A Murder in Morrowind Epilogue

Epilogue

It was done. I nodded to the barkeep and took another glass of the good stuff. Mazte, a local Dunmer spirit that I enjoyed a bit too much. I sipped at the clear liquid from a chipped tumbler, feeling the burn down my throat and watched the flames dance in the fireplace. The fire was near dead, but it was warm in the bar; moonlight slanted through the grime covered window, throwing a crooked square of white on the floor. The storm had cleared outside.

I was in the Halfway Tavern in Pelegiad. The town itself was a cozy Imperialistic-ish town located between Vivec and Balmora. I arrived here the next day after the conclusion of my investigation, having made all due haste in my exit from Balmora. Mostly to escape whatever vengeance had been vowed against me by more than one resident there. But also too, to avoid the screams of Deerkethus, as they pulled the scales from his body before hanging him.

I would never forget those cries. I had failed in my quest to avoid that event; apparently the magistrate wasted no time in dispensing justice. I was barely beyond the city gates when the first howls began, and they didn’t die out till I was far and beyond Balmora. Those high pitched wails of pain and fear pierced the night sky and drilled themselves into my brain to remain forever. It will be sometime before the shaking in my hands fade away and that I receive more than a few hours sleep. But I know that those screams will never truly pass from my memory.

I had murdered Deerkethus as sure as he had murdered Cassius. In the span of a week, I had lost two of my friends. A truer friend and man of honor will never grace Balmora for some time I think. I polished off the drink and enjoyed the numbness it brought. It was the only thing left for me to do now. My investigation concluded, I was to return to Mournhold immediately and finish my report. I know that my superiors will most likely ignore it once they receive it, but as I’ve said, I can do nothing but my own duty. I have nothing left; I am dead inside.

As I’ve said reader, I am forty-four years dying and not yet dead. Through my actions I have forever pushed away all those who have ever or will ever care for me. It is through my dedication to the Empire, and my own cowardice in the face of death that prevents me from taking a…shall we say…logical solution.

So there I found myself in the ass-end of Morrowind, surrounded by the other drunks and vagabonds that have stumbled into the den of depression. We were comrades in arms, lost in a world that did not welcome us. Morrowind is no home to me, as proven by this past week’s events, and I fear that I will never see my true home again.

Never again will I walk those flower scented hills or smell the apple blossom and fresh-cut hay or kiss the neck of Black Betty in the tavern whilst drinking and hearing Valhelen the Nord sings his bawdy tunes. Never again will I see the sunlight gleam off the White-Gold tower, or feel the martial beat of a thousand steel-shod boots as we march to war or enjoy the company of my fellow Imperials. The comradery, the order, the sheer devotion of the legion has been denied to me for the rest of my days. As I am complicit in Deerkethus’s death, I too am complicit in my own demise. I am forty-four years dying, and every day I wish for death.

The barkeep, an elderly Breton, came over and picked up my glass and handed it to a nearby servant before clearing his throat. In the back a row started, rising in intensity before dying down before becoming anything serious. Bedraggled looking servants stalked to and fro, picking up empty glasses and putting a fresh log on the fire. The barkeep gave me a once over, cleared his throat once again and spoke.

“What do you need stranger?"

“What do I need?” I spoke and chucked to myself, “Isn’t it obvious? I need another drink.”

He sneered at me and I could tell that he had recognized me for what I am. A washed up legionnaire with no future and no past. Just like the rest of the poor saps in this place. He took another dirty cup and filled it up before offering a filthy paw in a request for money.

“Leave the bottle.” I said and slapped a few gold coins in his open palm.

He eyed me suspiciously and bit into a coin. Satisfying himself that it was real Imperial mint, he grumbled and left me the half-filled bottle of Mazte. I took the cup, taking a long swig and turned around towards the common area.

I was surrounded by them, the other walking dead; ex-legionaries and disgraced soldiers who got by everyday by the skin of their teeth and the generosity of others. I was one of them.

“To the Empire!” I cried in mock joy and lifted my glass. Others grunted a grudging agreement and raised their glasses in toast. It was mostly courteous and force of habit.

“To you, Deerkethus.” I whispered to myself and took a drink. It was almost midnight, and eerily quiet now. I closed my eyes and tried to ignore the distant sound that tickled my ears. Faintly, I thought I heard Deerkethus, still screaming. I told myself it was all in my head, that I was merely imagining it by the power of my own guilt. But deep down, I still questioned if that were truly the case.

I can only hope that he’s dead. That his suffering had come to end. Perhaps too, I can hope that my own suffering will end one day. That is all I can do now.

Hope.

The End.