or Of Pain and Feverish Dreams. Grey, High Walls. Sadness and Despair. The Orphan's Trial. Onto the Diamond Snow.
There is a chapter in my life's diary that I believe shall remain forever blank—unwritten, or mayhap erased pages—until the day I die. No matter how hard I try, I cannot recall the first days—or maybe weeks—after my mother Kiersten's death. Only vague and shifting images come to me—like scenes glimpsed through misted glass that veils the truth in a merciful or, rather, a deceitful fog.
From the thick haze that shrouds those bygone days, a middle-aged woman sometimes appears; she is small of stature, her face marked by sorrow, and is silently pouring milk into a bowl on our kitchen table. I know it's ours for it's draped with the same cloth my mother once brought from Bruma—one of the few things she chose to keep; it had two deer embroidered on it—a mother and her fawn—and I used to think the little one quite adorable. I remember watching the mother doe gently nudge her baby toward the food, and I loved that scene so much! Ah, my mother, Kiersten, had even made up an entire story about them to tempt me into taking a few bites on days I turned into a little, spoiled tyrant and wouldn't touch my plate.
Then I see that woman again—weeping as she fastens a small, gray, stained pouch around my neck.
Then her hand takes mine.
I see her opening the garden gate.
And, before me, lies the narrow, damp alley where our little house once stood in the Waterfront District.
It's raining.
A light myst hovers over the face of the realm.
I remember the chill. And I remember the fright!
Fear of the children who prowled the streets, with their sharp little eyes and cruel laughter!
Overwhelmed by sorrow, I glimpse a gravestone—cold and gleaming with rain. A little blonde girl is weeping near that funerary monument. And then appears a tall, broad man, his thick black beard covering most of his face. His voice is loud and harsh, cutting through the gray twilight and the autumn rain that both drapes the cemetery like an old and damp shroud. I feel that man's hand on my shoulder— strange, it seems warm and gentle—and later, I see firelight flickering—cosy and golden in a small hearth. A pot hangs above it, and the man with the big beard stirs it with a large wooden spoon. The room is tiny. A crude bed stands in one corner, a wooden table with crooked legs in the other.
Then come the mornings. Cold mornings.
Some rainy enough to soak you to the bone.
Others clear and crisp, the sky high and sharp and blue.
And then comes pain...
Pain and fear!
A moment of terrible physical agony—blood, laughter, ragged children with hard eyes and knowing grins.
They vanish, and a strange warmth spreads through me.
Not comfort... not healing...
Just a dull torpor. A gentle numbness, like sleeping under a heavy blanket.
I dream of strange things.
My body aches—a steady, bearable, vexing pain.
I hear voices—gruff, foreign.
Calloused hands lift me up.
And I am carried in strong arms, my cheek pressed against hardened leather armor.
My first coherent memories are from my life in an orphanage near the Imperial City, by the grassy shores of Lake Rumare, not far from the fortress known to travelers as Fort Nikel. Both the orphanage and the stronghold belonged to the Order of Stendarr, and even now, the memory of these places fills me with dread—perhaps because, some years later, I would come to be imprisoned in the very dungeon of that fort, enduring a reality more horrific than any nightmare.
However, the orphanage itself, I suppose, was not deserving of such fear. It was well-organized, clean, and relatively welcoming—at least, as welcoming as a place like that could be. The staff consisted mainly of sisters of the Order, diligent women who worked hard to offer the orphans a decent life and taught us various trades. Yet, for a child like me, still shaken by a terrible shock, the orphanage was by no means the warm haven I so desperately needed.
When I was brought there by a city guard patrol, I was badly injured and very ill, near death, I imagine, because I spent a long time in the infirmary.
The sisters cared for me with genuine concern, and I recall an old, long-bearded man, dignified and severe, who came to see me often. He would lean over and pour a spoonful of some awful-tasting medicine between my lips... and then disappear until the next day. The pain was much alleviated for a time after the concoction was administered, but I still get dizzy with repulsion when I remember how disgusting that mixture tasted! And then, dull, gray days. A high, very high ceiling. White curtains. White walls. White beds. Sometimes, all of them flickered softly in the trembling light of the candle that always burned in a corner of the room. Whispering sisters, all dressed in white robes, heavy breathing and light coughing, sometimes a child's weeping and prayers... A lot of prayers!
But I never knew if they prayed for the sick... or themselves!
Eventually, I recovered and was placed among the other children.
Life at that orphanage was ruled by routine, and our days followed a strict and unchanging pattern. We had to rise very early—remaining in bed even a moment after the nun on duty opened the dormitory door was strictly forbidden, and punishable.
Then came washing, always with cold water. I still remember the icy shock running over my skin in those first days—it was winter, and the cold was a living presence in that place.
Afterward, we made our beds and cleaned the dormitory thoroughly before attending morning liturgy in the chapel.
