a new Elder Scrolls fanfiction

from BlazeInfinity

Never The End

So, because Morrowind is my favourite Elder Scrolls country ever, I hate the fact that it's devastated and suppressed now, thus I started writing this. Read, at your leisure. Review, also at your leisure. Ask me to review your stories, even, at your leisure. I don't mind.

My reason for the M rating is because I have no idea where I'm going to go with this. I'm going to write more chapters, after all, a revolution does not occur in one day, but I have got a pretty loose plan about this. You might see swearing. You might see gore. You might even see lovemaking. I just want to make completely sure.

"This is our country, Argonian," Lleran hissed, his sword drawing ominously quick from its sheath. "And we want it back."

The ebony-haired Dunmer didn't waste a second. A combination of quick steps forward, the thirst for vengeance overtaking him. Rage. The thirst for battle. And more importantly, to see the lizard's blood decorating the immortal walls of Mournhold. But he had patience. Without it, he'd already have lost it all. The desire to have wrath, to achieve the revenge he dreamt of, to free his land and his people once and for all... had to wait until it was possible. He'd have to restrain himself. So one day, the skies could turn red.

... That day came everytime he felt his hand grip the sword. A thousand times. But he knew, he had to wait. Wait.

His sword stopped at the Argonian soldier's throat, pinning him to the wall, as he desperately tried begging for mercy in various universally recognized gestures, such as pressing two hands together as if in prayer that Lleran did not actually recognize, or even care to.

"Does it please you Argonians?" he smirked, the scar across his face distorting the grin even more. "You want to see us crushed, no? Into the dirt, destroyed, enslaved. Like we've enslaved you in the past. You want retaliation, you want what you in your sad little opinion call justice. Call it justice in Black Marsh if you like. But this – is – Morrowind!"

A thousand voices howled that name in the night together with him. Literally. Hundreds took up the cry, screaming "Morrowind!" throughout the Temple Courtyard. Suddenly, throughout Almalexia, a quiet rustle was heard. In the midnight darkness, a million swords were drawn. The punlovers would forever say, 'That night the moon turned dark.'

The day Lleran was waiting for had come. It was tomorrow.

With that idea in mind, he slashed the throat of the Argonian, sending him deep into the realms of death, just before he was to scream for help, reassured by Lleran's temporary lack of concentration.

The world was sleeping, seduced by the soft, tender hands of the night. But the whole city of Almalexia was awake. Awake, with the spirits of all that it held holy, from St. Veloth, through Indoril Nerevar, the Almsivi, the Nerevarine, and ultimately Azura herself, leading them, with gentle but firm hands. A hundred thousand blades, kindly supplied by the Morag Tong, stolen from armories, or salvaged from ancestral tombs suddenly glistened in the light of the moon, altogether. Had one looked from the walls upon the city, lured by the quiet shouts echoing from ancient Mournhold, from the long-ruined great Temple, one would've seen what they'd think, if they didn't know better, was the giant reflection of the moon on a lake.

And then they'd get struck by a flaming arrow or struck down by an assassin's blade, like hundreds of Black Marsh-loyal guards on the walls.

The Morag Tong was no joke to mess with. A long time of suppression, also a supposed form of 'retaliation' according to the An-Xileel, under the Argonians had not gone unnoticed. This night, one after another, Argonian military governors throughout Morrowind were slowly dying in agony, tormented one after another. And subtle, but to-the-point messages were left behind on their bodies, saying, "Mephala protects her people. The Hist shall wither and die at her touch."

The mainline Dunmer resistance, the Nerevarine Caiamarh Group, naming themselves in honor of the Dark Elven hero, who saved Morrowind on various occasions in the Third Era, was less frank. Their alliance with the Morag Tong was cordial at best, because the Group spent the last century hiding in secluded locations such as the monastery of Holamayan off the coast of Vvardenfell, and in Solstheim, where they banded around themselves most Dark Elven refugees there, convincing them to reclaim their homeland and liberate it from oppression for the last and final time. Thus the Tong saw the Group as rather politicized and evasive of actual fighting, rather stooping to terrorism.

The alliance was, in actuality, Lleran's own achievement. As the head of Group operations in the Almalexia region, he saw that the Morag Tong hated the Argonian domination, as well as the Camonna Tong and most remaining Ashlanders, who were forced over the centuries by Morrowind's unseemly fate to join House Dunmer society but remained seclusive. The Camonna Tong had been mostly exterminated, but Lleran discovered several remaining cells of it in the Almalexia area, so he met them all and offered them a deal they'd not refuse.

