Little Lightbringer

by shadowmarks

Summary:

When Nemiet, the daughter of Isran and the captain of the Dawnguard, one day journeys into the earth in search of answers, she could never have imagined they come in the form of a vampire. Fate held her hand then; but it promised nothing of what was to come.

Notes:

Ah shit, here we go again.

Chapter 1: Prologue

Two sets of light footsteps echoed across the vast emptiness of the fort. Vivid laughter filled its stale air. Two children, a Redguard and an Argonian, raced against one another, carefree. They were not much older than half a dozen summers. Despite the arched hallways and pillars that stood tall and dignified around them, the place they inhabited was in a state of disrepair. Thick, dusty spiderwebs coated the nooks; the old windows were dulled and gray; stone everywhere was chipped and worn; no banners adorned the walls. This did not appear to bother the young ones, nor did it disrupt their merriment.

“Ow, Nena!” The Argonian cried out. The scales beneath his blue eyes were black as obsidian, and shimmered softly in the dim light. Over time, he would grow to possess a prestigious crest, with feathers in shades of green and blue; but now in his youth, only horn-nubs grew at the back of his head. Behind him, the Redguard Nemiet laughed viciously. She wielded a wooden sword, crafted out of the sturdy oak of the Dayspring valley. It had seen many play-fights before. She loved roughhousing, way more than her friend did, and often ended up with a collection of bruises and cuts that had to be tended to later. There was a worry in some of the adults sometimes, that she would one day climb a tree and land herself an injury, or fall to her death; but there was no stopping the lively wild child, who wanted nothing but to experience the world and its many adventures herself.

“I’ve no mercy for vampires!” Nemiet’s tone was victorious and came with vigor from deep within her lungs. She tackled Deeka with ease–even when he was much bigger than her–and then sat astride the Argonian’s chest, holding the wooden sword against his scaly throat. The boy huffed in distress, eyes rolling about. He was often the underdog in the games between them. “Gotcha!”

Nemiet’s chest rose and fell as she triumphantly stared down her victim. She wished her father would have been there to see how even an enemy twice her size was not safe from her blows. Maybe then, with his chest full of pride and love, he would worry less knowing that the fort and their home was under the auspices of such a fierce protector. One day, at least, for she knew she was too young for any of that now. It’s what everyone always kept telling her.

Deeka whimpered. Still panting, Nemiet rose from her self-proclaimed throne and turned around, only to be met with her father’s cold gaze. Her proud smile gave way to an audible inhale–the remnants of drunken mirth faded quickly from her eyes as she saw Isran’s stagnant expression.

“Have we not gone over this? You are getting a little too old for all this horseplay," he spoke bluntly. The older Redguard did not maintain eye contact for long, but rather brought his palm to his daughter’s shoulder and squeezed it firmly. “Come along. And let your friend go. Do not bother him no more.”

Young Nemiet cast a quick glance over to her friend, who lay still on the stone floor. Deeka gave her a pitying smile and shrugged as a way of expressing sympathy. Then he got up, deciding it was time to go see his own mother, and slunk away like a tiny thief. The Redguard did not hesitate. She followed along after her father, skipping in the very footsteps she yearned to grow to fill one day–only would she later understand how large they actually were.

Even before the incident, Isran had always been a grave man. He had a deep frown ingrained to his features, and pale green eyes that had pierced many an opponent. He did not smile much, and he laughed even less; but his men forever respected him, and he bore a strong set of morals. In more ways than the one, Nemiet’s admiration for him ran deep. From a child’s point of view, he was everything one would expect from an exemplary hero: selfless, courageous, driven by a great purpose. Her world was still consumed by simplicity, black and white, without a sliver of gray; such was the cost of innocence.

The winter’s cold, pale light infiltrated through the fort’s windows, reflecting off the airborne dust that danced all around them. The night had birthed frost flowers across the lower glasses, and Nemiet wished she could run and climb up the windowsill, to press her nose against them and wonder what lay behind the Velothi mountains. She was a pretty imaginative child, and her ideas ranged from gold-hoarding dragons to the clashes of Stormcloaks and the Imperial army she had only heard tales of. All her life, or at least as long as she could remember, she had spent trapped inside these stone walls, secluded from the rest of the civilization, forced to dream about things that many had normal. Nemiet had been told it was for the greater good, that the world beyond was perilous and out of the bounds, yet not a warning could tame the restlessness of her spirit. The curiosity would not find a place to settle inside of her, and it concerned her father.

She glanced over at Isran’s looming figure. Their forms cast shadows across the ground.

“This ends now. I will see to it at once," he said. “Vampires are no laughing stock. They make for an unconventional joke.” Like venom on the older Redguard’s tongue, his words were spat out. His fingers found their way to his neck, grasping the amulet of Stendarr that he wore. It was the last and only reminder of his home, and the massacre that had taken place before his resignation. Isran could still see the corpses littered about, feel how the blood burnt in his nose and hear the cries as they rang throughout the valley. The memory made him squeeze shut his eyes and pray to forget.

When the man finally looked down on his daughter, he was met with her doe-eyed gaze. His expression softened, but only a little. Nemiet was the only family he had left. His little girl. It hurt him to think of the lengths he would have to go to ensure her safety–it would be painful now, but rewarding, should danger ever arise again; and it forever would.

There was nothing he wouldn’t do to keep her safe.

“It’s okay, pa," she responded assuredly, “I will work ceaselessly to make you proud!”

“M-hm?” Isran glanced over at her shortly. “Ceaselessly? Who taught you that?”

Before she could answer, he shifted his attention back to the view of the blue mountains opening before him. Fog had crept over from the east and settled over the valley. Among the leafless thickets poking out from the snow like black, bony fingers, a few of his men–still discouragingly low on numbers–practiced against dummies in the training grounds. Sweat and sawdust flowed where they smote. His brow furrowed further. The future of the Order was bleak, but it was the only purpose he had left to serve, and he was willing to die for it–eschewing all the lazy, preventable mistakes that had taken his wife to an early grave. This time he would not fumble.

“You cannot do much with pride," he said calmly, “you cannot eat it and you cannot wield it, and once you give it too much power, it makes you into a fool. Understand?”

But Isran’s moral lesson came to a premature end when a voice sounded from behind them. Clearing his throat to draw their attention, a middle-aged Nord came into sight.

“Sir," he spoke. His reverence towards his commander was apparent. “We have captured her.”

Isran’s hearing was filled with a rush of blood as it gushed upwards, reducing his thoughts to silence. When he finally felt the need to speak, he did so with a voice colder than a glacial lake, and more alien than his daughter had ever before heard. Even if Nemiet still couldn’t see a change of expression upon him, she sensed his agony, and so felt sick in her tiny stomach.

“Take us there," he nodded approvingly. His jaw tightened as he spoke to his daughter then, barring eye contact, “it is time we begin your training.”

The three of them then left the hall and trod swiftly around the round foyer. Every now and then, Nemiet would peek through the holes of the metal railing, observing as the ground remained below them. She was not afeared of heights, but in that moment of dimmed daylight the first floor became engulfed by darkness, which did make her boggle. The lantern that the Nord was carrying shed a soft, warm glow on the walls. There was an eerie feel to the air, and the girl tried to brush it off by playing pretend with the shadows cast upon them, imagining hares, elk, and wolves, running alongside her. The thought of friendly woodland beasts made the younger Redguard feel a lot better.

Nemiet could not see much from where walked behind her father, but given the lack of conversation between the two men, she knew it was no jaunt. She had to hop a little to keep their pace. They walked past her father’s study, which was directly across from hers, and entered through a stone arch in the same fashion as the other entrances. She had not been allowed into this part of the fort before, and the unexpectedness made her feel even more on edge. Anticipation stirred within her, the jittery feel spread to her fingertips. When she saw the first red splatters upon the tiles, her face paled, and she suddenly felt very faint.

“What is this place?” Her voice was weak, barely audible.

Isran did not answer, but instead heeded to her question by asking the Nord to light up a chandelier. As her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, and the candlesticks lit up one by one, her child-like world shattered. Her gaze flung in fear from one thing to another; unclean skulls laden upon the shelves; a whole rib cage lying open on the wooden table; blood everywhere–on the ground, the walls and the furniture. Before the wall in the back there was a strange machine, equipped with worn leather straps and shiny metallic buckles, but it was another thing entirely that struck her attention. A lifeform lay tied to it. A vampire. This Nemiet knew without asking: her fangs were bared as a threat, only eyes burning more fiercely than her hunger.

“Bleat all you want. No one will hear you here," Isran spoke in a tone so frenetic that his daughter could still hear it clear as a day years after. The vampire hissed and wiggled under the straps, and he rewarded her defiance with a mouthful of spit. “I cannot stomach looking at you. Obnoxious filth.”

He then gestured to his Nord companion, who left them for less than a minute, only to return with an odd-looking bow which he then handed over to Isran.

“This is a crossbow. It is a sturdy, adaptable weapon, and now, I will teach you how to use it," Isran said, demonstrating as he spoke. “Firstly, remember to always keep your finger off the trigger. Secondly, you will need to cock the bow–pull the string until you feel it lock into place. Then you will need a bolt, which is a type of arrow. It should be inserted inside the barrel, like this.”

Isran loaded the crossbow, making sure to explain thoroughly through each phase. “All you have left to do now is to pull the trigger, and if you got a decent enough aim, this should be the death of it. We will practice the specifics later. Now, it is time for a test of bravery. Think you can do that?”

He then handed the crossbow over to Nemiet, who stood rigidly in place. Unable to question the orders of her father, she took the weapon with shaky hands, and aimed it the way Isran had shown her.

“Soon, you will have done a deed that exceeds the efforts of many good-willed men," said Isran. The vampire shriveled and laughed, derided death even as it stared her down. Her ferocious eyes burnt a hole in the drapes of Nemiet’s soul, and left them ablaze until naught was left but a charred pile by her feet. Wind then took it and blew it far, far away.

In a short, whistling blow, the bolt pierced the air and dug into the vampire’s skull. It exploded from the impact, made a mess across the girl’s hands and clothes. There was a terrible squawk before the body fell limp and lifeless, a trickle of dark blood dripping down its cheekbone; through the gaping red hole, brain matter leaked out. Nemiet could barely see through the tears that had quickly filled her vision. The crossbow slipped from her grasp. It clanked hollowly against the floor.

Isran beamed as much as he was capable of. He touched her shoulder approvingly, gentler than before. “Go wash, and meet me at dinner," he spoke, “and one day, you shall be something great.”

Chapter 2: The Finding of Dimhollow

Notes:

This chapter isn't proofread yet, so I apologize for misspelling and other errors. Just, wish to get this story up and going as soon as possible again! You have no idea how much I've missed my tragic sapphics 3

Enjoy the chapter! They are on the longer side in this story but I hope you won't hate me for that lol.

It was a spring morning–particularly beautiful, particularly cold.

Still pale sunlight infiltrated through the pine-needles, and cast tall shadows across the frozen ground. Far beyond the treeline, the mountains stood tall and dignified, sharp against the crisp blue sky. The day was clear, full of life. Birds sang prudently and mealy-mouthed in the trees, and deer grazed on frosty grass in the hidden glades scattered about. Every forest-dweller waited patiently for nature’s awakening. In Skyrim, at the very northernmost point of Tamriel, the weather fared this pleasant only rarely–but Kynareth had seen mercy upon the travelers this day, and blessed their journey with an auspicious warmth.

Among the animals of the woods and the snowberries buried below a thin layer of snow glaze trod two hunters. They went swiftly and without difficulty, even if the terrain was difficult. The one walking in front was a male Nord, eyes blue like the cloudless sky and arms strong and steady like tree trunks. He was the son of a farmer, and so sturdy and resilient; his name was Agmaer, and despite his most modest upbringing, he carried himself with a poise only seen in his kin.

Nemiet was the name of the young Redguard following in his wake. She had big keen eyes that held more experience than was fit for someone of her age; unlike her companion, she displayed no sign of pride, if not for a certain steadfastness; her hair was short, thick and curly, black like pine-bark and barren soil. Twenty-three winters had she seen, most of which long and difficult–the signs manifested themselves upon her, but she was not one to lament, or to ask for pity. Even now she came last, watching Agmaer’s back like the lead wolf, and the only bitterness lingering on her tongue came from the mead she had drank back in the camp.

Vampire hunters by trade, they were both members of the Dawnguard–a clerical-militaristic order on a holy mission of eradicating the undead throughout Skyrim. The guild had seen its vicissitudes of fortune, ran into retirement once before; even the past years had been naught but plentiful–but now, in the midst of the tensions of the civil war, it was starting to regain a footing in the province, where people sought a way to escape in rising numbers. Agmaer had only recently come into the garrison, but Nemiet had forever been a part of it, for her father Isran was their commander supreme. A former vigilant of Stendarr, he had repurposed himself after the tragic loss of his wife and Nemiet’s mother in an attack executed by a band of rogue vampires almost a decade ago–it would’ve been a lie, saying it never bothered her, or that the memory of her mother didn’t haunt her in her dreams. But she had pretended to be strong for so long that she had forgotten she was pretending. Isran had had it rough, and his daughter had never wanted to add to his load. Too quickly had she grown into a woman; her training had begun properly at 12, the year the last of her baby teeth had gone off and the first leaves of autumn had moldered; her first kill she had executed at 7. She didn’t like thinking about it like that, addressing it as it was: a burden, a vulnerability, something of a weakness–so she kept to her adamancy, and lost a little bit of herself in each lie that she told herself.

Once they emerged from the trees, the mountain loomed formidable and unwavering before them. Somewhere hidden in its inclines was a cave, a specific cave they had been sent out for. They called it Dimhollow ; the Dawnguard had recently heard word of it being the burial site of something high of value and importance, and not a soul preferred to sit idly and wait for the enemy to get to it before they did. So Isran had sent out a most trusted protege, his own daughter, and the overly enthusiastic Nord under her wing; but little was the respect Agmaer had for Nemiet as his captain. He saw the orders not as duty, but a chance in winning over her heart, for his infatuation with her was great–alas for him, Nemiet couldn’t have cared less. She would simply brush him off like dirt, posing not to see the longing in his gaze–only  each subtle rejection left a dark mark on his confidence, softening and spoiling his goodwill. After all, his pride was larger than his heart–and it was the most destructive of forces.

The higher they got, the more their burdened breathing drowned out the birdsong. There was a small footpath winding up the slope, treacherous and slippery and stretched thin and hardly visible between the thickets–they followed it devoutly, looking back over the valley and its snow-covered mounds and hillocks every now and then and getting discouraged from what little progress had been made. Somewhere, a fox as white as snow scurried into hiding as it heard them coming. The hunters were too busy climbing to notice. 

When they found the cave entrance, the sun already rode high in the sky. Both of decent fitness, they only needed a moment to catch their breaths before going in. The cave-mouth was a dark, unkind abyss, and Nemiet made sure to hold in the scent of conifers for a little longer than usual, should it prove to be her last. She was a seasoned fighter, and could measure to many a foe–but there was wisdom in understanding the fragility of life, to cherish it where possible. It was an art known only by those who had ever lost anyone, or anything–that life was never truly your own, that you belonged to the earth where you had come from, and there you shall in time return.

“Once we go in, stay close to the ground," instructed Nemiet briefly, “and we mustn’t speak. Only when absolutely necessary.”

Agmaer nodded, loading his crossbow, “aye, ma’am.”

Before they descended, they both withdrew their crossbows and held them ready in their grasp. Nemiet’s grip of her weapon was steady; her hands had grown used to handling it. She had faith in herself as a marksman, and valued highly Agmaer’s strength and resilience in battle. The Redguard was far from carefree, but she was patient and experienced, and with those came the solidity of a draw. 

From the cramped passage Nemiet could hear the rush of water. The air inside was cold and damp and her clothes clung to her skin. It kept getting darker until it suddenly became bright again as the two came out of the tunnel and into a cave. They took a moment to reorient themselves, to scour the surroundings for enemies; Nemiet’s cheek was pressed against the tiller of her crossbow, which had left a soft line crossing her face from nose to ear. 

They were now on a ledge overlooking a cave hollow. A waterfall surged down from an orifice in the ceiling, and much, much further down below a small yet fierce stream cut through the floor. Froth splashed upon the rock, it slid down the slope and doused it.

Nemiet caught speech first. Then she saw them through the foaming whitecaps: two vampires, standing on the other side of the cavern, speaking and laughing gleefully, unaware of their audience. The Redguard knew by now the nuances in which vampires often spoke. She gestured at Agmaer to take cover which the Nord willingly obeyed. Killing a vampire required skill and precision, and there was little space for mistakes; even a whelp like him knew that. 

Soon after the hunters realized they had come into a problem. The vampires were not alone–not one, but two death hounds kept watch beside their feet. The sight of them made Nemiet freeze and reconsider. By now, she had gotten well adjusted to killing vampires, but their vile pets were stronger, faster, and more alert–thus, more dangerous than their masters.

After meticulously scanning the area to be sure, the Redguard shot at the other animal. Agmaer followed her suit. A death hound was one ill-looking creature: it had hairless, putrid black skin and a wicked grin made of teeth like razors. Now, Tamriel was home to some foul beasts, but these things were more than just ugly; they had given nightmares to many battle-hardened warriors and bred tales to keep children from venturing out in the woods. Nemiet’s stomach stirred, not because she was afraid to die, which she could still do with honor; she feared the monster that was failure. By now, she had carried out dozens of missions, most of which had been successful. For years she had been on the field, clearing out vampire nests and working as an undercover agent taking out the ones having infiltrated into courts and palaces. For that she was proud of herself–she knew herself to be swift and agile, an indomitable soldier–but miscarriage she could not take, nor the disappointment from her father. 

The Redguard pressed a finger down on the trigger, and jerked slightly from the violent jolt of the crossbow. Agmaer’s actions were an echo of hers, but where Nemiet’s bolt hit its target, his missed by an inch or two. A spasm of panic hit her. There was not much one could do in the fracture of a second in which the remaining beast would catch their scent. Indeed, it hurled at them at the speed of light; she could see a grim form dive out of the shadow, hear claws scratch against dampened stone. A crossbow’s weakness lay in its slow reloading time, so neither of them could retake their blow before the hound was upon her. She was prepared. Her stance was broad and sure-footed, yet it threw her off balance with ease. It bashed the Redguard’s spine against the rock, and she winced from the pain, but her senses overcame it as adrenaline spread to her system. She pressed the bridle of her crossbow against the hound’s throat. She could hear her own pulse ticking in her ear, and a drop of sweat trickled down her forehead and onto the ground. Rows of jagged teeth champed the air mere inches from the hunter’s face; drool fell from the jaws all too eager to know the taste of her flesh.

Agmaer reassembled himself. He then held his crossbow soundly, letting off and hitting the hound in the neck. It was no easy shot, for he did not want to injure Nemiet and her and the beast’s shapes became a blur as she kept struggling under it; but he hit anyway, and his bolt plunged the creature off her body. It toppled over and whined once before staying still. Nemiet’s fingers grasped instinctively for her throat as she breathed shallow and quickly, barely able to bring herself to move.

“Not a moment too soon," she panted out.

Her relief was short-lived. They now had the vampires’ undivided attention, and there was no time to lay to waste. The monsters now ran through the same trail as the hound had a minute ago, faces writhing in a ferocious race and hands raised and charged with magic. It was not Nemiet’s first (nor last) time interacting with these spells; she was well versed with the vampire diseases and knew the fate that awaited her was she to contract one. Without exception, all of them inexorably led to vampirism, if left untreated–to her it was a fate worse than death. So, she jumped back on her feet, encouraged not only by the painful memories of her fallen brothers-in-arms, but also because she had sworn to keep Agmaer safe, no matter the cost. Nemiet carried a sense of responsibility over everyone she ever traveled with, and she would’ve forever given her own life to save another; she was, at the core, as much a martyr as she was a fighter. 

She grabbed her crossbow tightly before sending a bolt to pierce the air and hit the other vampire square in the chest. The shot was so clear his bones barely made a sound, but his screams rang loud and blood curdling across the cavern, bargaining with the hallowed steel of the Dawnguard; but his pleas were heard by none other than his master and father in Coldharbour. 

Nemiet spat out and wiped the sweat and dirt off her face. The hubbub of heart ceased in her ear. She could now focus on their surroundings, the pulpy moss climbing the walls and the pungent odor of mold. Before the gate at the end of the descent, where the vampires had first stood and talked, three corpses lay: two vampires, and a single vigilant. Even from afar, Nemiet could tell it was Tolan. He had shown up at the fortress a few days ago, and declared his intentions to investigate Dimhollow for himself. Isran had not believed him; he had always told her that the vigilants were cowards, spineless sheep without a shepherd. Only now it appeared he had been wrong, and underestimated the strength of will of one of Stendarr’s own. 

Despite her father’s dissatisfaction with the vigilants, Nemiet hoped she would’ve been wrong about the corpse’s identity. As they drew near, she saw the look of horror on his face, in a body drained dry. Her forehead creased. The Redguard crouched down, and cited out a short parting prayer, closing his dead eyes and crossing his stiff hands over his chest, right below the amulet he had carried in Stendarr’s name.

“Walk forever in the light," sighed she.  Glancing over her shoulder, looking at Agmaer but not quite in his eyes, she added, “we should keep moving.”

Much to Nemiet’s disappointment, the iron gate before them stood shock-still between them and the way forth. There was no opening mechanism at hand, none her eyes could reach, at least; after a short and fruitless search, her attention was drawn to the ruins of a tower, reaching dauntlessly towards the skyless ceiling on the other side of the cavern.

The path to it was dangerous, and while Nemiet held her agility at a great degree she wasn’t immune to the wetness of the stone. Agmaer grabbed her by the arms and held her still. She did initially feel gratitude towards his courtesy, but  instead of flustering her it left a persistent feel of indifference and awkwardness. They had their own history. It wasn’t much, but enough for Nemiet to lull herself into a false sense of success; at least to him she was worthy of admiration and love. But she had kept him at bay, close but not close enough to suffocate her, even if it made her grovel in guilt. The Redguard had never cared to marry, and she certainly did not believe in love, or the revolutionary bliss people would describe it. To her it was a task and a necessary evil, something that was expected of her with held breath. But as time passed on, she had begun to find out how unpleasant it was to be courted, and his endless attempts in seducing her–in this way she felt unwell, sickly like a flower in bloom that had its roots eaten by rot.

Nemiet cleared her throat and gathered her legs below her, moving away from him as soon as she was capable of. She was here on a mission, not to kindle a flame she felt forced to tend to. But she couldn’t stop thinking about it. The thought gnawed at the corners of her mind and begged her to look, no matter how firmly she turned her away from it.

She quickened her pace and entered the crumbling tower. Agmaer’s jaw clenched. He followed directly at her heel; his mind was encumbered, too. But when she felt guilty he was frustrated, angry–entitled to the attention he was denied.

The spire was cramped on the inside. It was laid out in two levels, both of which had a single room; if Agmaer was to spread out his arms, he would’ve been able to touch both inner walls. Nemiet leapt up the old, rotten stairwell and found a rusty pull chain sitting at the top. She drew it fully, even if the chain grated and grizzled at her ear. A small, tapered window offered a vantage point over the cavern. She saw from it that the gate at the front rumbled open. 

The two then traced back their steps and entered the hallway, having no choice but to step knee-deep into the underground river they had seen and heard earlier. They soon got wet, wading through its current and with water dripping down on them from the ceiling; the collars of their boots chafed uncomfortably against their calves. Every now and then, they came to a halt, if the stream came too strongly or gear too heavy. 

The two lingered in quite the different thoughtscapes. Nemiet pondered on the mission and the purpose of the gate, daring not to question the intentions of whomever was responsible for sealing the place away; she thought of her father and how badly she depended on his approval; she felt uncertain about being the captain of his forces, and dwelled on the times she had had to suppress her self-will and sharpness of tongue to mend and mold to his likings. She found the silence preferable. Agmaer, on the other hand, wanted to speak up. He wanted to say something sweet, his mind wild and wandering, but he heeded to his thoughts. Mustn’t scare ‘er off , the Nord thought, there’s yet a chance. Along with the juniper berry tarts his mother had used to make, he dreamt of marriage, and it was to Nemiet. He respected her father and considered him a man he would gladly and with grace follow, and in his heart, he fully believed their union would be plenteous in its beatificity. 

The temperature around them kept falling. Chills ran down Nemiet’s spine, ruffled the hair on her neck. Above them, sarcophagi loomed on the ledges of the passage like an ancient council, ready to pass judgment. The world they momentarily shared with the small, nearly blind cave critters was grayish brown and green, limestone and moss. Water dribbled down from the cracks and crevices in the walls. The air was heavy with humidity and an unexplainable sense of melancholy, and only the sound of their legs delving into the soft, wet earth sounded across the passage. 

Slowly, the two hunters regained their spirits, jesting a little, carefully. The cave teemed with creatures big and small, but there were fewer fangs and a great many more skeletons than they had initially anticipated. Nemiet was an excellent monster hunter–she could handle vampires and even death hounds with little issues–but once she saw a carcass of a frostbite spider lying still on their way she suddenly felt like a young girl again. She hoped they wouldn’t cross paths with a live one. But as they pursued their goal they passed more and more webbing and egg sacs, and so her worry grew along with each crook in the tunnel.

They then came upon a ledge which perched over the path they had cleared. Someone had built a large railing around it, almost to ensure the safety of the overseer–Nemiet found it curious, but oddly sweet. She peeked from within its rectangular slots, casting her gaze down where the river cast downwards along the tunnel. They were out of the sludge, now. The safety railing reminded her of her childhood, of the lessons by the lake in Dayspring valley, and how Isran had never allowed her to swim too far. It occupied her with a strange somberity that could best and only be described as homesickness–but she couldn’t ponder on it for much longer, for the arising sounds of struggle wafted into her ears. Instinctively the Redguard lowered herself, assembling and preparing herself for combat.

The executioners of the noise were far from discreet. A giant frostbite spider bared its fangs against a vampire, caught up in a battle of wills – the hairs on the spider stood erect as it prepared to sting its opponent. Like twin swords, its large, venomous canines ripped and tore at the enemy’s flesh. The hunters withdrew to each side of the doorway, waiting patiently for the situation to play out without interfering. From their covers, they made playful faces at the sounds of battle until it grew quiet. Upon a glance, they found that the spider had died, and the vampire sat in a half-lying position before it. He held to his side, where a deep wound stalled him from moving. Nemiet saw her chance; she withdrew from the cover, got down on one knee, steadied her hand, and shot. 

Then came a moment of respite. The hunter sighed and laughed a little out of weariness. It had been hours, and the exact time was lost to them. Even if they were nearing an end now, Nemiet felt restless, and far from relieved. It worsened once she felt Agmaer lay his hand over her shoulder, and she moved away as soon as she deemed appropriate; but the Nord’s forehead puckered. He fell silent and rolled around in self-pity. He tortured himself with thoughts of shame and inadequacy. But it couldn’t get farther from the truth, and he could’ve been the High King of Skyrim and the kindest, goodest man on Tamriel, yet the level of her interest would have remained the same. Only he could not comprehend it.

With a quivering hand, Nemiet pushed open the door before them. A gust of cold air crashed unapologetically against their faces, and the Redguard fought a coughing fit that hitched in her throat. 

