[Note: It's been 261 days since I've actually sat down to write something out. Constructive advice, criticism, and comments are all welcomed and appreciated, since I hope to make this the beginning of a very long series as I get back into practice.]
It was just past sunset, and most of the Mid Year festivities were just getting started in Wayrest. The year was 4E 178, and Tamriel still hadn't finished recovering from the war that had so recently scarred its face. Down south, the Aldmeri Dominion still fought its losing battle against the tenacious Redguards, abandoned by their Empire in their time of need. To the east, the Forsworn were carving their place in the Reach, the painful defeat two years past still fresh in their hearts. And, unbeknownst to its populace, the corsair captain who would lay waste to their fair city in ten years was but a fresh cabin boy who still had a hard time keeping his lunch down after more than a week at sea.
None of that was on the mind of the average citizen. Wayrest had gone relatively untouched by the War, and hadn't lost as many sons to the elves as more patriotic cities closer to the heart of the Empire. While there had been mourning, its time had passed. This night was a night of joy, promiscuity, and more than one mistake that would be regretted the following dawn.
On the eastern outskirts of the city, just beyond the brightest lights of the wealthiest galas, a woman interrupted the festivities. Her body was clothed in tattered rags. Her hair was a tangled mess of leaves and twigs. What might once have been ceremonial paint on her face was noticeable only because it was a shade or two brighter than the dirt that caked every other inch of her. She came staggering into the district from the outer gate (little more than a large fence with a hinge attached), her strength finally spent. Her collapse, the trail of blood behind her, and the visible protrusion of her belly all brought a screeching halt to the meager celebrations of the residents of this part of the city. A few of the sober men did their best to move her towards the chapel of Mara, just around the corner from the intersection she had fallen in. It was a young lad, just barely making his first forays into the world of adolescence, who saw the marks on her first, and pointed them out to his mother. It was the cries of "witch" that drew the Primate from out of the chapel. It was fortunate for the woman that they had.
The men who had been carrying her backed up when they realized what she was, and what the markings on her arm meant. She was clearly a witch from one of the eastern covens, and none of them wanted to have anything to do with her any further, even if it meant dropping her in the middle of the street.
"Oh, come now! Can't you see this woman's hurt?" the old priest scolded, shuffling through the crowd to the woman. She looked up at him, gratitude in her eyes, quickly masked by pain as her body was wracked with the pain. "And in labor!" the priest exclaimed.
He motioned for two of the townsmen to help the woman to her feet again. The townsmen moved reluctantly, as though afraid the woman might turn into a serpent and bite them all. In the end, they respected the priest more than they feared the clearly injured witch.
"Be quick, be quick. Cornelia, open the doors."
At the command, one of the chapel's wide iron doors swung open, and a young woman poked her head out.
"What's happening, Primate Atticus?" she asked of the sight that greeted her.
"This woman's been through Quagmire and back, by the looks of her. She's in labor, too. We must move quickly. Child, go and prepare a bed, and grab some fresh blankets. Wake Eleanor on your way. I fear we'll be needing a good midwife, and soon."
While the priestess scurried off to perform her tasks, Atticus directed the men through the doors, making sure they weren't too rough to the woman.
"What is your name, traveler?" he asked the witch, once they were in the chapel proper, and out of earshot of everybody save the men escorting them.
"Simone," she gasped in reply before the pains of her labor burned through her again.
"So close together," the Primate muttered. He led them quickly past the benches, through a doorway next to the altar, down three time-worn steps, left at an intersection, and then pointed to a bed against the far wall of the room at the end of the hallway. "Place her there. Gently, now. Good, good. Thank you, Dorian. And you, Ruben. Give your families my blessing. Now please, if you don't mind, Eleanor's going to want this room clear. If you would see yourselves out?"
"Aye, Primate," one of the men replied, both visibly grateful to not have to touch the witch any further, and both secretly wondering if their hands were going to be covered in boils the next day.
On their way out, they passed an ancient woman, navigating the hall with her cane, with Cornelia following close behind. They nodded respectfully, though they both knew she could not actually see the gesture.
