[sub]Featuring [@Father Hank][/sub]

[i]Noon, 3rd of Last Seed, 4E205
Solitude, Skyrim
The docks[/i]

After Wylendriel had begrudgingly tended to Narzul’s wounds as soon as they arrived in Solitude, the Dunmer had gathered up his belongings and made his way to Gustav’s warehouse. There he had found a suitable bed (though a far cry from the comforts of home) and stashed his gear. He had left most of his armor squirrelled away in a chest, and (now dressed only in his traditional Dunmeri tunic and his heavy iron boots) marched back down the docks in search of a spot for some silence and contemplation. His feet stomped down the stairs to the piers, [i]thunk-thunk-thunk,[/i] the sound carrying far through the wooden platforms. Fishermen, traders, and merchants that had set up shop by the waterside turned their heads to look at the Dunmer approach, but he paid them no mind. He stretched when he reached the area of the docks where the [i]Kyne’s Tear[/i] was moored, scanning the pier for a place to sit. The [i]Tear[/i] was the only ship at this end of the docks, so strangers wouldn’t have any good reason to come this way. Narzul’s physique, normally hidden beneath the bulky shape of his hodge-podge armor, was clearly contoured in the thinner, well-fitted tunic, and he rolled up his sleeves to reveal a pair of powerful forearms. The Redoran warrior found a crate that looked reasonably comfortable and sat himself down, scarlet eyes squinting in the fierce rays of the midday sun, and looked down at the object he carried in his hands; his sword. 

The ebony blade made a gritty rasping sound as he drew it from its plain, leather scabbard and Narzul held the weapon up in front of him, checking the edge for damage. It was the first time he had properly inspected the sword since Dawnstar. Niernen had confined him to a bed for a while until Wylendriel tended to him earlier that day (and even then his sister had double-checked -- nay, triple-checked him to see if he was truly well before she let him go). Ever the warrior, Narzul had decided to use his newfound freedom to immediately carry out some maintenance. He was pleased to see the sword was in near-perfect shape. While it was extremely heavy compared to every other material in Tamriel, that was one of the major benefits of ebony; strong enough to go edge-to-edge with any weapon and come out unscathed. Mostly, anyway. Narzul spotted some small imperfections when he pressed the blade almost up to his eyeball. Or maybe he just imagined it. Either way, he was looking for an excuse to pull the whetting stone from his pocket and began sharpening the blade’s edge -- it was an exercise he always found relaxing. He, too, had dreamed poorly, like so many others on this ship. The taunting grimace of the twisted helmet of the Smiling Lord, a foe long vanquished, had plagued the halls of his mind during the night. Narzul’s face contorted and his vigorous whetting drew sparks from his sword at the memory. 

“Got to make sure it's sharp, no?” Sadri quipped to shake Narzul out of the concentration he had dedicated to his task, as he approached the crate the Redoran was sitting on. “It doesn't hurt to keep this sharper, though,” Sadri added as he tapped his forehead with the index finger of his metal arm. “One may find his blade failing him, but it's a much more unfortunate sight to see one failing his blade. And one much more prone to occurence, as I'm sure you can attest.” He smiled as he placed his foot on the side of the crate the Redoran was sitting on, resting his torso on the now raised knee. “I hope you don't mind my constant quipping, Serjo Venim; you see how close this line of work keeps people to meaningless deaths. It is a way to relieve the tension of such stakes, I’d like to believe. Plus, having saved your life for the... second time now, I'd like to think I have the privilege.” From his voice, one could easily tell that he liked rubbing in that Narzul was not as infallible as one would have thought, yet, it was certainly not antagonistic.

Sadri grinned as he stopped speaking for a moment to gather his thoughts. “But I digress. I'm glad to see you two out of that scrape alive and mostly well. How fares it with you and your sister?” He asked, with a much more mundane tone, suited for a less banter-oriented conversation.

