Nothing is more revolting to a person than the sorry spectacle of another person enslaved by that derivative of moon-sugar known as "skooma." And nothing is less appetizing than listening to the pathetic tales of humiliation and degradation associated with a victim of this addictive drug.
Why, then, do I force myself upon you with this extended and detailed account of my sins and sorrows?
Because I hope that by telling my tale, the hope of redemption from this sorry state shall be more widely known. And because I hope that others who have also fallen into the sorry state of skooma addiction may therefore hear of my story, of how I fell into despair, and how I once again found myself and freed myself from my own self-imposed chains.
Because it is widely known to all Khajiit, who may be expected to know, that there is no cure for addiction to skooma, that once a slave to skooma, always a slave to skooma. Because this is widely known, it is taken to be true. But it is not true, and I am living proof.
There is no miracle cure. There is no potion to be taken. There is no magical incantation which frees you from the thrill of skooma running through your blood.
But it is through the understanding of that thrill, and the acceptance of the lust within oneself for that thrill, and the casting aside of the shame that the thrillseeker feels when he cannot set aside what becomes in the end his only comfort and pleasure, it is through this knowledge and understanding that the victim comes to the place where choices may be made, where despair and hope may be separated.
In short, only knowledge and acceptance can deliver into the slave's hands the key that opens his shackles and sets him free.
Inhale. Hold. Exhale.
Grulmar watched the swirls of smoke leave his mouth, whirling in the air like a snake shedding its skin. The smoke played with all possible colors, with the main color being this enchanting mix of purple and pink, just glistening in the air in front of Grulmar’s eyes.
Inhale.
He vaguely remembered he was still in Riften, in one of the abandoned warehouses in the docks. A den for the likes of him. Sanctuary. Refuge. The only place in whole world where guilt couldn’t enter. Shame left behind in the dust. Doubt in the wind.
Hold.
The world spun around him and he spun with it, yet anchored down. As a spirit leaving its body behind, but still feeling it, heavy and unmoving like a burden of conscience. Everything was blurry, even the images that kept haunting him. His mind was all his in the moment, or not his at all, but what mattered was that it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.
Exhale.
He opened his mouth and trails of smoke slowly escaped from his mouth, aiming for the ceiling, but never getting there as the trails were absorbed into the perpetual cloud of smoke hanging near the ceiling like a roof of clouds. Smooth and warm, and tasting of butter.
Grulmar looked at the pipe in his hand with narrowed eyes, watching the coal’s heat slowly fading. That was bad. He wanted to keep smoking. Moon Sugar. Smoking Moon Sugar. He blinked slowly and his hand went to his right, scrambling for something among the empty sacks that were being used as beds in the warehouse. He found it with a sigh and pulled out the vial with pink liquid in it.
Drink. Smoke. Drink and smoke. Best combination. The first pulls ya in, the second makes ya forget. No leavin’, no thoughts of leavin’. Just bein’ lost, ‘cause lost is good. Thoughts...hazy. Images. Blurry.
Good.
It was the pain that brought him here, that made him look for escape. That pain in his chest, as if his ribs were squeezing all the life from his heart. An agony making one stare into distance with a mind wandering in all directions, trying to push the memories out, but by doing so it only made them stronger. And no matter how much it hurt, the guilt was saying that it’s not enough, that he deserved all this and more.
Pain exchanged for anger and hate. Blaming others for what happened. Lorbulg. Grelod. Yamarz. It was all their fault and it would be so much easier if they were all dead. The hate only grew with every day, for the soul’s confusion is just food for the hatred.
He took a proper swig of the Skooma and began stuffing his pipe with more Moon Sugar, his hands moving as if they belonged to someone else, leaving trails of blurry rainbows behind them.
And he noticed someone standing above him, but instead of the person’s shadow, it was a light that fell over him, blinding him, making him shield his eyes with his hand.
“I am sorry you have to go through that,” the person said and Grulmar narrowed his eyes, his future self drowning in the past self’s hazy thoughts. In that moment it no longer mattered what was memory or what was real. Both the future and past Grulmars felt the time clashing at this moment.
