Chapter 8
My hands worriedly rake through my braids, hoping none of them were burned off. I didn't expect my foray into the Midden to take as long as it did. Nor did I expect to nearly die at the hands of scrolls that I pray to Julianos were not poorly written on purpose. Add running into a certain Thalmor "advisor" seeing me at my worst, on top of being condescending and lecturing as if he had any authority over me, and I could have used the mark and recall spell Tolfdir taught us to teleport out of there in a heartbeat. But no matter. Now that my excursion is blessedly over, I waste no time heading back to the Hall of Attainment. My robes were in a disastrous state, and I'm eternally grateful I keep spares in my wardrobe. I try to ignore the strange looks I get from other students passing me by on the way out of the Hall of the Elements. Wardrobe malfunctions and bodily harm resulting from spells and magickal experiments gone awry seem to be the one thing the College always accounts for. Or at least, the one thing Mirabelle always accounts for. I'm sure it was her idea after all to provide students with spare robes and clothes in each of their rooms, in anticipation of this exact scenario. She has been Master Wizard for longer than I've been here, I imagine she's seen everything at this point. I suppose I shouldn't complain too much, my robes are in tact enough to not be indecent and my wounds are superficial despite how sore I am. I walk briskly through the courtyard, hugging myself tightly. Miraculously, it's barely evening. The Midden had an uncanny way of swallowing time, making it go much faster while you were down there. It was one of the many reasons why students, especially the newer ones, never ventured down there alone. The biting cold is finding it's way through the gaps in my robes, licking the burned section of my midriff and left shoulder. The frigid chill feels heavenly on my burns, but viscerally painful to the rest of my body. I grit my teeth which each gust, quickening my steps. Cold this severe could literally freeze you in place, making it increasingly harder to move. It was why frost magic was so effective against melee opponents.
I all but burst through Attainment's door, nearly crashing into someone in my haste to get inside. That someone being the very student responsible for the predicament I am currently in. J'zargo stands before me, just beyond my reach, with one hand outstretched. He appeared to be in the process of leaving when I arrived. He stares at me wide-eyed, taking in my ragged appearance and the current state of my robes, the visible burns on my skin. I'm sure he can smell the scent of smoke on me as clearly as anyone else can, even moreso considering his sense of smell is stronger than most. He knows what I've just been through, without my having to say a word. He's still gaping at me as I level him with a cool stare, tearing off the burned remains of my robe's hood in the process. "Your scrolls didn't work, not unless they were meant to explode and inflict damage onto the caster." Whatever he hears in my tone snaps him out of his stupor. "Oh... that is most unfortunate," he says carefully, his words sounding warbled in the Khajiiti accent. If I was naive enough, I would say he looks frightened. But whether this is due to my anger, or his scrolls having an consequence he claims is unintended, I can't tell. "No, the scrolls were not supposed to explode... but J'zargo is pleased you have returned in one piece instead of many!" He grins, hoping to ease the situation. His attempt at making a joke, however light-hearted and well-meaning, falls flat. It would have landed and been successful had I not come so close to losing my life. "Next time, find someone else to test your scrolls. Or better yet," I move around him towards my door, not sparing him a passing glance, "test them yourself."
##########
An hour later, I've massaged my wounds with restoration spells, changed into an undamaged pair of robes, and I'm right as rain.
Had I been thinking practically, I could have taken some of the snow and ice outside to use against my burns. But I thought better of it once I made my way to the warm respite of the Hall of Attainment, unwilling to leave even for a few seconds. And there was no better way to practice restoration magic than on active wounds. Though I may be healed, I still ache and feel sore. It hurt tremendously to move in the aftermath of using just one of J'zargo's busted scrolls, and I'm still sore in the parts that gave me the most excruciating pain. I narrowly avoided sharing this with Ancano, but the scrolls had high durability. The reason why my robes were in tatters and my skin was so badly burned is because J'zargo somehow managed to make the spell last a full minute, twice as long as the average flame cloak spell. And they exploded like fireballs when the perimeter made contact with anything. I could see the logic in this, especially if one were to use them to clear out dungeons and caves full of undead enemies, or frost wildlife like ice wraiths and frost trolls. But the additional length of the spell meant the caster suffered from its after-effects until it wore of. I was that caster. I lean forward heavily from where I sit at the foot of my bed. What I thought would be a favor for a colleague nearly cost me my life. I'm surprised my hair didn't burn clean off my scalp.
