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The door is heavy and they are so tired and their many wounds ache. It squeaks as they push it aside and the dull thud reverberates in the tunnel. The step into this chamber isn’t steep, but they watch their footing anyways, their free hand steadying them against the wall. They haven’t looked up yet- their head is so heavy- when they hear words.
"It began here. It will end here. Have you any parting words? Or would you prefer to skip the speeches, and get to our business. You are the challenger here, after all. So to you goes the courtesy of the first blow."
The voice is familiar, so familiar, it hurts their heart. They look up.
There is the gold-masked dreamfigure, an alien that is yet so familiar to-
“Voryn?”
The figure stills, mask expressionless, long clawed hands at its side. Chest barred and warped, a scar situated under the sternum. The only sound of breathing in the chamber is their own.
“Voryn,”
They cannot move either, gaze locked into the red pits of the mask. Sunder and Wraithguard weigh heavy in their hand and Keening at their hip. They can almost imagine Moon-and-Star burning through the chain around their neck.
“You,” and they somehow bark a laugh, a grin of hysteria cracking across their face, the absurdity of it all, “you got taller.”
Dagoth Ur, Voryn, doesn’t seem to know what to make of that. To make of this- this battered and bruised and bleeding figure hunched before him, a hysteric grin and a surreal comment. His name, his true name, said to him for the first time in millennia.
“Or- or, maybe I got shorter,” They’re dizzy from a million different things. Their head is cotton, they are not themself but rather themselves, a conflicting merger. Humor in place of fear, that was not Nerevar’s, and the determination to consciousness, that was not Zirith’s, but the ache in their shared chest was from both of them.
“Are you really Nerevar reborn?” Dagoth Ur speaks with composure he is not sure he feels.
The Nerevarine has to think- part of them says yes, yes by grace of gods and fate, I am Nerevar reborn but another part wants to say no, for they are not Nerevar reborn, they are Nerevar and another wants to say no, and yes, and I don’t know, because their head is heavy and their mind is cotton and ash and the self is a sandgrain thing that slips through the fingers.
“Would,” their grin had faltered, “would you believe me if I said that I don’t know- would you believe us if we said we don’t know?” They’ve stepped down into the chamber fully now, leaning against the wall.
Before Dagoth Ur has a moment to think- “I don’t know Voryn, sweet Voryn, we don’t know.” The grin has faded to a sad smile. “Have you, have you ever been two minds in one mind? That was rhetorical, of course you haven’t.” A laugh, their back begins to slide down the wall, “It is a complicated thing, I remember the ship I was placed upon as I arrived in Balmora, my first sight of Morrowind this mountain that I already knew so well, I remember days spent in Mournhold where I have never been, I remember the long-dead from yesterday-” they’re sitting now, Sunder at their side and a hand across their face, tears beginning to track through the ash caked on their cheeks.
“Indoril Nerevar wouldn’t break down like this, but I am not Indoril Nerevar, and Zirith Sailan shouldn’t ache at the sight of you, but I am not Zirith Sailan.”
“I am so sorry, sweet Voryn, we are so sorry.”
They fall silent, exhausted, the ground rough beneath them and the wall hard against their back.
If this is a trick, Dagoth Ur doesn’t know what to make of it. It doesn’t feel like a trick. It feels like a pain in his warped chest, tar nestled within his ribs. His mask betrays no emotion as he takes slow steps forward. He is acutely aware of himself in a way he hasn’t been for centuries- the rough texture of the cavern floor against his bare feet, the cool metal resting against his face and chest, the faint echoing clinks of dwemer machinery suddenly apparent.
“Oh, Nerevar,” he breathes, slowly folding into a kneel in front of them. His hands are clawed and awkward and not made for the gentle touch he places on their shoulder.
Sunder is on the ground now, and Keening rests in its sheath at an awkward angle. They have no means of truly protecting themself, but they don’t think they care. Instead, they lean forward slightly, resting their head against his chest. Their shoulders shake quietly and thoughts are both a painful too-sharp jab and cotton soft fog that refuses their grasp.
“Voryn,”
Dagoth Ur, Voryn, slowly raises his other arm to their back and pulls them into a soft embrace. They are so small, he thinks absently, remembering the imposing figure of his Nerevar. They look nothing like Nerevar did, grey skin as opposed to Nerevar’s gold, curly dark hair streaked with grey instead of a mohawk in a shock of pure white. They don’t look like him, but they aren’t alien, their presence is the same he foggily remembers basking in long ago.
He registers them whispering something frantic,
“I’m so sorry, I never wanted to hurt you, this is all my fault,” and he remembers his first death, although he never forgot it. It was some hundred feet away in the next chamber. He almost feels the scar in his chest throb, the heat of the lava below and the thrum of the Heart. He recalls Nerevar’s pleading, the look on his face when the knife sunk into Voryn’s chest.
Could he not see then that the Tools were power? A way to protect Resdayn, to protect their people. Could he still not see that now? Despite the encroachment of the Empire, the corruption of the Tribunal?
He feels them shudder against his chest and pushes those thoughts away, it is not the time for them.
“I am here, Nerevar, shh,” he whispers softly, he had never been one to comfort others but he must try. Right now, he knows he must try.