Once inside, Agmaer closed the door behind them quietly. Nemiet assured there were no traps scattered about and that the ground was safe to tread. There were sounds of a distant conversation, but it echoed across the grand chamber – it was a vast, natural cave with a centerpiece of sorts on a lone island. Neither of them could recognize the architecture; it was so old that it must’ve dated back to the ancient Nords, but the style didn’t appear Nordic at all, and rather came closer to some Ayleid ruins. Nemiet felt in her heart that they were close to discovering something unfathomable. Anticipation tingled at the tips of her fingers and the bottoms of her feet, picked at the edges of her thought.  Only a little further, she thought, back then to bed and warm bread and cold ale.

There were two vampires in the area. They were keeping busy with a corpse, toying with it like a pair of cats would with a rat. The body lay in a pool of darkened blood, sticky and tar-like, and multiple wounds crossed his flesh. Nemiet knew by them his death had not been gentle, nor had it been fast. Her mouth was dry as she swallowed. It took her a moment to adjust to the horrors that surrounded her–she felt an anger so bottomless and hungry she did not know what to do with it. All she could do was to close her eyes and pretend to be unbothered.

“What is it they’re saying?” Agmaer asked through gritted teeth. He did not go further, but felt against his exclusion. Nemiet turned over her shoulder and motioned him to remain quiet, for they had still gone unnoticed. She then showed him which vampire to aim for; it was a simple plan, but something got lost in the translation, and the instructions were in vain. The Redguard watched in terror as the remaining creature grimaced, eyes full of animalistic rage; without hesitation he dashed forward, chanting words in a language unknown to them both. 

“Great," hissed out Nemiet. It came out more aggressively than intended. Agmaer caught it, but remained silent, springing to the ledge and pressing his body to the wall. The Redguard hid behind the door frame, waiting for the situation to play out. It was a nerve-wracking wait, and Nemiet tapped the hilt of her crossbow to keep her heartbeat steady and controlled. One, two, three. Then, something happened, and the Nord’s impatience betrayed him. He abandoned his cover, and leaped out a moment too early. Nemiet watched in a slowed fright how the vampire raised his arm and plunged his dagger into Agmaer’s bicep. She winced at the sight of blood soaking through the fabric, and the suckling sound as the blade retracted from his flesh. The Nord grunted from the pain, and his hand instinctively flew to the open wound, face writhing in pain. But the vampire laughed, and his belittling laugh rang in Nemiet’s ears for years to come–he tried to grab Agmaer by his neck, but her trigger finger surpassed his speed. A vile wet sound came from the bolt cleaving through his brain. The beast fell unconscious, staggered backwards and took a tumble down the stairwell. 

Breathless, the Redguard stared down at the dead vampire as if to ensure he indeed was dead. Then she turned around to see Agmaer, who sat on the ground and heaved through a grin. His crossbow lay on the ground beside his bent knee. His hand was still rested over the wound, but it didn’t deter blood from oozing from through his fingers. The fabric of his upper arm and body had blackened.

“Stendarr’s mercy," muttered Nemiet in worry. “Can you walk?”

“‘Course," spoke the Nord, “just, need me a -gh- moment. There! Toss my bag?” 

The Redguard turned around. Agmaer’s belt bag had gone off and rolled across the ground. Half of its continents were emptied. She scooped everything back and brought it to the Nord then. 

He dug around into it with a pained expression, pulling out a frosted bottle of Cyrodilic brandy. Nemiet raised her eyebrows questioningly. Where the Nord had acquired such an expensive and rare Imperial import, she did not know. He cocked back his head and chugged it down with a shaky hand, then wiped dry the corners of his mouth with a sour expression. He then pulled aside the strip of his gambeson, revealing angry red skin and the oozing wound before spilling some alcohol over it. Boggling at the pain, he did not spare his curses. Nemiet watched in an uneasy silence. Only when he felt well enough to breathe properly and lay down the bottle could she grant him a careful smile, one he did not replicate. 

“You good?” Nemiet asked him as he prized himself up. He heaved quite a bit, and the wound still hurt, without a doubt. “Dunno. Maybe we should rest awhile.”

“Nay," hissed Agmaer. “The sooner we’re out, all the better. Damned place...”

Nemiet nodded. As soon as he could walk again, they made their way down the weathered stairwell. The Redguard admired the stonework, but alas, no creation of man withstood the ravages of time. She would occasionally turn around and ensure her companion’s safety. Besides a slight limp, he appeared to be doing okay, but she just couldn’t shake the worry.

Once they got to the crumbling bridge, their footfall sounded throughout the empty space. There was a circular platform built over a subterranean lake; it had a single central column with sharp-peaked marble arches circling it; dimly shimmering braziers interlocking smally with the arches; a single button sitting atop the lone pillar in the middle. It was made of gold, instilled in a darkened metal frame, and its center was hollow. Not a single plant grew there. Below their feet, the water sat in complete darkness. If they were to stop now and listen, they would have known a silence unprecedented; but they were tired and down to the marrow, and thus had naught to spare for the wonders of the world. 

The button called for Nemiet, itched at her fingers. It could have easily been a trap. She had been taught better than the curiosity she now felt. 

“I should be the one to do it," suggested Agmaer valiantly. Nemiet’s insides squirmed unpleasantly at his tone. “They will need you much more than they need me, if something goes amiss.”

The Redguard breathed out her frustration. “No," she spoke firmly, “listen–we’re equals, you and me. But here, in the field, I am your superior, and as such will be taking any–weight on any –associated risks. That clear?”

Agmaer’s stomach stirred from a bruised ego, but even he knew not to press the matter further.

“Good," answered Nemiet. She cleared her throat, shifting back her focus to the pillar. She swung her arms through the air once or twice, letting the worries roll down from her fingertips; she was hesitant to let Agmaer see through her false confidence. Then she went for it. As soon as she had laid her hand upon the button a sharp, penetrating pain shot through her. The Redguard held back a startled yelp, eyes locked around the spike sprung up from the button hollow and pierced through her hand. It retracted as quickly as it had emerged, leaving thick, fresh blood trickling down her fingers. She couldn’t stifle the shock on her face. Despite the initial blood loss, the seepage calmed down soon, and Nemiet could only assume it was due to a numbing salve, or some other solution doused upon it. It was tactical, the entire system, planned down to the last digit–and despite the terror, she could easily find herself admiring the grand design.

Her intrigued gaze followed as the blood got sucked down the drain. In a heartbeat, it had run through a web of troughs by their feet that connected the braziers, and before either could open their mouth to speak up they were cloaked in an otherworldly purple haze that shone from the channels. It was now far from grim. Nemiet’s eyes grew wide in fascination. She could feel the place’s energy pulsating through her as she beheld its strange beauty, taking a few steps back, careful not to step over the bloodflow.

“Won’t you look at that!” Spoke Agmaer. “Got ourselves a riddle.”

“You don’t say," answered Nemiet with a hushed tone. 

The Redguard nudged the brazier closest to her, to which the shred of light led to. “Ay! You can move these braziers. Come on, give me a hand," she instructed, watching as the one she had had her grip around slid onto the next station. The purple light gushed forward and showered the area in its arcane essence. Nemiet felt it more a spirit than a puzzle. It was enthralling. 

The two disappeared into a deep silence filled with naught but the rumbling of braziers. They moved about and pushed them to and fro, and cursed when one got stuck and refused to move; it was an onerous task, since the vessels got very heavy after a while. Then, when the circle at last connected, Nemiet watched in awe as the amethystine pattern wrapped around the center like a giant, angular serpent. The ground began to shift and move, and the floor beneath them appeared to sink. The Redguard trundled back alarmedly, hoping to herself that what they had discovered now was not only valuable in gold, but also an asset in their mission. The Divines only knew how they needed that. 

The earth shook as a large stone monolith emerged from the recess, shaking and terrorizing the very ground they stood upon. It raised a quake strong enough to loosen the stalactites hanging from the ceiling, and as the thinnest ones rained down like a hail of stone they both raised their arms to shield themselves. Luckily for them, it only lasted for a few seconds. When the two hunters stood steady over the ground still and stable once more, they exchanged a questioning look, the first one in a while. 

The dust settled around them, allowing for them to see before them properly. Nemiet coughed, flicking her wrist through the air in an attempt to clear her eyesight. Once she regained her vision, she studied the monolith carefully. Without much hesitation, she reached out her hand and touched it’s cold, rough surface; she didn’t get to wondering about its holdings before the stone started to quiver. It slid open laboriously like a door with rusted hinges, allowing for light to enter for the first time in centuries.

In hindsight, Nemiet had thought this over and over again, but she could never again remember her own expectations. Maybe she had anticipated a weapon, a sword or a mace to smite the evil with; or an artifact, one with an ancient power sealed within; but if there was one thing for certain, it was that the mysterious woman emerging from within had not been a thought even close to occurring. 

The woman fell, but she caught herself before she would plummet to the ground. She carried a large artifact sheathed on her back, and even Nemiet could see an interest to it. It was difficult for the Redguard to see all that well in the dying purple glow, but as soon as the stranger cast her gaze upwards Nemiet’s heart skipped a beat. She knew by the glow of her eyes, by the white-hot pupil in the middle of an iris made of fire.

A vampire.

She struggled to stand up straight, but once she did she hovered well above them both. She was dizzy, Nemiet could tell from the way that her eyes wandered; she gathered herself fast, but the hunter was faster. She clutched onto her crossbow and pointed its stirrup towards the woman. 

“Who… who are you…” said the stranger. Her voice faltered, as if her throat was very dry. The red eyes inspected their surroundings, but heeded to the hunters without disruption. The next time she spoke, her voice was clearer. “Who sent you?”

“None of your concern," replied Nemiet sternly. She struggled to keep her surprise to herself. “How about we do the asking, and you will do nicely to respond. I just so happen to be very light on the trigger.”

“What? No -” began the vampire, but her voice ceased then. She fell deep in thought, lifting her jaw a little to appear more of a threat. But she did not evoke fear in her discoverers, she found by glancing them up and down. “Please. I fail to follow… I… Why would anyone–who isn’t like me –be here?”

“Like you?” Said Agmaer. His tone was agitated, and Nemiet cast him a reassuring glance.

“You really can’t tell?” The vampire’s perplexed gaze traveled from Nemiet to the Nord and back to Nemiet again. “A vampire.”

Then Agmaer raised his crossbow and held the tiller to his face, ready to pull the trigger. If Nemiet hadn’t prevented him from doing so, his bolt would’ve already slain the stranger, but the Redguard’s kindness saved her then. Agmaer gave his commander a questioning  look. He stared deep into her eyes as if to ask why, but Nemiet’s gaze was relentless and unnegotiable.

She then became overcome with thought. The hunter lowered her own weapon and took quick, short steps into the opposing direction, searching the shadowed ground for an answer. But once again none was offered for her, and she felt so agonizingly troubled for having to decide for herself. 

“The Dawnguard would want me to kill you," Nemiet said at last. She huffed, turning around and giving the vampire a thorough glance. This was only half the truth; they would’ve wanted her to take her captive, drain her dry of what she knew, and then kill her. “Maybe I should. And maybe you should try and give me a real cogent reason not to. Let’s hear it.”

The stranger chuckled. “Not fond of vampires, are they? Or you?” Her head was starting to clear up from the dust it had bore for years, and as she grew more and more used to being awake again after what had felt like an eternity she could feel a hunger stir in her stomach. And she could feel their heartbeats, his tensed short breaths as he stared at her like an injured fawn in front of a dire wolf. In a way, she enjoyed it, the way his fear became tangible. But Nemiet's heartbeat didn’t twitch, and it didn’t budge. She had a calculative look in her eye, one the vampire could not so easily read.

The hunter’s eyebrows knitted together. She knew her kind by now, could detect all the hidden nuances from within the vampire’s body language–even how heady her voice was, fondling her ears sweetly like a kiss. But she could see past her trickery, and thus held an advantage over the lethargic vampire.

The stranger before her sighed, leaning slightly to the monolith. Then she begged, “no, listen. I’ve no wish to die here, and you… you’re clearly in the pursuit of something–kill me, and you’ve killed one vampire, great, well done, a pat in the back from me–but if there are people looking for me, something must have happened while I was… well, indisposed.”

Nemiet’s brow furrowed further. After giving the sarcophagi a sorrowful glance, Serana cast her a pleading look. The vampire then spoke firmly and without doubt. “I can help you figure it out.” 

A silence fell. The hunter contemplated on the vampire’s offer, and Agmaer’s demanding gaze upon her did not make the feat easier. This wasn’t her deal to make; it was arrogant and against her given orders. She was completely torn between duty and a sheer wild curiosity. No matter how the time passed them by, there was no lesson of her father she could cite, no voice of reason whispering truths to her ear; so she let her shoulders fall from the tension they had been holding, and gave the vampire a stiff nod of affirmation.

“Fine. It is settled, then," Nemiet said dryly. She did not trust the vampire to any extent, and the truce was as thin as a streak of spider’s web; but it was a truce, nonetheless. “But you should know better than to get in our way.”

The stranger’s eyes flew open with surprise. There was a sense of tension between them still, one wrought in silence and distrust. Hearts and minds heavy, they both accepted the challenge; and somewhere under every prejudice, mistrust, and fear, neither could deny how irresistibly curious they felt about one another. The vampire that resisted a bottomless hunger, and the hunter that failed to bring down her prey. Perhaps, it was done in the name of fairness and justice, or perhaps it was primal, the lust for survival; either way, it was now to be executed. Perhaps it was destined, thought Nemiet with a distress in her chest, or this is Oblivion I’m hurdling into. 

Only time would tell.

“Oh, and before I forget! My name’s Serana," the vampire’s voice became exalted now that some of her trepidation had faded; she spoke in an archaic dialect, one that Nemiet found a little tricky to follow, but which indicated a long time spent asleep. For how long exactly, she couldn’t begin to guess. “Whom do I have the most pleasure of talking to?”

“Nemiet," responded the hunter morosely. “My name is Nemiet.”

Chapter 3: Road to the Northern Sea

Notes:

At last it's here! Chapters 1 and 2 were initially written as one longer chapter, so I apologize for any inconvenience that might come with that. I'm self-conscious but HEY, when am I not? Hope you enjoy the chapter!

It was Agmaer who eventually came to break the silence by clearing his throat. He appeared restless, painfully conscious of the apprehension that lingered in the space between the three. In the light of the event his faith in Nemiet was faltering, and he trusted the vampire none at all. Tired and sore, he yearned for the space to think; and to do so, he had to get out of this place, the sooner the better. “So, how do we go on about making it out of ‘ere?” 

The Redguard waited for Serana to speak up. Her intense gaze was settled over her, hands crossed over her chest and tapping her forearm impatiently with an index finger. Long ago she figured an exit, but wished to test the vampire, prove her worthy of her trust.

“This place looks nothing like it did at the time of my entombment," Serana admitted with a shrug. Her gaze wandered the cavern, the slick, glistening walls that arched high and mighty in nature’s own cathedral. She too was going through a mo of doubt over her decision to trust the hunters–for all that, not once did her honesty waver.  “Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Let’s go," said Nemiet to Agmaer, readying her crossbow once more. “We can stay gawking at our toe caps till it turns Midyear, or we can go get this over with. And you," she then gestured at the vampire, “I shall escort you to your home-nest–or whatever the fuck you filth call it–but we’re no allies, and we sure as the Pits are no friends. And keep that mouth shut, lest your chords’re precious to you.”

To that Serana grinned. This was not at all the pompous treatment she was used to. At home, she had forever been the next from a God, a pure-blooded daemon where her father made the highest seat of the court. She had known pampering, the ‘Lady Serana, I’ll do to your bidding’, lesser spawns cowering only at the word of her arrival–not that she had necessarily taken pride or pleasure in it, but that it had been. She’d been feared as she’d been loved–it had made for a lonely life, but it was a desolation she knew. It was why she now felt the closest resemblance of hurt stirring inside of her ribs, pulling tightly at the strings of her still heart. But despite this, her expression remained unchanged. The vampire appeared unphased by the crudity of her pursuers, glaring briefly upon them. 

“Well, aren’t you a darling," she muttered under her breath.

It was not intended for the hunter to hear, but she did anyway, and in response something turned in her stomach. Remorse? This, she knew, couldn’t have been it. She would for no reason feel this towards a godless beast. The bottomless hunger a vampire forever sought to sate, the picked clean remains of family members– children –Nemiet had had to dispose of, they hounded her. Many were the times she had almost thrown up at the stench of a nest–this was the stench of death, undiluted and pure. Even now it brought chills upon her skin. But the fact that this even came to her now upsetted her–that her mind had even scraped the possibility.

Nemiet went across the other stone bridge leading away from the island, lost in thought but outwardly alert. Her boots kicked pebbles that further rolled off the ledge and plummeted into the water. This she could hardly notice. The hunter weighed her options; she could’ve done as promised, and brought Serana back to her lair, or she could’ve deceived her and taken her with her to her father. It was a strange burden, knowing another’s fate rested upon her benevolence. It would’ve been sensical to betray the monster and lead it astray–but the option also felt iniquitous, for a reason she could not distinguish. For this Nemiet wanted to rip out her hair frustration, still unnamed. 

The striped gneiss, the minerals shimmering softly from the walls allied to stars, she had had enough of them. A drop of water fell down her neck, entering through the collar. Lichen covered the rocks, ferns occupied the land where it was fertile enough to support life. A centipede as old and wise as time stared her down as it crossed the wall, knowing where it came and where to go. There was an entire world inside of these caves, chock-full of tiny beasts and Gods’ secret gardens–one simply had to know where to look.

But Nemiet couldn’t have cared less about the splendors of the world. She kept walking when her feet hit the cave floor. It was soft and bent down slightly at her weight. In the pursuit of an exit, the Redguard passed by some ruins on this bank, disinterested of the two gargoyles that reached over in fierce wrath, wings spread behind their backs like a formidable crown. They had been animated by their vampire master, the very one that had trapped and sealed Serana underground–and now, there was a disturbance to their stagnant slumber, an intruder in their domain. The hunter’s movements reflected through a glazed eye.

It began with a twitch of a wing. Then a loud, rumbling noise rammed through their eardrums. Nemiet crouched over in fright, covering her ears and searching for the cause; the beasts raged, their barks ricocheted off the walls and resonated throughout the space. Like a thunderstorm trapped underground, the sound was scathing beyond measure. The gargoyles were even more fearsome, three times her size and tenfold as ferocious. In the blink of an eye the Redguard could see how the closer one prepared to jump her. In terror, in an inexplicable thirst for life, she reached for her axes, but it was in vain. It leapt forward like a sabre cat, plunged itself off with its large, mountainous legs and pushed the small human to the ground with ease. Grunting audibly from the weight, her ax fell off her grip and rolled across the ground. It clattered against the stone a few times before settling in.

Afeared for her life, Nemiet counted down the seconds when she’d hear her ribcage crack under the claws pressed over her chest. She could feel each talon separately as they dug briefly into her sides. One, two, three, they traversed painfully slowly through her mind. But the excruciating pain, the gasping erratically for air, never came. And even if the hunter’s body trembled like a leaf, she would soon rather feel relief instead of death’s empty embrace. The Redguard could hardly believe her own eyes once she prized them open. 

Nemiet watched, partially dumbfounded, partially in awe, as the vampire held back the large beast with a single blade; and not just any blade, but an old, disintegrated dagger. Its metal shone and pricked sharply at her eye. Serana’s face was twisted into a grimace, baring her fangs and breathing out a roar. At this moment the hunter saw her chance. She crawled backwards a little, readied her crossbow with shaky, unsteady hands, and leaned it against her knees for a better holding. Then she fired, and she was an excellent shooter; the moment her bolt hit, the gargoyle cried loudly and grasped once for the perforation before falling lifelessly on the ground. 

The earth beneath them shook smally from the shattering weight. Nemiet could distantly hear Agmaer’s war cries and the clash of metal, but they both sounded as if they came from somewhere far away, and not the same chamber at all, like a veil had descended down and separated her from their world. She felt light-headed and unwell, a wandering gaze and a thick, voiceless throat. She couldn’t move, not in an inexorably long while. Before she could feel life return to her limbs the Nord’s duel had ended in a triumphant victory. 

Nemiet panted heavily on the ground as the danger came to pass. She poked at the large wing with the tip of her boot, surprised at its likeness of flesh. It swayed some before becoming still. 

And then she looked over to Serana, the vampire that had saved her from death, or serious injury if not an eternal peril. It perplexed her more than she cared to admit. The vampire did not notice, or at least pretended not to, tending to her arm pieces loosened by the battle.

The situation carried out. The people involved were calm again, and as they receded the scene Nemiet felt appropriate to initiate a conversation.

“So, about your home… ," she began dryly, setting her walking speed to that of Serana’s. “Anything I should be aware of?”

“I can speak now?” The vampire sneered. Nemiet glowered at her, but even the Redguard’s gaze softened after seeing a vague grief on her features.  Indeed, Serana’s mind was at war. She thought of  home, the rocky shore pointing sharply at the dead sky and the cistern bleeding dry upon the bay. The water there was always cloudy. She knew it was the most unkind place, but it was the only lead she could follow–not many options were provided for her. The vampire sighed as she continued, “there’s an island, westward of Solitude. My family home lay there. Not the most homely place, in the name of fairness, but I should be safe there.”

Nemiet gave her an interrogative look. She wished not to appear too interested, but the stranger had undoubtedly awakened an interest in her. Serana could easily sense it; after all, her senses were heightened and keen, even after ten lifetime's worth of slumber. It made the vampire feel strangely pleasant, arousing such curiosity in such a grave woman. This contentment she hid well.

“Mother and father–they had a bit of a falling out. Now, they are no threat to me, but… I’m guessing it’ll be awkward, should we run into him," she spoke assuredly, but something told Nemiet the situation wasn’t as jejune as she made it out to be.

She mustered up her guts to give Serana a thorough observation; the black braids descending from her temples; an aura of old-fashioned nobility; her long red garb–both regal and obsolescent; high cheekbones and a strong, sharp jaw; her stolid features, the veins that shone through a thin, transparent skin. There were signs of hunger, starvation , everywhere–how she had gotten so skilful of controlling the urge to feed remained a mystery to the Redguard. Nemiet knew that the vampire could well hear her heartbeat, see the vein twitch below her jaw; to many vampires, fed recently or not, that would have been an irresistible temptation. It made her self-reflect, thinking about how little she knew of Serana’s kind, the afflicted–and how many of them had once been people like her. It made her feel dizzy.

Serana grew restless under Nemiet’s exhaustive gaze.  

The hunter spoke only after glancing away, and stepping over a piece of masonry lying on her way. “Not too fond of your father, I take it?” 

“We never fared well," replied Serana sourly. “I despise speaking it. ‘Little girl doesn’t get along with da’ –bet you’ve heard that a hundred times. It’s a cliché at best.”

Nemiet sighed. She was not the one to indulge in a stranger’s family history–let alone a strange vampire’s family history–but she had given her a chance, so she might as well have taken it a toss further.

“A monster might not make for a father," the Redguard replied coldly. She tried to hide the nuances woven within her sentence, but her heart deceived her at the word ‘father’ . From that only, Nemiet had sold herself to the vampire – but she wished for Serana’s ignorance, nonetheless. “But who am I to judge?”

The vampire chuckled condescendingly. “Someone very high up on that horse. Be careful not to fall.”

“And you be careful not to court danger," retorted Nemiet. “Not interested in mingling with the likes of you.”

“Easy does it now," cooed Serana, “you’re likely right. Never seen a wolf and a sheep frolicking about, or grooming one another. Fangs and wool don’t mix, I fear–fuzz lodges between teeth. But which of us is the wolf? Me, ‘cause I look it, or you, who bites first and asks questions later?”

Nemiet fell silent for a while, but she couldn’t stay that way for very long. 

“What’s the thing on your back?” She asked. Her eyes had carelessly swept its ornamental casing, wondering and pondering but never quite figuring it out.

“An Elder Scroll," Serana replied meagrely, “and it’s mine.”

The answer caught Nemiet off guard. It was the way that her gaze flung upwards to Serana’s eyes that the vampire could immediately tell. The Redguard had only ever heard stories of such artifacts, all of which were vague and unavailing. She had been taught to keep to the real world and its looming threats, escapes and fairytales, not so much. But it was different to read a book and actually encounter something like it–they were said to be the archives of every past and each future, tomes of ancient knowledge and prodigious plots. No one knew how many there were, and who had written them (or if anyone had ever written them at all, and instead were God-like in their very being). Nemiet could barely contain her astonishment. 

After the initial shock had faded, she then inquired, “and if I may extend my question, why do you– a vampire –have an Elder Scroll?” 

“It’s a long story," huffed Serana, “and like you said–we needn’t be friends.” She expected betrayal all the same. 

“Okay," Nemiet sighed, coming to a halt and turning around to look at the much taller vampire. Her voice was severe. “You don’t trust me, and I don’t trust you. But we need each other, and-”

“Over ‘ere! Found a way out!” Agmaer exclaimed from the front. He had quickly outpaced the two women, and was now waving his arm through the air at the end of a short stairwell, a grin extending from one eye to another.

The entourage found themselves in a large room. There were stairs, or seats, riddled with dust, surrounding a fiery pit in the center. It reminded Nemiet of a battle arena. Dancing flames cast shadows upon the old, weathered walls–the flickering glow of fire brought the space to life, and warmth to their exposed skin. Serana was quick to pull up her hood, shielding her face from its ravages. 

The Redguard shook off the alien sense of sorrow by unseathing her crossbow and scouting the area for enemies.

It didn’t take long at all until the three of them emerged from the mountainside. They stood upon a narrow ledge overlooking the sleepy valley, greeted by prickling wind. Nemiet breathed out vapor, but the air in front of Serana stood stagnant and unbroken. She could hardly feel the cold that burrowed into the bones of her escorts. 

Darkness had befallen on the world around them. The sky was black like an unfathomably large gate to Oblivion. Large snowflakes fell quietly around them, burying softly the ground, muffling any sound from the woods before them. A sense of restful stillness hung in the air. Since they had first breached Dimhollow, a whole day had risen and waned, and even if Nemiet would’ve never spoken it aloud, she now felt weary. It was a long road till Solitude, and she didn’t want to risk making the journey in the middle of the night–not with wolves, bandits, and vampires alike prowling about. 

“It’s good to be out," sighed Serana. Nemiet cast her eyes upon her, thinking how well she could’ve gone for a human, was it not for her eyes and the darkened tips of her fingers. “You’ve no idea.”

Then Nemiet turned over to Agmaer. It was with a heavy heart she made the decision to depart with the other hunter. She might’ve felt a little uneasy about his company, but she could trust him better than the vampire. Serana’s piercing gaze settled to them, and the Redguard spoke, “tis been a long day. Duty ends here. You should go back home.”

Agmaer was outraged by Nemiet’s suggestion. “What?” His body language sparked a protest; stiff shoulders, a deep frown. “But-"

“I will not argue with you over this," said Nemiet firmly. It was then she made the decision to take Serana back home instead of deceiving her–she could not tell why–if it was the one sigh that the vampire had breathed out that made her feel almost human, or if she merely felt for the woman beneath the curse–but she found herself wanting to help. And the Redguard hoped, somewhere deep in her gullible little heart, that Serana could help her, too. Nemiet had slain so many of her kind she was by now simply starved of mercy–but now she had spoken to one, and thus doomed herself to feeling compassion.

“I want you to go back to the fort, let Isran know to expect my return within a few days. And if I won’t be there by Loredas morning, only then to expect the worst," Nemiet said quietly, “won’t be much use, if we both expire. You to your injuries, me in defending you.”

