Chapter Text
Every day in Understone Keep is the same, beginning with waking up early on a bed of semi-dry straw. You have no time to linger in your sleepiness, stumbling to your feet and brushing yourself off. You quickly tie your apron over your homespun dress as you dash off to begin your day of serving.
Arriving in the kitchen is a mad scramble of persons clamoring, ordering, grabbing, spilling, and some already dumping plates into the washtub. One servant endlessly slices bread for all the Keep to eat, and you have to fight for a good piece to make your plates. You give the usual greetings to the usual people as you double check the order: one with two pieces of bacon, two pieces of toast with jam, a handful of nuts, and preserved strawberries; the other two plates have exactly half the amount of food.
You arrive at the apartment promptly, but despite the guards standing outside, you must deliver your master’s meal first. Ondolemar is already awake, fully dressed, and answering letters by candlelight.
“You’re late,” might as well be hello for him.
“Yes sir,” you say softly as you place his meal beside him. If you were truly late, he would have bothered to look up, but as it stands he begins picking at the plate of doubled portions.
Before you can dip outside, he says, “Fetch me a second candle. This one is quite low. After you feed my guards, of course.”
“Yes sir,” you reply obediently. The guards steadfastly refuse to speak to you or even share their names, snatching their plates from you in the usual haughty manner. They’re not your charge, so you could care less, dashing back inside to quickly fulfill the second request.
“Tell me: do you find it reasonable that the ration of candles is so low in such a dingy place?” he asks as he dips his quill into his ink well.
Servants only get the stubs of the master’s candles, but you answer, “No sir,” as you place the new candle in its golden holder and gently light the wick for him. As you settle it on his desk, you take a quick glance at the letter he’s writing, unable to tell if it’s for a fellow justiciar, his mother, or a lover. Not because you can’t read Aldmeris, no, because the wording is so flowery you can’t even tell what kind of flattery it’s meant to be.
Not that it’s your business. Your business is pulling down his hood to reveal his thin, almost translucent hair fixed the way you left it the previous night. You undo the tie, setting it silently on the desk before taking his comb from your apron and setting to work styling it for the day. Your master is self-conscious of his thin hair, but most men at one hundred would kill to have even this much. (You can already hear his voice, “I am a mer, not a man, and you shan’t forget it!”)
The whole act is made pointless by the hood he wears all day, but you do what is expected without protest or question. The gilded comb glides through the thin strands, pulling them back into a small ponytail fastened with the same golden tie. He ignores you all the while, a sign you’ve done an adequate job.
After you lift his hood once more, you step to the side to wait patiently for master to finish eating. You know he never eats the bacon, and always leaves a piece of bread, but you need that dismissive wave of the hand before you can take it away. When he shoos you off wordlessly, you whisk the flatware away and stride out the door. The guards carelessly toss their empty plates at you, but you catch them all the same with the solace that you get to eat master’s leftover breakfast as soon as you’re out of eyesight.
A quick trip the kitchen to drop off the plates is followed by a dash to the water pump. Even if master’s room has running water, the house steward insists all water for scrubbing be taken from this leaking, old pump. Grabbing two buckets from the usual stack on the way in, you catch up with those waiting to draw their water, some already soaking and filthy from laundry or hard scrubbing.These moments of amity are sweet relief, but no one has time to linger. Soon you’re hauling two heavy buckets of waterup the stairs to your master’s empty apartment.
Understone Keep is dark, damp, and prone to mold, and elves are prim, proper, and always clean, hence having to scrub every stone surface in his apartment every day. Today was a double burden day, meaning you would have to do his laundry as well. The lye burns your hands, but you remind yourself that you’re lucky not to do this day-in, day-out, every hour of every day until your back is a single stiff joint.
Once the place is gleaming and drying, you re-tie your apron on and rush back to the opposite side of the keep to return the buckets to their resting place. Despite your path avoiding the places where nobles and dignitaries loiter, it seems Master Ondolemar always finds you. Upon assessing your appearance as slovenly, sloppy, sopping or perhaps some meri adjective that really smarted, he would always wave his hands and a sudden heat overcomes you, leaving your dress totally dry. You always curtsy, genuinely grateful not to shiver for hours in a wet shift, but he never does anything but sneer.
