Lessons for a New Era, part III.

“Zero's Tower”

Firye awoke on a bed in another room, this one full of clockwork, pipes, and even stranger machines, though they were wrought of gleaming silver and not of golden Dwemer metal like most such devices in Tamriel. As he blinked the remains of Nerevar's spell from his eyes, he stopped to consider.

He had no business here. Gods and Towers and dragons...this was all beyond him. He was little more than a failed mage; what possible need could a person of Nerevar's caliber have for him? Nerevar claimed he needed Firye to pilot Numidium, but why him, rather than any of the other millions of mer and men on Nirn? For that matter, what need did Numidium have of a pilot at all? The golem was alive, was it not?

Ah, but old Tiber Septim had piloted it, during his war against the Second Dominion. Firye hadn't even considered that element. Nerevar expected Firye to wield an instrument that had claimed countless Altmer lives, and brought low the rightful rulers of Tamriel?

Then again, power was power, and Numidium had originally been a creation of mer, even if those mer had been the traitorous and heathen Dwarves. And, now that the power that had wiped their race from Tamriel was within his reach, was it not his duty as an Altmer to seize it? How much good could he do from the cockpit of the Brass Tower?

But that face – in no small way the image of destruction itself...Approaching it might seem a simple prospect here, from this sterile room, but when he had stood before Numidium, all his courage had failed him. It was not merely terror that had seized him – he had seen, in those cold eyes, the truth.

His existence was for nothing.

He had spent two hundred years striving for goals that his own weakness had betrayed, and had found himself worthless and adrift, needed by no one. And now, once again, his frailty and cowardice would bring all his efforts to nothing. He could not face Numidium.

Of course nobody needed him. What use could there be for one so weak?

“Why are you crying?”

Firye blinked in surprise. He hadn't heard anyone enter the room. He looked behind him. There was a young woman, clad in gold-trimmed white-bleached netch leather, sitting on a bench and donning outerwear with a curious look in her eye.

He wasn't certain of her race – she was pale-skinned, and appeared to be mer, but it was difficult to tell. Her ears were just pointed enough to be elven, and just round enough to make Breton ancestry a possibility. She had pale golden hair, tied into a long braid at the back, and crimson eyes that seemed to gleam. If Firye had to guess, he would have said she was a half-breed, Dunmer and Breton.

He quickly turned his face away, wiping his sleeve against his eyes. “I'm not crying.”

“You are. Why seek to deny it?”

Not having anything worth saying, he remained silent for a long moment, then took a deep breath and turned back to her, eyes reddened but dry. “Who are you?” he asked, eager to change the subject.

“I am Zero,” she said. Firye kept quiet, expecting her to continue, but she said nothing more, so he responded.

“Why are you here?”

“I am to aid you. I maintain Numidium.”

“You – ” Firye stopped, and brushed a few stray tears from his eyes. “Sorry, what? Numidium. The Brass Tower. Vanishing of the Dwarves, the Anti-Song, Demon of Alinor? That Numidium? You...maintain it.”

“Yes.” She continued dressing, pulling on a pair of long netch-leather boots.

“And...what does that entail?”

The girl – Zero – looked up at him. “Why are you asking me questions?”

“You started it,” he answered.

Zero finished tying her boots and sat up, folding her hands in her lap. “I suppose I did. But you still have not answered my question: why are you crying?”

“Because I – ” He threw up a hand in a futile gesture to communicate something he couldn't define. She was staring at him, unblinking, and he couldn't read her expression. Was she curious? Angry?

Disgusted at your cowardice? a voice in his head whispered.

He pressed his lips together. “They want me to pilot that thing. Indoril Nerevar wants me to pilot Numidium.”

“Yes. You are the pilot.”

He blinked at her. Yes, she'd implied before that she'd heard of him. “You know who I am, then.”

She was still just sitting there, not moving. “You are Firye of Raven Rock, chosen as Numidium's pilot.”

“Then – do you know why?”

For the first time, she blinked. “Numidium cannot function reliably without a pilot.”

“But – but why me? I'm just a – I mean, do they know who I am? What makes them think they can drag me here and give me orders?”

“Why do you not do as you are instructed?”

He stared at her. “What, so you just do whatever you're told?”

“It is my purpose,” she answered.

“Well – it's not mine.”

“Then why were you chosen, if this is not your purpose?”

Firye rubbed his forehead. “I have no idea why I was chosen; that's why I was asking you. The fact that a group of insane people are attempting to rope me into some absurd endeavor has nothing to do with my destiny or anyone else's.”

“...each Event is preceded by Prophecy, but without the Hero, there is no Event. It is your choice, I suppose.”

For a moment, Firye was surprised that she was familiar with the rather esoteric quote from Zurin Arctus – he'd only learned it due to his love for Third-Era histories – but then he registered what she was saying. “Are you actually suggesting that I'm a Hero of legend, heralded by the Elder Scrolls? Me? I'm just – that is, I don't think I'm quite that significant. Besides, it's all sophistry and pomp, anyway. Saving the world? Nobody really important would bother.” He glared at her.

“It is all of us whose stories are written in the Elder Scrolls.” She looked up. “We are all prisoners, I think, of Lorkhan's design, and of the sorrow that birthed him. Those we know as Heroes are merely the ones who understood this.”

Well, she was either touched by Sheogorath, touched by Sanguine, or touched by Mephala. Regardless, she was spouting nonsense.

She looked back at him. “You may pilot, or you may refuse to pilot. The choice is yours. If you pilot, you will face your terror. If you do not...we will all die. First, those of us here in Tower Zero, when the emissaries of Alduin arrive, then all in Mundus, as the World-Eater spreads his fire across the face of Nirn. I cannot force you, but to me, the choice seems simple.”

…damn it. Well, she was still probably crazy, but even in her error, she was correct. In truth, he had no choice.

He looked at his feet for a long moment. “...I'll pilot it,” he murmured quietly.

Zero said nothing.