“Then ya shouldn’t have allowed this,” he murmured which made one of the addicts lying on a pile of sacks stir.
The Dunmer addict looked at him, his eyes barely able to focus on the Orc. “Who are ye talkin’ to?” the Dunmer asked, looking around but seeing no one. “It’s the celestials, right? Ye can see ‘em, just as I do. Celestials, man! Blindin’ colours. They’re so beautiful. Listen to the celestials, man, open ye heart to them.”
“There is very little I can do,” the being of light said, shrugging - which only sent another flash of blinding light into Grulmar’s eyes. But after his vision cleared the light was gone and before him was standing the tall man, with his long black hair and elven features. “Allowing or preventing something isn’t one of them. As you know very well since you went to Solstheim even though I warned you not to.”
“And why is that I wonder,” Grulmar snorted, his voice dripping with venom. “Probably won’t have anythin’ to do with the fact that Miraak and Mora wouldn’t let ya in, eh?”
The man shook his head. “I tried to warn you, because if Mora got his hands on you, everything would be lost.”
“Everythin’,” Grulmar murmured while inhaling more of the smoke from the pipe, the fume irritating his nostrils with a sweet and promising smell. “What precisely?” he asked and before the man could answer Grulmar bared his tusks. “And no tuskin’ riddles! I believe we are past that. Why me? What do ya want?”
“Respect, man,” the Dunmer addict exclaimed in awe. “Just tell ‘em! Tell ‘em about me, about their faithful servant.”
“Shut the tusk up, smackhead!” Grulmar hissed, not really sure if it was his past or future self who said that.
The Tall Man sighed, his form shivering like an echo below the water’s surface. “A reason. Isn’t that what everyone asks for when bad things happen? ‘It must be happening for a reason,’ they say. ‘There has to be a divine plan.’ I can’t really say there is a reason for all your pain, young one. But I can say there is a purpose. A purpose for you.” The man offered Grulmar a hand. “I will show you.”
The Orc looked at the hand, being of the mind that whatever the Tall Man wanted to show him was of no interest to him. And yet...he did ask for an answer, didn’t he? With reluctance, he reached for the hand and the moment he touched it he felt a pull, the Tall Man lifting him to his feet. Yet, when he looked back he could still see himself lying on the floor, smoking Moon Sugar - but it was his past self, that sixteen year old Skooma junkie.
When he looked at the man he was himself again, the Telvanni apprentice, who looked into the Tall Man’s eyes. He was about to say something, but the world suddenly spun around him and in a blink the warehouse disappeared.
A cold wind chilled his bones as he found himself on top of some mountain, among the peaks covered with snow. And he looked down, down into the valleys under the mountains and he shielded his eyes as something reflected the sunlight right into his face. He peeked in between his fingers and the sight took his breath.
A city, with towers almost rivaling the mountains around them, with houses made of stone and iron and roofs made of gold, shining like thousand suns. The walls around the city were massive, impregnable. From a distance he could see these little ants that were people literally crawling all over streets wide as rivers.
His eyes went to another valley and there was another city like that. And so was in the next valley.
“What am I lookin’ at?” he murmured, very poorly hiding his awe at the sight.
“Wrothgarian Mountains,” the Tall Man replied, his hand pointing at the cities. “Wrothgar as how it could look one day. Proud and true. Orsinium. But not a city. A nation.”
“A nation?” Grulmar repeated in a whisper.
“This is my vision. Orsimer united under one belief, one creed and one notion of how to become more as a race and as a nation. Just imagine it. No longer treated as beasts and barbarians, but accepted and respected by all of Tamriel’s races as equals.”
Grulmar bit his lower lip, trying to suppress a laugh. The Tall Man noticed that and it was the first time the Orc had seen a flash of anger on the man’s face. His features twisted and his eyes grew black. His veins turned dark green as if they were filled with poison. Grulmar involuntarily took a step back, fear clawing into his mind that now he stepped over the line, but the Tall Man sighed and his features returned back to their normal paleness. “Don’t you understand?” the man asked in frustration, his expression almost begging Grulmar to comprehend, to understand his vision. “This was what was taken away from us, when the treachery tore my heart and turned it black. But we could regain this.”
