Like Any Other Day (Lucien)

A/N: See this video for the accompanying music.

Grief can be a funny thing. Some days it is overwhelming and hangs over one like a heavy wool blanket, seemingly inescapable. Other days it is more elusive, a hidden enemy waiting for a time to strike when least expected when one is going about their day. Today, while in some ways it feels like any other day, at times feels like someone put an anchor in my chest, weighing me down with an invisible mental weight. I don’t come to Cloud Ruler Temple very often, but for some reason I decided to pay a visit and quickly found it was a good thing I did. I don’t think Baurus has completely processed what happened to Martin, I don’t think anyone has, really. Does he admit it? Of course not, but assassins are trained to be perceptive, and I know the stubborn agent well enough to see through his mask of happiness. I’m dead, not stupid, after all. Seeing the temple for the first time without a certain former priest in it feels strange. I find Baurus standing silently staring at the door to the west wing bedroom where I had found him so many times before standing watch day and night. He may be the youngest member of the emperor's guard but he is without a doubt the most loyal of them all.

Finding Jauffre alone in the library nearly makes me cry, if I even can cry anymore. Issy is nowhere to be found, having gone almost completely off the grid since the official ending of the crisis. Last I checked she was doing some kind of pilgrimage for the strange prophet that showed up in Anvil who needed help. Jauffre gives me a silent nod of acknowledgment before going back to his writing. I think about asking him what it is he’s writing, but keep the question to myself- it’s most likely something I don’t want to hear. The other blades are sparse around the temple, a few I hear downstairs in the barracks, and there are the four stationed outside, but the rest seem to have been at least temporarily reassigned. It is like any other day in the fortress, and yet not. I’d brought my guitar along, having picked it up from my own fort of sorts when searching for signs of life from Issy and finding one of the many empty tables in the vast great hall begin to unpack it.

You would think a trained assassin would process grief quickly, though I suppose that’s why there’s a reason between cold-blooded killers and bloodthirsty murderers. I may be able to kill effectively, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t have its own effects on me. Having tuned the guitar I begin to play a song I hadn’t heard in years, but for this time seems fitting. “Into a dream through thoughts, don't travel too far, you won’t find the truth anywhere.” First my thoughts go to Issy, seemingly lost in an eternal unending nightmare searching desperately for answers. “I am with you like any other day. Lonely in your world I will come to find a place.” Amidst the grief and loneliness we will reunite again, just like any other day. “Wounded love full of doubts. Thinly condensed heavy baggage in the chambers of the heart.” My thoughts then turn to Baurus, and the emotional toll of losing not one but two emperors under his personal protection. Was there anything he could have done in the end? No, initially there were too many mythic dawn agents and not enough of the guard to hold them off. With Martin he had even less of a choice, Martin being stubborn yet courageous up until the very end.

“A hungry crow comes back to the same place, knocking on your door again, as the day weighs on me.” I think of how empty the temple is, looking around, the only other sounds being the fire, the occasional cough, and the first birds of spring outside the large doors. “Come closer and let the sun rise together with you. Good night, the moon lights up. Let it love you endlessly.” My thoughts turn once again back to Baurus, and the many days of guarding day and night he did without a word of complaint, and watching the sunrise together on the rare visits I would make here while still alive. “Unavoidable rich imagination, empty days with no clear truth or meaning pulls a green stalk into the mouth, pulls another slice in time to heal. Come close…Come close…” Whether through delusion, imagination, prayer, or simply time I think we will learn to live with the grief, and to heal. Having finished, I get an idea and go to pay a visit to Martin's unofficial grave, placing a stone in memoriam next to the statue and talking ‘to him’ for a few minutes, though wherever he is I doubt he can hear me quietly talking to the piece of stone in the snow as twilight falls and darkness sets in. The grief is still there, but that strange and funny feeling will eventually fade and acceptance will take its place. Life will go on, like any other day.

31536000 Seconds

A/N: This is a vulnerable post and not something typically published. TW for mentions of violence and war. Comments are moderated and any hate or spam that violates Bloggers guidelines will be automatically deleted. Opinions as always are my own, based in material and primary sources, and lived experience. It has been 365 days too long. Bring them home, now. Count Avera Mengitsu and Hisham al-Sayed. Bring down the IRI and its proxies to create a better, safer, and more stable future for the peoples of SWANA and the world on the whole.

