Chapter Text
A note: Some of Revyn Sadri's later written works are some of the most detailed on the state of Solstheim and post-Red Year Dunmeri culture that exist in the world. It is clear that, despite him returning to Windhelm somewhat shortly after having written this, he does indeed return to the island and perhaps to Vvardenfell and Morrowind themselves. He does mention a travelling companion, though not by name; there is much doubt that it is Etheara, but it is not impossible. Also of note is the blood relation between Geldis Sadri of the Retching Netch and of the author of this letter himself. It is not stated here, but they discovered to be first cousins.
My Dearest Melanarto,
By the time you recieve this, you should have just arrived in Whiterun, if my calculations are correct. I’ll admit that I make it my personal business to assure I know where about you should be in your cycle to make sure you make it back to Windhelm on time. It helps me to worry less.
Of course, since I myself am not in Windhelm at the moment, as you know, I can only worry for your safety. Skyrim is not safe; certainly less with dragons on the loose. I am not sure why the Dragonborn feels he has the time for a venture such as this, what with all of the world saving he surely has to do, but on the shores of Raven Rock, I feel something in my chest ache, empty.
As you know, I was not raised in Dunmer culture; my sister, mother, and I left Solstheim when I was a baby. I need not bore you with the story again, I’m sure. Though even Idesa remembers little of her time on this island… Either way, being here is making me think about the life I’ve lost, somewhat, to beration from the people whose country I inhabit. I look around and I see clothes with vibrant colours— the vibrant colours that looked so out of place in our fair grey Windhelm when we first saw Etheara. Everyone wears bright reds and blues, and despite the thin layer of ash that covers everyone and everything, the colours shine through. I have never been more in awe nor more saddened by mere clothing.
Etheara arranged for me to receive some clothing of my own. When I put it on, I feel like a child trying on his parent’s clothes. Not because they are too large for me— not only do they fit well, they are made of a much more comfortable material than my usual garb— rather, because the cultural context wherein they exist is so massive compared to me. Perhaps a better comparison would be to a costume; I wear this cloth and while it is something I possess, it still is not mine. I catch glimpses of myself in the water, and I do not recognize myself. I look Dunmeri for the first time in my life and for the life of me, I cannot identify myself within.
Nevertheless, I have little to worry about in terms of safety. As dangerous as Skyrim is, Solstheim promises twice the danger in less than half the land mass; but not only do I have my own small bit of experience in the area of fighting, Etheara is very much well-equipped to be fighting. To see it is something of a wonder, if you have even the slightest grasp on form; and it is terrible, if you have empathy towards other creatures. What is also terrible is he will commit some horrible atrocity, and then turn around and continue smiling and laughing as though nothing is wrong. The thing is, is that it isn’t unnerving or threatening in the slightest. It just seems like something he’s normalized. What a life one leads wherein one has killed so much it weighs nothing on the soul.
He hasn’t taken me very far outside of Raven Rock, which is just fine by me. I am not much of a traveller; even having come this far from home has been something of an endeavour. I do not intend to stay very long, as you know, and as much as I’d like to see as much as possible before I leave, it is all quite a lot.
The environment within Raven Rock is fascinating. As much as inserting myself personally has me feeling out of place and uncomfortable, observing the day-to-day actions of these people puts me so much at ease. It is really just the same as at home, even though all is spoken in a language I do not understand.
More on that— I am annoyed with how often I am presumed to speak my native tongue. I do understand that this is only my own insecurity rearing its ugly head, but nonetheless, it grates on me just a little bit whenever some well-intentioned person greets me or pulls Etheara aside to have a pleasant chat with him while I stand nearby, doing nothing. I am not only excluded from my own culture, but from the very conversation happening right in front of me!
Of course, it isn’t anyone’s fault. I obviously have to appreciate every person that switches to a heavily accented Imperial— not just for their lack of pretention, but for the effort it must have taken to learn a second language to begin with. Especially given that the second language was likely taught for the purpose of living on this island.
But, oh! Something worth noting is that there is another Sadri on this island. He runs the Cornerclub in the area, and brews some of what is called Sujamma. I am not sure what goes into it, but it is one of the most delicious drinks to grace my lips. I offered to buy a case of it to sell in my shop— or potentially sell it to Ambarys for New Gnisis— but he refused. He said something about how the culture was already so close to submitting to a more Mannish way of life, and he wanted to keep something for our people. Yes, he said that— our people. I wanted to correct him, but not more than I wanted to accept it. It was the first, and only, time I felt kinship with the people on this island. I don’t think I can properly articulate why that notion resonated so strongly within me; perhaps something about I, myself, having submitted to a more Mannish way of life? Though I couldn’t be more specific than that, I don’t think.
I know this is already a long letter— I didn’t mean to ramble so. There is one thing in particular I wanted to tell you, about Etheara. I grow more and more concerned with him every passing moment I am in his presence.
While we were on the boat here, he stayed up all night mumbling to himself. He had strewn all of the books he had with him— and there were a good twenty or thirty— around him in a circle, and spent the entire night flitting from one to another; replacing them in their lineup; and opening and closing them seemingly at random. Not only was the order he was trying to arrange them in incomprehensible, the places between the pages he tried to see were beyond reason, too. He seemed distressed, so I asked him what the matter was.
The response was just as impossible to decipher as the rest of the situation, as he told me, and I quote, “These books do not like each other, and they do not like me.”
What could I do with that information? Well, nothing— he then continued talking at me about the problems he was facing. I understood less than half of it, because the notion of inanimate objects having feelings is much beyond me, but he seemed to calm down as he spoke to an actual person. He was unable to elaborate on the notions he’d raised, but he clarified that he felt a special bond with all of written word, and he would occasionally become obsessive in his collection. He claimed that he could tell when knowledge was resting somewhere isolated; he claims his heart aches for these poor pages. When he asked me if I thought he was insane, I gave him the honest answer: yes. Though I don’t intend to judge him, as he isn’t hurting anybody and I don’t think he will. Not relating to his books, anyhow.
That being said, at the time, I didn’t realize that this invented empathy was actually more akin to obsession. When we entered his house— which is oddly-shaped and is actually mostly underground— and entered his bedroom and main area, I noticed the stacks of books he had everywhere. There was hardly anywhere to sit down, because piles and piles of miscellaneous tomes filled just about any space they could. I inquired as to why he didn’t have more bookshelves, but was shrugged off. He made his way deliberately around the room, puzzling where to put what, and really not paying me much mind. I didn’t have anything better to do, so I took a seat on the only somewhat clean surface available: the chest at the foot of his bed. The only thing on top of it was a lonely copy of Uncommon Tastes, which he later explained to me was a gift, hence its isolation. When I asked if the books piled on either side of the chest were also gifts, he told me no, that they were just of similar emotional quality, whatever that is supposed to mean.
Oh, Melanarto, there is so much more to tell, but I fear this letter has gone on enough. The only other thing I have left to ponder is what would happen to this letter should Etheara get his hands on it before I have the chance to offer it to any courier— he has a small pile on a shelf seemingly dedicated to mail he’s received but no longer needs. He claims that there is too much sentimental value in destroying anything that someone wrote for him, or about him; but the man keeps both personal letters as well as letters from hitmen and assassins! What a life he leads. I’ll admit I fear somewhat for my safety, but certainly, I do not fear him. I fear what I may witness by sticking so close to him, though.
I hope you are doing well, and that your duties aren’t too taxing. They shouldn’t be, by what you’ve told me, but please try and stay away from the bottom of the bottle while I’m away, won’t you?
With care,
-Revyn Sadri