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The guards ask the supposed Nerevarine to disarm herself – all ceremony, of course, for Almalexia and her Hands have nothing to fear from her in any case. When the doors close behind her, she hovers at them overlong, looking at them intently, as though she is considering whether she should immediately duck out again. Almalexia turns her thoughts inward to the many troubles of Mournhold and waits.
Even if she is, somehow, at last, Nerevar reborn – and Almalexia has no reason to think she is anything more than another self-deluded or self-serving claimant clinging to rumor and fanciful stories – why should Almalexia have anything to fear from his soul? He was her husband, after all. She held him close as he suffered and died, though the details scarcely need revisiting, and for all that he adored Azura as his patron, why should he not come to speak to his beloved wife in person before enacting Azura's will on some ancient revenge plot?
Here she comes now, if she is true, soft-footed, alone – that in itself is a strike against her being Nerevar, who always had someone picked out and persuaded into following him, so far as Almalexia ever knew him. However, when Gavas asked if Almalexia would grant the favor of her presence, he spoke of the woman's service to Mournhold, so she ought to be useful, if nothing else.
Nerevar – she apparently wears some boring little name that contrasts against the fine weave and glimmering enchantments of her clothing, and Almalexia prefers to humor her pretension at the name of her husband – blinks up at the high ceiling, then down at the patterned green tiles, with dark Bosmer eyes. Finally she brings them to Almalexia herself. Every other claimant to the title has been a Dunmer; poor dear must have gotten mixed up in some very odd places. Perhaps Ashlanders. They're the ones who still cling the most tightly to false old stories.
Almalexia smiles from across the room. Nerevar takes a hesitant step toward the dais, smiles herself. Yes, she should come close; Almalexia wants the Mazed Band she is supposed to be carrying. And it is always good to see someone newly dazed by her power, her very presence. With how much her power is devoted elsewhere nowadays, she rarely gets the chance.
Nerevar reaches the bottom of the stairs. Almalexia waits patiently within the circle of her Hands. Like the true Nerevar, this fake one does not charge in but pauses to look at Almalexia's guards, a hand held to her chest. Her eyes glint in the light of the sacred lanterns. Soon enough, however, she will present the Mazed Band, hopefully on her knees, and—
Magic flickers so quickly that even Almalexia can barely see it. Vonos, standing guard to Almalexia's left, stumbles backward, caught in the chest by a ball of lightning.
More magic is already spinning around Nerevar's hand, and oh! Traitor! This was all a ruse to injure Almalexia's temple at its very core!
How dare she! How very dare she harm Morrowind's goddess?!
Unable to stand the insult, Almalexia goes for Hopesfire, hidden beneath her skirt – after all the trouble in Vvardenfell, it would never do to be without her best weapon – while her Hands cast spells of their own, their lady's mirror and armor, as they charge in.
Nerevar, though, is fast. Reflect, sanctuary, lightning shield. Arnas reaches the steps first, shouting condemnations at the woman who dares attack Almalexia herself. His scimitar is always kept sharp. It is nearly ripped from his hand by the next spell, a blast of cold that makes him, too, stumble back from its force. Ice slicks the ground, making the other Hands cautious.
From her skirt Nerevar rips out a scroll, reads its command word in a soft voice. A golden saint shimmers into existence next to her and races forward. No match for Almalexia, flicking Hopesfire to life, or for her Hands, but another obstacle.
Especially when Nerevar summons five more in rapid succession. One for each of them.
Almalexia's feet touch the ground. A golden saint is nothing to her, even with much of her magic focused on the Ghostfence and her people, but the two seconds she takes to duck under the saint's spear and thrust Hopesfire into her throat are precious.
Nerevar's skirt pockets go deep, apparently. Manasteal, then another ice storm that forces even Almalexia back from her, then dispel, then baleful suffering to slow them down. The effects of that one do not take; Almalexia picks her guards with extreme care, and of course a goddess will not be affected by a little blinding or burdening curse. They shake off the spells. Nerevar doesn't pause to check before she casts another spell-shield, then a lightning bolt that ricochets off a column and narrowly misses Almalexia before slamming into Vonos's back.