 

 Like many, I do not remember the person I was on October 6th of last year, nor would I recognize them if they stood before me today, and they would likely look at me as a stranger.

The person that existed before the fear set in is gone. The one who existed before the fire and the death, before the dehumanization to extents that have not been seen in decades. Before trusted friends went silent for a time, if not disappearing all together, and colleagues formerly grounded in reality and evidence began shouting claims debunked ages ago as if they were true and discovered yesterday. Before the faces of the 251 forever embedded in my mind began to appear plastered to walls and street lights, and before those who refuse to acknowledge their existence began to tear them down. In all my years in the fields of history and archeology I have never witnessed such extreme examples of logical fallacies from those dedicated to the discovery, understanding, and preservation of evidence, material or otherwise. There are many who I cannot look at in the same way, who I can no longer trust to reveal certain information to, and the faces of the beautiful six who were so close to freedom when they met their ends in those dark tunnels appear whenever I close my eyes.

 That Black Saturday is something that I will never forget as long as I live. October, once a happy month is now stained eternally with sorrow. The images, the videos, and the terrified phone calls still are as clear as they first were one year ago. 365 days have passed. 8760 hours, 525600 minutes, 31536000 seconds, and yet here we are…still waiting for the 101 to come home, 4 of which have families who have been waiting a decade for their return. 31536000 seconds of telling the world the trauma is real and that empathy can exist for all, not just some. 31536000 seconds of hearing yells for a ceasefire and calls for more violence in the same breath, along with repeated slogans and chants by those who repeat blindly, not truly understanding what is being said. 31536000 seconds of hearing libel and violence be advocated for by the uneducated, though their hearts may be in the right place. 31536000 seconds of watching chaos unfold in one of the most difficult settings of urban warfare since the Battles of Shanghai, Stalingrad, Mariupol, and Mosul, and the grief that comes with it for all. 

31536000 seconds strategizing about how to get aid to those in need without it being hijacked and stolen away to overflowing storage areas, only for it to later be sold at ridiculous prices, to those who need it most. 31536000 seconds of watching the north burn and turn to a desolate empty land while rockets rain down on villages still sparsely populated containing those that much of the world are unfamiliar with. 31536000 seconds of hearing the world remain silent, except to place blame when retaliation occurs while the people directly affected celebrate the demise of the quickly crumbling proxies and chance to start anew. 

31536000 seconds and counting past the point of no return.

I do not remember who I was on October 6th, there is only the before, and the after.

The Paper Menagerie (Lukas)

Prompt: The paper menagerie. The last prompt of Short Story September! Then tomorrow we begin spooky season! (and inktober over on Instagram!)

One of the lesser discussed parts of being a librarian is figuring out what to do with the worn out books. I know of different things that different other librarians I know do with them. Some take the old pages and use them for scrap paper, some find the old books useful with pressing flowers or other materials that require a weight, some tear out pages to use in journaling practices, others remove the worn out pages and rebind the cover. One person I know takes the pages and glues them together before painting along the edges if the cover is still intact to create a piece of art. That is, of course, if such books cannot be restored- a labor intensive and often expensive practice. There are only a few such books in the library's collection that have been restored in such ways. They remain locked away from the public, for use only by academics and archivists under my supervision, which is more often than not just me looking over their shoulder or standing in the corner observing. In the back storage rooms in the basement of the library I spend the evening taking inventory and assessing the status of many of the books that have been temporarily taken out of rotation. My colleagues have gone home except for a few who finish their cataloging upstairs and coordinate with the cleaning staff to ensure they don’t lock me in the building when they finish. I wouldn’t be overly upset if that occurred, though. I like spending time among this paper menagerie with all the different things to read and learn about. As I work I find a number of books are worn through to the point of nearly falling apart whether that be due to age or the fact an overzealous toddler has cracked the spine and in some cases taken a bite out of a page or two. By the time I take a short break to get up and stretch I’ve made five distinct piles: one for books that are cleared to return to circulation as they were season, and their time has now come; one for books that need professional restoration before they return to the archives, many of which are new acquisitions for the library; one for books to be rebound, as they are otherwise in good condition; one for books to be used as scrap paper or paper weights, they have served their purpose as reading material but are still useful; and last but not least one for books that have to be recycled in a special repository due to their contents, I make a note to bring them with me when I head home for the night. With everything sorted and labeled correctly for whoever comes in first in the morning I clean up the mess of torn paper and disintegrating pages I had made in the process of my sorting. With that done I gather the pile of special books and say goodnight to the cleaning lady, who seems surprised, but not overly surprised, to see me emerge from the basement at not quite two in the morning. I take the books home with me for the night as it’s too late to do anything with them now and write a note to drop them where they need to go in the morning on my way to work. Morning comes far too considering the time I’d gone to bed but I manage to drag myself out of bed and downstairs nonetheless before stumbling out the door with my pile of books still half asleep. Stopping by the repository on my way I place each book carefully in the storeroom, while old these books are still special in one way or another, and should be treated as such. The overseer of the storeroom thanks me for dropping them by and wishes me a good morning leading to a brief chat after which I find myself leaving with a cup of coffee. That is exactly what I needed on a morning like this, I am not looking forward to what the day entails- whoever thought to assign me to the children's library after a night spent in that stuffy paper menagerie with little sleep did not think that decision though. Finishing the coffee I take a deep breath and steel myself for what the day will bring, so long as nobody tries to bite me this time all will be fine…I hope.

