Chapter Text
4E 185
Drusba yawned into her fist as an argument raged behind the closed door of the administrator’s office, trying not to think about her empty stomach or lack of sleep. It was Heart’s Day, her twelfth birthday, and her fate was being decided by the bureaucrats who ran the children’s programme in the Workhouse. Cassio Crassius wanted to send her to work as a potgirl in the Legion’s kitchens where the last of the Aurelii could vanish into obscurity but the Knight of the Divine who arrived today was adamant that she enter the Temple School as a novice. She wasn’t sure what she wanted herself because it had been made clear for as long as she could remember that her wishes meant nothing in the greater scheme of things.
The thick oak door muffled the words exchanged between the Knight of the Divine and the overseer but the heated tone was clear. She’d been brought here before breakfast by one of the caretakers and left to stand in the corridor while the conflict persisted. By now, she’d catalogued every stain on the plaster and every scratch on the wooden floor while her feet ached after standing for hours. What illumination there was flickered as the rushlights flickered, the stink of tallow filling the air, and the noise from the other parts of the Workhouse was muted. Without the schedule of her day from dawn to dusk, she couldn’t determine what time it was beyond still daylight because the rushlights hadn’t been replaced. One of her regular tasks was to peel the rushes and dip them in the old tallow from the kitchen before lining them up to dry. Nothing went to waste here with the scraps of the previous day’s cooking going back into the soup pot for tomorrow’s fare and what was scraped from the bowls served to the chickens kept for their eggs.
Her mind skittered from possibility to possibility as the argument continued behind the closed door. Life as a Legion kitchen servant would be hard, she knew, because the caretakers and administrators reminded them that their regular chores were light compared to the work expected of them outside the Workhouse. Drusba didn’t want to think about that because she worked from an hour after dawn to just past dusk in the most thankless dirty jobs that could be found with her only breaks being meals, lessons and sleep. When she’d asked once why she had to labour so hard when everyone else had lighter chores, she was told that she had to atone for her existence as one of the vile Daedra-worshipping Aurelii who’d nearly destroyed the Empire after the Great War. That was the day she stopped believing that life was fair and just so long as one followed the Ten Commands. She was nine at the time.
Why does the Knight of the Divine care what happens to me? she wondered as time dragged on. Every year from about the age of five to just this summer past, she was brought before a Paladin and forced to renounce the Daedra for the umpteenth time, bathed in the golden light of holy magic until she was pronounced cleansed. Her foremother was supposedly a Daedroth who called herself the Madgoddess, once known as Aurelia Northstar, a gladiator who lucked into playing a pivotal role during the Oblivion Crisis. According to the adults, she was tainted down to the bone and the best she could do for the Empire was to die. Whenever she was sick, she was left to suffer and expected to work unless she was literally too ill to move. No one loved her. No one, if they were loyal to the Empire, ever would.
She should have had a meal by now. Gruel, made from oats and water, with a cup of skimmed milk. Or perhaps the hours had advanced enough for it to be noon and the lunch of thin vegetable soup served with a disk of flatbread given to the others. It was still too early for the dinner of vegetable stew made with bean curd. Water was served regularly and everyone was expected to keep themselves hydrated. The privies were the best that money could provide to avoid (more) pestilence wracking the Workhouse population. Her stomach was empty and her mouth was dry but she knew better than to go searching for water. If she was found absent from where she’d been left, she’d be punished and sent to the Legion for certain.
Priests eat, right? Drusba remembered something about alms but every cleric she’d seen visit the Workhouse had been well-fed. Some had even bordered on plump in comparison to the orphans, especially her. She couldn’t imagine herself serving the gods when she’d figured that they cared about her even less than the mortals but the thought of regular meals was enough to make her wish to join the Temple School. Short of daily beatings, it couldn’t be worse than the Workhouse.
Her fingers picked at the edges of the canvas rucksack she’d been given this morning by a caretaker to put her few belongings in. Every Workhouse ward received a cutlery set made from horn, a copy of Eight Divines, Ten Commands, a wooden comb and a yearly set of garments woven from thin, slubby, undyed wool. At twelve, she’d outgrown last year’s clothing, her wrists and ankles sticking out. If she went to the Temple School, then she’d be given a brown uniform to wear with an amulet of the Divine she was to serve in the final year. She supposed she’d be given to Mara as the Benevolence was the most tolerant of the religious orders.
That would be better, surely, than scrubbing pots for the rest of her life.
One of the caretakers, a heavy-shouldered Nord woman who had little nice to say about anyone, passed by with an irritated look at her and Drusba lowered her eyes quickly. Any sort of sass was swiftly punished and so she’d learned to speak only when spoken to. Sometimes she wondered why she wasn’t just killed as a toddler instead of allowed to reach the edge of womanhood.
Silence reigned behind the door and her heartbeat quickened. Had her fate been decided? Would she be sent to the Temple School or be dispatched to the Legion kitchens? Or would the Penitus Oculatus come and throw her into the deep cells with the black beetles so that everyone forgot about her? It had been threatened a few times whenever she disobeyed.