J'zargo's competitive nature was off-putting to everyone around him, including me and the rest of our cohort. I often saw him training with Onmund in the training grounds below the Hall of the Elements after lectures, and at first I assumed they had become friends. Onmund later confided in me that J'zargo would often attempt to goad him into duels while they trained, and even try to spar with him more than once. Onmund learned to ignore him and focus on his own work, and eventually J'zargo relented, but the odd behavior left a mark on him. I mull over what Ancano told me about there being "no uplifting or benefiting from the advancement of magic in death". It had been morbidly blunt, and I was momentarily shocked into silence. But taking into account that I nearly died in the Midden, I see the point he was making. Being overly helpful and nice to the wrong people and for the wrong reasons will get you nowhere but the grave, and often fast. I was starting to think I was cold to J'zargo in the way that I informed him of how poorly his scrolls performed, I even regretted my outburst. But now I feel justified in my response. His scrolls could have killed me, and while it was not out of the ordinary to have your peers evaluate your work, this felt wholly irresponsible on his part. I can only hope he's learned his lesson now, and that he won't ask me or anyone else for help with scroll-testing again.
Ancano's words really angered me. Who in Oblivion was he to tell me - or any of us for that matter - how we should conduct our magickal learning and research? Was he expecting this place to be like the Aldmeri Dominion? Was he hoping to run this place like the Aldmeri Dominion? Immediately he struck me as one of those Altmer who think themselves better than everyone, soley based on their ancient heritage. They looked down on the rest of us, seeing us as lesser beings beneath their notice and respect. Even Faralda and Nirya were humble, although the latter had humility in a much smaller concentration. The Aldmeri Dominion was chock-full of them, his sense of superiority more than fitting for his position as Justiciar. I had fire coursing through my veins and so many thoughts I was working respond with, when I remembered something mother told me, many years ago. She was teaching me about Aldmeri social culture and etiquette, and apparently when Altmer give practical advice that may sound rude and unwarranted in the moment, it more often than not comes from a good place. Meaning that the Altmer who gave the advice means well and wants to see you succeed. "Although 'succeed' in this instance generally means they want you to do better, but on their terms. When my Aldmeri kin give you practical advice, and especially free of charge, their wish is for you to take it and use it in theory and practice next time." I smile at the memory. It was a rare moment when my mother was lucid enough to make sense in laymen's terms. Often she spoke in riddles that would make the untrained mind and ear increasingly frustrated for lack of understanding, but it seemed she reserved her lucid moments for me.
Mother's memory reminds me that I have yet to send the letter I wrote to her to the courier's office. While worth a venture into town on its own, I'm well aware that Tolfdir should be receiving news from the Jarl about our Saarthal excursion by tomorrow, and I have yet to sufficiently prepare for how long we might stay there. I would rather send the letter before I leave. Today is out of the question, after what I went through I want today over as soon as possible. Perhaps I can ask Faralda, if she would be willing. She makes nightly trips to Winterhold, usually to mingle with the locals at the Frozen Hearth. Show them not all of us are dangerous, or Daedra worshippers like Ancano foolishly thought we were. And it's no secret that I am among her best students, showing prodigious skill in destruction magic. When I cast the orange lightning bolt spell for the first time a few months ago, she was stunned into silence for a long moment. I remember feeling my stomach drop, believing I had done something wrong or forbidden, punishable by expulsion from the College. I had nowhere to go, and my unease nearly morphed into panic before she finally spoke. "By the Aedra... how did you do that?" It was then that she explained the history of the lightning bolt spell, the original color of it, and how the orange variety was discovered. To date, no one knows how the orange lightning bolt is cast, as few others have had luck in recreating it. Including Faralda herself. I was unsure how to feel, seeing as I had managed to surpass Faralda even in this one area. But I knew better than to let ego get in the way of my learning. I turned to her and asked her what else there was to learn. The resulting grin on her face was my answer.
It had been a while since I last cast the spell, resorting to the original blue variety for anything lighting magic-related. That is, until I nearly blasted Ancano's head off right next to Master Drevis' office, in the Hall of Diligence not even two days ago. I still remember the look on his face, the way he was slow to emerge from where he managed to dodge the projectile heading for him faster than the speed of light. I still don't know how he moved that fast, or how he wasn't irate at almost losing his life. But I surmised he realized the blunder he made in sneaking around vacant offices and catching people off guard in the process. A mistake he is surely smart enough not to repeat, not any time soon. I chuckle. It is no wonder he wanted space from me. But that still begs the question of why he was in the Midden to begin with, and I mentally kick myself for not demanding that of him when we caught each other. For all I know he could have been spying for the Dominion, the suspected real reason why he showed up here. Granted, the Midden has nothing of interest for anyone, save for a select few people gifted in conjuration magic. Spending even a few moments down there will have even the most seasoned of adventurers believe it is nothing more than an icy, dilapidated dungeon, the ruins of which our College was built upon. The Atronach Forge is the only point of interest, provided one knows how to use it. The only other explanation is that he could have been searching for me, but that doesn't sit well with me. I remember the way he looked at me after Toldfir's demonstration, with almost predatory interest. His whole outlook on me changed, like something was revealed to him as he watched us. Watched me. Is that why he went down there? And more importantly, how would he have known I was down there at all? I didn't tell anyone where I was going, although Thesla, the Alchemy master, surely saw me leave. We may not know each other well, but I highly doubt she would have disclosed to a plainly uniformed Thalmor Justiciar where I was even if he asked politely. The Dunmer aren't terribly fond of their Aldmeri kin, no matter how far removed they are from their Chimer origins.