Lunchtime is brutal on the kitchen staff, half of whom are already occupied preparing dinner. You take over the role of the endless bread slicer as bawdy jokes, plates, scraps, and gossip flow through the kitchen. Your master only eats twice a day, but the human servants beg and scramble for the heels for bread you leave behind, and remember how lucky you are to be so well-fed.
As the rush dies down, you brush off your hands and hurry out the door to find your master in the jarl’s chamber. Ondolemar is easy to find,standing head and shoulders above everyone but his guard. Before you even manage a greeting, he thrusts a shopping list in your face. You carefully look it over, as he tends to forget at least one thing purposefully to see if you’re paying attention.
You ask softly, “Sir, you are running low on dried lavender-”
“My! Look at you, almost worth your wages. Yes, add that to the list too.”
You quickly dive into your apron for a small pencil and add it to the list right there. “And should I check with the trader for a new book for your library, sir?”
“A book?” he scoffs, “What ever makes you think I would want to read something as coarse at Nordic ‘literature’?”
“To compare it to the greatness of the Altmer?” you offer weakly.
The guards shoot you an acidic look while Ondolemar gives and forced and mocking laugh. “If you find a particularly compelling tome, feel free. But if I have already read it, or I do not like it, it will come out of your pay.”
“Never mind, sir.”
“That’s what I like about you. You know when to give up.”
Ondolemar may take every chance to insult you, but you’re so lucky to leave the keep, breathe fresh air, see the sky, hear relative silence as the noise of the tone is released into the open instead of amplified in a stone coffin. Your feet practically fly over the stones as you flit from shop to shop, eager to hear the latest gossip and fashions. No one likes your master, but few take it out on you, and some people even ask how you are!
Stepping back into the dim keep puts a certain weight on your shoulders. As per protocol,you bring your purchases to Ondolemar for inspection, to which he points out every imperfection and berates you for them. The candles are not perfectly straight (they never are). Yes, the lavender lost some petals on the way (it’s dried). But you just nod over and over saying “Yes sir. I understand sir.”
After his scolding ends, you hand him the list of books, saying, “I thought you perhaps haven’t read-”
“I’ve read all of those, twice, except the last one, which barely qualifies as writing.”
“Yes sir,” you say, curtsying. He waves his hand, approving you plea for dismissal.
But as you walk away he calls out: “Miss?”
“Yes sir?”
“Your penmanship is terrible.”
Reminding yourself that you’re lucky to be literate at all, you deliver the supplies to his room before going to the coop on the roof to collect the post. Pigeons are domestic mail from within Skyrim, and typically the man who tends to the birds will collect them as they come. The hawks, however, are from Summerset, and are well-trained to only let a permitted recipient gather the mail. The first time you tried to complete this task you were nearly mauled, by by now the birds tentatively allow you to take the scrolls and small packages from their feet.
Now that that is dealt with, you’re back to your master’s room, opening the bundles as prescribed. Each contains payments for every Talos worshiper executed, or expenses reimbursed. Rumor has it that master makes you handle the money alone because it is will always be the perfect excuse to dismiss you should he ever need to. That thought always motivates you to go over everything in his room once more and make sure it is in order, although he is sure to point out what is wrong.
Sorting through the mail is more difficult than mere counting, as you must rank each sender and arrange the mail as such. Pigeon mail is quite easy to get through. The indignant letters from families of executed worshipers, unfortunately, must be burned. Then comes the tip-offs, usually with no name on the front, followed by anyone seeming important. Hawk mail is… a mess. Every elf has about seventy-two potential titles, and understanding the complex social web is so impossible that even Ondolemar does not expect that you to get it right.
These tasks finally complete, you lock his apartment door behind you and run off to eat dinner with the other servants. The usual ale and news circulates the tables: The jarl is sleeping with so-and-so, his wife is sleeping with so-and-so’s husband, the blacksmith is skimming gold, and so on until the stock of true rumors run dry and the fables begin. The laughter flows as freely as the stories, but the joy is short-lived, as everyone must return to their duties before the jarl’s feast is over.
As you climb the stairs once more, you remind yourself that this is the last time you will go up them today, and mark yourself lucky. After unlocking the apartment again, you leave the door open and enter the bathroom, doubly lucky that the Dwemer left behind running water and taps. As the tub fills your stir it with your hand and reminds yourself that it’snot as strict as Riften, not as dower as Falkreath, not as brutal as Solitude, not as cold as Winterhold, yet… You shake your head. It could be far worse, especially if you’re caught slacking. You prepare master’s sleeping gown (finer than your own dress) and put away what laundry is already dry. To the bath water you add the usual salts, the usual herbs, and to you the usual prick of anxiety as Ondolemar enters the apartment.
