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Whatever Vivec was expecting, it was not that.
It was foolish, he knew it was. But he had expected the Nerevarine to be a warrior, a general, at least a noble. He was expecting broad shoulders, a stupid cocky grin, a sword on his side.
Some part of him was expecting Nerevar himself to cross the gates to the temple. Either with open arms or a sword unsheathed, ready to face him.
He was not expecting a faint knock on the doors, a thin frame squeezing through the smallest gap of sunlight. He was not expecting temple garments, shoes worn from the road, a dagger that is left gently behind at the gate.
Some part of him was expecting Nerevar.
They did not look up until he spoke.
“I expected you. We have business, you and I.”
It was then when they raised their face and their eyes widened.
A hand clutched their chest and they collapsed on their knees, breathless. It was not an uncommon reaction, and he was willing to be patient and let the initial shock of being in front of a god pass. Until he heard it.
A breath, an almost inaudible word. A name he had not heard in a very long time.
Vehk.
An old name. In an unfamiliar voice.
He reached and offered his hand to the Nerevarine. They stared at it for a moment, probably trying to figure out what was worse: taking it or refusing the kindness of a living god. Eventually, they took his hand and got back on their feet. Their hand never left their chest.
“Moss, is it?”
They nodded.
Vivec went through the essential: That he would stop the persecution of the dissident priests and the Nerevarine themself.
They nodded along with what he was saying, they barely blinked. Sweat ran down their forehead. He could tell they would rather be anywhere else other than here. So he cut the meeting short.
He waved them out and they bowed and all but ran out of the temple, leaving their dagger behind.
He was expecting Nerevar. He still did not know who the Nerevarine was.
-
Vivec called an audience with them again. They stood firm on their feet this time but still found it hard to look at him in the eye.
“Lord Vivec?” they asked after a few moments of silence.
“You called me a different name the last time we spoke.”
They looked up and Vivec could see the marks on their face in the same spots that Nerevar once had them. He remembered making up constellations as he ran his finger over them while Nerevar complained and begged him to let him sleep.
Red eyes burned through him.
“Who are you?”
The words came soft, almost a whisper.
“Me? The God-King of Vvardenfell, the Warrior-Poet, one of the three parts of the Tribunal. But that is not the answer you are looking for, is it? It seems like you know more about me than you are letting on.”
They were silent for a moment and then, even quieter:
“Who are we?”
I still don’t know who you are, he thought. You leave me with more questions than answers. You look like you will crumble to the ground if I so much as call you Nerevar, yet many people have probably called you that before.
“Two people with a past and a present life. A life that is but a shadow and a current one that we wear like a garment that is too big, that we hold like a weapon that is too heavy. Are you satisfied with that answer?”
They stood quiet for a moment then they blinked. Just like that, that moment was gone and they lowered their eyes again.
“I’m sorry, my lord, I should not have asked those questions. That was inappropriate. Was there any way I can assist you?”
“Tell me, who are you? Moss, Hortator, Nerevarine, outlander, Incarnate. Those are words. I wish to know who you are.”
“I am… I am no one, a servant, a mercenary, a priest, an orphan.”
“Those are still words.”
“Those words are all that I am, my lord. Is there anything else I can answer?”
“Who are we?”
“Two no ones, two orphans, two servants, two mercenaries,” came the blurted out response. “I’m so sorry! I should not have said that. Please, may I leave before I say something inappropriate again?”
“You may.”
And with a bow, they were gone.
-
“What makes us great?” they asked.
They came back once more of their own volition. They had sat in front of him and they had discussed Dagoth Ur and Red Mountain. Still, they sat with their back upright, a concerned look on their face. They had a cut on their cheek that was starting to heal.
“Us? I would tell you that our different kinds of greatness cannot be compared. But I think you know that what makes us great is fate. Or coincidence. What do you prefer to call it?” Silence. “Tell me, do you believe you are Nerevar?”
“I… I am not. I sometimes get flashes of his memories. Vague dreams. I can sometimes discern what he did or was thinking but I don’t have all of his memories, I cannot know how he was feeling or what he did next.”
“Is that why you called me Vehk?”
Ah, a mistake. That was a clear sore spot. They kept quiet.
“Is memories all we are?”
“Do you want me to be Nerevar?”
