The Meaning of Life Options

[ShraX]

Hello.

Most likely don't know me but I have this habit where I write something, take a needlessly-long break, then come back and continue it, expecting everyone to still understand what's going on. Anyway, I wrote 3 fanfics about Gaenor that originated on the official TES forums, then migrated here for some reason. Now, having had my fill of annoying elf-related stories, I began something new that I want to continue, and the only way I'll do that is if I post it and people are interested enough to want more.

It might be in bad taste to request something from the potential readers of this new story, but it's only fair; if you read this and think that something doesn't flow or could be improved upon (not content, but structure), I would greatly appreciate any and all criticism you have.. please, don't hold back. If what you want to say seems like it shouldn't be displayed on this thread, send me a PM. I'll never get better if I don't get criticism, and I want to get better. Then again, you don't have to say anything at all.

Sorry for the long introduction. Here's to what I hope will be a fun fanfic for all!

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The Meaning of Life

There was no more to be said. I stood and took my leave of the Meeting tent, the heavy iron plating my legs disturbing awkwardly the peace of night in the encampment. We'd been discussing the threat from the Jeralls for hours after eating, and the sun's light crept above the mountainous horizon with foreboding quickness. I fixed my eyes to the dirt and felt my mouth droop to a frown. It had been decided and set for me to settle this restless darkness of yet-unknown depth, as I'd proven myself in years past as formidable with the axe and shield when confronted with those who would wish life torn from body for purpose of self gain. In six hours I would depart in fresh snow, and my destiny would arrive at last to the fruitful conclusion of its long hunt.

It was difficult sleeping, not with the cold but with thoughts my young mind failed to silence. I gave empty answers to questions no one could satisfy, and they all reminded me of how unprepared I truly was for the looming hardships yet to be crossed, patient in their undoubted fatality. My muscles tensed of their own will, perhaps reacting to the subtle worries building in my subconscious, for I tried with all concentration to banish them there so that I may have focused on less frightening prospects. I hushed the quiet candle beside me and remembered Grumir's words.

"I'll have these ready before ye set off, and leave 'em outside yer tent. I've worked overnight plenty before, and the clangin' don't seem to bother no one!"

I knew him long, since I was old enough to wield a weapon and bring it back to him for repair. I've never known his face without it tilting down, something he did both to playfully mock my considerably shorter stature and because he honestly was unable to see me unless he did so. Each time he did it, and it was every time he spoke to me, even when we sat and our eyes were level, I couldn't help but let out a short chuckle of mild disbelief. He never seemed to notice, which was not surprising. In his more drunken episodes in the evenings, he'd ramble on about his adventures in Elswyr when he was younger, and of the "filth-ridden coat-bags" he'd slain. I took no offense, largely because I could never figure out what exactly a "coat-bag" was and why it was an insult to my people, according to Grumir. In his sober heart however, he grew to appreciate my presence, as out-of-place as it always seemed to me.

Despite my physical appearance, the shear amount of time I spent with these people led them to accept me as one of their own, which I always was, in essence. I am unsure as to who my parents are, or were, but I am Khajiit for certain. I've seen others rarely during hunting raids and sojournings into the Imperial City for trade, and after comparing looks, I began to develop a mindset for my race. We are Khajiit, or at least they are. I am Khajiit to those who see me; those who know me would think twice. The Nords in my encampment knew me very well, and respected me as a warrior and friend. Although, the physical differences were impossible to ignore. Their armor had no ear holes, and my feet refused to stuff themselves into their thin-toed boots. Their chairs forced me to curl my tail into my lap in a most uncomfortable position, and I often contemplated eating on the floor, but always dismissed the idea as I feared being related to a house cat in the most humiliating way apart from relieving myself in a box of sand.

