The Role of the Blades-in-Hiding Leading up to the Events of TESV: Skyrim

The two Altmer walked along the rough path. They were heading deep into the woods east of the Niben Bay, where scouts had finally tracked the traitor. The lanky Justiciar emptied his mind as they plodded forward, pulling all his magicka reserves up and readying them. His partner, a great brute of a soldier, walked ahead of him, guiding him down the path so his mind could fully prepare for what was sure to be an uproarious battle. They climbed a small hill, and several things happened at once.

They saw a shack, small and secluded beneath a great tree. From the shack burst a light, and power radiated out of it, streaming away into the air. It snapped the Justiciar to; he readied a spell and hissed to the solider “Get down!” But as soon as the light had come, it was gone. Cautiously, the pair approached the shack. Just as the soldier made to force the door in, a tired voice sounded from within, saying, “Come in, then.” The two exchanged a surprised look, then opened the door. Sitting there amidst piles of books were three large chairs, one of which was occupied. Staring up at the two was an incredibly old-looking Altmer.

“Please, young mage,” he said, “still your spells. Or are you so oblivious that you cannot see that I have no strength left to resist you?” The Justiciar reluctantly let the magicka slip back from his fingertips, but the soldier kept his sword drawn, and raised as if to strike the old mer. There was a twinkle in his eyes, despite his apparent exhaustion. He motioned to the chairs. “Sit, please. All this taking and breaking in is such tiring work. Rest for a moment, and explain who sent you. For I am curious which will win out, my being kin, or my being a Blade.”

The Justiciar spoke up, “We are here on orders from Alinor. You are to be brought back for reeducation, as your rebellion has been a thorn in our sides for too long.” The old elf chuckled. “A fair assessment, I suppose, glossing over the major details as usual. Your Thalmor’ve never been a group for details, only results. Wine?” At this, he made to grab a glass bottle on the floor by his chair, but the soldier saw his movement and stepped forward. The old elf’s eyes darted to the blade as it came down, and with a swift movement, he knocked the blow aside, embedding the soldier’s sword in his floorboards. “Honestly, you great buffoon, if I had the strength left to kill you, I would have. Your damn scout’s already took too much out of me as it is.” He picked up the bottle and motioned behind his chair. A Thalmor scout lay there, dead, and oddly pale. “Now then, shall I drink alone?”

The Justiciar reluctantly sank into the chair closest to the door, and forced the soldier to the chair between him and the old elf. The soldier refused wine, but the Justiciar reluctantly agreed, provided he saw the old elf drink first. He did, but even so, he cast a few spells to detect poisons, but found nothing. This amused the old elf. “It’s vintage 3E401, you fool. Not even the most cruel-hearted of assassins would dare add anything to this masterpiece. In fact, this is my last bottle. Smuggled it out of the Summurset Isles myself. Oh, I mean, out of Alinor myself. Of course.”

“Now then, down to business.” He set his glass down, and with obvious effort, cast a little, flickering candlelight above them. “You’re here to take me back, and well enough. It’s been too long since I’ve gazed upon the best our culture has to offer, but I suppose we won’t be going through Valenwood then, shall we? And I suppose you’ll want me to… oh, what is that phrase… ah! Come quietly, as it were?” Something about the old elf’s tone set the Justiciar on edge. “Enough talk, we’re going now.” Even as the words dribbled out of his mouth, they fell flat to the floor. The old elf pressed on, “Oh, but must we? There’s so much I want to hear propaganda about, and I must finish off that vintage. Oh, but I suppose you must believe our homeland’s always been Alinor, am I right, whelp? Are you even old enough to wear those robes, boy?”

The Justiciar bristled. “I am one-hundred forty and seven years old, and I daresay I’ve been taught more about magic than you’ve ever forgotten, you old fool!” The soldier was silent, knowing that if he restrained his partner there would be punishment later. “One hundred forty-seven years old, eh? I’ve lived four of your lives, and I’m damned close to a fifth. ‘Learned more than I’ve forgotten indeed’… I suppose you know the answer to the oh-so-important question of the Khajiit, then, yes? Was your little experiment worth it?” A befuddled look came over the Justiciar’s face. “Experiment?” he asked, “What experiment are you talking about?”