The question caught him by surprise and he stayed silent. He did not have an answer. He did not know himself. Maybe? What good would it do? If Nerevar was here he would kill him, no doubt about that. Curse his stupid self and the fact that their lives still gravitated about someone that was long gone, and gone forever at that.
Moss took the silence as an affirmative answer.
“Sorry to disappoint. I am the Nerevarine, I will help save this land, I will heed his guidance. But I am not the great Indoril Nerevar.”
“What makes us great?”
They looked sad now, quiet and lost in thought. Like this was something they had thought about many times before.
“Nerevar, isn’t it? Without him, we would not be here.”
It all went back to him.
-
The Nerevarine did not return for weeks. Nor did he call for them, expecting them to come back when they felt ready.
Still, he found himself thinking about them and about the questions they had asked. The answers they had spoken.
He found himself thinking about who they were. What did they even know? Nerevarine, Incarnate, outlander, Hortator, Imperial traitor, orphan, servant, mercenary.
Those were just words.
Gutter-get, daggerlad, netchiman’s son.
If they were not Nerevar, who were they?
He called a noble form house Redoran. He talked about Moss as humble, charming, charismatic, hard-working. They never shied away from a task and were oh-so-polite. He made sure to point out he has never doubted for a moment that they were the Nerevarine.
He called the archdeacon. He repeated his apologies from before, talking about how no one ever suspected Moss could be working for the Empire or claiming to be the Incarnate. Ever since they had joined the temple they had only shown true devotion and honest interest in reconnecting with dunmer culture.
Then he called for a girl who worked at the kitchens in the temple. After she almost fainted in his presence she was quick to speak in great detail of Moss. Clearly, a little bit smitten with them, still she spoke what sounded like her true thoughts.
“They spend a lot of time in the kitchens since they arrived. They wanted to know what was my favourite dish. What my brother’s favourite dish was. They wanted to learn how to cook the food we eat during festivals.”
“They’ve told me they sit at the top of the rooftop to look upon the whole city as it wakes up. I don’t know if it’s just them trying to be a poet. I don’t know how to lift my feet off the ground like them so I cannot check.”
“They sit at the corner club some days, not to drink but to listen to the old men talk about their youth. I really don’t know how they find that entertaining at all.”
Vivec listened to these stories with a smile on his lips and dismissed the girl with a blessing. She skipped out of the palace, with a story to keep the rest of the servants entertained for weeks.
The Nerevarine still did not return, and he grew worried. They had come and gone before. They had survived terrible battles. They had survived the politics of House Telvanni. That should be enough of a guarantee. Still, he sent his personal guard to check on their whereabouts. An armiger confirmed they had returned safely to the city a few days back and they seemed to be okay.
Still, they did not return to the palace. And the living god found himself wanting to see them again.
All the patience immortality had taught him was growing thin. And if the Nerevarine was not going to come to him again, well, he would have to come to the Nerevarine.
-
Disguised as a mortal dunmer, he walked the streets of the city, crossing paths with mer who did not look twice. Back in the second era, this had been a common pastime of his. Enough that there were rumours and legends about the disguises he would take to visit the city, each more bewildering than the other: the Red Judge, an albino guar, a mystic that appeared out of thin air, a masked courtesan at the brothel.
With just his skin fully grey and a hood covering his features, he stepped into the corner club and walked up to the table Moss was sitting on, a tea in front of them.
“Is this stool taken, sera?” he asked, pulling the hood slightly from his face.
“No, go ahead, ser-”
It took a long look at his face and their eyes went wide.
“Lord Vi-”
Vivec sat in front of them and shushed them before they could alert the whole establishment to the presence of a god in the humble business.
“I would rather not bring attention to myself here, would you agree?”
They nodded.
“Why are you here?” they whispered.
“I wanted to talk with you outside of the palace. I feel like our conversations would be more interesting if we are not talking from god to mortal.”
“I don’t think…”
“What would you do if you had just met me and you didn’t know who I am?”
Moss avoided his gaze, pursing their lips.
“I would ask your name.”
“Vehk.”
They went quiet, still looking everywhere except at him and twirling a strand of hair around their finger.
“Would you let me buy you a drink, muthsera?”
“Do you make a habit of offering drinks to any stranger?”
“No… But I would buy you one.”
