Chasing Aetherius: Chapter 12 - The Pinky Swear of the Ash King

• Posted by The Long-Chapper December 29, 2016 - Filed in TSC: CB Story - #TSC:Skyrim  #TSC:Long  #TSC:C.B.  #Chasing Aetherius  #Lissette  #Karver  - 2,027 views

  

   

  Arkngthamz. My map may be rough, but it was enough to get me here. There may be something to this after all.

   

  16th of Morning Star, 4E 203

   

  He was smothered, churning in curdled mud, his lungs filling with the brown-grey muck, drowning in it. And yet he drank of the mire, swallowing it, thirsty as if starved in the desert for days. It was cool against his burning skin, caressing him with its wetness. It tickled his fingers, slipped inside his ears like a teasing silvery tongue, slithered under his armor, penetrating through his pores, through his orifices in sweet violation. And it was ecstasy. He then felt his stomach swell with that mud, expanding like a giant womb. When he could no longer stand it, the swollen flesh burst, issuing forth great drops of pelting blood-rain that fell upon flowers of humility. Massive white lilies that wept tears of crimson diamonds and amid the lilies, he saw the piercing red eyes of Grulmar staring back at him. The Orc then tore his heart from his chest.  It beat, pounding like an eternal drum while the Orc held it in his green hands, strangling the pulsating mass of muscle, the severed connections still squirting with life’s juice. The more and harder the Orc squeezed, the faster it beat and tears of frustration began to stream down the once-sneering face when he realized the heart would not stop beating. Like the strike of a hammer upon an anvil, it beat, never ceasing, the life…

   

  “NAGAIA!” The Orc roared. Or was it a scream?  

   

  “NE! CYROD AE ANYA VA NIRN!!!” His cry pierced through the winds like a great eagle. He then soared higher and higher, vaulting towards the heavens, past the stars, past everything, punching a hole into the beyond, his spirit lifted up. Her winds in his hair, Ek Su’um nau ok Viing ol rok bo wah faal Krein, wah Bormah. Bormah… 

   

  And he came. Violent and fulfilled.

   

  Came crashing down. Lungs filled with air, throbbing in torrents of agony. A gasp escaped his lips, a tortured sound. Bliss became mortality, reality, pain. The pain that was brought by continued existence. Intense, mind-numbing pain. He lay for a few moments, just overwhelmed by it, riding the incoming waves as best as he could, convulsing. He let his body do what it needed to do to come back, understanding that it would take a while.  How long it had stopped this time, he was not certain. Longer than, than… Then when? Where? I do not remember now, but it was longer than that time that was before this time… There was a time before... He groaned. If you ride through pain long enough, you do get used to it. It took longer than he expected, but eventually, he was able to dissociate his mind from it and focus on assessing his body.

   

  Only his nose did not cooperate. Once parts begin to work, they really begin to work, he thought sluggishly. The smell of blood assailed his nostrils, the smell of death and acrid burn, so heavy that he could not control the sensory input and he coughed in an involuntary reaction, sputtering violently; the scent and bitter taste of his own bile now mixing with the blood and burn. Every cough sent liquid shockwaves of misery through his chest, but he needed to cough, the irritation in his lungs too strong, needed to expel the contents from his mouth.  Explosions rang in his ears, shaking his pounding skull without mercy. Explosions?

   

  The mind was not cooperating enough to assess the damage to his body, so he let whatever he perceived just bubble to the surface like gas in a bog, sensations, thoughts, anything. They will organize themselves eventually, just be patient, old Mer, and prepare for the flux. His face felt squashed under his own weight, preventing him from taking in as much air as he needed. You are face down, a fair start, nice and rational. And wetness, He felt wet stone against his cheek, strangely sticky.

   

  This is where you fell.

   

  I, Äelberon of Dusk, fell?

   

  You fell, a voice answered in his brain.

   

  Auri-El’s bow, here it comes…

   

  The flux of his mind then took over and random images and thoughts traversed his still lethargic brain like a stream coursing down a mountain, changing, twisting, shifting in its descent to flow over the jaggedness. He remembered the blade plunging into his ribs, another to his chest, then his heart. The Fist purring in his ear. His strange chuckle as he started fading. Her brief flash of surprise. The sound of Kahleron’s wrist snapping like a twig in his hand. In their satisfaction, they forgot what he could do. When social standing deemed you too good to venture into Temple among the sick, I went inside without fear. Because I love my people, my homeland. All of it. Two hundred years of healing, of helping, and you did not think I could do this for my own body? Did they still think so low of you? They were very stupid sometimes. Better to always go for the head. Heart can be fixed; he smirked to himself, lungs, kidneys… Brain, not so much, but blasted Thalmor always went for his heart. Why his heart held such a fascination for them, he could not fathom. I am not Lorkhan himself, you shits.

   

  “For the Thalmor!”  He had heard Kahleron’s shrill, pitiful excuse for a battle cry. You used my Ata’s own name, you Son of a Bitch. Kahleron…and for that I will show you what a real battle cry sounds like. His grief continued to speak aggressively, ignoring the disaster around him, ignoring the pain pummeling his body, while the lilies of his dreams wept diamond tears. Red diamonds. Red diamonds that fell upon the sand, the golden sand of his homeland. Wooden spires burning. And the serpent wandered an endless cyclic eternity. Stop, he ordered his grief, but it did not stop, it could not stop and he trembled violently, teetering on the edge of madness, hovering over the chasm that was despair… here it comes, he braced himself.

   

  There was a garden…A man as tall as possibilities…eyes within eyes…

   

  Äelberon groaned again, disoriented by the infusion of Grulmar’s visions. How they mixed with his own and that of the dragons. So many dragons. Their souls. His soul. One yet many. The images will pass, let them pass through you, let them come.

   

  The visions coiled around him, turning into something else. Something more tangible and Äelberon clung to those thoughts desperately, dismissing the others.  Dismissing the deeper ones, for they would kill him if he lingered with them. Pondering such thoughts would not let you leave the Forge and that is where you are. The Forge. Surrounded by heat. You will come back for those thoughts at a later time. And he let his mind drift to the tangibility of vengeance. He started to twitch, spasm, his muscles coming alive. From his torso to his extremities. The tingling of life.

   

  And with life, comes vengeance.     

   

  Vingalmo may have signed the papers, but he, he shed the blood.

   

  The Mer who bathed Sentinel in Green Fire, who led the Purge of Dusk. The jackal in the night. The hunts through Cyrodiil. The Vampire Symposium.

   

  Ondolemar… not Kahleron, but Ondolemar. I once called you another name, he thought. Aye, Lemar. And the Mer named Kahleron, my Ata, taught you how to swim when you were just a child, was kind to you, made you welcome in my home, and you…

   

  And you, Äelberon of Dusk? The stern voice that told him he fell suddenly rumbled in his brain, passing judgement. What did you do? What did you do in the eyes of Auri-El, as his noble and brave knight?

   

  He started to answer, but the voice continued.

   

  You put on a brave face for Tyranus, but in a cloak of black, you hid from Ondolemar. Avoiding him…

   

  Because there were innocents, he screamed in his mind, protesting, weak.

   

  Nid, because you were afraid of him. Nikriiin. Coward. Afraid of what he would do to whatever family you had left and your new family.

   

  The voice passed judgement, but it also passed truth and Äelberon understood both the pain of it and the power of it. 

   

  You are not afraid of him anymore. He growled softly against the ground, growing angrier by the second. Gah! All he has done is piss you off.

   

  Why?

   

  For so many reasons. Failure, pride, stupidity. And… he had heard her wail. Her wail. It was the very sound she made at the Soul Cairn as he lost consciousness. When he knew she loved him back. She never needed to say it. He always knew. Where was she? Where was his Ana? Get up, get up, get up, he commanded his body with renewed purpose, coaxing the stiffened muscles to move.  You are awake and there is smoke everywhere. You need to find her and you need to kill them. You need to kill him. To atone for failure.

   

  The flux was over. It was time to move.

   

  Äelberon moved his arm slowly, testing it, realizing that he was moving it over… liquid? Open your eyes. He willed them open, though the lids felt heavier than lead. Blurred darkness greeted him interspersed with flashes of flame out of the corner of his eye. He blinked and realized his face was pressed against more of that sticky liquid. Your blood, this is all your own blood.

   

  Where was Ana?

   

  Another explosion shook the chamber close to where the Forge was and he heard the hiss of lava dissolving metal. Stop thinking, stop asking and assess the situation. Äelberon slowly pushed himself up, releasing a groan, his eyes going wide and then closing at the brutal pain. Damage, there is still a massive amount of damage. It was as it was at Northwind Summit. Nearly a year ago. The last time this happened, he remembered now. When your arrogance, your pride nearly killed you. Three dragons in three days, just because the Greybeards made you angry with their doubt. And the weak one from Northwind crashed into the mountain, its impact breaking your back. You prayed then, just as you prayed at the Forge, and He gave you the strength to heal so you could continue the path. He released another groan, almost falling to the floor again, feeling the sweat drip from his forehead. Sweat mixed with blood. But it was not a full healing then, and this was—Gods!—far worse than Northwind Summit was.

   

  Open your eyes and use the pain. It is life.

   

  They fluttered open and he assessed the damage. His heart was healed, but the lungs were not and there would be no casting, not for days. The damage possibly permanent. He gritted his teeth and continued moving slowly to right himself, gasping when it hurt to breathe, hearing the whistle of air pass through his lungs. He needed to get out of the smoke. On his hands and knees finally, he surveyed his immediate vicinity.

   

  You were at the left side of the Forge chamber, about to turn a valve. To trigger the constructs. That was your plan. His plan to save Gru, because he knew deep down he was in no shape to handle Dreth’s men on his own, the poison from the Bosmer’s arrow still affecting him. The weakness brought about by intense travel…and intense worry. A brave face for his Shield-Siblings masked sleepless nights imagining all the scenarios of her suffering or death under Ondolemar’s cruelty. Was she dead or alive? The answer came at Dreth’s camp and it took all of his restraint to not kill the source of her pain then and there, but he also knew silver poisoning, that she had so little time. You can’t cast, she needs you to cast and you can’t! Ondolemar had been prepared. They have taken everything from you…again. Your reward for the service you have done your people, Dusken Dog. Äelberon willed his mind to focus. Get out of here.