The crone made a bee's line straight for the bed-bound witch. The Primate stood from his post by the side of the bed, and started walking out of the room, knowing that if he didn't do it of his own will then Eleanor would have no hesitations about prodding him with her cane until he did it anyway. On his way out, Cornelia stopped him.
"Primate, can't you see that this woman is a... well, a... you know," Cornelia gasped, finally seeing the marks on her arms.
"A what, girl?" the withered old woman asked. "A child of Mara? As are we all," she stated firmly before Cornelia could speak her answer. "Now bring me those blankets, and fetch a tub of water. And hurry child, this room will soon have four people instead of three."
Hearing the unspoken threat on the word "three", the Primate quickly ducked out of the room. Cornelia filled a small wood basin with warm water from the well behind the chapel, and scampered back in, careful not to let any spill. She walked back towards the room with the witch and Eleanor. On her way, it became clear that Simone had finally reached the limits of her pain threshold; the primal shrieks could be faintly heard out behind the chapel, although the resumed festivities likely meant that nobody else would be able to.
She rushed the basin over to Eleanor, who had taken her position down at Simone's feet. This far into labor, it wouldn't be long at all.
Primate Atticus paced back and forth in the chapel proper. He knew Eleanor's stance on men in the delivery room, and had the utmost respect for her abilities in the school of Restoration, but the look in the poor woman's eyes haunted him. Whatever the outcome of birth was, he had the sinking suspicion that Simone would not make it through the night. The covens could be incredibly severe when it came to punishing wayward witches who'd sought unapproved, mortal romance. That she'd even managed to make it all the way to Wayrest was no small miracle in itself. He hadn't seen any actual injuries through all the mud, but he was almost positive that they existed. The trail of blood only supported his fears. He grabbed a bucket, filled it in the well, and was scrubbing the floor on his hands and knees when a new set of lungs sent their cry out into the already busy night. Soon after, Cornelia came into the room, her forearms caked in drying blood.
"Primate... Eleanor needs you."
The rag and bucket forgotten, the Primate quickly rose to his feet, ignoring the stiffness that age was finally and slowly starting to bring him. He rushed past Cornelia into the impromptu nursery.
The sheets were soaked with blood. Whatever injuries the woman had had not been helped by labor. Eleanor sat on a stool up by the head of the bed, next to Simone, who was holding the newborn child, his eyes closed. Even from across the room, Atticus could tell that her breathing was shallow.
"I did my best, Primate," Eleanor said quietly. "They were old wounds, and not entirely natural."
"The... the coven's revenge," Simone whispered as Atticus rushed to her side. "I did my best to keep them sealed, but after running..."
"It's a miracle you even made it to Wayrest, child," Atticus did his best to comfort.
Simone made a sound that might have started as a laugh, but ended as a cough. "No... no miracle. But I did what I had to. For my child."
The steel in her voice rocked him back momentarily. Eleanor remained unphased, as always.
"Will... will my child be taken care of?" Simone asked, her voice once more a shallow whisper.
"I will make sure of it myself," Eleanor replied quickly, cutting off Atticus.
Simone's cloudy eyes locked with Eleanor's blind ones. Atticus was sure that an understanding passed between the two women in that instant, although how and its meaning was completely obscured to him.
"Thank you," the exhausted witch said.
"The child needs a name," Atticus reminded them both.
Simone smiled again. "Matthias. Matthias Corvin."
As her eyes closed for the last time, Atticus fished his medallion out from the folds of his robes. He raised his hands high, letting it dangle down in the air, and began performing the last rites.
"Mother Mara, kind and loving..."
While he spoke, Eleanor gently removed the infant from its mother. It began to cry weakly, and Eleanor carried it out of the room and into the chapel, where Cornelia met her, returned from her other errand; in her hand, she held a glass bottle, full with fresh goat's milk. She offered it to Eleanor, who took it and placed it in the infants mouth. He immediately latched onto it, and began drinking, his cries quieting as the old priestess gently bounced him in her arms, walking carefully towards the exit, Cornelia serving as her guide.