“And I see that you, master Beleth, have found the time to add another disfiguration to your appearance,” Narzul retorted and pointed at the contusion that was still visible on the side of the older Dunmer’s head. He paused, blinked, and immediately regretted what he said. Sadri had nerve, but he was Narzul’s elder and as much as he hated it, his words were true. Narzul had failed his blade when he hesitated in his duel with the Armiger down in the ravine and then again when he lost his temper during the bizarre, insane duels the Armiger captain had them perform. Both times Sadri had been there to pull him to safety. Narzul looked down at his sword. He opened his mouth to speak; to say ‘thank you’, to admit that Sadri was right, to apologise -- but his lips refused to form the words. 

He settled for answering Sadri’s question. “Better. I think being injured in combat made it easier for her to forgive me. She has been… very kind to me, these past few days,” Narzul said, the brief pause halfway through his response caused by the incident with Wylendriel. Niernen had not been very happy about that. He looked up to meet Sadri’s eyes again when he was finished. The Redoran didn’t know why the mercenary had such an easy time getting him to open up, or (apparently) to goad him into childish banter even after being humiliated because of his barbed tongue just a few hours ago, and that frustrated him. “Why do you ask?” he added, though it was obvious from his tone that he had wanted to say ‘why do you care?’.

Sadri grinned like a hunter with his prey in his sights upon hearing Narzul's response - the fact that he had managed to get the normally uptight nobleman stoop down to his level for a response was certainly satisfying, plus, he knew that he could read this as a sign of growing camaraderie as well, with the two exchanging words in a closer 'frequency'. While he noticed how Narzul's expression bundled into quiet introspection, Sadri decided not to prod further just yet, instead keeping to his 'mostly bothersome, barely tolerable, totally indispensable' act. But, from the way he looked at Sadri, it seemed that the Redoran himself was not in the mood to stick to the charade. Sadri could not help but feel sad for the poor bastard. In a way, he was no more than a petulant child, frustrated with the fact that the world did not work the way he wanted it to. Yet nonetheless, the Redoran was still lacking in emotional eloquence, and did not seem very cooperative with all that was going on around him, obviously flaws that could be fatal for any involved, in circumstances such as these. He could help him learn, Sadri thought - he just wouldn't pull any punches.

“It is certainly a mystery that a fellow of wits as sharp as yours cannot seem to understand concepts as base as empathy, Serjo Venim,” Sadri replied. “Perhaps it is a phenomenon experienced solely by us lowborn.” Scratching his chin, he rubbed a finger over his receding tooth gums before continuing.

“Although I could not help but notice the lack of the usual confidence in your tone as you replied; perhaps you noble folk merely stick to hiding it, for all the good it does you. We're comrades, whether we like it or not. It is only normal that I'd be concerned with one another's worries. As they say, no man is an island entire of itself.”

Narzul did not reply immediately. Where he had been idly fidgeting with his sword before, and the occasional scrape of the whetstone punctuated their conversation, he now stopped moving entirely. His eyes were fixed on Sadri’s face, drinking in the older mer’s expression, listening attentively to what he had to say. He blinked once, and then twice, but still did not move. The birds cried overhead and the bustle of the city at the height of midday rumbled in the distance.

For a brief second, he was reminded of his father; how the old elf would tower over him, talking and gesturing. Narzul did not remember the words, but he remembered the sentiment. How it was to be admonished. 

The silence between them stretched on for several long, long seconds before Narzul spoke again. “You [i]are[/i] lowborn,” he said, his voice heavy with restraint. “It has defined who you are and what you do. So uncouth, master Beleth, is your barbed tongue, and so unrefined your manners that you do not know just how misplaced your words are.” The tendons on the back of Narzul’s hand betrayed the strength of his grip on the hilt of his sword. The Redoran took a sharp breath and continued. “However… capable you are, we are only comrades through happenstance and misfortune. If it were not for my sister, we would not be having this conversation. Do not mistake me for an equal,” he said, his voice dropping lower, his stony-faced expression unrelenting. “One bad day does not bridge that gap.” 