The door opened and the Knight emerged. Sinewy and serpentine as only an Argonian could be with pebbled grey-green skin seamed with scars, rust-red eyes and a dainty muzzle, they were androgynous in their steel scalemail with the white tabard embroidered with a red diamond. But the warhammer across their back was hefty enough for a Nord or Orc to wield and their muscles were thick for their size. There were ten Knights, one for each race, and they served all the gods instead of just one like an ordinary Paladin. Drusba knew that this one was called “Seeks-Justice” and was known for their wit and intelligence.
“Well, it took some doing, but you’re coming to the Temple School with me,” they said as Cassio Crassius fumed in the doorway of his office. “It’s just in the next District over, so we don’t have far to walk.”
Drusba wasn’t sure whether to feel elated or concerned as she fell in behind the Argonian. Change had come, as she’d half-hoped, but there was always the fear that it could be worse. If she was tainted, as the adults claimed, would even the gods turn their gazes from her? Heresy and blasphemy were capital offences, after all, and everyone wished she was dead.
Seeks-Justice didn’t bother with a farewell, instead setting a brisk pace that led them through the corridors of the Workhouse to its entrance. Since arriving here, Drusba had left it three times, and the commotion of the Waterfront District was almost too much for her to bear as they stepped outside. But she’d learned to endure and obey in silence and so she followed the Knight through the crowded muddy streets towards the bridge that led across the Lake Rumare to the gates.
It was far sooner than she expected when they arrived at the Temple District. Constructed from stone in every hue possible, the District smelt of green things and water, as the streets were scraped clean by servants in the tabards of the holy orders. Seeks-Justice strode towards a large three-storey grey building that lay beside the Temple of the Divines. Though there was the noise of the crowd, it was underlaid by a droning hum punctuated with the chime of golden bells from Restoration magic. Novices in the plain brown uniforms came from and went into the building, some of them wearing amulets of the god they’d be serving on graduation.
They entered, the various novices bowing or saluting as the Knight went past, and Drusba found herself in a building of ornate stained-glass windows, fine tapestries and statuary depicting the Divines and their legends. She followed Seeks-Justice down the hall towards what looked like a row of offices with various names on the plaques. They stopped at “Cassia Philomena” and knocked on the door. A woman’s rich contralto invited them inside.
Even if the lily carvings and graceful nude statue of Dibella didn’t give it away, the cream, gold, violet and dusk rose vestments and amulet showed who this Priestess served. She was a Nibenese woman with handsome features, brown hair and dark eyes, and warm olive skin who carried herself with an aching grace. Drusba felt ugly, grimy and graceless compared to her.
“What took you so long?” she asked Seeks-Justice with some exasperation in her voice.
“Cassio Crassius put up a fight,” the Argonian replied, giving an aggravated sigh. “He was bound and determined to send her to the Legion as a drudge.”
Cassia grimaced. “Irkand, no doubt. Paranoid… Well.” She inhaled deeply and exhaled forcefully before looking Drusba over. “What’s your name, child?”
“Aurelia Drusba, ma’am,” she replied, keeping her eyes downcast.
The Priestess used several words unbecoming of her holy status that described Irkand’s dietary preferences in scatological detail, earning a laugh from Seeks-Justice. “You are most certainly not being called that!” she finally said. “Justice, has she been baptised?”
“Not to my knowledge,” the Argonian said softly.
“Well, she certainly won’t be baptised with that name,” Cassia said firmly. “We’re legally allowed to change our novices’ names if they are unsuitable for their vocation. I don’t know where you’re going to end up, child, but you won’t be going there as Drusba.”
“I suppose she’s going to get one of those virtue names you Cyrods are so fond of,” Seeks-Justice observed.
“No, we’ve covered all ten virtues – exhaustively – and it’s getting a little ridiculous how many of each one there is in the School,” Cassia said, rolling her eyes. “Most Nord names are, frankly, hideous to the ear and I can’t think of anything appropriate from Yoku.”
Drusba looked at her bare toes. Her sandals were thin enough that she could feel the thick pile of the rug beneath her feet. She liked the idea of a new name but she couldn’t think of anything to call herself. Almost anything had to be better than ‘absurd’ backwards though.
“You don’t need to,” Seeks-Justice said quietly. “Marius had already prepared for this day and left the appropriate paperwork with the Knights of the Divine. Her true name is Callaina for the colour of her eyes.”
“’Blue-green’,” Cassia mused. “Perhaps a touch vain but it’s certainly accurate. They’re a beautiful shade like the seawater over the golden sands of the Gold Coast.”
“Then Callaina it is,” the Argonian told her. “We should get the baptism underway before Irkand realises what’s going on and tries to stop it.”
“He’s welcome to try,” Cassia said firmly. “I’ve got a Knight of the Lily who’d be happy to give him a slap upside the head.”
“Well, that’s descriptive,” Seeks-Justice noted. “Let’s get it done.”
Callaina followed them into the chapel. It was a better name than Drusba.
