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It is difficult to know when, exactly, the story of Solomon Helmsenski really begins.

Some can say that it was at his birth, which took place on a warm summer night in a place of no particular importance to two happy but otherwise quite ordinary parents. It was here, surrounded by doting aunts and uncles, that his parents bestowed upon him the name of their choosing. There were questions, of course, about how and why – it was an unusual name, they said; hardly becoming of the modern century, they said – but the universe seemed to share in the parents’ delight. The story goes that they stood there discussing the name when Mr. Helmsenski realized that, somewhere outside the hospital window, hidden in the trees upon the perfectly manicured lawn, a lone nightingale was singing a low and sweet song.

“Listen, listen,” said the father, hushing everyone in the room. “Do you hear that? The birds are talking to you, little one. They’re welcoming you into this world, just like they spoke with King Solomon in the gardens. Do you hear that?”

No one knew whether or not Solomon had heard, yet alone had the same God-granted ability of his namesake, which needless to say was a stretch of any imagination present except for the blissful parents. But they each recount with tenderness that the newborn cooed and shifted in his mother’s arms, and everyone joyously decided that there couldn’t be a more appropriate name.

The universe, it seems, always gets its way.

Some will say that it was on that grey colored day in late autumn, when Solomon and Mr. Helmsenski stood side by side, cold and wet and strangely empty, with dirt under their fingernails and roses beneath their feet as the priest lowered the beautiful pine box holding Mrs. Helmsenski into the earth with a few short words that would never do her justice. That was the kind of person she had been, even when the illness came: too majestic and grand for words. She had lived a life transcending them. Now, as it always would be, they would transcend her.

“When I die,” the bald priest recited from the book Mr. Helmsenski gave him, “when my coffin is being taken out, you must never think I am missing this world. Don’t shed any tears, don’t lament or feel sorry…”

And when Solomon went home that night, somehow or the other, he didn’t.

Yet no one really wants to believe in bitter beginnings, the same as most people would say that there could not be a more fitting beginning to a man’s story than his birth. But most people are simpletons with a strictly linear understanding of time who decided somewhere that all events needed barriers like “beginning” and “end.” In fact, there is only one beginning; everything else is a mere extension of that single moment in time when time itself began. No one knows when this grand one beginning was, or how, or where, and in any case it is less confusing and more appropriate to create simpler, manmade ideas of where each person’s life begins and ends.

If anyone had bothered to ask Solomon, he would say that starting at his birth is an outrageous idea, since not remembering anything about the event he could not really consider it a proper beginning. Nor could he consider that autumn day a beginning, since there was little he remembered from beyond the hazy daze of poetic numbness that had filled that week with forgettable details. He always had been of the opinion that life is a strange series of beginnings and ends – and sometimes it isn’t clear which is which until they have long passed out of memory.

So it is safe to say that as far as Solomon is concerned, his story began many years later with the phone ringing in his ears.

It took some time to penetrate the barriers of his dream world and the layer of thick blankets he had thrown over his head. At first he thought it was just an extension of his dream, so instead of answering he lifted one brown eye from his pillow and sleepily observed the blurry hues of his bedroom as sleep retreated and consciousness trickled in. Bold ribbons of sunlight poured through the blinds hanging over his window, as sure an indication as any that the weatherman had indeed been right about the snowstorm moving in from the north. There were two types of sunlight, Solomon had decided: the gentle shimmer of a cloudless day, and the loud, bright shimmer that happened when everything was coated with snow and reflected the sun in every which way like a large blood diamond. The latter was clearly quite presently washing over the pile of clothes that lay neatly folded on top of his dresser next to the portrait of a man and a violin, and creeping ever closer to his bed not far away.

Realizing that he was quite conscious and not dreaming, and that the phone was still ringing in his ears, Solomon turned his head in the other direction to lift the opposite eye from his pillow. In one swift swoop he extended his hand, snatched the phone from the receiver on the nightstand, and pressed it to his ear.

“Good morning,” he murmured in a tone that suggested that he didn’t really mean it – which he didn’t.

