Miravel's Journal Entry One: Chapter 15 - Part 2

Miravel's Journal

Cimmerian was late. I am not sure why I waited. Did I really think he would keep is word? Yes, I did believe that... I do believe that.

He is darkness but he is also honorable... This is the strong feeling I get. So much time spent following him I sense that I understand many aspects of his character better than others might. He will come. I know he will come

Today he finally arrived. By my estimation he was perhaps a half day behind schedule but I was relieved when he finally rode over the crest of the hill. I left a sign for him in the road and he wasted no time in following it. The fort is occupied by mages and it seems foolhardy to assume he intended to take the fort. It was simply a landmark was it not?

As he approached me I realized this was the closest I had ever been to him. Always observing from afar one does not get an appreciation for the man. He was larger than I realized. His shoulders were broad and his body well balanced. There was great physical power in his frame but grace in his movement.

He approached me and stood uncomfortably close but there was nowhere for me to go so I stood my ground. He wore a strange silver mask I had not seen before but I could see his eyes behind the metal and they were placidly sizing me up.

"You're late," I scolded.

"You're beautiful." he replied flatly.

I didn't know what to say. He said it as if he had expected me to be hideous. Perhaps he did! Until this day he had not seen my face but for what limited view my helm afforded. Try as I might I could not remember what he looked like. I know he had revealed his face to me at our first meeting but for some reason it eluded me. His eyes were a striking silver. One eye was a milky white but I could still see that silver iris hidden beneath...I wonder what happened to him. It's actually quite amazing to think that his one-eyed man was such a renowned archer. I wonder how he does it?

We stood there for several moments in silence until he said, "I am ready to die, how shall it be done?"

"That is not your concern.  It's better that you not know all the details if you wish this to be convincing."

"Perhaps you are right.  Who am I to have any say in my own death... Nobody else does."

"Why do you want this?  I understand it gives you a tactical advantage over the Thalmor but why are you fighting them in the first place?  Surely a man of your means could go anywhere, do anything.  Why not go away and simply live out your days in peace?"

"I have a responsibility."

"To whom do you owe anything?"

"To the people of Tamriel."

"How is this little fight in Skyrim going to change the lives of anyone else?  I seems to me that you simply like to fight or perhaps in reality you wish for death."

"This 'little fight' is the seed of something much greater.  Since the dawn of ages there have been forces at work in the world that we cannot control.  The untouchable forces of order and chaos crashing against each other leaving death and strife in their wake.  Peace lies in the balance... I strive for the balance."

"And the Thalmor represent the overbalance of order?"

"Yes."

"Then what are you?  It would seem to me that your devotion to Sithis makes you the agent of chaos.  How can one who has no capacity for balance claim to fight for it?"

"You don't understand..."

"I think I do.  What you fail to understand is the war you are fighting will NEVER be over.  Order and chaos will always clash.  Balance is a shifting line.  Even if you succeed how long will it last?  Who will take up the fight when the war kills you?"

"The balance is fertile soil.  It is up to humanity to plant something there powerful enough to withstand the crashing waves of order and chaos."

"You have much more faith in humanity that I."

"Miravel, tell me what I must do."

I presented him with a list of tasks to complete and items to gather. He reviewed the list intently going over it several times and asking probing questions but never once questioning my plan. He seemed to have complete faith in me. How could this man be so trusting of me? He knew nothing about Miravel.

I don't know what to believe about him. Is he a killer or a scholar? An assassin or a priest? Regardless, I found myself want to know him. I want to understand his quest, what he believes. When I questioned him I could see sadness in his eyes as though he pitied me for my unenlightened view of the world. I just cannot conceive of the world he describes.

As he turned to leave he paused and took my hand. He looked straight into my eyes and softly said, "Thank you, Miravel". Before I had time to reply he reached inside his cloak and produced an Elven Short Blade. I knew at once that this was my sister's weapon. I recognized every groove and nick in the hilt. I will never forget they way she had always used the precious family relic to dig holes or pound in tent stakes. It used to drive me to anger but now...

He held the blade delicately and extended it to me. His eyes did not betray his emotions as he stated with formality, "She was fierce warrior, I bear the scars as testament to her skill."

And then there was a remarkable moment as his eyes appeared to glaze over. He quickly bowed his head and said awkwardly, "I... am sorry."

I took the blade from his hands and he quickly turned and strode off. I watched him cross the bridge to his friend and their waiting horses. They rode back toward me and up into the hills. As they passed he paused and called to me.

"We are setting camp a league up river.  You are welcome to share our fire if you wish."

This man ended my sister's life and yet, try as I might, I could not conjure any feeling of anger or desire for revenge. How can a man be so complicated as this? Forceful and driven, yet sad and empty. Frightening and deadly while at the same time thoughtful and childlike.