The Nord hesitated. His insides stirred with fear and suspicion as well as frustration, but he hid them cleverly behind his tongue. His gaze, drunken by distrust, shifted between the two women, resentment towards the vampire reading like an open book.

“All right," he then spoke dryly, glaring at Serana as if she was nothing but a parasite, “but if the bloodsucker as much as lays a finger on you, I’ll hunt it down meself. And I ain’t the gentle loving type.”

“She won’t be stupid enough to try," assured Nemiet. She felt silly for having to reassure him over something as ridiculous; after all, he was the renowned farm hand, and she had been trained since birth. She was a warrior, not some callow maiden from the local inn in dire need of a savior–only Agmaer had not figured out as much. “May Stendarr watch over your travels.”

He gave Nemiet one final look, trying to appeal to the part of her that cared for him, but it was for naught. The Nord’s reluctance lingered, even when his back had already disappeared to the blizzard.

Nemiet sighed as soon as he was out of the hearing range. She didn’t give Serana another look, just headed out towards a small footpath buried under snow. It winded down the mountain slope before leading further into the vast, rugged wilderness. Pines towered over the white hillocks; frost wreathed along the trunks, shimmering like the diamonds of a noble’s neck. Besides the squeaking of the snow under her boot, not a single sound could be heard. It offered Nemiet the space to think, even if she did not prefer to have it. Her mind was heavy, swollen with thought, and now alone in the heart of the night. If only there was a kindred spirit to tell her what to do, where to go; to reassure her that this was the path she needed to take. She thought of a prayer, but they had never before found the right God, or any God at all. But the cost of faith sometimes was patience, and to that she heeded to–even if the feat tired her out quite a bit.

“So," initiated Serana, “he your bedfellow?”

“What?” Despite coming out sternly, Nemiet's voice broke down a little. She could feel her heart pick up the pace.

“Well," replied the vampire, “the irrefutable romance of wilderness, two young souls alone, separated from all civilization…”

“Stop pretending you know me," Nemiet rasped. By this Serana knew she had hit below the belt. Agitated, the Redguard opened her mouth to add something, but restrained her tongue and snapped closed her mouth. She then kept going along the path, anguished.

They cut through the slope and came to a rock shelter right below the mountain ridge. It offered them a sanctuary, a refuge from the heavy snowfall, but it was also a regular campsite; there were traces left of people on the ground, and a cold, sooty fireplace in the center. Nemiet unlocked her belt buckle, and allowed for the small bag fall on the ground next to it. She had made the reluctant decision to set up a camp and stay there for the night.

Slowly but surely, snow covered everything from valley floor to treetops. The wind was relentless, howling like a lone wolf at the cragged edges of the mountain. Northern air licked over the Redguard, and she quivered under its freezing grasp. Temperature around her kept falling steadily, and despite the hunter’s undying efforts, the campfire refused to catch a spark–frost gnawed on her joints and crept under her clothes. Now and again, she would rub her hands together in a desperate try to bring back life to them. Serana, of course, was no help; she didn’t need the warmth, it did her more harm than it did good. So the vampire simply observed the hunter as she fought against the unrelenting weather, feeling a brief sting of pity towards her pointless attempts.

“Ah, the indomitable human spirit," said the vampire.

Nemiet was too tired to give her a glare, much less snap. She simply glanced over her shoulder, mouthing a stern, “sod off.”

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, thought of her patron and asked for assistance. Useless as it might have been, her mind wandered to her mother’s spirit too, anyone who could’ve had an ounce of mercy to spare towards her. Woodland dwellers and strange old creatures, some of which were forever undiscovered. Then, in all of her despair, Nemiet looked out over the vale, which now looked like an unbounded black ocean, and in this pitch-blackness she could no longer see five feet ahead of her. She was a long way from home, now. Maybe she should’ve never left.

Then the hunter tried again. She gave a soft, encouraging blow to the firebrand. And like a miracle, she could soon detect movement from within the pit; it was a fragile little flame, but a flame nonetheless. Like a healing ward, relief washed over her form. 

“Someone up there likes you," chuckled Serana. Nemiet echoed her, this time. Her genuine joy surprised the vampire, and then when their laughs melted into a smile, the hunter felt worried over how easy it came.

Some time passed in silence. Serana lurked in the shadows, mostly on her own. Nemiet tended to the fire without a word. The crackling heat warmed her stiff face and fingers. She kept stealing quick, accidental glances at the vampire. She was not a curious character, she did not think so; but now it almost killed her. 

“You’re repulsed by me," stated Serana. 

Nemiet poked the embers with a tree branch. The flame grew higher as she answered, “a balance of terror, between you and I. Not unlike it should be.”

Serana turned around to look at her. Her cowl cast a shadow over her face, hiding the woe in her gaze. Her eyes shone like two radiant suns in the night. Hunger had carved a hole in her stomach, whittled the edges with a cruel hand; but she did not want to hunt before Nemiet was asleep. It might’ve given her the inspiration she lacked in killing her–and as powerful as Serana was, she was slowed and tainted by her slumber. 

“I am weak. Weaker than an average thrall, and you have the look of someone that can handle herself. I need you–even the little confrontation with the gargoyle was enough to wear me out. So it might be a little hard to believe, but there is no logical reason for me to hurt you," explained the vampire. 

Nemiet huffed, secretly content with the compliment, and after a while felt sorry for the vampire. To have no one to rely on except for a wailing hunter must’ve been dreadful.

“So, Serana the sheepish vampire," said Nemiet, wary yet curious, “how long were you trapped down there?” 

“That’s a question I can’t answer," replied Serana in thought. “For I do not know. Perhaps an eon. Who sits on the Throne? Who is the High King of Skyrim?”

Nemiet had started readying herself for bed. She had rolled open her bedroll, and taken off her cuirass and pauldrons and laid them neatly next to her. She then sat before the fire with her legs crossed, chewing on a piece of stale bread with nothing to ease the swallowing. This delayed her response. “Elisif of Solitude will be High Queen, but many remain loyal to Ulfric Stormcloak, and his nationalist dogs.”

“These names mean nothing to me," admitted Serana, “you say that this Elisif is the Jarl of Solitude? Who supports her?”

“The Empire," replied the hunter. She frowned at the vampire’s confusion, unsure if she was trying to take her for a fool, or if she had truly outlasted the current governing seat. “The Empire’s a lesser of two evils, so as do I.”

“The Empire?” A knot in Serana’s throat tightened.

“Yep," said Nemiet. “From Cyrodiil.”

“Cyrodiil’s the seat of an Empire," muttered Serana, more to herself than the Redguard. “Well, this is troubling. I must have been gone longer than I thought. Decidedly longer than was planned.”

Nemiet was full of questions. Who had planned, and for what? She now knew that the woman had been entombed for hundreds, thousands of years; past the Eras and rises and falls of Empires; throughout the changes that the continent had undergone in the time of her absence. For a mortal like her, it was difficult to grasp such an eternity.

“Why’d they seal you away? Bear a curse, or something?” The Redguard asked her question cautiously. “Must be a weighty reason for such efforts.”

“With all due respect, this doesn’t concern you," answered Serana. Her words were quick and hushed, a tell-tale sign the subject made her uncomfortable. “Try to look at this from my stead. I can’t afford a single mistake, and you’re rather baleful for a stranger. Even us monsters have touchy subjects, things we don’t wish to talk about. Not that you’d care–why am I even telling you this?”

“If I were baleful, you would be dead," said Nemiet. Her mouth suddenly felt dry. 

She would not pester the vampire any longer. She wrestled her anger, the lessons of her father, alone in silence. It was a trick itself, holding disgust against a beast with courteous manners and a name to call it by. There was a deep regret where the decision to help had previously lain; a certain fear of foolishness, sentimentality, in her heart. But instead of loosening its grip, it rather enclosed and clung on to it like an undying parasite.

For a long while Redguard couldn’t sleep. She tossed around inside her bedroll, catching the sounds of nocturnal wildlife and the quiet crackling of cinders in her hearing. She was held by a tenacious solitude, and an anticipation that burnt bright but wildly out of control, devouring from its way every tree trunk and blade of grass. And as the hour grew late, she hid her face within the fur and hoped to choke.

If she had known exactly how close Serana came to killing her that night, then maybe she would have wished not to have slept at all. For too long thirst had festered inside of her. When the hunter had for good slipped into slumber, becoming blissfully ignorant as she snored restlessly into the night, the vampire snuck away from the rock shelter and into the woods. In the day’s dwindling hours, Serana felt vigilant as ever. Vigorously she ventured into the dark, and as the day broke the forest woke with fewer deer than when the Sun of yesterday had still adorned the eastern sky.

At the hour of Nemiet’s waking, the fire was asleep. There was a nagging at her temples, and when she opened her eyes she had to fight a blinding light from infiltrating through her eyelashes–but she had lived through the night, and that was all that mattered.

Nemiet let her gaze rest upon the mountain range fanning out before her. The rolling knolls swam in the morning haze, and the sun shone radiantly through a thin veil of clouds and flushed the sky rosy. Lively birdsong flooded to her ears. The dawn revealed a world full of light and color–sunbeams through the stiff pine-crowns, glistening snow beneath the rays. Above the treetops, a flock flew. The mountain air was crisp, and the Redguard wished not to crawl out of the bedroll. 

“Awake? Good," spoke Serana with a hint of impatience in her voice. This aroused Nemiet’s attention–the drowsy hunter turned around to face the vampire. “We should move.”

Nemiet sat up and yawned. She then began preparing for a day worth of traveling.

The journey to Serana’s home was long and treacherous, and after an hour or two Nemiet’s eyes grew tired of the neverending wilderness. They talked a little every now and then, surprising each other time and time again with how normal and even pleasant the other could be, and in the grand scheme of things those were indeed the greatest memories they made along the way. The Redguard told Serana about the decades of politics she had missed during her slumber, and became inspired enough to add a few stories of her own. She had many from during her years in training. Serana listened forever intently, and mostly with a genuine interest. Something about it made Nemiet feel weird–not necessarily an ill type of weird, but weird regardless.

“You keep live thralls at the castle?” Nemiet’s nose wrinkled up in disgust. “God-awful.”

“You may be right," Serana grimaced, “but at least they are still alive and well–and willing, or so they think.”

Nemiet shuddered. “Dunno. I can’t think of a fate much worse.”

“Being a vampire, perhaps?” Serana smirked, and to her surprise, Nemiet found herself smiling, too. “If you were to become a thrall, at least you would not lament it.”

“Hope that’s not your plan all along," the Redguard responded jokingly before going serious. “Our honor code obliges us to… dispose of ourselves, in the case of contagion. This is sacred to us.”

“Quite morbid," replied Serana with a small glance towards her escort. “Guess that makes two of us. ‘There’s no place like home’. ”

“Guess so," Nemiet sighed. “I, uh, violated the code pretty badly, in choosing to help you. Trying to come to terms with that.”

“Gods," worried Serana, “you won’t hang for this, will you? Burn on a pyre?”

“Nay," replied the Redguard. She felt surprisingly doubtful. “Isran–our commander–he ought to put me on suspension. But even he cannot afford to lose another one of us now, not even a wretch like I. So I wouldn’t be too worried–it’s more likely I’ll just get a nasty kick in the arse for insubordination.”

“He sounds like fun," said Serana, and Nemiet thought of the stone-cold figure of her father with a shudder. “You know, I thought you would be different.”

“Different how?” The hunter frowned.

“Unsure," admitted Serana, “but you’re tolerable. For a vampire hunter.”

The vampire was right, of course. It was tolerable. 

The snowfall carried far into the afternoon. Fresh snow covered in their tracks, erasing all evidence of their existence. Once the road took them higher through the evergreen, Nemiet could see the Blue Palace resting atop the great landbridge of Solitude. It stuck out of the mist and hovered above the sea. The hunter hadn’t been this far from the Rift very often–while much of Skyrim was still uncharted to her, she had been to the capital a few times. Her father had taken her with him to run errands before. She would sneak away each time, and hide in the shadows of Castle Dour, following the Imperial soldiers as they trained and sought to bring justice by the blades of their swords and the rims of their shields. The young Redguard had always admired them. She had once wished to join them and serve the Empire, for she had dreamt of a purpose, selfless and noble. What she had learnt from a young age was that there were other heroes that the folk needed, a profession subtler and less glorious than that of a knave; but she desperately hoped it to be worth it. Maybe there was a little girl out there who never lost her mother and her father’s sanity and turned out the way she did–that would’ve made all the difference.

They soon came to the sliver of snow-covered beach at the Sea of Ghosts. Before them, the scene laid out soft and dream-like. A thick fog had crept upon them, engulfing the two in a milky white mantle. Neither could see more than a couple feet ahead of them. The vast cold sea seethed with nature’s repressed wrath. One by one, the waves crashed over the barren coast. The sound of water would have been soothing, if Nemiet had not known what would be coming next. 

Amid the ghostly rampart they came by a lone boat. It bobbed gently along the waves, tied on a sad jetty half submerged in the water. It was barely big enough to support them, and Nemiet especially was unbelieving of its safety.

“Guess this is it," spoke Serana. The Redguard still hadn’t brought herself to inquire more about the Scroll, or learnt of the bloodsuckers’ covert schemes, and the sand of her hourglass was draining out. She had tried to, many a try–but each time she opened her mouth, no words would ever come out. 

The Gods truly watched over them that day, making sure that their dinky boat stayed afloat and carried them to safety (or the closest approximation of safety). After an awkwardly quiet voyage, the formation of a castle emerged from within the fog. Sharp black shapes pierced the sky. With each row that Nemiet took towards it, the grip of reality heightened upon her. 

“This your home?” A terror had come to her. 

“This is it," replied Serana. She had been silent ever since the two had departed mainland, and for this Nemiet did not blame her. “Home sweet castle.”

“You never told me you lived in a castle," the hunter chuckled awkwardly. A wasting wind kissed along her neck, and she shivered under its dead embrace.

Serana’s gaze was cast low as she studied the water where its waves splashed against the flanks of the boat. Her smile was weak, but she tried her best to make it look authentic. “I always wanted to be more than one of those women who do naught but sit prudent in their castles. That is not who I am. This… is not who I am.”

Nemiet’s gaze followed the vampire’s. It grazed the castle’s charred turrets and tapered windows, and the snow that had frozen over each of its spires. Bone hawks circled the tallest of them, crude song filling the bay. The island itself appeared empty. She had a hard time believing anything good would come out of a place like this. 

“It’s impressive," replied Nemiet, because she couldn’t think of a better thing to say.

“It’s something, alright," the vampire breathed out sadder than was intended. 

When the boat at last hit the shore with a sharp jab, the Redguard felt as if all life was jolted out of her at an instant. She eyed the castle anxiously, in this moment unaware of how perceiving Serana’s hearing was–the vampire could easily tell her fright. Even if the castle was partially devoured by the mist, Nemiet could see the bridge at the end of which stood the entrance. Ice covered the path, it glinted here and there in the day’s phantasmality. There were gargoyles placed along the parapets, and the incident at Dimhollow had left the hunter on guard about them. She glared each in the eye as they passed them by.

She grew more restless by each step that she took in Serana’s wake. After they were done with her she would have to be cleaned from the walls. Sparing the vampire a single detail now felt like a mistake. The Redguard’s breath hitched in her throat, her knees juddered under her–only Serana's back coming to a halt was enough to distract her from worrying.

She asked with a wrought-up voice, “what is it? Trouble?”

“No, nothing like," Serana replied. Her red gaze settled upon the hunter. “Just wanted to thank you. For getting me this far… I know it was no easy thing for me to ask of you. A complete stranger, at that. Should the situation ever arise, I hope to repay the favor.”

“No need," replied Nemiet, unwilling to receive praise about such a hesitant deed. 

“We will soon be going our own separate ways," the vampire said. Nemiet nodded. “You go back to your garrison, and I should… well, we both knew this was coming. Follow along, let me do the talking. And try and resist the urge to set the whole place aflame, will you, for me? Can’t see how well that would end for either of us.”

Nemiet gave her an amused look. Did Serana think she would go on a rampage the second the doors were closed in on them, and oppose alone a nest-full of vampires, the most vicious sort? Did she strike her as the suicidal type? Either way, it made the Redguard chuckle–her gaiety loosened the vampire’s frown a little.

Once the watchman had seen them coming, the Redguard knew this would be it. The point of no return. It did not scare her now, but rather brought a calm to her spirit; at least, it was too late to do differently, now. What will be, will be, she thought. The mantra gave her strength.

Serana walked onward and let her cowl fall aside. After an initial disbelief, the guard’s frown turned upwards into a wicked grin that looked more painful than it did joyous. 

“Praise be! Lady Serana has returned! Open the gates!”

Then the gate before them opened out. It wailed in agony as its hinges gritted against one another, and the sound gave out its massive weight. The watchman, an old and crook-backed Nord, glared at Nemiet with a loathing worse than she had ever seen. It scruffled the hair on her neck, and made her swallow dryly. Even with fear thumping against her ribcage the hunter kept her calm, focusing her gaze forward and held her chin high. She was a soldier, a paladin , a beacon of hope. This is what she had been made for. If she could not do this, then no one could. But her heart wouldn’t settle inside of her chest. It raced like a hare’s.

Not a word was exchanged among the travelers. Serana was deep in thought, overcome by her own return, the smells and sounds of her home once more; it was earthy, not fresh, but thick and musty. The old halls were covered in dust. Time felt completely frozen, like none had passed at all during her absence. There was a gargoyle on each side of the vestibule; the shadows cast behind them were blacker than the night. A worn red carpet sat on the ground before them. It was laden with golden patterns in a thick stripe cutting it in half in the middle, but the colors were barely recognizable. No daylight could enter, for the windows were covered in old, gray rags, but Nemiet could still see the suspicious stains across the stone walls, the sight of which made her skin crawl. This place welled the influence of Molag Bal–the Daedric Prince of strife and enslavement–the stench was sweet, but disgustingly so, like a week-old corpse left to rot in the sunlight. It was sensical, of course; this was a cultist’s den before it was a vampire nest; and all scions bore a common father. 

Nemiet parted her lips in order to say something, but was interrupted from doing so. An elf came to sight. His pale golden skin was garnished with two rich red eyes, grin wide and askew.

“Ah! Lady Serana! Your dark radiance could be felt from way across the sea," cried the elf. He then turned around and his voice echoed across the grand chamber, “my Lord! Lady Serana has returned!”

Nemiet gave Serana a questioning look.

The vampire huffed. “Suppose I’m expected.” 

The Altmer then led the two downstairs, and as Nemiet slid her hand across the jagged stone railing she gazed upon the hall. It was a dining room, much taller and broader than the one they had back home; two long tables, loaded with viscera, and dirty silverware. Blood had dried in the slits of the goblets. The stink was worse than a butcher’s shop, spoilt flesh and old bile. The Redguard’s stomach twisted around. The ounce of sympathy she had felt towards Serana had nigh faded. The seats around the tables were far from empty, for the clan was seated before them. Their attention was drawn to the comers, and in an eerie silence they observed. At the very end stood yet another table, albeit smaller in size, and behind it sat a large black throne, chipped by the ears of the cresting rail. 

The hunter forced her gaze forward. She measured the length of each breath to remain rooted in the present. It was painful, being so aware how her blood gushed through every set of ears in this hall–teasing, forever hungry. One of them licked their chapped lips. 

“Ah! If it was not for the return of my long-lost daughter," spoke a calm voice, a sound of which sent shivers down Nemiet’s spine and brought cold to her limbs. “Tell me, Serana, that you still hold my Elder Scroll in your possession? I so long to see it.”

The Redguard came into sight from behind Serana’s tall, hooded figure. She saw him clearly now; a proud man, larger of which stood only his ego; his skin was ashen and he had a piercing yellow gaze; a catty grin crossed his face from one eye to another. To Nemiet, he was the devil incarnate–cunning and forbidding, but a fool in his vainglory.

“That is the first thing you ask of me?” Serana was visibly upset. The Redguard gave her a glance with a touch of compassion. “Yes. The scroll is with me.”

“But I am delighted to see you. Must I truly speak that aloud? Ah! If only your traitor of a mother were here, then she could bear witness to our most touching reunion before putting her head on a spike. But that would make for a hideous garnishment," the lord spoke with a seething hatred. His focus then shifted to Nemiet, who despite her fear stood surprisingly still. “Now, tell me, who is this stranger you have brought to our hall?”

“This is my saviour," answered Serana. The sentence was almost an accident, it escaped her mouth before she could even think of the consequences–but as always, she brushed it off skillfully with enormous confidence. Nemiet’s heart skipped a beat. “The one who freed me.”

“For my daughter’s safe return, you have my gratitude," said the man in thought, “tell me, what do they call you?”

“You first," said Nemiet firmly. She did not lack spirit, Serana could easily give her that. Harkon, on the other hand, was rather amused by her defiance. There was nothing the Redguard could do to oppose him in his own hall. They both knew that very well, but she could not bring herself to cower, not in front of the enemy.

“Very well," he replied with a deep chuckle. He laid the silver chalice in his hand on the table, and the thick red liquid inside spilled over a little. He then gestured widely to the room that spread around them with a toothy grin. “I am Harkon, the lord of this court. By now, my daughter should have told you who we are.”

“I know well on my own–you’re a reclusive cannibal cult," spat out Nemiet. To her surprise, Harkon did not punish her, but rather laughed belittlingly; his laugh echoed across the space, and rang long after in the ears of the hunter.

“Not quite–though I can see how someone like you might come to that conclusion. No. We are the clan Volkihar, among the oldest and most powerful families in all of Skyrim, and perhaps, the entirety of Tamriel. Noble hunter, but we have not hurt a soul–all of this cattle, this livestock, it comes to us. No, we used to live in peace and prosperity, and in this hall, every day was an endless feast," he gloated, “but those days came to a bitter end when my wife–or perhaps, I should say ‘dready old hag’ –betrayed me and took away what I treasured the most.”

Nemiet wasn’t sure whether the treasure he referred to was his daughter or the scroll. That alone troubled her.

“Lovely story," she said, “but I did not come all this way to hear it.”

“Ha ha! That is true. You have done me a great service, and now, a daring deed must be rewarded. There is but one boon that is equal in value to the Elder Scroll and my daughter. I offer you my blood," he cried, and his hand lifted up and reached towards the ceiling. His court cheered around them like a pack of wild hounds, greedy and formidable. “Take it, and walk as a lion among the sheep. Men will tremble at your approach, and you may never fear death again!”

The calls around her grew louder. They spurred her, urged her, whistled out encouragement and shameless exclamations. She did not consider taking this deal for a fraction of a second, for she had already pledged her life to Stendarr and the Dawnguard; but she did pray for assistance, and apologized in silence for suddenly asking for so much. 

“I do not fear death," she responded at last. Her tongue felt fat and shapeless and her throat too tight to speak. “What if I decline this offer of yours?”

Harkon’s court fell into an unearthly silence. Then he spoke again, “then you, like all mortals, will be prey. I will spare you this once, but you shall forever be banished from these halls. Perhaps you still require some persuasion?”

Before Nemiet could even think of an answer, Harkon bent over and roared like a frenzied bear. His skin tore open, and large, fleshy wings separated from the muscles on his back. Within an eyeblink his true form was revealed to her; a deathly pale abomination, a vile puppet to sanguine hunger. He had fangs thick as a finger and from under his translucent skin each muscle could be seen. They trembled slightly as he stretched his shoulder blades. “Behold the power! This is the gift that I offer! Now, make your choice, and make it wisely.”

Even now, Nemiet stood still. Before him she felt like a defenseless fawn; fear had crept to her joints and rendered her immobile; her heart rate could have generated an entire thunderstorm. Outwardly, the young hunter let none of it show. She said simply, “I will not accept the curse you disguise as a gift.”

“So be it," said Harkon. He squinted his eyes and raised his claw-like hand. With a simple snap of fingers, he banished the Redguard and she vanished from sight. Serana looked in anguish, but kept it well inside, holding her ground in the shadows. At the very least, her father had preserved her life. With that as her consolation, albeit thin and feeble, she withdrew to her room, closed the heavy oak door in her wake and slid faintly on the ground. Back against the door, she glanced upon the rubble of a room that had used to be hers, buried under the years and stone-dust. The vampire realized then that she had no one, or nothing, having awaited her here; and in this solitude, she longed for many things to be different.

In the meanwhile, Nemiet awoke outside, on the castle’s gray shore. Wind deluged over her, hurting as if she had been wrestling with a cave bear, pulse pounding maliciously against her skull. She had sand in places she would have rather not mentioned, and as she sat up, teeth grinding against one another, the world spun violently around her. The Redguard grinned, a hand finding her stiff neck, rubbing it gently to bring relief and ease the pain. 

She set sail as soon as she could properly move, and in doing so she took one last look at the castle. She was overcome by her failure; she had not faced her father’s disappointment for long, long years, so it struck her now harder than it should have. But the Elder Scroll–an artifact of immeasurable power–was now in the possession of a vampire lord, evil as a being so ancient could be, and she had given him the means to achieve it; there was no one, or nothing, that could have bore that blame if it was not for her.

And now, all that was left was to go back home, to report back to her father and watch his face turn pale before her.

Chapter 4: Of Bears and Lost Civilizations

Notes:

A new chapter is out! Sorry it's obnoxiously long again, I like to yap. A lot.

I am surprisingly proud of this chapter (especially the beginning of it) so it feels great to be posting again. For now, special characterizations like italics have been disabled, because my phone is awful and does not work properly. Oh, and yes, Isran and Nemiet have a last name now because why the Hell not. Hope you can dig it anyway!

Edit: Italics added, skin moistured, etc. etc.

The events of Dimhollow had left Nemiet a haunted woman. There was a strange restlessness in her chest–between her father’s anger and the visage of Serana, an obtrusive feeling she could not shake. Many a day she felt the urge to pick up a piece of charcoal and draw–a hobby she had not indulged in since she was a child–to try and recreate the memory of her, to get it out of her mind and system. But even she was too proud for that. Instead, the Redguard went to the training grounds and let the training dummy taste this newfound frustration of hers, where the precision of her blade spoke for itself. There she stayed until the dusk had bled over the valley and the stars had come into sight in its ulcers, sightless blinking in the shallow graves of the midnight sky. At the first light, when Nemiet could not sleep, she would go for a run around the lake, unable to ease her pace until her legs would beg and begin to cave in from under her. She would then sit on a newly revealed patch of green beside the track, staring out to the lake and seeking solace in the soft murmur of the deep blue waves. It was the one place she wished not to leave. But no matter how she beat herself till numb, the lengths she ran to forget, that which had happened refused to leave her. It was the ghost at the corner of her vision, the sinking feeling in her gut–the expectancy, the waiting, but never knowing what.

Then came the day Isran had decided to send out her and the Nord. Nemiet hadn’t put up a fight, hadn’t asked him to reconsider, only stood there in silence and duteously agreed. But the absence of defiance did not mean the absence of hurt, nor disappointment. It did not change the way Isran’s gaze had spoken to Agmaer, telling him to watch over her, to keep her from causing trouble. That, to a woman of her caliber, if not to any woman, had been pure humiliation. That she could not forget, nor forgive.

The Redguard was lost in thought as they trod along the road. Her mind spared her none. She blamed herself, wallowed in self-pity, well knowing there was not a single thing she could have done to fix what had gone down. All they could now do was to look into the future and work towards the end of war on their own–it was a slight sliver of hope, thinner than a crescent on a night towards the new moon–but as long as it remained, there were hearts brave and willing to go through the toil, hers among them.

