Title: The Real Barenziah, Part VII
Author: Anonymous
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Price: 580
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[/center]The Real

[/center]Barenziah

[/center]Part VII



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 "Everything I have ever loved I have lost," Barenziah
thought, looking over the mounted knights behind and ahead,
the tirewomen near her in a carriage, "yet have I gained a
measure of wealth and power, and the promise of more to
come. Dearly have I bought it. Now do I better understand
Tiber Septim's love of it, if he has oft paid such prices,
for surely worth is measured by the price one pays."
Barenziah, by her wish, rode mounted on a shining black mare,
clad as a warrior in shining chain mail of dark elf making.

 As the slow days slipped by and her train rode a winding
road eastward into the setting sun, around her rose the
steep-sided mountain slopes of Morrowind. The air was thin
and a chill late autumn wind blew constantly, but it was
also rich with the sweet spice smell of the late-blooming
black rose, which grew in every shadowy nook and crevice,
finding nourishment even in the stoniest slopes. In small
villages and towns, ragged dark elf folk gathered along the
road to cry her name or simply gape. Most of her knightly
escort were Redguards with a few dark elves, Nords and
Bretons scattered among them. As they wove their way into the
heart of Morrowind, these grew increasingly uncomfortable
and clung together. Even the dark elf knights seemed somewhat
uneasy. Barenziah felt at home, felt the welcome extended to
her by this land.

 Symmachus met her at the Mournhold borders with an escort of
knights, about half of whom were dark elf in Imperial battle
dress, she noted. There was a grand parade into the city and
speeches of welcome from elders. 

 "I've had the queen's suite refurbished for you," he said,
"but you can change anything not to your taste, of course."
He went on about details of the coronation ceremony which was
to be held in a week. He was his old commanding self, but she
sensed something else as well. He was eager for her approval
of the arrangements. He asked her nothing about her stay in
Imperial City or Tiber Septim, although Barenziah was
certain that Drelliane had told him everything in detail.

 The ceremony itself, like so much else, was a mixture of old
and new, parts of it dictated by Imperial format, as she
was sworn to service of the Empire and Tiber Septim, as
well as to the land of Mournhold and its people. She then
accepted fealty from the people and the council. The
council was composed of a mixture of Imperial
representatives, advisors they were called, and native
representatives of the people. These latter were mostly
elders, in accordance with elven custom. Barenziah found
that much of her time was occupied in attempting to
reconcile these two forces. And the elders were expected to
do most of the conciliating in the name of the reforms
introduced by  the Empire, such as land ownership and surface
farming, which went clean against dark elven tradition, as
laid down by their ancient gods and goddesses. Now, Tiber
Septim, in the name of the One had decreed a new tradition,
and the gods and goddesses themselves were expected to obey.

 Barenziah threw herself into work and study. She was through
with love and men for a long, long time, if not forever.
There were other pleasures, she discovered, as Symmachus had
promised, those of the mind, of power. She developed a love
for dark elf history and legend, a hunger to know the people
from whom she sprang, proud warriors and craftsmen. 

 Tiber Septim lived another half century, during which she
saw him on a few occasions, as she was bidden to Imperial
City for one reason or another. He greeted her with warmth on
these occasions and they had long talks together about
events. He seemed to have quite forgotten that there had ever
been anything more between them. He changed little over the
years. Rumor said that his mages had found spells to extend
his vitality, and even that the One had granted him
immortality. Then one day a messenger came with the news that
he was dead, and his son was now Emperor in his place.

 They'd heard the news in private, she and Symmachus. He took
it stoically, as he took everything.

 "It doesn't seem possible," Barenziah said.

 "I told you. It's the way of humans. They are a short-lived
race. It doesn't really matter. His power lives on, and his
son now wields it."

 "You called him your friend. Do you feel nothing?"

 He shrugged. "There was a time when you called him somewhat
more. What do you feel, Barenziah?" 

 "Emptiness. Loneliness," she said, then she too shrugged.
"That's not new."

 "I know," he said, taking her hand. "Barenziah, let me try to
fill that lonely place." He turned her face up and kissed
her. It filled her with astonishment. She couldn't remember
his ever touching her before. She'd never thought of him in
that way, and yet, undeniably, an old familiar warmth
spread through her. She'd forgotten how good it was, that
warmth. Not the burning heat she'd felt with Tiber Septim,
but the warmth she associated with, with Straw! Straw, poor
Straw. She hadn't thought of him in so long. He'd be
middle-aged now if he still lived. Probably married with a
dozen children, she hoped, and a wife who could talk for two.

 "Marry me, Barenziah," he was saying, "I've worked and
toiled and waited long enough, haven't I?"

 Marriage. "A peasant with peasant dreams." The words
appeared in her mind, as if from long ago. And yet, why
not? If not him, who? The great noble families had been
destroyed in the war and its aftermath. Dark elf rule had
been restored, but not the old nobility. Most of them were
upstarts, like Symmachus and not as good as he was. He'd
fought to keep Mournhold whole and healthy when their
so-called advisors would have picked their bones, sucked them
dry as Ebonheart had been sucked dry. He'd fought for
Mournhold, fought for her, while she and it grew. She felt a
sudden rush of gratitude, and, undeniably, affection. He
was steady and reliable. He'd served her well. "Why not?"
she said, smiling.

 The union was a good one, both in its political and
personal aspects. While Tiber Septim's son viewed her with a
jaundiced eye, his trust in his father's old friend was
absolute. Symmachus, however, was still viewed with
suspicion by Morrowind's stiff-necked folk, suspicious of his
peasant ancestry, his close ties to the Empire, while she was
quite popular. "The Lady's one of our own in her heart," it
was whispered, "held captive as we are." Barenziah felt
content. There was work and pleasure and what more could
one ask of life? The years passed swiftly, with crises to be
dealt with, storms and famines and failures and successes
and plots to be foiled. Mournhold prospered well enough.
Her people were secure and fed, her mines and farms
productive. All was well save that the marriage produced no
children. No heirs.

 Now elven children are slow to come, and most demanding of
their welcome, noble children more so than others, thus many
decades had passed before they grew concerned.

 "The fault lies with me, husband. I am damaged goods."
Barenziah said bitterly. "If you want to take another..."

 "I want no other," Symmachus snapped, "nor do I know the
fault to be thine. Perhaps it is mine. Whichever, we will seek
a cure. If there is damage, surely it may be repaired?"

 "How so? When we dare not entrust anyone with my true story? Healer's oaths do not always hold."

 "It won't matter if we change the time and circumstances a
bit. Whate'er we say or fail to say Jephre never rests. His
inventive mind and quick tongue are ever busy spreading
gossip and rumor."

 Priests and Healers came and went, but all their prayers,
potions and other efforts produced not even a period of
bloom, let alone a single fruit. Eventually, they put it
from their minds and left it in the gods' hands. They were yet
young, with centuries ahead of them. There was time. Elves
always have time.

 