The cult of Stendarr, or rather the rigid and militant doctrine practiced by His Order in Tamriel, held great significance in that establishment.
Under the high, echoing dome of the church, the service was always led by the same priest: a grim, battle-hardened warrior monk whose features were more fitting for an arena than a house of worship. His sermons were short and stern, painting Stendarr as a merciless god who always punished missteps with divine wrath. These orations, combined with the heavy mace he carried, made me perceive Stendarr as a harsh and unforgiving deity.
One who punishes rather than pardons,
Constrains rather than guides,
Sears rather than heals His broken, weaker subjects.
I could not love such a deity and was only frightened by Him!
But I suspect the warrior monk's sermons didn't have their intended effect on all the children. Near the back of the chapel, always in the same place, there sat a small group who seemed to enjoy themselves quite a bit, quietly enough not to draw attention, especially from the priest, who was too absorbed in his thundering orations to notice.
After the morning liturgy, we would march in close formation—heads bowed, hands clasped—to the refectory,where the first meal of the day was served. The food, though generally tasteless, was plentiful, and the sisters made visible efforts to keep it varied.
Once we had eaten, the daily activities began and lasted, almost without exception, all day long, broken only by a brief midday meal. Tasks were assigned according to age and, later on, by sex, and ranged from menial chores to specialized apprenticeships meant to simulate the trades of the wider world.
The orphanage itself was an austere and well-ordered institution, governed with methodical precision by the Sisters of Stendarr. Every sister had been carefully selected from among the Order's many ranks—not only for her devotion, but for her skill in managing children, instructing them, and, where necessary, correcting them. Discipline was both a rule and a virtue there.
The stated purpose of all our training and duties was simple: to prepare us, each in our own measure, to be useful and obedient members of the Empire's grand political machinery once we left this professional school.
For that is what this place truly was—not just an orphanage, but a kind of cloistered guild college, a vocational forge where the unwanted children of the provinces were reshaped into good servants or skilled craftsmen. It sheltered boys and girls between five and fifteen years old. After this age, all the orphans, without exception, left the institution, and their departure was always marked with a modest ceremony. I witnessed several of these rites, and each was carried out under a veil of grave decorum and, I believe, genuine goodwill. The departing children received a new set of clothes, a modest satchel of gifts, and the solemn blessing of the priest. We, the remaining, sang a hymn to Stendarr as they passed through the gate, watched by the severe gaze of that warrior monk.
Among the children, rumors stirred. Whispers spoke of the best and brightest being granted the chance to join the Order of Stendarr. Everyone dreamed of that honor. They believed, with innocent conviction, that diligence and obedience were the keys to being chosen, and so, order reigned—not through punishment, but through the quiet hope of the poor that they might rise, just a little, above their station.
But as for me... I never wanted it. Not even for a moment.
During my short time there, the idea of becoming one of the Sisters of Stendarr never took root in me, and even if it had, I wouldn't have been chosen—I was utterly unsuited to the life they led and the duties they upheld.
Their sermons—terrifying at first, just boring later—meant nothing to me. I often envied the children in the back rows, those who could still find ways to laugh and feel good in that grim and dull place.
The daily labor was either too hard or too tedious for me, and once my wounds had fully healed, the rigid routine of our lives became unbearable. The sisters quickly noticed my laziness and lack of enthusiasm, and it wasn't long before I was assigned to the laundry—a place reserved for the most unpromising, indolent, or troublesome girls in the orphanage.
The chores assigned to us were endless and exhausting, as the institution handled the laundry for many well-to-do families from the Imperial City. Pressing men's shirts or delicate women's undergarments with heavy, searing irons was both difficult and dangerous, and I was unaccustomed to such hard, sustained work. So I often broke things. Or burned them. Or simply failed to keep pace with the others — all of them older than me.
The nun in charge of the laundry grew irritated, then cold, then openly hostile. She scolded me constantly, and punishments soon followed.
Alas, there was nothing I could do to improve my lot!The heavy labor wore me down. The so-called 'lighter' tasks — the ones requiring skill or delicacy — were just as difficult for me, as I had no experience and no one cared to teach me.
And truthfully, I was lazy. And indifferent. Naturally, the sanctions grew harsher and more humiliating.
The other girls were quick to single me out as an outcast. They mocked me constantly and, worse, began sabotaging my work. Two of them even shared my dormitory, so the torment never ceased: they followed me everywhere, hurled insults, spoiled my food when no one was looking, and undid the few tasks I had managed to complete. More, at night, they disturbed my sleep with cruel pranks.
One morning, after we were all called to the morning liturgy, they sneaked back into the dormitory and ruined the bed I had carefully made. I was blamed. When I cried and tried to explain what had happened, the nun only increased my punishment.