Nemiet watched as the Nord’s back swung from one side to another along with his mount’s movements. They called her Hel–a large pale mare with a pair of eerily blue eyes and a disinterested, apathetic character. She had never seen the horse do much other than stand still on the paddock, thinking she might have been depressed, or outright wrong in the head, but what the Redguard believed mattered only a little. She was a decent animal, sturdy and even-tempered, faring well with its rider–though the uneasiness it brought she could not to this day explain. 

Every now and then, Agmaer would turn around in the saddle and check if she was still there. The Redguard would respond with a quick, rushed smile. The silence was preferable to her.

With divided attention Nemiet toyed with the collar of her armor, caressing the worn fabric with her fingers. Her mouth was dry and sensitive and her thoughts lingered on her father’s orders. To recruit some of his former companions was as foolproof as a mission could get. In a way they were lucky that the popularity of the Dawnguard was not well spoken of; they were able to travel discreetly and were deprived of suspicion. Hunters of the daedra were nonetheless respected, lion-hearted men and women that the people of Skyrim both feared and adored, the common folk anyway. Still, she felt restless being on the road again. The Redguard had not left the fort grounds after the disaster of Dimhollow. She hadn’t dared, not until the command had come from above. This guilt and uncertainty drove her forward, roused her to succeed–but there was a line where inspiration molted into anxiety, and it she had far crossed.

Agmaer then pulled the reins, and the going of his steed slowed until the horses stepped shoulder to shoulder. “Mind trotting out the folks we’re after again?” 

Nemiet gave him a quick glance. “If this is a test…”

He cried. “It ain’t! I’ve shit memory, swear on me ma’s grave.” 

The Redguard clutched the reins as her mare dipped her head. The steady pace of the mealy bay made it easy to forget she was on horseback. Skadi was an old war-horse, gifted to Nemiet in her childhood by Isran and his associate and a retired Legionnaire. She was not supposed to stay with her for long, only until the hunter had learnt the basics of horse riding, but she had simply been disinterested in the other, younger and better animals, and so Skadi had come to stay with her. “A Nord named Gunmar, and the Breton Sorine Jurard," she responded. “Gunmar–according to Isran–is a hunter, and something of a beastmaster, trolls in specific. Works the forge too. He was last seen near Morthal, so that will be our best lead.”

“And the Breton?”

At this point, Nemiet suspected that Agmaer had only sought out conversation. She hung low her head and huffed, trying not to tire herself thinking. “Someone smart, that much I know. Isran reckoned we could use that head of hers. Gotta admit, we are many things, but far from the brightest sort–we need all the help we can get.”

“That’s fair," responded the Nord.

They were now nearing the town of Morthal. The bog they trod upon was so desolate that when Nemiet tried to trace back in time she couldn’t remember a time she had seen any sign of human intelligence. Air was still but dreadful, and the only continuous sound was the clack of hooves against the cobbled path. A bird-screech would sometimes pierce the air, and the distant buzz of insects faded in and out of their consciousness. Mist arose from the silvery pools, enclosing them in a soft, dream-like cloak; it was hard to see much further at times. Along the edges of the road grew an endless supply of violet deathbells–their color reminded the Redguard of a fresh bruise, or the sky anticipating a first lightning. The surrounding trees were wee and paltry, trunks growing crooked and abscessed from the cold wet earth. Only the tall, spiky cordgrass appeared to thrive there.

“You know the story of how Morthal was named?” Agmaer’s voice was almost muffled out by the hoofsteps.

“No," replied the Redguard truthfully. She was no historian, that she knew. Her father had been strict about her training, and old stories and legends could not have been further from the curriculum. Nemiet was far from dumb–a little short on fables, perhaps–but her wits were sharp and she had a brilliant mind, even if she could get stubborn as a filly. There was an entire bestiary ingrained into her brain, for even Isran knew knowing your enemy was one of your greatest assets–she knew the right chants to properly sanctify a blade and could recognize most subtypes of the vampire from the facely modifications alone–but old myths she needed not. “Suppose you do, since you brought it up.”

“Folk say it was named after Morihaus. You know, the ancient Atmoran Bull-hero? They say he was the lover of Saint Alessia herself," the Nord explained, voice tainted by surprise. “Thought you knew.”

“Sorry to disappoint,"  she said, disgruntled. Agmaer felt awkward in response, for the conversation had not proved very fruitful. Unbeknownst to him, a lot of his fascination with her lay in his respect towards her father; but of course, he did not catch such nuances. 

The Nord cleared his throat. He felt a pit in his stomach, weighing him down with embarrassment. “Couldn’t have known. You don’t say much of yer childhood.”

Grief stirred in Nemiet’s stomach as she swallowed against the lump in her throat. The repressed memories of her childhood barely got under her skin as much as they had used to. She was more numb and indifferent than anything else, almost as if it had happened to someone other than her, having merely stood watch. The Redguard had already mislaid time in the shattered wreck of her mind and lain beaten, grieving over enough could haves and what ifs to know that none of it would ever change. “Got nothing to say. You know my father. Killed my first vampire at six, started my training fully a bit less than a dozen years from being weaned. Soon after Isran ordered the burning of books that weren’t useful. Said they were a waste of time. So no, I never had much of a childhood, and no, don’t need no consolation either. That’s just the way it is.”

“By the Divines," responded Agmaer. “That’s rough.”

Nemiet straightened her form in the saddle and sought out any pitying words to destroy them. “No use whining. Need you to focus on the mission instead of me.”

After a while, Agmaer spoke one last time. “He cares for you. He just don’t know how.”

The Redguard fought back a scoff, a familiar prick burning by the corner of her eye, a suffocating sensation at her throat. She wiped her cheeks discreetly and cursed to Oblivion her own sentimentality.

They rode into the small, secluded settlement residing on the foot of the mountain. A single street winded through the village, its terraces and little gardens buried under a thin layer of ice. The houses were modest and compact, built of log and straw, made to endure the freezing grasp of winter. Even the fort sometimes became an ice cube, so Nemiet could only wonder how hardy the folk of Hjaalmarch truly were. The cold disposed of most smells, but the faint scent of timber came from the nearby mill. Smoke rose from the chimneys, hovering above the inlet.  It was still early, and the residents were mostly absent, at home or working the faculty. At a hour like this, Morthal could have easily went for a ghost town.

It was time they found a tavern.

The Moorside was a large wooden farmhouse that had been repurposed into an inn. Before the stairs at the entrance was a signpost, swaying gently in the wind. It was hand-painted, mounting both the tavern’s name and the kingdom crest of Sentinel of Hammerfell, even if neither of the travelers could immediately recognize it.

The bright chime of a bell welcomed them in. Nemiet knocked the snow off her boots, but Agmaer strided right across and up to the front counter. The place was empty if not for a Redguard–undoubtedly the innkeeper, standing behind the desk–and an Orc in her company. Being older, the corners of the woman’s mouth wrinkled up when she smiled at the newcomers. Nemiet thought she was beautiful. She gave her a courteous smile, and then took notice of the bard, having figured his profession from the red and yellow lute lying by his feet.

“At last! Someone comes in! Kick off yer boots and stay awhile," said the innkeeper, “was getting tired of old Lurbuk anyway.”

“Well met," responded Nemiet. The warmth of the fire reeled her in, luring her to sit down by its crackling hearth. The entire room bathed in its golden glow, and fatigue crept to her joints by the intimacy of it. She walked to the front in Agmaer’s wake, slower to bask longer in the heat. “We’re in search of someone. Could use whatever it is you might know about him.”

“Polite, this one, eh, Jonna?” The Orc’s grin was broad and genuine, and from amidst his lips two large fangs protruded. He sat on the verge of the fire, a bottle of mead in his hand–travelers in Morthal were on the low, and most of its citizens had nothing to do but wait for gold to come to them. How folk still preferred to live here, that Nemiet did not know.

“Come on! You look weary enough. You can spare a moment, can you not? I’ll fetch ye’ a drink, and then we can talk," spoke the Redguard Jonna with a thick accent once she dived in to do some digging under the counter. Frantic clatter and rattle lasted for several seconds. “These days, all I have is time.”

Nemiet gave her companion a discreet shrug. She then sighed, hand rising to her neck and seeking out the spot aching the most, giving it a gentle rub. The Redguard was tensed up from the long ride, and accepted the offer hesitantly yet relieved, for the time was naught but unforgiving.

“Now, tell me: why’re you here?” The innkeeper brought them a mead each–Nemiet sat by the surround of the firebox, took the bottle with a gratuitous smile. It was frosty, so she could only assume it had shortly been lying in the snow at the back. “Must be ‘one Hell of a man, come all this way in search of him.”

“Sure hope so. Need his help pretty badly," began Agmaer, “a Nord like myself. They call him Gunmar. You can’t have missed ‘im–it must be easy to remember a face, for a business this dry.”

Nemiet gave him a short, resentful glance, but the Nord failed to notice his own gaffe. 

“We’ve our own leads, according to which was last seen near Morthal. This is the only accommodation in days, and days worth of travel. If what we’ve heard is true, he must have surely come through here," added the Redguard. 

“Gunmar…”

Jonna paused for a moment. She rubbed her jaw with her fingers, a dark brow tensing briefly before relaxing again.

“Ah! Yes. Gunmar. A big brute, but decently behaved. Came by around a week ago to eat–barely enough grain in the house to keep the man fed," she recalled with a gleeful laugh. Nemiet felt relieved at her words. “Think he went huntin’. There’s a bear, old and mean, been plowing the town for weeks now. Folk’re growing restless, with the house burnt down and all…”

“Great! That’s all we need," interrupted Agmaer. Nemiet laid her drink next to her. It clanked against the stone. She now felt slow and sluggish, and those were privileges she knew they could not afford.

“Any idea where we might find him?” Nemiet wiped the corners of her mouth with the back of her hand, preparing to leave. If she was unwilling to leave now, Stendarr knew it would soon be impossible–so she rather forced herself to move now, than in another twenty. Just in case.

“There’s a shrine to Kynareth, just southwest of here. The cave he was searching for an’t far," said the innkeeper. She then gave the Orc a playful whack, which diverted his attention, “remember?”

“Aye," he declared with a small, pitying laugh. “The place is far into the mountains. Told him it wasn’t the wisest of decisions to go alone, but the bastard was determined. Should’ve seen the look on his face.”

“M-hm," added Jonna, “I’m glad somebody goes there, tries to find him. Me and Sir Sluggard here don’t have the guts.”

“Part of the trade," assured Nemiet. “We best be going. Sounds like there’ll be quite the trek ahead.”

The Redguard stretched her limbs and let them snap in the most pleasurable of ways. She then gave the innkeeper a couple of septims in compensation for both mead and the information–and slid in a little extra, in her benevolence.

“So long," said Jonna before they left. Nemiet missed the amicable creak of the floor long after.

As they left the town behind, the road quickly took them among fells older than men. From the cloud-imbued sky, through the thin gray veil some light infiltrated through. The mountain range remained before them, partially lost in the mist abiding by the slopes–it gave the land its recognizable spine, cragged tops reaching unswervingly to the heavens. Wind came down from the north, bit into their ears and noses and left their skin irritated from its teeth. Somewhere near a raven croaked. The horses blew out steam from their nostrils–Nemiet toyed with Skadi’s mane, wrapping the short and spunky hairs around her frozen fingers. Tiny icicles had formed on the mare’s beard. Her rider could not wait for the warmer weather–she could not wait for the lake to be clear and the grass to be green, to see the magic of being alive again. How eradicating a winter could get, only a northerner would truly know.

Gunmar’s camp was situated on the riverbed near the main road. He sat by the campfire, a flickering flame bringing enough light to his features for the travelers to see the signs of weariness; wild and unkempt red hair; eyes dark and sunken in sleep-deprivation; the marks that the cold had scratched across his skin, the frost on his beard and eyebrows. “Ay! You two," he began, gaze leaving the blaze, “mind yourself! A huge bear’s prowlin’ about. Been tracking it for a fuckin’ week.”

To the travelers, a beast on a strict diet of livestock was hardly the main concern. Agmaer dismounted, bringing the reins over Hel’s neck and holding them firmly in his grasp. 

“Gunmar? That you?” The younger Nord’s tone was hopeful. Gunmar nodded, for he was too upset to elaborate.

Nemiet was stalled by her doubt. She was worried that Gunmar might not be willing to listen, was it to be renounced it was Isran’s word they were delivering. The Redguard did not know the story behind their crumbled companionship, which was probably for the best–she might have refused to go, would she have known. Her hesitation caught on to Skadi who tossed her head in distress. “We were sent for you. Times are dark, matters are pressing. Your aid is needed on the battlefield.”

Despite Gunmar’s exhaustion, his attention was now drawn to Nemiet. His brow furrowed further. “Sent by who?”

Nemiet sighed. “Our commander. Taher, Isran.”

Gunmar’s mouth sharpened into a thin line as he averted his eyes. Memories of ash and fire flashed through the older Nord’s mind, memories he had hoped would hurt less by now. 

“Forgive me if I cannot imagine that man admitting to needing help," he spoke rushedly, “not from me, not from anybody.”

“It’s a shame I have to disappoint. You came all the way down ‘ere and all. But Taher’s too late. I wish nothing to do with him, or his plans," he added then. “Besides, it was he himself who assured me he could handle anything alone. Why should that have changed?”

“In case you haven’t noticed, we are fighting a war," explained Nemiet gravely. She slid off the saddle, body rolling against the worn furs and leather, before turning back to face the older Nord. “Already there are monsters–in our schools, courts, and palaces–ill, yes, yet nothing new. Something’s happened. A new threat draws near, a threat unlike anything that’s come before. I’ve been to their nest, seen it with my own eyes–they have an Elder Scroll.”

She then tended to her mount, letting the battle-hardened warrior have a moment to himself. Scratching Skadi’s neck, she wondered how the fur had gotten so matted again–her touch soothed the old warhorse, relaxed her stiff muscles.

“I would not jest," she said quietly, “or come all the way down here simply to mock you.”

Something stirred within Gunmar. First, it was anger, and then, a reluctant acceptance–his solemn expression melted from grief’s way.

“That changes things," he admitted dryly. Thoughts of his family–a wife and a son, a family much like Isran’s–passed through him not unlike a blade. The images of their deaths had never left him. “Damn it!”

Nemiet purposely left out how that what had happened was her fault. The guilt was great without a stranger’s hatred cast upon it. 

“Alright," said Gunmar then. His gaze traveled up to the Redguard, eyes dark with worry, face pale from the turn. “I will come with you. But I cannot leave what I have here–the townsfolk, they trust me to take care of their little problem. An’t a single soul in that village brave enough to do something about it. That makes me their only hope. Once it is taken care of, then perhaps I will go see Isran. That bastard...”

Nemiet nodded in agreement. She could not expect more of him.

Awakened from his thoughts, Agmaer spoke up. “Maybe, we could help yer with the bear? Be a lot quicker.”

The older hunter hesitated. It was uncertain whether it was in doubt of their proficiency, or if it was simply a matter of pride–it was of no importance, for he did agree to the plan.

They left their horses by the camp, and headed up the steep hillside. The path they chose was not a path at all, more like a patch of stomped, yellowed snow scattered about the ascend. With only a few pines strewn about, the snowy heights were bald, windswept. Snow bent down the few scanty branches. The hour was growing late, drowning out the light in shades of blues and violets, burying the travelers under a milky twilight. Far into the horizon, Masser, the red giant, took reign over the sky as the sun was slowly set aside. Nemiet’s toes became numb from the cold, made it difficult to walk. She tried to crinkle them to preserve what little warmth was left, but it was in vain.

“You’re Isran’s daughter, then.”

Those were the words that broke the silence. It was more of a statement than a question, and Nemiet felt immense uneasiness over it–an unexplainable shadow cast over her.

“In good and bad, I suppose," she responded, “they call me Nemiet.”

“And what are you then?” Gunmar’s question was light. He gave the younger Nord a weary smile. Agmaer was no warrior–he was a farmhand by long lineage. Nemiet could still remember the day he had come to the fort, asked to do his part with the earnest fire of servitude, innocent and blindsighted. She had never understood why one would willingly choose this life, but his devotion to her father had kept him in duty thus far–she gave it to him he had fared surprisingly well, even aside all the boot-licking.

“I’m ‘er lackey," answered Agmaer, and his voice held a hint of sarcasm to it.

The older Nord laughed with a rasp, and the sincerity of it made Nemiet crack a smile, too. 

“Okay, lads," murmured he then, “the cave’s up ahead.”

The cave was active, with a small stream gurgling out of its mouth; from there it dipped down the slope, licking clean the channel from snow. The sound of the water gleefully rolled throughout the inclines and brought calm to the older hunter’s nerves. He knew very well the risk that came with courting a cave bear, and how erratic an animal became once you threatened it–in his good heart he hoped he had not wrongly endangered the youth. 

Gunmar was the first one to enter. He was the only one with expertise on hunting proper game, and felt responsible for the other two. They followed dutifully in his wake, blotting out some of his concerns. The passage was as any, dank and musty, and they had to bend their knees to not bump their heads into the lowly ceiling. Nemiet held her crossbow ready. Its reflective parts cast lights on the cave walls that danced like the aurorae. 

It was surprisingly bright inside the void. There was a hole in the ceiling, and from it a thin strip of light could enter. From behind its soft, abiding glow it was hard to see. In its beam, specks of calcite glistened, and from the earth arose roots, meager and lowly, but roots all the same. A narrow yet swift stream cut through the cave floor, splitting it in two sharply like a knife–in this water, they stood ankles deep.

The bear was in the midst of a feast. Before the back wall, it lay still, gnawing contentedly on the leg of a corpse. Judging by the state of decomposition, it had been dead awhile. Nemiet suspected then that the person had died on their own, and the beast had only now gotten to the scraps–perhaps the weather had warmed enough for the smell to be exempt. Dull teeth pulled loose pale strips of flesh. The animal’s face was black, darkened from the old blood pasting together its fur–the lifeless corpse moved gruesomely, almost like a puppet on a string. 

The Redguard didn’t know much about bear-hunting, but she did know enough to aim for the lungs. Swiftly she got on one knee, steadying her posture and pulling the trigger. The bow became loose, bolt splitting through the air and delving into its thick hide.

The bear then lifted its massive head, and a deep grumble arose from its throat. In just one bite, it could have easily fit Nemiet’s entire head in its mouth–she was certain it would have preferred that course of events to this. Slowly and through hardship, the heavy beast gathered itself and took a couple staggering steps towards the hunters. Then, with its jaws hanging wide open, air escaped its lungs in one forceful huff. Moments before it fell, wisdom gleamed in its dark wet eyes as they met the Redguard’s gaze. The ground beneath it shook. Naught but a heavy silence was left behind the settling dust.

Nemiet couldn’t stomach looking at it again. Even if its death had been unavoidable, it still broke her heart. Sometimes, grief unhealed was just that; it still came to you at times, only in different clothes. 

Agmaer and Gunmar rejoiced. Their roars of victory filled the cave. The older Nord was generous with his praises–his joy made Nemiet smile smally, too.

“Don’t know how well I would have managed alone. For this, you have my gratitude," said Gunmar. The cloudy look of his eye had dissipated, and he appeared delighted, if not for a little tired. The bags under his eyes could finally catch some well-deserved rest. “Alright, I’ll come with you, where-ever it is you need to go.”

“Thank you," replied Nemiet silently. She too was growing weary. “We should head out first thing in the morning. Better get some rest before that.”

“Aye," said Gunmar, “let’s get off this mountain. I’m so tired I just might roll down the hill instead of walkin’.”

They then left and made it down the mountainside. Nemiet listened with half an ear to the babble between the two Nords. From finding Sorine to the reformation of the Dawnguard, everything was thoroughly digested. Upon hearing our plans to get to the Breton in the morrow, Gunmar’s smile spread from one eye to another. In friendships, both old and new, lay a specific kind of rare, unfeigned beauty–the Redguard found solace in this bliss.

Once back in camp, Agmaer immediately left to find something to feed the fire with. It was no easy task, given everything was either wet or buried under snow, and once the Nord got back he had only gathered a few flimsy twigs.  While the men worked on the fire, Nemiet tended to the horses and made sure they were comfortable for the night. She preferred their company, anyway; it was unapologetic, comforting. Even Hel stood calmly in place when she loosened her girth. Against the darkness, the mare’s white figure was as beautiful as it was haunting. 

It was only fair for her to suggest Gunmar should sleep first–they were much younger, while he was severely deprived of it. Nemiet then told Agmaer he could likewise go and rest, but he insisted on staying awake. She agreed, albeit hesitantly. In the wake of the decision the Redguard hoped she could make amends with him, from scratch rebuild their dilapidated friendship. She felt she owed him that much. Besides, she did miss the time they had been better at being friends–it was now awkward at best, painful at worst, a constant reminder of what she could not get right.

Gunmar was fast asleep. Aside from his snores and the occasional sounds of wildlife, the night was quiet. Nemiet watched the embers fly and further disappear into the abyss surrounding them. Like every night, she prayed to Stendarr, and tonight added a request to steer clear of wild beasts. Upon her cheekbones the golden glow gleamed, bringing a friendly warmth to her ice-bound bones. Here and there, she reached out to stir the cinders with a twig, forcing a peal out of the firebed.

Agmaer’s attempts to strike a conversation merely frenzied the guilt inside of Nemiet. Bile rose to her throat, a scorching feel stuck to the back of it. Her breaths soon became heavy along her thoughts.

“You’ve been quiet," he began, an arm resting over his knee. “Something the matter?” 

“None’s wrong," she lied, and said not a word after.

“I– look . Now I know the timing’s off with… well, everything , that’s been going on. But when you do this, pretend I don’t exist, and go on to disappear far into that head of yours–frankly, it worries me," the Nord’s voice overflowed with hurt. With every word, the blade of insufficiency cut deeper to her stomach.  “Why won’t you talk to me?”

“You’re right," responded Nemiet morosely, “now’s hardly the time.”

“There never is with you, right?” Glancing at him up and down, the Redguard thought she’d throw up from the agitation that churned inside of her. She clenched together her teeth and balled her hands into fists–this was merely to prevent herself from crying from the irritation. “I’m patient and all, but you’ve become a stranger! You barely talk. If I’ve done something-”

“Agmaer, stop," she demanded gently at first.

“No, no, really! Anything at all. I, uh, thought you fancied me the way I do you… Until recently I could have sworn-”

“Stop!” Her exclamation surprised the blonde. His gaze now moved up to hers, and he fell speechless from the sudden command.

There was a moment of silence before the Redguard could speak again. In that moment, she knew no other way than to be true to herself, voice dripping of anguish. “Agmaer… you’re my friend, a reliable companion. I would trust you with my life. But that’s all there is to it. Companionship . That is all I can give you.”

To this he did not respond. Feeling embarrassed beyond belief, Agmaer silently licked clean these newly acquired wounds. He left the campfire soon after, not to be seen before the dawn would break. Alone Nemiet watched how the moons of Nirn slowly inched their way across the endless night sky. Stars flickered softly above her–they were scattered about like sugar on a dark cloth. Over her the wind flowed, it howled like a wolf beneath the shrubs and spewed out the powdered snow. It was far from a gentle breeze–springtime sure was farther here in the north. 

Once Gunmar awoke, her relief was immeasurable. 

With a troubled mind Nemiet crawled into her bedroll, listening to the crackling fire and the owl-song that came from afar. This lullaby put her to sleep, though hauntingly empty of dreams.

By next midday, they were well into the vast wilderness of the Reach. 

The highlands were of crude beauty. Almost nothing grew there, yet unlike the mountain there was no snow upon the hill-tops, only the brown earth gasping desperately for air. In a month or so, it would blossom in the reds and yellows of sunsets and fresh vegetables, once more reminding them of the many connections of nature–but for now, only junipers and dry thickets grew here. Where the ground took a dip amidst the heights, dark pools of water dwelled in the moor-beds. Mist had fully devoured the distant mountains. The sky was gray, and the wind ran remorselessly over them, ruffling the horses’ manes and the short dead grass. 

A tension lingered between Agmaer and Nemiet. Gunmar could sense it, she was certain–his attempts to spark conversation were persistent, albeit fruitless.

“You folks better wish we don’t run into the Forsworn," said Gunmar.

Indeed, the Redguard had heard stories about the many dangers of the Reach, about the savage natives that plowed the hagraven and slaughtered civilians like sacrificial sheep. Still, she could not help sympathizing with the Reachmen–one of the very reasons she was not too fond of grand tales of the past was their shortsightedness. The Nords had ravaged these nooks and crannies all the same, in the havoc killed and raided and reveled. She had seen her fair share of prejudice, and Skyrim was in abstract a nursery to all sorts of hatred. How an ire so strong milled inside some, this the Redguard did not know.

Gunmar knew this about his friend: she would not stray far from the river. Roving off the main road, they followed along a dried out channel which would again one day hold a vigorous stream. The soft riverbed now muffled out the clack of hooves. It wound up higher among the hillocks–from atop of them you could have seen the city of Markarth. And much to their wonder, on the eastern bank they found Sorine–far from discreet, the Breton spoke fervently to herself.

It was an outpost of sorts, to an outsider a seemingly random assortment of stone and metal. The carvings upon it were old and weathered, simple spirals and a notched lower margin. Before it was a strange mechanism. It was small, and distinctively Dwemer in origin. The woman by it wore scuffed leather, a chunky fur cloak resting upon her shoulders. Freckles adorned her cheeks, red from the cold. Wind caught her hair, disheveling it. Nemiet could immediately tell she was no hunter–she simply lacked the feel.

“You haven’t seen a sack full of Dwarven gyros lying around, have you?” Sorine’s question was sudden, and she lacked interest in their arrival. Her attention was scattered about. “I swear I left it right here–do you think the animals might have gotten to it? A mudcrab? I saw one the other day… agh! Just, look around , will you?”

Without a word, Agmaer departed the company. He went down the knoll and onto the waterbed, searching for her belongings.

“Sorine, right?” Nemiet’s question was cautious. “We were told to find you, Agmaer and I.”

“You are a fat disturbance," said the Breton. Before she could finish her sentence, Sorine lifted up her face and saw Gunmar with the Redguard. The crease above her brow softened. “Gunmar?”

“In the flesh!” The older Nord smiled into his beard. He then hugged the much smaller woman with the might of a bear. 

But seeing him baffled her further. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Isran’s out to get us, I’m afeared," replied Gunmar. “These lads helped me, so I oughta help them too.”

“Isran?” Sorine rubbed her temple with a dirty hand, smearing some oil on her brow. Her expression became troubled, the corners of her mouth curling upwards into a pained grimace. “You must be mistaken. Isran made it exceedingly clear the last time we spoke he had no interest in what I had to offer. Tactics, military counseling, those he wished to discard. And the way he said it! I…”

Nemiet cast her an understanding look. 

“I am delighted to see you, Gunmar, you know that I am. But I am quite content with my current pursuits–and I will not abandon my life’s work for–for that man ," explained the Breton with a distressed voice. Then the sun came out and she had to shield her vision. Through the slits of her eyes she could truly see the despair of the Redguard. Sorine was not known for tact, far from it, actually–but even she was quick to pick up on it, and quickly felt sorry.

“Alright," said Nemiet, lifting her arms in the air as a sign of surrender. “If it's the blame you’re expecting, you’ll have none from me.”

“You are needed," Gunmar then pitched in. “Think you’ll reconsider after hearing what she’s got to say.”