Narzul knew that Sadri was aware of his achievements in Black Marsh, and resisted the urge to bring up his victories and rub them in Sadri’s misshapen face. He did not need to stoop that low. Nor did he truly want to foster bad blood between them, so yet again his mouth opened to say something… sympathetic, or agreeable, but his pride wouldn’t let him. Instead, he remained silent, his jaw working and his fingers squeezing so hard it hurt. 

“Oh, fret not, Serjo Venim,” Sadri replied from behind a venomous smirk after a moment of pause. “Merely your [i]merit[/i] in combat alone has proven to me over and over that we indeed are not equals.” As he spoke these words, Sadri's smirk drooped down to a less pronounced shape, just as how a blade would become harder to see as its edge came cutting down towards its target. “It is certainly a joy to see that your psyche is not as easily wounded as your flesh, though, coming from the way you provide your usual compliments; I don't know if bearing your emotional burden would be as tolerable as bearing your highship's bleeding body. I should say that, however, despite ample evidence that we would never be equals, I cannot help but witness some potential in you possibly becoming more... welcoming towards the concerns and thoughts of the great unwashed. Surely such a capability would be of tremendous help to you, a [i]proud[/i] and [i]dignified[/i] member of House Redoran, whether in your future duties as administrator or current duty as warrior.”

He smiled. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

“No,” came the immediate response, blunt and decisive -- or so Narzul liked to think. Truth be told, it was petulant, born from the overwhelmingly frustrating idea that if Narzul had simply been surrounded by Redoran warriors instead, his own people who knew their place (and, more importantly, [i]Narzul’s[/i] place), and that if he had a proper suit of armor instead of the low-quality disguise he had stuffed into his chest with disgust, Bleakrock Isle would have been a completely different story. The Armiger’s spear would have glanced off an ebony cuirass and left him unharmed instead of gouging a deep wound into his abdomen. More importantly, nobody would have forced him to be at the vanguard of the party, crossing unstable bridges with mercenaries that looked like they should be dead four times over. He had been a [i]general,[/i] for crying out loud, but Dumhuvud had reduced him to a ‘tin can’ without a second thought. 

He could see from the look on Sadri’s broken face that the older Dunmer knew all that and was guiding him towards the obvious truth; he was [i]not[/i] surrounded by his Redoran allies. Narzul was going to have to learn to make due with what he got and to accept his current place in life. Ashav had made it perfectly clear when Narzul went to properly sign up with the Company that he was just another soldier now, a member of the infantry, and no more. But Narzul’s innate reluctance to accept this was exacerbated by Sadri’s inflammatory tone and extremely disrespectful sarcasm. At the same time, Narzul realised that the only reason he was even listening to Sadri was because the latter wasn’t sugarcoating his words. Niernen had already told him the same things, but he didn’t listen to her. And so it dawned on Narzul why Sadri was so successful at prying open Narzul’s facade; his candidness. Nobody he cared about had dared to be so blunt with him since his time at the garrison as an ordinary guardsman, twenty years ago.  

“Perhaps,” Narzul said eventually. His body language softened as he laid the ebony sword across his lap and he glanced away, avoiding Sadri’s face -- he did not need to see the look of triumph that would undoubtedly flit across it. “There’s an old saying that goes as follows: ‘One must row with the oars he has.’ I suppose it’s true,” he added and stared out over the sea. 

The smug smirk on Sadri's face was wiped clean and replaced with an enthused and elated smile upon witnessing Narzul cave. “There, there, now we're making progress, aren't we?” He asked, deciding to hop on the crate Narzul was sitting on, and sit on one above it, as to come across as less confrontational, but still keep the 'higher ground'. Leaning down to his knee, Sadri came somewhat close to Narzul's ear, but finding the lack of physical distance awkward, he turned his head the other way. “You've fought in formation before, no doubt, Serjo; surely you know that not acting cohesively in, say, a shield wall, it creates an opening in it that is prone to get exploited. You would say your training would keep you safe, provide you with privileges withheld from others; that may be so, but then, even if you weren't torn down, the foes would push your comrades back through the gap you created, and that would leave you surrounded.”