I crack my neck in both directions, hearing a dull but satisfying crunch. At evening time, most of the professors and students would be at the Cantina, the College's version of a cafeteria. Thesla manages a counter in the Hall of Acumen, serving homecooked meals and drinks of all sorts. The fare one would find at an inn like The Frozen Hearth down in Winterhold, without leaving the College grounds. It was an idea Mirabelle pitched to the Archmage several months ago, explaining it would be essential to nourhsing the bodies and minds of the students and ensuring that their studies and magickal performance were up to par with professors' demands. Not to mention, not all of the students would know how to cook or work a stove pit. And if the alchemy experiments were any indication, we would be saving the College and Oveld's sense of smell by having someone in charge of food preparation who knew what they were doing. The Archmage agreed, and everyone has benefitted from the decision since. I've been to the Cantina several times, the food is always fantastic. Master Thesla outdoes herself, cooking dishes from many parts of Tamriel. She prefers Nordic and Dunmer cuisine, a nod to Winterhold's largest demographic of inhabitants. The College was the first place I ever had kwama egg quiche, flin, roasted guar and ochre mash. Dunmeri delicacies you'll find nowhere else, she described them. I was surprised to learn that she even knew a thing or two about Aldmeri cuisine as well. Steamed Auridon mudcrabs, turtle stew, silver crawdad surprise, even desserts like Summerset rainbow pie and drinks like Cloudrest Golden Ale. I always forget to ask her how she knows so much about Tamriel's food, and how she gets the ingredients for some of these dishes in the first place. Perhaps I will tonight, but not at this moment. For now, the contemplative solitude appeals to me more than anything warm and savory, and I know the one place to acquire it in abundance.
##########
By the blessing of Julianos himself, the bath house is completely empty. A sprawling, medium-sized room lined with stones top to bottom and left to right, a pool situated in the middle. The steam emanating from it is so thick, it's almost hard to see. In a corner off to my left is a small hearth, an equally small fire currently smouldering inside. A large chandelier hangs above the pool, lined with tiny candles. On the pool's right is a large stone table, a bench lining either side of it. Another bench is inside the pool itself, running the whole length of the right wall. To my left are four rows of tall display cabinets next to the heart, housing all the bathing essentials. The water calls to me like a siren's song, I cannot resist even if I tried. I make quick work of undressing, choosing the right soap from the cabinet's offerings, a few pouches of therapeutic alchemical salts and some long linens to dry off with. Master Thesla managed to come up with the salt pouches in particular by grinding them into a fine powder and adding a few neutralizing indregients to them, effectively ridding them of their adverse side effects. The result was a topical application that had therapeutic benefits when added to baths or pools. The bath house pool has stone steps leading into the deeper section in the back left corner, although the water barely reaches my collarbones. The stones absorb additional heat from the water, making them feel heavenly to walk on. For some people at least. The rest of the pool went up to my shins, easily walkable. There is another stone table inside the pool, similar to the one next to it, in a shallow end. I take a seat at the bench on the right, and an appreciative moan escapes me as I settle in, the water level stopping just below my breasts. Placing the linens on the lip of the pool behind me, I pour the contents of the pouches into the palm of my hand one by one. I work them into my sore spots and aches, feeling the pain melt away as their scents invigorate my sinuses.
I'm not aware of who it was that authorized the creation of this bath house, but they have my thanks in particular. Master Thesla makes sure the cabinets are well-stocked, and in return we make sure to keep the place as spotless as we left it. Most people use it as a way to keep the cold out, but some other students use it for recreation. Indeed, we have a few Argonians who have made it a habit to visit the bath house for hours at a time, rejuvenating themselves and keeping their scales from drying out in the already cold, dry air around us. The salts are my favorite addition, as relaxing as they smell. My aches and pains disappear in no time, and I feel my eyes close as I sit back, enjoying the ambiance the room is providing. The fire softly crackling in the hearth, the soothing swish of the water with each subtle movement I make, the hot steam caressing my face and body, it's nearly enough to put me to sleep. But it also gives me the chance to reflect on the day, on how things went. And I find my mind wandering to a particular event in the Midden, when a certain Thalmor Justiciar witheld my amulet from me. I hated the smirk on his face. Hated how small it made me feel and how condescending it made him look. And worst of all, I hated how it was... not unpleasing to look at. I would have asked where he found my amulet, had I not seen the state of the chain for myself. The heat from the scroll's spell melted it off my neck. I remember how he looked at said scrolls, reminding me of Master Drevis' reaction to a prank someone played on him almost a year ago. I took too long studying the features of his face, having never been in close proximity of a Justiciar and much less an Altmer his age. The sharp jaw, equine nose, low brow and deep, expressive amber eyes. Despite everything, I had to admit to myself that by Aldmeri standards, he was quite handsome. 'Twas a shame he's a Justiciar. I was very close to openly smiling at him.
