Reflections of a Jhunal Devotee, and Guru; Who was a Native Imperial Colovian, and Friend to the Emperor Uriel Septim [Excerpt]

Reverently placed on an oaken altar was an ebony pyramid, which Marcus the Novice poured milk over while chanting softly to himself. He lit a candle, and then the sweet-smelling Khajiiti stick above a silver platter donated from a local's dining room, which was already with ash from months of worship. Marcus lifted his hands up, and said to the pyramid, "Holy are you, Julianos, Whose Will perfects itself by means of its own Powers." A faint glow emanated from the idol, and Marcus sat down in meditation. Closing his eyes, Marcus envisioned the form of the black triangle. Julianos, order itself, pure brutal logic and abstraction, depicted on this Nirn with but three sides; a shape of ancient esoteric significance, manifested in the peak of Red Mountain and in the sacred inverted image of creation itself: Julianos the Just, in his wombform and his phallic significance.

*

These ruminations were occurring in a small cottage tucked in the Nibenay countryside, away from the schools of Julianos and the great temples of the Divines. Marcus' father had been an adventurer, a warrior, unbeholden to government or gods. He had amassed enough wealth to live comfortably, which he did with a young wife from somewhere in High Rock. Before Marcus was born, his father had a dream. He saw his son, much older now, as a master of magic and a sorcerer known throughout the Empire.

*

Meditation ends, but the duties do not. Marcus went down the basement steps, to the only room in the cottage that had any money invested into it. A library, with a fine rug braided in Morrowind by a blind craftswoman, and stocked shelves filled with volumes of esoteric literature. It was time to study for Lord Julianos, Keeper of Wisdom.

*

When it became apparent that Marcus had no natural ability for the magickal crafts, and no more magi would take him on as an apprentice, his father brought him to the great Chapel in Cheydinhal to find a solution. An unusual one was provided. Visiting the temple was Modvitner, a Nord scholar and devotee of Jhunal, the maligned Nordic justice god; he could be convinced to take on Marcus as a disciple, and hopefully awaken the latent magicka within the boy. Marcus' father was getting older, and ready to raise a son that could support him. His mother had passed in childbirth. All arrangements were made. Marcus was to accompany Modvitner to the Imperial City for a time, to study in the library of the White-Gold Tower. Later, he would be taken through parts of Morrowind to witness the devotional practices known to the Elves that lived there. His father smiled sadly as he watched the carriage pull away into the early dawn.

*

"I understand Mind, Julianos, who cannot be interpreted, because he keeps within himself. And I rejoice, my father, because I see you smiling. And the universe rejoices. Therefore, there is no creature that will lack your life. For you are the lord of the citizens in every place. Your providence protects. I call you 'father', 'aeon of the aeons', 'great divine spirit'. And by a spirit he gives rain upon everyone. What do you say to me, my father, Julianos?"

"Concerning these things, I do not say anything, my son. For it is honorable before my glory that we keep silent about what is hidden."

*

Magicka, sorcery, the Way of the Left Hand, secret knowledge, hidden truth. These are the ways of mages. This is the path of the unpredictable, the choices of the prisoner and the collapse of the Tower that he flees. Chaos. While Lord Julianos finds worshipers among this crowd, he does not take part in the antinomian mayhem of wizardry. Devotion to Lord Julianos, by whose laws the world is ordered, and the inventor of writing and science, the first mathematician: it is not destruction, or the bending of wills, or the seeking of temporal power. To keep silent of what is hidden is mere orthopraxy.

*

Marcus never saw his father again. Was he lured into adventure, which overcame him at last? Was he kidnapped? Or had he just vanished, as heroes are known to sometimes do? His journey, nearing its completion, now had a reasonable goal in sight. A courier had found him and his master near the Jerall Mountains and delivered the coin purse and death certificate. When he looked into his master's cold, weatherbeaten eyes, he knew all his training had prepared him for a decision like this. How far would he be willing to go to attain some kind of enlightenment?

*

When Marcus returned, he emptied his family's house of all belongings. He purchased some ebony, incense, and a set of clothes from the cat merchants that came to the village close by. He was to make an altar, and an idol, and was ready to spend as many days as it took in worship to taste power for himself. Some of the villagers had seen him return, although hardly recognizable with his shaved head. When he did not reappear for a few weeks, a teenage girl made the trip out to his cottage. Looking into his window, she was surprised to see him still in meditation, deathly thin. She had brought with her a pouch of sweets and bread. She rapped twice on the window, and Marcus fell forward in shock, like he had been hit with an arrow. She dropped the pouch by the window and was gone by the time he opened the door. When she returned the next morning, the bag was placed carefully outside the front door, filled with gold pieces.

"I will offer up the praise in my heart, as I pray to the end of the universe and the beginning of the beginning, to the object of man's quest, the immortal discovery, the begetter of light and truth, the sower of reason, the love of immortal life. No hidden word will be able to speak about you, Lord. Therefore, my mind wants to sing a hymn to you daily. I am the lute of your spirit; Mind is your plectrum. And your counsel plucks me. I see myself! I have received power from you. For your love has reached us."

*

Now a long beard fell down Marcus' face although his head was diligently shaved. Although he was unaffiliated with any temple, Marcus had a patron. The young woman, Aurelia Heresus, had recently married, and with newfound wealth she and her husband regularly sent a Khajiit merchant to his cottage to leave offerings, and religious paraphernalia, and sometimes news from the outside world if they deemed it important enough. It had been many centuries since heterodox devotional worship had received support from any party at all, its image stained by the memory of Marukh and his tyrant heresy. But Marcus, in his privacy, was free to devote himself to one god above all others. As Magnus sank in the sky, Marcus retrieved his soft mattress and rolled it out onto the floor. Next to it he took his bread and beer. Perhaps tomorrow would be the day that magicka would flow through him, like lightning to a steeple.