I was in despair, weak, and tormented by a fatigue that felt more like illness than weariness because some of the harsher punishments came with less food, or none at all. My body, so small and frail and still marked by the old wounds from the attack that nearly killed me, was now bruised and battered from the numerous corporal punishments I had endured.
One day, the two girls, who by then had grown inseparable in their shared delight for tormenting me, lay in wait on the narrow path they knew I had to take. I was carrying a basket brimming with freshly washed and carefully pressed laundry when they stopped me. One of them grabbed my arms, pinning me in place, while the other tore the basket from my hands and flung its contents into the muddy puddles at the alley's edge. Laughing and shrieking with glee, they trampled the garments underfoot, grinding them into the filth.
Despair and terror seized me; I knew I would be punished hard for this. Yet alongside them, something new stirred within me. The sheer injustice of it all tore through my exhaustion and ignited a fury I had never known before, a need to strike back at those who tormented me.
Without thinking, I lunged. So ferociously that one of the girls tumbled backward and struck her head on a stone. The other froze. Though older and more powerful, she hesitated—and I attacked. I rained down blows with my small fists, tackled her when she tried to flee, yanked her hair, and clawed at her face. I might have gouged out her eyes had two passing nuns not pulled me away.
I was dragged straight before the Prioress who ran the orphanage. Sister Sescia was a tall, weathered woman, hardened in battle and scarred by war; she had once served in the Order's fighting ranks—one of the first sisters ever allowed to do so. In those days, few women were admitted to the Order's fighting ranks, and a dramatic increase in their numbers occurred only after the Great War, which thoroughly decimated the men.
Sescia's posture was martial, her eyes sharp as drawn steel. And yet beneath that soldier's bearing—I would come to realize—lived a soul both wise and generous; had I met her sooner, perhaps my time at the orphanage would have been different. Yet for me, it was already too late because that moment marked a turning point: the wild blood of my ancestors, violent and unyielding, had awakened. More still, I felt no guilt. Not even shame. On the contrary... something inside me screamed that the reckoning had only just begun—that I had paid but a small fraction of the debts etched so deep within my young soul.
Before the Prioress, I stood with quiet defiance. I answered her questions politely—just as my mother Kiersten had taught me—but I gave no details, no tears, no pleas. Cold, brief, and direct. And all the while, I met her gaze without flinching. I think... I think she was impressed. Her piercing eyes softened, and after a quite long pause, she said:
"A quarrel between children. See that it does not happen again."
And that was it. I was free to go. I returned to my duties as though nothing had happened. But everything had changed. The other girls looked at me with new eyes—eyes full of wary respect— the nun who oversaw us was more lenient, and for the first time in many weeks, I found peace.
My two tormentors were confined to the infirmary. When one of them, the one who had fled, was finally discharged and returned to work, she avoided me entirely; whenever I passed near, she shrank away, casting furtive, fearful glances over her shoulder.
Yet things were soon to change, and in the most dreadful way. The girl who had struck her head never truly recovered. Though she regained consciousness, her mind was no longer whole: she could not walk, and her speech was reduced to meaningless murmurs; she just stared blankly, unable to understand the words of those around her.
The orphanage administration soon decided she would undergo a newly developed surgical procedure—an experimental remedy of the healing arts—and following this surgery, it seemed that the girl had fully recovered. Her eyes grew bright again, and she smiled as if awakened from a long sleep. But three days later, she died... Quietly. In her sleep. The higher echelons of the Order of Stendarr were immediately informed, and a tribunal was summoned to investigate the matter—a special court, composed of magistrates and clergy, sworn to determine both cause and fault.
In the meantime, while awaiting the trial, the behavior of my colleagues towards me changed; the glances of my peers were no longer respectful or just fearful—they were often filled with hate.
One night, a couple of girls in my bedroom, no doubt instigated by my surviving enemy, attacked me while I was asleep. Even in my drowsy stupor, I defended myself with desperate fury, and the room turned into a whirlwind of fists, nails, and screams. I was so wild in the fight that eventually they retreated. But one of the girls was bleeding heavily... as was I. My sheets were soaked in blood and bore witness to our battle, so when the nun on duty found them the next morning, she superficially investigated the situation and brought both of us before the Prioress.
We stood there, both bleeding and bruised... Of course, our stories were very different; I told the truth while the other girl lied through her teeth and claimed that I was the one who attacked her; she also stated that many girls in our dormitory had witnessed the fight and could confirm her words. Sister Sescia did not pursue the matter further and decided that, pending the trial, I was to be confined in a room intended for this purpose.
The chamber was small but clean, as were all the things and spaces in the orphanage. It was scarcely furnished: a single bed, a chair, a small table, and a narrow stove that always burned during the day. The barred window was large and let in a soft, filtered light. And to my great surprise... I was cared for. Tenderly.