“Why, good morning, Mr. Helmsenski,” came a voice from the other side, whose tone suggested that he might possibly mean it – which he didn’t. “Did you sleep well?”

Solomon lifted his head from the pillow, blinking furiously at the clock across the room. Its face blinked “9:38” furiously back. Son of a [&@%!] is what he thought, but instead he said, “Well, actually, Mr. Anderson – ”

“Don’t answer that, you idiot,” responded Mr. Anderson with a heavy hint of agitation. “What the hell is wrong with you? Do you have any idea what time it is?”

He blinked again. “Nine thirty nine.”

“And what time does work begin?”

“I can be right – ”

“Oh no, Mr. Helmsenski, by all means, don’t trouble yourself with getting out of bed on a frightful day like this.”

Solomon, who hadn’t moved from his position in bed and hadn’t been planning on it anyway, planted his cheek back down upon the pillow.

“In fact, if you had bothered to show up for work today, you would have noticed that I let everyone go early on account of the snow. But since you clearly had better things to do, Mr. Helmsenski, I decided to call you to tell you to take some time off.”

The young man hoisted the comforted back over his head. “That’s awfully kind of you, Mr. Anderson.”

“Yes, well, my mercy knows no bounds,” retorted Mr. Anderson loftily, and Solomon suspected that he didn’t really mean that either. “I’m going to be very straightforward with you, Mr. Helmsenski. I might be a friend of your father’s, but that doesn’t mean I feel the same way about you. You’re my employee, not my friend. And you’re a God awful employee. Do you know why?”

“Well, Mr. Anderson – ”

“Because you’re lazy. And you’re a smart ass to boot, which doesn’t help your case. So why don’t you take a nice vacation for the rest of the week, and when it’s over you can come to the office and clean out your desk. Hmmm?”

Solomon, who had since closed his eyes, responded, “Is that all, Mr. Anderson?”

“That’s all, Mr. Helmsenski. Now you have a nice day.”

Solomon pressed the CALL button and grimaced into the pillow with a dull grunt of displeasure. He thought fleetingly of sleep, but it was a useless endeavor at this point. Instead the young man rolled over onto his back, inhaled deeply, and sat up to shiver as his warm cocoon of blankets collapsed around him, leaving him with only a T-shirt and a heavy dusting of goosebumps to fend off the cold. He sat there for a long moment, blinking languidly into the sun until spots formed on the horizon of his vision. With one last look at the phone in his hands he leaned over, dropped it unceremoniously onto the receiver at his bedside, and rubbed his callused palms over cheeks thick with dark stubble.

“Son of a [&@%!] ,” he thought again, except this time he said it out loud.

And that is precisely where the story began.

Chapter 1: Waking up.


I lay in my bed, my sight was fixated on the candle that flickered by my bed side. The words the woman had spoke were unclear to me, but they were important, I knew they were Important.
The room I was in was drab, and void of colour. It was plain in decoration.
There was my bed, a chest at the foot and a table and chair standing opposite. The walls were built up of worn and rotting wood, patches of green had seeped through the cracks in the ceiling. The floor was dirty and dust hung at the corners, where the planks on the floor met the planks on the wall. My bed was in a better state, it still had blotches and stains across, but it was clean everywhere else.
Not that the state of the room mattered to much to me, of course. Having travelled across the wilds for days, it was a relief to sleep indoors. It’s just a shame that my haven was plagued by the dream. It had been possesive over my thoughs, my mind dwelled as my body lay still, never moving. I was still lying down; my eyes, on the candle.
I must have been lying down for an hour, at least. My legs felt stiff as I pulled myself up to sit on my bed. My vision faded and my head was light for a brief moment, but returned soon after. I gave myself a second to breathe, before I raised up to my feet.
I had all my possessions in the chest by the bed; a shortsword of steel, a set of tattered trousers and shirt, a padded cloth chest piece, studded leather greaves, leather boots, a couple of apples and 50 gold coins. I dressed myself in the trousers and shirt, with the leather greaves and cloth chest piece over. I fastened my sword onto my waist, next to a bag with the apples and coins inside.

