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The earliest years of his childhood were lonely ones. You would expect nothing less of an orphaned child, for the life of an orphaned child is defined above all else by what he lacks. Absent those filial bonds that anchor him to life, love, and shelter, it falls to the village he was born in, and the kindest people in it, to provide for this lost child. And though every child needs a village, a village cannot suffice on its own.
Yet there are worse parents than the Imperial City, and few who value kindness more than the Imperial priesthood. And so, on a chill autumn evening in the waning years of the Third Era, when a newborn Dunmer was left cold and crying on the steps of the Cult-run orphanage of the Imperial City, the child could take some solace in the fact that the Abbess's scouring of the stubborn cracks in the Temple floor had brought her near enough to the door to hear him over the storm. Thank Stendarr for small mercies, at least.
He had been left alone in the shivering winds with little to mark or identify him - not even a name. Only the mark of a black hand inked into his tender skin, and the sign of the cursed unstars that had crossed the sky on the night of his birth: the Serpent conquering the Tower. No matter. If he had no name, the priests would give him one. And if he had no home, the priests would do the best they could.
One could do a hell of a lot worse.
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Mind, one could also do a whole hell of a lot better. The orphanage had always been blessed with more children than money. The meals grew more meager as the year inched forward, despite the priests' best efforts to conserve food and insistence on donations of money and on food that will not spoil. However much they scraped and begged for alms, there always seemed to be more children left behind by tragedy and neglect. The Imperial Simulacrum of Jagar Tharn had ravaged the Empire, and left too many children without fathers.
Garyn - for this is what the priests had named the boy - would certainly have no shortage of company in this place. Yet even in a world full of outcasts and unfortunates, there were days when the child would feel that he was the most forsaken child of all. As he grew, he only felt it more. So many children, but so few of them elves. He still remembers the history lessons, when the priests would teach of the cruel whip-hands of the Ayleid slave drivers in the days before the Alessian Rebellion. How all the eyes in the room would turn to him, and how they would narrow when they mentioned Morrowind's special exemption to the wise and merciful Empire's abolition of that abominable institution.
It was on days like this when Garyn learned to fight back - with his words, and with his fists.
Still, in one regard, he was better off - he had never known his parents. He never knew it better than on those days when they brought in new war orphans, and he saw the looks on their faces. Yes, he was lucky. At least he didn't remember any faces he could miss. At least he hadn't known what it was to live outside the walls of the orphanage. And on those midsummer nights when the children would struggle, scramble, and claw for that last scrap of bread or spoonful of stew, at least he had someone other than the the gods to blame for his hunger.
What friends he did make, he made on those nights.
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Of course, we don't remember days and nights of our childhood so much as we remember moments. There are things - words, faces, the names of monks and even old friends - that Garyn has long forgotten. But whatever the reason, he remembers gathering flowers and mushrooms for Brother Gaius.
Every time, Gaius would give him the same warnings and instructions - which mushrooms aided in curing disease, which ones aided in healing wounds, the number of leaves the poisonous plants had, how much of each he would need for his potions, and (most importantly) the different means of harvesting the shelf and the cup of a Green Stain fungus.
He weaved and dashed through the city - through the massed crowds, teeming streets, and filthy alleys; up and over the city walls to the outside of the city, to the base of the wall where the mosses and grass grew. It was the closest to a quiet place as there was in the Imperial City. As far from the center of the city as he was, he always had the White Gold Tower as a beacon to guide him back. It loomed hundreds of feet above the radial city beneath it like the hub of a great Wheel, as though the whole world turned around it. Garyn would keep the hour of the day by the sun's position in relation to it. Under the blazing light of midday it looked like a great letter "I," asserting itself against an infinite sky.
He made his way back quickly, hoping that Gaius would let him help with the mixing this time. Invariably, he would shoo him off and tell him to go play or kill rats or whatever it was elf-children did.
Yes, indeed. One could imagine far worse, as far as childhoods go.
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Yet some childhoods end sooner than others. At the orphanage, the children of the Wars of the Simulacrum rarely had many days of it left after puberty. The faster the children grew, the sooner they became too old for the Cult to care for. And Garyn had grown unusually quickly for an elf. By the time he was thirteen, he was too big, and he ate too much food.
It was frequent enough in these times that the priests could scarcely bring themselves to weep anymore. They offered what advice they could. He could find other forsaken orphans and band together with them. Perhaps if he worked hard enough, and came upon an incredible stroke of good fortune, he could find a trade. But he shouldn't count on it. Whatever his age might be, Garyn was a man now.
Young Garyn offered not a word in protest. He knew it was of no use. He gathered what belongings he had, bid goodbye to his friends, and left the orphanage, never to return. It wasn't until he was a hundred steps down the avenue that he paused. His city looked so strange to him now.