   

  Ana had come. Why? Why? He had told Erik specifically not to let them in the forge. This was his plan. The constructs, the guardians of the Forge would safeguard it. Just like at Raldbthar.

   

  You had failed there too and she will now die for it. Too much time wasted rigging traps. If you had just moved forward at Raldbthar, but no, you had to be thorough. What she tells you not to be all the time. “Don’t be such an Altmer… let things go… make mistakes” He closed his eyes, fighting the onset of welling tears. Not trying to make a mistake caused you to make a big one. His savage roar of frustration, of humiliation at being bested, of despair, of shame resonated in the Forge’s chamber. Get up! He screamed at his mind and maybe, maybe she lives. If you can get to her fast enough. And perhaps it will not be like Dusk all over again.

   

  GET UP!

   

  He grabbed the valve with a still shaking hand. The valve he had turned so powerfully before. Using it as leverage, Äelberon managed to drag himself to his feet. And he wretched again, overcome with dizziness. Ahead of him lay the remains of the—it was hard to tell in the flickering lights of the Forge—the Bosmer? Yes, he saw him, at Raldbthar, perched upon the cage where the chaurus were being kept in chamber with the Centurion. The arrow had come from him. The black arrow with scarlet fletching. The details you are remembering. The calling card of the Thalmor.

   

  The Bosmer’s face was smashed in, bones crushed into tissue and even brain in several places. Not from a mace, though, this work was different. The work of… “Auri-El’s bow.” He cursed hoarsely in awe of the raw power. Hands did this work. Only an enraged Nord or an Orc could throw punches like that—Äelberon then froze when his eyes traveled down the Bosmer’s body. Half its torso was gone. Just gone, chewed off.

   

  He knew well the bite marks of a werewolf. “Aela…” He whispered. Where was she? They were not supposed to be here. Äelberon swallowed, tensing up, bracing himself for the worse, and shifted his eyes to the left, hoping Ondolemar had not gotten to his Shield-Sister. His eyes fell upon a pile of ash and the charred remnants of a suit of orichalcum armor. The Orc. He was slowly starting to piece together the events after he fell. Ondolemar and Lareyne had stabbed him. She wailed. The Orc… Äelberon felt a wave of guilt. The bonds of Bloodkin is sometimes too strong among Orcs, he came to your defense and Ondolemar fried him. You should never have showed them the mark. Guilt morphed into the oh-so-familiar surge of vengeance, mixed with the shame of relief that it was not his Shield-Sister.

   

  Move, continue moving, and be ready for anything. Äelberon reached to draw his weapon. His hand passed over where over two hundred years of wielding a blade always told him his weapon would be, only to feel nothing but air. Then he felt the sudden lightness to his back. Okriim. His weapons were gone. Trophies for Elenwen, no doubt. Without thinking, his hand then moved up quickly to feel his hair, feeling a sting when his fingers grazed his forehead. He felt hair. You still have your hair. His fingers left his hair and traced the cuts across his forehead. He tried to scalp you… but you had broken his wrist. 

   

  There was a puddle of ectoplasm and a trail of blood led away from the valve towards the steps. Katria was dead and someone had survived their injuries, but by the sheer amount of blood, it looked like a severed limb. Aela’s work again? He hoped so. Maybe you got one of them, Sister. Äelberon’s head whipped around when he perceived a massive fireball erupt from the Forge and he dropped his jaw when stones and parts of Dwemer wall hurled towards him. Time seemed to stop and he put up his hand, instinct telling him to cast a ward to block. But there were no streams to draw from.

   

  You can’t cast. You will die now.

   

  “Feim…” he murmured without thinking.

   

  The hand in front of him turned a spectral blue, transparent, and time became normal. He flinched when the rocks and debris flew towards him, making him close his eyes. He whirled rapidly, ignoring the dizziness, and opened his eyes to follow the trajectory of the items that flew. Fuck! Past, through his body to smash into the wall behind him. He released a gasp of shock and shook his head, not believing. You shouted? You shouted? You know this shout?  Of course, you know this shout, you old fool. A barrow near Nightgate and a camp of Forsworn. And the third word? He felt himself cringe at his own unworthiness. Vobalaan…

   

  Where they had told you to go. Your last trial. The image of an ancient fein in the swamps of Hjaalmarch haunting his dreams for days, only he did not know where it was. He could picture it. Like Dustman’s Cairn, below the ground. He now knew where to go, when months ago he did not. I know where to go…

   

  Get out of here, now. Think about the Greybeards later. Äelberon turned from the wall and slowly started to hobble towards the steps leading away from the platform, though his eyes had trouble focusing on making sure he was walking straight. No, they were causing him to trip and stumble because his eyes were choosing instead to focus on the destruction in the Forge chamber.

   

  There was metal everywhere. Parts of at least two score’s worth of constructs were strewn about like piles of scrap for the smelter and close to the center was a large, dented Centurion. Its arm was ripped off by a magical explosion, its torso gauged into with no weapon Äelberon knew, save hands. Not the clawed hands of a werewolf, but regular hands. Hands?

   

  Galar… For a moment, Äelberon just stood—barely—and marveled at the might of the Telvanni magister, blinking, finding a new respect for the enchanter, until his eyes looked past the massive construct and noticed the crumpling Forge. The lava that was previously confined to the lake behind it was now overflowing its banks, seeping and dissolving the metal grilling that was the floor of the forge like a hungry, seeping mold. His eyes went to the Forge itself and noticed that the central valve had been torn off. “He did it, he destroyed it. Gods’ Blood!” He cursed, his voice barely above a whisper as he continued towards the stairs. They both had had such reservations about the Forge. How the young forget the dark things forged by the Dwemer…world-breaking things.

   

  More bodies amid the constructs were ahead. The Nord mercenary out of Windhelm, Stenvar, his head split open, revealing the sensitive brain tissue. Äelberon swallowed, keenly aware of his own weakness. And his own luck, or blessings, or fate, whatever. “The heart can be fixed,” he murmured softly to himself, “the brain, not so much.” The other Orc must still be alive, as it looked like an axe had done the damage and she bore such a weapon. Grulmar too, for he saw knife wounds on the body that only could belong to the youngling. There was a satisfaction in knowing that, in essence, his distraction had worked; buying Grulmar precious time. Another Nord he did not know was up ahead, near the valve where the lad was stationed with Belrand. He was missing too, Äelberon observed with a nod. Did he help?

   

  Another explosion rocked the Forge and Äelberon reeled from the impact tremors, nearly losing his footing. The lava began to move a little faster, bubbling, continuing to reclaim the failed constructs back into the Forge’s fire. Pieces of stone and debris popped from the extreme temperature change when the lava touched it, sending bits hurling at a high velocity. Äelberon followed the trajectory of several pieces of stone. They sped towards the Nord at the second valve. He almost cried out to warn the man, but understood as the rocks pummeled the body. Dead. The lifeless eyes doing nothing as a piece of Dwemer metal impaled his chest. The head turned to the side upon impact, revealing a face half melted off. Äelberon felt all the blood leave his face and the walls begin to dim, sending his hands to grope for the edge of the platform. What happened to that cast iron stomach of yours, old Mer, he chided himself, shutting his eyes tight to stop the walls from spinning, taking as deep breaths as his damaged lungs would allow. You’ve seen thousands of bodies festering under a burning sky and a little impaling and face-melting now makes you squeamish? He focused on his breathing, on the whistle in his lungs and rode the wave of nausea to completion.

   

  Get out of here, he breathed in his mind as he opened his eyes and stumbled towards the head of the stairs. You are nearly there. To Stenvar’s right, a short distance away, there was the dim outline of another form, the familiar glint of steel… Something crunching under his feet, however, broke Äelberon from his scrutiny of the latest body.  

   

  Half of the Alfiq mage was squashed under his foot. The bottom half. He had smashed its hip bone. It felt nothing, however, because its other half—Äelberon’s eyes narrowed and he began to shake his head, mouthing ‘no’ over and over again when he saw something he didn’t want to see. He immediately forgot his own injuries, dropping hard to his knees and shoving pieces of Alfiq away from his hands to get to it. He picked up the piece of thickened, dark etched leather, his tempering marks clear through the blood stains. He swallowed hard to quell the uncomfortable tightness in his throat and bit his lip, tracing the frayed lacing with his fingertips. The piece was torn by pressure. The pressure of a body breaking through confines.

   

  She had been angry the first time he took her armor to work on it. True, the Volkihar were fine craftmen and good enchanters, but he had noticed the fraying along the lacing, the weakness in places that did not have to be. His many years as a smith giving him sensitivity to the strengths of leather and metal that the princess of the Volkihar would never possess. She, of course, mistook his observation for arrogance. No, that is not true, you were arrogant in the beginning, and so was she. Eventually, she would simply shove the armor against his chest with a “fix it.” And he did, with a dirty smile. Because by then, his hands knew the shape of her body better than anybody else’s ever did.

   

  He knew tears were flowing as he put down the piece as if it were a fragile crystal. “May it bring us what it brings us…” He croaked, letting them flow, numb with grief. His weary eyes scanned the debris while he knelt, finding more pieces of leather, charred pieces of her dusky rose shirt, her trousers. Changing was the worst thing she could have done. She thought you were dead. It was fitting. We were both creatures of revenge. And you will have yours, Ana, his thoughts darkly turning to the cause of her suffering.

   

  You have taken everything from me yet again, eh, Ondolemar? Vingalmo signed and you, you son of a bitch, you slaughtered them in the night. The fires of the Forge turned into the fires of Dusk and he could hear their screams in the night, screaming “why” into the gloom. Wails in the hot winds. And he remembered slicing through their black robes in retaliation, defending them. His eyes found the doorway and his tears stopped, replaced by the flush of battle.

   

  Kill him. Kill her and to Oblivion with all of it.

   

  “May it bring us what it brings us, Ana.” He repeated.

   

  He rose with purpose and descended the platform stairs, the cries of his joints and the pain in his lungs slighted in favor for the void of fury. He passed Stenvar and turned right, nearing the hallway.  The modified uniform of a legionnaire was on the floor, near its entrance, stained in blood. A puncture hole in the chest, and Äelberon just stopped.

