED WITH SUFFERING AS THE FINEST BLADES MUST BE, AND FIND THE RECURRENCE THAT YOU HAVE WALKED IN OTHER LIVES. I HAVE KNOWN YOU BEFORE YOUR BIRTH, AND I KNOW YOU AT YOUR FINAL BREATH WHICH IS LONG FROM THIS DAY, BEDDED DOWN IN SAND AND THE FEATHERS OF WAR-BIRDS, IN THE HAIR OF SLAVES AND THE HANDS OF KILLERS.

I was pressed and coaxed up onto the altar itself, lying upon my back though the altar is not quite the width of my shoulders. The stone warmed beneath me, and no cold disturbed my skin, the air warm and heavy around me. I felt the weight of my fatigue all at once, and though I struggled against it, half-frantic that I must offer something, apologize for my weakness and my misery, I could not. Formless lips brushed my forehead, my mouth, my eyes; formless hands held me still and motionless against tremors, secure in my bondage.

BEND RIGHTFUL SORROW TO GREATER PURPOSE, UNTIL ITS TRUE TRAJECTORY IS SHOWN TO YOU. WHEN IT IS TIME, THE TWENTY-SECOND WILL SPEAK THE COMING PATH IN THE VOICES OF YOUR NAMESAKES. THE REALM OF APOLOGY HOLDS NO TREASURES. TAKE UP THE SHATTERED LYRE, FOR THE REFRAIN TO ECHO AGAIN IN THE HALLS OF THE NORTHERN DEMONS, SHAGGY WITH FALSE CERTAINTY. DANCE BETWEEN THE THIRD AND FIFTH WAY, AND KNOW NO FAULT.

I slept with the voice of my Lord within my head, crowding out my own thoughts until there was no room for nightmare or memory. I slept as though dead, unmoving in the hands of gods, bound bone and sinew to lie still and safe and precarious upon the narrow altar, laid out like an offering. Though the smallest movement would have made me fall to the floor, I awoke still where I was laid, my spine aching though only enough to remind me of my lesson, my restoration.

I found I had slept for greater than a day, and I remembered still every word that had been spoken to me, scribed into my mind. I am shaky and weak, still, and there are shadows within my soul that may never leave me, the hollows left by the death of old hope and old memory. I am not the same mer anymore; I cannot be.

At the same time, my mind’s state is greatly strengthened, and I am honored to my very soul. I understand now a little better the third meaning behind my flesh-meeting with the Beneran twins, although too late; a preparation, a reminder, a strengthening against the trauma of Vvardenfell’s ruin. As it stands, I can see now that without such a meeting, without sharing precious ritual with new-found faithful and knowing myself to have friends in the Western ice, I would have sought death and found it. In its way, this is the lesser pain, and I am reminded that it is my duty to persist.

I washed my face and hands in the cool water of the shrine’s basin, felt the hollows that have worn themselves into my face beneath brow and cheekbone. I am hungry. It feels like weeks since I have last felt hunger. I will bring some food down into the shrine from the kitchen above; I cannot bear to leave the shrine for too long, and I have work to do.