And just like that, they looked up at him, with the slightest smile, and a small barrier between had been finally broken.
As they waited for the drink, Moss looked down at his tea, swirling it from side to side.
“I’m sorry,” they said. “I just… It feels unfair.”
“What does?”
“That I know about you. That I have these memories from a life that’s not our- mine. And that you have no say on the matter.”
“Someone very dear to me also dreamed about me before we met.”
“It still doesn’t feel right.”
“How about we even the scales and you tell me about yourself. Your life. This life.”
And they started speaking. And did not stop for hours. They stepped outside as the sun set and Vivec sat on the border of the canton, while Moss spoke of the games they played with their cousin when they would sneak into the Lord’s private library when he was travelling and sneak a look at the books they were not allowed to read.
“Mith once read a bawdy play and he did all the voices and it was awful. I kept covering my ears and he kept reading louder. He also tried to summon daedra and, against my better judgement I went with him, to make sure he was safe. He had one of the lord’s secret books, candles and even a pig’s heart from the kitchens. The candles all went out at the same time and I had to drag him out and run back to our bedrooms… Leaving the heart for the lord to find in the morning.”
They spoke about their mother, who they did not know was their mother. How she taught them how to read and write. How she taught them how to dance in the empty ballroom of the mansion as she hummed old altmer songs.
Moss brought back memories of the past. Good memories. Of better times. Of times of light and laughter. He could see his loved ones in them. He could see the facets of them that never made it to books or legends.
They had the same annoying people-pleasing streak as Nerevar, and the same inability to say no, no matter how pointless the task.
He learned this when he came across them a few days later as they were trying to find the ring a noblewoman had lost in the plaza.
“She said it’s an invaluable family heirloom, and the only possession to remember her grandmother by,” they said, while rummaging frantically through some bushes, leaves sticking out of their hair.
Only to find out hours later, that said woman had already found it in her pocket and completely forgotten about them. Vivec scoffed and was ready to retort with a cutting remark, but Moss just smiled, a sweet and gentle smile, and said that it didn’t matter, that they were happy to be of help
-
Seht had always cared about every single person. More than just care, they had been in wonder of every single everyday act, the hands of the weavers, the way the fishermen tied the knots in their boats. Little shiny cogs, he called them now.
Moss was just the same. He learned that they enjoyed watching the city as it readied itself to sleep, as the workers returned and the revellers departed. Just as they now sat on a balcony, watching the busy street beneath them.
“Where do we live?” they asked.
“Veloth, Resdayn. Vvardenfell. Land of war and poetry.”
“Land of blood-red sunsets and land of warm waters. Land of living legends.” They looked at him and smiled. Warm smile, warm eyes. “Land of my father and my ancestors. I just found a place to call home. I don’t want to just save it, I want to make sure they are happy.”
“Is that your lot in life, Nerevarine? That seems like the task for a god.”
“I am a priest, your will is done through me.”
“Who takes care of you, then, Moss?”
“You? I mean…” they stammered. “You take care of all of us.”
“I did not know of the woman who had lost her ring, or of the stories of the fishermen, or the girl who had shattered her water jug. You found them on your own.”
“How do we live?”
“Our lives cannot be matched. All these small things… They get drowned by the imminent apocalypse of Dagoth Ur and the Sixth House and the inexorable loss of our powers.”
He looked down at a small group of friends enjoying the songs of a bard in a street corner.
“If our powers are gone after this… I think I would enjoy this life. Either being awake or asleep, not both at once. Not knowing what will be the next thing to destroy us. I think it will be nice to have it be a surprise for once.”
“What is important in my life?”
He smiled.
“Doing the will of the gods, was it?”
Moss laughed, clear and bright.
“What is the will of the Warrior-Poet then?”
“In this moment? Dancing, maybe.”
And they did. To the music rising from the street below. Until the bard’s audience dispersed and he took his coins and walked away.
“You liked dancing to Ashlander songs.” Muttered Moss, as they continued the dance without music. “I should learn some from then. I will tell them it’s so I can sing them to Lord Vivec and they will laugh at me.”
Who learns the songs that you love - to sing them back at you, Moss? He thought, as the stars spined with them overhead.