   

  The grizzled face with his tattoo, the twinkling blue eyes were now lifeless, staring, the expression frozen into one of surprise and agony. A bloody handprint on his cheek. There were no words. He had no words as he felt his knees strike the floor of the Forge yet again. His prior resolve vanishing like the flicker of a dying flame. How many, he mouthed silently, mortified, his eyes widening. How? How? He was better than any of Dreth’s men! Äelberon searched the body with his eyes, stopping when they found the bone jutting through the muscled thigh. A sobbing laugh escaped his lips and he hung his head.

   

  “How many times did I tell you, old Blade? How many times? Shit. Dammit, Dec.”  He shook his head and raised his voice. “No, not you…I refuse. I refuse this.” Äelberon turned the body, dragging it closer to him, laying his hands on it, seeing into the body with his mind, praying. Was there life? If there was life, he could bring him back. No, this was not fair. It was like Kodlak and Skjor, only now you are here. If there is life, Decimus can live again. He prayed, asking Auri-El to give him the gift of Magnus, to let the magicks flow through him again. You can save him. If he has a little life left…

   

  Nothing came of his prayers save silence. Death.

   

  “My life is not worth more than his!” He roared into the Forge. “Not worth more than hers! This is why I turned the valve, dammit! To prevent this! So they could live and yet you let them die! While I live? Why?!  Druv, Bormah, DRUV?” Äelberon leaned heavily against Decimus, spent from his outburst. “Sometimes, I hate you so much. Just a fishermer. I was just a fishermer. Content in my city by the sea…” he murmured, his shoulders starting to shake as he rested his head against the Imperial’s side for a few moments, staring blankly at the fire and destruction.

   

  Nokin... Your heart was as restless as the sea during a storm. As aimless as the serpent in the night sky.

   

  The Forge shook with another explosion, sending debris and sprays of lava rocketing outwards. Several pieces landed close to Äelberon, but he ignored them. He watched the lava creep forward and felt no desire to move. “I’m sorry, old friend.” He looked around and then sighed. “This was not my intention. I told Erik to keep you away.” He smirked sadly. “Let me guess, the woman, eh? She wanted in the forge. Stubborn… like a bull.” Äelberon choked the last word. “Remember when I told you I loved her? ‘Dragonborn’s Balls’, that is what you said. Well,” he admitted. “There may have been a ‘well fuck me’ too.” He chuckled through his tears. “But you treated me and her better than most. She gave up so much for me and I for her. Oh, Dec, I am hurting very much like I did so long ago, all over again, and you had always warned me to stop caring so much. You would probably say ‘I told you so’, but I…” He hesitated. “I would do it a thousand times over again, no differently. Repeat the steps, the patterns that led to this very moment. Doomed.” The lava was approaching, bright and bubbling and he gazed upon it, transfixed, oblivious to the terrible heat that was making his armor almost unbearable to wear. “I can stop the pattern, Dec. I can die here—“

   

  He frowned at his last words, at the impulse he felt to end it all.

   

  “Nikriin”, he cursed to himself under his breath, yet he couldn’t quite bring himself to move. Äelberon raised his head and placed a hand on the Imperial’s side, remaining with his dear friend for a precious few seconds more.

   

  He had so few left, so few of an age that understood him, that did not see him as ‘teacher’ or ‘master’, or ‘teva’. Just saw him as a Mer. Imperfect, flawed. Skjor, Kodlak, Bumph, Serana, and now Decimus. Tilma and Urag were left and they would die too. Mortality, the bitter jealousy of the Elves and the Dovah. To walk the world still while others could escape. Doomed to wander. Doomed to grieve until the tears run dry. A side column collapsed, crushing the constructs caught in the path of its fall, sending bits of metal everywhere and Äelberon observed the obliteration of a Dwemer masterpiece of construction casually. All things do end eventually, but not me, not today, for the gods do not yet will it so. “I…” he chuckled, remembering the irony of his first night waking at Jorrvaskr, “I endure.” He sighed, giving Decimus a final pat. “I need to get out of here. You know, Dovahkiin business and all that.” He bit his lip. “I’m so sorry, old Blade.”

   

  He began to use the body as leverage to push himself up and then stopped, studying the face of his friend. A tomb of fire and lava for the Goldpact Knight. A crypt. His mind traveled back to Potema’s catacombs and Decimus’ face as they passed the bodies interred in the darkness.

   

  “Why in fuck’s sake would anybody want to be sealed up like Falmer? I can barely breathe in here,” the Imperial had asked, a scowl on his face.

   

  “Well, they are not breathing anymore, Dec,” he had retorted.

   

  “Fuck you, Old Mary,” came the response, making them both laugh. It turned into a discussion on the treatment of the dead in various cultures and Decimus cut him off abruptly after one of his lengthy metaphysical explanations. “Well, fuck Imperial tradition. You put me in a Cairn ABOVE the fucking ground when I stop, you got that straight, Old Mary? Dayspring is pretty, lots of flowers and shit like that. Yeah, Dayspring...” The voice had trailed off.

   

  “Pretty?” Äelberon smirked to himself. That was exactly what you said and how you said it then too, making the Imperial laugh at you.

   

  “Aye, pretty. Hey, just because I walk around like a badass doesn’t mean I don’t fucking like flowers, trees, and shit.” Äelberon remembered the grizzled warrior then shaking a finger at him just before he cut a draugr in half. “And, Ronnie, if you spill any of this shit to the Goldpact, I’m gonna run my sword through your fat ass. Gotta maintain appearances. People can’t think this Old Blade’s gone all soft.” The Imperial then grinned and Äelberon’s chest tightened at the surge of memories. More explosions and he looked up, the smoke stinging his eyes and lungs. He felt the heat of the lava. This was no Dayspring. No cairn above ground. With flowers, trees, and shit.

   

  “Am I strong enough?” Äelberon asked himself. His lungs were in terrible shape, his body sore and broken. He was exhausted beyond measure. He then looked at Decimus, his dear friend, and all the memories of their experiences together flashed through his mind. He set his jaw. “Yes, despite everything, I am.”

   

  With yells of effort that rang in the chamber amidst the hurling rocks and metal, Äelberon of Dusk, a Knight-Paladin of Auri-El, a champion of the Gods, hoisted Decimus Merotim, a Knight of the Goldpact Order, a champion of Coin, on his weary shoulders, armor and all. His ribs and lungs screamed in agony, but he didn’t care. He could feel his legs crack from the stress, but he didn’t care. He would bring Decimus to the surface. You will lay among flowers, trees, and shit, I promise. I’ll even bring the bag of shit myself, Old Blade, because we are literal with our jokes, you and me. But first, we’re gonna fuck up some Old Marys, you and me, together, one last time, for her. Äelberon began to walk into the hallway leading to the stairs, slowly.  

   

  Too slowly to escape the encroaching lava.  It was going to overtake him and he huffed, willing his legs faster, only they felt as heavy as cast iron, refusing to quicken the pace. He could feel the burn of it against his back.

   

  “Ruth.” He cursed. “Wuld, nah…”

   

  Äelberon did not even realize he had shouted, but he surged forward quickly, landing precisely at the foot of the steps. Buying him some precious time before the lava would reach him. His eyes widened.

   

  There was another body.

   

  A wall covered in blood and bits of burned flesh greeted his eyes. Nearby, at the base of the steps lay the top half of the Redguard, his organs spilling from a gaping hole in his torso. Äelberon swallowed, understanding the elemental burns that covered the Redguard’s body as he adjusted his grip on Decimus. “Gru got him, Old Blade. See, Gru got him. Must have used one of his little bolts. Clever bastard...” His nostrils flared when he picked up residual magicks heavy in the air. Someone cast here and he felt a tiny smile creep to his lips. There was more to the Redguard’s death than an elemental bolt. “Well, fuck me.” He cursed quietly, borrowing the Old Blade’s favorite expression.  He knew that spell. Where did it go? A quick scan of the area saw the weapon a bit behind him, near the encroaching lava. And how did you not notice this? Because you were picking up Decimus that’s why. Fuck!

   

  “Fuck up Old Marys, eh?” Äelberon smirked as he muttered to himself. “How? With your good looks? You need to get out of here, first, you dolt, and maybe you should perhaps get a weapon while you are at it?”  He glanced at Decimus. “See, Old Blade, this is what happens when I plan things under duress—“ He sighed. “Listen to me, I am talking to a body.” He breathed deeply and fought the building emotion. “Whatever gets you through it, Old Mer. I’m going to have to put you down a spell, because I don’t see your blade either and I don’t trust my shout to be so precise.” He set Decimus down at the steps, careful to avoid as much of the Redguard’s—Bleak Walkers, they were called Bleak Walkers—blood as possible. Why didn’t Dec tell him about this? He would have helped the Imperial track him down. Track him down and kill him. All this time Decimus had a Bleak Walker contract on him and he said nothing! Gods dammit. He could have fixed this!

   

  His Bleak Walker had been a Khajiit. Just keep talking to yourself, Old Mer, just keep thinking about everything else. “Wuld.” Äelberon whispered absently and he closed the distance between himself and the ebony weapon, ending up a mere inches from where the blade lay and not overshooting like he always did. That would’ve put him in the lava. The heat was already almost unbearable and he squinted as tiny embers popped from the liquid’s surface and fizzed into charcoal dust, compounding the irritation in his lungs. With a groan, he lifted the weapon, noticing that it was actually lighter than his bastard. He tested the weight with a swing and nearly died when pain shot up his side and burned through his chest. He stifled his cry and closed his left hand over the hilt as well, remembering what he had told Erik at the mill. ‘I will make you a better warrior with one hand than you ever were with two’. He chuckled at the irony. “Bormah, my standards are no longer so high, I would just like to fuck up some Old Marys, please…”  He managed another swing, easier this time with both hands, though he was now bathed in sweat.   

   

  The massive black Cathay-raht had a similar blade and wielded it like a god. A jaguar-man from Elsweyr, was what the stories had called their kind, his small mane of greying black fur rustling in the icy winds of the Jerrals.  Vingalmo had watched them fight, watched and waited to see who would emerge victorious, so weakened that the Justiciar could eliminate either one easily with a bite to the neck. And then the troll came.

   

  But I survived.