The old elf’s eyes twitched to the body of the slain scout for the smallest of moments, and he cracked a wry smile. “So, they never told you young ones, then. Khajiit were mer once, if you can believe it. Your Thalmor experimented on them to see if making the moons disappear would make them revert to Aldmer, only I suppose they failed, as per usual, seeing as Void Nights Khajiit are still beasts, not mer.” The Justiciar stared in disbelief. “That’s… ridiculous. I’ve had quite enough of your stories, old fool. It’s time to go!” And with that, he and his partner rose as if it had been agreed upon beforehand. His partner worked his sword out of the floor. But the old elf sat quite still, pensively sipping his wine. The Justiciar pulled magicka down and readied a spell of binding. “Get up, you old fool, it’s time to go!”

The old elf looked up at him. Their eyes locked for the briefest of moments. He threw his glass, wine and all, into the face of the Justiciar. Even as the Justiciar cried out in pain, the soldier’s sword found itself embedded in the old elf’s chest.

To the amazement of the soldier, he smiled. “So… Now, you’ve actually… actually done it. Damn fools…” He choked, even as blood began to flow from his chest. The Justiciar raked him with lightning in his rage, before casting a spell of binding on him. They set a fire in the shack after combing through it for texts the old Blade would have found useful, and began their slow trek back to the prison below the Bay. A quick healing potion fixed the Justiciar’s problems, and every so often he would stop to have the soldier beat the old elf. The spell of binding would keep him alive until his use was ended. Sometimes the beatings lasted for ten minutes or more. It wasn’t until midmorning that the odd trio finally reached the shores of the Niben Bay. They brought him to the prison beneath the Bay, where he was questioned thoroughly by the best torturers in the Dominion. It was decided that he could not be sent to Alinor due to the actions of the pair, and they were sent in his place for reeducation.

But the old elf began to fade. The torture began to weaken the spell of binding, and each day he felt himself slipping further and further. Finally, after an endless reality of torture, he broke.

A scribe was brought in, and what follows is his account of the confession of the last Altmer Blade:

Prisoner 093471: I killed him. Broke his soul. Used it to tell them… Told Cloud Ruler. They sent word to the Eagle in the North. He’ll move… catch the Bear as he sleeps… Our agent is there. Our agent will be there. But your fools… Your stupid fools let me send the… the message. Too willing to listen. For shame, you great bunch of fetch-

[the prisoner is beaten with a club covered in leather. Non-standard torture equipment. May have contributed to death.]

Torturer: Who is your agent? Where will he be?

[The prisoner was spitting out blood and bits of bone, to account for the pauses in this report. breathing was labored. E did not intervene.]

P093471: Couldn’t say. Never met them. Orphaned. You bastards killed the family… Don’t recall a bit of it, so I heard… Raised the poor fool… Never told who we are. Can’t, cause you bastards’d hunt us down… We… We’re all prey. But our agent’s going to break your thrice-damned neck. You’ll stick it out too far, and our agent’ll crush it neath a great boot of iron!

[At this point, the prisoner spit in the torturer’s face. In response, the torturer struck the prisoner repeatedly. A breaking sound was heard. Assumed jaw fracture in four locations.]

E: I think we’ve heard enough. This damned traitor has been working against us for far too long, and our evidence against him is quite substantial. Besides, you got overly enthusiastic on your last swing, see? You broke his jaw, you fool. We’ll deal with this after.

[At this point, one of the guards stepped forward and cut prisoner’s throat. All were escorted out of the room. Prisoner died soon after, due to suffocation on his own fluids. Cutting the throat had negligible effect. Must be more careful during torture. Recommending this account to be reviewed by Alinor.]