A Letter From the Warfront

Author's Note: This one has been a long time in coming. I hope you enjoy!

Time is short, Annabelle and I am sorry. I am sorry that I will not witness the birth of our son, I am sorry that I could not defend our home from these invaders, but most of all, I am sorry that I will never see you again.

Almost two hundred years ago my order was resurrected by the Champion of Cyrodiil from the ashes of Umaril at the close of the Oblivion crisis. The Champion of Cyrodiil guided our mission for a time before disappearing, at which point your ancestor, Sir Thedret assumed its leadership.

You know all of this, of course. You carry Sir Thedret’s name, as well as our son. The legacy of the Knights of the Nine runs in your veins while I merely adopted it, so it is but ill fate that this order will see its end on the head of an orphan. Before overmorrow the elves will attack. As I write, their trebuchets press hard into the sands of lake Rumare, their engraved axes fell trees like lightning, causing the thunder of falling oak to follow and the smoke from their campfires darken the horizon as if they were, in truth, the front of a storm. From the walls our men report that Naarifin’s army has surrounded the city, the very goal my knights gave their lives to prevent. The Emperor told us during the last council meeting (on which my position is now only symbolic) that he plans on retreating and regrouping. Militarily, this is perfectly sound, but I fear for the safety of the citizens of this city. I cannot help but imagine what this might mean if you and our child-yet-to-live hadn’t found refuge in Falkreath with General Jonna so I have volunteered to help evacuate as many citizens as I can from the destruction to befall this city. Maybe I sound foolish, but I am not throwing my life away by remaining in this city; I could never live with myself if I let these elves harm you and I can’t let them harm the defenseless here either. If I am lucky then I will be the last living person to leave this city, but I have no stock in luck these past months and I hold no illusions, I expect to die.

Therefore, my dear, do not stain these pages with your tears as they are my last words to you and the last record of the Knights of the Nine, for if the Dominion has its way there would only ever be the Knights of the Eight (at least you will no longer need to suffer my poor humor).

I still recall the day I learned of the Knights, the day we met: It seems to me to be ages ago, if not yesterday. There I was, just eight years of age, an orphan; a child of Julianos, they called me. The priests always said I was a blessed child, that my name was a reminder of my piety, the other boys taunted me for it. I did not feel blessed, not until that day. I never told you how that day started, I don’t think. I was on an early errand for Father Frederick to purchase some fruit before breakfast. I was paying for some apples when I overheard the grocer tell a traveller that a knight would be visiting Skingrad, the Chapel of Julianos, no less, and that he would be bringing his daughter, the pure young Annabelle. The rumor was that he was on the search for a young squire, so every young boy would be crowded in front of the chapel that day, remember? They were all dressed in their heraldry tunics, dyed green, and orange, and red; eye watering with their chevrons, fleurs and checkered fields. Every boy from five to fifteen in Skingrad was on those steps, waiting to greet the great Knight and his precious daughter. They were every color the clothiers of the Imperial City could come up with and I, alone, was in the white robe of a chapel boy. It was almost noon by the time you and your father arrived and we had been standing on those steps for near two hours in the heat of summer; I was glad to be wearing white by then. And you too, in your ordinary, white dress, glowing with the light of the mid-day sun, and your father, on the largest horse I’d ever seen, the red diamond emblazoned on his chest, and the most incredulous smile emblazoned on his face, as if he couldn’t believe that so many people would go through so much effort just for him. He beamed at us while you smiled politely, and he said that he was sure he’d get a chance to meet us all in time, and thanked us for such a warm welcome. I could tell that the older boys were upset, expecting some sort of trial by combat, I’m sure. I didn’t much care; you were pretty, don’t misunderstand, my love, and the prospect of being a squire was fantastic, but to me, you were untouchable, you and your father seemed as distant from me as Masser and Secunda, so a mere fantasy I thought it would remain. Then your father requested a tour of the chapel grounds and, though Brother Aemond had already set me to sweeping the living quarters (he always thought I was trouble, and liked to keep me out of sight), the great Knight beckoned me over with you in hand, kneeled in front of me, placed your hand in mine and told me “Now don’t you let any harm come to her,” smiled and winked, and left us, mentioning something about the buttresses to Father Frederick. Do you remember how quickly those clothes we were wearing went from white to brown? The rain from the night before didn’t do us any favors, either, nor did the old, wet bark on the chapel’s pines and maples. Then it was time for our meager supper with the chapel’s clergy, and we were already such fast friends, at least, I thought as much: I was smitten. Then came that great oaf, still in his tunic, thirteen years of age and twice my size, already had beard hairs too, if I recall correctly. George was his name, the son of a hedge knight and a former priestess of Diabella. He said that I had no business socializing with highborns and that he was much better suited to accompany someone of your “breed” (I swear that’s the word he used). Then he grabbed your wrist so roughly you winced. You remember the pain, of course, but I remember the anger; the red in my vision and your father’s words in my ears. So I grabbed that wet pine branch laying at the foot of the tree and shattered it, uselessly, across George’s shoulder, threw the remaining portion of it at him and grabbed another. So stunned was he at the constant assault of splintered, moldy pine that he just stood there flinching at each blow with a hand in front of his face to block the piece I threw at him until Brother Aemond rushed out to see the spectacle that I’m sure he thought was just the sort of problem that I would cause in the presence of a Knight’s daughter. Then, however, your father arrived at the scene, I was still throwing sticks, but George quickly released you and kneeled in the mud before the venerable warrior. I rushed at him, wanting to hurt him for his words and for hurting you, however little, but I was restrained by the good Brother, in an attempt to prevent further humiliation. There we were, George, kneeling, shoulder covered in detritus, you, standing, massaging your bruised wrist, looking down and at me, who, embraced without love by Brother Aemond, let tears clear streaks of mud from my face. Then your father declared “It looks like I have found my squire.” George’s face lit up with greedy anticipation, you looked at George with disappointment, and I continued crying while Brother Aemond’s chest, tight against me, heaved a heavy sigh of relief. It was your look, I think, that caused the second of reevaluation in your father. No doubt he had intended on taking George, who looked, I’ll admit, like the hero to anyone but myself, but, by gazing upon your pleading face, he kindly walked over to me and said “Stop crying, child. Tears are meant for good-byes, not anger. Go clean yourself up, tomorrow you will join us for our ride back to the priory as my squire and then your tears will be merited.” I remember that the sun set the color of the red diamond, that night.

The skies will be blue tomorrow, but the ground will be red. Clear skies seem too ill fitting for such a horror as a siege, as if Kyne smiles at seeing our blood spilled… I should not blaspheme so, and I am afraid that I have stolen too much parchment, ink and time to send my final thoughts to you. Honor, then, my dying requests to my only love: Name our child Amiel ah-Thedret, your ancestral name, not my orphan’s brand, and the name of the founder of the Knights, that the world may have some reminder of our existence; teach him how to pray and how to fight as I did, you know me well enough to pass on my ways; finally, follow the teachings of the Nine, all Nine, no matter what any Man or Mer might say or do, for all Nine are sacred, and it is with all Nine I will rest my soul.

I love you.

Peter Julian