or A Hasty Departure. A Lost Kitten. A Lament for Kiersten.
There's little I can say about my early years. Even though I'm still young, those times already feel like another lifetime, one veiled in a thick, strange mist. And I try not to think too much about them — I'm scared of what might come up if I do. Not all of it is painful—some memories are even warm and sweet, I know... But something is just terrible. Something buried deep. And it has fangs and claws. It hurts!
Still, some events from those days left deep, bitter roots within me, and, whether I like it or not, they shaped everything that came after. And so, though it costs me dearly, I begin my story where I must, not where I would have wanted.
I do so because my beloved daddy, Leif the Sage, claimed that I should leave nothing untold in this confession of mine. He insisted—Oh, so many times!—and even quoted some old, wise Dunmer who once said something quite prophetic:
"Some shadows never stay buried, no matter how thick the sand covering them. And some truths insist on telling themselves. So confess, I beg you, sinner! Otherwise, you'll be haunted by bloodthirsty ghosts for the rest of your life!"
Oh, well. Who am I to argue with ancient wisdom and fatherly love?
Fine then. So, here goes.
I recall a tall, blonde woman who was very dear to me — probably my mother. I'll call her that in what little I can say about those seemingly distant days. I remember that we lived together in a lovely cottage in Bruma, where she ran a small shop and raised me all by herself. I suppose I was happy then, because my first memories are full of clear skies, crisp snow, and that fresh, comforting scent of cold that ruled the streets of that northern town at the foot of the Jerall Mountains.
I had many toys, each more delightful than the last, but my mother was the most wonderful of them all. Every evening, when she returned from her shop, she would play with me and hold me close in a way not many mothers do. She was so beautiful, with the sweetest, most melodic voice I can recall! Kiersten was also young and nimble, and we would often run laughing around our little house. Oh, she would invent all sorts of new games—or perhaps they were just old ones from some faraway corner of the realm. Sometimes, she told me wonderful tales, where noble knights in shining armor always fought for justice and saved fair maidens, invariably tormented by wicked men or terrible beasts.
She loved me very much, and I remember with tears how she'd come each morning to the cradle where I slept and, after watching me for a while, gently kiss me. Often, though my mother walked with the lightest of steps, I would wake, yet betray no sign, but keep still and let her love caress me like a warm, fragrant bath embracing a tired and frostbitten body.
I had many friends among the children in our neighborhood, and sometimes, when I was late for playtime, my mother would come to fetch me, always bringing a big pot full of cookies to share with everyone. On some occasions, she'd return early from her shop and join our games, acting just like a child and enjoying herself immensely. Oh, Kiersten was so beautiful and friendly that they all adored her!
But her eyes... I was a child back then and didn't understand much, yet I remember them vividly — because they were strange. And sometimes, even unsettling. They were the eyes of someone much older than she was: deep, too deep, and often filled with an overwhelming sadness—or mayhap a burden too heavy to bear.
Most of the time, they were grey like ash, just like mine. And they changed color, as mine also did. I didn't know that back then, so sometimes I'd stare, faintly disquieted but not frightened, as her eyes seemed to burn with an eerie, cold, and yellow aura in the dark.
Though so young, she had those faint creases around her eyes that belong to those who've lived through much; her hands, though gentle and warm, bore in certain places the hardened calluses I now know well—the kind left by long use of a longbow with a hard string.
As far as I remember, Kiersten hadn't befriended any of the town's inhabitants, not even our neighbors, among whom were two very nice families who tried to get close to us. We had a maid, Anya, and my mother was fair to her; on her days off, she even helped Anya with the housework, but she was always cold and distant in her dealings with her. Yet to me, my mom was gentle and kind, no matter how silly I was—may her soul rest in peace wherever it is now!
When I was about five years old, my mother came home one day, visibly distressed. I remember her pale face and intense eyes as she entered, slamming the door behind her as though trying to keep out a bitter wind that wanted to catch her in its cold wings.
She said nothing to me at first — only whispered something to Anya, who dropped the laundry she was folding and rushed to pack a few clothes and items for us both.