The road was in ruins. Its limestone plates lay scattered, scorched and broken in the path’s churned mud, as if a god’s hand had swept down to shatter the stone span in a single, petty gesture of contempt. And that, Torval mused, was but a half-step from the truth. The dilapidated road was but an inconsequential remnant of the faction war, to Torval, a triumphant reminder of the Night-Brood’s victory over the opposing factions. The guild of assassins – The Night Brood – had planted alchemically crafted stones all throughout every major avenue of Entahk; the explosives were fashioned to be indistinguishable when placed amongst the cobble stones in the roads. The process of excavating the roads was disguised as city renovations; the Night-Brood hired all the necessary equipment for such a pursuit, even the uniforms of the city’s road workers. During the Festival of Posterity, the first explosive was detonated, setting off a chain reaction that raged through the city of Entahk, decimating all the major guild halls and killing thousands of potential enemies. The faction war in Entahk had always been a clandestine conflict, members of a guild kept their associations secret, the line between potential enemy and innocent civilian was obscure from the beginning, but it came to fade completely, and indiscrimination was an undeniable reality of the faction war. The average citizen was forced to fight for survival during that time.
Torval looked up as a figure emerged from the tavern across the road; of which he was keeping vigil. He had been assigned a contract to capture an old man by the name of Grandose, characterised by a hunched back and a satin scarf, he had been accused of blasphemy and suspected of heresy. Torval’s commands were to seize him for interrogation. He relaxed as he concluded the man leaving the tavern was not Grandose.
After the faction war Entahk had become known as the city of assassins, and it attracted quite a lot of attention from neighboring provinces. A group of religious fanatics from Tenankarten had come to Entahk and seamlessly integrated themselves into the Night-Brood, using money and righteousness as their key. The Night-Brood had adopted the Miren’s religious beliefs, and chosen to worship Daemund, who the Mirens believed to be the Omni-malevolent entity of the Firmament. This guild reform was strongly opposed by many members of the Night-Brood, the tension within the faction rose to boiling point when a decree was made to execute all the non-believers. Most were culled, and the rest simply disappeared; presumably fleeing the city. Ever since, heresy had been a crime worthy of execution.
The tavern door creaked open, and Torval spotted a meek looking figure, hunched over with a thick scarf wrapped cozily around his neck and pluming out to cover his face. The figure was swathed from head to toe in thick cloth; strong gusts of wind buffeted the frail man and cast the ragged ends of the fabric into a flailing commotion. This is him, Torval concluded.
He remained in the shadows as Grandose weakly plodded down the uneven steps and began limping down the path, clutching the warm fabric to his body as if his life depended on it. Torval watched attentively, gauging his mark, and then glanced the opposite way, checking his backup’s position. Edark leaned casually against a wall, unfazed by the piercing cold; his head was turned slightly to grant Torval a place in his peripheral vision. Resolute, Torval moved swiftly, treading the stones silently, as if gliding across the surface. Edark vanished from sight.
Torval tracked the man throughout the slums, passing the occasional lost soul unseen. His stealth evaded the keen senses of feral dogs, and the wise instincts of hardened elders. Torval acknowledged a familiar with a nod; this was one of many informants among the people of Entahk. Once Torval had moved on, and the informant was out of sight; arms reached out from darkness to envelope the short man, he was devoured by shadows without a sound. Obliviously, the pursuit continued. Torval watched the old man make his laborious way up the trail, struggling against the force of the gale. They meandered through the shanty towns at a steady pace, their path inconsistently lit at sporadic intervals by suspended oil-lamps. Grandose hobbled like a cripple, Torval almost pitied the old man. In his distraction, Torval knocked a stone with the sole of his foot, consequently disrupting his perfect silence, Grandose turned slightly and spotted Torval, then spun to hopelessly scurry. In his panicked haste, Grandose ran faster than Torval would have expected, but he still