   

  So long ago and you barely escaped with your life. So long ago and you were healthy then; strong, and in your prime. “It is going to take all your faith if you think you can best Ondolemar in the shape you are in.” He grumbled to himself as he made his way back to Decimus, sheathing the weapon. It fit. Aye, it fits, for your purpose is just as bleak... “And you’re going to do this with a body in tow too.” Äelberon shrugged.  Do not question your decisions now, you have no idea what has become of the others.

   

  The sudden blast from the Forge caught him off-guard, its shockwave sending him hurling towards the stairs. He landed on the Redguard’s remains and heard the surge of lava behind him. Move. Now.

   

  Too weak. Too slow.

   

  “Decimus.” He whispered and reached out his hand to grab the Imperial, fumbling to get a proper grip. Move. Hurry. Grab him to run. Can’t run. Terror. His hand closed tightly over Decimus’ arm. “Feim zii…” They both turned spectral as the lava passed over their legs, before retreating backwards again, like a wave upon the sand. The Redguard burst into flame upon contact and sank into the liquid fire. Even the steps themselves began to disintegrate while Äelberon slowly dragged himself and Decimus up the steps out of harm’s way.

   

  He reached the top of the steps and stopped to catch his breath, holding the Imperial’s body to make sure he didn’t slip as both their forms returned to normal. The lava had surged back, more gently this time, but now Äelberon noticed that it was steadily rising. It would crest the stairs soon and pass over the gate spilling into the courtyard. He needed to get to the bridges. Let the lava spill over the ledge into the lava-filled chasm below.  What does Gru say all the time? Ah, easy-peasy, he nodded to himself. He hoisted Decimus upon his shoulders again with a grin, feeling the pain in his chest. “Aye,” He grunted through gritted teeth. “Easy-peasy. Look who’s calling who fat arse.” If Decimus were alive, he would be laughing now, Äelberon thought as he pushed open the grilled Dwemer door with his left shoulder, still tender from the arrow. Did anything heal right? No, the dragon fucked everything up in Windhelm. She had wanted to go home, he could tell and she was—He shook his head, blinking away fresh tears, feeling his bottom lip twist, do not think on that now. You will lose it otherwise and you promised him a cairn above ground and she will have her vengeance...  “Come on, friend.” He changed his voice, becoming playful. “We are almost out. See, I’m even carrying you over the threshold, Mer and wifey—“  

   

  The smile quickly left his face and his eyes widened when he noticed the extent of the damage to the courtyard. Parts of the building had already collapsed. Rocks had fallen from the surface, taking out one of the bridges—the one closest to the entrance to the Forge—and the other was nearly as bad. Lava was behind him and the bridge was out. The bridge that led to the lift. The lift to the surface. The earth seemed to rejoice at the damage Galar had done to the Forge, doing its part to keep it its existence buried with violent tremors that sent rocks plummeting to the abyss below. He heard them hit the lava and explode upon impact. “The bridge is out.” He gasped aloud, his mouth open in shock, and Äelberon of Dusk, the Slayer of Bet, The Harbinger of the Companions, the Dragonborn, could begin to feel the wave of panic building. “The bridge is out. The bridge is out…”

   

  “You! You are alive?”

   

  Äelberon nearly jumped out of his pants at the sound of the voice, almost dropping Decimus in the process. “What?” he stammered, looking around frantically.

   

  “By the Three!” the voice gasped.

   

  Äelberon froze in his tracks, narrowing his eyes. He knew the voice. Dreth. Dreth? He had survived? You are carrying somebody and barely able to hold a blade. If he blasts you with magicks, you are dead. He remained silent and carefully backed himself and Decimus into a pile of rubble, away from the tree’s line of sight.

   

  A chuckle from the tree followed by weak clapping. “Smart as fuck. I liked you, you know. Still do. And I understand the constructs. Bloody brilliant move creating chaos like that. Wish I had hired you instead of Greenskin. The Dragonborn. I think things would have gone quite differently. For the both of us.”

   

  Äelberon scanned the area, looking, ignoring the fire in his legs from bearing Decimus for so long, the slow seep of blood from the wound to his lungs. Who was unaccounted for?

   

  The second Orc, but no, she was Bloodkin and slew Stenvar. She’s on your side.

   

  Belrand?  Äelberon tightened his hold on Decimus. Belrand was a caster, not an archer. The Bosmer was dead, so that eliminated Ondolemar’s tactic at Raldbthar. Unless he was there with Dreth and manipulating Aela… Or Erik… So that left Belrand, Dreth, Ondolemar, and Lareyne unaccounted for. Erik, Aela, and Serana. He shook his head. Serana was dead. He did not see her body, but the change, it would have been too much for her. Did one of them carry her out? Or perhaps the lava already took her? Where were they? He could see the light from the magma’s fire reflecting off the walls of the hallway…

   

  “Hello? I am addressing the living?” Dreth pressed, but Äelberon remained silent, not disclosing his position. How was he going to get through them? “I am alone.” Dreth continued, and Äelberon could sense the escalating tension in the Dunmer’s voice. “They abandoned me; left me after that bitch bit my leg off.”

   

  “That was my sister.” Äelberon snapped like an old wolf, only to curse against the rocks, hating himself for getting angry for Aela and giving Dreth his position.

   

  “Look, the lava is coming and while I’m a fucking Dunmer,” He chuckled. “I’m certainly not immune to lava. Galar mentioned your skill with your thu’um or…” Dreth released a groan. “Whatever it is you call it. I don’t have time for your feelings. I can make this worth your while. Put down the Imperial and I will pay you to get me out of here and back to Windhelm.  I have no qualms about giving you partial credit for discovering the Forge.  The Ginger Nord has the crest, proof of its existence...I’m sure he’ll let us have it, especially if you reason with him. It is clear he respects you. The way he reacted when you fell—“

   

  “That is my brother.” Äelberon interrupted, feeling his face flush from both anger and the encroaching magma.

   

  “I don’t care if it’s your second cousin twice removed!” Dreth snapped. Äelberon heard him clear his throat and take a breath. He is terrified. So are you. The bridge is out. I do not know what you think I can do, Dreth. “He has the crest. I saw him carry it out as he…” Äelberon peeked from his spot and saw Dreth. The Dunmer was sitting, leaning against the tree, the trail of blood ending with him. A leg below the knee was missing, but the flesh looked as if it had been recently cauterized. He cast a fire spell for that. He was pale and eyeing the lava from his position, attempting to maintain a calm demeanor, but Äelberon could see the stress cracks. The Dunmer took another deep breath breath and Äelberon did not like the expression on the Dunmer’s face. Sly, like he’s just dealt you a hand.  “As he carried out the vampire.”

   

  “What?!”

   

  She lives? Äelberon could not control his own trembling and he hated himself for it.

   

  “Ah, Greenskin said she was your weakness.” Dreth sighed, almost wistfully. “Only it really wasn’t Greenskin, was it?”

   

  “No.”

   

  “I gave that little pig too much credit. All this time, the fucking Thalmor were running the show. And you knew? All this time, you knew. The constructs or them. You made a choice, knowing they would strike you down, taking a chance. You are quite the gambling Mer, Dragonborn.  You are brilliant, but so were they.” Dreth laughed, shaking his head. “At least they thought they were. Oh, they are so fucked. You are going for them, aren’t you?”

   

  “Yes.” It was snarled and part of him did not like the sound of his own voice then.  

   

  Dreth laughed, only to erupt into a coughing fit. “Better hurry up then, Dragonborn. The lava’s coming and they are not here.” Dreth hesitated, taking the time to wipe the bloodied spit from his mouth and adjust his clothes and Äelberon was going mad from it.  

   

  “WHERE ARE THEY?” Äelberon bellowed, emerging from the rocks. 

   

  The Dunmer jumped but quickly composed himself. “Oh, you are angry.” Dreth purred, opening a red vial he removed from the pack that was lying next to him. He took a casual sip, seeming to enjoy that he was causing torment.  

   

  “TELL ME!” Äelberon roared, his voice sounding much like it did all those years ago.  

   

  He wants you angry.

   

  “Put him down, pick me up, and I’ll tell you. You’ll get your revenge, Dragonborn, and so will I.”  Dreth answered calmly, still sipping the potion. You could use a potion. Ah fuck, you know the world is about to end when you actually want one of those blasted things.  

   

  “They escaped?” Äelberon asked.

   

  “Yes, annoying as fuck. Evidently that pansy of a mercenary can ride lightning bolts.” Dreth made a gesture with his hand imitating a rocket launch. “Sailed right over the wall where the stairs were. I had underestimated him, as you did. Bloody retractable stairs. Bloody Thalmor. Took the bitch with him. Ha! My guess is that they’re definitely enjoying each other. My consolation is that maybe she’ll kill him too... I hate being duped. You like being duped?” Dreth shook his head when Äelberon just stared at him. He’s bargaining with you, and you are considering it. “I hate it. She was a class act. Should’ve hired her too. You and her would’ve been perfect. I would’ve even let you bring the vampire.” Another column fell, hissing and popping from the stress of its contact with the lava, making both Mer regard the entrance. “One more big explosion and everything is over, Dragonborn. You don’t get your revenge. You will never know if she’s alive. Ginger carried her out. I’m no expert, but usually you only waste your time to pick up somebody who’s alive. You seem to be the only one that has it the other way around. A sense of honor? I don’t know. Honor is a piece of shit. Drop him, take me, and the Thalmor will pay.”

   

  “Dec…” Äelberon whispered, wavering. “It is Ondolemar…”

   

  “Are you actually talking to the body?” Dreth rolled his eyes. “Hmm, maybe not so smart after all…”

   

  “He killed my family, Dec.” Äelberon ignored Dreth. His legs were hurting. He was tired. He had thought it over when Vingalmo died. That they would leave him alone, but with Layrene, he knew, they would never stop.

   

  “Let me guess,” Dreth continued. “One of those ‘purges’ they keep insisting never happened. You appearance is, shall we say… unique. Definitely not their ‘Gold Standard’, but impressive nevertheless.” Dreth chuckled, but then became serious. “You can avenge them all. Just. Put. Him. Down. I am injured. He is dead. You would shirk the injured? Someone you are bound by your Order, oh yes, Galar told me you were a priest, to help? A published scholar over a mercenary? An…” Dreth furrowed his brow in mock-sadness. “Innocent?”