His guards remain outside as Ondolemar rifles through his mail, rearranging a few without comment as you prepare your usual seat by the bookshelf. Some of the letters remain on the desk, but he hands you a stack as he walks into the bathroom. The entirely opaque glass and gold door shuts, but the apartment door remains open, to let any passerby or nosy guard witness the scene for themselves and know there will never, ever be any impropriety in his apartment.
“You may begin,” he says dryly.
Sitting outside, you read the letters out loud. Most written by Nords are clearly someone deep in a petty feud who wants their opponent taken out any way possible. Most of those are burned for being baseless, but a few have enough proof to merit some kind of investigation, and are set aside for him.
The letters in Common are quickly exhausted, and soon you’re stammering through Aldmeris, being chastised at every step.
“A gennye-i av tata av-”
“By the eight, stop! Spell out the verb, slowly.”
“G-E-N-N-Y-E dash I.”
“Burn it.”
“Excuse me sir?”
“Did I falter? Burn the letter and its envelope immediately!”
“Yes sir,” you answer, not daring to ask what that extra syllable meant. “Gennye” is a very polite way to say give, and extra suffixes usually denote a further level of formality, so perhaps it’s somehow insulting...? But then why would he not send a retort?
You torch the envelope first to give you time to study the letter. There are many words you don’t know, but it seems to be a… marriage proposal!? Yes, you’re certain it’s a marriage proposal written by the prospective bride’s father. You suppose destroying all evidence it ever existed is an unequivocal “no”.
“That was the last letter you gave to me. Would you like me to take any from the desk? It seems you have a lot of mail from Summerset.”
He groans wearily. “Considering my birthday comes by month end, undoubtedly. Leave them, miss.”
“Yes sir. Would you like me to read you anything else in the meantime?”
“Yes, please resume your study of Coristir’s Etiquette Guides. I believe you were on Volume IV.”
“Yes, sir,” you reply, hiding your disappointment. You remind yourself that you’re lucky to never have a pile of mending, and reading a wretched volume of the most arrogant etiquette guide is better than working the furnace. Still, it’s so pretentious. Half the time, you want to throw the book down and yell, “Have you considered that Altmer are not the center of the universe?” but, you don’t. You won’t. You’re very, very lucky.
So many maids would have been coaxed (or forced) into the bathing chamber to “help their lord be clean” or whatever nonsense excuse. You glance out the open bedroom door, you see Merilde hobbling by, one hand on her back, fully pregnant by a man who will, at best, pay to keep it a secret. At worst… you shudder for her. As snide as your master is, there are far worse men to serve, far worse roles to play. Being looked down on as pile of dirt is far luckier than being looked upon as a pillar of beauty.
After a half hour, Ondolemar emerges wearing his fine silk dressing gown. His thin hair is already half dry as he settles into his desk chair to read something about the arcane, as he always does before bed. You clean up his dirty laundry and sweep up the ashes as your daily routine prescribes. The next step is the last task of the day, combing his hair and setting it for sleeping. You’re careful not to be seen rushing, despite your aching feet and weary body.
“Aren’t you going to ask it?” he remarks as you begin to put the tie around his hair. “Your daily allotted stupid question?”
You oblige him, kindly inquiring, “Are you excited for your one hundred and third birthday, master?”
“Absolutely not. The elders always told me that anything after one hundred is simply a slow slide to death and they are absolutely correct. Vultures that have not cared or written in months shall be at my side, begging for their petty trinkets, baubles, blessings, and pardons. It disgusts me.”
Of course, he’s referring to the altmeri tradition of receiving gifts for birthdays before the centennial, and giving gifts for birthdays thereafter. You reply sympathetically, “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Such is wretched mortality. Are you finished? Be off then.”
“Good night, master,” you say with a curtsy.
“Good night, maid,” he murmurs, sparing you a quick glance.
Once downstairs in the servant’s quarters, you collapse into the straw, aching all over. A quick glance at those that have been chopping wood or heating coals all day leaves you grateful once more, but you can’t help but think of a softer bed, a softer master, a softer life…