“Things are looking pretty bad," admitted Nemiet, “you look like someone who knows their artifacts. Ever heard of an Elder Scroll? Wish I could tell you we had one–but no. The enemy, however…”

“What?” Sorine’s face was drained of color. “Some vampire has an Elder Scroll? Then why have you not gone and got it? This is insane! I-”

“Much worse than that," worried the Redguard, “its located on a remote island, closely guarded by at least two dozen of them. They’re no ordinary vampires. Older than any I’ve seen–and much more ambitious.”

The Breton’s forehead crinkled as she thought. “Never thought I’d hear that. How intriguing… not sure what they would do with the scroll and this ambition, but I think for once Isran’s right to worry.”

Nemiet crossed her arms over her chest and shrugged smally. “So?”

“Fine. You’ve caught my interest. Suppose it wouldn’t hurt to see what this is all about…”

Sorine glanced around then, swinging her arm through the air. “Still, I cannot leave ‘fore I finish. I’ll spare you the details, but my work’s important–no, it’s irreplaceable, for scholars alike. So either I need my satchel back, or I need another gyro. You don’t happen to have one on you, do you?”

Nemiet shook her head. The Breton put her hands to her hips and huffed. 

“I should go and see Agmaer, see if he needs anything," the Redguard added. She was desperate to mend things between them, having decided she had too many a worry to be receiving one more. “Think you two have some catching up to do.”

Nemiet left their company, and in her wake a conversation could be heard. She smiled lightly before skipping down the mound, looking out over the channel and seeing the Nord hunched over and digging around in the mud. He used a hefty stick to examine the ground where there was a lump. He then jerked up in visible excitement–this suddenness made Nemiet wince. The satchel was in his hand. It was caked in mire, but from within a single gyro protruded. 

“Ey! Sorine! Got your gyro!” Agmaer’s face was flushed red from zeal. He then trod past Nemiet like she was nothing at all, wiping clean the bag with his hand. 

“Good work, son," Gunmar smirked and grabbed the satchel from its holder. He then took it back to Sorine, “there you have it.”

Agmaer swept his hands across his gambeson. He granted the Redguard not a single look.

Mirthfully, Sorine clapped together her hands. Her enthusiasm was contagious, an abrupt change to the earnest woman. 

“Might fly off over your heads, but this dinky little widget will help me on my road to greatness," she explained excitedly, “now, where are we headed?”

“Fort Dawnguard," said Nemiet, “familiar with the place?”

“Ah, yes. Taher’s been busy with his little hideout, has he? Should prove intriguing,"  Sorine said, “give me a moment to assemble. Shouldn’t be long now.”

The Breton disappeared far into thought. Gunmar nudged Nemiet lightly. “Forgot to introduce yourself.”

The Redguard cleared her throat. “My name’s Nemiet. Isran's my father.”

“Figured as much," replied the Breton, with her back pointed towards them, “got the same poise in the eye.”

“Maybe," answered Nemiet, but she did not know whether the stinging heat behind her tongue was the coming of a laugh, or a cry. The taste was bitter and mean, but she could not recognize it–in her mouth, a new discomfort took shape.

When they began their return journey, time quickly escaped them. Days washed over them like sand on a desert, draining into nothing before their eyes. Southward bound, their surroundings shifted from misty moors to evergreen forests to the great plains of the Whiterun hold. Outside the bustling trading town, they slept in a brewery, figuring the ones inside the city walls were fully booked anyway. The night Nemiet and Agmaer spent playing a card game with the traveling Khajiit merchants. In this merrymaking, a heavy load was lifted from the Redguard’s heart. Even the Nord appeared to be warming up to her again a little. 

Every time the sun would rise, they were bound to leave behind their current lodgings.

The convoy left the horses in Riften and made it through the short walk that led them to the mountain pass. It was hardly a pass, anyway, more like a narrow opening in the rockface where they could squeeze through. Nemiet was glad to see her home valley again; the mighty silhouette of the fort against the clouded sky; yellow dandelions by their feet; a distant yet pungent smell of pine and smoke. To her it was the scent of home. A gentle wind came from the west and caressed her skin–there atop the hill she felt indomitable, but she would soon stand beneath her father’s blistering gaze once more, and lose what little integrity she had left.

The walk led down the slope and offered them a view over the glacier. A roar like thunder sounded from afar, as the waterfall rolled into the lake. Long, yellowed grass bent under the breeze. Most of the memories Nemiet had were from here; from the trees of this valley, she had gotten her first sword, and from their branches she had fallen and gained many a bruise. She had seen the seasons of the dell change from her bedroom window, watched the birches go from a vivid green to a warm orange, only for the leaves to wilt away from winter’s way. But in each fall there was a promise of spring, and without its cold, unforgiving grasp she feared she could no longer quite appreciate the warmth of summer once it came upon them. The thought of it forever gave her the strength to push through the darkest of days. 

During their time away, the fort and its surroundings had undergone some alarming changes. Nemiet had been well aware of her father’s paranoia; she had seen him commit to nightly routines to keep away the evil, and heard him pray excessively for the safety of them all. But not once in her wildest dreams had she imagined he would try and make their home impenetrable; a new palisade had risen to separate the fort from the rest of the world–atop it stood Tilde, an older Nord woman, motioning for the guard to open the gate. Nemiet’s heart picked up the pace, pulse pricking painfully in her stomach. To an outsider like Gunmar or Sorine, these precautions seemed exaggerated and delusional, but to the Redguard the sight was simply terrifying. This worry she could not shake off her deadened limbs. 

Under the long shadow of the fort they came to a halt. The older Nord spoke again.

“You did well, getting us both to come ‘ere," he said. She felt the thinnest sliver of pride over that. Gunmar then added with a throaty laugh, “Even if it means putting up with this old hag again.”

Sorine gave him a glare, and punched him in the arm. “Like you could last that long.”

Nemiet smiled a little. Stranger or not, these two appeared to be decent people. She was already glad to have them around.

“No use stalling this, then," the Redguard said in response. She was terrified of having to face her father again. They had not parted on good terms, and knowing him, this had not changed on his end. Sometimes she wished they could again be more like father and daughter, not commander and pawn–this flaw only made them bitter, graceless. Forever just the one, never quite the other.

The foyer was dark, and the air that hit her across her face was cold, but it smelled like home.

With Sorine and Gumar each on her side she walked to the front. The room was circular, and from it many hallways branched into various directions. The walls, made of stone slabs, were covered in white banners; at the center of one stood the emblem of the Dawnguard. It was quiet if not for the water flowing faintly in their ears–it ran right below the metallic grid embedded in the cobblestone, around the slated criss cross on the floor. In this vast emptiness, even the knock of a boot on the stone sounded loud. 

Then Nemiet cast her gaze upward, and saw her father standing on the second-floor balcony, a strict expression frozen solid on his features. The older Redguard’s eyes pierced through hers. One thing suddenly became exceedingly clear–he was still angry with her.

“Speak of the devil!” Gunmar’s exclamation echoed across the hall. Despite the playfulness of his word, Nemiet could see he was defensive, on guard. “Long time, no see, pal.”

“Hold it right there," Isran grumbled, lifted up his arm and flicked his wrist. From her father’s whereabouts Nemiet’s attention flew up, climbing the walls until they were met with a circular device that resembled a large spying glass. She only had a second to prepare before they showered in a searing light that would have easily scorched them to dust, had they been vampires. The younger Redguard instinctively brought up an arm to shield her eyes, and even then they watered. In her chest, she felt disappointment towards her father’s distrust.

“What the… what is this?” Sorine’s voice got caught up in the shock. Her hand cast a shadow across her face, one that prevented her from going blind.

“A precaution. Don’t act shocked, like it was designed to kill you. A vampire, however… that’s a whole ‘nother story," his voice echoed across the chamber, gaining leverage from the hollow structure. The sunlight then faded and left them in the dark, more or less dazed.

“Welcome to Fort Dawnguard. I assume Nemiet here has thoroughly informed you of our current pursuits," Isran spoke calmly, clutching in his fists the metallic railing. “This threat is unlike anything we have ever seen before–and if that doesn’t sound compelling enough coming from me, then take the worst situation you can think of and multiply it by a billion. They have an Elder Scroll. This is no longer about us, and them–this is a matter of interstate politics, but of course, they don’t know a thing.” His jaw tightened, and Nemiet’s throat felt dry. “It is precisely why we need every man we can get.”

“I can see that," said Sorine, “but to make for an effective counter-attack, do we not need to know their plans? Where do we start?”

“All will be revealed to us in time. For the time being, go and get acquaintanced with the space," responded Isran. He gestured widely across the hall. Placid and calculating, the older Redguard was everything Nemiet yearned to be. “Sorine, there’s room for you to focus on weaponry, develop us a crossbow, or whatever it is that you think will help. Gunmar, there’s an area large enough for you to corral some trolls and get them armored up. You  will also find a work station, lest you wish to revert back to blacksmithery.”

“Agmaer, once again well done. You’re dismissed.” His gaze then settled over his daughter, eyes narrowing into thin lines. “You are not. You and I are going to figure out why a vampire keeps asking for you, claims that you helped it.”

Nemiet froze. His words were a cold whack across her face, enough to ruffle the hair on her neck and send a shower of chills down her spine. Questions unanswered flooded into her skull, but they became muffled as her heart began to thud loudly in her chest. The whooshing sound it made was deafening. Suddenly she felt like a kid again, amidst a world where she was nothing but weak and insufficient, a world that was made not for her. Clenching together her teeth, she lifted up her jaw and forced herself to stand adamantly still.

“Let’s go have a little chat with it, shall we?”

Chapter 5: Serana

Notes:

Sooooo sorry for the delay in updating this fic. I recently started my studies after four long years of absence, so there is a lot of catching up to do, which is why the chapters will be less frequent. I am still actively writing this where I can, so no worries if you are still reading! More is on the way, it will simply be slower. I thank you for the patience <3

The filament of Nemiet’s gambeson sunk its teeth on her bare stomach. Cold sweat formed on her forehead, trickling down and pooling at the small of her back–in this moment the Redguard felt disoriented, almost as if vertically inclined, with her arms hanging heavier than blocks of iron bound to her sides. Her reasoning grew tarry. There were questions that simply refused to leave her. Why would Serana have come here of all places? Why defy the wrath of the Order? Why the risk, that to her seemed both disproportionate and needless? That she did not understand, no matter how thoroughly she tried to see it through.

Worse yet, a new awareness had now made home in her, that the fort was indeed susceptible to an attack–then, sneakily like a thief, Isran’s every precaution began to perfectly make sense, and she took regret of the doubt she had earlier directed at her father.

He was waiting at the end of the stairwell. His expression was far from friendly, or even angry, but rather terrifying in its utter rigidity. Indeed, Nemiet feared him. She was unable to distinguish the terror between standing before a hungry bear and her own father, for she had been taught that the name of this fear was respect, and thus failed to question it, even when it came to her in unusual places. Her senses deceived her in what he truthfully was–a miserable old fool, bitter from a past he felt anxious to abandon, yet from which he could never flee. It had long since wrung him dry of emotion. But to Nemiet, he was a Saint, a General worth following into battle–and she forever would have.

He granted his daughter a single glare, narrowing his eyes before her name rolled off his tongue. “Nemiet.”

“Isran," responded Nemiet firmly. Her heart pounded like thunder against her ribs–it was a hollow and painful throb, one that squeezed cold sweat off her, a beading of drops to decorate her skin. This worry of hers, however, did not show to the external eye. She was good at containing it, keeping it safely at bay behind her tongue and below her jaw. 

“Come along, then.”

Not unlike a pitch-black body of water, the younger Redguard’s concerns tried to drown her. The waves rippled above, strong and oppressive. Each step felt long and disorderly, clattering emptily across the hall. Has this walk always been this long? Nemiet wondered. The times she had been to the interrogation chamber were probably nearer to a thousand, and this one should have proven no different–but today, she was nauseous with a raging fire climbing up her throat to tickle with violence the roof of her mouth. Never had she ever felt such dread, speaking not a word aloud as they trod around the balcony and into the darkness.

The chamber itself was far from spacious. Stocks and a rack stood across it. The floor was occupied, full of empty bottles of mead–their orange shafts shimmered softly in the dim light. Every surface was covered with dark stains, for there were occurrences even brute strength could not have scrubbed them off–in this line of work, blood scattered far and with ease. She thought that the bones–the femurs and the occasional cranium–were naught but a scare. Once Isran reached out to light up the rusted chandelier, the candles cast a dilatory glow over the grisly scene, as if to soften its hard, unkind truth. To whisper, do not worry; even here, the light follows.

A clank of metal could be heard. Then, Nemiet’s gaze flung to the wall, the bonds tied to the wall–the awkward, beaten down smirk of the woman she recognized in an instant.

“Hunting this one down proved to be a challenge. Prowled about the woods behind the fort for days–by the time we finally captured it, I was eager to cut its tongue, but then… among the mutters, your name, clear as day. It must be the one you found in Dimhollow," said Isran, voice low and coarse. “Says it’s got something for you.”

However conflicted Nemiet may have been–consumed, devoured, lost, and confused–the feelings of doubt faded like the mist from the way of a summer’s day once she saw her again.

A thin rivulet of red trickled down Serana’s sharp jaw. The vampire was excellent at keeping up appearances–her skin was on fire from the silver chasing against  her wrists, screaming loudly in her head to be released from this mindless torment. She had never felt more alone, secured soundly in an enemy garrison, with not a single soul out there that cared genuinely for her or her whereabouts; she knew the scroll surpassed her in value. Yet she smiled. Yet she refused to let her anguish to seep through. 

“And good day to you, Captain. Don’t worry–your men made me feel welcome," said she, secretly relieved over Nemiet’s arrival. At least she had previously shown some sort of decency towards her. 

“Leave us for a moment," pleaded the younger Redguard, gaze not straying from the vampire. Isran was hesitant, but withdrew from the room’s immediate presence, lingering instead by the doorway, narrowly out of the hearing range. 

“The look on your face says you didn’t expect to see me again," said Serana with a soft but raspy chuckle, as if something was stuck in her throat. “But I am seriously glad to see you.” 

“What are you doing here?” Nemiet’s hiss was low, so that her father could not hear. She leaned closer to the Nord, glancing anxiously back at the entrance, “you could have gotten yourself killed–did they torture you? What did they do?”

In this moment, she truly felt for the vampire. For one to seek aid from the hunter of her very kind  was an act of ultimate despair, one that Nemiet failed to understand. This could have easily been a trap, a trick to make her pitiable before she could strike, but the hunter doubted that. She could have easily betrayed her before, lest that was her will.

“All’s well," she lied, “might come as a surprise, but I’d rather not be here either. Seen burial grounds more welcoming. They usually don’t chain their dead to the walls,” her tone was quiet, imitating that of Nemiet’s, “but I had to see you.” The Redguard could not stifle a tenderness upon her heart when Serana spoke of this strange need. Why? Had she not done everything in her favor to harden herself? Had she not cast herself on stone?

The hunter spoke gruffly, through nothing but a smothered whisper, “me? Why?"

“Listen carefully, before your old man loses his patience," Serana’s attention traveled briefly to Isran, whose shadowy figure hovered menacingly over the backlight. Nemiet shifted from the discomfort, the tension that built the atmosphere between the three, even if one of them was barely present, before locking her eyes around the vampire again. “I have information, something that you will want to know. But I can not merely spit it out; I need to be made certain of my safety once it’s done. Your man over there? Him I would not trust, even if he came to me swearing on his bloody knees. But you? You’re proper enough–I’ve seen it. So promise me, and I will talk.”

The vampire’s white hot gaze burnt through Nemiet’s suspicion. She had risked everything to come to her, and it was time the hunter claimed back the reciprocal service. So she leant closer, so close that Serana could have easily lunged forward and bit her if she wanted to, and stared deep into her eyes, and this poise of hers reminded the Nord of a fierce lioness. “Promise.”

“Ah, okay," replied the vampire with an immense relief, head dipping low for a second. “It’s… it’s about me. And the Elder Scroll. Your father– they took it. ”

Against her will, Nemiet felt a sharp twinge of compassion upon her heart. Serana was a sad sight, dangling from the chains set high on the wall, with her pale wrists etched by rings of silver. A quick look at her hands revealed to many her condition–one could see the darkening of fingertips, not unlike a corpse found in the graveyard. Even if it fought against her logic, as well as every lesson she had ever been taught, the hunter could hardly bear to look at her suffering–she wished for nothing but to free her–but her father’s judgment was too heavy on her shoulders, and she knew for certain he would not approve of this goodwill. 

She then sought to ask, “what about you?” 

“I never told you the reason I was… well, where I was, when you found me. Or why I was buried with the scroll," began the vampire, “it’s a long story, but all ties lead back to my father. He is not exactly an exemplary citizen, is he? But I think you figured out as much. In truth, even most of our kind are repelled by him, and I can not blame them.”

Visions of Harkon’s grin–malignant as a tumor, writhing its long tentacles through one’s bloodstream–flashed through Nemiet’s mind. The mere thought was enough to bring back a taste of iron to her tongue. In the twinkling of an eye she could feel it all over again, the paralyzing fear, the stubbornness of heart. Against her ribcage, the throbbing increased, apprehensive. Her eyes blinked shut rapidly a couple times, as if to ward off the nightmare.

“There was a time afore he came to be the man you saw–I do realize this may come off as a helpless attempt to find a silver lining, but it is not. There was a turn, and it came to us like a bolt from the blue," added Serana solemnly, still struggling to speak with a clear voice, “one day, a strange vampire arrived at the fort. No one had seen her coming, and after she was gone there was no evidence of her. I still remember how the air changed… well, anyway. She told us about a miracle–a prophecy, foretold by the immemorial wisdom of the Elder Scrolls.”

Nemiet felt uncomfortable. There was a gnawing like an omen in her stomach. “What kind of prophecy are we talking about?”

“Pointless and vague, like all prophecies," she continued with a dismissive shrug, “but she said–she promised –he would no longer need to fear the sun. There was more to it, but it’s hardly important. A vampire that the sun does not incinerate? Him and his lot would become Gods. Although there would be no living man for him to torment, for without the sun, all life would cease.”

A sinking feeling came to Nemiet’s chest. 

“I didn’t believe it at first, but if this is something he can indeed achieve, then nothing will stop his ravages," said Serana sternly. “And he’s past listening to sense. He is my father, and I still love him, like I did all those years ago. That part of me will never die, I’m afraid. But even I do not wish for his will to become reality.”

Nemiet regained her distance. The chamber around her grew colder, larger and emptier as Serana’s words began to settle–it was as if time and space had begun to warp and distort, without sparing her from the effect. All air was punched out of her lungs by an invisible fist. With knees wobbling like raw honey, the young Redguard wished she could have grabbed the nigh corner of the table to support herself, but that would have exposed her dread, and that she could not allow, not in front of the vampire, nor her father. Breathe , she reminded herself through eyes squeezed shut, breathe . 

Once she finally opened them again, fingernails buried deep into her arms, she was pleased to find her heart rate calming again.

“My entombment was to forestall him from reaching the scroll. It was the only fail-safe way of thwarting him, you see," concluded Serana. “If my father were to succeed, the riots–and there would have been many–would’ve been the least of our problems. The threat of war did not appeal to my mother and I, so we did what we could to stop him.”

To that Nemiet chuckled awkwardly, having lost her composure for a minute, appearing now not only human before the vampire, but also stripped of her title. “Damn. I–what can I even say besides damn? That’s too bad?” Her smile was broad but deprived of joy. The Redguard felt like turning around and haring off to her room so that nobody could see how much of what Serana had said scared her. But she was a soldier, and displaying such weakness was out of the question, so she stood firmly in place and sighed. Dismissively, her arm swung through the air as she changed the subject to bury her nerves. “Took a hefty risk, coming here.” 

“I did," the vampire laughed, and her shackles rattled in their holds. Her eyes, the two hot embers, found Nemiet’s again–the Redguard found it strangely alluring. She felt a thickening in her pulse. “But something about you tells me I can trust you. Not to sound corny, but you have this radiance... I just hope my gut is right.”

“You cannot expect loyalty from your men if you do not first offer it," responded Nemiet dryly, fingers finding the sun sigil sitting on her chest. It felt hot to the touch, as if a blade brandished through lava had been pressed against her throat, and left to cool in the stillness of this air. “Mine is yours, but only ‘cause we now share a common goal–when this is over, once the threat has been eliminated, everything will go back to normal. Further immunity I cannot promise. Such is my obligation–I hope you understand.”

“Understood," replied Serana, albeit with a hint of disappointment. This intransigence she had not expected of the Redguard. A smile still lingered on her features, weak and devoid of hope, yet unyielding. “You should tell Isran about our truce–is it okay if I call it that? I want out of these shackles. I mean, fashion is my thing, but even I can’t make these work. They don’t go well with my eyes.”

Nemiet sighed. Her head sank a little as she gathered what little strength was still inside of her. Before she called over her father, she let her arms fall to her sides, let the tension of her shoulders trickle down her fingertips. It spilled like ashes upon the cracks of the floor. 

“Great. So you’ve heard what it had to say," said Isran with a voice so strung it sounded ripe for snapping. “Give me one good reason why I should not let its brains decorate the wall.”

“General," said Nemiet sternly, yet respectfully. She turned to her father and enjoyed the rare delicacy that was silencing him. Surprise glistened in his eye, soon to be replaced with anger and disbelief–but his daughter, his subordinate, took advantage of the situation, and broke through with a low voice. “Now is the time to weigh our options. We cannot kill her, not yet. She knows what the vampires are planning to do in order to win the war–or lordship over the damn continent. We need her. She is our advantage–our trump card.”

“Do not forget your training, Captain . You need not to let naivety cloud your judgment. Think of what happens if–and when –you fail. Think of the consequences. Remember our oath. Tread lightly, and death follows, " Isran’s citation was hoarse and grave like Nemiet had never heard before. Somehow, she still managed to remain adamant. “Choose wisely. You only get one shot.”

The younger Redguard fell silent. Reflecting on her father’s words, her back bowed into a curve. Torn between her father’s orders and the pity she now felt towards the vampire, she had never before struggled to make a decision like she now did. Was his desire to spill tainted blood in the name of Stendarr worth Serana’s life? Was a second chance something only to be granted upon a select few? Against this newly acquired defiance, Nemiet felt incompetent, obstinate even to the point of profanity. Every cell in her body begged her to oppose him. In the green of his eye, she could see her own weakness staring back at her; in the flare of his nostril, her hardiness. Even when they argued, she was a spitting image of him–his anger came where her grief went. 

It scared her to death, but the only monster larger than change was nothing changing at all. Perhaps Nemiet would have done differently if she had been given the time to incubate her decision, to truly taste and digest its aftermath–but in this moment, time was an unrelenting force. 

In the darkness, she saw a strip of light. A way out. A possibility to become something much more than what she was, the lure which became irresistible in her mind. With a voice stronger than before, she bid, “I am not asking you to trust her, I am asking you to trust me. Did you not raise me to be worthy of your dependance? Then collect the fruit of your work–have faith in me.”

Serana’s gaze shifted between Nemiet and her father. She felt a deep sense of gratitude, seeing how the frustration brewed within Isran. Like a storm, resentment tore through his patience, yet he stood powerless before his daughter. With a tightened jaw, through a set of teeth grating against one another he spoke, “it can live, for now. But if it so much as lays a finger on a single person in here, I will hold you responsible. I will make sure you will be appropriately punished. Understood?”

“Yes, General.”

“You hear me? You’re no guest. You’re a resource, an asset–and you should know better than to make me regret my sudden outburst of generosity," he then said to Serana, who to Nemiet’s surprise appeared not only unphased, but rather smug. She found her lack of fear fascinating. “As for the chains, it shall for now remain locked up. I’ll assign a guard for the night.”

“I shall remember your kindness the next time I feel hungry," rasped the vampire. Nemiet felt a hint of amusement in her stomach, but hid it well.

“No need," she responded determinedly from the vampire’s side, “she is under my surveillance.”

A hmph sound escaped his throat as his bushy brow dipped lower. “So be it.”

Serana did not waste a second sulking. Her attention transferred back to Nemiet, a grave expression once more on her face. She gestured vaguely towards Isran, and spoke plainly, “they took the scroll. I assume they will give it back to you, should you ask for it, and perhaps it is too valuable to travel with. But I do know that it contains the means of getting rid of my father–each prophecy has its counterpart, a force big enough to oppose it. That’s what we’re after. Unfortunately for us, though, I am nowhere near as intelligent as it demands–neither you, nor I, can read it.”

Nemiet listened with a serious frown. “Then who can?”

“There’s a group of people that can, clerics all. They are a part of the Order of the Ancestor Moth–call themselves the moth priests. I’ve heard they devote their entire being to the scrolls and depictions of them," said Serana, “but that is of no help. They all live in Cyrodiil, and unless a mass migration of moths has taken place somewhere along the years, there they will be now.”

Despite the vampire’s attempts to save the situation with playfulness, Nemiet’s shock weathered into defeat. 

“Some Imperial scholar arrived in Skyrim a fortnight ago," Isran broke his silence by clearing his throat, surprising his daughter by this sudden involvement. “His entourage passed by while I was staking out the road. Looked important.”

“Have any idea where he might be staying now?” Serana’s grim expression brightened like the sun, albeit only for a tick.

“No," replied Isran immediately. “I have no men to spare, and even if I did, I would not waste them on a whim. Unlike Nemiet here, I am fighting a war I intend to win. If you truly wish to find him, then go to Riften, talk to anyone who would meet a traveler; an innkeeper, or a carriage driver. But you’re on your own.”

Isran’s apathy left Nemiet speechless. Choked up from his inability to take action over something as grand as what Serana had described, she gazed open-mouthed at him, but his expression did not relent. The older Redguard barely believed a word that fell out of the vampire’s fanged mouth–to him, assurance came first. His daughter could not express a single concern before he went–she was unable to find the words to prevent him from leaving.

Serana shrugged as the hunter glanced over in distress. Only now could Nemiet contemplate how she felt by the vampire’s sudden appearance–confusion? Annoyance? Delight? Either way, she felt sorry for the woman that now bore resemblance to a wet sewer rat. If the decision had been hers to make, she would have by now been free–but the key to the lock lay not at the bottom of her pocket, and there was only so much she could do.

Awkwardly rubbing the back of her neck, Nemiet gestured vaguely at the chains. “I don’t usually apologize to captives, but…” she began, but quickly altered the course of her speech. “Now, if you were a priest with a weird connotation to nocturnal insects, where would you go?”

“Frankly, I’ve no idea," admitted the vampire. “I do know people need to eat and sleep, so maybe your father is half right. We should ask around the city. Could spare us from trouble. Or, it could hinder us. Guess that remains to be seen.”

“Okay," nodded Nemiet. As the suspense had begun to wear off, she suddenly felt drained to the core. Her limbs felt as if they were iron blocks, and a hammering ache throbbed by her temples–this palpating sensation spread rapidly along her joints, and she could feel it as well in her ankles as she could inside of her skull. A rising exhaustion loomed above the Redguard, threatening to bury her alive. It drove her to sigh. “It has to wait till morn. I should rest, but I did promise to keep an eye out for you, so I guess that’s just not happening. That’s okay. I can manage.”

“Tell me you aren’t going to lose sleep over this," protested Serana, with a genuine distress to her voice. “You need it. And look at me! Where would I go? What would I even do? I-”

“I would not lie to the General," responded Nemiet, shutting off any remaining arguments from the vampire. “If it were up to me, you would be free of those shackles. But it is not, and for now, this is how we’ll manage.”

