~Love, Loss, Faith, and Sorrow~


I am standing before a great door at the end of an impossibly long journey.

Beside me are two men I first met in a dream many years and countless miles ago.

Beyond this door lies their best friend, he is the best man I have ever known. I look forward to meeting him, but I very much dread killing him.




Let me take you back a bit though.

Let me take you back very far actually.

To the beginning I suppose, as apt a place as any.

More apt really.

What better place to begin than the beginning.

Maybe I should have just started there to begin with.

Damn.

I definitely should have just started there.

Can I start over?

No, I suppose I can't.

Let's get on with it then.






From The Beginning




When I was a young man I embraced the things that young men tend to embrace. I was secure in my future, I knew what I was destined to be. I would be like my father and his father before him. I would be strong, adventurous, a ladies man. I would travel the world making a name for myself, a blessing to those I called friend and a bane to those I called enemy. I would be wise and just, others would make their livings telling tales of my great deeds.

These things were known.

In time I would retire from these adventures, for the most part, and settle down with a wife to whom I would be loyal, for the most part.

These things I knew from a young age.

Somewhere along the way I forgot these things. Somewhere along the way my life diverged from the path I knew it was meant to follow.

And so it was that I found myself at the age of 25 in a place most different from the one I had been destined to.







I woke one day to find myself of an age and lifestyle that differed quite noticeably from all that had been promised me.

Where was my wife? Where was my mistress? Where was my other mistress?

Where was my trusty sidekick, my mythical weapon, my adoring public?

These things were nowhere to be seen.







I got up that day and looked before me to find the trappings of the life I had made for myself.

Sitting in the Imperial City looking upon my beautiful home and my less than beautiful gut. My bed was large and had seen much use, the bottle beside it was also large and, I assure you, had likewise seen much use.

At some point I had discovered that adventuring and doing good deeds and all the things that so readily identify what you might call a hero was hard work, and dangerous. I had instead embraced a life of learning, at least until I had gained a reputation to allow me to embrace a life in financing, which lasted me long enough to capture the attention of those in government, which lasted me long enough to get a side job in collecting certain dues owed that government, which lasted me long enough to allow me to embrace a life of leisure.

The well used bed and bottle that is.







I wish I could tell you that waking up that morning I had been disgusted with my wasted potential.

It would be nice to say that I had woken up that morning with a start and said to myself,

"What are you doing man? How many years have you thrown away, how many more can you spare?"

But I did not do so.







No I spent another few years living in such a manner. Bedding who I could, drinking as much as I could, and enjoying the money that seemed to just keep coming in.

Sometimes I wonder if given the choice then I would have avoided the events that have led me to this moment in life. If I could turn back time and wake myself before the first of these dreams began. If I could forget the story that would so alter my life, would I do so?

Today, no today, I could never do so. It would be to give up the heart of who I am. In those days though.

In those days I may well have chosen my soft bed, bountiful bottle, and promiscuous ways over the long walk that spread out before me.

I thank whatever god there is out there that I was not given such a choice.

The dreams began without my input and could not be stopped. Dreams of a far off land, dreams of a man who would make me most bitterly regret my wasted years.

Brilliant, Smiley. Brilliant. I like the spacing, the way you formatted it. Reminds of me an ocean. Wait, that doesn't make sense.

At any rate, I looked forward to more, I really have nothing to say, which leads me to wonder why I am still talking. Can't wait for the next installment, a thoroughly enjoyed it. Of course this is just the prelude so I am going to reserve the rest of my judgement until later on.

Keep it up.

Lullaby

It was three years after my failed awakening that my life began.

Curiously enough my awakening began with me falling asleep. I suppose that's as good a way as anything, though I'd really have preferred it to have started in a more dramatic fashion. A fever dream following a pitched battle, a near death experience, even just slipping and bumping my head would be better.

I had retired to my bedroom with a bottle of wine and a young lass, though my time spent with the former prevented me from spending much time with the latter. She left a bit upset, but I was my usual magnanimous self. Exceedingly so really. I was drunk you see. Quite thoroughly trounced actually.

As she shut the door most violently behind her, quite rude really, I scooted back on the bed gripping my bottle rather tightly.

Exercising a truly Herculean degree of concentration I brought the bottle gingerly up to my lips and with extraordinary deftness of hand poured the remained of my sweet sweet elixir down my gullet.

It was quite difficult you see as the room was spinning most furiously.

I laid down though slightly less gracefully, allowing my body to tilt slowly to the side until I fell the remainder of the way. Of course this resulted in my legs sticking over the side of the bed, an unforgivable error.

The remained of my energy and concentration that night were devoted to pulling my legs back onto the bed that I might awaken in a state of repose more befitting a man of my stature.

nvde, yes. Hungover, yes. Unshaven, yes. Wine stains on the blanket, most definitely. Legs however, legs most assuredly where they ought to be, on the bed.



Assured that I would not be too thoroughly shamed, I then drifted off to sleep and met the man for whom my dagger is destined for the first time.




First Impressions

As the room dimmed from my sights another room rose up in its place. Now under other circumstances I would find this most unusual, but being in a dream I regarded it merely as a curiosity.

I realized, in that awkward way one does in dreams, that I was not myself at the moment, but rather that I inhabited the body of another.

Again, under other circumstances blah blah blah.

I looked upon a most beautiful young Dunmer lady. Dark skin and dark hair, though each had a certain luster that implied a lively nature. She smiled down upon me and I quickly wondered where this dream might go.






When I saw my hands however I quickly realized this dream would not go where I wished to pilot it, no matter how hard I might pull the wheel.

My hands were as hers, dark with that same certain luster, but they were shorter, stubbier, and less well formed. They were those of a child.