The way he loses his balance makes rage flame even higher in Almalexia. This worm dares to harm her most loyal servants? To think herself an equal foe to them? She will die in great suffering!
Almalexia has never known a Bosmer to have such magic. The longer the fight goes on – even Almalexia struggles to get near her, for she either blasts whirlwinds or hops away with toadlike agility if any of them get within striking range, and of course Almalexia must ensure her Hands are not injured in the fray – the more she is reminded of the long-ago fight against Nerevar's old friend beneath the mountain. Oh, how her blood had rushed in the face of his spellwork!
Perhaps this is a vile trick of his! She knew the rumors of the dark dreams fading and skies clearing were too good to be truth. And this woman who dares to snipe at Nerevar's name may be one of his servants, seduced by his lies and hateful dreams, tempted by the idea of power, given some of his secrets to magic and promised more.
It seems she must run out of magic eventually, though she manages to cast even while gulping down potions, which she pulls from the same infinite depths of her skirts as she does scrolls. Even if she never does, though, Almalexia has a god's endurance, and the occasional spell that strikes her by chance does little enough harm.
Her greater concern is for her Hands. This false Nerevar yanks Arnas's scimitar from his hands with a telekinesis spell and sends it spinning away, forcing him to fall back to magic as he attempts to find it again. Vonos is soon limping. They are strong warriors, but this is the most protracted fight they have faced in a long time. One sneaks up behind Nerevar close enough to strike while she is focused on countering Almalexia's own spellwork; the sword finds Nerevar's side through her shield-spells in a glancing blow.
Nerevar's lightning shield follows up his arm, fearsome enough to make even him waver. Nerevar herself activates a healing enchantment while skipping away, seemingly unconcerned. Someone is pounding at the door. Nerevar appears to have locked it with a spell while she was pretending to hesitate, and as they trade spells and attempted blows, she does her best to stay near enough that they cannot undo it. But someone on the other side ought to!
Why can her Hands not land a proper hit on this wretch?! Useless things, bleeding, gasping, tiring – Almalexia will do what she must.
One of her Hands shakes his head under the force of a noise spell; another ducks behind a pillar, panting. Nerevar's attention is caught by two of them trying to flank her, and though she manages to blast both away with two quick bolts of frost that freezes over their armor, they have finally done well: Almalexia pushes forward and takes Nerevar on herself.
She is quick with her spells, but not so quick with her movements. Though she is lucky enough to dodge the first slice of Hopesfire, and her sanctuary spell protects her from the second, the third strikes true. Her enchantments sparkle as Hopesfire digs into her side; she grunts and makes a face of pain.
That's all the opening Almalexia needs to grab her by the shoulder and slam her into the nearest pillar. The stone shakes with the force of her blow, and the false Nerevar makes another unhappy noise. She will be screaming much more before Almalexia is done with her!
"The doors!" she calls to her Hands; she can handle the traitor herself. There must be a trial, of course, to show exactly what happens to such pieces of filth that have the nerve to attack their beloved goddess, a show of the miserable rot Dagoth Ur is spreading through her land, and—
Nerevar laughs.
What gives Almalexia pause is not the strange sound – she is no stranger to those laughing in the face of a painful death – but Nerevar's expression. She's smiling, and it's an old, old, old smile, instantly familiar despite the length of the years. Crooked to one side, showing teeth, utterly fearless around the eyes, self-satisfied.
Nerevar smiled like that whenever they won another battle against the Nords. When Almalexia and he put down a rebellion by some stupid Telvanni mage-lord, or thwarted the plot of a noble grasping for power against them. When—
Almalexia blinks. A smile does not mean anything.
Nor does the way Nerevar – the false one, yes – says, "I had to give it a good try, Ayem." Even the way she says her name— "I had to, since I know what you did to him."