Looking back to the sea that extended all the way into the horizon beyond, Sadri appreciated the dread he felt from finding himself, and other lives, so small and insignificant in face of such absolute and unchanging things.

“What you said is correct. One must row with the oars he has. Yet one must also remember that he himself is an oar in the larger scale, and often an oar that is off balance with the rest finds itself whittled down to a more suitable size and shape, if not outright discarded. It is not the material of the tool that matters here, but the intent of the owner who wishes to use it.”

He sighed. He didn't know why he even bothered, but yet there was something that forced him to try and help.  

“Your sister is a nice girl. And she's troubled, like most of us here, no doubt because of the circumstances. You should try and approach her less as Serjo Venim of House Redoran, but as her brother. Both of you are far away from any Redoran settlement worth a damn. Your adherence to noble etiquette may prove more a burden than a privilege in such a situation.”

Narzul gritted his teeth and shook his head. “Your advice is practical, but there is more at stake here than just survival. You say my sister is a ‘nice girl’ -- I think she’s a fool. We talked about this before. I don’t agree with [i]anything[/i] she has done after leaving Blacklight. I didn’t even agree with her leaving in the first place. The situation has… escalated, and without the means to persuade my sister to leave there is damnably little I can do about it. Perhaps I’ve come too late and there is no way back for her. Or for me, after Bleakrock Isle.” He paused and ran a hand through his hair. The very thought made him feel sick. 

“But despite all of that, what really separates my sister and I from the ‘great unwashed’, as you put it, if we abandon all of our principles when faced with hardship? I don’t suppose this is the case for someone such as yourself, but [i]my[/i] ancestors are watching. I can’t imagine Bolvyn Venim, Archmaster of House Redoran, who died fighting the outlander that would become the Nerevarine, would be impressed by me setting aside my station and my heritage to… become an oar, in a manner of speaking. You are asking me to admit defeat, and not just my own, but the defeat of my entire bloodline -- that the dynasty ends here as I become one of you.” 

By the time Narzul was nearing the end of his rant the sound of desperation was evident in his voice. He glanced up at Sadri and for the first time since the two elves had met there was an empathic look in his eyes, trying to get his point across. “We do not share similar struggles, you and I. Do you understand?” 

“Last I heard, 'blood' was not a principle, Serjo Venim,” Sadri replied. “It is true that our struggles are not the same, and it is indeed true that I do not carry the weight of my ancestors' expectations upon my shoulders.” Sadri rubbed his mouth, swiping his recently grown mustache to the sides of his lips. “But that is not to say that I am not a man of principle. One should not stay stalwart in face of hardship for the sake of his blood, or what is expected of him, I would say, but solely for himself. A man is what he makes of himself, not what he's groomed or expected to be. Would you have bowed your head and lived a laborer or kwama miner, had you been born to such a bloodline? You surely are a great warrior. But do ask yourself, how much of it comes from your blood, and how much of it comes from your heart? It is the heart that pumps the blood in your veins.”

He took a deep breath, and continued.

“I mine my principles and valor from a different lode than my blood. My passion, my will to live. What I feel is right. You are Narzul Venim, of House Redoran, yes, but how much of that name and title do you deserve, if you cannot do anything for yourself? You do not reach heaven by adherence, Narzul. You reach heaven by [i]violence.[/i]”

It would have been easy to dismiss Sadri’s message as plebeian convictions that were suitable for someone who came from nothing and had everything to gain, but Narzul was taken aback by Sadri’s last sentence. He knew the words, echoing in the memory of his childhood lessons with his family’s private tutor. Vivec, old god of the Tribunal, now revered as a saint, had written that in his Sermons. [i]”Reach heaven by violence.”[/i] Narzul had never understood the meaning of those texts before, obtuse and poetic as they were, but it was as if Sadri had cut through the bullshit in one fell swoop and explained that Sermon’s meaning to him. 