I frown. But of course, that leads to the "bargain" he proposed, where I initially thought he was attempting to proposition me. Perhaps I should be fortunate that I have no personal experience with the war crimes the Aldmeri Dominion committed in Hammerfell, that I had been lucky enough to be born in a different time and in a different province not yet ravaged by the threat they posed. But it was a possibility I was not naive enough to ignore, not when he likely lived through it and may have even partaken in those foul, awful deeds himself. Those deeds were committed against my ancestors, who had the nerve to resist an encroaching Elven invasion, after being abandoned and left to die by an Empire more than willing to cut a loose end to save itself. But his reaction took me by surprise. His nostrils flared, the charming smirk vanishing in the blink of an eye, and he openly snarled at me. He was mortally offended at what I was suggesting, which made me more curious than afraid of his sudden outburst. His reaction was so strong, it was clear he hated being associated with the actions of his predecessors in Hammerfell, who treated my ancestors worse than beasts. And he didn't calm down until I pointed out that I only made this assumption because he was a man, letting that particular implication settle between us. Men have done terrible, terrible things across Tamriel. Men of all races. The Aldmeri ones especially. It worked, and I watched and listened and his mood returned to normal. What was that about, anyway? Normally people don't have reactions that visceral unless... unless they have personal experience in the matter. What did that mean? Was he disgusted by the war crimes committed in Hammerfell? Did something like this happen to him or his family at some point? So many questions ran through my mind in that moment, questions that still linger now. I wonder if I will ever have an answer for them.
My eyes open. I cannot let myself be deluded into thinking a Thalmor Justiciar might be even a little bit decent or redeemable just because he's opposed to sexual assault and war crimes against humans. He is quite the opposite. He belongs to an organization that is an enemy of humankind. His aversion to what his people did in Hammerfell could very well stem from disgust at us humans in general, not wanting to sully his own with the likes of 'lesser beings' as they have taken to calling us. What's more, the Aldmeri government is itching to go back to war with an already weakened Empire. The College may be politically neutral, but the land we sit on is not. Winterhold and much of its residents have aligned themselves with the Stormcloak cause, and if a Thalmor Justiciar was sent here, then the assignment must have come from a higher-up. And he could be spying on us all without us knowing, gathering intel to send back to his chain of command or whoever he's working with. But why start searching in the Midden, of all places? I suppose his being new prevents him from accessing certain points of the College, so he will want to explore everything he can, leave no stone here unturned. And he was quite interested in the Atronach Forge, although he foolishly thought it was linked to Daedra worship, an idea I couldn't help but laugh at. The College has used the Oblivion symbol to represent the conjuration school for centuries, even before the Mages Guild disbanded in Cyrodiil. Absentmindedly, my teeth find the inside of my cheek, massaging it pensively. It might be a good idea to tell Mirabelle that Ancano was in the Midden, and maybe even the Archmage too. He didn't leave right away when I left. I thought for sure he would follow me out, attempt to stalk me, but I came back up alone. He must have stayed behind, doing Gods only know what. I am not sure what can be done about this. Mirabelle always chides us not to bother the Archmage "unless it's absolutely necessary", and surely this would be deemed a necessary-
A cold, gentle breeze caresses my shoulders, followed by the barely audible creaking of the bath house doors. I sigh, the disappointment I feel instantaneous. I didn't mind company in the bath house from time to time, it was a nice place to unwind from the day's demands and socialize with others in the College. But I really enjoyed being in here alone, the contemplative solitude was great while it lasted. Standing quietly from the bench, I aim to make myself decent before someone steps inside. And I could use a break from the pool anyway, sitting at the dry table or even by the fire would be helpful. I glance at the door as I reach for the linens behind me, and freeze in place. My stomach drops. I did not mind company in the bath house from time to time.
But not this company.
