Chapter Text
As the Thalmor rose to power she prayed, not to her husband’s Aedra or her race’s Tribunal or her ancestors’ Good Daedra, but to the ancient Mer she had known; the King of Worms who had aided her in acquiring this marriage. In the shadows of night Morgiah looked to the purple moon and begged Him, not for her own or her husband’s safety, but for her two children.
When the Thalmor finally came, she had expected a swift death. When she woke, chained in a dungeon she had expected worse. But when they questioned her on the whereabouts of her children, she knew the King of Worms had answered her prayers.
“Remember our orders?” The Anchorite looks at his two followers.
“To fetch the children, and the mother if possible, but to be as discreet as we can,” the pair of Necromancers chorus. The Anchorite offers a small nod of approval and taps his staff’s butt on the packed earth of the alleyway.
They move out, slipping easily between shadows through a combination of their dark robes and magic. The gate guards are dispatched before they can realize the danger and scaling the walls to the children’s room is made simple with a bit of levitation. The window, left open for the warm summer breeze, is no trouble and the Anchorite directs the adepts with gestures as he moves to check the interior door.
As the Adepts Silence the children, the Anchorite hears someone outside and motions the other two to hide as he slips behind the door, a spell readied.
An Altmer, also in dark robes though his are trimmed with gold, peeks into the room. He takes in the apparently sleeping children before seemingly considering it safe to enter, an enchanted dagger in one hand. The Anchorite casts his spell and the Thalmor is dead before he can scream, a freshly filled Black Soul Gem in the necromancer’s robes.
“Take them,” the Anchorite hisses. “We have no time for the mother. Back to the Nest; He is waiting.” The Adepts nod, lifting the bound children as the Anchorite takes up the rear to ward off any pursuers.
The robed figure stares as His cultists finish their report, the children trembling on the cave floor before him. “The Thalmor will track us for your idiocy,” the cultists say nothing, striving not to make eye contact with their Lord. “Pack everything you can not replace, gather your fellows and return here in an hour; we are leaving.”
“What of the children, my Lord?” The Anchorite speaks nervously, as he should.
“I am perfectly capable of watching over two children,” the Lich snaps. “Leave.” The cultists scamper from the chamber. As the Lich kneels before the children, He conjures a Bound dagger and cuts away their gags. “Will you run?” He attempts to speak non threateningly, but it’s rather difficult with glowing eyes and a form obscured by bloodied robes. The children stare, so he explains matter of factly, “there is nowhere for you to go; the Thalmor will search for you and there is no place safe for you in Summerset, let alone Firsthold.”
The children nod and as the Lich removes the ties from their hands, He notices the tears in their eyes. “Did they hurt you?”
“No,” the boy says in a near imperceptible whisper. “Who are you?”
He stands to his full height and spreads his arms before he answers. “I am Mannimarco, the First Lich, King of Worms, and God of Necromancy.”
“Why take us?” The boy clutches his younger sister to his chest.
“Your mother asked me to; we were friends before I completed my ascension. It is sad she could not be saved as well.”
“We won’t see momma again?” The girl asks, voice trembling.
“No, in all likelihood she’s dead,” there is some confusion in Mannimarco’s voice, as if he considers this to be common sense.
The girl bursts into tears, but her elder brother fights them back admirably and asks a final question, “where are we going?”
“Cyrodiil. My servants have bases there, you shall be safe.”