-
Everyone talked about the courage, the fury, the mercy of Ayem. But not of her childish spirit, her playful laugh. The same one he could see on Moss as they led him running from the top of a canton to the canals because they saw a boat on the floating market that was selling sweets. Sweets from Cyrodiil, apparently.
They looked embarrassed after the boat had departed, with the bag in their hands. Out of breath, sweating, exhausted from all the flights of stairs. For sweets.
Vivec laughed and they walked along the canal. And he stole treats from the bag one by one, and Moss only noticed when the bag was empty.
It was not fair that he was looking at them and comparing them to the people he had loved. He knew he was just trying to find a way to justify why he kept wanting to see them, to hear their laugh.
Thousands of years and this person that was bright and fascinating? That embodied all he wished he could be? That person had to be Nerevar reborn. Back from the dead. Haunting him like a vengeful spirit. He would probably laugh at him, Vivec would threaten to punch him.
It was all excuses, and he knew it. He knew the Nerevarine was special in their own way. That their wisdom, their kindness, their serious scowl and their playful grin were theirs and only theirs.
-
They both sat on the edge of the canton this time, red and yellow lanterns lit behind them and the moons high in the sky.
“Who rules us?” Moss asked.
“Emperor Uriel Septim, if the writs be read. What? You were expecting the answer to be the Tribunal? Do you see me as the ruler of the land even when the laws are written by the Empire?”
Moss was quiet and seemed lost in thought.
“Do you see me as a god, Moss?”
Their eyebrows were knit together.
“It’s… It’s complicated. I had this vision of you in my head when I studied the sermons. I saw this almost incomprehensible hero who banished daedra with his right hand and wrote ballads with his left. I had this other vision of the young mer that appeared in my dreams. And I never stitched them both together. Until I walked in the palace that day.”
They looked up, their face lit up by the warm glow of the lanterns. Vivec leaned forward like they were sharing a secret.
“Tell me about the person you saw in your dreams.”
Moss was quiet for a whole minute that felt like an eternity and then took a deep breath.
“I saw Vehk, with his skin shining in the sunlight. With a voice sweet and eyes as gold as honey. Darling, leaf-eared Vehk, who could break at one touch. Who could kill a man with his tongue. Who wrote poetry that stole a queen’s heart. Vehk who was the sun, and the summer wind. And wiser than anyone.”
Faster and quieter as they spoke. Their face now red as a Vvardenfell sunset.
“Are those your feelings?” Vivec asked.
“It’s just what the dreams showed me,” they were quick to reply. “They are what Nerevar saw. If anything, it’s all his feelings, not mine.”
“You said you only got fragments of memories, nothing else. Not feelings.”
They pursed their lips.
“You barely slept at night when the caravan stopped to rest,” they said out of the blue. “You slept with a knife in your hand and woke up every few minutes or any time anyone so much as stirred in their sleep. You would collapse during the day from pure exhaustion. One night, Nerevar asked to use a tent just for you both and everyone made crass jokes about it but they allowed him that. Then he covered all seams where light or sound could come through and sat on the floor next to you, his sword in his hands. And he stayed awake as you slept through the night.” They took a breath for the first time since they started speaking. “Who could have seen your face as you slept peacefully for once and not think it was beautiful? Who could have heard you debate the nord demon chieftains into submission and not be disarmed? Who could have seen you fight and not want to be felled by you? Who could have heard you sing and not given you their heart?”
“That is evil.”
“What is evil?” For once the question did not sound thoughtful, it was exasperated.
“Teasing.”
“I am not, I am not. Whoever saw all of this and did not love you, was stupid.”
“Nerevar was not very wealthy in wits.”
“Vehk.” There it was again, like in the temple. Quiet. Almost an exhale of air.
“Hm?”
“Can we stop talking about Nerevar?”
Vivec chuckled and nodded. Only now he realised that, as they spoke, their voices had become quieter and they had leaned closer together.
He realised because it was only the shortest distance Moss had to cross to brush their lips against his. The lightest shadow of a kiss. Which still caught him off guard.
Still, he reached to hold Moss’ hand and returned the light kiss.
When the kiss broke, they leaned back, a hand over their lips.
“Is… this allowed?”
“Who are you kissing?”
“Vehk? Lord Vivec? I’m not sure.”
“A trap or a blessing, then. Stolen or given. Or both.”
“I think it’s always both with you.”
