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It’s 580 of the Second Era.
Redoran Kovan is 25.
He is sitting on the table by the corner, face obscured by a hat and the shadows. A Tribunal forsaken bar in the worst part of a small town far enough from Ald’ruhn that nobody would recognize him.
Still, discretion was best when dealing with unpleasant matters.
Through the door comes a scrawny looking dunmer, about the same age as Kovan, wearing old looking clothes. A middleman for sure, someone who nobody would miss if things went wrong and the necessity to erase any traces of the job came to be. He seemed hungry. Or anxious. Either way Kovan ordered a meat pie for the two of them, for at least it would give the man something else to occupy his mind enough so he would stop looking around and making them look suspicious. Along he asked for a sujamma shot with scrib-jelly, a pleasure he often liked to indulge.
Once the man’s stomach had been filled and his mind calmed, he took from his pocket a crumpled piece of paper and handed it to Kovan. Had Redoran Kovan been older, he would have hesitated. He would have questioned the need for such a level of precaution.
He didn’t know who the Telvanni he was doing this for was. No name or face attached. Just kill the Redoran Councilor as asked, and Kovan would be rewarded with help getting a higher position on the House hierarchy.
Had Redoran Kovan been older and wiser, he would have hesitated at the idea that a faceless and nameless House Telvanni member was hiring his services through a middleman, who knew nothing about the job, whose only purpose was to deliver to him a note with further instructions to murder a Redoran Councilor.
But it was 580 of the Second Era. Kovan was 25 and foolish.
He read the note, drank his shot, and left the bar to do as told.
It’s 582 of the Second Era.
Kovan is 27.
His hand bears the mark of an exile, and he can’t step foot in Morrowind ever again for fear that a Morag Tong spear will pierce his throat in broad daylight. He is hungry, and tired, and sleeping on the streets of Anvil. The Three Banner War is raging on, but he could not care less.
He has no money, he can’t find food, he is on his breaking point when he decides to break into a noble’s house.
It goes wrong, as it often does. As it did back in Vvanderfell. So he finds himself standing over a body, blood in his hands, a knife on the noble’s chest. The guards don’t see as he flees the scene. They never suspect anything.
It’s 582 of the Second Era
Initiate Kovan is 27.
The guards did not witness his act, but Sithis did.
He wielded the blade in the name of the Dread Father, as the Night Mother demanded.
And as the war and the Daedric Crisis spilled blood all over Tamriel, so did he. A promising assassin, that he was. The contracts kept coming, the streets were painted crimson.
In the Sanctuary he found his family. A new one to fill the hole left by his exile. He helped Hildegard with her lycanthropy. Drank with Kor and Cimbar. Trained with Tanek. Heard Mirabelle and Green-Venom-Tongue’s stories.
Until Cimbar was dead on a torture table.
Until Mirabelle was killed by the Black Dragon
Until Green-Venom-Tongue succumbed to his wounds.
He was young, and foolish, and none the wiser.
He couldn’t believe his eyes as he watched the memories. As Lyra betrayed the Dark Brotherhood to become the Black Dragon. Kovan understood the pain of losing his family, but the Dread Father ordered the purification, and Sithis’ word was law.
They survived. His hands were stained with Lyra’s blood, but what remained of his family was alive.
Until the Daedric Crisis finally caught up to him, and with a dagger to the chest, Kovan found himself in Coldharbour.
It’s 433 of the Third Era.
Kovan thinks he is about 800 years old.
He isn’t sure.
Time passes differently in Oblivion.
The first days out of Coldharbour are the hardest. His skin is still returning to its normal dunmer gray. Instead of dead, soulless gray. Eyes are still sunken, but now they are red again, though a bit dull. His hair never went back to being black.
He looks old. He feels old.
Martin understands him. Martin sees him. He can never tell Martin of what he has done through his life, but Martin is aware enough to sympathize with his dark past.
Mehunes Dagon looms over the horizon, haunting every second of their days. Kovan won’t be a hero, but he can help.
In Martin’s arms, Kovan finds his redemption.
In his embrace, he finds peace.
In his quest, he finds purpose.
On his death, Kovan’s world crumbles.
The portals are gone. Dagon has been defeated. The statue of a dragon stands in the temple.
Five days later, they find him again.
They track him, disturb his sleep, give him the same blade he wielded before.
In the Dark Brotherhood, Kovan finds purpose again.
In the Blade of Woe, he finds the extension of his very being.
In the Sanctuary, he once more finds family.
In the words of the Night Mother, he finds solace.
It’s 434 of the Third Era
Silencer Kovan no longer cares about how old he is.
The blood of his family drenches his clothes. Their bodies lay cold on the floor. Dead. Every single one.
The Black Hand is no more. Their lives taken by him.
Lucien hangs from the ceiling of Applewatch.
The whispers of the Night Mother echo inside his head. She knew. She recognized him. She called for his soul to work by her side once more.
With negligence and deceit, she recalled the only living person who saw what Lyra went through. She allowed a rat to infiltrate the Brotherhood. She allowed for Kovan’s hand to wield the blade that wiped most of the Brotherhood off the map of Cyrodiil.
It was all planned, of course.
Everything went as she wanted.
Kovan screamed into the void that was the night sky. The tears ran down his face, his throat hurt, his voice stopped.
With disgust, he held the Blade of Woe in the same hand he used to kill.
With hate, he threw the blade into the sea.
It’s 201 of the Fourth Era.
Sheogorath walks through the forest that surrounds Falkreath. The mist is dense, the air is heavy.
He approaches the door, runs a scarred hand over the skull that decorates the door.
The whisper is clear inside his mind.
What is the music of life ?
“Silence, my brother.” The Daedric Prince answers.