But the Orc shook his head. “I’m sorry, but this is what you need me for? To unite Orcs or somethin’? Me?” he pointed at himself, chuckling. “This is precious. Grulmar the Unifier? Hahahaha.”
“Everything always starts with one person,” the Tall Man murmured, looking at the city beneath them with desire in his eyes. “Why shouldn’t it be the most unlikely person? Kurog. Gortwom. What if the name ‘Grulmar’ could stand on the same pedestal as these legends? Maybe even surpass them?”
The Orc snorted at that. “Ya must be havin’ a piss right now. This is ridiculous. Me? No tuskin’ way. Just let them sort it out between themselves, let them be what they want to be.”
“If I do that they will all belong to Malacath!” the Tall Man growled. “I can’t allow that! Look at what he has done to your people. Reduced them to mere savages! The Orsimer stagnate as a people and it is because of him!”
“Ya know what? Let them. I don’t really give a tusk. Am I selfish? Bloody damn yes, I am. I’ll put my own tuskin’ needs above those of the shitters that cast me out.”
“You are a victim of the traditions that he created to hold you back! Don’t you understand? You could change that, make sure that no one else suffers the same as you!”
“There will be always someone who suffers. Just look at this bloody world!” Grulmar made a wide circle with his arm. “Children are dyin’. Is there any other sentence that would define this world more? Children are dyin’. Their innocence is dyin’. Every damn day! And those like ya ain’t doin’ shit ‘bout it!”
“You are a child!” the Tall Man shouted in anger, his veins again turning dark green. “You are all children!”
Grulmar felt a nasty grin crawling on his face. “Ah, there’s the twist. We are nothin’ but children that don’t know what’s good for them, eh? We need to be guided as sheep, for what do we know without our shepherd showin’ us the right path, right?” He bared his tusks at the Tall Man whose features were twisted into a face of dark rage. “Am I to be that shepherd? Oh, wait. No, I am supposed to be the shepherd dog, am I? It’s ya who’s goin’ to be the one leadin’ his sheep.” Grulmar shook his head in disbelief, feeling his own anger multiplying with every word. “Well, I got to tell ya somethin’.” He then spat into the Tall Man’s face and with an impudent grin he said: “Go tusk yerself. Trinimac.”
The man bared his teeth and then he narrowed his eyes, taking a deep breath. “You can’t escape fate. It will come for you. They will come for you and you won’t be able to hide.”
“Watch me,” Grulmar growled. They? he wondered in his mind though, but that was a thought for another day. “Now begone, echo.”
With those words, the Tall Man disappeared and with him the mountains and golden cities, leaving Grulmar to return back to the warehouse in Riften.
Where another face was leaning over him. Grey-blue piercing eyes, a greying beard and short hair. Blue tattoos looking like scattered glass. “Grulmar! Can you hear me, lad? Fucking gods, how long have you been taking that shit?” the Imperial said while Grulmar was trying to place that face. He knew the man. He knew the voice. But his mind was clouded, full of smoke and echoes, and he just couldn’t focus. “How long have you been in Riften, damnit? Of all the places…” the Imperial shook his head, stopping in the middle of the sentence. “I’ll get you out of here. The fort is lovely this time of year, perfect place to...get clean. Just bear with me, yeah?” The Imperial then lifted him from the floor and began carrying him outside.
Decimus, Grulmar thought, finally remembering the Imperial. He taught him the tricks with the coins. He was nice to him.
He was bringing him home. A new home.
He looked into the Imperial’s face and suddenly screamed when the face was covered by a bronze mask.
Grulmar woke up from his dream with a pounding head and he gritted his teeth. He reached for his nose and felt hot blood dripping from it, the pressure trying to escape from his skull.
“The island stirs,” he murmured. “The road to freedom is paved in blood. Something awoke and the blood whispers.” He looked to the west even though he couldn’t see past the walls of the mushroom house. “The blood screams.”
Ahzidal.
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