Two Ghosts In An Alleyway (Lucien)

Prompt: the alleyway

A/N: Ben and Lucien being friends and Ben being the ancestral spirit to respond to Valan most of the time (and proceeding to defeat any enemies when needed) are two thoughts that live in my head rent free along with Valan being the second generation of Velothi men to be an absolute menace to Eno while also being one of his favorites. 

 Late one night while the rest of the world sleeps I find myself sitting atop one of the roofs overlooking a small alleyway in Balmora. The flat rooftops allow for a quiet place to sit and watch the clouds overhead as the rest of the city sleeps. Valan had needed to stop on his way to Sadrith Mora and by coincidence ran into Issy and myself, along with Juliette. The two of them needed to find some remnants of Caius Cosades’ work as spymaster here that Valan was unable to locate, and return them to the archives of The Blades. I had tagged along as I need to find the time to meet with Eno Hlaalu about an exception to the no contracts in Morrowind rule that the Dark Brotherhood has long abided by so as not to anger the Morag Tong.

As I sit on the rooftop, stars slowly moving overhead I feel a peculiar sensation, one of the many I’ve begun to have since death, and undeath. Turning my head to the left in the direction of the sensation, that feels as if there is someone there I find that in fact there is- the spirit of a Dunmer man, dressed in what seems like a less formal version of more traditional robes that Eno tends to wear sits beside me on the roof. His legs dangling casually just as I had been doing moments before. He looks familiar almost, though I can’t place where I know him from. He looks about thirty, with hair pulled back in a tight ponytail and while he seems to acknowledge my presence the man more or less ignores me, looking at the alley and then up at the stars.

“Do I know you?” I ask the spirit. “No.” The man says, continuing to look up at the sky. “No, I’ve been dead since long before you were ever born. Before you were even a twinkle in your mothers eye.” I go to ask another question but before I can the man adds “But you know my son.” The realization hits me as the man turns and looks at me “My name is Benjamin Wei Velothi, but you can just call me Ben.” he tells me, offering a hand. “Lucien LaChance.” I respond, shaking his hand and he laughs slightly “I know.” How does he know?! “There are many observations one can make in death, you’ll learn in time.” Getting cryptic advice from a ghost wasn’t on my to do list for tonight, but as we talk more I find myself somewhat enjoying it. I’m still getting used to this new form.

“Are you like me? Can you do this all the time?” I find myself asking out of curiosity, though it might not be the most polite question. “No. You are a spectre, tied to the Void after death, but otherwise free to roam. I am what we call in Morrowind an ancestral spirit, or an ancestor ghost. Tied to the land and the family. I have the capacity to materialize myself in short bursts should a member of the family be in Morrowind, or anywhere if they summon an ancestral ghost for protection. Other than that I spend my time like the other ancestors; guarding the family shrine, watching over the still living family, and protecting the land as a whole.” Ben explains with a hint of sadness in his voice. Our deaths, while both premature, were very different. Mine being the result of betrayal by others, his however was the result of betrayal by his own body.

