There had been no resentment shown on his part, Rtheldren could say that much.
He had welcomed her on arrival. Had offered her tea – knowing she'd laugh and refuse, making that same old crack about 'her secret supply'. Had even offered her a tour of the facility - which she'd also refused, she'd seen it at least a dozen times, she'd seen all the research facilities a dozen times, as he knew well – and he had smiled – even laughed – while they reminisced about the 'good old years', all those fond tales of her madcap workshops where he and the rest of her apprentices would toss around earth-shattering ideas like they were weightless – the world still a puzzlebox to be cracked, the brassprints to rework the entire architectural academy something they'd hash out over supper. Halycon days. Before they knew what a storm really tasted like.
"Do you really still enjoy it out here, Rtheldren?" Bthemetez had asked him, with a particular stress on really.
It was a pointed question. Rather than questioning the logic behind it - a younger Rtheldren, more easily rattled, would have asked her: what did she mean, really? That out here, out in the Velothi mountains, in a small but uneventful research facility whose only claim to fame was that it had simply been ignored by the Nords, that could have been left to rust, was beneath him? - he instead had laughed gently - she had not changed one bit, had she?
He had said: "Yes, I do. Really."
It was an honest answer. His old mentor may not understand - she had never lost so much at the Grand Debate - but what he had here, his fellow engineers and him had managed to construct out of very little, by their own hands. He had come to value it. He had come to see meaning in the rhythm of a quieter life, away from the raucous debates, where he mostly fixed things of minor importance. What other Dwemer Architects would call utter tedium.
And so when Bthemetz, 'The Brass Architect', his old and still, despite everything, beloved mentor, then asked him for his support at the next Grand Debate, he had answered thus:
"No, I cannot."
It did not seem as if Bthemetz had anticipated this answer.
"Respectfully, why?"
Why? There were a dozen reasons. The fact that despite whatever old sentiment the Choir had towards either Bthemetz the Martyr, the old folk tales, or "The Brass Architect", the respected Tonal Architect, the debate that she was planning to stage – at the eleventh hour, while they were on the brink of a war, against Kagrenac, against her Numidium, concerning ethics – was academic suicide. The fact that it had only been twelve years since he last supported someone on such a venture. The fact that Bthemetz, an mer-construct of polished brass who wore violet plumes of flame around an engraved face-mask, who had arrived from Vvardenfell's Core via airship, such was her urgency, to a minor research facility in the Velothi mountains where nothing of interest had happened in a hundred years, and seemed to be unaware of the disparity of her presence in this place. Who still seemed to think she was an exiled scholar in rags, marching through the desert. Who seemed to think Rtheldren would make excellent primary support – who had previously rejected her, that she was now sincerely turning to him for help?
He did not say a word of this, though.
Instead, he said:
"Rzarak."
He stared at Bthemetz. In the two hundred years since he had made her acquaintence, he had seen the flames that adorned her brass-face blaze in almost all the tones and subtones the ear could catch: brass-gold, violet, sharp turquoise, steady rose, rust, viridian. But he had never seen all those bright flames tipped with gold, bold and brash, completely vanish before.
They returned, a not a beat later, brighter, stronger.
"She goes by Vyra now," said Bthemetz. There was still the same mirth in her voice as before, though it has lost its warmth.
"She – you're still in contact?"
"Not precisely, no."
He tried to look at Bthemetz, to catch anything in between her features. It had always been difficult, in his experience, to read much emotion in that implacable brass-face, with its permanent half-smirk engraved in, at the head of her brass chassis. He had to imagine there was a piece missing. Something he couldn't quite unpick. Rzarak – Vyra – had been only half his age when he had offered his support, when he had watched Kagrenac tear her assidiously into tiny pieces of scrapnel.
"Bthemetz... do you regret what happened to her? To... Vyra?"
There was a short pause.
"No, I don't."
He did not have a moment to catch his breath before she continued:
"I suspect you may disagree with me – that is your prerogative, after all – but I do still hold that the architectural basis for Numidium is theoretically sound. I do acknowledge the debate Vyra spearheaded raised some extremely pressing concerns – which have since been addressed, quite thoroughly, I should add – but the architectural design of Numidium is not—"
"That's not my point."