Defeated, the vampire nodded. She was excused from Nemiet's company for a brief while, for the hunter left to tidy herself up. From the interrogation chamber she trod to her own bedroom. It was much like her father’s–similarly furnished and secluded from the others–only smaller in size. It was a modest room; a double bed with a hand-woven quilt and a fur blanket; a simple roughly cut wooden table; a tall, double-doored wardrobe. On the wall above the bed there was a pelt of a sabrecat, scuffed and bleached from the years of preservation. Between the door and her bed, a sturdy weapon rack occupied most of the space. Tonight, the room was dark and devoid of color–moonlight alone crept in from the two narrow windows, through which one could see to the training grounds. Nemiet did not bother setting off a candle, only glanced briefly at her own reflection through the black glass–the woman who stared back looked so ghastly she almost made her boggle. Skin pale from worry, the bags under her eyes were darker than the void. Barely a resemblance of a human , she thought with a grin.

She then sat wearily on the edge of her bed, burying her face in her hands. Alone in the big cold room, an intense feeling of smallness and insignificance crept upon her. This sensation grew until it became the shadow behind her form, and Nemiet found it in each obscure nook of the room, buried under the years of thick white dust. It became a whisper, and in a silence so profound, even a whisper became violent as a cry. 

Knowing that she still had to get washed up, she shed her cuirass and placed it neatly on the bed so she could put it back on tomorrow. Underneath, she had a linen gambeson, in an earthly grayish green color–it had become stained and snagged by the brown seams. She could have changed it to a new one, of course, but deep down, she was a sentimental woman–letting go of items, no matter how mundane, did not come to her easily.

The washing room was naught but a small, sequestered area with two wooden wash tubs. Not many soldiers used them–a notable portion were rugged men who preferred to bathe in the lake and claim the cold did them wonders. Tonight, the Redguard was grateful for the peace. Dirty laundry was laden upon tables, for the cleaning lady had not yet gotten to them, and most were too crass to take care of them themselves. Nemiet liked to help out where she could, but most of her time went into duty, so she could not do much. It was why the faint smell of mildew now made her sigh. 

The hunter filled the bathtub with buckets and again buckets of water from the tank, and when she was done her arms trembled from their weight. She then undressed, and beneath her gambeson revealed a body lined with old scars. Most of them had long paled, and were now light coppery stripes crossing her flanks and shoulder blades–the largest of them was a thick cut branching in two in her right arm, which was, ironically, not battleborn, and rather from a time she had helped her father strengthen the palisade, and a splinter had cut her. Usually, she found the story amusing, but today it was a scar among the others. She lowered herself in the water, seething in touch with her hot skin. The cold was enough to jolt any drowsiness out of her. Other than the feeling of cleanliness that came afterwards, bathing was a mirthless task, but Nemiet, being Nemiet, found bliss in the ordinariness of everyday things.

On her way back she passed by the dining hall, and under the sliver of golden light that reached the corridor she could hear a distant conversation between Agmaer and the newcomers. The Redguard remained still in the shadow, listening to the sounds of clattering silverware and gleeful chattery, a sharp sting of guilt pricking through her conscience. He laughed, and she wondered if she should have tried harder for him–to become his wife and to bear his children, but the more she thought about it the more it brought pain to her. Nemiet wished that one day the Nord too would overcome his coveting for Isran’s approval, and find the way to beatitude on his own terms.  He deserved a family of his own as much as any of them. Sometimes, she felt sick to remember the lives some of them had had to leave behind for the Order and its principles–rare were the moments she dreaded her own fate, the choices that were never hers to make. 

Nemiet then went back to the interrogation chamber. As expected, Serana was there, hanging off the wall and displaying signs of severe boredom. The Redguard did not know what to do with herself, so she said not a word, coming to a halt before the prisoner. She crossed her arms over her chest, and the vampire cast her a questioning glance. The hunter shrugged in return, shaking her head lightly as she thought of a valid enough reason to make conversation. At the night’s edge, the line separating them from one another became a blur, and in its mirk she sought the ardent burn that was the unknown.

“So," the hunter began carefully, “how are you holding up?”

“Pretty well," answered Serana surprisedly, rattling her chains, “but, as you can see, these aid with the ‘holding up’ part. Can’t take full credit for that.”

“Hm," said Nemiet, “you sure are brash.”

“You wouldn’t guess," smirked the vampire. Her smile was so pathetic it almost made Nemiet grin. 

The Redguard then strolled about a little, her posture straight and composed, calm, even. Her gaze swept the rusted tools and their bloodied edges. She then huffed before turning around, “well, since sleep is out of the question, we should try and make the loss of it worth our while. Tell me, what do you know about the Elder Scrolls? Anything goes.”

Serana flicked her wrist dismissively. “As much as anyone, I would guess, which is not a lot. Turns out you don’t have to know much about something before sleeping with it.” 

In some twisted way, Nemiet enjoyed her wittiness. She did not wish to let it show, however, so she stifled a smirk and cleared her throat. “Let us get well acquaintanced, then.”

“I will not object to that," the vampire grinned. Her eyes were gradually turning into golden discs, shimmering softly in the darkness. Serana would not have placed it, but her sight was excellent–even in this mirk, she could see each frown line on Nemiet’s face. She found her surprisingly pleasing to look at–and to her treat, grieved over the marks that fear had left in her. She knew them all too well. 

Serana’s silence troubled the hunter. She had stared at her for a while now, and it was making her feel uncomfortable. “What?”

“Nothing," murmured Serana, “nothing at all. Ask me another one.”

Nemiet’s gaze landed briefly on the ground. With a lump in her throat, she then asked, “what’s your story then? How did you become one of them?”

“There’s no me and them, there’s just us," said Serana. She was well able to hide the anguish in her voice–despite the passage of time, the memories of her past were quite livid in her mind. “And it’s a long story.” 

“Let me hear it," suggested the hunter. 

It surprised Serana all over again. She knew very well that Nemiet did not have to ask, or even pretend to care. This was in no way related to the mission, and she refused to believe her curiosity was an act of mere courtesy. The vampire briefly looked away, fighting a familiar scorch from rising behind her eyes, and then began with a feeble voice, “for that, we’d have to go back. Way back, to the origins of vampirism. How much do you know?”

“A little," said Nemiet, “the Order is far more versed in extermination than it is in descent. You bear a common father–the lord of lies, the harvester of souls. He has many names, does he not?”

“Guess so," said Serana, and dread stirred upon her still heart. “So the first vampire came from Molag Bal–but you know that. Then you must also know she was not a willing subject. Still… she was the first.”

Nemiet remained quiet. She knew very well the depths of Bal’s cruelty. 

“When it comes to me, well…” Serana’s voice came to a quick, abrupt end. She wiped the corner of her eye so discreetly the Redguard almost missed it– almost . The vampire’s throat burnt with a suppressed cry. “Nothing really changed since then.”

“Take it you were not willing," said Nemiet. It was a dangerous predicament to fall into, but she could not help the pity she felt towards the vampire–and in this light, did not even wish to. Her stance softened as she leaned into the wall behind her, mouth dry of words.

“What’s been done has been done. Nothing I could do to change it," Serana said aloofly. “Besides, not all is bad. When your body wilts and ages, mine remains young. I am over a thousand years old–yet I’m agile, more enduring than you could ever become. I know no fear, and no sickness comes to me. That, I wouldn’t trade.”

“Whatever makes you feel better," said Nemiet, albeit with a sadness she did not recognize. “You and your family were cultists, then?”

Regret came to her as she watched the vampire writhe in pain repressed for centuries. It was an ancient ache, a memory so distant she could barely grab the edges of it–whichever way she tried remembering it, it always came out wrong. What was left was shame, and a profound devastation. She swallowed dryly before speaking. 

“You know how it is. The worship of Bal runs on dominance, and the race for the best is beyond all cruelty. As for the ceremony itself… that I’d rather not revisit," she confessed. “But it was my life. An absolute, complete devotion. You should know.”

Nemiet felt something unfittingly angular inside of her ribs. She could not pity her, for she herself despised nothing more than feeling pitied–so the Redguard did what she knew best, and concentrated instead on the anger stinging at the base of her throat. She saw in Serana a gullible young woman who had once believed the auspicious picture her parents had painted for her–and who was without faith in her own father? Life, its heartbreaks and cycles of prosperity, she had traded to a world of shadow, and certainty. But worse than her empathy towards a stranger stung the way she related to this naive, unquestioning nature of loyalty–was there a love more fierce than that of a daughter? 

Nemiet slid defeatedly to the ground. She then held her knees to her forehead and breathed deeply into them. The vampire knew better than to push her, standing stirless and without a sound, not even from the shackles. When the hunter finally lifted her gaze, she let her chin rest atop her arms and vaguely shrugged. 

“Did you ever want to change things?” Her question was genuine, and Nemiet presented it without any guilt involved. “Escape that life?”

Serana was quiet for a moment. “Honestly? I don’t think that’s relevant," she responded rushedly, “but I’m past listening to judgment. From you, from anyone.”

Nemiet glanced over the ground and then gazed at her again. She did not prompt her to speak, but was pleased to hear her continue, nonetheless.

“The worst is what you see before you. We used to be a normal family–or, well, relatively normal. Now, my father is a tyrant, and my mother does not fall far off," explained she absently, “the aftermath is as it goes: daughter spends the rest of eternity entombed, never to stand in the way of any ludicrous plans again. End of story–except it wasn’t. Turns out he needed me after all.”

“I say, forget about them," said Nemiet carefully, “you can still decide for yourself.”

Serana did not speak.

“All’s well, I hope.”

The Redguard’s careful initiation was enough to stop the wandering of Serana’s gaze. She gave her captor a careful smile, with her fingers pressed over her brow above a headache that proved unwilling to cease, rubbing gently at her temple.

The vampire frowned and said then through surprise, “yeah. I think so.”

To that they both smiled smally, and it was rather pleasant. After a comfortable silence, as if to oppose all the other, inconvenient silences they had experienced that day, Serana spoke again, “you’re quite peculiar. To put it mildly.”

Nemiet’s face turned grave. “How so?”

“There’s no doubt you’ve been trained well–and life definitely has not been easy on you, that much even I can tell. Still… you have treated me with nothing but decency. If I had not uttered your name when they captured me in the woods the other day, my head would now be on a stake for the crows," chuckled the vampire. Her head cocked lightly to the side as she narrowed her eyes. “I find that curious.”

Nemiet found the edges of her mouth tug softly upwards. Her gaze strayed a little before she spoke, “guess the feeling is mutual.”

They did not speak again before the morning broke. And quite surprisingly, the hunter fell asleep in the midst of keeping watch, into a deep, dreamless slumber, not to be disturbed by anything but a kiss from the dawn. 

Chapter 6: In the City of Thieves

Notes:

Aaand yet another chapter I was forced to split in two because the length was about to reach 15,000 words (and I'm not talented or persistent enough to pull a Tolkien) :( here it is anyway! This story means so much to me lol y'alls comments always make my day. Thank you for sticking with me!

I find this chapter especially fun considering Nemiet's dislike (and subtle interest) of thieves, considering her ancestors were some of the most notorious thieves in Tamriel as well as the founders of Thieves Guild :D lol

When Nemiet first woke up, the air was still and cold and she did not recognize it. As soon as her senses grew accustomed to the dimness around her, she had it where she was, and the realization shook all remaining sleep off her eye. 

“Good morning," said Serana. The familiar clattering of shackles greeted the hunter. “May I offer some insight? Consider it a humble recommendation. Start by imagining a big window, right about there. Think of all the light that could enter. Bit of a missed potential, don’t you think?”

Rubbing her eyes that felt swollen, Nemiet stretched her neck that ached from the awkward position she had slept in. Her head had a dent from the table she had rested it on. With drowsiness hindering her movements she hopped on her feet and dazedly glanced over the vampire. She could now see the splotches the irons had etched around the prisoner’s wrists, and even if she felt ill over them, the guilt felt manageable enough for her to suppress it. The Redguard wanted to say something, as much was evident–but instead, she quickly left the room with a burning sensation in the back of her throat. 

“Don’t be for long!” Serana’s exclamation rang across the upper quarters. It made Nemiet feel exceedingly worse. 

She stumbled upon the corridor and stopped by a window, closing her eyes and drawing a deep but shaky breath. Through the frosty glass, sunlight flowed in. It warmed her skin in a way that was oddly comforting–in this brightness, the curve of her cheekbone shimmered lightly bronze, even though no one was there to see it.  Dust cladded her abode, she found by glancing over at the windowsill. The day was clear, which meant it would also be freezing, and when she breathed out slowly a bit of the air condensed before her. 

Nemiet sat down for a short while, gathering herself, and her thoughts. She looked at her calloused hands, the hardened tips of her thumbs, dragging a finger across one. If only for a moment fleeting and short, she felt at peace. This, she could do, if only she had faith in herself, and the ever-forgiving mercy of Stendarr. All she needed was to be guided by Him.

Arriving at the dining hall, she was not the only one there. Each hunter she greeted with a nod, for they were off duty, and no one no longer believed in formalities or titles–besides, Nemiet suspected not many saw her as the captain at all, but a young dewy-eyed woman they had to respect merely because her father was the one in command. It further strained her sense of self. But it was not all bad today, because today, there were two new faces around, both of whom were pleasant to her. Gunmar, the bear of a man, was wolfing down a plate of what looked like grilled venison with the side of potato bread. Sorine did not eat at all, but rather sat before him and ran her mouth, gaining from the Nord nothing but the occasional nod. 

“I just think it would be wise if we could– Gunmar , are you even listening?” Slapping his arm, the Breton did not wring more than a slight jump out of him.

“I’m eating," responded the Nord morosely. Sauce dripped off his bread and onto the plate.  “Makes flapping your uvula an arseload more difficult. Wouldn’t hurt for you to try.”

“Morning," said Nemiet, reaching over the table and swiping herself a slice of bread. Atop of it she smeared a glaze of goat cheese. She then gazed over at them carefully, “either of you seen Isran?”

“Aye," responded Gunmar, “gone to some meeting in Riften. Left early too. He had something for you, though… Sorine?”

“Whatever! Work those jaws, will you?” The Breton huffed, and Nemiet smiled smally. The relief that came with her father’s absence was immeasurable. “A key. A key is on his desk.”

“Thank you," said the Redguard before excusing herself, “Gunmar, Sorine.”

She chewed on her bread while hopping up the stairs, anxious about entering her father’s room, for a reason she could easily explain. Not often did Nemiet go there, for it would have been unprofessional and an insult on privacy, but now, she found herself rather intrigued. Had he changed anything since? Dusted the walls? Fixed the weapon rack? One of the holds had been loose for as long as she could remember, but Isran had forever complained he had no time, nor interest, to fix a contraption so futile. 

It was dark in his room, for the curtains had been removed to cover the window only partly, but from this ribbon of light Nemiet could see how faultless the keeping had been. No gray coat covered the furniture, nor the floor; not even a single cobweb stuck out to meet the eye. Only his bed was tousled and disheveled, and like hers, far from much slept in. Despite the Order having their own chapel built within the fort, he had his own little shrine of Stendarr on his desk. Like the rest of his room, it was impeccably kept. She wondered if he believed in deliverance, and when she tried to picture her father praying before it, it came to her surprisingly easy. He had always been a devout man, even before the accident. The younger Redguard had simply been unsure whether or not his faith had stumbled in grief and the losses, but she now saw not. 

The key lay on his table, and she could have easily grabbed it and been on her way. But she then saw the old diary sitting in the middle of his desk, and felt so curious she could have died. It was opened in the middle, with many passages either circled or endorsed, and Nemiet could not stop her gaze from going errant. 

‘He who takes pity upon us, and grants us into mercy; He whose light will cast out the darkness, and rain justice upon those undeserving of your wisdom; Glory shall be His, forever.

I am still awaiting Nemiet’s return. Agmaer told us we should act on Loredas, should she not have. It is now Fredas. I fear for her. Only Stendarr knows how fiercely.’

Reading her father’s thoughts, as brief and scarce as they were, made Nemiet’s heart clench. It surprised her how discreetly a tear could surface, or how cold it felt falling carelessly down her cheek, where her palm swiftly came to meet her skin to get rid of it. She stood there for a while, with her form looming over the trace of light that was allowed to enter, before she grabbed the key with fingers both shapeless and clumsy, and worried she wouldn't have enough deftness in them to carry out their designated task. 

The Redguard then went back to Serana with a mind encumbered and tarry. The cloudiness of her thought stalled her from taking notice of the vampire, or how her face lit up from glee as she saw her with the key–she didn’t care to whine any longer, but as the long veil of night had passed by her, the pain around her wrists had transformed from searing hot to jaded and unbearable, and she was as eager as she was desperate to be liberated.

“Finally!” Her cry was full of relief, and as Nemiet approached her she glanced at the vampire and failed to stifle a subtle smile. “Wait–you are here to release me, are you not?”

As she reached down to unlock the shackles, her fingers brushed lightly over Serana’s cold skin. They steered into locking eyes, which felt strange in itself, but Nemiet rejected this oddness as the key turned within the latch. Once the vampire was free, and stood tall and overjoyed before her, a brief uncertainty took a hold of the hunter. She was not dangerous, was she? Not an attempt had been made on her life the last time they had traveled together, but much had indeed changed since then, which was a new gall to carry.

“Thank you," uttered the Nord. She rubbed her wrists–which Nemiet now saw better than before, and frowned upon the angry abscesses. Clad in discreet black robes (which were just now fully revealed from under her cape having previously covered her form, appearing even paler in them), the vampire then straightened herself and cast a long, intense gaze over the other woman, with a grin so wide it revealed to the Redguard the sharpness of her canines biting smally into her lower lip. Much to her surprise, the hunter felt a lack of aversion, but a whole another presence, stirring inside of her chest. Fascination? Interest? She wished to rid herself of the unwantedness of this curiosity, so she cleared her throat, and took a step towards the exit.

“Come along, then. We have a long day ahead of us.”

They walked through the waking fortress, and Serana paid close attention to how the soldiers addressed the woman in her company, with either respect or a deep devotion, as those two she was incapable of separating. She dwelled in a fantasy where the Redguard was not only self-assured, but bold and confident in her stride, for there was no way of telling the captain’s insecurity. A curiosity awoke within her ribs. It was as strange and ancient as she was, which is why she disapproved so strongly of it–anything so profound was surely of harm, and nothing good would come out of its way. 

“The plan is as follows: we are headed to Riften. I know the innkeeper at The Bee and Barb–she is a keen woman, and if there’s anyone that knows anything, it’s her," spoke Nemiet, “and, uh, friendly advice. Keep your purse close. The place’s swarming with pickpockets.”

She opened the front door, which was heavy and constructed of steel–sunlight stretched across the floor clad in dust before it occurred to her. At an unequaled speed, Serana lifted her cowl to cover her face. From the safety of its shade, she glared disappointedly at Nemiet, realizing then that the Redguard had not done so to intentionally hurt her, but rather out of ignorance. 

“ Shit -,” began a poorly worded apology, but the vampire cut her short with a simple hand gesture.

In silence, they then made it down the overgrown cliffside. The day was far from temperate, but Nemiet felt the sun flare on her skin, embracing it through eyes pressed shut. The smell of heather carried into her nose, only to be suppressed by the soft scent of apple trees in blossom– spring seems to be coming early, she thought, pleased. 

Without a warning, as natural as it was to breathe, a question slipped off her lips. “Do you ever miss how the sun feels?”

Taken aback, Serana frowned under her hood. “I don’t know–I can’t remember.”

She regretted asking. Wanting to apologize, she never even got to opening her mouth before Agmaer came into sight from behind the knoll. He was practicing his aim on one of the targets, concentrating, yet visibly absent–the Nord appeared as if something was truly bothering him, and Nemiet dreaded the answer to what it was. 

His upper lip curled into a grin as he fired another poor shot, but as soon as the two drew nearer, his attention diverted to them from his mark. 

Agmaer lowered his crossbow, letting it rest against his knee. He then swung his free arm at her as an invitation. “Hey! Nemiet!” 

At least he doesn’t appear to be upset still , thought Nemiet, altering her course and treading up to him.

“Heading out, eh?” Warm vapor flooded out as soon as he parted his lips, for there was a crisp to the air–and of course, the Nord refused to grant Serana more than a rushed glance.

“To work," answered Nemiet with a light shrug. She had fleetly tucked her hands against her sides, “it is a secretive job. So even if you did ask, my hands are tied.”

“Damn," answered Agmaer with haste, and motioned with his crossbow subtly towards Serana, “they let in that grime, and not me? I should be coming too. For your safety.”

Nemiet fought back an angered yelp, yet her frustration served as an accelerator of her heartbeat, which the vampire with ease detected. Carefully she glanced over at the Redguard, and wondered what it was that kept her from snapping. 

“You should not be giving orders to those above you.”

This was said by the hunter in a tone that was patronizing, but softened towards the end, as if she herself had begun to doubt her authority. She swallowed thickly before she continued, with her voice much more mellow now,  “you must stay here, Agmaer. The general trusts you. He needs good men–reliable men, such as yourself, on the call.”

The Nord groaned under Nemiet’s pleading gaze. He took a step back and then forth again. What was clear was his disappointment, but there was something else, hidden in the gleam of his eye, something that the Redguard could quite not grasp. Hurt? Resentment? Serana narrowed her eyes, for she did not like him very much.

“Okay," said Agmaer dryly. “Swear to be careful?”

“Always am," reassured Nemiet. She had since calmed down. “So long.”

After leaving behind the reluctant Nord, they went on to pursue the western trail.  The valley lingered in an unreal still, and when the light hit the ridges snow appeared to glisten akin to countless diamonds, before they dipped down to a deep blue shadow beneath. There was a distant roll of the waterfall, and as mighty and imposing as it was, it could barely be heard from under the hearty birdsong. Ringing in their ears like a vivid laughter, it teased the Redguard of summer’s closeness, with blooming the spring flowers and the old scents that seemed to strongly resonate with the revived memories somewhere far, far in her mind–amidst this tumult, she felt comfort in feeling it approach, was it slow and steady. 

Alongside her, Serana skipped restlessly. The vampire appeared to linger in a state of mixed curiosity and bewilderment, although she did not speak openly of these things, so the Nemiet felt the responsibility to bring it up first.

“What?” The hunter’s question was genuine. “Look as if you've seen a ghost. You’ve met Agmaer before.”

“Yes, I have," she responded, “he fancies you, ridiculously so. Wonder what is wrong with him, is all–or maybe it is that you are oblivious?”

Nemiet turned away her face as a discomfort, rich and deep as a mulled wine, came to her. Swallowing against the knot in her throat, she mustered up what little self-respect she had before she spoke, “he’s made himself exceedingly clear. Are we done here?”

Silence descended among them. Nemiet was not averse to the idea of Serana knowing–virtually, she thought it could have helped her, or at least offered another point of view on what to do with him and his affections that ran inexhaustible. She felt his confession pus in her heart. But it would have been rash and imprudent, and differed steeply from what the Redguard had been taught to be proper–besides, the day was far too beautiful to waste into mulling over something so depressing, and since those kinds of days were as scarce as they were, she decided to push it off her mind for now. 

Nemiet then diverted her thoughts to Riften. She did not care much for the city–it was loud, restless, and she always, without exception, felt skittish within its walls. In the city’s remote quarters, there was a tavern called The Bee and Barb ; the innkeeper, Keerava, was the woman of her interest–the Argonian had become quite the familiar face over her many visits to the city. She fared well with the one who appeared to be one of the few upstanding citizens–Deeka had always liked the inn, even despite its less pleasant aspects, and his opinion mattered to the Redguard more than most.

Deeka, the closest approximation Nemiet had to a friend, lived mostly on the road. He was a bard by trade, even if he had spent most of his life within the Order, and Isran had initially anticipated a fine soldier out of the Argonian. Last she had heard of him was him having discontinued his stay at the Imperial City, in which his brother resided–the brothers were orphaned, with nothing but their names as keepsakes. Beleval, one of the general’s least willing linemen and one of the few elves Nemiet knew, had raised the boys as her own, and since they were of a similar age with her the Redguard had grown close with them. Deeka especially was like a brother to her. Coming of age and never fitting into the discipline of the Order both Deeka and his brother Ahdan had left to seek an adventure of their own, but where Deeka had assumed the role of a minstrel, the other Argonian now made a decent living selling traditional Saxhleel jewelry in the heartlands of Tamriel.

Nemiet never thought she’d miss Deeka so burningly, but once they had received the word of his return, she had barely been able to hold a straight face before her father.

As the sight of the city walls and the faint smell of Lake Honrich overcame Nemiet’s senses, she felt an uneasiness that was difficult to shake. The city had a rather infamous reputation; from thievery to the alleged ties to the Dark Brotherhood, crime thrived in Riften, and it was no secret. Even the law was susceptible to corruption, rendering its enforcers effortless, or a danger even more treacherous than that instigated by the common fiddlers. 

“This place feels off," said Serana as the two entered through the front gates. The city, layered in two, laid out before them; the buildings were old and made of wood, giving Riften a rustic, or even a crude feel; since waste often ended up sitting at the bottom of the city’s canal, there was a prominent stench to the air, and through it pushed a nuance of blackened fumes; the sounds of the marketplace were almost pleasant. Billowing white smoke hovered above the linden of which the structures were constructed, clinging onto their surface and irrigating the timber. The air was dank, as if it had recently rained. “The people feel nervous. Like prey.”

“That’s Riften," shrugged Nemiet, glancing around only to be met with meddlesome gazes. “Don’t get me wrong–most of them are decent folk. Fishermen, and those who work the meaderies. But they say there is a group of misfits in the sewers. Thieves all.”

Serana raised her eyebrows. “Oh?”

“They were founded by some sad bullshitting wretches, back in the Second Era," said Nemiet, feeling quite for a chatter, “I’ve heard once, they did quite well in Skyrim. Good enough to have some serious fear–and respect –to their name. Not that the same could be said about them now. Mostly they’re just a pest to the locals, I think.”

The vampire could then smell blood from the marketplace. A butcher’s shop, most likely. With her stomach twisting around, the urge came upon her so strongly that Serana was forced to pinch close all of her senses to focus. A fire burnt behind her eyes where tears surfaced. She wiped them off discreetly, blinking a couple of times to rid herself of the dryness. 

“For a woman who supposedly hates them so much, you sure seem to know a whole lot," commented Serana.

They entered The Bee and Barb. The air inside was thick and impenetrable. Nemiet could smell the pungent musk of nightshade, as well as the old vomit. A raspy cough escaped her lungs as she looked at the shadowy figures surrounding them. Most of them had taken notice of her, too.

“What can I say," admitted the Redguard after a silence, with her embarrassment gleaming brightly through, “maybe I like a good thief story.”

Serana found herself smiling smally at the response. The vampire followed closely in the other woman’s wake, eyeing their surroundings with caution, the mostly shrouded faces and full pints laden on tables. The floorboards creaked under their boots in a way that could have been homely was it not for the ruling sense of unwelcomeness. Strange eyes wandered and glistened with interest; somebody spit out their lungs in the corner, and with a shaky hand wiping the corners of their mouth, stared right through the smoke as if to make sense of the newcomers. 

The innkeeper herself was found behind the main desk, where she rested her upper body over the table, massaging her temples with her claws. Nemiet had not once seen the Argonian look happy, and if a dread like that was apparent enough to the occasional customer, then she did not think it was a sign of something that was healthy. Today, as she could read from her turned down smile, was no exception.

