Two days I was sealed within this crypt without food or
water. I do not know whether hunger or poor health or
one of the creatures who share this dank hole with me
will kill me first -- I only know that I will soon be
dead, and not even my bones with remain. My hope is that
in the years that come, this letter will be read and the
sad story of (Arthago), Prince of Sentinel will be told.
I am fifteen years old at the time of this writing, and
have been plagued with bad health for most of my life,
to the frustration of my hearty parents. The finest
healers and apothecaries in western Tamriel have labored
over my every cough and fever, but while they could save
my life time and time again, they could not improve my
sickly constitution. In retrospect, I received little
real affection from the king and queen, embarrassed as
they were about begetting such a cripple as the heir of
the kingdom. I cannot say I missed the love; I received
much attention from the doctors, priests, and herbalists
constantly at court. Certainly I was not to be the sort
of warrior that King Cameron was, but one of my dearest
friends, a priest of Stendarr said that I might be the
first scholar-king in the history of Sentinel.
My younger sister Aubk-i was the true favorite of my
parents: athletic, beautiful, and charming. It is hard to
think of an uncomplimentary word for her. I am resigned
to my imminent death, and yet, I would like to see her
once again. For six years, Aubk-i and I were the only
children of Sentinel. Eight years ago, the queen had a
boy child and named him Greklith, after the ancient
Redguard word for B King. Few speak that tongue
any longer, but all the scholars and nobles of Hammerfell
understood. And Greklith is a B boy indeed -- I have
never so much as seen him cough. The Queen's next child,
born only a year after Greklith, had an even more ominous
birthname -- Lhotun. Second Boy. Perhaps had I been less
sheltered, more suspicious by nature, I might have read
into these nominations. Lhotun and Greklith are common
enough names in our family, I reasoned. Now I know that
even then, I was disinherited -- even if it was
not official yet.
For several months before Lhotun's birth and over three
years afterward, I was in the throes of a very serious
fever. The doctors despaired of me, but somehow and very,
very gradually, I recovered. For the first time, and the
last, I read an expression on my father, the King's face
that was not indifference. It was disgust.
That was a fortnight ago. Three nights ago, I was seized
by men I had never seen while I was having a walk. My
nursemaid stood by watching placidly as I was gagged
and tied and thrown roughly into a sack. I do not know
how long they rode with me, but I was eventually left
here. When I finally freed myself from my bonds, I found
that I was alone. My wanders have gotten me nowhere.
This place is filled with undead creatures that prevent
me from finding any exit.
I have no hope left, but no fear either. A few regrets.
Perhaps had I studied magic instead of history and
science I could free myself of this place. One of my
tutors told the story of the Underking, how he had
placed his lifeforce in the body of a powerful being
and had thus conquered all Tamriel long, long ago.
Had I only had the strength of a more powerful body
like that.
But I did not study magic. I studied history, so I
leave this letter -- not to avenge myself, but as
an historic document.
