Behind the Mask of Time

ack before the Dwemer were gone, and before the Houses waged war, my father's father was young. He would always tell stories to my father, about his service with Indoril Nerevar, and his old tricks for the battle field. I was a little one myself, you know. And my father passed those stories down to me, before he died,” an elder Bosmer said, sitting on a small tree stump that was being taken over by tall brown weeds, his long white beard touching his torso. He held a very long, white staff in his right hand. His faded orange cloth robe was torn and stained from ash storms and moist caverns.

A group of small Bosmer children sat on the ground in front of him, their black pupils fixed upon his face, their imaginations soaking in every word he spoke and drawing the stage out in their minds.

"Who are the Dwemer, almeir?" One of them asked, his wild brown hair drooping down in front of his eyes.

"Ah, well now, they are sharp, just like us, but they had Magicks far greater than any Mer had, and they lived far up in the hills of the land of Morrowind in their towers of steel and bronze." The elder replied, swimming into the back of his memory, remembering the times of peace when he was young.

"Wow..." the children gasped, their eyes wide.

"Yes, now let your almeir continue children. Let me see now...ah yes..." The elder took in a large whiff of the forest air, the sun shining just behind the tall oak trees, the butterflies dancing in the monotonous breeze, the tall golden sea of overgrown grass swaying with waves. It was the perfect setting for the story.

"Well I was a child once too, and when I was all of your age, I would go out to the spiral squash fields right by my house, just outside of the town's wooden fence, and I would meet up with my two friends, Azul and Lapiris. Oh my, we would have so much fun running through the rows of squash, digging trenches and crawling through them, and we even had our own wooden swords we made. I remember that day..." The elder closed his eyes and tightened his grip around his long ivory staff.

White vines grew from the bottom up to the neck of the staff, smooth and ravenous, small white leaves sprouting from the numerous entangling vines. At the head of the staff was a spiral sphere, and encaged within it was a black rod that ran horizontally through it. The streaks of sun that filtered through the tops of the trees reflected ten fold off of it.

"That day, it was hotter than a flame atronach's belly. All the children in the town wanted to stay inside and drink Comberry juice or sleep, but not me and Azul and Lapiris. Hah, oh dear Dremora, no. We were out there, in the spiral squash fields, like always. Right east of the fields was a small stream, and north of the stream was a thicket with small pine saplings and bushes. And my, the berries those bushes produced during the spring were delicious!" He continued.

"Tell us more, almeir!" one of the small female Bosmer squeaked, her curly blonde hair bouncing off her shoulders.

The golden grass had a streak of brown going though it now as the sun was setting. The miniature Nymphs and Sprites that hovered through the air doing somersaults and back flips were now retreating into their hollows in the tall oaken trees and to their homes underneath the pebbles that lay by the streams.

"Of course I will, little ones." He smiled and continued. "Well, we decided to venture off to the thicket and told tales of the Incarnate while we walked up the stream. The fish were jumping well enough for how hot it was, that's for sure. By the time we reached the thicket, my Alt skin drapes were soaked in sweat, so I took off my shirt and threw it, just joking around. Luck has it that the shirt fell right on top of an old tree stump that was falling apart. Then, the idea hit me; we should all make swords out of the timber. So, we took off chunks of the stump and lugged them back toward my home in the middle of town and my uncle helped us sand the wood down and make fine toy swords for us all."

"The Incarnate?!?!" All of the children perked up at the same time.

"Did you know the Incarnate, almeir?" a smaller boy with a scar on the left side of his face asked.

"Hah, oh no, you see, the Incarnate was still just a legend back then. But we thought about him, and about how wonderful it would be to even catch a glimpse of him. And so, we all took our swords out to the spiral squash fields a few days later and had our own epic battle that would help save the world and rid it of evil."

"Who was the leader of the battle, almeir?" one of the children in the back piped up.

"Ah, well I was. I was the Incarnate and Azul was my counselor, Vivec, and Lapiris was my trusted mage, Jorrgan. We had much fun, fighting off the illusive Imperials and the make-believe Argonian spearmen. You children should heed your almeir's words when I say that the imagination is the most powerful weapon to practice with when you're a young one, and before the burden of the world doesn't take that part of your mind over."

"You were the Incarnate?" "I will always use my imagination!" "You're the best storyteller EVER!" "Wow, I wanna be the Incarnate!" All of the voices of the young ones shot out and giggles erupted into the now opal orange and fervent purple sky.

The last of the blackbirds were flying low to the ground to get to their nests for the night and the faint chorus of crickets began as the moons and stars began to show their faces, and all the children ran from the woods back to their homes to dream of wondrous battles and mythical foes. The elder Bosmer chuckled to himself as he watched the youths fade off behind the trees and mist of the forest. He heaved himself up with his staff with a slight groan and looked to the night sky, all of the stars that withheld the beating that time gives everything, holding secrets of the land and preserving tales of those wondrous battles and mythical foes.

The elder breathed in deeply again and smiled.

"Yes," he whispered to himself as he slowly began journeying back to his own home, "imagination can become reality..."

The elder glanced at his callused and wrinkled right hand where a small silver ring with a moon and star insignia fashioned atop the thin band. His long grey beard seemed to illuminate and pulse a silver color as the sun peaked down behind the horizon and he headed back to the town.

Author's Note: The word "almeir" is a Bosmer traditional word for "Grandfather who isn't related to us." Or in other words, one who is highly respected.