There was a historian in the Frozen Hearth inn, just outside the college, who had asked Faralda for an interview. What could he possibly want to know?
"Testimonials, published among others, of the battle for the Imperial City." He said, "The story of your heroics as an Altmeri Battlemage would offer a diverse painting for the reliberation of Our City."
The inn was filled with the idle chatter of a few patrons. The smell of smoke was heavy, as old gruff fisherman puffed on their pipes, and cackled, while on other ends, students from the College chattered about young things.
Faralda and the historian were seated in the darker corners of the inn. Faralda huffed, and crossed her arms over the table. She grabbed her mug, and thought about whether or not to agree to the interview. It would be published as a testimonial among many others in a kind of anthology celebrating the 25th anniversary of the Battle of the Red Ring.
Faralda only humoured him because the historian was none other than the famous Arrianus Arius, from the Imperial Library. She read his works before and appreciated his cosmopolitan perspective, but she still didn't enjoy the thought of "war stories". He sent her four letters, and she ignored them each time before she relented.
"I don't want to encourage violence," Faralda said, "I don't want some boy to enter a recruitment office and tell the recruiter I inspired him."
"This book is not about encouraging violence, it's about the horrors of war. Other veterans are not as lucky as you, and they need your story to show others what they faced. Show them, the people of the empire, what was sacrificed and the stakes at play. Show them why we signed a peace deal."
Faralda gripped her mug harder. It ate at her mind. She wanted to let those memories go. "I never spoke of what happened to anyone," she said.
"Speak it now," he said, "Tell your story."
Faralda sighed, and agreed. She wanted to confess and let it go. Perhaps this was no finer opportunity. They conducted the interview in a private room.
---
Faralda Sinithrel
(b. 4e152) Volunteered in 4e173, trained as a battlemage, served as battlemage support in the 4th legion, distinguished herself in Hammerfall, where she was promoted up until battlemage high-warden. She now resides in Winterhold.
The walls of the Imperial City loomed large on our approach. We could see the exchange of fireballs occur above, striking the walls. The world flashed with light and shook the waters.
We landed on the city isle at night. As part of Decianus' division, we approached from the west. Our group entered into the Gardens along a breach in the north, where we established a foothold within the outer neighbourhood. (Before the war it was called the Elven Gardens, but it had been changed for obvious reasons).
My involvement was heavy. As battlemage warden, I was to protect my soldiers from Thalmor mages, while at the same time, conduct their advance. If my soldiers turned back, it was also my job to shove them forward. Before this, I used to warden for a cohort, so to ward a group of about 32, turned it a much more intimate experience.
The fighting through the outer neighbourhoods was procedural. Scan for the enemy, handle any suspicious glows, and let my soldiers advance. We were instructed to take prisoners, but I often overlooked the instruction. The Thalmor were always suicidal during defeat. We heard too often from others that they'd surrender at first, only to release a storm spell behind our lines, or conjure a blade and attack again. I didn't take any chances for my soldiers.
Our advance was quick at first, but it was only later we realized it was by the enemy's design. We made it to the inner layers of the city, close to the palace walls. That was when the Thalmor released the noxious fumes.
The entire city became blanketed with a poisonous gas, which spread out from the center of the city. It was Bosmeri war-magic, no doubt about it, and I conducted what wards and purging spells I could to keep my soldiers breathing.
As the gas spread out, the Thalmor conducted a counterattack under its protection. They used a variety of immoral tactics, from atronachs to necromancy, but the most reprehensible involved the use of children.
We were stuck in a tavern, purged with clean air, when through the windows, we spotted children rushing over to us in the toxic fog of the streets, flicking their hands of the gas' burn.
I scanned the children with a spell, and found they carried beacons implanted into their stomachs (proven in later dissections). Thus, when the children came to us for safety, the beacons would inform the enemy of our precise location, and we'd face a strike from one of their soul mortars. This was confirmed to me when explosions echoed around our position, shaking the ground, as other groups fell victim to the trap.
We were unable to contact the superior warden, so I ordered my soldiers to kill the children if they came to us. We did try to scare them away, but the children so suffered from the pain of the fog they ran to us anyways.
