The Faithful

Fovila Llathram drank longingly from her cup, and set it on the windowsill. Gazing at the beautiful meadow outside, she felt only the merest shadow of the happiness it used to bring. Without her husband Tenivyn by her side, everything seemed a sad, pale reflection of itself. She sighed, drumming her dark fingers against the sill. Soon, she knew. Soon. Soon he would have his leave. Soon he would come back down from the horrific Red Mountain, and they would be together again. It had been such a very, very long time. Ghostgate had always been dangerous, but of late it seemed that Buoyant Armigers were having ever greater difficulty getting leave. It seemed, to her mind, that the Mountain was growing ever more reluctant to give them up.

Fovila had had such nightmares. She dreamed that the Mountain itself was an immense evil beast, and Ghostgate was its maw. It called to the Temple feverishly, demanding Armigers and Ordinators to defend against its dark menacing shadows, to charge against it, to station themselves in its great mouth. Ghostgate existed because it could only eat so many unfortunate souls at once. Perhaps it was more like a plate than a mouth, for some would occasionally escape the blight storms long enough to visit home to spread tales of its ever increasingly warped monstrosity. She shook her head. Such dire dreams meant little, and it would be so achingly soon that her husband would return.

A tear slipped past her cheek, and splashed into her drink. Fovila hadn't even realized she'd been staring forlornly into the cup. Time seemed so unimportant when she remembered the days when her husband held her close. Perhaps if they had had children, she wouldn't have felt so alone. But soon, she wouldn't be alone. When she saw him again, she knew those many, many lonely months would fade from her mind. If only for the few stolen moments Tenivyn's leave lasted.

A wan smile had crept upon her face when she was jarred out of remembrance by a knock at her door. She thought her heart would leap out of her chest when she put a shaking hand around the knob and turned it. She thought she would surely faint when she saw the object of her affection filling the outline of the doorway. She thought the tightness of her hugging would shatter his light Chitin armor. None of those happened, and her heart was awash with joy. She knew Dunmer were supposed to be above such displays of emotion, but being face-to-face with Tenivyn, that was a distant concern, something for someone else far away to worry about.

That someone else, it turned out, was not so far away. Tenivyn placed a hand on her shoulder and said heavily "Love, it is not that I do not appreciate your affection. But I have traveled far, and before that, I saw much conflict, and before that, I had to scale the faces of mountains. Though I long to hold you as you hold me, it is all I can do to hold my stance, such is my exhaustion."

Saddened, but understanding, Fovila put one of his arms around her neck, and half carried, half dragged Tenivyn to bed. He collapsed with a word of thanks, and promptly passed out inside his armor. Heart soaring, Fovila laughed lightly and began to remove his armor. Her intentions were more practical than amorous; most armors were not kind to sheets, and besides that were not comfortable to spend the night in.

Once done, she climbed into bed next to him. Placing a smooth hand on his rough cheek and gazing gratefully into his worn but handsome face, Fovila sighed happily. He was tired, and grimy, and sweaty, but he was home at last. She was too excited to sleep, but just feeling the warmth of his body again would be enough for tonight. There would be time enough to talk tomorrow.

As the sun proclaimed a new day had dawned, Fovila's eyes fluttered open. How she had fallen into a slumber, she wasn't sure. Looking across at Tenivyn, she smiled again; he was still sleeping very soundly indeed. She reached over and ran a hand through his dark hair. Still in the grip of slumber, he raised his hand to meet hers. Again, Fovila thought her heart would burst with the love she felt. Then, as their hands met, Tenivyn mumbled "Aren", and a broad, lazy smile filled his face.

Fovila was paralyzed for a moment in sheer horror. Her first reaction would have been to jerk her hand away, but in the second it took to register that the name was not her own, his hand had fallen back to the bed. She curled herself up in a ball, and stared at him in wounded incomprehension. Tears grew fat in her eyes, and rolled down her ashen cheeks. To wait so very long. . . and hear him call another's name. . . Did he not say he loved her before he dropped into unconsciousness the night before? Did those words hold any meaning for him?

Frowning deeply, Fovila shook her head violently. No. She loved her husband. She trusted him. There must be some other explanation, surely. Nodding, she felt ashamed that she had so doubted his faithfulness. It couldn't be what it seemed like. There had to be another reason. But the name "Aren" echoed with a sort of hollow hatefulness in her head as Fovila prepared breakfast.