Our cottage suddenly fell into a quiet frenzy. No one raised their voice, but every movement felt urgent and restrained, like when people tread carefully around a sleeping, dangerous beast. Kiersten walked through the rooms like a worried sprite, touching objects, looking at them, thinking, pausing now and then — but taking almost nothing with her in the end. My mother left behind many beautiful dresses and cute shoes, as well as the silver hairbrush she loved so much. Oh, we didn't even take the masterfully carved wooden horse she had given me for my birthday! "It's too big, Elsie!" she said, patting me gently on the head.
By evening, we were already on our way, bundled in the back of the carriage that traveled the old road to the Imperial City, its wheels creaking and groaning as if in sorrow. I didn't ask questions. I just sat beside her in silence, clutching a scarf that still smelled like home.
We arrived the next morning, and Kiersten rented a modest little house in the Waterfront District, right near the docks. I remember I was quite happy at first, for my mother—who hired no help—stayed home all day, taking care of me and the household. It felt special, almost like a long holiday.
Still, I sorely missed the children from the north, my old playmates, the little tribe of laughter and snow I had left behind in Bruma. Here, in this new neighborhood, I had no friends at all. I tried to make some, of course, but the children were different—nimbler, louder, and drawn to strange new things I didn't understand. They weren't interested in the old games that had once delighted me so.
I remember one time when I went outside, beautifully dressed and with a nice toy in my hand. I met a group of children from the Waterfront District and wanted to play with them. They stopped what they were doing, circled me, and one of them, a slightly older brat, proposed a new game. He asked me to give him my toy, close my eyes, cover them with my hands, and stay like that until he told me to open them.
"Then," he said with a cunning smile, "something wonderful would happen. You'll see!"
Full of joy, I did as he asked me and waited... But no one said anything, and after a while, I dared to open my eyes. I did so, a bit scared because I felt like I was breaking the rules of this new game! As you probably already guessed, no one was around me anymore—none of those children.
I was left very confused and sad; I kept asking myself, 'Where did all those children go?'
I had so wanted to play with them... to befriend them! But there was nothing I could do—they had just vanished. So I made my way home, on the verge of tears. When my mother asked about my toy, I told her the whole story. She looked at me for a long while before saying anything, and I remember how her voice trembled just a little when she finally spoke and explained what had just happened—was it anger? Or sadness? I never truly knew.
Later, after a particularly nasty day—two boys beat me up and dragged me through the mud for no reason at all—my mother no longer allowed me to go outside by myself. Not that I would've wanted to anymore because I was a good and quiet child, always yearning for the affection and friendship of my peers. And I also began to fear those strange, ragged, and unsettlingly shrewd kids.
Yet, the truth is, I never liked the Waterfront District. Ships came and went constantly; the narrow alleys teemed with drunken or rowdy sailors, and above all, there were the smells—those damp, heavy, salty odors so typical of a port serving a grand city that imported many goods and strange luxuries from overseas. For some children, such a place might have been exciting and colorful—even fun. But not for a girl like me. As I've told you, I was a shy and well-behaved little thing, and the tenderness my sweet mother, Kiersten, wrapped me in only made me even less suited for such an environment and company.
Then, at some point, my mother began going out at night. At first, she was gone only briefly. She didn't even tell me—she hoped I'd sleep peacefully and never notice. But one night, Kiersten came back to find me in tears, desperately searching the house for her.
She scooped me into her arms, kissed me, and gently brushed away the fear that had settled on my heart. That night, my mother told me she had important errands to attend to, and that sometimes, she might have to be away longer, even during the day.
I adjusted rather quickly, to be honest. After a while, she brought home a kitten to keep me company while she was gone.
Oh, how I loved that gentle little creature with all my heart! I was fascinated by her behavior—by the contrast between her calm, almost regal demeanor and the sudden, playful leaps she'd make across the room. I adored her, and I was heartbroken when my beloved little friend disappeared without a trace. But that happened sometime later...
It was during a time when my mother had to leave for several weeks. Before her departure, she packed a bundle of clothes and toys for me, locked up our house, and brought me and the kitten to stay with a young family living in the Elven Gardens District.
