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There is only one duty for an Eye of the Queen: to do what the Queen requires of you. Usually, this is a normal task; sometimes, only the most trusted of Eyes will do. In his time, Razum-dar has fought in open battles and carried out stealthy assassinations, he has ridden a guar naked through an Argonian temple and he has hoisted the Queen over his shoulder and thrown her out of reach of an angry bear.
He has carried many letters across Tamriel over the years, but until today, never before has Ayrenn tasked him with delivering a message to a god.
“This one insists,” Raz tells the – doorman? Secretary? Junior priest, perhaps? “This delivery is for Almalexia’s eyes only. It is brought in peace, but it is private.”
The mer blocking Raz’s way in the entrance hall of the Tribunal Temple stands firm, for now. “Every package coming here must have its contents thoroughly screened. For security, I hope you understand… though maybe people are less cautious in the Dominion, I don’t know. Your leaders aren’t living gods.”
“Raz is sorry, but that is not acceptable. He will show you, the package contains only a speaking stone, nothing more, but its message shall not be played here. Not by you, nor anyone else save the Tribune herself.”
He can tell the priest – that’s probably what this mer is, some aide to the Temple’s functions – is preparing another counter, and so he preemptively adds, “This one’s message comes directly from the Royal Court of Alinor. It is official diplomatic business. Raz takes his courier-ing seriously. He will not let it out of his claws except to give it to the intended recipient.”
This, finally, makes the aide hesitate. “Diplomatic correspondence, you say? I, uh. I need to speak with a manager. One moment, please.”
The young priest steps over to one of many small shrines and uses a basic flame spell to light a candle. He brings out a holy symbol on a necklace from under his robes, and clasps it between both hands as he murmurs a short prayer.
After a moment, a ghostly blue figure appears, hovering in the air: a mouthpiece of Almalexia, dispatched to give the goddess’s word to the faithful. “What troubles you, child?” she asks the praying mer, giving no mind to Razum-dar beside.
“A practical matter, not one of faith,” is the reply. “I am unsure of the balance to be struck between security and–”
Just then, the Tribunal Temple’s doors are pushed open again and a brown-robed Breton man rushes in, casting about frantically until his eyes lock on the group. “Oh, thank the Eight and One, I’m not too late! I am a Moth Priest – a future-reader–” he gasps, out of breath. “And I have seen this. You must not – not deliver, not listen – take it away!”
The man, panting with exhaustion as if he had run all the way from Cyrodiil without a rest, receives quizzical looks and raised eyebrows all around, and Raz is the first to speak up in question: “And One?”
“The future comes in glimpses. But there is clarity in them, to the trained. The coming Era – a golden age of Man…” The Moth Priest pauses to take several deep breaths, leaning heavily on his staff, then continues in calmer fashion. “Let me explain. The Moth Priests read the Elder Scrolls. The Scrolls’ prophecies are fluid – many come to pass, some are altered, some fall out of fate before they can occur – but one has been a constant in our order’s visions since the time of Saint Alessia herself.”
“And what might that vision be?”
“The trifold Paravant. Some have seen him as a red jewel spreading its radiance over the continent. The Moth Priests have foreseen his coming for millennia, despite every other twist of fate across Tamriel. And never before has this particular prophecy been called into question… except in my most recent reading of the Scrolls. The future hinges on Mournhold, today. I am sorry, Khajiit, but you have made your journey in vain. You cannot deliver that package.”
“Now hold on just a moment,” Raz protests. “This one has a job to do. How can Raz know any of this future business is real?”
The temple functionary comes to his aid as well. “This is a diplomatic envoy from the Dominion. My question is only whether to pass along his speaking stone immediately, or put it in the security queue. I have no authority to send him away.”
“And you will not have to,” comes a new voice. All heads turn to the hallway leading toward the Temple’s center – and floating there six inches off the floor, the living goddess Almalexia herself. None had heard her approach, for with levitation she makes no sound of footsteps, and so preoccupied were they with argument that no one’s eyes had gone beyond the group at hand.
At once, the young priest falls to his knees in obeisance. Razum-dar gives a formal bow of respect, and looks to the Moth Priest, who has not moved – even with his half-clouded eyes, he must surely still see who is before him, right?
“I thank you, Felmena, for being my eyes and ears in this place,” Almalexia says to her servant apparition. “And Sathryn, arise, if you would. Your dedication is admirable. Now… I may not read the Scrolls, but being a god does give one a certain insight. I see this Moth Priest’s heart, and he tells the truth as he knows it. He believes his warning with all of his being. Therefore, if the future turns upon actions done here today… It is my duty as Morrowind’s protector to be as well-informed as possible, so I might determine what course of action leads to the brightest future. Courier, I will take your speaking stone and hear its contents. Your job is carried out in full.”