“You," said the Argonian, her voice rough and unrefined, “you’re a welcome sight. You pay your debts.”

To that Nemiet chuckled softly. There was a candle on the desk, in the fire of which Serana could see the way that the corners of her mouth wrinkled up. Her skin gained the most beautiful warm tint from the light, almost as if she had a faint glow to her, making the vampire not only think of the sun, but also feel it on her skin. Surprisingly enough, this ardor was one that did not hurt–instead, it felt like a soft voice, or a call; to what, she did not understand.

“It’s good to see you," said Nemiet politely then. She knew more than well that in exchange for the information she sought a payment would be due, but knowing how the city operated, and how deep its systematic issues were, she did not blame it on the Argonian the slightest. Wearily, she laid her hands on the table and leaned closer, so that her words would not make it to the ears perked around them. “We need help, Keerava. I need to find someone. A priest, or a scholar. Heard anything of that sort?”

“We’ll talk," agreed the Argonian. “But it’ll cost. You know how it is. I wish I had never come here, to this city. Impossible to live decently.”

Nemiet reached down and dug swiftly around her belt bag, lifting a heavy coin purse out of it. The coins jingled upon contact. Keerava measured the insides, pupils dilating in eyes bright and ardent like the dragon-fire, but resisted the urge to grab it before an agreement. 

“Ah. Indeed, a stranger did come by two days ago. I have good manners, and do not eavesdrop–on purpose, that is. But I did happen to catch word of his plans. Said he was headed to Dragon Bridge. It’s a small settlement between Markarth and Solitude," said the Argonian, tracing an imaginary map with her claws over the table. Luckily to Nemiet, she was familiar with the place–the bridge itself was the only logical way across the river, and attempting to cross any other way would have been pure madness. Then, Keerava’s voice lowered, to which the Redguard responded by leaning closer to carefully listen. “Said he was looking for an Elder Scroll , if that’s to believe.”

Satisfied, Nemiet traded looks with the vampire. They now knew, with the least possible effort, where to start–and that made the Redguard feel most complacent. 

Outside by the stables, in the shade of aspen trees with small buds at the tip of each branch, she found herself as the witness of quite the obscurity. Resting against a drystone wall, Nemiet observed from afar as Serana tried to woo the carriage driver into giving them a ride. Dragon Bridge was not one of his stops, the Redguard knew that–it was why she now closely followed the bartering, with a smile of sheer amusement on her features. Belittling, she shook her head as the vampire gesticulated wildly with her arms, a meager form clad in black. No way she can talk him into it, she mused to herself, the best she can do is make herself play the fool.

When about five minutes later the Nord returned with a smug grin, and motioned towards the wagon parked in the front, Nemiet could hardly believe her ears. Her fun had quickly weathered, and she rolled her eyes as she brushed past the vampire. In the hunter’s wake, Serana’s steps became muffled by the old leaves that still covered the ground, where she struggled to keep her tongue to herself.

“You’re most welcome," said Serana jokingly as they sat in the back of the carriage. As soon as Nemiet sat down, they were already moving–and since the transition was anything but smooth, she bumped lightly into the vampire. The embarrassment she fixed by simply rolling her eyes and regaining her distance, sitting across Serana and only stealing a cautious glance when she was certain the other would be looking the other way.

Surrounded by the peace offered by the silvery forest, Nemiet felt her worry thaw under the warmth of the sun. The weather remained the same far into the afternoon–it was pleasant and clear, perfect if not for the cold. Like lazy, legless sheep, the clouds spread over the vast blue sky, and in staring at them and listening to the distant pine thrush song, the Redguard soon felt sleep starting to take over her. 

Dragon Bridge was a small communal village in the southwestern Haafingar, engulfed by acres and acres of untouched woodland. Even if it was isolated, there was no lack of travelers, and the place itself was fairly busy; through it went the only reasonable way to pass to Solitude from the southern holds. Atop its namesake, the bridge linking together the northern and southern banks of River Karth, sat the head of a massive stone dragon. A bellowing stream ran its course below it, and each year, it gave many of the locals a decent livelihood in the form of fishing; different species spawned upstream, where they eventually got harvested. From up there, the Blue Palace was almost visible, although blocked mostly by trees and green hills. 

Nemiet had fallen asleep hours ago. Jerked awake only by the carriage hitting a loose stone on the bridge, she reoriented herself quickly, but not quickly enough for the pleasure of the vampire. 

“Anything to report?” The Redguard presented her question as if she had not slept, and merely rested her eyes; but she was beguiled by her wandering gaze and slurred speech. Sluggishly, she reached to scratch her neck. 

“Not that I can think of. Oh, but we did drive past the priest and his party–let’s say, five, ten, minutes past," snickered Serana, eyes twinkling.

“What?” The remnants of drowsiness faded from the Redguard’s body. “And you didn’t wake me?”

“Aw! But you looked like such a dear when you slept. Like a puppy dog," teased the vampire, cocking her head to the side and giving the hunter a light nudge with the tip of her boot. “Besides, I’m merely jesting with you. The road’s empty–just some wagon I think had run into bandits. Not much of a view, except for the blood. Poor bastards.”

“Explains why I woke you," responded Nemiet mockingly, with her eyes narrowed in distress, but gaining only another smirk from the Nord. “Forget it–you’re closer to a horker’s arse.”

“Hey, lovebirds," exclaimed the Nord suddenly from the front of the carriage. “End of the ride.”

Nemiet snorted. Gathering a pair of wobbly legs below her body, she jumped down gracelessly from the back. As soon as their feet hit the ground, the carriage drove away, leaving behind a cloud of dust and a few disgruntled travelers in the heart of the bustling village.

They began asking around then. A group of locals, spending a regulated break, sat loitering around the mill–but not one of them had anything to add what the two by far knew. One could have thought an Imperial entourage would have gathered enougj attention, but the longer their stay in Dragon Bridge got, the more they realized that the residents were either fully ignorant, or simply pretended to have been. One distinguished gentleman politely told them to ‘piss off and go pester the guards’, but when they did, he’d just motion across the bridge, speaking in a thick accent that was difficult to follow. At least from this they could decipher that he had indeed left, but to where, they could not begin to guess. Only now a chilling thought entered Nemiet’s mind: the ambush site, the southern road. An empty space formed beneath her ribs, and it felt as if it kept expanding toward the edges, for her heartbeat sounded tiny and frail from the middle–this hollow swelled and swelled inside her until it reached a peak and collapsed upon seeing the scene for herself.

Somewhere between the moment Nemiet had first fallen asleep and now, dark clouds had begun gathering in the horizon, and they now brought forth a message of impending rain. The weather in Skyrim was generally unstable, so it did not surprise the Redguard, and rather served as an unwelcome, yet an expected change. Inside her head, a thudding ache took form. She believed it would not take long until the storm would reach them, washing away all the hopes of finding a trail for them to follow.

The site of the ambush, in all its sadness, wasn’t far at all. It was easy to see over it from the bough. An empty cart lay tipped over on the ground, a wheel revolving aimlessly in the blowing wind; the eyes of the horse having pulled the carriage were milky and sightless, yet they stared still at the cloud-mottled sky; the two people, a guard from the caravan and a vampire wearing the eight-spired wheel of clan Volkihar (which Serana immediately recognized) lay lifelessly on the ground. Even without the warmth of blood, she felt the air turn cold at the sight of it. Swallowing thickly, the vampire was unable to disengage with what she was seeing, and instead it was Nemiet who turned to her. 

This was the doing of Harkon’s men.

For a woman of a soldier’s training, Nemiet had seen (and caused, if one was to count in the undead) enough death to know what it looked and smelled like–there was familiarity in the way it soaked through the clothes, infiltrating the mind. But now, with the horrid stench of flesh pulp scorching her nostrils, and her hopes voided, the Redguard felt for the first time concern in the way she lacked fear, or true sorrow. All she could feel was anger. The quietness lingered, and in it she stood and stared at the vampire beside her, searching in her for a sign of betrayal, of anything at all that stood out of the role she had so perfectly played. This was the doing of her family–her brethren, her blood. Who was to promise she was not like them? What did she know of her except for a story that might have as well been a part of the plan?

But no signs of faltering were in sight. In truth, in her studies of the pale dead woman, all she could see was sorrow; and perhaps, it was more genuine than hers, for hers had long since been replaced with a burning vengeance. 

As Nemiet moved forth, wind went over them. With keen eyes she searched the ground, and found nothing but an ambiguous black mass in a pool of fluids that she made to be a liver. 

“Wait," said Serana then. As soon as her voice broke out, the Redguard expected the worst, which she later regretted–for a moment she considered reaching down at her axes, but a miracle held her still. “I think I know where to go.”

This was, in no way, easy for Serana. The smell of gore felt as if her brain was beginning to rot, and with each moment she spent not feeding, her stomach grew hollower and more resentful; but strangely enough, those were the temptations she had found herself capable of resisting. Whether it was that she truly was a deplorable vampire, or that she had simply gotten remarkably good at the discipline of self, mattered only a little. Knowing she could do it was enough. Perhaps it was torturous, and perhaps it felt as if she was being stretched thin and mindlessly by the wrath of some divine being, but she took a strange pride over this abstinence. At least it separated her from her father.

Bleeding down on them, the skies quietly cracked open. The smell of rain mixed into the blood on the ground, and from both it cut off the worst edge, the hunter and the vampire. Even Nemiet felt relatively calm again. She had, in her trepidation, clenched together her teeth in a way so fervent her jaw now hurt as if dislodged. As the water dripped down the shaft of her axe, she sighed and let her arms rest around her sides.

It was Serana who first left the site. Following the trail became increasingly difficult as the time passed them by, and as soon as Nemiet got that she followed after her. For the first half a mile, they went along the road, but the vampire then dived into the woods, where the scent became nigh to nothing. Rain now poured down on them, trickling down their backs and plastering their clothes into their skin; the scent of pine was ever-present, pungent in nature. The further they went, the less they heard, for all the external noise was subdued by the thick undergrowth. Once more, breathing felt effortless, which Nemiet was grateful for. 

“Should I be apologizing?” Serana’s question struck the Redguard out of place. She gave her a hasty, shunning glance in return. “Did I say something odd?”

Nemiet then responded by asking, “what are you referring to, exactly?” 

“You had this look in your eye, back at the ambush site," said Serana, and rushed to continue before the other woman could begin to deny it, “and don’t you go and deny it. I have a knack for that sort of stuff.”

The downturned look on Nemiet softened. Sighing out of frustration, her shoulders fell steadily as she spoke, and it came out almost a breath, “you did nothing. It isn't your fault. That’s the thing–none of it makes any sense. Nothing about this does.”

Serana was quiet for a moment before initiating calmly, “maybe it’s time to let go of some lessons. Pardon me, if this is too bold, but when was the last time you made a choice that mattered–and I mean truly mattered? Or decided for yourself? Besides last night, that is.”

To this Nemiet did not immediately find an answer. For a while she focused on her steps, trying not to stumble on a twig, or a hummock.  Wet moss covered a log rotting in the earth, to the bark of which rain tapped a hollow beat. The sound itself was calming, but as the Redguard turned around to face the vampire, she couldn’t look her directly in the eye, for her heart felt weak.

“You’re right. That is too bold," she spoke feebly. “If this is some wretched attempt to misguide me, then you are indeed a fool.”

“Perhaps," said Serana, “we are all fools, Captain. So where’s the harm in a few friends?”

The Redguard let out a huff that came out mostly sad. She waved her arm dismissively before the vampire, but as she turned away, Serana was already in motion, and glided past her. In doing so, the Nord brushed her palm lightly against the back of Nemiet’s hand. Even if it could have easily been an accident, for the path was narrow, and barely there at all, something about her strut made the hunter reject the idea. Confused, her stomach sank, and the seriousness she had previously wielded melted away to reveal a look of utter embarrassment, with wide brown eyes and a mouth left slightly agape.

She then noticed the hole in the rock. The trail they had previously followed seemingly ended here.

Breathing in, and blowing the air slowly out of her nose, Nemiet crept into the crevice in Serana’s wake.

Chapter 7: The Daughter Returns Home

Summary:

Okaayyyyy I cooked here I think. I don't say that lightly btw I usually hate what I create but I feel proud now. I hope you enjoy this chapter as much as I do (sorry for the length again sdfasdfasdfasd I have a chronic can't shut up disease!)

Through dirt and stone the two emerged upon a grotto. Despite a modest entrance, the cave was spacious, fit for a dragon’s den; overgrown ruins were scattered about the floor, some masonry less intact than the others; a river crossed this world underground, and Nemiet could hear the murmur standing way above it. A bridge still stood to cross the stream, but the knowledge of who had built it and when had long since disappeared. Moss hung from the ceiling, like the beard of an old creature that was the mountain. Because of the high humidity, the smell of dirt came strongly upon them, and there was no breeze to stir the thickness. However, the greatest hindrance was the darkness–prevalent, it was only penetrated by an alien light coming from the other side of the cave, which gave the air a distant and a foreign feel.

After staring out into the dark for a moment, the Redguard turned around to look at the vampire, whose face was lit up by the blue glow. As the light created long shadows along her jowls, she looked like an apparition for a moment, almost as if the brightness came from within herself. Nemiet felt her savor fail her. Her frown gave way to a much softer expression, curious but still cautious. Once Serana glanced back at her, she felt a sudden need to turn away, and did so with a dancing heart.

Then the Nord freezed, head turning like an owl’s. She gestured for the Redguard to lay low, as she withdrew from the ledge herself, which made Nemiet draw nearer to her by instinct. The hair on her neck stood erect as if a bucket of snow had been poured down her collar. Trying to see from behind Serana’s form, she stuck out her head, but it was in vain.

“Death hounds”, whispered the vampire. In the darkness, Nemiet could see the way that her blade glistened in the dim light as she brought it into sight, holding it securely over her thigh.

The Redguard did not hesitate. She reached for her crossbow, barely letting out a breath before her hands were locked safely around it, and she had with deft fingers loaded the catch. Taking a big step forward, Nemiet rested her entire weight upon a single knee as she sought the most stable position to aim in. Once she felt ready, she shrugged lightly at Serana, who gave her a nod of approval in return. 

Narrowing her eyes to enhance her vision, Nemiet shot. It only took a fraction of a second for the bolt to hit its target–the creature let out a cry so ugly and mournful that she almost felt bad for it (and she had taken notice of these new feelings more often now, which she found alarming on their own) before it collapsed, plants rustling softly from this weight.

A red light flickered. It seemed to be coming directly out of Serana’s hand. The sensation it created was so intense that the Redguard could feel the heat of it graze her skin. Surely enough, she was a sorcerer; were all vampires not? In a crimson flash, the spell lit up its surroundings, distorting the air and making it crackle all around them like in a dream. 

And she turned it into art. The dog that was left behind, with its jaw hanging open as if broken, sped off. They could barely hear the speed at which its feet whipped the ground. Nemiet could only make out the two glowing eyes burning a hole in her vision. It was a look of lust, born out of a hunger entirely without a bottom–then, the unthinkable happened. All it took was a light brush before she knew fear like never before. It surprised her in its familiarity–her hands were unable to quickly reload the crossbow, which served an obvious delay. Before she could realize, she had become a bystander as the situation unfolded, waiting in horror for the outcome. 

The beast attacked. Angered, it aimed for the vampire’s pulseless throat, but Serana was even faster. The dagger sank effortlessly into its skin, leaving the hound’s face stuck in a wicked grin as it was met by a quick death. There was a sickening sound as the blade popped out of the hole, yet in a mummified corpse, no blood accompanied it. Lifeless, it fell to the ground. 

Although the danger was over, Nemiet’s legs were weak. She watched, in a feigned boldness, as the vampire flicked her wrist and cast another spell. The color was different now, cold and bluish. In one breath she managed a word the Redguard didn't recognize, and a strange flame flashed in her eyes. Blue light gathered around the body, causing it to rise to its feet like a ghostly doll–when it opened its eyes again, they held the same glow as Serana’s that so fascinated the hunter. Wide-eyed, she stared at her doings, and felt dangerously interested in the base of her stomach. 

“That’s unusual.” There was a bit of fearful laughter in the hunter’s speech as she looked at the upright body. Even then, its lipless smile creeped her out.

"Perhaps," said Serana, looking proudly at her work, "but do not yet judge. Unusuality could save us all."

To this, Nemiet had no objections.

They continued on in silence. The obscurity protected them as they descended the steps to the bottom of the cave. The sound of the water was louder now. Across the stream, the Redguard could see the guards on the other side of the river, where they stood tall atop a broken wall. She felt lucky, for they had gone unnoticed despite the incident. Serving to protect them as well, the long shadows created by the ruins lined the entire riverbank; the dappled path, winding through the shadows, was striped like tiger skin.

Nature reigned here. One could see it everywhere; plants climbed the walls, and although their stems were delicate, their roots were deep and wound tightly into the soil; the road that had originally been where they were walking was now narrowed to a small path among the plants and mushrooms; a few trees grew in the cave, albeit old and covered with lichen, and the rest lay in the dirt, decomposing slowly, but with an unflinching certainty. For the air did not circulate, it was full of fine particles and pollen–they got into Nemiet's eyes and made her tired. If there had been no urgency to be felt, she would have enjoyed this peace, or even fallen asleep with her back against a snag, not waking until all her many sleepless nights had been replaced. But she, or they, could not afford to rest.

They arrived at a breach in the wall where they were able to get in. In the shadow of the stone arch, they looked out over the courtyard, in the middle of which was a large extinguished bonfire. There wasn't much around except rubble and dandelions poking out of cracks in the floor. Huge chunks of polished stone lay here and there. The edges were lush, mostly ferns and dog-violets, but a pungent odor in the air belied their beauty; blood had spilled over them and the ground, and Nemiet was sure that Serana could smell it even better than she could see it. It was everywhere: on the stone slabs, in the mud pools, on the flower petals. Perhaps the stench had been the very thing she had used to navigate–the Redguard didn't know if such a keen sense of smell was a good thing or a bad thing, but for now, at least it had been a helpful thing.

Nemiet held tightly to her weapon as she eavesdropped on the guards talking above her, occasionally wrinkling her nose in disgust. Their voices echoed in the chamber, arrogant and confident. Silently, the vampire urged on the hound. Magic was very foreign to the Redguard, and necromancy was the most taboo of its tendencies; not many people would admit to practicing it publicly, and so Serana's openness about it puzzled her. Still she watched as the beast rushed towards the stairs, not once stumbling in the dark, until the gleam in its eyes disappeared from her view. 

It was half a minute before they heard the sounds of a struggle. In between all the barking and angry cries, they exchanged a satisfied and a somewhat amused look. Even Nemiet felt herself relax a little when one of the guards fell to the ground right at their feet, no longer moving or even making a sound. The remaining vampire continued to fight for a few minutes until there was silence–this bliss, however, was short-lived and over before the intruders had time to enjoy it.

“Now they come!”

As the lone vampire dragged himself laboriously down the stairs, the loud rattle caught their attention. A hand rested on his stomach, trying desperately to stop the bleeding; but the black blood already stained the front of the vampire's robe, and his eyes were shot unnaturally wide, as if in great pain. They glowed with a fear only felt by those who knew they had already lost.

With a single bolt, Nemiet put an end to both him, and his fear.

Since the vampire had screamed before he died, and since they both knew Harkon was smarter than to leave his plan to a few men, they knew to head for the stairs now that they had been caught. They were right, of course. Ahead was the light that Nemiet had seen from the mouth of the cave; from the platform she saw the magic form a dome with an old man standing inside. Shimmering, its surface reminded her of water swirling around its axis, and it glowed with a kind of coldness; it made her think of a lake whose coolness in spring tamed hot skin. Their clothes fluttered as the energy flowed over. For the phenomenon illuminated her face so brightly, it took the Redguard a moment to get used to its intensity. She felt stretched, almost transparent. They were confused by such raw, powerful magic, so they were grateful that the remaining vampires were busy maintaining the spell, and ignored the intruders.

Then the administrator of the ritual spoke. His shout boomed like thunder throughout the chamber; it was as sure of itself as the change of seasons. “The more you fight, the more you suffer!”

The old man cried. “You will not break me!”  His voice was weak, however, and even Nemiet could tell that he would not be able to stand such pressure much longer. She now recognized what was happening in front of her: soon, this man would be made into a thrall, mindless and lost to the fight. 

“How much longer?” The bellowing voice was reduced to a low, earthy growl. “You are strong, for a mortal. But your prison wearies you; I feel your mind as my own. I feel it giving way. How badly you want the pain to end. Only you can stop it–let it go!”

The dome shook. Inside, the priest collapsed to his knees, accompanied by a long and painful cry. The Orc laughed; it was a deep, and purely malicious laugh that stayed in Nemiet's mind for a long time, and it occurred to her she did not understand in the slightest this sick thirst for power.

And hoped it was not too late.

With trembling hands Nemiet raised her crossbow, and though the weapon felt like a shapeless piece of wood in her grip, she took aim and fired. Having flown through the air, the bolt struck, but only succeeded in wounding its target; the hallowed steel, however, stung like salt in a wound, and the Orc squealed like an animal about to be slaughtered. 

With his attention drawn to the intruders, the same blue fire met his eyes. The exhilaration of success soon gave way to outright anger. His long fangs gleaming in the dark, the Orc opened his mouth like a snake.

Nothing was more dangerous than a wounded vampire, a combination of animal fury and humanoid intelligence. 

Blinded by fury, he leapt towards them, but it wasn't long before a sharp spike of ice from Serana pierced his chest. The sound that came from his crushing sternum was nauseating. Gasping, he reached vaguely for his chest and fell to the ground. A few times still he groaned before remaining still, with a sharp icy tip pointing from his back, blood dripping from lips left agape.

But the danger was far from over. With no one left to maintain the magic that held the priest captive, the dome quickly began to weaken. After shrinking to half its size, it then expanded at a tremendous speed and swept over them like a wind blowing from the sea. For a fleeting moment, the whole cave was filled with a glow that rivaled in beauty the playfulness of the northern lights–different shades of blue and green waved against their calves and swirled around the tips of the sharp stones, spreading unevenly into crevices in the walls before disappearing from view. Even though Nemiet shielded her eyes from the brightness with her arm, she still felt the energy in her body; like a river it flowed through her and to the ground. She was overcome by a great sense of belonging, as if the magic itself had become part of her and she should no longer be afraid.

In all its comfort, however, the feeling did not last long.

No longer held still by the magic, the priest bellowed in a manner so full of primal pain that an outsider would not have distinguished it from an injured beast. There was a tearing pain inside him, tears welling up in his reddish eyes, bony fingers trying to burrow into his skin and bring out the evil. As he fidgeted, Nemiet saw the fearful confusion in his gaze. It would have been harder for her to tell if she hadn't seen the way sheep looked just before they were taken out of the pen and to the slaughterhouse; the same terror now lived in him, and once his face contorted into a grimace, she knew then they had not yet survived.

Before she could even think about what came next, the vampire's black cloak swung past her as Serana took a big step forward and placed herself between them, although clearly closer to the Redguard. Mouth slightly agape with surprise, Nemiet was content to watch her gather her strength and concentrate on this final act. The Nord squeezed her eyes shut and opened her palm, revealing a glowing red light inside, sparks escaping from its heart, falling to the ground and then dying out. Taking a more stable stance, she aimed at the priest, who tottered unsteadily towards them, and clenched her fist again. Nemiet didn't see it, but her lip curled up at the effort the spell required; still, the man sank to his knees and wept in agony less than halfway from them. She searched for answers inside him–she dug and dug until the most difficult and sensitive of secrets had emerged and within her grasp, sweat dripping from her brow. All the while, the priest resisted her attempts; all the while, he used his whole body and mind to stop what the vampire was trying to do. But as a mortal, his strength soon waned, and Serana felt him give in, first slightly, and then completely in one fell swoop.

And so Nemiet admitted to herself that the old man was a tough act.

"No more...", he spoke now, albeit weakly and through gritted teeth. Serana's grip on the priest loosened as soon as he showed signs of becoming clearer; the man collapsed and seemed to get smaller by the moment. “Please.”

Once Nemiet had gone to him, the Redguard bent down and offered him her hand, which he grasped with trembling hands, and closed his eyes. “That wasn't me. Will you believe me? I saw with my eyes, I heard with my ears, but that wasn't me. I… thank you. Thank you. ”

She continued to smile comfortingly at him. Serana watched them from a distance, but her gaze softened when she saw her stroking the old man's hand with her thumb, crossing her hands over her chest. The priest was free. Outwardly, he looked like any old man; his beard was long and gray, and his robe, stained with dirt and blood, fitted him rather badly. Although his eyes were still swollen, and his throat was as dry as a desert after all that crying, his breathing had evened out and he seemed to be feeling better. 

“That’s all right”, comforted Nemiet. 

After resting for a while, the priest stood up with the help of the Redguard.

“Dexion Evicus is my name”, said the man, now trying to stand up without the hunter's help. Despite his staggering, he managed in doing so. “I come from the Order of the Moth; here I hail from the White-Gold Tower of Cyrodiil. We were surrounded on the southern road. So many were lost–so many good men. They left none alive but me. I was spared, and I can not fathom why.” 

Nemiet exchanged cautious glances with the vampire, not knowing what to say.

“Because they needed you”, said Serana then. Dexion's attention was drawn for the first time to the Nord standing off to the side. “For the same reason we do.”

The priest's expression became confused. “Is that so? Please, no more twists or guesswork.”

“Captain Taher of the Dawnguard, at your service. It’s good to finally meet”, said Nemiet, straightening her back. Anxiously, her gaze swept the area, as if expecting another attack. Nervousness like this was very new to her, and made her concentration waver in a way she had never experienced before. “When we get to safety, I promise that you will be provided with the answers you seek. Now, we must take our leave. You should know that our time is short–we have an Elder Scroll in our possession. But we cannot read it, not without you.” 

Dexion's wrinkled face lit up like a flame.

“So you have a–remarkable!” All fatigue seemed to have left the priest. Warmth had returned to his pale skin and excitement twinkled like stars in his eyes. “So you are daedra hunters? That is indeed a noble cause. I will do what I can to help you.”

“We are holed up in the Velothi Mountains, near the border of Morrowind. The place’s remote, so it’s hard to find–better to travel together”, said Nemiet.

When they emerged from the cave a few moments later, the rain had picked up. The fresh air, and the stench of wet earth, greeted them with a brisk welcome. Once back on the road leading to the town, Dexion spoke, “I would like to thank you again. You came at the last minute. Must have been starving, those wretches.”

Curious, if hungry and tired, Nemiet decided to ask the priest more questions while they were still out of her father's earshot. “So what exactly do you do?”

“I study the Elder Scrolls. It is a sacred duty–we divine the future and assess the impact of all possible decisions. But first and foremost, we aid the Emperor”, said he with great passion. “Sometimes we are sent elsewhere if the Empire is aware of the whereabouts of a new scroll, or even rumors of one. That is why I am here, in Skyrim, though I do miss the amenities of the White-Gold Tower.”

“There’s that name again”, responded Nemiet. They now trailed a little behind the vampire. “The White-Gold Tower.”

“Ah! It is the mighty tower in the heart of the Imperial City, among the tallest towers in all of Tamriel. The lower parts of it are managed by the Council, and we occupy the middle floors”, the man remembered. “It is not what it once was. It suffered greatly in the war. But I do hope to live to see the day when it will be restored to its former glory.”