It was too much for a lot of my soldiers. Some of them thought they saw their little brothers or their daughters among the children, but it was an illusion from the fog. Some wanted to return back, and had to be reminded of the consequences.
Because of the mental impact, I was the one to put the children down. I was hesitant to do so over fears of a relay on the beacon, which might declare our position. Thankfully, none did. I dispatched of the children as quickly and painlessly as I could. We were then given the proper order to kill them on sight.
Despite these desperate measures to keep the front, the Thalmor pushed us back to the outer neighbourhoods again. By then, only 6 of my soldiers stayed in action, out of the original 32. Most were killed or maimed by runes, ambushes, and mortar fire. The dead killed during the surprise attack were raised quickly by enemy necromancers for use against us, which was always hard on the new recruits.
We were only able to make progress again after they brought in rebreathers from Morrowind, so we can navigate the fog much easier. The enemy also refocused on breaking out through the south, allowing more vulnerabilities in their lines.
We advanced again and made it to the palace walls. There we found one of their enchanting centers, and were able to get an enchanter to disable their beacon system. It was also our centuria that found the noxious gas emitters, which I helped disable with other battlemages, clearing the way for total takeover of the city in the other districts.
Lord Naarfin surrendered shortly after we stormed the palace. Nobody in Alinor faced justice for what religious crimes occurred during the capture of the city. They washed their hands of Naarfin for being a rogue Daedra worshipper, but what rogue element receives Thalmor supplies, logistics, and intelligence?
I was given an honorable dismissal from the Legion after the battle. I didn't wish to leave, but there was some internal politics involved. They didn't want an Altmer being among the prominent saviours of the city, and I wasn't quiet about being replaced during the ceremonies, so I was dismissed.
I stayed around the city during the rebuilding effort. Many of the children who survived Thalmor experimentations were orphaned or missing their parents. Some of us stayed to try and help them return to their parents, or relatives. I know some of our soldiers adopted them, but I was too young to think that way.
That was the only good thing I ever did in that City. I left, then, eight months after the recapture, and never returned.
---
Faralda felt catharsis when she left the tavern. For the first time in many years, she felt peace when she thought about the war. Her heart didn't race, her mind didn't freeze and replay all those awful things.
That didn't last, of course. Over the hours and days, she remembered the damning things she said in a much worse light. She forced soldiers to their death, she killed prisoners of war, she killed children. All the shame that she spewed onto that poor historian was all of a sudden swallowed back in.
She did say good things about herself, but would he even write them or remember them? She told him of a heartbreaking tale of helping a boy find his aunt, and how she helped organize some charities in the city for its reconstruction. But the way the historian looked, he seemed bored of the matter. Her fear had gotten so bad, she wrote the historian asking him to not publish her testimony, but she never got a reply back.
All of her worst fears for the book became reality a year later, when Faralda received a signed gift copy of the book. She read it with her hand on her head. She wasn't that much of a sociopath, surely? The author had painted her evil. The author couldn't even be bothered to include her feelings of guilt and regret for her actions during the war.
But Faralda was lying to herself. That was the soldier she was. Cold. Heartless. An empty person. A pure function for her superiors. The historian simply cared about the soldier she was, and not the person she became.
Faralda tossed the book into the fireplace, and stoked the embers, letting it burn hot and bright until it burst into flames. When it had died, she left the office never wanting to think of that damn thing again.
The book turned out to be a popular hit in Skyrim and Cyrodiil. Students brought it up as early as a week after it was published, asking shyly in class if that was her. It was a "good" thing to them. Their Destruction Mistress was war-tested, and matched Thalmor war wizards in her early twenties, what more could they ask for from an instructor? It improved her prestige, and she noticed that even the local nords respected her opinions where they didn't before.
But there was also a terror. She killed children and gloated about it in her testimony. That carried into the way others flicked their eyes at her, and the way others attacked her. She was a cold heartless elven baby-killer; she fit the stereotype well, and it bothered her when her fellow wizards repeated it. Especially the loose network of pacifists she had been acquainted with. Some even sent letters to her in outrage over what was published, asking questions about her true allegiances.