 “Every now and then when I can, I like to check on Valan, make sure he’s okay, even if he can’t see me most of the time.” I go to make a comment that I don’t think Valan is ever really able to see him due to his blindness, but keep it to myself, it’s not the right time for a remark like that. Ben continues talking, telling stories of time’s he’s checked in on Valan when he hadn’t been paying attention just to make sure he was alright and see how he’d grown up. A fathers love, enduring even in death. Valan, along with Issy and Juliette sleep soundly in one of the little houses below us, completely unaware of our conversation. Ben tells me a bit about his days working with Eno Hlaalu before leaning back and looking back up at the dark sky with a sigh, it seems his time in this form is almost up, and that makes me strangely sad. “I always did love looking up at the stars.” The spirit says softly with a smile, almost to himself before slowly fading away. Leaving me alone on the roof above the alleyway, looking at the dark sky. A lonely spectre in a land of shadows and spirits. Goodnight moon, goodnight trees, goodnight ghosts that only I can see.

The Story Of An Hour (Qin)

 Prompt: The story of an hour

A lot can happen over the course of an hour. Sixty minutes, 3600 seconds, 3600000 milliseconds. Morning routines, the cooking and eating of a meal, a school exam, so many things can be crammed into what is really such a small amount of time when put into the context of a day. At exactly six o'clock I wake up as I have to be in today by seven. Apparently there is something important to be announced this morning. Halfway through getting dressed and ready I hear Xu crying and upon checking on her find she has a slight fever. This morning just got infinitely more difficult, and I find myself very glad I’d already gotten dressed. Checking the clock I find it’s just past 6:15 and I have a half an hour to leave to ensure I get to work on time. Breakfast proves to be a challenge with a fussy and feverish toddler though I get her to eat eventually and quickly shovel down a bowl of oatmeal once the babysitter arrives for the morning. I tell her how to contact me should any issues arise and inform her that Yue will thankfully take over for the afternoon as she will only be in for the morning to finish an autopsy and present her findings before taking the rest of the day off. Is it really a day off if it’s spent watching your friend's sick kid? I make a mental note to make her dinner and pay her a little extra for the last minute favor. At 6:47 I finally make it out the door and run to work crossing the threshold at 7:01 and informing the captain while attempting to catch my breath “I’m here.” before collapsing into my desk chair. It’s been a very busy past hour.

A Mysterious Voice (Fyr)

Short Story September Prompt: A mysterious voice

Something is wrong with Valan. Now to be fair, there usually is, however lately he has seemed…off. I’m not sure if it's lack of sleep, malnutrition, stress, or something else, but there is something different about him. Ayron noted to me recently he seems preoccupied and when last at Tel Vos spent a solid twenty minutes pacing about the Dwemer museum that Ayron has created mumbling to himself. While Valan may be eccentric in his own and very Telvanni type of way, that’s new. Beyond that he’s had a strange fixation on the Nerevarine prophecy as of late which has me concerned given he spends much more time in the wider world than I do. The temple doesn't take kindly to those who bring up that prophecy, the only reason I manage to stay out of some dark damp prison is due to my irreplaceable skills and research on the Divine Disease taking in those afflicted with the nasty illness. I very much hope that Valan wasn’t exposed to it on one of his adventures, that would potentially explain the strange behavior. I keep a close eye on him both near and from afar thanks to my little network of contacts that he happens to cross paths with frequently, and I remind Caius to make sure he doesn’t get into trouble. While close by and staying at the tower rather than rent a room at the inn in Sadrith Mora I pay attention to what it is he seems to be mumbling about, it does seem prophecy related. It’s quite late one night and in the middle of a raging storm that I find him wandering throughout the tower until he gets to the small study on the second floor and paces about talking to himself quietly while attempting to examine the books. He can’t read any of them, though, as the print is too small for him to see. It makes no sense as to why he would be so fixated on some old Dwemer books and folios dating from the early Second Era with scrawled notes of no importance beyond trivial matters and some hypotheses. Staying out of sight I watch as he goes back and forth and back and forth speaking just loud enough I can catch a word or two every so often. At one point I move slightly to see if I can hear better, causing one of the floorboards to creak. It is at that moment I realize there is in fact something very wrong. When looking up again I see the body of Valan staring, but rather than a pair of clouded red eyes looking at me confused, I see two gold glowing eyes silently judging, and a look on his face that would be more appropriate on a general than a thief and a wanderer. “Why do you disturb me, wizard?” A deep voice asks from Valans mouth, making it very clear that this is not Valan at all. “Who, or what, are you?” I ask the voice before telling it to leave Valans body and be gone, and to get out of my tower. Of course that fails rather dramatically as whatever has possessed Valans body slowly makes its way toward the entrance to the study. Valan himself is not particularly intimidating physically, but this mysterious voice has even me a bit intimidated. “What do you know of the Nerevarine prophecy?” I’m asked now standing face to face with whatever this is. “Why do you want to know?” I find myself replying before I can think about it. “I am the spirit of Indoril Nerevar, the prophecy has begun.” the deep voice tells me before Valans eyes glow a bright gold before fading and he collapses, unconscious. I don’t know whether to be fascinated or horrified. That certainly explains the strange behavior though. He’s not insane, or at least not in that way, he’s possessed…and possessed by a very temperamental warlord at that.  

