…Sure, it was a little unpleasant knowing I depended on someone else’s will, but…
Our interests aligned.
I had no intention of serving the Daedra, tearing the world apart, or doing anything of the sort.
Whatever his quarrel with Lorkhan, Auri-El clearly didn’t want Nirn destroyed either.
Otherwise, he could have simply allowed the Oblivion Crisis to run its course, and Tamriel would’ve been completely doomed.
So…
I’d live with it.
I wasn’t arrogant or stupid enough to believe I could survive an encounter with the Daedric Princes without the protection of a higher power.
And those bastards meddled in the affairs of mortals far too often.
“Continue.” My instructor and opponent gave his sword a brief flourish before charging straight at me.
In response, I drew my own blade slightly back while sweeping my free hand forward, casting a wave of fire in front of me.
Oh, I had a feeling he was about to beat the shit out of me again… But that was fine.
Better now, during training, than later in a real battle.
❈ ❈ ❈
The Inner Sanctum
Twelve Years Later
The Council of Bishops
“So these humans have built themselves an impressive city?” one of the assembled Snow Elves remarked thoughtfully.
He was dressed in the white-and-blue robes associated with Auri-El’s winter tradition.
Had Feator been present, he would have noted that the division within Auri-El’s Temple among the Falmer and, say, the Altmer strongly resembled the split between the Orthodox and Catholic Churches.
The God was the same, but how He ought to be worshipped—that was where disagreements arose.
“Saarthal.
That’s what they call it,” another bishop said indifferently, pronouncing the foreign word with some difficulty.
“Сrude.
Unrefined…” another elf, this one with longer hair, said with a visible grimace.
“A pitiful imitation of our cities.
Much like their entire race…”
“But fortified.
And sturdy,” another bishop observed thoughtfully, scratching the scar on his chin.
“Even with magic, it would take time to breach such defenses…
Besides, we shouldn’t forget that the Northern Tower has decided to train an exceptionally gifted human from that very Saarthal.”
“The mages of the Tower are arrogant fools!” exclaimed the fifth and final bishop in the chamber.
“The fact that these humans live a laughable eighty winters doesn’t mean they won’t become a problem now—especially when our relations with the southerners have only grown worse!”
“If you have something to say, say it to the royal family, not to us, Evaris,” the first bishop replied sternly.
“The decision regarding the City of Men belongs to them.”
“Oh, I certainly will!
That is…
naturally, if you approve, Your Grace,” he added at once, visibly tempering his tone as he cast a somewhat wary glance toward the ancient elf who had lived for nearly fifteen centuries.
No one—absolutely no one—dared openly contradict the living representative of their God upon Nirn.
If the First Sword was the first of His Weapons, then the Archbishop was His Voice.
“Let us not be hasty.
As you rightly observed, Bishop Evaris, humans are short-lived.
And so they are forever in a hurry.
We need not imitate them, would you agree?” Fifitiviel said with a serene smile.
“This matter can wait, especially since the decision will most likely be made by our noble aristocracy.
The conduct of foreign policy rests in their hands.
We shall intervene only if they ask us to.
We are Auri-El’s Shield—the guardians of His faithful.
Remember that.”
The next instant, every elder elf in the chamber was struck by an overwhelming surge of power, that unmistakable energy of an Aedra, so immense that the bishops instinctively held their breath.
After all, both the Daedra and the Aedra wielded a power entirely different from the magicka that entered Nirn through Magnus’s Sun.
Though Aedric power revealed itself far more rarely than Daedric, not even the Daedric Princes would dare call it the lesser force.
“But let us not dwell on unpleasant matters.”
As suddenly as it had descended, the pressure vanished.
Before them once more sat the same seemingly fragile elf woman in her dark robes.
“How is the First Sword progressing?”
“The Kaslana family has always provided us with excellent Knight-Paladins.” Evaris curled his lips into a satisfied smile as he once again took the initiative.
Then again, to an ambitious elf who hoped to one day succeed the Archbishop—should she finally pass away within his lifetime—such behavior was only natural.
“Evaris,” one of the other bishops prompted, earning an irritated sideways glance from his colleague and rival.
“Don’t rush me, Naysilas,” Evaris snorted, conveniently choosing not to remember his own impatience only moments earlier.
After all, these were completely different situations!…
“As for his progress…
the First Sword is advancing three point seven times faster than his predecessor.
That’s excellent, but you all know…” His gaze shifted toward Fiftiviel.
“Indeed.
The greater the danger threatening us, the stronger the blessing bestowed upon one of the Temple’s foremost defenders becomes,” the Snow Elf agreed with a faint, melancholy sigh.
“But his progress in swordsmanship and magic has nothing to do with our God’s will.
Those are Feator’s own innate talents and character traits.
You see him as our weapon…
and to a certain extent, you are right.
But do not forget what qualities Auri-El seeks in those He chooses as His warriors.
Not fanaticism—far from it.
Has the example of Indrasil taught you nothing, gentlemen?” the Archbishop said with the gentle smile an adult reserves for beloved, if somewhat foolish, children.
Though none of the bishops appreciated being spoken to that way, they had long since learned to accept the wisdom of the ancient elf, who had guided the Temple of Auri-El through more than one crisis.