As the day wore on, she thought less and less of Aren. Tenivyn's stories of the horror that lurked behind the ghostfence did much to replace her nagging suspicion with anxiety. Anxiety not just for her brave husband, but for all of Morrowind, and even for the rest of Tamriel, though such places seemed infinitely distant. For he warned that the blight was spreading where it hadn't reached before, and things were becoming even worse and more terrible in the places it had already left its tainted touch. But even though he bore dire warnings of a bleak future, Fovila was glad to hear his voice once more. She pushed the dark thoughts he'd shared with her to the back of her mind, and tried to bask in the radiance of Tenivyn's presence.

When they had a moment alone, Fovila asked him a question that had been on her lips since the night before: "Tenivyn, my handsome, brave husband, do you still love me?"

He seemed appropriately taken aback by it, and his response eased her troubled thoughts: "Of course I do, love. Though my duty takes me far from you, my heart always stays with yours."

The remainder of his leave was as happy a time as she'd hoped, but ever in the back of her mind, "Aren" begged for further attention. It was a constant dull spiteful presence. Try as she might, she could not shake it; indeed, the more she ignored it, the more it seemed she COULD NOT ignore it.

And so when the merry days of Tenivyn's all too short leave drew to a close, Fovila resolved to put the thought to rest. When Tenivyn left in the morning next, she would follow him all the way to Ghostgate if necessary. She had to know for sure. Surely, he was a faithful and noble husband, and she was just being a silly, jealous wife.

As the sun rose, and Tenivyn departed with sorrowful words, Fovila waited for the brave Armiger to become a distant speck on the horizon before beginning her pursuit. Gripping a worn shortsword tightly, she battled back her fear of Kagouti and Alit, and other wild beasts. If there were any to be encountered, she hoped, they would be dispatched by her able husband first. It would be a long walk from her hometown to Ghostgate, but her determination would see her through.

Days wore on, and Fovila became worried that she could not match her husband's pace. Such trouble had eluded her thus far, because though Tenivyn was of greater strength, he was also weighed down by his armor and weapons. Her fear was that she did not have the endurance for such a trip, that she could match his pace only for a short while. As her exhaustion and fear rose, she stared at the ground as she marched. What had she gotten herself into? Would her pettiness cause her death? But when her gaze dropped, she was relieved to see mounds of ash. Never had she thought to be grateful for the stuff, but in the ash she could see marks from her husband's boots. As long as there were no storms, she could relax her pace.

As the ash on the ground grew thicker, Fovila knew Ghostgate was drawing ever closer. Tenivyn had stopped at a number of towns, but she had seen nothing suspicious; he had only purchased a bed for the night, to continue refreshed in the morning. Other Armigers thought him daft for making much of the journey on foot, she knew. One day, he had explained to her that seeing more of the land he fought so hard to protect made him that much more determined to contain the evil that spread from the Mountain.

Walking, she thought of who Aren could be. With no towns left between Fovila and Ghostgate, it was doubtful the woman was a simple commoner. She might be a pilgrim, who had happened through the fence to make the journey to the Shrine of Pride. Or maybe she was an Armiger herself, though Fovila had never heard of a female Armiger. Perhaps she worked for the Temple in a less militaristic role, as a priestess. . . As the possibilities tumbled through her head, Fovila came to a troubling conclusion: Whoever Aren was, she was likely stronger than herself, so a confrontation would be unwise.

Drawing her cloak tightly against herself to keep from being recognized, she finally entered Ghostgate a few minutes behind her husband. She cast about looking for him, pretending to be a pilgrim. When she caught sight of him again, he was renting another room. Odd, thought Fovila; from what she remembered of the place, Armigers and Ordinators had their own beds. But then a woman followed Tenivyn into the room, and the door closed behind them. Fovila was too shocked to be furious, but only for a second. "He does have a bed in the barracks" she whispered bitterly, "He just wanted something more private for sera Aren."

Angered beyond words, Fovila knew she could do nothing to punish either yet. Time would be needed to think of something appropriate, something that would fill them with shame, fill them with a hurt equal to the hurt Fovila now felt.