What Child Is This? (Everan)

Prompt: A Child At War

A/N:  Functionally the spirit of Leah Thenath works similar to that of Ben Velothi, just Ben was a professional assassin and is capable of actually fighting, where Leah was around 5 years old and works more like a ghostly quest marker with her lantern.

 Wandering the countryside amidst the fog of the early morning I come across something rather strange. In the mist there is a faint glowing light, not like anything I’ve ever seen before. I can’t quite make out what it is from this distance. It doesn’t seem to be a wisp mother, or an ice wraith, and it definitely isn’t a city guard on patrol. I can’t think of any guards who would have torches that emit a blue light. Walking further down the road away from Solitude, towards the south I approach the light, and find it moves. As I continue further down the road in the direction of the war camp I was supposed to investigate the light darts around in the fog. It almost seems as if it wants me to follow it. 

I’ve done stupider things in life, why not follow a mysterious light in the fog? My hypothesis was correct it seems, the light guided me exactly where I needed to go, allowing me to find a good hiding spot to crouch and observe the encampment. The light has disappeared when I look up again, only to reappear across the clearing. Now that the fog has lifted I can see what it truly is, and what I see surprises me. The light was in fact a person, a small child. Squinting I try to get a better look, that child looks familiar, almost too familiar. What is a child, or the spirit of a child anyways, doing at war? 

I’m able to make out a few features upon getting slightly closer without revealing my position to the soldiers in the camp, who seem to not notice the child. The spirit is a little girl dressed in a long skirt or robe with a vest of sorts over it and long flowing sleeves, holding a lantern. The garments seem to be eastern in style, what one might find in Vvardenfell, though the girl does not seem to be a Dunmer, too tall even for a small child for that, and a different facial structure. The curly hair pulled back in a low ponytail is the most unusual feature. I don’t know very many elves in general with curly hair, only a few outside of family and Lanriael and her family. When thinking of family the thought dawns on me, I know who this child is. The little girl with the lantern standing across the clearing staring at me motionless is the spirit of my sister, Leah, who was murdered years ago. 

Due to our mixed ancestry she must be able to take the form of an ancestor ghost, to guide and serve the family in their times of need. Since she is too young to be able to fight, her way of helping must be to serve as a guide with her lantern. How had I forgotten about her? Sitting in the foggy twilight I stare across the clearing trying to comprehend everything when I notice the changing of the guard beginning, with that Leah holds up the hand not holding her lantern to signal goodbye, before turning away and walking back into the fog. The blue glow in the mist eventually disappears. How did that happen? Was this all a dream? What is a child doing as a guide in a war? 

Shaking my head to get the spiral of thoughts away I come back to reality, that was in fact all real, I’m crouched behind a large rock looking down at a war camp, one I wouldn’t have found without help, and I have a mission that needs completing, time to steal some plans. “Thank you Leah, I promise I won’t forget you again.” I whisper to myself as I make my way down the hill toward the camp, hopefully I don’t end up joining her once I get to the captain's tent.