The couple was kind, even tender, and they did their best to make me feel welcome throughout my stay. But my cat, unaccustomed to the place, disappeared one day after we'd been playing in the garden.
I was called in for lunch, and when I returned, she was nowhere to be found.
At first, I wasn't concerned. She had wandered off before. But hours passed. Then days. And the kitten never came back. I suffered terribly when I realized I had lost her forever.
I cried endlessly, and the young woman who cared for me, moved by my distress, eventually persuaded her husband to bring home another cat. But I couldn't love this one. I simply couldn't. My heart wouldn't open to it.
And then, slowly, a chilling fear began to creep in my soul, colder and heavier than the grief for the lost kitten:
'What if my mother never returned either? Just like my kitty?'
I began to worry terribly. It felt like she had been gone for far too long. Spring had just begun when she left, and now summer had wrapped the city in its sweltering embrace!
The heat clung to everything, and through the open window, I could hear footsteps in the distance, always seeming to approach the gate.
I shuddered every time I heard them. I always hoped it was her. That any moment now, I'd be in her arms again!
But the footsteps always passed. They came and went, taking my hope with them...
My little heart pounded wildly each time the gate or the mansion door creaked open... and every time, I felt the bitter taste of disappointment and the cold fingers of fear clawing at my soul.
But then came the blessed day when my mother, Kiersten, returned! I remember it as if it happened only yesterday: she arrived dressed in a magnificent hooded robe, its fabric whitened by the dust of the Empire's roads, reeking of sweaty horse, and looking gaunt and utterly exhausted. Yet her eyes were bright, almost feverish, and sparkled wildly when I ran to her; tears, big and brilliant like tiny diamonds, welled up in them as I threw myself into her arms, laughing and crying at once.
She brought exotic and splendid gifts for the kind family who had taken me in, and gave me a wondrous toy—something I now know must have come from the remote southern islands where the Elves live.
Kiersten wept with me as I told her, sobbing, about the disappearance of our kitten. She held me close and whispered that the little creature's soul now waited for us in Nocturnal's realm, where we both, too, were destined to arrive one day.
So, for the very first time in my life, I heard Her beloved name. I paid it little mind at the time, overwhelmed as I was by joy—the formidable happiness of having my mother back, when I had truly believed her lost forever. And Kiersten never mentioned that name again. Not once, for all the days we still had to live together.
In the end, without sitting down to the meal our hosts had kindly prepared, without even resting or washing the dust from her face, my mother gathered up my belongings, and together, we returned to our little cottage in the Waterfront District.
Once there, we resumed our accustomed life, and everything went on quietly and uneventfully—no great joys, no great sorrows—until I turned seven, and my mother got married.
I don't remember much about my stepfather, except that he always seemed very busy and was rarely at home. I can't even summon a clear image of his face, but I'm absolutely convinced that if I were to see him again, I would recognize him immediately. I can still hear his voice, deep and somber, recall his steady, confident gait, and feel his somewhat rough and careless pats.
But that's all. Because something broke inside me soon after—something shattered and died in that silent, hollow time when the worst thing that could ever happen to me did.
Not long after their wedding, my mother, Kiersten, was murdered in the shadowed alleys of the Waterfront District, and perhaps my mind is simply trying to protect me, stubbornly refusing to reveal what lies concealed by the dark veil of despair.
I cannot remember anything from the days that followed, and I can only assume my stepfather disappeared, vanished like mist into the rainy, cloud-choked sky... I never saw him again. And I know, with utter certainty, that he was not there at her funeral.
It was autumn back then. That, I recall clearly! I also remember a modest grave, fresh and covered by leaves of all colors, wet and pale beneath the gray light that fell from an ashen sky.
On that grave, there was a stone, plain, gray, and narrow; nameless and without any marks or signs. A little girl was there, embracing the stone. She was clinging to the cold slab with small hands and lingered there, soaked and weeping, all day long. And the wind carried away a faint chanting, strange and like from another world:
The lone coffin slept profoundly,
'Neath funeral garb and leaden bloom.
I stood, a shadow by the grave—
The wind howled softly through the gloom,
And garlands rustled in their tomb.