Upon returning home again, she sat and stewed in miserable spitefulness. She loved Tenivyn still, but his betrayal could not be ignored. Instead of tending the house, she plotted of ways to inflict deep, dire agonies on her cheating husband. Imagining and discarding scenario after scenario was a comfort all its own, if only a small one.

As the days passed, Fovila needed to leave the house in order to purchase foodstuffs. While listening to the idle chatter of her fellow townsfolk (which now seemed ridiculously petty and meaningless), she heard a rumor that a necromancer had established himself in a cave to the west of town. One last plot drew itself in Fovila's mind, and a nasty smile came across her lips.

Later that week, Fovila ventured west with the old worn shortsword once again in hand. She felt some small surprise that she didn't need the blade; it almost seemed the wild beasts were purposefully avoiding her. Perhaps they sensed her dark ire and thought better of attacking. Nonetheless, a necromancer and his servants would surely be a different matter.

After searching a large area, Fovila satisfied herself that she had found the entrance of the proper cave. Placing a hand on its rough wooden door, she laughed cruelly. In there, she thought, lies my teacher, though he doesn't know it yet. Fovila clambered up the small hill the door was built into, and waited; she did not want to deal with the necromancer's servants, and surely even a master of profane magicks needed to eat sometime.

Hours went by. Hours became a day. Nibbling at the rat meat she'd bought earlier, she waited. A day became two. Two, three. Her eyelids were heavy when she heard the slow creaking of the cavern door opening. Immediately, she was fully awake, no hint of drowsiness.

"You there," the necromancer froze, as if expecting to be attacked, "Necromancer. You are going to teach me something." Reaching into her pocket, she threw a handful of gold down on the fellow. He flinched at the jingling, not knowing what to make of it. When the surprise wore off, he responded with rather more confidence.

"Why would I help you? You are alone. It would be a simple matter for me to kill you, and take your gold, if that is all you offer."

Fovila had expected as much, and so had thought of another approach. "The Temple persecutes you for your craft. I would use your knowledge to punish one who serves them, a Buoyant Armiger." The dark robed necromancer took a moment to mull it over.

"This is a strange thing you want" he rubbed his chin, "But it is interesting. Come here again in a fortnight. You will find an amulet under this rock --" he pointed "Wear it before you enter, and my servants will leave you be. Bring 500 drakes with you, and I will consider your request." After a word of farewell, he stalked away.

As the days passed, and the sun rose and fell and rose again, Fovila waited with barely restrained anticipation. Either the necromancer would teach her what she needed to complete her plan, or he would slay her. Should things go poorly and result in her demise, she reckoned that in itself a punishment fit for Tenivyn assuming he loved her as he said he did.

When the appointed day came, Fovila again found the cave, and donned the amulet as she'd been instructed. The door to the cave creaked lightly as she entered, and as she closed it behind herself. Looking about, she saw that the cave was lit by candles sitting atop skulls in various stages of decay. Were her anger or determination not as deep, it might have intimidated her. As she rounded a corner and almost tripped over an animated skeleton, she only felt the barest echo of the fright that would have leapt through her just weeks before. The skeleton gave her a cursory glance with its eyeless head, then proceeded to ignore her completely. It seemed the necromancer had been honest about the amulet.

After exploring at length, she entered a large room in which the necromancer waited. He was sitting at a desk, reading a book by candlelight. Gesturing toward a chair that sat opposite his desk, he read on for a few moments, then closed the book. Placing a hand on the book, he turned it so its spine faced away from her, as if she had an interest in his reading material.

"So," he drew himself up from the chair and began pacing around the room, "You have more courage than I would have guessed. I trust my guards were not too rude?"

"Not at all." Fovila answered.

"Indeed. They are much more well mannered than the guards the House people employ. Those disagreeable fellows are always trying to kill me. It's impolite. Our Imperial benefactors have a much more enlightened attitude about my work. But you didn't come for a discourse on civilized behaviour. At any rate, I would like to apologize for my rude comments on the day we met. In my line of work, you understand, one can unfortunately become quite hostile to strange people, as most of them come bearing weapons." Fovila suspected the promise of 500 drakes had more to do with the necromancer's change in attitude, but she wasn't going to press the matter. "So, before I bore you further with my rambling, let me touch on the subject that you were actually interested in. Now: What was the subject you were interested in?" The odd repetitious turn of phrase caught Fovila off-guard.