Faralda avoided conferences and wizard councils as these grumblings grew. Why participate? It disturbed her that people could be so simple in their judgements of her character, and it ruined her trust in the wizard's culture she valued so dearly. She stuck her nose in her research. Newspapers in Cyrodiil began to ask her for war and political commentary regarding Thalmor war magic, as she had somehow become a popular expert on the matter. "The imperial Altmer who cleared the Fog of Valenwood." It exhausted her.
One day, Faralda received a knock at her office door. She was busy writing notes on a study, "Come in," she said.
A student volunteer budged the door open and peaked inside the room, "Ma'am, a man wants to see you. His name is Quintus Macianus?"
An Imperial. Faralda furrowed her brow and shook her head, "I don't know who that is."
"He's one of Naarfin's kids, he has one of the tattoos on his cheek, he said he wanted to talk with you."
Naarfin's kids. The man was one of the children that survived Naarfin's beacon experimentation. There were many who survived, they hid in the basements and sewers.
Faralda's stomach lurched with dread. Nothing he could possibly want was good. Revenge? He was going to yell at her, scream, most likely. Did she kill his brother or his sister? Or did he slip from her after she almost killed him? She rubbed her temple, her breath shallow. Finally, she sighed, "Bring him here."
The volunteer nodded and shut the door. Faralda wiped her face with her palms, wondering whether it was possible to hide under the desk instead. She set her books aside, and waited.
The door knocked again and a man around his thirties, bearded and rough, opened it. He was dressed in traveller's clothes, "Hello ma'am."
"Hello." Faralda stood up and shook his hand.
The man had a tattoo on his cheek, with Altmeri numbers on it. There was also, curiously, a bottle of wine in his arm, "You remember me?"
Faralda studied his face. She shook her head, "I don't. Should I?"
He set the wine bottle on her desk, "I don't know. You saved my life. You don't remember me? Tissi?"
Her eyes lit up. Tissi. He was the little boy Faralda kept in her apartment until they found his aunt. They spent a few months together. Faralda opened her mouth in shock, "Tissi. Oh, by the gods! By the gods, how are you?" She leapt out of her chair, and stumbled around the desk. Faralda hugged him, "By the gods, you've grown up," she said. She was tearing up, and broke the hug. She grabbed his arms and studied his face, "My, you've got grey hairs."
He was chuckling, blushing red, "Yes."
"Oh, I apologize. You must be an entirely different person now," Faralda wiped her cheeks of tears, backing up. She last saw him when he was eleven, "You humans grow so fast." She walked around her desk and sat back.
Quintus also rubbed an eye, smiling, "We do, yes. I saw your part in the book, and knew you the moment I read it. Faralda. Didn't know you lived up here."
"I do. I'm so happy to see you. How are you? What's happened to you?"
"I work as a vintner now, with a vineyard in Colovia. I'm married, have three kids, and I came here to thank you. Thank you. Thank you. When you dropped me off, I wasn't happy to leave you and I caused a fuss. Took until I was a young man to know what you did. I..." the big and burly man stifled back a cry, with a fist at his mouth, and cleared his throat.
Faralda was already sobbing herself, she began to gasp softly, wiping her cheeks, "No need to thank me. Let's get a drink," She stood up, laughing through her tears, "After I calm down a bit."
Quintus showed her the bottle, "Are we allowed to drink here?"
Faralda set up two mugs and they drank together in her office, catching each other up on their lives.
There wasn't much to know about Quintus, other than he lived a normal, generous life. His aunt raised him well and he became a wine-maker after his uncle-in-law
Why did he come see Faralda? To thank her, as he did, but also to seek closure for a horrible event in his life. To him, knowing Faralda was alive and well made things feel better. If his saviour was fine, he was fine. For as tough and scary a man as Quintus looked, he was that same quiet, shy boy Faralda took in from the temple.
Quintus left the next day, but not before leaving her a note on where to find him should she ever visit Colovia. Faralda promised she would.
And again, Faralda felt catharsis. She felt like everything that burdened her of the war had slunk off her heart, letting it be bright and fresh again. But unlike before, that feeling never went away.