Lessons for a New Era, part I.

“Tower Zero”

DREAMSLEEVE TRANSMISSION ALINEL MINISTRY OF YET, CONFERENCE INSTANCE 242-IS-1

The time has come. In the ever-shell, Walk-Brass has been brought to heel, and in the Starry Heart, the Blasphemy-at-the-End has returned. Bring the Children of Red Year to Tower Zero. Events will proceed as planned.

Firye strode through ash and snow. Solstheim was cold this time of year. Well, it was always cold, he supposed; he was Altmer, after all, and not built for life so far north.

But his parents – refugees from the fall of Crystal-Like-Law, when Oblivion opened so long ago – had come to Morrowind for a new life. And there they had found fire and blood, as Lie Rock fell and Red Mountain erupted.

They'd died. Firye, a child of only three, had survived, carried to safety in the arms of Stands-Like-Shadow, the Argonian slave his parents had purchased to serve as his nurse. She'd raised him, for a while. Her body had given out around eighty years ago. She had been just an Argonian, after all, and not blessed by Aetherius with the long life of a mer. He was a colleague of the Telvanni wizard Neloth, now. Well, apprentice. Well, technically, steward. But that wasn't important. What was important was that he was learning from one of the finest wizards in Tamriel, even if the red-eyed bastard wasn't exactly a high elf.

Or prone to speaking in anything but curt orders. But Firye was still learning, from the notes he left around. Firye was sure Neloth did it on purpose. He wouldn't want to sully his reputation by associating plainly with one so inexperienced, but Neloth could see the greatness in him, and so had elected to teach him indirectly.

The fact that he generally kept the notes locked within desks behind ward-sealed chamber doors was just a test, surely. Firye sighed out the cold and kept walking. Neloth's tower was just down the peninsula, through the forest of emperor parasol mushrooms in front of him. He'd be there within fifteen minutes.

The air shimmered, and a sparkling field enveloped him. The world turned white.

When the afterimages behind his eyes had faded, he was in a small, circular chamber made of something like marble. The door was shut, but something else caught his eye and he knelt to inspect it. There were runes, engraved in the stone and gleaming blue-green with magicka, lining the walls, although the script wasn't one he recognized. Not Daedric, or Ayleid. It wasn't even Akaviri, so far as he could tell, although it did bear some resemblance to the few Old Ehlnofey texts he had read. He –

There was a sound like rushing water, and the door dissolved before his eyes. There were two tall figures standing behind it – probably mer, judging from build, but he had no way to be certain, since they were clad head to toe in sleek glass armor and wearing silver masks very much like the ones Indoril Ordinators had once used.

He stood, suddenly feeling rather underdressed. He was wearing his good robes, an old set once belonging to his father, now ash-stained around the edge from his walks across Solstheim's wastes; but he had a thick fur cloak thrown over them, to ward off the cold. Compared to the two mer (soldiers?) in front of him, he imagined he didn't look like much.

“Firye of Raven Rock?”

Firye paused, then nodded. The voice was gravelly; they were Dunmer, then, much as he'd suspected.

“You will come with us.” When he hesitated, the two lowered the long glass halberds they'd had slung across their shoulders, the blades stopping mere inches from his face. Firye blinked. It seemed they wouldn't be taking no for an answer.

He put his hands up in surrender, and walked between them out of the chamber. There was a narrow corridor, curving to the left, that continued for some distance. The soldiers, neither speaking nor emoting in any other fashion, strode along behind him, uncomfortably close.

The hallway opened up, and Firye had to hold back a gasp.

He was standing over the sky. The chamber, it seemed, had been enclosed within a tall spindle-shaped structure suspended in the air. Through the clouds beneath him, he could almost make out the ground, impossibly far below. Ahead of him was a cluster of similar spires, most much larger, shining white under Magnus' gaze. The area was enormous, and fog obscured the more distant parts; but he thought he could see a shell-like cloud of objects, like tattered cloth, hanging in the air around the group of towers.

There was no bridge in front of him, just a sheer drop from the doorway. Firye felt dizzy.

He could feel the eyes of the Dunmer on his back.

“Well?” one asked, a touch of impatience creeping into his voice.

Firye glanced back. “I – ”

The other soldier brought down the butt of his halberd, knocking Firye forward into empty air. He bit back a scream as, for a long moment, he hung in the sky.

In spite of himself, he threw a foot forward, only to be astonished when it struck something. It wasn't quite solid – a bit springy, like straw or sapwood. A spray of pale blue symbols, jumbled together, bloomed out from under his foot. Numbers? Numbers. Firye regained his balance, standing on nothing but math. He felt dazed. The soldier who had struck him nodded curtly, and the two Dunmer resumed their walk, clearly expecting him to do the same.

He complied, moving across the long, straight, invisible bridge. Firye was certainly not unaccustomed to magic, but he had never witnessed a spell quite like this. He had, however, heard stories of buildings made of numbers and light in high Alinor. Indeed, he often made boasts of such things to his acquaintances from the lesser races – but privately, he had always doubted their veracity. He was standing on proof that it was possible, though, and if these Dunmer – whoever they were – could work such magic, then surely the high elves of Summerset, the finest minds and wisest mages in Tamriel, could do the same.

