Does the poet write the poem, or does the poem write the poet? Or are both simply lovers trying to share the same bed without alienating the other?
Vivec, Man-God, Warrior Poet and Protector of the Dunmer People, paused for a moment, before taking up his pen and writing these words ...
These were the days of Morrowind, when Dunmer lived intertwined with the bones of the unbeliever and the Sharmat blessed and cursed alike with writhing dreams of glory and sacrifice, so much that Vivec had to bundle the Sharmat�s dreams up lest they obscure the Triune way. Yet the Sharmat would not stop dreaming, for he knew of no other way to share his exuberance with the divine and still saw symbolism of the center. Ayem and Seht both looked to Vivec for advice, and this is how he counseled them:
�The secret of poetry is this: it contains the seeds of its own destruction.�
�The secret of reflections is this: they are only useful if they are imperfect.�
�The secret of prophecy is this: it is crafted by the condemned for the glorified.�
�The secret of tongues is this: lies and truth are both but shapes sketched by meat.�
�The secret of love is this: there can be no crueler fire than it.�
Thus were Ayem and Seht both comforted, even as the Sharmat grew over the bindings Vivec put upon him and washed over Morrowind.
�What person waits for another to bring them the egg that is within their reach?� the Sharmat asked as he towered over the Star-Wound. �What person tries to swim in the fire when the sea is but a handsbreadth away? Come forth and answer me this; let us settle our debate once and for all.�
To this challenge Vivec replied �Look over to the sea for your answer,� and the Sharmat looked to the west to see a dragon rise out of the sea, and upon the dragon�s back sat the Hortator, clothed in the skin of a woman and bearing a spear made of a rose vine.
The Sharmat roared with frustration, seeing that Vivec had beaten him, and said �It is nothing; I have sat in the middle of Truth for too long to be fooled by such tricks.�
At this the Hortator laughed and leaped off the back of the dragon, bowing to the five corners and calling out �We shall show you the Truth, since you have asked; watch now how I move.�
And then the Hortator ran across Morrowind, leaving bloody footprints in her wake, and danced to the delight of the people, who came forth and threw stones to show their devotion. The Hortator went and bowed to seven people, each resplendent in their finery and standing on the corners of Morrowind.
�Show the Sharmat the Truth known to all who follow the Triune Way,� the Hortator commanded, and the seven people bowed. With her rose-spear, the Hortator then struck off the heads of four of them.
�It is nothing,� the Sharmat insisted still. �You blind the people with visions of beauty and strife, thinking this to be Truth when it is but the shadow play of those who Live Here Not.�
At this, the Hortator danced among the bones of the unbeliever, striking them with her rose-spear, and the bones rose up and bowed to her. Laughing, the Hortator said �Find good heads for the others who stand beside you; call forth too your fellow bones, that they may stand and revel in the Truth.� And the bones did as the Hortator asked, until the ground was covered with bones bowing to the rose-spear.
Yet still the Sharmat said �Lies and empty promises; the best dances have not more people but rather less, for with fewer to get in your way the easier it is for you to dance truly.�
At this the Hortator and Vivec both jumped up and began a dance of fierce fighting styles, and the seven people and the bones joined in, and the Star-Wound swelled until it seemed fit to burst. Then the Hortator danced to the Sharmat and held out her hands, saying �Grant me this, if you would truly deny what we show you here.�
And the Sharmat took her hands and together the Sahrmat and the Hortator danced, leaving bloody footprints in their wake. Another dragon roared in irritation, and Vivec�s bindings on the Sharmat�s dreams burst to that they poured forth as hot lava, burning the land. Vivec blew on the lava to cool it, emptying his lungs to do so.
Finally, the Sharmat said �It is True; there is no symbolism of the center. Love is under your will only.�
To this, the Hortator shook her head. �I have come clothed in the skin of a woman so that I may take you as a lover; the Truth is not in what you say but how you say it. Why else can the unbeliever see the Truth and know it to be true?�
To this, the Sharmat gave voice to a loud yell and threw up his hands, and the Hortator drove the rose-spear into him, saying
�The secret of love is this: it can only exist through pain.�
�The secret of tongues is this: they are meat like the heart.�
�The secret of prophecies is this: they mean nothing to the ones tasked to carry them out.�
�The secret of reflections is this: they do not exist.�
�The secret of poetry is this: a poem cannot lie, for it is too busy being full of meaning to choose which meaning it is.�
The Sharmat smiled and clasped the Hortator to his breast as he breathed his last, and his dying breath swept the land, cooling the lava. Then the Hortator turned to Ayem and Seht and said �Your brother-sister is tired; take him to the place which is not a place and wait there; I shall call for you three when the unbeliever needs guidance once more.�
The ending of the words is ALMSIVI.