   

  Gods damn you, Auri-El, I hate you sometimes. Vows over two-hundred years old versus the promise he made in jest to a friend. They pinky-sweared, some silly shit Decimus pulled out of his arse in the middle of Potema’s catacombs and then laughed at him when he actually did it, jumping up and down like a youngling, not seeming to notice the vampires behind him. Then he winked and the two seasoned warriors grinned at each other. The vampires never knew what hit them. We were a good team, Dec... 

   

  He knew what his Order demanded of him. He was obliged to help Dreth.

   

  That is a load of horseshit, you want at Ondolemar. A slaughterer of an entire city. His saber stained red with the blood of Dusk.  That is why you are going to put your dear friend down and pick up that foul piece of garbage who has caused more damage with his greed in less than a month then Decimus did his entire life. What were you doing a month ago?

   

  Holding your Ana.

   

  Äelberon adjusted his grip on Decimus, feeling the lava behind him now. Time was slowing for him, as it always seemed to when vital decisions needed to be made. The life-changers. When he ran to refuge in the Jerrals. When he leapt from the Western Watchtower. When he took the Beast Blood.

   

  When you kissed her at Dimhollow after trying to kill her.

   

  Dreth was waiting. A tiny smile playing on his ashen features. He’s reading you, he knows what you want to do. He looked up, sighed, and laughed, making the Dunmer furrow his brow in confusion. This is not up to you, Dreth. “I have gone to Oblivion and back under your banner!” He yelled towards the ceiling of the chasm. “I have done what you wished of me, corrupting my body beyond endurance for you, while you have remained passive. Now, I want something from you! A sign, you fucker! Do you hear me?” He asked, beating his fist with his chest, ignoring everything. “A sign!” 

   

  “By the Reclamations! Fuck signs! God damned zealot! The lava is coming!” Dreth screamed, pointing beyond the Altmer. He could feel the heat intensely behind him now, stronger than ever, threatening to make him burn under his armor, but he waited. Waited for a sign from his God while the Dunmer shrieked panicked entreaties for him to hurry, all his prior manipulation out the door like the morning’s sweeping. I will wait right here, Auri-El, and may the lava take me, Äelberon swore to himself, his eyes red with rage. I challenge you. “Zu’u jur hi.” He growled. “Ofan zey siin.”

   

  The Dunmer started to drag himself away from the tree, down the steps towards the first bridge, cursing, sobbing for help.

   

  I. Will. Wait.  Ofan zey siin. Give me a sign.

   

  The heat on his back was almost overwhelming, his hair dripping with sweat. He trembled as he held Decimus, every muscle aching, but he focused his eyes on the Dunmer crawling away. Help him, or help Decimus? Your decision, Auri-El, or you lose everything and Alduin wins.

   

  There was an intense explosion from the Forge entrance and Äelberon was thrown forward some distance to the head of the stairs leading to the first bridge. He knees broke his fall, which screamed from the impact against the stone. He dropped Decimus when he fell and the Imperial rolled like a ragdoll past the tree and down the steps leading to the first bridge. A side of a Dwemer archway near the Dunmer broke his roll and Äelberon let out a strangled cry, unable to believe it. A few more rolls and Decimus would have plummeted into the lava abyss. 

   

  This? This was his sign? They were fucking side by side now. In the same place!  This is your decision? To make it my decision? “Make up your mind, you fuck!” He exploded, angry. “Nikriin! Hi faan hinmaar Rah-Jun? Ahst jok Alduin vust wahl komaan. Nid tovok trinimac lost wah dreh hin kroson fah hi!” Äelberon started after his last words, not sure where they came from. You dare question him? He shook his head to clear his thoughts, surprised. You have never questioned, not like—The ground began to shake violently while Äelberon righted himself. The front façade of the Forge’s entrance then crumbled, the last barrier between him and the lava. 

   

  “Help!” Dreth screamed, starting to drag himself away in earnest.

   

  There was no time to think. Äelberon ran towards them, feeling like his legs would break at any moment from the physical abuse. The decision had been made and may Auri-El have mercy on his soul.  “Forgive me, Dec…” He whispered trying not to look at the Imperial.

   

  “Hurry, hurry! Reclamations take you for waiting!  He doesn’t care! He’s dead, you fucking idiot! I’m alive!” The Dunmer wailed, coughing through the smoke, his eyes streaked with tears. “Yes, that’s it! To me! Don’t want to die. Curse the Aedra! No wonder the Dwemer didn’t worship—“  

   

  Äelberon was thrown off-balance, landing on his arse with a groan, when a large, jagged boulder fell from the chasm ceiling and slammed into the earth just in front of him. It crushed Dreth’s torso so violently that the pressure of the impact popped the Dunmer’s red eyes right from his sockets and his nose and mouth burst open with blood and tissue. He was dead, just like that. After all the effort he went through to save himself. After all that he had gone through for his precious Forge. He was going to be buried with it. Äelberon looked up from where the boulder fell and then at Decimus, his mind nearly numb from the brutality of the action. Mere pertans from Decimus’ limp hand. Pertans to the left and it would have been Decimus. Pertans back and it would have been you. Was this the decision? He smiled, I struck a nerve with you, eh? You do not like being called coward. Pahlokaal med hin bruzah…

   

  He got up quickly and with a roar hoisted the Imperial upon his shoulders again, pulling backwards just in time for a second boulder to slam into the bridge, taking it to the lava below.

   

  He whirled rapidly and saw a small sea of lava approaching. There was no time. No time. He turned again, his eyes focused on the spot of Dwemer tile, feeling the heat behind him. It was beginning to melt his boots… 

   

  “WULD NA!” He cried. He vaulted over the destroyed bridge like a Greybeard and landed on that precise Dwemer tile as lava vomited from the entrance of the Forge, expanding the building’s open wounds. More rocks fell from the ceiling and his eyes widened.

   

  “FEIM!”  The rocks blasted through their protected spectral forms, striking the Dwemer bust behind him with a hard clang, sending it hurling over the edge. Äelberon turned to face the second bridge. It was longer, much longer, he thought, remembering this morning’s trek to the forge. Studying the place while he went over numerous scenarios in his mind. The crack of stone beneath him broke his concentration and he froze. Gods, it was not going to hold. Without the support of the two bridges, the natural stone column he was on was precarious and it began to weave and buckle from the tremors coming from the demolition of the Forge. This bridge had been much longer and it was completely gone. He was not going to make it. He attempted a running start. The lift was there, at the other end. He could see the door. It was still open...

   

  “Wu—“ Äelberon abruptly stopped, almost stumbling backwards, not letting the word escape when he felt himself slip. If the distance was not judged perfectly… He remembered all the times he had slipped with this shout. Hitting cliff sides, columns, almost getting Ana killed.  The column teetered now from his movements. “I’m sorry, Decimus. I cannot. I…” The stone beneath his feet buckled again and it began to collapse. He glanced at his friend.

   

  “It is a serious thing this pinky-swearing?” He remembered asking at the catacombs.

   

  “Aye, dead serious.” Replied the Imperial, giving him a look that made him roll his eyes. He knew Decimus was funning him. Then he spit for good measure.

   

  “Oh well, now you have gone and spit. I have no choice in the matter.” He had smirked. They then linked their little fingers. A promise was made.

   

  “And I swore. You would have your cairn above the ground, Dec. I will at least do this right by you.” His eyes found the door to the lift and then they lowered, focusing on a spot some two tile spans away from it. The stone beneath him shifted, but he did not care when he felt the drop. That split second just before you fall. “Lok avok, zul kosil.” He whispered, letting his eyes close, remembering the beating of his wings.

   

  “WULD NAH… KEST!”

   

  

   

  Thank Talos she was weak, thought Erik, because there was no way Belrand and him could have held her back otherwise when she lunged at Gru after the tremor shook him off balance. Her fangs were bare and there was pure Oblivion in her eyes. Gru dodged, retreating towards a nearby tent.

   

  “Tusk! Hold her, ya morons! Bitch!” He snarled.

   

  “Let me kill him, let me!” Serana screamed struggling against their grasps. Belrand gave Erik a look and Erik shrugged. You’re asking me what to do? “Let me kill the pig! Let me tear him apart with my bare hands. You’re not fit to wipe his boots!”

   

  “You know, if you let her go, the monster would be doing all of us a service.” Volunteered Galar, setting Jenassa down on a crate with about as much care as a sack of potatoes.

   

  “Nobody asked you!” Erik snapped.

   

  The Telvanni raised his eyebrows in surprise and rummaged through his pack. “Well! Typical stupid Nord.” He retrieved another potion from his pack and handed it to Jenassa, who took it without complaint. While Erik held Serana he couldn’t help but gawk at how the Dunmer mercenary was like a changed creature. She was almost meek in the Magister’s presence, whereas before she was the one who had given Decimus the most trouble after the Redguard.

   

  “Erik, I can’t hold her much longer. Talk some sense into her.” Belrand groaned. “She’s kicking at my wound.” Erik refocused his attention back to the vampire and tightened his hold. Now the left hand was hurting. He had removed the arrow as they traveled up the lift. Or rather Aela did. It was now crudely wrapped in fabric from he didn’t want to guess where. They were so fucked up.

   

  “Serana, he’s not worth it.” That got a look from Grulmar, but he didn’t care. Another violent tremor made them all lose their balance. Gods, it was like Arkngthamz all over again.

   

  “What the Oblivion is going on?” Aela growled, clutching her side. “It wasn’t this bad when we were heading up.”

   

  “Quite obvious, fool.” Galar answered, his eyebrow raised in an expression of arrogance.  “Thanks to me, that abomination that you were searching for has been destroyed, and by the Reclamations, the earth will swallow it up.”

   

  “We were never searching for it!” Aela bellowed, her eyes tinging yellow and Erik wondered if she’d change again. “He never wanted to go.”

   

  “But he went.” The Telvanni argued.

   

  “For this pig!” Aela pointed at Grulmar and Erik couldn’t help but be angry along with her. It is your fault, Gru. You wanted the treasure. Didn’t matter that Decimus barely had a knee. I walked with him to the Harbinger’s house. I saw him limp. I saw him hobble to the dragon without fear while you hid in the city. Neither Decimus nor the Harbinger wanted this. She took a step forward towards Grulmar who seemed to be in another world. Not caring if Aela tore him apart or not. Her eyes were beginning to yellow and Erik didn’t want more blood on her hands.