The orphanage's physician tended to my wounds with great patience andcarefully treated my body, which was so frail and sore from all the punishments I had suffered.I was fed from the sisters' ration; moreover, a nice and gentle young nun came every morning to tidy and straighten my room, and she even made my bed. Oh, Sister Lenora always brought me a glass of sweetened milk, which she made me drink right then and there in front of her!
So my confinement was pleasant and restful after the life I had led for the last few months; that place became a true refuge for me. What the other girls and even I may have seen as punishment, I later came to understand as a sign of mercy— a quiet sanctuary where I was safe not only from others but also from myself. I stayed there longer than expected, long enough for me to fully recover from the state of physical weakness I had reached. And while my bones and bruises healed... something else also happened: my soul began to soften once more.
I cried for my mother more than ever; almost every night, I dreamed of her. We spoke, embraced, walked hand in hand... only for morning to steal it all away. I often woke in tears, heartbroken that our reunion had been only a dream.
Ah... dreams. Dreams are a greater mystery than even death; Nocturnal Herself does not know or doesn't want to say anything about them! But they can sometimes hurt the soul more deeply than reality ever dares!
Sister Lenora often found me weeping forlornly, and—as she began to love me, she was always taking me in her arms and trying to soothe my sorrows. Yet all this kindness, the good treatment, and the caressing only weakened the dark strength that had begun to take root in my soul!
So at the trial, I behaved foolishly. When asked to recount my version of the events, I stammered and wept almost constantly, terrified by the presence of the presiding judge—none other than the Grand Master of the Order of Stendarr himself, Ser Gregorius Clegius. Nearly all testimonies were against me, painting me as a lazy, deceitful, violent, and disobedient girl...
The institution's doctor was among the last to be heard. He stressed that the girl's death could not be attributed to me, as she had passed away following a new and risky surgical procedure, not because of the blow sustained in our confrontation.
Prioress Sescia was the final witness before the court—in fact, Ser Gregorius himself—pronounced the sentence. She looked at me first with sorrow, then declared that, despite my wild and clumsy ways, she still believed she could guide me back to the righteous path, if I were entrusted to her for re-education.
Then Ser Gregorius rose in his grand chair, ordering everyone present to stand. He cast a look of contempt in my direction and declared that I was to be sentenced to death by hanging. A sigh of relief swept through the hall—some even muttered their approval—but he struck the table with his gavel and added:
"The execution is suspended for half a year. In the meantime, I entrust the named Elsie to the Honorable Prioress Sescia, who shall bear full responsibility for the deeds the murderess may commit during this time. Do you accept this burden, Prioress?"
"Yes, I do!" Sescia replied with a firm voice, looking Ser Gregorius right in the eyes.
"Then I hereby declare the court adjourned!" The Grand Master concluded, his voice barely concealing his boredom. He got up from his chair and left the hall amid the disappointed murmurs of the audience.
I was taken back to the room where I had been confined until then, and for a few days, life went on as before, except that Sister Lenora no longer came. In her place was an old nun who did not speak to me; she practically acted as if I did not exist.
The sentence pronounced by Ser Gregorius had made almost no impression on me; yet, the hostility I felt from the orphans present in the courtroom pained and stunned me deeply. And once again, the anger provoked by the injustice I was convinced was being done to me made my blood boil, and the darkness crept back into my soul, coiling there, waiting...
Then, one morning, Prioress Sescia came in place of the old sister. She closed the door behind her, sat on my bed, and beckoned me near. She looked straight at me, and her eyes held both sadness and compassion. Gently stroking my hair, Sescia said:
"This morning, you will leave with a group of children I'm sending to clear last night's snow from the city streets. And you must not return here. Dress in these clothes I brought you—wear them under your orphanage uniform. While in the city, at some point during the day, find an opportunity to slip away and disappear into the crowd. Once you've broken away from the group, wait for the right moment to change your clothes—do it somewhere safe, where no one can see you. And make sure no one ever catches sight of you in our uniform after that! Then, head to the south side of the Talos Plaza District and look for an entrance to the city sewers—they're always warmer in winter. Stendarr be with you!"
She sighed, spread out the contents of a satchel on my bed, and handed me a small purse containing twenty septims. Then she stroked my hair once more and turned to leave.
At the doorway, Sescia paused and looked back at me. Seeing her concerned gaze, I smiled and opened my mouth to thank her, but she placed a finger to her lips and smiled back; it was the first time I had ever seen our Prioress smile. That smile, warm and quiet, filled me with strength and courage!
I followed her instructions and then stepped into the orphanage yard. It was a cold, sunny morning, and the fresh snow shimmered in the bright sunlight like thousands of scattered diamond splinters. Oh, it looked just like so many mornings back in Bruma—when the frozen land had once filled me with joy, inviting me to play and build entire cities of snow beneath the sun glaring from a blue, deep sky. That feeling stirred within me again as I waited, patient and silent, for the others to gather.