"Where are you taking him?" Cornelia inquired, the night's events quickly catching up with her. She was suddenly very, very tired.
"To an old friend," Eleanor replied. "A death-bed is no place for new life. She will take care of him, better than we could. Mara knows you need rest, young one, but I fear my that without my eyes, I might leave and never find my way back. Would you accompany me? I don't know that I'll be able to carry the baby and find my way at the same time."
Slightly worried at Eleanor's uncharacteristically gentle tone, Cornelia immediately took her place by the priestess' side. She gently took the infant from her, where he settled down in her freshly scrubbed arms. Grabbing a replacement cane from a rack by the door, Eleanor led the way out into the streets.
Despite her blindness and age, Cornelia always had a hard time keeping up with the woman. This time was no exception, as she led them down to the end of the road, away from the festivities. A right turn, towards the center of Wayrest and its main gates, another right turn down an alley before reaching them, a left turn to a smaller door, where they were let through as soon as the guard recognized Eleanor. Into the city proper, Cornelia was almost completely lost. Left, right, right, right again after three intersections, never once did they actually lay eyes on the main Boulevard. The infant remained quiet the entire journey, his eyes still shut; it was almost a quarter of an hour before one last left brought them to a short, squat building, its sign proclaiming it the "Horley Orphanage". Named after one of the old merchant-princes of Wayrest, it had clearly seen better days. Nevertheless, it was well-kept despite its age, and lights still shown from its windows as they approached its doorway.
Eleanor rapped her cane against the door a couple times. A moment later, it was opened by a middle-aged Dunmer woman.
"Eleanor? I thought I recognized the sound of that cane! What brings you to my humble doors, on this of all days?" the Dunmer asked in a raspy voice. The sounds of poorly-played music and children's giggling spilled out into the street from behind her.
Eleanor simply moved to one side, and motioned for Cornelia to step forward. The Dunmer gasped at recognition of the tiny bundle in her arms, before turning an inquisitive glance to the blind woman.
"A woman came in this evening," Eleanor started, correctly guessing the question that hadn't yet been spoken. "A witch, from one of the eastern covens most likely. They... weren't pleased with her. She passed after giving birth. Mara's Mercy that she even made it that long. I had hoped that you might have a place for him, Evesa. It couldn't wait... the townsfolk on the outskirts know what his mother was, and you know how they can be."
"Oh, Eleanor, of course I have a place for the child! Does it have a name?"
"His name is Matthias Corvin. I've told you all we know about his parentage; the mother didn't say anything at all about the father. Judging by her wounds... well, you know. I highly doubt he still lives. Divines grant that's the worst they did to him."
Evesa reached out and took the baby from Cornelia. The disturbance dislodged the bottle, and he let out a little cry. Deftly, Evesa quickly replaced it, and he snuggled up in her arms, silent and content once more, his little eyes still shut.
"You know we can't afford to pay you," Eleanor started.
"Nonsense!" Evesa cut in. "The city still sends us a small stipend each month. One more mouth to feed won't do us any harm. Simply commend us to Mara in your prayers, and I'm sure all will work out."
A small crash echoed out from somewhere in the building, immediately followed by a discordant note of music and the upset cries of children. The Dunmer sighed.
"That would be one of the children, getting bored. A little orc girl was brought in last week by the guards. They say they found her wandering the streets near the docks, causing some trouble. I still haven't had time to smooth out some of her rougher edges. If you'll excuse me, I have to go check on them. Don't fret, Eleanor, I'll make sure little Matthias has the best I can give. It was good seeing you again. And you, Cornelia, you've grown since I last saw you! Take care of yourselves, both of you. And don't be strangers!"
The door was shut in their faces. Cornelia cast an anxious glance at Eleanor, who only had an amused look on her face.
"Come, Cornelia. The child's got a new home. A good one, too."
In the orphanage, cradled in the arms of a Dunmer woman preparing her best Serious Face for telling off the rebellious little orc girl, a newborn, already without parents or family, opened eyes the silver of a passing storm cloud for the first time in his entire life.