"I -- I want you to teach me a spell. It's not the. . . the sort of thing I could ask just anyone. People would ask questions, if I could even find someone to teach it at all."

The necromancer smiled indulgently, "I know a lot of spells my superstitious kinfolk find objectionable. If you could be more specific. . . ?"

"I need to know how to make one more susceptible to Corprus."

Laughing, the necromancer exclaimed, "My, you aren't a person to upset! Though I see how that would certainly be of use against an Armiger, assuming you could cast it without drawing notice. I might have tried something like that myself, but alas, I'm afraid the guards would recognize me. . ." Fovila said nothing. "Erm. Those 500 drakes will be sufficient payment. Now, let us discuss the nature of the spell. . ."


The following morning, Fovila set out once more for Ghostgate. Since she was not watching her husband's every move, this time the trip would be much shorter; now she would be able to use silt striders, and guild guides, and boats where necessary. And she could also pack lighter, because her journey would be one-way this time. Nothing in her backpack would weigh as heavily upon her as did her heart. But she knew what she had to do, what she had planned to do, what she had trained to do.

Travel was a blur to Fovila, so deep was she within her thoughts of vengeance. Neither the odd tree (still something uncommon in Morrowind) nor the repellent swamps could draw her attention. Beautiful meadows - not unlike the one she used to gaze out at lovingly at home - passed by without a glance. None of it mattered anymore, with Tenivyn's betrayal. Only one thing mattered now.

She arrived in Ald'ruhn without a drake left in her pockets, but had no concern. For her, money had no more use. Stepping down off the silt strider, she looked to the east where the Tribunal Temple was built. A cruel crooked smile lived and died quickly on her face. Sure enough, a group of pilgrims were gathered there, preparing to make the hazardous journey to the Shrine of Pride just beyond the walls of the ghostfence. Pilgrims would travel in groups like this so that, even if an Ash Ghoul or some other twisted minion of Dagoth Ur waited, surely some would survive to make the pilgrimage and escape with their lives. Fovila removed a white cloak from her backpack and donned it, shaking her head. They might want to flee Red Mountain with their lives, but Fovila had no such intentions.

When finally the group made its way out of Ald'ruhn, Fovila struggled to keep their slow, shuffling pace. She wanted to break into a sprint, the sooner to see Tenivyn's pain. But she held her dark desires in check. Still, she cursed every Kagouti and Alit and Cliff Racer that held up the pilgrims until the beasts were slaughtered.

Ghostgate loomed somberly before them shortly, and there was a hush among the group. For most of them, this was a first. Then the portcullis was raised, and Fovila knew nothing stood in the way of her plan anymore. As the last of the pilgrims cautiously ventured into the wrong side of the ghostfence, Fovila let out a triumphant laugh so harsh that most of them flinched.

"Tell the Armigers, none shall make the pilgrimage until I am dead!" Fovila called out behind her as she ran up the slopes of the foreboding Red Mountain. She did not look behind her to see what the pilgrims would do. She knew already. They would fetch Armigers and Ordinators, and follow them to the Shrine; the pathetic, soft Dunmer would use the excuse to get an armed escort to the Shrine. But the soldiers would find nothing. Not for weeks.

"Weak." she spat at her race, running ever deeper into hostile territory. Her eyes surveyed the area quickly. She would need to find what she sought shortly, or be killed by any number of beasts.

There. Just behind a rock, she could easily make it out. Casting the Weakness to Corprus Disease spell taught to her on herself, she dashed to it, and leapt upon the Lame Corprus. She clawed wildly at it, bit into its corrupted flesh, and let its tainted blood trickle down her throat. The man-shaped thing threw her off amid howls of pain, but she kept attacking. It opened up cuts on her soft ashen skin, but still she would not relent. Its blood mingled with hers as she lopped its head off with her shortsword.

She would not let herself feel the agony that wracked her injured body. There was no time for that. Maybe she was infected already, but she did not know. Taking the shortsword, she split the dead monster open, her nose wrinkling at its foulness. That done, she threw the sword to the ground, and crawled inside the thing, casting the spell once again for good measure.