... Vivec looked at the words he had brought forth onto the page and murmured �Not bad; not the best imagery I�ve found but very pretty just the same ...�
Then, he sighed, and moved away from the words, muttering �So this feeling I�ve had all day really is you, is it old friend? Or is this just the foolish premonitions of an old man, who has been waiting for the axe to fall for so long he barely cares wether it does or not anymore? Have I written prophecy or warning today, or both?�
His shoulders slumped. � ... No matter,� he said finally. �Just so long as we do not lose; I shall have to trust to you to make your way in this world on your own, my friend, for we can�t afford to change our plans for you ...�
------
Lord Voryn Dagoth, Dagoth Ur, the so-called Sharmat and sworn enemy of the false gods, slept the sleep of the divine, where awareness was increased and the Truth shone brighter than the sun.
The truth that shone upon him today, however, was unpleasant ...
He had to have been in Necrom, the city of the dead; why else would there be dead figures propped up all over the place? Yet who dressed their dead in the gay finery of a wedding celebration?
He sensed the presence of a living being and turned, to look upon a tall figure with a golden mask. The figure took his hand, feminine fingers wrapping gently around his own, and led him among the dead; he moved in measured steps in time with the masked figure, as husbands and brides are instructed to do when greeting their guests for the first time as wedded spouses.
Voices called out praises and cheers, and the masked figure waved and spoke back and squeezed his hand like a proper, excited wife; he strained to breathe, to answer the voices or to demand an explanation, but his chest would not move no matter how hard he tried, and with a feeling of hysteria he noticed that no one�s lips were moving, nor were their chests ...
... not even his �wife��s.
His tongue fluttered uselessly, as his mind screamed WHAT IS GOING ON!? WHY AM I HERE!? That, at least, seemed to get his �wife��s attention, and she turned to face him, the golden mask staring back at him with an inscrutable expression.
"Remember, there are many rooms in the house of the Master.�
I don�t understand ...! he thought, his face becoming a mask of confused despair.
�Be at ease; from the hands of your enemies I now deliver you." She replied, pulling him to a new chamber. �Come; look and see ...�
He found himself staring at a long table, a wedding feast table lit my numerous candles. The centerpiece of the table, however ...
... was himself, laid out face up, arms crossed over his chest.
He blinked, surprised; No, this can�t be real, he thought, I�m right here! Holding up his hands to his face, he affirmed his own existence, muttering It must be a trick, a fake ...
Reaching down, he tried to tell his �wife� See? Just a fake ...
... and the figure drew breath, opened eyes, and rose from the table, bowing and smiling as it chanted:
"Lord Nerevar Indoril, Hai Resdaynia! Long forgotten, forged anew! Three belied you, three betrayed you! One you betrayed was three times true! Lord Voryn Dagoth, Dagoth Ur, steadfast liegeman, faithful friend, bids you come and climb Red Mountain! Beneath Red Mountain, once again, break your bonds, shed cursed skin, and purge the n'wah from Morrowind!"
He stood amazed, and whirled to face the masked figure. Show me your face! He demanded, his tongue still proving useless.
The figure with a golden mask started to speak, but he understood not a word. She seemed pleasant, but when she took his hand reassuringly, it sent waves of terror washing through his body.
No! You�re my enemy; let me go! He demanded, trying to pull away, but her touch froze him in place, preventing all escape or counter attack. He tried to call out to his simulacrum for help, but he could no longer see his other self.
Who are you ...!? he pleaded, as the figure caressed him gently, her touch causing terror mixed with exquisite helplessness to surge through him. Slowly, she reached up for her mask ...
�Stop being silly,� she said, as her mask fell to the floor, revealing a smiling Breton woman - a N�Wah! - shaking her head at him. �You yourself just named me a moment ago, silly.�
His eyes bulged with shock and disbelief. No - you can�t be ...
She laughed. �Alanya, Nerevar Indoril, Hortator and Nerervarine. Three times belied, betrayer of one three times true - and Breton born, riding a dragon to begin life anew. Here now to consummate our relationship with these words of comfort ...�
He summoned every ounce of strength to try and shake himself loose from her grasp, to will himself away from her, even as she began to whisper �The secret of love is this ...�
... His consciousness returned to the waking world before the Outlander woman could complete her sentence, and he found himself quivering with fear and loathing, for under that cursed skin she wore, he was positive he had recognized the spirit of his long-lost friend ...
�How can this be?� he moaned, clutching his face. �How can Nerevar be reborn an Outlander ... what meant all that nonsense ...�
� ... How could he betray me again like this ...�
His mind was whirling out of control; he seized his temples and pressed them in tightly, trying to keep his wits from flying away form him. �No, this is a warning, a portent; there�s an explanation for all this, and will find it ...�
The Main Story resumes in the Chapter Trail to a Tomb - Eventually.
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