Within a few minutes, they had reached one of the larger spires, near the center of the cluster. As he approached, Firye was once again taken aback by the sheer size of the structure – this tower alone was probably as wide as Raven Rock, and he couldn't begin to guess how tall it was. There was a gate, perhaps four mer wide and tapering to a point at the top, set into the smooth white surface of the tower, and it evaporated once they were close.

Firye blinked as he entered. He was in a narrow corridor, with a curving stairway up ahead, but he could also see rooms and chambers and halls all around him, as though the walls weren't there at all. Like...like looking through the image of a pillow obscuring one eye when lying in bed at night.

Odd.

The Dunmer strode through the doorway and took up positions on either side, standing their halberds against the floor. It didn't look like they were going to follow any further; he glanced at them one last time, then walked on up the stairs.

At the top, he found another circular chamber, rather larger than the one in which he'd arrived, but made of the same materials – though little of the room itself could be seen, as a consequence of its decoration. The walls were hung with opulent banners, and Firye recognized the symbols on most of them as representing Dunmer houses and clans. There were display cases lining the edges of the room, containing Daedric artifacts, rare weapons, trophies from magical beasts too ancient to name...the contents of this chamber could have bought the Imperial City.

At the center, past the rich-hued carpets strewn with haphazard care across the floor, was a throne, and on it a god. Firye would not have ordinarily considered categorizing a simple Dunmer as such, but it was the first word that came to mind. The mer was tall and lithe, his legs crossed; his body was plated with ornate glass armor of a style Firye had seen only in paintings from the Third Era. An array of emerald spikes crowned his head, resting just above a pair of gleaming red eyes that regarded Firye calmly. An ebony spear lay across his lap, and his armor shone with the telltale spark of magicka.

There was something ancient in his eyes. Knowledge and power that predated the Mundus, the cruel Love known only by heaven...Against his will, Firye fell to his knees and bowed his head. He felt the chamber shudder as the Dunmer rose.

Firye's senses returned to him, and he quickly stood, dusting himself off inelegantly.

“Who in Oblivion are you?” he asked the god.

The Dunmer tilted his head ever so slightly, and Firye saw what might have been an amused smile. “I am Lord Indoril Nerevar.”

Firye scoffed. “Nerevar died millenia ago.”

The other mer didn't answer.

“...then you are the Nerevarine.”

Still nothing.

“Expecting others to address you with the name of your honored ancestor is a haughty act, even for a Dunmer. Shall I use your real name?”

The smile was unmistakeable this time. “Yes...I had one of those once. But the mantle of prophecy has a way of erasing what you were. I am Nerevar now, and you would do well do recognize me as such.”

Firye couldn't keep himself from flinching as he met the mer's gaze. “You disappeared from Morrowind two hundred years ago. Everyone said you'd gone to Akavir...”

“They were correct, depending on one's point of view.”

“Is that where we are?”

Nerevar raised an eyebrow. “Akavir? Ancestors, no. We are in Tower Zero, on the edge of Nirn. Directly above White-Gold Tower, if you must know our geographical location.”

Firye swallowed. A city in the sky? He'd heard about the Umbriel incident as a child, but this was something quite different. Magic on this scale, built by mer and not by the power of the daedra...

He breathed out. “Well then, Lord Nerevar, I am delighted to receive your invitation here. It has been an entertaining experience, and perhaps we'll meet again sometime. However, I'm really very busy, so if you could please let me – ”

He cleared his throat, adjusting his cloak. Deadlands, it was colder than Solstheim up here. “That is, I mean, I think I shall be taking my leave now, as I have business to attend to. I trust your guards will facilitate my return?”

Nerevar shook his head. “I don't think so, no.”

A lump rose in Firye's throat. His eyes were stinging. “We...I shouldn't delay. My colleague Neloth will be missing me.” He paused, praying to the Eight.

Nerevar regarded him coolly. “No one will miss you. You are fatherless, motherless, kinless, and friendless. Your master is a senile old man who, if he ever knew your name, has forgotten it. No one will miss you. No one needs you.

“No one but us.”

His legs were weak, suddenly. Unable to stand, he sank to the thick carpets covering the floor. Somehow, water had forced its way into his eyes. “Please don't hurt me,” he whispered.

“I have no intention of hurting you. As I said, your help is required.”

Firye looked up, blinking back the tears. “I don't understand. Why would you need me?”

Nerevar sighed, and began pacing the room, hands behind his back. “Atop Snow-Throat, the World-Eater has returned, and in His wake the Jill-Brothers. This place, this Tower, is ancient, and sacred of Akatosh. They will be coming for us.

“The Nords of Skyrim hurl stones and sling arrows, and think themselves dragonslayers. They know nothing of the power of the Dov. We can defend Tower Zero. We have a weapon. But it must be wielded.”

Firye ran a shaking hand across his brow. “What...what do you want me to do?”

Nerevar set his mouth, looking him in the eye. “You will pilot Numidium.”