Through the steam floating aimlessly throughout the room, a figure stands halfway in the bath house, one foot in the room with one of the doors bisecting its body. Ancano is staring at me, wide-eyed and slackjawed, like he's just seen someone open a gate to Oblivion. His hair is disheveled, some of it is plastered to his face. His robes are in equal disarray, stained with smudges and spots of an unknown origin. Did he just return from the Midden? Had he been down there this whole time? What in Julianos' name was he doing? I didn't bar the door when I came back up, knowing he was still down there... and I didn't remember seeing it lowered when I arrived at the bath house. His eyes look dangerously close to popping out of their sockets. I don't know what I did in that moment. I may have uttered a noise, I may have moved to try and shield myself, unprepared for unexpected exposure. I prayed the steam did the heavy lifting by censoring me from view. But whatever I did, it was enough. Before I can even blink, he's gone. Without so much as a sound, he disappears behind the same door he shuts with such swiftness and force, I'm startled back into a sitting position. I stumble my way onto the stone floor beneath me and stay rooted at the spot, waiting to see if he or someone else will come back. It all happened so fast, I could have imagined seeing him there after I had just been mulling over his strange behavior. The Justiciar has an uncanny knack for swiftness. But the chill in the air and the delayed shifting of the steam in the room tells me he really was there. All is quiet for a while, and I decide I've spent enough time in the bath house. I all but bolt out of the pool, not wanting to be caught off guard again by anyone else. My stomach growls softly while I work to dry off as fast as possible.
Dinner sounds positively lovely.
##########
The door creaks open again as I approach, this time fully dressed. I do not want or need a repeat of what just happened. I stop completely, before seeing a familiar face peek through the opening. Master Thesla looks surprised to see me at first, then gives me an amused look. "Oh my, I was wondering what was in here," she allows me to step out before peeking back in. "I presume you are alone?" I've always been fond of her deep, rich timbre. As well as her Dunmeri accent. Winterhold used to have a sizable Dunmer population, larger than that of Windhelm. But understandably, many followed their Nord neighbors, packing up and leaving after the Great Collapse. Only a small handful of them chose to remain, mainly due to familial ties and family-owned businesses. Master Thesla's family had been among those to leave, while she stayed behind and eventually settled into the College of Winterhold. Having been here for a decade already, I can't see the College running smoothly without her and her alchemical knowledge. "I was, Master Thesla... at least, for a moment." I'm not sure I should tell her about the uncomfortable experience I just had with Ancano catching me in the bath house. And I don't need to. She shuts the door closed behind us, giving me a knowing smile. "You must have given that good-looking Thalmor quite an eyeful."
Heat flushes to my face. I don't know which bothers me more, Master Thesla confirming his good looks or that she caught him peeping. "You mean you saw him? Did you try to stop him?" I try not to sound as betrayed as I feel, but Master Thesla merely chuckles as she walks to the door leading to the Midden. A high bun accentuates her sharp facial features, highlighted with deep red striations that run vertically along the left and right side of her face, almost the same color as her eyes. They almost mimic my white ones, except none of them are horizontal and some of hers have small patterns within them. Her hair is an unusual color, a muted coral. I can't tell if it's been dyed it or if that's her natural color, which makes it impossible for me to tell how old she is in elven years. I've never thought to ask her, either. Her cuisine expertise, alchemical knowledge and cooking techniques speak for themselves. Lifetimes of knowledge, my mother would always say when I asked her to tell me more about her people, the Altmer. Having the exact same ancient ancestors, the Dunmer are no different. But one race was cursed due to another group's follies and selfish ambitions. The others found themselves waking up to military dictatorship overnight, forced to fight wars and participate in conquests they never asked for. Both have suffered all the same. It was a pity it didn't unite them.
"Don't worry, it was accidental, otherwise he would have dealt with me," she lowers the bar to the Midden. I feel better knowing he wasn't intentionally peeping, and that Master Thesla would have defended me in some way. But being exposed to him of all people was... unnerving. And that didn't explain his unkept appearance. "He came barging out of here like a mad man," she indicates the door behind her with a nod of her head, as if reading my mind. "Looked like he had been lost for days. I saw him go in this morning, thought he was looking for you until you returned alone. If he was down there this long, I can't imagine he came out unscathed..." she trails off, and I nod. The Midden had a reputation among those who had been here long enough. Lots of weird things have happened there, as if the Atronach Forge wasn't proof enough. People going missing, coming back days or even weeks later, looking like they had been through Oblivion. It was one of the first places Phinis took to searching himself when the previous group of apprentices all went missing. No trace of them was found there, or anywhere else to this day.