Almalexia bares her own teeth. Does she mean the true Nerevar, or the vile ghost haunting Red Mountain? Lies, either way, this woman is a devotee of lies.
She presses Hopesfire against Nerevar's throat, laying her arm across her collar to keep her still with her weight. The flames lick harmlessly against Nerevar's skin, repelled by another enchantment; Almalexia cannot be bothered to yank apart her jewelry to discover the source – not when a satisfying line of red appears at the edge of the blade. "Who do you take as your master?" she demands.
Nerevar's grin fades. She considers Almalexia carefully, as though there is no sword at her throat. Around them, Almalexia's Hands are patching themselves up, defrosting their armor. Nobody has broken through the damn door yet.
"What master?" she asks. "Azura holds me to prophecy no longer. I came by my will alone."
Almalexia growls. More blood beads along Hopesfire; Nerevar does not flinch. Damnable courage. With her free hand, Almalexia yanks Nerevar's right glove off, lets it fall, pulls her hand up. Nerevar offers no resistance.
A silver moon. A golden star. Sapphires. No other pretender has gotten the shape of it correct.
"She gave a fake ring to persuade you of your supposed reincarnation," Almalexia snarls.
Nerevar chuckles, a low, throaty sound. "If you are so confident, then wear it yourself."
The curse was a story, propaganda. The curse was also real.
Almalexia scoffs at the idea of bending to a Daedra's words. She laughed in Azura's face at her warning of revenge; she raised her sword against Mehrunes Dagon with no hesitation. What does she, a god, have to fear from a curse? Nothing.
And what does she have to gain from such a test? Also nothing.
"Do you think I would disrespect the memory of my own husband so? And all to prove something to a perfidious fiend like yourself?" She leans a little harder on Hopesfire and is gratified to see pain flash over Nerevar's face. "You, who come bearing false accusations and old lies? Who have the gall to pretend to be a saint?"
Nerevar squints her eyes open. Blood drips from Trueflame's blade, runs along her throat, beautiful in its own way; it dirties the collar of her silk shirt.
"Huh," she says. "You do believe all that, don't you?"
Why has nobody opened the damn doors so Almalexia can hand her over to her pious authorities and be done with this farce?
"Did you also believe," Nerevar asks, "that he would come to you again in sweetness?" She raises the hand bearing the imitation ring, and Almalexia has seen enough of her swift, too-powerful spellwork; she grabs it and slams it into the pillar. The bones creak. She could easily break it. She is very, very tempted to break it.
"Stop pretending you know anything about him, you fool!"
Her throat blood-stained, pinned against the pillar, Nerevar gazes at her, the pain gone again. Fear still has yet to cross her face. What more must Almalexia do to make her realize the gravity of her actions, her situation? To make her fold and yield?
(She saw Nerevar in pain and despair and hesitation, but fear? The man never—)
Nerevar gamely tries to cast a spell with her restrained hand anyway. Paralyze. Almalexia brushes it off like a fly.
There will be one bright spot in this awful day: it has been many years since she last had the opportunity to work her muscles and her magic like this, not in a sparring match but a real fight, even one that never presented her any real danger. Her blood has missed the feeling. It rushes through her now, her heart pounding, body heating. Almost a pity that it is now over, the traitor captured and soon carted off, and then she will have to reprimand everyone who let this happen.
"I did wonder," says Nerevar, "whether your marriage was simply politics. But I suppose it mustn't have been."
Almalexia sneers at her. "You suppose?"
"I do," she says. Her dark eyes are locked on Almalexia's, infuriatingly calm. "I think he liked seeing you like this."
Almalexia has clasped one of Nerevar's wrists to the column, pinned her other shoulder with her elbow, but that gives Nerevar just enough free room to whip her free hand up, and Almalexia rears her head back, should have cast silence—
Fingers tangle in her hair, yank, hard. Nerevar crushes their lips together.
The position is unfamiliar – this Nerevar is shorter than her – but the warmth is too much so. Even the taste of blood is an old friend between their lips.