“This one offers a thousand thanks, Your Benevolence. Raz will remain in Mournhold for now, and he is happy to carry back any reply for Queen Ayrenn – though one reply would make him happier than another. You will soon understand.”
Almalexia gives him a nod. “The Temple shall keep you apprised of any developments that concern you.”
Without moving a muscle, she turns in place through levitation magic alone, and floats away.
“Vivec. I require your wisdom. Speak to me.”
Deep within the Tribunal Temple, Almalexia rests within her private quarters. No mortal mer is permitted here save by personal invitation, a privilege given so rarely it is almost the stuff of legends among her priests. The speaking stone Razum-dar delivered sits upon an end table, not yet activated, as the goddess wishes first to consult with one of her oldest friends.
It takes only moments for her to receive a reply, despite Vivec’s bodily location far across the Inner Sea on Vvardenfell. “Through the windows of the Provisional House, I hear your call, Ayem. What meanings do the stars lack, and how might their truths be hammered into place?”
“You told me, once, of your visions. The space you go to that is not a space, from whence you look across the middle world. You mentioned, once, a red jewel of conquest, and the Hortator saw it too.”
“You are illuminated well with blue, sister-mother,” comes Vivec’s maddening reply, whispered on the still air. “The two-headed ruling king, whose crown is shackles, who will come out of the north and from the west; he upon whose corpse the amaranth first grew.”
Almalexia lets out a sigh. “I know it is in your nature to speak in riddles, but can you answer this one thing clearly? In the age to come that you saw, what became of our Morrowind?”
“Veloth on his knees. The walking star. The Hortator and the heart-bone. Lie Rock. A moment, become a year.”
Though the reply from Vivec contained not a single verb for all its length, it paints a clear enough picture for Almalexia’s needs. She directs a few words of thanks to the air, then floats over to the table and turns her attention at last to the speaking stone there.
A simple touch and a word, and the stone is activated. The runes upon its surface glow blue, and it projects out a vision over the carpeted floor.
Queen Ayrenn stands here now, a phantom recorded weeks ago, and her face is a mask of stoicism so tight it can only be born from fear. “Tribune Almalexia,” she begins with a formal bow, “This message is meant in all peace and good will, and may it find you safe. As Queen of the Summerset Isles and of the Aldmeri Dominion, I wish to prop– suggest to you, a– a course of action, to be pursued together…”
The ghostly figure glances to the side, her mouth open as if to speak, then she returns her gaze forward again. Quietly, she mutters, “No, I’ve done too many takes of this already. You’re right, Raz, if I try to make it perfect I’ll never end up sending it.”
Ayrenn clears her throat awkwardly. “What I mean is, Almalexia, I have an idea for peace. And yes, I do mean this for you, and not King Jorunn. I mean to say…” Any composure she had feigned at the start is gone, and no longer does she appear as a Queen, but rather as simply a womer alone, forcing out the most difficult words of her life.
“Historically, there is one method of forming peace between two warring nations that stands above the rest. One that makes sure that peace lasts, trade flourishes, both sides prosper for decades to come…” The projection of Ayrenn glances out of frame again, and holds out a hand. “Raz, if you would–”
A similarly ghostly-blue Khajiit paw reaches into view to deposit something small into Ayrenn’s waiting hand, and the Queen swallows hard as her eyes briefly find the floor. Then, she slowly, carefully gets down on one knee, and presents the tiny box her companion had supplied.
“Almalexia, will you marry me?”
Suddenly, it all makes sense. An idea for lasting peace, and something that could make even a Queen more terrified than any soldier on the front. A historical fact, that a royal marriage is a useful tool to secure alliances – and if the Dominion and Pact united, surely the war in Cyrodiil could be over within a year.
But then, why the Moth Priest’s panic? Is peace not the goal? Surely prophecy could not hinge on the mere delivery of this speaking stone; that is a proxy for actions taken upon hearing its message, and to deny the proposal is no action at all… Therefore, acceptance is what places threat upon the dream of Empire restored for a third and even bloodier time.
That alone is a compelling argument, but to even entertain such a thought… “Vivec,” Almalexia calls again. “I have news you will not believe, and a decision to make.”
She explains it all, from touching her proxy Felmena’s senses there in the front hall to listening to the Altmer queen’s message, and ends it with a single question: “Do you agree with my analysis?”
“I agree,” is Vivec’s response at once, unusually direct. “She mentioned Jorunn by name; thus she requires something he cannot be, and which I am only in part. Neither is Sotha Sil a suitable match. What, then, shall the Mercymother do for her people?”
“I shall accept,” Almalexia murmurs, though the connection is already broken. “This is what the Ebonheart Pact was founded for, to keep all our lands sovereign and free of foreign rule; the Dominion wishes the same of their peoples. No Empire ever again to subjugate all Tamriel beneath its ruby boot! And it will be good, I think, to take a partner again.”
Her mind made up at last, she floats away to send for Razum-dar.