He thought of the flowers that grew outside the wall, and finally wept.
Yet there are worse parents than the Imperial City, and few who value kindness more than the Imperial priesthood. And so, on a chill autumn evening in the waning years of the Third Era, when a newborn Dunmer was left cold and crying on the steps of the Cult-run orphanage of the Imperial City, the child could take some solace in the fact that the Abbess's scouring of the stubborn cracks in the Temple floor had brought her near enough to the door to hear him over the storm. Thank Stendarr for small mercies, at least.
He had been left alone in the shivering winds with little to mark or identify him - not even a name. Only the mark of a black hand inked into his tender skin, and the sign of the cursed unstars that had crossed the sky on the night of his birth: the Serpent conquering the Tower. No matter. If he had no name, the priests would give him one. And if he had no home, the priests would do the best they could.
One could do a hell of a lot worse.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Mind, one could also do a whole hell of a lot better. The orphanage had always been blessed with more children than money. The meals grew more meager as the year inched forward, despite the priests' best efforts to conserve food and insistence on donations of money and on food that will not spoil. However much they scraped and begged for alms, there always seemed to be more children left behind by tragedy and neglect. The Imperial Simulacrum of Jagar Tharn had ravaged the Empire, and left too many children without fathers.
Garyn - for this is what the priests had named the boy - would certainly have no shortage of company in this place. Yet even in a world full of outcasts and unfortunates, there were days when the child would feel that he was the most forsaken child of all. As he grew, he only felt it more. So many children, but so few of them elves. He still remembers the history lessons, when the priests would teach of the cruel whip-hands of the Ayleid slave drivers in the days before the Alessian Rebellion. How all the eyes in the room would turn to him, and how they would narrow when they mentioned Morrowind's special exemption to the wise and merciful Empire's abolition of that abominable institution.
It was on days like this when Garyn learned to fight back - with his words, and with his fists.
Still, in one regard, he was better off - he had never known his parents. He never knew it better than on those days when they brought in new war orphans, and he saw the looks on their faces. Yes, he was lucky. At least he didn't remember any faces he could miss. At least he hadn't known what it was to live outside the walls of the orphanage. And on those midsummer nights when the children would struggle, scramble, and claw for that last scrap of bread or spoonful of stew, at least he had someone other than the the gods to blame for his hunger.
What friends he did make, he made on those nights.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Of course, we don't remember days and nights of our childhood so much as we remember moments. There are things - words, faces, the names of monks and even old friends - that Garyn has long forgotten. But whatever the reason, he remembers gathering flowers and mushrooms for Brother Gaius.
Every time, Gaius would give him the same warnings and instructions - which mushrooms aided in curing disease, which ones aided in healing wounds, the number of leaves the poisonous plants had, how much of each he would need for his potions, and (most importantly) the different means of harvesting the shelf and the cup of a Green Stain fungus.
He weaved and dashed through the city - through the massed crowds, teeming streets, and filthy alleys; up and over the city walls to the outside of the city, to the base of the wall where the mosses and grass grew. It was the closest to a quiet place as there was in the Imperial City. As far from the center of the city as he was, he always had the White Gold Tower as a beacon to guide him back. It loomed hundreds of feet above the radial city beneath it like the hub of a great Wheel, as though the whole world turned around it. Garyn would keep the hour of the day by the sun's position in relation to it. Under the blazing light of midday it looked like a great letter "I," asserting itself against an infinite sky.
He made his way back quickly, hoping that Gaius would let him help with the mixing this time. Invariably, he would shoo him off and tell him to go play or kill rats or whatever it was elf-children did.
Yes, indeed. One could imagine far worse, as far as childhoods go.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Yet some childhoods end sooner than others. At the orphanage, the children of the Wars of the Simulacrum rarely had many days of it left after puberty. The faster the children grew, the sooner they became too old for the Cult to care for. And Garyn had grown unusually quickly for an elf. By the time he was thirteen, he was too big, and he ate too much food.
It was frequent enough in these times that the priests could scarcely bring themselves to weep anymore. They offered what advice they could. He could find other forsaken orphans and band together with them. Perhaps if he worked hard enough, and came upon an incredible stroke of good fortune, he could find a trade. But he shouldn't count on it. Whatever his age might be, Garyn was a man now.
Young Garyn offered not a word in protest. He knew it was of no use. He gathered what belongings he had, bid goodbye to his friends, and left the orphanage, never to return. It wasn't until he was a hundred steps down the avenue that he paused. His city looked so strange to him now.
He thought of the flowers that grew outside the wall, and finally wept.