Trivialities aside, I lived in their encampment all my life, since being left naked in the cold twenty years ago outside the ancient hut of our chieftan, who has now passed. They cared for me and trained me in the combat arts of Skyrim, and I adapted my agile form to master new techniques which set me apart from the other boys. I became most proficient with the axe, and later, learned to balance offense with the defense of a shield. Seven years littered with exploits deemed heroic by those they aimed to benefit have birthed a fine fighter, in my humble opinion, and I attempted to direct the memories of my greatest victories as a stampede over thoughts of the task that lay before me. It was pointless; even looking in the direction of the cave I was to enter discouraged my steps, and my knees weakened. All I could do now was tie the blindfold of courage around my eyes and pray the little sleep I did manage would be enough to carry me back there the next day in triumph.

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[ShraX]

That orb, my symbol of difference, which appeared from nothing and for no discernable reason, held its place in the center of my vision and overlapping the man's cloaked head. It blocked my sight but I could see clearer than ever, magnifying what it hid in ways sight denied.

"Ri'jzirr, you have become all I had hoped you would."

The man lifted his sleeves and pulled back the cowl masking his face with invisible hands. My camps' Elder stood before me now, he and the man of the Order the same. My ears deafened, nose caved, skin died, and tongue flattened to rigid teeth. My senses left me and never returned, and my eyes blackened to all but the spherical chaos. I sank into my cloak's shadows and was Ri'jzirr no more. I was no more; Naught but the orb remained. It took me a moment to realize I was still capable of speech; reborn, I was as an infant, learning how to talk once more.

I forced the words, "I see the color and nothing more." I heard them but knew my ears were no longer there. I did not feel a mouth close nor a tongue manipulate the sound from my throat, and the impulse to blink had disappeared. All manner of mortal instinct had been displaced by the orb, as a glass bauble being dropped into a cask of water. The concept of language never entered my mind, but merely the need to express myself in a way which I knew the Elder would comprehend.

"You need not see, Ri'zjirr," replied the Elder in his voice. "Truly, you have been my Elder these past twenty years. You simply needed to be shown the light," and he held out his hand, displaying the orb. I knew this without watching, perfectly natural in understanding. "Behold," he exclaimed, "your.. new eye. Your Mind's Eye, from which all wisdom comes, to which all knowledge goes. It is your essence, your being without being, your life force without life. It is your paradox, that which is and is not; it is you now, Ri'jzirr. Its color a trespasser in existence, just as you are. Embrace it.. in senses you now reside."

It is impossible for anyone to properly explain just what I felt through the orb, but the past events from which my story began prodded my mind ever-obnoxiously, desperate to be unfolded and put into order. In an instant I collected them and saw their meaning as a completed puzzle:

It was a plan so perfect in its engineering and design, each molecule of every form of tangible matter in all of existence played an invaluable role in my coming into enlightenment there with the Elder in non-existence, the residence of The Anarchal Order. The supposed reason I was chosen to enter the cave in which the "ravenous creature" inhabited was due to the consideration of my past deeds. Throughout my life as a young warrior, I saved traveling merchants from bandits, fended off great beasts from defenseless children and the like. I saw then, through the impossible clarity of my Mind's Eye, each individual act of heroism was staged, and I emerged victorious time and time again for the sole purpose of convincing the camp's council that I was the most reasonable choice to send into the cavern - nothing more. My life's achievements were a path paved in time leading to the cloaked man that day.

The dream warned my steps but I met with the man on his icy throne. It was there so he may sit.. but why sit when you are a non-existent entity without the need to conserve physical energy? A question I asked myself then, and the answer came instantly - to pose the man as a higher form than my own, someone to respect and trust, to take orders from. Had he been a strange man in a cave, I would have been feared not to listen to his instructions and await him at the camp.

Of course, he did return, transporting me to non-existence. First, all went to grey, and I saw myself behind me shatter to pieces and fall. This was what I used to be, destroyed and making way for what I had become. Then blinding white, infinite wisdom, and finally blackest darkness, non-existence. All were metaphors and I lived them.. signs given to me, puzzle pieces and mysteries one after the other, until they at least fell into place before me, wrapped and burnt through clear by my Mind's Eye. Foreign and mesmerizing at first sight, its color was all I had never known, knowledge now available upon a whim as my new self.

With the past in order, I had decided then that it was a proper time to confront the Archer.. to see what her arrows did to me now.

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