Master Thesla shifts her attention back to me. "He stumbled over to the door when he noticed the steam, clearly having no idea what was behind it. I went in to check as soon as he took off, sprinting like a scamp out of Oblivion and redder than Red Mountain itself," she smirks, amused by my discomfort. "The way he bolted, I thought for sure he saw a wraith. It wouldn't be the first time someone left a summoned Daedra unsupervised. In any case, I suppose he won't be doing that again." I'm about to tell her that I hope he doesn't, and that I hope he's learned an important lesson in snooping unfamiliar grounds, when my stomach growls again. Much louder than it was in the bath house. Master Thesla chuckles again. "Let me guess, you haven't eaten yet?" I shake my head no. "I had something before I went into the Midden, but I was going to come to you for dinner after the bath house." She nods, heading to her alchemy station behind us. "Master Thesla, why do you think the Justiciar is here?" I follow behind her. She usually keeps the keys to the Cantina on her. I can't tell for sure, but if she's here then the Cantina is likely closed. That was disappointing. I could always cook something, but a homecooked meal from someone else was always a soul-healing respite. The alchemy master begins cleaning up her station, shelving ingredients left out during the day and gathering empty ingredient and mixing bowls, carrying them to the far corner next to the display shelves. "He wants what he thinks will serve the Dominion's best interests," she says simply, as she starts to rinse a pile of empty cups and bowls in a water basin I had never noticed before. "Those people are nothing if not predictable, and they're not ones to waste time on something that they believe won't pay off. I can't imagine how he thinks the College will help him or the Dominion, but if it means they have less time to harass innocent people, then so be it."
I half-smile. Master Thesla, like many others in the College, had many polticial opinions she kept to herself. Everyone knew the College was a place for learning and studying magic, nothing more. Mirabelle loved boasting that we weren't similar to the Synod at all, since we couldn't care less about the politics of the outside world. Politics wouldn't help anyone here, although that didn't stop us from having opinions of our own. Some, like Onmund and Brelyna, even joined the College to get away from politics altogether, having been smothered by them in their own families. So far, they seem to have had it worse than anyone else. Onmund was escaping his parents' fervent support of the Stormcloak cause, a career path they were expecting him to take in the current civil war had he not moved here instead. Brelyna and her family are members of House Telvanni, one of Morrowind's original and ancient Great Houses, and she is the first to leave Morrowind in a long time. All of the the Dunmer's most powerful and oldest wizards, those who showed prodigious talent in magic and lived for millenia, came from House Telvanni. Perhaps the most famous of all was Divayth Fir, one of the people responsible for curing the Blight epidemic that ravaged Vvardenfell in the third era and threatened the mainland. By that time, known as the Nerevarine Prophecy, Divayth was at least 3,000 years old. Rumor even has it that the Archmage himself had correspondence with him at some point, meaning there's a chance he's still alive. The pressure Brelyna must have felt, having ancestral ties to magickal legends of that caliber, must have been suffocating. It is no wonder she came to Winterhold alone, a city within a province where no one would know her heritage or her lineage.
It then occurs to me that keeping political thoughts and opinions private and confidential might be difficult now with a uniformed Thalmor marching on our grounds, but that really just begs the question of why he's here to begin with. Master Thesla seems to think he's spying for the Dominion, an opinion I am sure she doesn't share alone. It makes little sense for Mirabelle and the Archmage to agree to have him here, for Gods only know how long, but he hasn't posed a threat to any of us. Yet. "Between you and me, Ira, I'm surprised Mirabelle and the Archmageeven let him in," Master Thesla continues after a beat, seemingly reading my mind. "The Thalmor don't exactly have a good reputation in Tamriel at the moment, especially not after the Great War in Cyrodiil," she's finished rinsing the dishes and is now drying them one by one, with a tea towel procurred from the counter behind her. She sets them down somewhere in the counter's inner shelves in front of me. "We've always had a strict neutral and uninvolved stance when it came to local politics. Not even the Jarl expects anything of us, save for not blowing up the city or the Hold. And I have to wonder how in Nerevar's name he agreed to allow a Thalmor Justiciar into his city. But if our newest addition is going to start poking his nose into our business, it's going to pose a real problem for the rest of us if and when he starts asking questions of a nature... unrelated to magic, if you catch my meaning."
I caught her meaning transparently. Our alchemy master believes Ancano is bidding his time with his advisor role before he starts interrogating people, in typical Thalmor fashion. I can imagine what he might possibly want to interrogate us about. None of it is any good, and none of it makes sense either. The College of Winterhold may be situated in Stormcloak-allied land, but our institution itself is neutral and politically unaffiliated. However, our uninvolved reputation could make us a target to outsiders. For all I know, the Stormcloaks could be planning an attack on the College itself, and it is these moments that make me regret our lack of connectedness with the province outside of our grounds. Ulfric's men have every reason to hate mages, especially now that we're more frequently associated with the very Aldmeri Dominion that many of them fought in the Great War. Faralda regularly spends time in the city alone, assuring the locals with her presence and her words that none of us mean any harm. She would have warned us long ago of any impending danger targetting us that she sensed coming from the locals, but that doesn't mean it doesn't exist outside of Winterhold. The Imperials would never march directly onto the city, but the Thalmor might, provided they have significant reason to believe their meaningless treaty has been violated in some way. Perhaps they received word, somewhere and somehow, that something unlawful was happening at the College. They need only arrive with an official document from the Emperor himself, if that would even suffice. Given their reputation across Tamriel, most people are afraid of them, and rightfully so. Some of those they take prisoner never return. The ones that do are rarely alive. And the ones that are alive are broken in mind, body and spirit. Most would believe anything the governing body of the Aldmeri Dominion told them, none would be bold enough to call a potential bluff to their face.