effortlessly kept pace. Torval followed the scampering old man down alley ways and across the central avenue of Entahk’s slums, people witnessing the pursuit didn’t bother in branching out from their own business, they just reticently pitied the assassin’s prey. Torval found himself growing amused at this vane exertion, when suddenly; the thick scarf propelled from Grandose’s body and immersed his face, Torval kept his feet. A powerfully channeled force came driving into his stomach in that same second of being blinded by the fabric, and another thrashed his ribs, cracking a few, he lurched forward and almost stumbled. He regained composure and threw the scarf aside, as his vision focused, he found himself staring at a man, naught but thirty years of age or less, he was silhouetted in the darkness, forbidding the scrutiny of any bodily features.
Torval wrenched his knife from its sheath and stood baffled, before lunging at the man with blade offensively bore. The man sidestepped Torval’s jab, and then evaded a back-hand swipe, the assassin skillfully twirled the knife in his fingers, shifting grip and extending outwards for a confidant stab, the man caught him by the wrist with a measure of poise then brought his left arm around and pushed contrary to the pivot of his attackers arm, dislocating it. Torval cried out in agony, the man palm-struck his temple, disorientating him, and then thrust his fist into his chest, urging him back. Torval suffered two quick blows before copping a mighty heel to the sternum, driving him into the gravel.
The assassin lay prone for a few seconds, before the ringing in his ears receded. Staring up at this supposedly old man, he was painfully bewildered and stunned, the man stood motionless, glowering down at Torval, his stance was strong and experienced, and all too familiar. From the darkness, Edark’s voice boomed, “don’t move!” Torval scrambled to his feet and saw Edark standing with crossbow at the ready, trained on the man.
“Who are you?” Torval stammered. The man remained silent.
“Answer him!” Edark threatened, he moved in to point-blank range.
The man turned slowly to meet Edark’s threat, he stood facing the tip of his arrow, almost mockingly, “you don’t want to do that,” he chided.
In that moment, a stirring sounded from all sides, as the area was floodlit with fire-light, revealing a circumscription of figures, all with notched arrows marked on Edark. He was now able to see the man’s face, and he undoubtedly recognized him, Hadrianus, one of many who broke their oaths when the Night-Brood had become pious. Edark lowered his crossbow.
“What is the meaning of this?” Torval loudly demanded.
Hadrian turned his attention to the beaten man, “posthumous subversion,” he explained, “you are mistaken to think you have eradicated us completely, we are a fragmented minority, but the remnants are gathering, and we are intimately aware of the weaknesses and flaws of the Night-Brood, like an architect is of cracks in a wall. Your guild focuses on offensive tactics, the need for defense has never been crucial for the assassins, we will exploit this knowledge and use it to annihilate you; the guild of assassins will be restored to its former glory.”
Torval deduced that Grandose was a forged man, “so this was all planned?”
Hadrian ignored the question, “we do not kill for holy gratification, that is not how it was meant to be, we are a business, we do not grovel at the shrines of non-existent entities.”
“So you intend to kill us? And regress back to the old Night-Brood, the faction of barbaric heathens?” Torval scorned.
“Killing is killing, it is no less barbaric when done in righteousness,” he replied, “the Night-Brood is dead, disgraced by delusion and pride. We are the No-God Brood, and we will destroy you,” he bluntly announced.
“It’s your eternal soul that suffers in the end,” Edark piped in.
Hadrian didn’t bother regarding him; he smiled as if hearing something comical, “kill him.”
Edark’s eyes beamed in fear, as arrows closed in, they skewered him from all sides, the sound of each arrow hitting home was a familiarly satisfying sound for an assassin, but for Torval, it was only foreboding. Edark collapsed, lifeless.
Torval’s stomach twisted, “and what will you do with me then?”
An assassin approached him from behind and blinded him with a head-sack, Hadrian replied, “Oh I promise, you will wish I killed you.”
The next day a high-priest of the Night-Brood was to be surprised to discover the head of Edark Botch placed neatly on a holy altar. And on the nearest wall, the words ‘IMPIUS MOTUS’ would be written in blood.
And thus, the war of assassins began.