The ultimate kick in the Argonian arse that'd send them flying straight out of Morrowind.

Finally, the Argonian garrison in Almalexia had woken up. In Mournhold, a sole tower sounded a warning signal from a horn, but it didn't help at all, because by the time most soldiers woke from their lovely slumber, they found themselves dead, slaughtered mercilessly by the passing revolt.

No Dunmer in Mournhold, with the rare exception of a very few loyal to the Argonians, slept this night. And those few never slept again anyway.

Lleran with a proud eye looked on as his kinsmen tore down a rather stubborn guard tower that simply refused to fall, that stood on the edges of the Governor's Palace… the former Royal Palace. The future Royal Palace.

He was the head of operations in the Almalexia area, and he was going to make sure as hell that no other city pulls such a wonderful revolt as his did.

Then again, he wasn't sure. At Holamayan, the rebels had assembled a fleet of mercenaries, kindly secretly hired from far away outlands by the Camonna Tong. Mostly Nords and Bretons, but it made no difference. All Lleran cared, they might've hired Argonians if that'd help to free Morrowind from occupation. This fleet was ordered to land in Necrom and, after assisting the revolt there, cleanse the countryside of Argonian soldiers.

"Death to Black Marsh! Long live Morrowind! Resdayn! Resdayn!" hundreds of voices echoed as a battering ram made the last remaining hinge of the Royal Palace gate explode, shattering and sending shards of metal in all directions. The gate fell.

And then was when Lleran finally had a battle like he wanted. In the Palace, the Argonians had gotten ready and waiting, ready to fight a last futile fight. Die a last futile death.

The end of all approached threateningly fast for them. Just as they were about to clash, line against line of infantry, with the rebels, who Lleran actually started worrying about since their armor was rather lacking in comparison to the garrison's, the gate on the other side of the Palace shattered into pieces and hundreds upon hundreds of Dunmer piled straight onto the Argonians from the other side. It was a slaughter. Shattering Lleran's hopes of actually having some battle today. Oh well, the revolution was far from over. There'd have to be some opportunities later.

"Not a bad job here, Lleran," he heard a female, yet very masculine – somewhat tough – voice behind him. Turning, he saw an auburn-haired, Dunmeri woman who wore that hair of hers in a rather long braid stretching down her back to her waist.

Lleran turned grim. "Anatwyne."

Anatwyne Indaron was none other than the very head of the Nerevarine Caiamarh Group. And she was here. Just when things were going great.

"I thought you were commanding the fleet at Holamayan?" he asked rather irritably, hoping these words would not be replied to and he'd turn out to be hallucinating. This was HIS moment! No one from up there was supposed to intervene until the revolt was successfully over!

"I gave it to Chazmag." Chazmag was a Morrowind-bred Orc, proud supporter of the Group. He was trustworthy. But that don't help the fact that, Azura protect me, she's here and she's gonna ruin everything for me oh dammit "What, aren't you happy to see me? The commanding officer of the Group has to be at the capital, doesn't she?"

Lleran forced out a smile. Through great effort. "… Of course I am happy to see you, Anatwyne. Welcome to our little… party."

She nodded, curtly. "So am I, Lleran. But-"

The darkhaired Dunmer was relieved as never before when a messenger came running, coughing, and almost brutally interrupting her (because Lleran was damn sure she was going to say something he wouldn't like, evident from that 'But', such as criticize his battle plan), saying, "Sera Lleran, sera Anatwyne, the Palace has fallen. The Argonians are sounding retreat, but it won't help, since not many of them will survive long enough to escape."

Anatwyne looked at Lleran, approvingly (which was a new thing to him, because she rarely ever looked approvingly at him). "Again, good work."

Lleran suddenly felt a surge of pride, not for the first time today. You'd have too, even if you were not Dunmeri – for you needed only to hear what he heard, and see what he saw. Heard every corner of the city of light and magic suddenly turn quiet, before chanting, 'Morrowind! Morrowind!' – as they saw the old banner of Resdayn rise, victorious, from the incredibly beautiful and, once again, Royal Palace.

"I know," he said, smiling.