   

  “Aela, no, please. It’s not what he would’ve wanted. Help me with Serana.” Erik gestured to the struggling vampire. “This, this is what he would’ve wanted. To take care of the people he loved.” Erik choked and the raw emotion hit him like a warhammer.  He blinked and felt hot tears streak his cheeks. A quick glance at Belrand showed that the older Nord wasn’t faring much better, the eyes red-rimmed, he face weathered. He looked nearly as old as Vignar did. Aela rushed towards them, tears in her pale grey eyes, giving them her beast’s strength. The vampire was subdued, pressed as gently to the ground as they dared. He settled to his knees, still doing a lion’s share of the holding. Aela knelt with him while Belrand backed away, but still remained close.

   

  The screams and curses at Grulmar died down to feeble wails and it made Erik look away to see her like this, naked and vulnerable, shaking like a leaf. Her veins were filled with silver and she was nearly the color of snow. Her face was gaunt and her eyes were beginning to go dim. This was the woman who ran up the steps to Raldbthar with no fear, her spells charged, her blade drawn, ready to defend her lover to the death.

   

  Only now he was dead. And so was Decimus. Two of the greatest warriors Erik had ever known gone within an hour of each other. Erik tried to smooth Serana’s tousled hair in an expression of compassion, but it was tangled up pretty bad. He held her, but was a bit worried by how cold she was. “Aela, she’s very cold.”

   

  His Shield-Sister put a hand on Serana’s forehead and frowned. “I don’t know, she is normally quite cold, but I’m more worried about her eyes. I’ve never seen them like that before. The fire is leaving them.”

   

  Serana knocked Aela’s hand off her forehead with a frail push. “Leave me.” She said softly.

   

  “Where should we go?” Belrand asked.

   

  “I don’t know.” Erik replied.

   

  “Ivarstead is nearby.” Aela volunteered then grimaced, disagreeing immediately with her suggestion. “But they won’t let her anywhere that town, not like that. Moon sister, you need to change your eyes, please.”

   

  “Why?” Serana moaned, staring vacantly at the entrance to the Forge. They were a dull orange now and her breathing was slowing down. “Leave me.”

   

  “Well, while you decide, I will be heading back to Windhelm. Can you walk, servant?” Galar asked Jenassa.

   

  “Yes, Magister.” She replied with a humble nod.

   

  “Good, then you can pick up my things and we’ll be off.” The Magister strode towards one of the tents in the back of the camp. “Dreth may have some useful things. I suggest you pick them up.”

   

  “Yes, Magister.” She nodded, now limping behind the Telvanni Enchanter.

   

  “You’re just going to leave?” The Orc spoke up. The female. Erik almost forgot about her. Powerfully built, almost like a Nord warrior in her Orichalcum. Aye, she killed Stenvar. She went up against Stenvar and the Redguard. And she didn’t die.

   

  The Telvanni whirled around at her words. “Did one of you pigs address me? Hmph, this is what you get when Dreth is in charge. Continued insolence.” The Dunmer rolled his eyes. “Yes, I am leaving you. My mission here is complete and I have notes to compile. Come, Jenassa. We cannot delay. My feet are getting sore and they will require proper attention from those delicate fingers of yours.”

   

  “Yes, Magister.”

   

  Ysmir’s Beard! It was like all the spirit was sucked from her.

   

  “Fuck, where do we go then?” the Orc asked, growing annoyed. “Belrand? Where? I do not know this area. Do you?”

   

  “Borgakh, you think I know any better? I know some places, but we’re pretty isolated here.” The balding Nord answered, beginning to twist his hair to get it away from his face. “Cold will settle in soon. We can’t stay here.”

   

  “I will find the answer myself.” She walked towards Grulmar. “Where do we go?” Grulmar shrugged, turning his shoulder to her. Like a restless bull, she kicked the dust at her feet and then her brow furrowed. “I’ll go ready horses, we’ll need horses no matter where we go.”

   

  “I think Ivarstead is our best bet, Erik.” Suggested Belrand, watching Borgakh wander off. He looked down at Serana. “We can keep her hidden.”

   

  “Serana? Can you ride?” Erik asked.

   

  “Leave me here.” She repeated. “I will wait for Talwin.”

   

  All three Nords exchanged confused glances at the vampire’s strange words. “I can’t do that. He wouldn’t like that.” Erik whispered, brushing away the hair from her forehead. She was cold, but she was sweating that stuff from Raldbthar again and he remembered the Harbinger’s worried look.

   

  “I will wait for Talwin, like I did before. I will wait. I am in the shower of pink petals, Talwin…find me, like in your song. You found me then. Wandered the frozen lands... renquar…”

   

  “Serana, Moon Sister, don’t do this to yourself.” Aela whispered, stroking her hair. “He wouldn’t want this. He’d want you to be strong.”

   

  “Stone cold, I waited, the hum of the scroll all I heard. Until Talwin came. Talwin Anar, bathed in dawn’s golden light…Varla-Pelin-El…And I tried to kill him. I was a fool. He too. We tried to kill each other. I should have told him…” She looked at Aela, her eyes widening like a child’s eyes, the expression like one who was totally lost. A lot like Grulmar. That stare you have when your world is gone. I was like this when I thought I’d never fight again. The breaking point of the soul. “I told him, Aela. I finally told him…”

   

  Aela nodded in a way that surprised Erik. She could be capable of such tenderness sometimes. “I know. He said, he said that you did. He was so happy, he smiled.”

   

  Her features brightened and Erik thought he saw a tiny ember of fire light return to her eyes. “He smiled? He has such a beautiful smile…” Her eyes narrowed. “Oh, Vilkas will be angry at him. He does not like me. I don’t blame him, I don’t like me sometimes either. Please make Vilkas understand?” She asked, touching Erik on the forearm. Her hand was like ice. “I never wanted to come between them.”

   

  “You can tell Vilkas yourself, alright?” Erik offered.

   

  “He’s dead. Talwin is dead.” Her voice was low and the words were spoken in such a way that it only compounded the grief everybody was feeling. Even Gru was crying silently though Erik knew that it was for Decimus mostly. He never liked the Harbinger much. Erik assumed that Talwin was just another name for the Harbinger. Like him calling her ‘Ana’—

   

  “The Harbinger…” Erik suddenly croaked. He looked at his Shield-Sister. “Oh gods, Aela, what do we tell them at Jorrvaskr?”

   

  Aela’s shoulders heaved and the Huntress wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “I don’t know. Oh, Tilma. Dammit, let me think. Did he name one? He never really discussed it with me. He was so new. The Circle hadn’t discussed the matter. By Hircine, you don’t expect me?” She shook her head. “I can’t do this.  We just lost one. It hasn’t even been a year yet…”

   

  Erik shook his head. “Ysmir’s Beard. I don’t know, Aela.”

   

  “He didn’t name a Harbinger. We’d have to call the Circle.” She sniffed. “Like we did for Kodlak. Another, to lose another. Not even a year…”

   

  “Vilkas…” Serana gasped. “He told me Vilkas. It is like everything with him. The person who hates him most is the one he loves most.”

   

  The Orc female returned breathlessly. “Malacath’s armpit! We’re down two horses.”

   

  The three Nords looked up, though Grulmar and Serana were still lost in their own worlds. It seemed Serana was mouthing words, singing softly to herself, remembering something and Erik kept holding her, not wanting to think that she was dying. So he focused on the Orc, Borgakh—that was her name—again.

   

  “Where are they?” Erik asked.

   

  “The fucking Altmer. The ones who killed Bloodkin. I could smell the male one’s heavy cologne in the air among the horses, though whether he is male is up for debate. They are not far. I saw horse tracks leading west. I think they are going to risk the pass.”

   

  “Pass takes them to Falkreath. Fuckers.” Belrand growled. “Imperial territory. They’ll get away with it. Fuck!”

   

  Aela’s eyes narrowed and she stopped stroking Serana’s hair. “We take horses and cut them off.”

   

  Erik’s head was spinning, reeling from their madness. “How? Are you two crazy? Those two got out with nary a scratch on them and look at us! There’s not one of us here who isn’t bleeding.”

   

  “We can take them.” The Orc female sneered, fingering the hilt of her axe.

   

  “The other Orc was fried by that Mer. There was nothing left, only ash. Can you match his magicks, Belrand? Can you cast like that? Serana, can, but look at her. You want to put her through that? She needs help, not more of this shit.” The Nord shook his head, crossing his arms over his chest in frustration. “Jenassa, who’s probably the only one who could go toe to toe with them on blade is following Galar to Windhelm. The only ones who ever crossed Thalmor and lived to tell the tale are now dead.”

   

  “He wanted me by the Greenskin.” Belrand said quietly. “I’m sorry. Must have thought it was important. Didn’t want that tusker getting hurt. All through the negotiations, didn’t want anybody getting hurt. Wanted all of us to make it. Like he knew there were more important things—“

   

  The dragon’s roar in the distance made everybody shut up, all eyes heading skyward.  Vaguely, in the distance, they could see one circle lazily. It was far away, but it was a sober reminder. Erik could only shake his head, his eyes finding his Shield-Sister and Belrand. Belrand’s knees hit the ground and Aela’s forehead found the older Nord’s shoulder. The tired sigh that escaped her lips had all the weight of Skyrim’s worries on it.

   

  The Dragonborn was dead and dragons still roamed the skies.

   

  “I’m ready for it.” Grulmar said blankly, sitting against a boulder. He then threw a rock towards the sky and watched it drop as the dragon released another roar, letting everybody know that they now dominated again. “They know. They're rejoicin'. Gardens of possibilities where the white lilies cry tears of red diamonds. Have yer day, dragons. I don’t care anymore.”

   

  “Grulmar. We can’t stay here.” Belrand said, giving Aela’s shoulder a squeeze before starting to rise. “Come on, lad. We’re all hurt—“

   

  “Tusk ya. I’m stayin’ here. Let it come for me. Fangs got the right idea. Why bother? Who cares? World is for shit anyway. No Dragonborn, no Harbinger, no Goldpact Order…”

   

  “He’s right. It is hopeless.  Without Talwin, it is hopeless.” Serana whispered, closing her eyes. She stopped breathing and went still, sagging against Erik’s arm, the expression on her face frozen in a weighted sadness.