And how long has it been since anyone had the nerve to touch her so? To wind a hand among her hair, to gasp against her lips? Vivec – the last time they saw each other, though, Almalexia shoved him away. Her Hands will not, pious things, her Archcanon, out of the question, they are not worthy of a god, their god.
Neither is this traitor. So why does the kiss light Almalexia's nerves so, make her blood sing in her ears? Nerevar's smears and rubs tacky under her knuckles, which still grip Hopesfire.
She rips away, angry, heat running beneath her skirt. Nerevar licks her lips. Dares her, silently, to do it again. She likes seeing Almalexia like this.
Nobody is watching; her Hands are still too busy trying to undo the complex locking spell. They do not judge what their goddess does in any case.
She leans in, tastes the blood on Nerevar's throat. Licks up the curve of one ear, a little shorter than she prefers, but the shivers that erupt against her are delicious. More so when she turns her head down and bites at her neck, no love-bite this, one with the force of her outrage behind it. Nerevar swears.
Another yank on her hair, irritating, but she allows it. Nerevar's mouth is open for her and hot for her and blood drips along both of them, and the heat is so sweet.
Almalexia breaks from her once more, only the breadth of a hand. Nerevar's eyes are not so calm above her flushed cheeks now.
But they crinkle, and she laughs again.
"Voryn was a bit more prepared," she says.
The name – that name, the damned name she and Vivec and Sil spent so many years erasing – is like a shock of ice. "Explain," she spits, grinding Nerevar's wrist-bones together, so close to snapping them, she deserves it.
Nerevar laughs, red smeared around her lips like make-up. She says, sing-song, "There is no escape," a puzzling choice, for there is none here as well. "No recall or intervention," and Almalexia, leaning too close, takes too long to notice the magic forming around her off hand, "will work in this place—"
Almalexia's hand jerks, reaches to grab hers, too late; half a second too late, and Nerevar is gone.
For a moment, shock at having been tricked stills her. Only for a moment, before her own magic flares up inside her, threatening to boil over. It is only the long practice of her role as the goddess of her people's mercy that keeps it from howling out.
And yet! How she will tear that woman apart when she finds her – and she will find her! The way her blood will spill will be so very gratifying. Who does she think she is? To seize Almalexia's own holy touch and then to run away like a bandit – and she never did hand over the Mazed Band that she needs for her plans!
"My lady?"
Almalexia, feeling distant from the room, wipes her face with a slow movement. She lowers Hopesfire; she does not deactivate its flames. Fury burns in her lungs.
She turns. Arnas, beloved, loyal, takes a step back. Yes, he should remember his place. More people ought to.
"I will open the door," she says. Where did this Nerevar learn such spell-crafting as to defeat her own Hands? She must put them to work at practicing more. This is unacceptable for her own guards. "Then I want every free guard in the city – send word to Vvardenfell as well – to go in search of that traitor."
"Of course, my lady, at once!"
And when they discover her—
Almalexia's lips burn. She wipes at her face again. It does not help. The heat is in her cheeks, behind her heart, between her legs.
Nerevar, panting against her chest. That had not been a simple trick. No. A weakness. Almalexia can use that. Plans can change. She will have to think how best to use her.
For now, though, she storms to the door. It is a difficult spell indeed, complexly crafted, and it takes even her a moment to understand it and begin to undo it. Perhaps Nerevar stole secrets from Red Mountain after all.
It matters not where she came across the knowledge. Almalexia shoves open the doors in short order. She finds on the other side a crowd, her Archcanon, many Ordinators; Nerevar's true face, falsely worked, looks at her dozens of times over.
She smiles. "I am unharmed," she tells them, so that they do not worry despite the wrath in her tone, "but a very grave act has occurred today, and your goddess demands retribution!"
Nerevar, no doubt, will not make herself easy to catch, no matter how skilled Almalexia's guards may be. But that will make finding her ever the sweeter reunion.