"I had my doubts about that too, Master Thesla, but I believe Mirabelle and the Archmage wouldn't lead us astray, nor would they knowingly put us in danger. If they share our doubts and suspicions, then they have a system in place that will keep an eye on him and keep the rest of us safe." Master Thesla hums thoughtfully, wiping down the counter a final time. No one else is here or in the training area. It's hard to tell without any windows here, but I get the sense that it's late. My stomach growls again, gnawing in its emptiness. I really should eat, but this conversation is too important. It is the first time I've been able to talk to someone about the implication of Ancano's being here at length, someone who wasn't among my apprentice cohort and someone I could speak freely with. Confidentiality can be... difficult for certain members of the College. And while I trust most everyone here completely, it's a chance I don't want to take. "A valid point, muthsera," Master Thesla walks up to me, keys in hand. "But perhaps we should continue this discussion at the Cantina? Your stomach is only going to get emptier the longer we stay here."
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True to her reputation, Master Thesla was an excellent chef. Within an hour she had prepared a full course meal, just for us, at the Cantina after we left the Hall of the Elements. I had been right when I saw her in the training area beneath the Hall of the Elements. The Cantina was indeed closed, but as she told me on the way there, I had been fortunate enough to catch her before she had the chance to lock everything up. I was treated to baked ash yams, horker and ash yam stew, slaughterfish steak, cabbage biscuits. She even saved room for dessert with spiced trama root cake and a fresh pot of gingergreen chai. During that time, I finally got the chance to ask her what I've been dying to know for months. How did she get her ingredients? Where did she learn to cook so well? Why did she choose to stay behind in Winterhold when the rest of her family packed up and left? And in return, I learned more than I thought was possible about our master alchemist. Master Thesla had traveled all over Tamriel as a mercenary, collecting odd jobs here and there and sleeping wherever she could. She's seen more of our world than most others, maybe even the Archmage himself. Somewhere along the way, she had a dish in a tavern that completely changed her outlook on life. On that day she quit her mercenary work and began a culinary pilgrimage across Tamriel, collecting techniques and recipies just as effortlessly as she had collected bounties. The ingredients she uses are specially imported from all over, but mostly from the mainland and even Solstheim from time to time, whenever the trade routes permit. "Having the same ingredients for cooking and alchemy is quite efficient, and a real coin-saver," she explained.
Surprisingly, she had no interest in alchemy at first. It was a shock to her parents when she returned home and announced she wanted to be a chef. But alchemy and cooking toe a dangerously thin line, and before she knew it she had more than proficient knowledge on potions and reagents. At some point after the Great Collapse, tensions between the locals and magic users were reaching a boiling point. Master Thesla's family were never on the receiving end of this, as there were still Dunmeri families living in Winterhold at the time. But it became increasingly obvious that Winterhold was never going to recover from the destruction wrought by the Great Collapse. They, like other families Dunmeri and Nordic alike, decided it was time to leave for greener pastures elsewhere. Morrowind was out of the question. It was too far, too expensive, too perilous of a journey after Red Mountain's eruption and the frequent dust storms. Windhelm was a closer traveling distance, had a similar climate to Winterhold (albeit with far more sunny days) and already had an established Dunmer community. Refugees from Morrowind and those lucky enough to survive Red Mountain's eruption on Vvardenfell fled en masse to Windhelm, the capital city of Ulfric's rebellion. Her family decided Windhelm was the safest option. Master Thesla took her chances with the College of Winterhold, hoping the alchemy skills she learned would be of use to the instutition. It was a gambit that paid off, as there had been no alchemy instructor at the College for quite some time. Master Thesla scoffed bitterly into her cup of tea, a humorless smile on her face. "If my family had known how inhospitable the Nords were going to be in Windhelm, they too might have stayed here after all."