She halted.
"The consequences Rz- Vyra faced for speaking out against Numidium were severe," said Rtheldren. "Stripping her of her chief status. Barring her from several roles near-permanently. Let alone the social ostracisation."
Bthemetz cocked her head to the side.
"You and I both recall that my former apprentice took a project made under oath of secrecy and made it a public affair. Do you simply not expect her to face any kind of consequence?"
"The Choir concurred that the matter had been kept secret amongst Kagrenac and the other Senior Architects for far too long. The exemptions for truth-ringers exist for that reason — that does not justify the severity of the punishment."
A valve released a slow, steady hiss of steam.
"The loss of her chief status was a decision her clan made independently of us. You know I – you know Kagrenac, even – had no say in that. Every decision made about what projects she could or could not work on was made by the respective Lead Architects in question – again, out of our hands. This was not a punishment, as you say, concocted in a backroom, we do not punish dissent—"
Rtheldren tried not to frown.
"I know you considered her a truth-ringer, Rtheldren," she continued. "Confronting a hostile Choir, with all those Architects' glares like daggers at her back. A lone voice in the din, trying to stop the slow march towards our self-inflicted end. At a young age, even. I understand that. I see the romance in it, even! But you, equally, must understand, to the Architects that have spent years, if not decades on projects that must – given the war on our heels, given the continuing hostility shown to our kind outside of Resdayn – must remain an absolute secret, trust is paramount. Many felt what Vyra did was a fundamental breach of trust. A breach of faith, even. That she would cast out details of the Numidium project – arguably the most dangerous and yet most vital project we have ever pursued, one that shall truly define what it means to be a dwemer – for all to see, it was, to them, heartbreaking."
Rtheldren shook his head.
"Why is it when you speak of her, I hear your voice and yet Kagrenac's words? Next you'll be telling me about her 'squandered talent' and 'waste of potential'."
A second valve released steam - a sharp hiss, this time.
"I am simply trying to explain their point of view. I suppose you think I abdicated all responsibility, don't you? Vyra can make her own decisions – and no, I would never chain her here if she felt it was not home, I don't care if others think her departure is regrettable – I am simply trying to explain– by the twelve–"
There was a sudden crack in her voice. She spat out a curse in an old, defunct dialect of Aldmeris he couldn't understand.
"She should have known the consequences. I do not even know what she was thinking. She could have spoken to me – before, before the Debate, before it was too late—"
There was a long, heavy silence.
"She trusted you," said Rtheldren. "She trusted you, perhaps more than anyone in the world."
Bthemetz stared at him.
"Tell me then. Tell me, what would you have had me do? What could I have possibly done?"
Rtheldren could think of a few things. She could have rallied behind her cause. Or she could have refused to denounce her. Or she could have stood up, in front of the Choir, regardless of her perspective, and decried the way they whispered of Vyra as a traitor and a threat, instead of a dissident unafraid of the truth, unafraid of what personal consequence it might bring, part of a long and proud Dwemeri tradition.
"You could have said no to Kagrenac," said Rtheldren.
At first, Bthemetz said nothing. Then she laughed. She laughed so bitterly, it almost sounded like sobbing.
"I pleaded with her for weeks. Don't do this. Don't destroy her. Let another speak, let another stand–" She shook her head. "Kagrenac turned around and nearly bit my head off for trying. 'She is like a daughter to me as well' I was told. 'Do you not think this is beyond difficult for me?' I was told. I didn't care. I did everything short of getting on my knees. I begged her to be merciful." She snorted. "Foolish. What value does mercy have for a Dwemer? Vyra herself would have had me hung if she'd known I'd tried to get Kagrenac to be gentle with her for even a moment in the Debate chamber. Do you know, when she realised I would be adding my voice to the Choir, she told me not to hold anything back." Bthemetz shook her head. "The pride that girl had. With that attitude, she could have almost been Kagrenac's own. Not that it would have made a whit of difference in the end, really."
She closed her eyes.
"We shall all be humbled by the Debate," said Rtheldren softly, quoting the old proverb. "Only ever humbled in its hall."
A piece of old religious scripture, part-forgotten, part-discarded.
"By its ears, by its lips, by its hands," finished Bthemetz.