Fantastic. Just grand. I was a child and this was my mother. I could look forward to crawling around on the floor, eating lint, and ****ing my pants for however much longer this damn dream lasted. Just what I wanted.

Despite my best efforts I could not will the child to grow up. No amount of focus would change the nature of this dream.







In time, and while in dreams time is certainly distorted I assure you it felt like ages, I gave up and just allowed the dream to play out.

I'm glad that I did. As a child, as an infant really, one is incapable of discerning love. I mean even as a child one can recognize a loving gaze from a hateful glare...but a child cannot fathom the depth of love his mother or father feel for him.

In this dream I did. It radiates, it positively radiates.

I tell this to you merely because I do not know who you are, and will all but certainly never meet you.

But this love makes one feel safe as one has never felt before. Of all the forces in this world love may well be the strongest.

I felt this and found myself not trying to corrupt the nature of this dream. Weird I know, but it is what happened.







I watched her play a small guitar, experiencing it through the eyes and ears of a child. I'll never hear anything that beautiful again, I'm sure.

I watched the fingers on one hand deftly pressing down distinct combinations of strings in distinct patterns while the other hand strummed the strings in deliberate timing.

Such a simple thing really, but so beautiful when one can watch it as something blissfully new.

I spent some time with the child, experiencing these few moments as he had.





Hangover


I woke to no small amount of dismay. I found myself as I had left myself the previous night. In case you have forgotten that state was nvde, hungover, unshaven, and lying beside a now relatively large wine stain. At least it was just wine.

I had woken from something so pleasant, pure, and simple into the wreck that my life had become. I had nothing to do with the following day but wander the streets, collect my money, and search for the next woman I would succeed or fail in bedding.

I walked through that day diligently attending to those duties, though failing in the last...I guess word spread fast.

Throughout that day however I couldn't help thinking back to the dream. I had made choices in my life, and I was beginning to question them. I had never had a relationship that had last more than a night or two. I had no children, that I knew of, and no prospects for a wife.

Still, all the warmth and beauty and just good naturedness of the time spent in that dream was not near enough to keep me from repeating my routine that night.

I collected my money. I drank my fair share, and then a few more fair shares, of wine. I searched for my next conquest but she said no.

I was a bit uncertain that night when I went to sleep, but the dream did not repeat itself. My dreams returned to their regular fare, which I assure you is no business of yours.

Ah from the first few lines I was hooked. Fantastic.

Stubborn




If I were a better man in those days perhaps I would have sensed some greater import in that first dream, or at least in the next few dreams.

Even if I had it may well have done no good...but in those days and in that mindset it took some time for me to view it as anything extraordinary.

Yes, the dreams were brilliant. Each of them would be so bright, so vibrant, that the next day I would feel disoriented by the great blandness of the world before me.

For a day or two I might feel happy, I might have greater expectations of myself, but usually within about 24 hours I would find myself a distraction. A woman, a bottle, a pipe, or perhaps just someone to swap stories with.

All of my stories were lies of course. I'd done nothing with my life. Somehow that never really struck me as an issue to be dealt with.






My life was as unremarkable in those days as it had been in the 9,000 or so days before them.

My dreams were a bit better.

I didn't really understand what was happening, and I suppose I likely never really will, but at regular intervals I would once again see the world through the eyes of a small Dunmer child. It was a rather simple show really, made interesting only by re-experiencing the wonder of childhood vicariously through this child.

The fare was not particularly interesting. There was no six and no murder, which is to say nothing that particularly interested me. Just wandering around the small house the child shared with it's mother and occasionally into a small yard outside.

Like I said, not particularly thrilling fare.

Still, I grew to like the family. The child was a bit chubby, a bit clumsy, but good natured. The mother was more healthy, more graceful, and, well she was just beautiful.

If I'd been interested in changing my life I think these simple dreams may well have lead to me bettering myself early on.







The simple truth is that I didn't value the child and the mother a hell of a lot.

I didn't want that life.

I preferred my life to theirs.

Increasingly so as I began to sense that the saccharine sweet nature of the dreams would not last.

A Brief Respite


I've spoken about how these experiences came to change my life, really about how they came to change who I am. I hope in time that you will understand that this is true to a very fundamental level.

I'm a Nord, perhaps I haven't mentioned that yet.

I am.

We're given to a few things. Most of those carnal. I was for a very long time very much given to carnal things.

We're proud, adventurous, other such positive words.

In my life particularly I have been blessed. I grew up in a time of relative peace. I grew up in a family with enough money to assure that I was never hungry nor even fearful of being so anytime soon.

I knew a happy, peaceful world. A world full of promise.

All of my failings, my mediocre and altogether unremarkable life, fall squarely on my own shoulders. I squandered any opportunity thrown my way for the first few decades of my life.


All that.

Boo hoo.


This peaceful if unproductive life left me out of touch with the idea of struggle.

I knew of adventure certainly, and the struggle of a hero, but I knew of these things from the tales of my youth.




Ohh how I loved those tales.

Young strong men, and occasionally women, who set off from their families to conquer great foreign devils.

Tall craggy mountains disappearing into all enveloping fog. The curious creatures that might hide within that fog and prevent our courageous hero from returning to his people.

I knew about battle too, and about war. The hero would inevitably slay countless nameless warriors over the course of his journey. Some of our greatest warriors might kill a hundred such nameless others in the course of a single battle. They would die swiftly and silently and then our hero would venture on.




I wonder sometimes if such tales do more harm then good. I learned that I was of a strong race, yes. I learned that I need not fear any enemy, fore if I fought the good fought and did so valiantly my success was assured.

These are certainly good lessons, particularly in a world that often finds itself descending into darkness.

Those tales though, they taught me nothing of the reality of war. Of the reality of death.

I would learn about those things only in my dreams.