Ironically enough, if Narzul remembered properly, that particular Sermon was often interpreted as a message to the Nerevarine. An outlander who came from nothing, allegedly destined by prophecy to become the Nerevarine… but who had become so much more. If any one person Narzul knew could be said to have reached heaven by violence, it would be him. He rubbed his chin and frowned. Sadri seemed to imply that nothing Narzul had done had been done of his own volition, because it was something [i]he[/i] wanted. That felt wrong -- Narzul knew what he wanted. He always had. Or had he truly merely adopted his father’s wishes for him, and nothing more? 

Either way, Narzul looked at Sadri and saw him in a new light. This maimed cripple wasn’t just a thoughtful peasant out of his depth in his line of work, as Narzul had first assumed, nor merely a capable veteran with a penchant for being unkillable, as he had later learned. No, Sadri was very specifically and most importantly another thing: free. 

“I don’t know, master Beleth,” Narzul said at last. “You’ve made your point and I understand your philosophy, but…” He trailed off and ran his fingers up and down the spine of his ebony sword. “I am Serjo Venim of House Redoran. I [i]want[/i] to be Serjo Venim of House Redoran. Is it not possible to do [i]that[/i] for myself? Becoming who I was groomed to be?” 

Sadri was momentarily taken aback by how heavily Narzul's current indecisive and contemplative demeanor contrasted against his usual, clear cut self; while he had been trying to get him to this point, he had not expected that the effects would be this profound. But, it was only normal that the sudden absence of something one would be so accustomed to would touch deeper than something one would already accept as fleeting. After all, wasn't that why earthquakes were much more unexpected, and often much more traumatic experiences than storms at open sea, shaking one's very trust in the firm ground under one's feet?

“You could, sure,” Sadri replied nonchalantly, sounding as if he himself was unsure as to where to take the conversation. “But I don't know if Serjo Venim of House Redoran would fight to the death for his sister's sake, against those serving underneath the flag of his High King, as I have seen you fight. He would see her, rightfully, as an outlaw, a traitor to the land. For that is indeed what she is, to King and Country. I would not hold it against you if you chose to be that man instead of something else. There is comfort in familiarity and privilege. But I would have to tell you that perhaps you would not be best fit to stay amongst us, were you to decide to be Serjo Venim of House Redoran. You would be better off amongst those you were so keen on butchering on that thrice-damned isle.”

He took a moment of pause, to let the words sink in, and to catch his breath. He hadn't expected to do mentoring of this sort when he'd signed up for this line of work.

“Or you could be whoever you want to be, whether that be Narzul Venim, or anything else. What matters is this,” Sadri said, pointing to Narzul's sword. “You are what you do. Fighting for what [i]you[/i] believe in, and not what someone else does, does not make you any less a man of integrity.”

Sadri’s harsh words about the nature of his sister had almost caused Narzul to interrupt him with vehement protest, but he kept his mouth shut -- Sadri was right. Niernen was all of those things to the country he had always professed his loyalty to. And he had hesitated, back in Morrowind, when he saw her name on the list of traitors. It had been his father that practically yelled him out of the house and onto the road. The same father that had drilled the Redoran code of honor into him for as long as he could remember. Even when he defied his High King, it was because of a choice he had not made himself. 

“It was never my plan to stay among you for very long,” Narzul said. “I’m still only here to bring my sister home, and then to find a way to obtain clemency from the High King.” His voice had regained its confidence and resolution. It was evident the moment had passed; Narzul was Serjo Venim once more. He got up from the crate, satisfied with the state of his weapon, and returned it to its scabbard. “That’s what I believe in; to protect my family without abandoning my country.” 

“Very well then,” Sadri replied, his tone content albeit formal. “I can only respect a man who decides to become part of a larger structure, if he claims it is done out of his own free will. I pray you do not find cause to regret it.”

Narzul looked Sadri in the eye one more time and nodded -- however stiff, it was a sign of respect -- before turning around and walking back the way he came.