I'm still mulling over her words when I hear the door creak open. I panic, remembering my encounter with Ancano earlier. My heart even skips a beat when I see a tall Altmer in the doorway, not unlike the way Ancano stood. The long blonde hair and dark green robes immediately put me at east. "Oh, my apologies," Nirya's prim and proper voice echoes throughout the empty room. She's being unusually polite. "I didn't mean to interrupt. I thought..." She trails off, looking around the room as if expecting someone else to be here. "No need for apologies, we were just sharing a pot of bittergreen chai," Master Thesla waves her over, "why don't you join us? There's plenty left." Nirya hesitates for a moment, looking behind her at something neither of us can see. She then steps into the room, closes the door behind her and makes her way to us. "Very well, although I can't stay for long," she takes a seat at the table in between us both. Master Thesla begins preparing a cup of chai for her when she asks abruptly, "I don't suppose either of you have seen Faralda anywhere recently, have you?" The alchemy master and I share a brief look. For as long as I've been here, Nirya has had a bizarrely one-sided rivalry with, at the time, the only other Altmer in the College. At first I thought it was due to their ranking. Faralda was the destruction master and Nirya was a mere scholar, researching anything and everything magicka-related. It made little sense for the only two Altmer to be at odds with each other instead of fast allies. However, over the past few months Nirya's rivalry has taken a paranoid edge. She's been convinced Faralda, acting out of sheer jealousy, is out to get her. Sabotage her in a way Nirya has refused, time and time again, to elaborate. As if that wasn't bad enough, she's also been trying to rope other people into it. Asking their opinion on Faralda's teachings, inquiring about her whereabouts throughout the College. Sometimes I pity her. The odd behavior has alienated not a small number of people from her in the College.
"I certainly haven't. It's late enough, she's likely in town mingling with the locals," Master Thesla sets Nirya's cup in front of her, steam curling up from the piping hot liquid. She then refills my cup first, and hers last. "Honestly, what's with you two anyway? I would think two Altmer women in the same institution would become fast friends." Something flashes across Nirya's sharp Aldmeri features that looks too close to rage for my comfort. She settles into a haughty pout and scoffs as us both. "I can see she's clearly gotten to the both of you already. Allow me to put it to you simply," Nirya leans forward, conspiratorially. "She's threatened by me. By my superior good looks, my might as a wizard, and my intellect as a scholar." She speaks slowly, like she's hoping that will make us understand the insanity she's spewing. "I know she's trying to turn people against me, to get under my skin. And it shan't work I tell you, oh no," with a vigorous shake of her head, she takes a soundless sip of her chai. I share another look with the alchemy master, who looks like she regrets asking Nirya to explain her rivalry with the destruction master. I clear my throat, seizing an opportunity. "Nirya, we were just discussing the Justiciar on our grounds, Ancano. What do you know of him?" Nirya pauses, cup partially raised. She narrows her emerald green eyes at me, before turning to Master Thesla with the same look. "Don't trust that one," she places her cup down, sounding more serious than she did about her rivalry. I'm immediately on edge. To my knowledge, Nirya was never involved in nor has any loyalty to the Aldmeri Dominion. Alas, her obsession with Faralda was so off-putting, I never thought to ask her about this. Doesn't help that it's never come up either. But does she know something that the alchemy master and I don't?
She cracks her neck while Master Thesla steeples her fingers together in front of her, quicker to respond than I. "Is it safe to presume you had a... bad run-in with the Justiciar, muthsera?" I mentally will away my encounter with that same Justiciar earlier. Nirya raises her eyebrows. "Thankfully, no," she shifts in her seat. "But I've seen how he moves around the College, watching all of us. He's up to something. Most here are up to something, but in his case, it's nothing good." I lean back in my seat, considering her words and my conversation with the alchemy master earlier. "Is it something we should be concerned about?" I ask her. Maybe bringing this up to Mirabelle and the Archmage is a good idea after all. Nirya tilts her head, eyes still narrowed. "Hmmmm... no, not at the present at least. I get the sense he's searching for something. I haven't figured out what it is, but I will get to the bottom of it." With Nirya's embroilment with the destruction master and her own duties in the College, I slightly doubt she will. But I silently take her word for it, bringing my own cups to my lips. Bittergreen chai was something of a specialty Master Thesla liked to make, not just for the taste. It had magicka restoring properties, perfect for those needing a pick me up after practicing in the training area for hours on end. Served hot, it kept all of us warm during the protracted cold Winterhold weather. I'm savoring a long sip, feeling the heat spread throughout my body, when I hear an almost dreamy sigh come from Nirya. "Quite a shame. He is rather handsome though, isn't he?"
My sip turns into a violent choke. I rush to slam my cup down and double over in my seat as I clucth my chest, coughing wildly. Nirya's face changes from alarm to open confusion, because of my sudden coughing fit and Master Thesla's raucous laughter.
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AUTHOR'S NOTE
This one took a while too, but I think this is a better ending. I'm gonna try and add some more anecdotal things to her chapters, it feels like Ancano is more fleshed out than she is. Also trying this technique that I've seen in so many other novels but I don't know if it has a name. Where you give enough info for certain actions and scenes to make the reader guess or assume what's going to happen, without holding their hand through it. I think it went pretty well here. But so far so good!