Tenivyn looked perplexedly at the pilgrims. "But she did not run off in the direction of the Shrine?" As they shook their heads almost as one, he frowned. "Either she must be mad herself, or driven mad by the callings from the mountain, or she must be a necromancer, and went wandering off to secure followers. I can think of no other reason." He scratched absently at his stubble. "Nevertheless, we could let none of those situations go without some sort of investigation."

And so Tenivyn gathered four other Armigers, and they walked haltingly to the Shrine of Pride with the pilgrims. Nothing was found of the madwoman, and not even so much as a blighted rat lurked on the path to the Shrine. Had she gone this way, she would have been unimpeded, but Tenivyn supposed that such things made little difference to the mad. After a cursory search, all retreated back to Ghostgate.

As the weeks went by, Tenivyn wondered what had happened to the woman. Had she been transformed into one of those terrible ash creatures? Was she practicing obscene magicks in some obscure cave? Or was she beset by mindless beasts, and now lay dying on the nightmarish mountain? Though he had ventured out on a few raids since, he had seen nothing resembling the Dunmer woman described to him. True, they had slain a handful of women of the group that called themselves "sleepers", but none bore the telltale white cloak.

Then it started happening, just as the mysterious woman had warned. At first, one or two pilgrims passed through the portcullis and simply never came back out. After that, a group of pilgrims went in, and three returned. Staring out of haunted eyes, they told of a horrific corprus-infected thing rending their fellows limb from limb. Its disgusting sores were covered by a frightfully stained cloth, which some asserted still had patches of white here and there.

Tenivyn knew what he had to do, though the why of the woman's actions eluded him. Once more, he gathered a party of his fellow Armigers, and set out for the Shrine. The scene that welcomed them nearly caused his stomach to turn: The surviving pilgrims had not been exaggerating when they said their fellows had been rent limb from limb. Amid the carnage stood a lone figure resembling a female Corprus Stalker. She was still holding an arm she had torn off one of the unfortunates. The cloak she wore was awash in blood and ash and things less pleasant besides, but it did indeed have flecks of white hidden among the gore.

The Armigers circled the beast, and drew their weapons. Behind the hood of the cloak, Tenivyn could see something stir in her sick, malevolent eyes.

"Tenivyyyyn." she called from her raw throat. "Tenivyyyyn."

His fellow Armigers paused, taken aback. Tenivyn recognized the voice, even as broken and ruined as it was. Tears streaking his face, he motioned the others to sheathe their weapons. He did not sheathe his own as he strode up to what he knew had been his wife Fovila.

"Oh my love, what has happened to you!" he cried.

"Uh. . . ren. Steal. . . you." she shuffled toward him. He looked at her in incomprehension, but she didn't seem to notice. "Love. . . me?" she asked, her corrupted flesh oozing and drooping as she spoke.

"Of course I love you!" Tenivyn thought for a moment that he could subdue Fovila, and take her to the wizard at Tel Fyr, that he would cure her, and everything would be all right. But he knew that to be fantasy. Fovila might as well be dead already, and if she were dead. . .

"Make you. . . kill me. Feel hurt. . . like me." she said, shuffling ever closer.

"Oh, Fovila!" Tenivyn threw his arms around his wife, "Whatever my crime, I am sorry! I will love you forever!" He kissed her corprus-marred face. And still holding her, he plunged his blade through her back, through her heart, and into his own. Together, they collapsed and died.


[Editor's note: While researching this legend, I have come across something interesting. It seems that Tenivyn did not actually ever sleep with someone other than his wife. While raiding strongholds on Red Mountain, the healer in the raiding party was slain, and Tenivyn became infected with some mind-altering blight disease. It took the group some weeks to retreat back to Ghostgate, and by that time his infection had become difficult to cure. Aren was the temple priestess who treated him through his fever dreams and violent episodes. Supposedly, when Tenivyn called her name in his sleep, it was merely an echo of her calming influence on his nightmarish slumber.

As for his renting a room upon his arrival in Ghostgate, the woman with him at the time was indeed Aren. It seems that Tenivyn had twisted his ankle at some point during his journey back to Ghostgate, and requested that she heal it; the payment was for the healing, not the room. This explanation makes it easier to believe Fovila had so little trouble following him most of the way on foot (they both still used ship to get to Vvardenfell, of course).]