   

  Erik shook her. “No, it isn’t hopeless.” He argued back. Nothing, she did not move. He gave Aela a frightened look. “Why isn’t she moving?”

   

  “She always does that when she sleeps.” Aela sighed, biting her lip. “But I’ve never seen her eyes like that before, Erik. I don’t know…”

   

  “Wait.” Erik started, unsure about what to do. Thinking back to what had happened in the Forge when she wasn’t moving. Galar… he did something. Where was Galar? Did Galar have that ring? “Galar?” He saw the Telvanni and Jenassa mount a horse and he shifted Serana’s weight towards Aela. “Hold her, I’ll get Galar, he’s got that amulet he used at the Forge.” Erik got up and ran as best he could. He noticed he was still bleeding from his left hand, despite the bandages that was probably from Belrand’s underbreeches. Shor’s Bones, he had not even treated that. None of them had treated their injuries save the quick potions to prevent them from dying. He closed in on the Telvanni, shouting to get the Magister’s attention. “Galar! Galar!”

   

  “What? I don’t have time. I heard it roar too.” The Magister replied impatiently. “I suggest you find shelter, in case it decides to change direction.”

   

  “She’s not moving. We don’t know what to do. Can you help?”

   

  “Gah! It isn’t alive in the first place. I’m done with you people. Be lucky I kept the lift door open.” He narrowed his brow. “Though I am beginning to regret that decision.” He eyed where Serana was. “Damn, she owed me soul gems too. How tedious, I don’t have time. You are just going to have to wait and see if she wakes up, but I doubt she will. Pardon the pun, but it seems that her life has left her.” He urged Jenassa with a flick of his wrist. “You, servant, slap the reins and let us be off.”

   

  “Yes, Magister.”

   

  “But?” Erik stammered. “You’ve fought by them! I don’t understan—“

   

  “Oh, do run off, little Nordling, before I tell my servant to run you over with my horse. What is there to understand? The Old Blade is dead, the Dragonborn is dead. And Lord Nerevar died eons ago and he was far better than those two put together. We lose heroes all the time and Tamriel still manages to function. You’ll just maybe have to get used to a new world order. It’s not like dragons did not coexist with Men before. I’m sure they will not bear too strong a grudge.” He released a chuckle. “Oh, who are we kidding?” With those words, Galar Rothan and Jenassa rode off, leaving Erik just staring with his mouth open. He couldn’t believe it. They left. Just like that.

   

  He walked with his head down back to the Lift. Where do we go? None of them knew. They couldn’t head near that dragon. It was circling in the mountains to the Southwest. Ivarstead was a possibility, but Serana needed shelter, not for them to leave her to the elements like she was a piece of trash. Erik heard a swooshing noise, but put it aside. Probably the Forge falling to Oblivion. There was Largashbur, he continued debating to himself, but while they’d definitely let the Orc female in, the rest of them wouldn’t be allowed inside. Riften? Erik kept walking. Serana would have the same problem in a big city like that, unless they snuck her into the Ratway. Nerussa would help. She was like that. She had Koor and the stable hand and his wife, she’d care for them too. Erik smirked bitterly, seeking refuge in a den of thieves, but she loved Ronnie like a grandfather. She was going to be devastated.

   

  “Galar’s ridden off.” He grumbled sullenly, looking up briefly to see Belrand looking at the lift. The older Nord’s eyes were wider than septims and Erik frowned. “We’re supposed to wait and see if she wakes up.” Aela had covered her mouth with her hand and she was trembling. The Orc female was staring like she had seen a ghost and Gru’s eyes were on the lift and it looked like he was trying to speak, but nothing would come out. In fact, everybody was being very quiet. “Didn’t you hear me? Galar’s ridden off.”

   

  What the fuck is wrong with these people?

   

  “Ysmir’s beard.” Belrand gasped, shaking his head. “It can’t be...”

   

  “What’s the big deal? Galar’s ridden off.” Erik sank to his knees next to the Nord again and sighed, adjusting Serana’s position on the ground. “Did we really expect him to stay?”

   

  “Brother?” Aela’s voice, though it sounded like it was strangled.

   

  “What?” Erik replied. She wasn’t looking at him and he grew annoyed. “Aela, what?”

   

  “Just like the old Ash King, Wulfharth. Ysmir, the Grey Wind.” Belrand murmured, suddenly looking away from the lift. “Ash…”

   

  “Huh?” Erik grunted. His eyes found the lift and—

   

  You think things are set in stone. You think things that happen are that way and that’s it. That when someone is dead, they are dead. You grieve and you move on. His da taught him that when his ma died.

   

  But some things seem to be able to tell Fate and the Gods to go “fuck off”. They pound to their own drum. Or…Erik shuddered, maybe they are the drum.

   

  He loomed large in the entrance to the lift, his bulk added to by the fact that he was carrying the Imperial’s body over his shoulders. Armor and all. He was strong enough to carry the Imperial in his armor. Smoke billowed from the lift, covering him in a grey soot. Like ash. It dusted his armor which was covered in burns and all scuffed up. There was dried, caked blood on his chest, where his heart was, on his face, on his beard. Some even oozed slowly from a wound. Where that Kahleron fucker had stabbed him. Bruises and cuts on his already scarred face. Under his brooding silver brow, two points of dragon fire, as bright and keen as they ever were. His eyes, open, taking in the scene before him. Like a bird of prey. Like a dragon. He was looking for something because his eyes were not focused on them. Hunting. The dragon in the distance roared again and Erik could feel it in his bones. The sound it made was different, panicked. The red-orange eyes flickered at the dragon’s roar and he spoke as he stepped away from the lift into the open air, oblivious to the shaking earth.

   

  “Geh, ath tol Zu’u lahney. Bo! Fun hin In.” He rumbled softly like distant thunder, his eyes on the sky.

   

  Erik felt the hairs on his neck stand on end when the dragon then changed direction, flying to the northeastern mountains. Fuck! Did it hear him! Fuck! That… wasn’t his Harbinger.

   

  Then Grulmar exploded, jumping from his position against the boulder. His tusks flashing. The spit escaping as he yelled. “Why? Why did ya bring him? What the tusk for? He’s dead! Ya fuck! Dead! Because of ya! If ya didn’t turn yer back!”

   

  “By Talos! Greenskin, just shut up. Don’t you see? Have you no fear?” Belrand warned, beginning to rise. “Prayers answered. Let me help you, Dragonborn-“

   

  Grulmar cut him off and began to walk towards the Harbinger, puffing his chest in anger, waving his arms in rage. “Tusk no! Not this time! It’s his fault! Ya bring him here? What for? To be all noble and shit? Tusk ya, Shiny. Tusk ya and yer ideals! Should’ve left him, but no, just have to be the tuskin' Saint!!”

   

  “I’m going to kill him.” Aela hissed, making to rise, only for Erik to grab her wrist rougher than he wanted to. She growled and whirled to face Erik. “Don’t you hear?”

   

  “I heard.” Erik muttered, anger flushing his face. “And so did he. He’s not deaf, Aela.”

   

  The Harbinger wasn’t even looking at Grulmar ranting. His gaze was ahead, scanning. Briefly, his eyes found Serana on the ground and there may have been a flicker of something, but whatever it was, it was quickly suppressed and the eyes resumed their search.

   

  Spit from Gru striking his cheek brought the old Mer’s attention away from the distance and right on Grulmar, the eyes honing in on the Orc, who had drawn a knife. It was a blur of activity then. Belrand dragging a struggling Grulmar away, pushing his hand out to stop the She-Orc from advancing. Aela breaking free from his wrist, a snarl on her face. Erik remained by the unmoving Serana, watching the chaos. He did not move from his position, his eyes still on Grulmar. The young Orc stomped on Belrand’s foot and wiggled from his grasp, his knife poised for a throw.

   

  “Fus!” The Dovahkiin shouted, making everybody in front of him stumble. The knife fell from Gru’s hands and he dropped to his knees, his shoulders shaking in sobs. Erik’s hair blew from the gust created by the thu’um, but it was different. It wasn’t the raging thunder that ripped trees by their roots from the very ground. Not what he saw him do with the dragon at Windhelm. A warning shout? Something designed to get their attention, to get them to stop what they were doing? It worked, for all eyes were on him, waiting. Except, Gru, who had buried his face in his hands, unable to suppress the pain any longer. Erik couldn’t help it, he felt sorry for him.

   

  The Altmer responded by bending on one knee, the audible cracks making Erik cringe. But bend he did, slowly, deliberately. He then gently laid Decimus upon the ground before a sobbing Grulmar. The eyes were unreadable. If he was feeling anything, Erik couldn’t guess at it. He looked old, like grief and he were well-acquainted. Grulmar moved to Decimus’ side quickly. The Orc’s next words made everybody look away, forgetting their anger at the Orc. “Save him.” He whispered. “Ya can save him.”

   

  The Harbinger did not look away.

   

  Truth be told, there was not a soul there that didn’t want Decimus back and both Erik, Belrand, and Aela looked at the Harbinger expectantly. Even Borgakh’s eyes were on him. He came back. Could he bring Dec back?

   

  “Y'are a healer. Ya fixed Erik. Ya can bring him back.” The young Orc pleaded. Erik closed his eyes, letting out a sigh. He had seen Gru upset plenty of times, but there was something about this that really got to him. Tears welled in his eyes again and Erik made a tiny groan. The Harbinger was alive and yet, there was still so much pain.

   

  The Harbinger remained on his knees and Erik saw the old Mer chew the inside of his lip, though the eyes seemed to be far away. Grulmar pushed the Altmer’s shoulder. “I’m askin' ya.” He stopped and furrowed his brow, wiping his nose of the snot. “No, I’m beggin’ ya, and I don’t beg from ya.” Grulmar hit the shoulder again, but the Harbinger didn’t move.

   

  “Easy, Gru.” Belrand warned.

   

  “Leave him alone.” Borgakh hissed. “The Little Warrior has been through a lot.”