In the waning hours of Evening Star, four-hundred-and-three years since the dawn of the Third Era, the Dunmer named Valis Llando has died.

The message, however, is lost in the time and distance between Vvardenfell and mainland Morrowind, and the merchant does not realize his hope of seeing him alive has vanquished before he even left.

When Kinsman Avron and the Khajiit slave-messenger arrived in the tiny outpost settlement of Maar Gan, thick with sweat and dust, the streets were abandoned for slumber. In the medley of moon- and torchlight, the Dunmer’s red eyes appeared eerily bright as they flickered, seeing-but-unseeing, across the silhouettes of the town’s modest dwellings. It is the first time he has returned to Vvardenfell in six years, but he does not relish this. His mind is elsewhere, consumed with haste and the letter he has toyed with nervously during his journey through the Ashlands.

Serjo Valis has suffered … requests your presence … his last wishes …

The words refused to untangle themselves from his tongue. He struggled to understand why a god would let a pious man die, why the same god who loved the Dunmer and did so many miraculous feats wouldn’t answer his pleas for justice, and mercy, and anything but his dearest friend’s life.

“Vivec be damned,” Avron spit into the darkness. “Will you let this happen to your faithful?”

The warrior-poet did not answer.

It wasn’t until the Khajiit tiptoed past him that the Mer’s mind abandoned arguing with the unseen and returned slowly to his surroundings. The beastfolk held his torch high and extended a clawed finger toward the door before them. “Ra’Jerra has brought it here,” he mewled.

There was a pause as Avron pressed his hand against the door, feeling the cool surface beneath his palm and wondering what it was he should say to a slave. “Thank you,” he finally murmured in dismissal.

The Khajiit turned and prowled away, leaving Avron alone in the dark with the sudden feeling of uncertainty. It was a sickenly familiar dread that, no matter how hard he tried, he could not shake. He let the sour taste roll around on his tongue for several long moments before he finally parted the door and stepped inside the home, the silent plea of Please, my Lord on his lips.

Within there were the mementos of a learned warrior: swords ripe with notches placed carefully against the wall; a frequently used map with curled corners held in place by candles; a shelf full of mysterious vials, fragrant herbs, old tomes of history and poems; a helmet that had seen better days. The dwelling’s modest size did the Redoran warrior no justice. Avron’s eyes took in the room in one slow, thoughtful glance, as he imagined what it would look like if all his treasures were not forbidden.

And then he noticed the silent Temple priest.

“Almsivi,” Avron said awkwardly, to announce that he had arrived.

The priest lifted her dark eyes, disregarding the water she was fetching from a clay pitcher. “Almsivi,” she responded. “You are Avron Alor?”

He had to fight the temptation to wring his hands. “Yes.” He gave in. “I came as quickly as I could.”

She smiled softly, but Avron knew. He knew before her red lips parted, before his face betrayed the steel resolve he told himself he would have. The realization hit him with the force of a charging guar. “But I don’t understand,” he cried. “I only… The letter only just reached me.”

“You had left before we could reach you again,” the priest said. “It could not be helped.”

“But he… How long had he...?” And then, the inevitable: “Why?”

The priest patted his arm softly. “Sometimes even restoration cannot heal such an unforgiving disease,” she explained in vain. “Sometimes the will of higher beings outweighs our own efforts.”

Excuses, he grimly thought.

She guided him to a nearby chair. “Sit,” she coaxed him, and Avron did, with such a weariness that it seemed he melted. The priest fetched the discarded cup of water and brought it back to the Dunmer – along with a letter. “Valis left this for you. I think you should read it.”

Avron regarded both the cup and the letter for a long moment before taking both. The priest regarded him in respectful silence as his long fingers unfolded the letter slowly. He studied every letter’s precise curve, envisioning in his mind the bearded Dunmer writing out My dearest Avron, as he had always greeted him in letters and speech since childhood. Oh, Valis, he thought drearily. You were more my brother than ever my own blood.

It was not until he reached the end that his thick brows lifted and his dream world faded away. He lifted his gaze to the woman, paused to blink away his surprise, and then said, “Bring him to me.”

“Of course, sera,” she responded.