   

  “How the fuck would you know? Just yesterday you were ready to kill him! Bloody Oblivion! Women!” Belrand gestured towards the Harbinger, “And he hasn’t? We all saw what those fuckers did to him. Look, we all loved the old Blade, even those hired to work against him, but…”

   

  “I prayed to the God of my Order.” The Harbinger suddenly blurted out, though the eyes were still far away. They regained focus quickly and the Mer’s expression became grim. “I made a promise, but…”

   

  Gru wiped his eyes and inched towards the Altmer. “Just now? Ya did? That’s why ya didn’t move, isn’t it?” He settled by Decimus’ side and took the Imperial’s arm, giving it a squeeze. “That’s right, Uncle, he’s gonna heal ya. He’s gonna fix—“

   

  “At the Forge, Grulmar. I prayed at the Forge.” The Mer clarified.

   

  “Then he’s coming back. And we have to wait?” The Orc asked. Even Aela, by now, had tears in her eyes. It was too much, first seeing Serana fall apart, and now Grulmar. Erik was exhausted.

   

  “What is your stronghold?” The Altmer suddenly asked, turning to Borgakh. Erik saw her take a deep breath. I’d be afraid if he spoke to me now too. How do you even think about this, Erik? He’s back. Alive. It was… it was… something Erik didn’t want to think on now.

   

  “Bloodkin, I am my own stronghold now, Borgakh the Steel-Heart, but I hailed from Khazgur, daughter to Larak, Chief of Mor Khazgur.” She bowed slightly. “News came from Nazulbur before I left that one was branded ‘Bloodkin’, but we didn’t know who it was. They called you the ‘White Orc’.”

   

  “It is not the first time I have been called thus.”

   

  Gods, he was so calm, thought Erik. The voice, hoarse, but still low, with his soft-spoken nobility.

   

  “What are ya doin’?” Grulmar questioned. “How much longer are we waitin’?”

   

  The Harbinger ignored Grulmar.  “Borgakh, Belrand, I require something of you. There is the promise of a thousand septims to each if you see Decimus, Grulmar, my Shield-Siblings, and…” there was the hint of pain in his eyes. “And Serana to Fort Dawnguard.”

   

  “I can do that for you, Bloodkin, but I will not take your coin.” The She-Orc insisted, jutting her jaw forward in defiance. “To take the money of kin would not be pleasing to Malacath.”

   

  “Then when next we meet, I will repair your armor because you are indeed kin. Do we have terms?” He extended his hand from his position at Decimus’ side and Borgakh took the hand, shaking it.

   

  “It is acceptable.”

   

  The Harbinger then turned to Belrand who took the Mer’s hand as well. “I can trust that you will wrap the body securely. I keep fresh linen—“

   

  The Nord then raised his hand and shook his head. “Wait, you’re not coming with us?”

   

  “No.”

   

  Erik’s eyes widened. “What?” He managed. “What?”

   

  “What craziness is this, Old Mer?” Growled Aela, rising to her feet.

   

  “What are ya doin’?” Grulmar suddenly asked. “Ya are leavin’? Wrappin’ the body? Fangs? Ya are talkin’ about Fangs, right?”

   

  “The linen.” The Harbinger continued. “Is in my pack with Allie. Erik will show you where we left our horses. Remove his armor. It will make Allie’s burden lighter, cut less into her back, but she is strong enough to carry him—“

   

  “No, ya said ya prayed!” Grulmar cried out, shoving the Harbinger’s shoulder again. “Ya said!”

   

  He was still ignoring Grulmar. Well, he wasn’t ignoring him, Erik actually thought he was completely aware of how Gru was getting. He just wasn’t addressing it. It was as if he was searching for the right words to say. “One more thing, Borgahk, are there missing horses?”

   

  “Yes, Bloodkin, two are miss—“

   

  “No, Ronnie. I draw the line at this.” Aela thundered, cutting off Borgahk. “You can’t!”

   

  “I CAN!” He roared, the outburst silencing everybody. It was the first sign of any real emotion from the Harbinger since he emerged from the lift. This wasn’t just anger, he was enraged. The eyes blazed brightly and Erik could feel the heat from his face. “For every moment they continue, my FAMILY is in danger!” He blustered out, seething. “I will not lose anymore!”

   

  “And if you die?” Aela questioned, not backing down.

   

  “I DIE!” He snarled at Aela, like an alpha putting a pack member in her place. She bristled and Erik felt the tension between them.

   

  “We can’t lose anymore either!” She snapped right back.

   

  “What do you want me to do?” The Harbinger’s face changed, as if he wasn’t even seeing their world, but another world. A darker world where entire cities were slaughtered. He rarely spoke of his Exile, but Erik could tell that was what he was thinking. It was the sad, almost crazy look he had in Raldbthar, the intense grief. “What do you want me to do, Aela? Tell me!  Let them come in the night? For the families in the meadery? For Farkas and his family? They are not protected by city walls, Aela!  They will come! The Thalmor will come! Like JACKALS! I need to end this. I cannot lose anymore.”

   

  She was overcome by the anguish in her Shield-Brother's voice, and ran to embrace him, understanding. She had been through the Silver Hand attack, saw Kodlak fall, she knew when Erik didn't. The Harbinger ignored the pain in his chest and held her back, tightly. “I will end this, Aela.” He whispered.

   

  “I know, Bormah…” She whispered, sniffing against his shoulder. “Go… for her. And for Decimus. He hates them a lot.”

   

  Just like a real pack of wolves, the baring of teeth and squabbles gave way to the deep love of family. She cried quietly in his arms for a spell, not quite wanting to let go of the old Mer, and to Erik, he was no longer the Harbinger or the Dragonborn, only a Mer who loved his family. A Mer who wanted to protect them with everything he had. To atone for his failure against the family of his blood.

   

  “Aye, I’m gonna fuck ‘em up, just for them, just for us…” He gave her a quick kiss to the top of her head and murmured softly into her hair. “Pray for me, dearest mal ilit. Pray for me and my soul. My prayers are not having the impact they used to.” He looked at Decimus and Erik saw the tears now building. “I tried, Aela, I tried. I swear. I prayed, and nothing. Gru will not understand and for that, I am so sorry. I could not…” He broke the embrace and gestured to Erik to watch Aela. Erik nodded. He was going to go to his death. There was no way.

   

  “We’ll help him understand.” Offered Belrand, heading towards Grulmar. The Orc was still at Decimus’ side, holding his hand, rocking back and forth, waiting, as if in a trance.

   

  The Harbinger nodded. “Thank you, Belrand. I need to go.” He moved, bringing the Orc out of his stupor. “

   

  “But ya said ya prayed.” Sobbed Grulmar, grabbing at the Elf’s boots.

   

  “I did pray!” He snapped at the weeping Orc, only to change his voice immediately. It became heavy, grieved. “Believe me, Grulmar, I prayed.” The voice then lowered in sadness and the hollows under his eyes seemed more intense to Erik. “I prayed with every fiber of my being. But there was no life left. If there was but a little, I would have given all of me for him, but there was none.” It looked to Erik like he wanted to kneel again and offer Grulmar comfort. He had been close to Decimus too, knowing him since the Great War ended, knowing him from when he was close to Grulmar’s age. The Altmer shook his head. “I can’t, I can’t… somebody take him. I need to focus on the task at hand. I need… to end this.”

   

  “Then why did ya bring him, ya FUCK! PIG! Auri-El’s PIG is what ya are!” Grulmar ranted, throwing rocks at the Elf, anything, dust. “If I could piss on ya, I would!” It made everybody look away to see such a display, uncomfortable to see such raw emotion, such raw pain. “I HATE YA! Tusk ya! I hope they KILL YA! And the dragons take us all! Why did ya bring him? WHY!?”

   

  “Because I made a promise to him.” The old Elf gasped quickly. “I made a promise…” He shook his head and Erik didn’t understand how he could take all that from Gru and not be angry at him. “I need to leave. You have your orders. Three, four days to Fort Dawnguard. Take her…” He gazed at Serana, but made no effort to go to her. Erik saw him mumble something quietly and he bit his lower lip.  

   

  “Your sister is bleeding, Erik. You are bleeding.” He said softly, breaking from Serana to face Erik, who was now holding a drained Aela.

   

  “You’re bleeding too, Harbinger.” Erik croaked. “Don’t go.”

   

  “It will never stop, Erik. I told you at Raldbthar. It will never stop. I have already done ill by Dec, my failures to my friend great, but I cannot leave them behind, Erik. It ends.” He wearily glanced at the She-Orc. “I am sorry, I am not thinking too straight. You said they took horses? Two?”

   

  “Yes, Bloodkin.” She glanced at him and frowned at his injuries. “There are some potions in the tent where I was sleeping. I will fetch them for you. They may not heal your wounds, but they will make it easier.” She then nodded, flashing her tusks. “I approve of the weapon. It suits you. Your purpose.”

   

  Erik’s eyes widened. The Bleak Walker’s very blade was strapped to his side, replacing his ebony bastard.

   

  “I will have the potions, Borgakh. Take me to them.” The Orc nodded, turning towards the tents and Erik watched his Harbinger follow the She-Orc. “They will make for the mountain pass.” He continued. “It leads to Falkreath Hold. Imperial territory. He will understand, Decimus. I will try to make it. Above ground, tell Belrand above ground. Trees, flowers, and shit. He will understand… she will…” The words became intelligible, but he was rambling on, making the Orc look back nervously at Erik, her eyes uncertain.

   

  Erik let out a gust of air when he saw the Mer’s back. Two wounds; one in the ribs, and one…deep in the heart.

   

  Language Translations

   

  NAGAIA!

  Die!

   

  “NE! CYROD AE ANYA VA NIRN!!!

  No! The heart is the life of the world!

   

  Ek Su’um nau ok Viing ol rok bo wah faal Krein, wah Bormah. Bormah…

  Her breath on his wings as he flies to the sun, to Father. Father...

   

  Nikriin! Hi faan hinmaar Rah-Jun? Ahst jok Alduin vust wahl komaan. Nid tovok trinimac lost wah dreh hin kroson fah hi!

  Coward! You call yourself a God-King? At least Alduin could make a decision. No wonder Trinimac had to do your work for you!

   

  Pahlokaal med hin bruzah…

  Arrogant like your shard…

   

  Lok avok, zul kosil.

  Sky above, voice within.

   

  Geh, ath tol Zu’u lahney. Bo! Fun hin In.

  Yes, despair that I live. Go! Tell your Master.

   

  Talwin Anar - Summer Sun