From what she heard now, the Redguard appreciated Dexion. He was righteous, and brave as he traveled the seas of the world, yet remained incorrupt and devoted to his calling–as if he had been born to serve it, and nothing else mattered. The hunter felt she could learn a lot from him.

“We were hoping you could tell us more about the scrolls”, inquired Serana, raising her voice because of the rain. Water trickled down the brim of her hood as she waited hopefully for an answer. 

“I'm afraid I can't tell you much”, frowned Dexion. “Although I studied them for years, they are still a great mystery to us. That is true for most of my brothers in the Order as well. We know not where they came from, or who wrote them, if one wrote them at all.”

“I see”, murmured the vampire, disappointed. “Guess clear answers would have been too much to ask.”

Turning now, Dexion took one last look at her wet cloak, and then leaned slightly towards Nemiet. He whispered in a voice he didn't think the vampire could hear, “enlighten me: why is there a vampire in your company? It hardly makes sense.”

Of course, Serana had heard every word. She glanced over her shoulder, making Nemiet’s heart sink.

“It may sound strange, but she works for us”, she responded. “But there is no need to worry. She’s no danger to you.”

“Yes, Dexion”, purred the Nord sarcastically, perhaps even a little hurt, “I'm nice, like a cat with no claws. So nice, they just lock me up on the wall instead of killing me. Isn’t that so, Captain?”

The Redguard cleared her throat and took a deep breath. "I’ll make sure it won’t be happening again."

Serana smiled, but felt defeated. “Thank you”, she uttered, falling silent then.

“Ah”, said the priest, but many questions remained on his mind.

And so Nemiet sank into her thoughts. She worried deeply about the future of Dexion in the Dawnguard, and what the future would bring for him; to put him into this risk felt like an honest betrayal. But it was the only way, and overcoming all this evil required sacrifice–that she knew. And to become it, she felt ready.

Having found themselves a transport, they all settled on different sides of the horse-drawn carriage. The Redguard could not remember ever being more tired, but she could not sleep for her troubles, and contented herself with resting her eyes now and then. With her arms crossed over her chest, Nemiet leaned against the side of the wagon–whenever there was a bump in the road, a look of dissatisfaction spread across her face. Unbeknownst to her, this amused Serana, and put a smile on her face.

The day ended, and after a night's travel, another began.  Opening up to bright sunshine, the cloud-covered skies browned further towards evening.  The sun always seemed to hang to the south of them, and so the vampire sat with her back to its glow. She was the only one who didn't sleep a wink.  Strangely enough, Nemiet trusted her so much that she felt no fear; but what bothered her was the loneliness brought on by not sleeping at all.

However, there came a moment when the hunter was allowed to pull the heavy double door shut behind her, and catch her breath.

But her home was never peaceful, or even quiet. As soon as they got inside, Nemiet heard two voices arguing, and it didn't take a clever woman to know that one of them belonged to Isran. It far from surprised her–in fact, how normal and expected it was for him to be discontent was saddening. All he knew how to do was argue. In others he saw nothing but laziness, and the threat looming behind it. Living with such a man–a hurricane that had somehow been injected into him, and whose flooded shores wiped away all that had ever been built on them–was like sleeping on broken glass. Every movement cut. Any movement could kill.

The hall was cold, and the walls loomed darkly around them. The warm light of the evening was anything but inviting. It was strangely refracted, creating an odd atmosphere in the room that Nemiet did not like. It came off too yellow, too strong. In her heart, she felt a deep sadness for the way her father was, realizing that she had never been able to worry about it before, at least not as directly as she now did. Understanding this felt almost paralyzing to her, and she wished from the bottom of her heart that it would not show, at least not to him.

“You’ve naught to worry ‘bout”, said Gunmar. The Nord sounded pleading, if partly anxious. 

“Let me decide on it”, rumbled Isran. 

He didn't really need any real reason to be angry, so Nemiet walked in front of them, drawing her father's attention. Predictably, the general stopped pressuring Gunmar after seeing them. As the man fled the scene, he mouthed her a word of thanks, to which she responded with half a smile.

The young Redguard didn't like looking at her father's face. There was the same insecurity they both tried to hide behind all that courage and faith, which they feared would one day be revealed. She couldn't remember the last time she had called him her father. She was their captain, and as such, he expected her to behave accordingly. But her throat was sore with the pain that came from her need to be his child again–his own daughter, ugly and authentic, disconcertingly real. He should have loved her, hugged her when she cried, and went hunting together when autumn came. They should have mended clothes and gone horse riding and baked cakes. So where had she failed? When had the love of a father abandoned him?

“Captain”, he grunted, eyeing the newcomers suspiciously. “This the man we’re looking for?”

Quietly, Nemiet gave way to the priest, who walked in her place. Next to Isran, Dexion looked small and frail, so small that the wind could have knocked him over. As he greeted the general, his voice was kind and his words polite, and the hunter thought deeply and fondly (albeit against her will) of what it would have been like to grow up as the daughter of a man like him.

“Can we start now?” Isran's question addressed everyone present. Nemiet nodded and took her place next to him, but avoided looking at Serana for too long. She was afraid that her trust in the vampire would further undermine her position.

When the scroll was retrieved, Serana sighed deeply, as if regretting. The Redguard understood this sense of difficulty. Serious, she watched as it was handed to the priest, who received it with great enthusiasm. As he held it in his hands, its gold-cast surface glowed with the light that surrounded them all now; only Dexion's eyes, which seemed deeper than before, shone brighter.

“I would now ask for complete silence”, the man asked.

Secretly, Nemiet was also excited. She held her breath as the priest opened the scroll with trembling hands. As if possessed, the Imperial’s eyes widened as he processed the information contained in the artifact in front of him. Then, a white light flashed in his eyes, leaving them pale and blurred, and when he finally spoke again, it was as if the speaker was an altogether different man.

“Much have I learned”, he began, “But only now am I beginning to understand. I see that which you seek: a mighty bow cast in gold, and for whose arrows Auriel harnessed the sun.”

Isran stirred. Nemiet glanced cautiously at him, but said nothing.

“Many voices speak to me. They say, ‘from among the children of the night rises one who is to become their Lord. In an age of strife, darkness will descend where light now reigns, and night and day will be as one’”, said he as a recording. “The voices fade away; the words disappear from my grasp. But still I see something…”

“There are other scrolls. This prophecy is divided into three of them; not all knowledge is in our hands. To have it, the other two must be found.” Dexion's voice, which had started as a roar at the beginning, now faded to a whisper, “my vision darkens, and I see no more.”

The man turned pale as a ghost. He appeared faint, and Nemiet feared he would hit his head on the floor, or something equally gruesome. 

“I must rest”, said he in a weak voice, before giving up the scroll. “I am very tired.”

“Come on, old man. You will be taken somewhere you can sleep”, Isran said before asking Gunmar to join him. Dexion then grabbed the Nord by the arm, and held on tightly as they disappeared together into the darkness.

Then Isran was ready to leave himself. Nothing would have stopped him if Nemiet hadn't opened her mouth, voice shaking with uncertainty, “so? What are the orders?”

The general turned around, and looked at his daughter dead in the eye, without flinching once. 

“The reading was of little help. Instead of answers, we have more questions. The only reason that thing is still alive is because I recognized the bow the priest was talking about. Always thought it was  a myth, which is why I wasted neither time nor resources looking for it. I now hope that was the case. If it exists, and if the enemy gets to it before we do, then all is lost”, said he in a low and hoarse voice, “the priest is safe with us. As for the vampire, either put it back on the wall, or get it out of here by tomorrow.”

Hearing this, Nemiet was very hesitant to question her father's authority. But she had made a promise, and she was true to her promise, no matter to whom she made it. Outwardly calmly, but with a pounding heart, she spoke, “no, sir. She stays. I will take care of her–but I will not cuff her again, for I have seen that she is worthy of my trust.”

Her father's eyes widened in surprise, before narrowing again. Isran gritted his teeth but said nothing. This must have been the most peaceful of outcomes, the hunter thought as he left. 

With her hands behind her back, Nemiet looked wistfully after her father, her face now equally as sad as it was thoughtful. In that longing, Serana recognized herself, and came to her side, smiling as comfortingly as she could.

“Thank you”, she said, “for what you did.”

Nemiet smiled back at her, but only a little.

The following question was cautious and genuinely concerned about whether the Redguard would listen. “I know it's a bad time, but do you have a moment?” Noise from the dining hall began to fill the air. A feast had begun. It was true that their moments of success were few and far between, and that small pleasures were met with great expense; but Nemiet was not in the mood for these amusements.

“Of course”, said she, still absent.

The vampire glanced anxiously towards the hall before speaking again. “You heard what the priest said, that we need the rest of the scrolls–and I might know where to find one.”

“Why are you telling me this now?” Nemiet's question was not mean, but curious. She turned to the vampire, concerned by her serious face.

“You can hardly blame me. The whole fort wants me dead”, she said with a shrug. “Even my father welcomed me more warmly, and that’s just sad. Sometimes I wonder why I do this, to help people who hate me.”

“Because it is the right thing to do”, said the hunter without hesitation. “What's really going on between you and your father?”

“When the prophecy came to our castle, things never went back to the way they were. Your wife, your children, they just get in the way of your new goal”, sighed the vampire. 

There was a storm inside Nemiet, but she hid it well. Swallowing against her dry throat, she then asked, “think he could still care about you?”

“You know, I've asked myself that.” Her voice was low and she moved restlessly, but the Redguard gave her the time she needed. “I thought… I hoped that if he saw me again, after all those years, he might have felt something again. But I meant nothing to him, as if I was never his daughter. Just a pawn to be moved around at will.”

Nemiet looked at her, and then back towards the hall where her father had gone. Then, cautiously, she spoke, “you cannot choose your parents, but you can choose the direction of your own heart. You still have a chance to be better than him.”

Serana could not immediately answer. Her expression was confused, but genuinely moved by the Redguard's words, and in saying such things Nemiet had surprised herself. Her stomach turned over and for a moment she thought she was going to vomit. Just a few words, and really, all the meaning was in them.

Dismissively, she cleared her throat. "So where can we find this scroll you mentioned?"

The Nord's bewilderment faded. She cocked back her head, sighing deeply. “We have to find my mother, Valerica. She will know where it is–and if luck is on our side, it is in her possession.”

“So you do know where she is”, asked Nemiet in return.

“No, not really”, said Serana, “the last time I heard from her, she said something very strange, but I think it might have been significant. She told me she was retiring somewhere my father wouldn't know to look for her–it doesn't sound like much, but believe me when I say that my mother is smart and she doesn't say things in vain.”

“Maybe she wanted to be careful”, responded the hunter. Her eyes began to adjust to the twilight that had come over them. Secretly, she was fascinated by the vampire’s eyeshine, which in the twilight stood out in ghostly circles. “Maybe she wanted to keep you out of all this.”

“Maybe”, Serana wondered, frowning. “But I don't understand what she meant.”

“Could she have been entombed like you?” Her suggestion gained naught but a head shake from her.

“I don’t think so”, muttered the Nord. “She made it clear even then that she wanted to be kept informed in case the situation was resolved. One of us had to stay awake, and she’s a much more powerful mage than I am. So it had to be her.”

“Okay”, said Nemiet then, and suggested something she knew wouldn't make sense. “Hiding in the castle?”

For a moment, Serana looked shocked, as if the hunter had asked her to marry her, right then and there. Then, slowly, as the snow melting from the mountains in spring formed into trickling streams, a look of satisfaction spread across her face. “No, it does make sense. There’s a courtyard in the castle–mother grew reagents there. I used to help her sometimes. I still remember how easily wild chervil grew even where the sun hardly ever shone. I found it inspiring... well, anyway. She always said my father wouldn't come there. Guess it didn't suit his power.”

Nemiet looked down, but couldn't hide the smile that the vampire's comment about weeds brought to her face. “Wouldn't that be too dangerous, staying around the castle?”

“It should be, yeah”, she laughed a little lighter now. “But it sounds very much like her. She’s not afraid of anything, not even my father. Hiding under his nose may even entertain her… well, I don't think we'll trip over her there, but I need to be sure.”

“Great plan. Might even get the Order’s approval”, the Redguard shrugged and squinted her eyes. “There is just one problem. Nothing big, or too complicated. We have no way of getting in.”

Now Serana laughed. Her slender shoulders shook with it. It made the Redguard smile even more–she forgot to pay any attention to it, or how joy bubbled up inside her, and her recent sorrow seemed forgotten. “Lucky for you, I'm one step ahead, hopefully also my father. You see, there is another entrance on the north side of the castle–the old owner used it to deliver goods by water. From there we can get inside.”

“Well, one thing’s for sure: if it wasn't for you, we'd hardly have made it anywhere,” Nemiet said now, smiling wearily. When she realized the speed of her tongue, she grunted and suddenly turned her attention elsewhere. “But the trip will have to wait. Let us see what tomorrow brings.”

Serana felt genuinely relieved at her words. She couldn't say she missed home, not particularly; but she did want to see the places she still had fond memories of, and hoped it would fill some of the emptiness that was growing in her stomach. And seeing the authenticity in the vampire's smile, the Redguard stared at her for a moment, thinking, if only momentarily, that she was beautiful. She was beautiful in the way that old, skilfully carved statues and the moon shining white are beautiful; like the feeling of standing in the cold rain that stuck to your clothes and made you feel uncomfortable, but also reminded you what it was like to be alive. A freshness came over her even in that stale foyer, and it felt so nice that she could hardly look away.

Then Serana seemed to want to add something, but was rudely interrupted.

“Nemiet!” Without them noticing, Agmaer had arrived at the doorway. When Nemiet looked at him, she felt very guilty, although she didn't understand why–perhaps because he had surprised her at a moment when she had been thinking about things which were very different from anything she had been taught, or just because the moment had been so new and strangely intimate for her. Embarrassed, she looked at the Nord leaning against the wall with a bottle of ale in his hand, his face red with drunkenness. The man smiled lazily, and when he spoke, his words trailed off. “An’ so, the hero returns.”

“Join us ‘ere”, he stammered. “The feast is in your honor. The general isn’t here, he doesn’t like to get messy. He’s too dignified, you know. But you should come.”

“Thanks, but I think I’ll pass”, she said politely, if awkwardly. “I must rest.”

“Come on… it’ll be fun! And later, we can–”

“Agmaer”, she cut him off firmly. “I don't mean to be rude, but it's been a long day.”

“Fuck”, groaned the Nord. He seemed disappointed as he moved, and the Redguard couldn't help feeling bad. She had only recently learned to refuse things she didn't want–and the more she had listened to her own will, the angrier Agmaer seemed to become. It was easier to be compliant and liked, even if reluctantly, she felt, but there was nothing more she could do about it.

“Might even be better if I don't come”, endorsed Nemiet dryly. “But you, all of you, have earned it. Go and have some fun.”

“I don't get it. When did you become like this?” He pouted, and the Redguard found it hard to watch. Then his gaze turned to Serana, his nose wrinkled in anger. “The Nemiet I knew wouldn't go with those wretches. In fact, she wouldn't go with anyone at all. I've asked ye for one thing all these years, your attention, to no avail. Was almost even with it, honest. But now, with that thing barging in, that's all you're going to do. That I cannot forgive.”

“That thing’s got a name–”, Nemiet replied, already feeling a deep, primal protectiveness inside–the man interrupted her, however, before the answer could even form in her head.

“ Whatever . Not interested. Find me when you've played leader enough. And that moment will come,” he spit.

There was something in his gaze that made even the Redguard's blood run cold. They were raging not only with alcohol, but also with anger and jealousy. This fear did not show outwardly in her, though, and Nemiet lifted her chin upwards and watched as the man staggered backwards and returned to the hall.

The hunter closed her eyes and counted to ten with a long breath. She didn't know what to do with Agmaer, and didn't really feel like giving it any thought in her current situation. The Redguard’s shoulders shook with the outpouring of emotion, and she felt small in the darkness and coldness that surrounded her. 

“Well, I need some fresh air before I can sleep”, said Nemiet, “and a prayer. If you’ll excuse me.”

Serana nodded. The Redguard gestured towards the stairs, towards which the vampire then headed, and followed herself. Their boots clattered hollowly in the round tower, and Nemiet remembered wistfully the days when the stone walls were still full of shadows from her imagination, and for every question there seemed to be an easy answer, and she could digest anything.

She escorted the Nord to her room, where she said she hoped she would stay unless she was going out. Serana agreed, of course. She looked with interest at Nemiet's large but modestly furnished room, her desk and a few books on it, the top one of which the hunter took before leaving.

Shortly after, Nemiet climbed to the roof of the fortress. The cold air greeted her, refreshing her like a frosty drink. As she breathed, the air condensed in front of her face, and she watched the clouds that had formed float over the valley and then disappear. It was a clear night; in the endless black night sky, the stars were carelessly thrown around. As she let her gaze rest among them, the weight in her chest seemed to lighten slightly, though it did not completely lift. But even a little relief was still a relief, and she accepted it gladly.

She walked to the other end of the battlements, where there was a circular bastion with a wall overlooking not only the whole valley, but also far into the Rift. Now, the city lights glowed a warm yellow in the west, and their heat reminded Nemiet of the torchbugs she sometimes saw in the meadow on a summer night. The watchman had not yet arrived, so she was left to sit quietly with her back against the parapet, and put the book down beside her on the ground. From inside her gambeson, the Redguard dug out her amulet, clutching it tightly in her hands as she formulated her prayer. The metal of the jewelry felt cold when she began, quietly and calmly, as if the wind itself spoke through her.

When she felt she had said it all, and nothing had happened again except for the wind blowing over him, she sighed deeply and rested her head against the wall. In that moment the Redguard did nothing, just stared at a particularly bright star, feeling many things in her heart, but nothing clear or definite. Maybe there were things she wasn't supposed to know. But underneath the comfort of that, there was a fear that she didn't understand, even though she should have. She wished someone had been there to tell her, a God, or a father; and she knew that's what she wanted, that she wanted that person to be the latter of the two.

Then she picked up the book from the ground. It was the Daedric Bestiary, the Handbook of the Order; the edition was her own, and it was full of phrases that had been both underlined and circled. On those yellowed pages there were many different kinds of vampires; there were scions, and there were fiends; and then there were the likes of Serana, who met neither of those chilling definitions. Looking at the faded image of the ghostly human figure baring his teeth, looking at the gleam in his eyes and the blackened skin, she was surprised herself–not by what she saw, but by how similar to it she really was. But what made her different? And why did she feel she trusted her so genuinely, despite everyone's warnings?

Suddenly, there was a voice. “Nice book.”

Nemiet flinched, but when she saw Serana's eyes glowing in the dark, she calmed down at an instant. “Could you please not sneak around like that?”

“I could try.” She then sat down next to her. The wind caught her hair and ruffled it. One of her braids had come loose. And again she had that smile, the kind of coy, friendly, curious smile that Nemiet couldn't read. Was it genuine, or just a brilliant performance? Either way, it twisted her insides, in a way that was almost nice.

“So those were the pages you stared at from morning to night while you were growing up?” Her question was a light one, but the Redguard took it seriously.

“You could say that. But you forget what I am–the battle drills took more time.”

“Your childhood was very different from mine. I learnt etiquette, how to be a proper lady,” said she with a smile, “or well, at least before the whole cult thing.”

“Lady Serana”, said Nemiet, “it does have a nice sound to it.”

Then, the vampire nodded towards the book. “Can I see?” 

Nemiet handed the book to her, and in doing so, she touched her lightly. Perhaps she did it deliberately, probing her own feelings, and was surprised again by the response; yes, it still felt exciting, pulse-raisingly wonderful.

“Oh no! Do I look this dreadful?” Serana's question was mock-horrified. “Are my teeth this yellow?”

Nemiet laughed, and felt the urge to say no, but was not yet able to express herself that way. "I know you see yourself in the mirror. So that doesn’t work on me."

“Well now you’ve ruined my fun.”

She closed the book. Quietly, they sat there, looking up at the stars, listening to the silence around them that many did not know, or even care to listen to. The hunter didn't much care for the company of others–she never felt comfortable or relaxed unless she was alone. But now, Nemiet felt a different sense of belonging, and she didn't have to be ashamed of her thoughts or feel incompetent. There, she had the feeling that their griefs almost knew each other; they were like a melody that suddenly came to mind, and which you could then hear humming in the gatehouse. It was like a response to her earlier reflection, this is as it should be. This is the right direction.

Still, the Redguard could tell that something was on Serana's mind. Cautiously, she asked, "What are you thinking about?" 

“Only what Dexion said, about the final scroll. I'd go to the Mage’s College in Winterhold–they know all sorts of things that we lay people don't. Unless you happen to know an innkeeper who knows about ancient magic”, she smirked towards the end.

Nemiet laughed at this.

After a moment, she opened her mouth and asked, albeit carefully and a little timidly, how Serana felt about her mother.

“Before my father... well, you know, I spent most of my time with my mother. She loved her garden, the one I told you about–and she taught me everything I know about magic”, she spoke with emotion, and the hunter listened intently, her hand pressed to her forehead. She knew how difficult it was to be between memories when her childhood had been anything but happy. Perhaps, that's why she understood her so well.

“Glad to hear it wasn't all that bad.”

“Yeah," Serana said and grimaced. Then she turned her gaze from the ground to Nemiet, who suddenly felt shy at the way her mouth curved beautifully as she smiled. “When I was a little girl, she was the most important person in my life. I admired her, her abilities…”

“And then you came of age–you realized that even she wasn't perfect," shrugged Nemiet, “happens to everyone, I would guess.”

“It happened so suddenly," said the vampire, frowning. “One day we're a normal, if slightly eccentric, family, and the next I no longer recognised who my parents were. Even my mother changed. Denied me access to everything, even the garden. Said she was much too busy.”

“And that's why you think we could find answers in the garden?”

“It must be so," she said more confidently now, “I hope we find her, Nemiet.”

Nemiet didn't know why saying her name out loud made her feel so odd. Perhaps it was because, against her will, she liked Serana's voice very much (it was soft and rich, almost like a song in itself), and it even made her name sound beautiful; or perhaps it was the fear that her title no longer meant anything. Either way, there was a turmoil inside of her.

Before she could think too much about it, Serana asked her, “So what's your story?” 

At first, something twisted painfully inside Nemiet, like a reopened wound she no longer remembered. She took a sharp breath, and then felt herself calm down a little, though her heart was still beating out of rhythm. She mustered all the strength he could, and then spoke, surprised even at the solidity of her own voice, when all her insides seemed to shudder and melt into one shapeless mass.

“My father and I... well, we haven't been a family for years. A real family, I mean. Even before you came. I…," she took a moment to blink the tears from her eyes. “Things got even worse for us after Dimhollow. I hope you believe me when I say he is a wise man. He always did everything he could to keep me and others safe, even at his own expense. But lately I have found myself deviating a lot from his teachings. I speak against him, refuse to follow the rules… I have never, and I mean never, done that.”

The Redguard covered her mouth with her palm for a moment and collected her thoughts. Her throat burned in a way she knew was preceded by tears. “I was born with a crossbow. There was this one time… it was the twentieth of Evening Star, I was fifteen. My father had left me in charge, he thought I was mature enough. I don’t think he really thought anything was going to happen. He just… wanted to teach me to be responsible.”

Serana listened in silence. She could not imagine such a responsibility–on the contrary, at home she had not had it at all. Everything had been made ready for her, like a gilded cage.

“There was an attack at night. We weren’t ready, and a man died. Ended up getting killed on my watch. I was careless and lazy, and I…” Nemiet’s voice faded into the wind and she paused for a moment. “He didn’t speak to me for a week. Do you know how long a week feels when your own father won't look at you, when your conscience tells you every second how someone died because of you?”

“You were fifteen," said Serana consolingly. “You can't expect a child to have that kind of responsibility.”

“Maybe. But I was also a soldier, and I had years of experience, more than some of our men have today. Haven’t said a word against him since. I believe him when he says he knows better," she sighed, “not before Dimhollow, I haven’t. Before now.”

Then Nemiet wiped her eyes with trembling hands and looked with cloudy eyes at the vampire, to whom the Redguard realized she had told things she had been holding back for a long time. “Don't know why I'm telling you this. I shouldn't really even be talking to you. Maybe it's because I don't have anyone else. Maybe I've gone mad. This fight, it does that to people.”

“I know it's hard to hear, but no one has all the answers," the vampire said softly, and Nemiet was afraid it was a lie. Even more, she feared it was true. "Not even your father. Especially not him."

She nodded, then shivered at the cold that had suddenly begun to affect her. “You do know that I have been taught to take everything that comes out of your mouth as a lie.”

“And so I challenge you by asking, what would I get out of it?" The vampire asked this question and then thought of herself, and how they experienced the world very similarly regardless of their backgrounds. Perhaps in comforting the Redguard, she was also comforting herself; perhaps the words she addressed to Nemiet spoke to them both. “If you never leave the path set out for you, you will never see what is in the forest. And you do want to see, don't you?”

That silenced the hunter. When she looked up at the sky, and thought how small they looked from there, and how small all their problems were compared to the vastness of the universe, she regained some of her dwindling fighting spirit. It was so easy to forget who they were and where they had come from. And although the Redguard’s throat hurt from the tears she hadn't let out, she felt better already.

“I don't know shit, do I," was all she said.

Even though fatigue weighed on Nemiet, and even though the frost bit at her skin, she chose to sit outside for a while longer. Tomorrow would be waiting for her, for them. And the answer to her prayers seemed now to have sat beside her, making her feel her faith in both Stendarr and herself strengthened. 

“It is as good a place as any to start," answered the vampire with a sigh, “for you and I both.”

The time of great trials would soon come; but Nemiet let herself be comforted, if only for a moment.

Chapter 8: The Gray Hermit

Notes:

Finally I got a new chapter out! Not going to lie, this wrung me dry of everything. I struggled more than in a while, and I'm still not fully satisfied. But it's done, and it's here, so at least I get a breather now. Time to carry on!

That night, Nemiet's strange dreams began.

From the darkness it began–indeed, it began with a sense of being, even though she didn't quite understand where it was that she was; there, she knew she was alone, yet she felt the traces of many souls as a string of stars crossing the sky. Then came the cold, as if the sunlight had never touched the ground on which she stood, toes dipping into a soft, grainy surface. With her arms wrapped around herself, Nemiet stared ahead, but still she saw nothing. The blindness took what felt like an age to pass, frightening her at first but subsiding as she tired; her body convulsed, fingers curling around her biceps, skin crying out for warmth. And when she finally did see the light, it came from below and blinked tears out of her.

The Redguard found herself naked on a shore which seemed to stretch on forever in all directions before its shapes faded to obscurity; the water itself was black, but the crest of each wave glittered blue like a thousand tiny diamonds, as if the night itself was licking at her feet. Though the roar of the ancient lake filled her being, not even the wind seemed to blow over her–it may not have got to where she was standing, or perhaps there was no known concept of it in that realm. For all that emptiness, that nothingness, a crushing pain wracked her ribs, and it was no peace that enveloped her; as the hot tears began to trickle down her cheeks and drip onto her collarbones, Nemiet opened her mouth as if to scream, but no sound could be heard. 

At the end of her dream, when she jerked awake, she was still in the dark. In a flash, the remnants of sleep left her. Icy sweat covered the Redguard’s body; the tiny droplets seared her skin like the stings of a thousand wasps. She tried to steady her breathing, muscles quivering, fingers digging deep into the sheep skin under which she had slept. As the wild throbbing of her heart at last settled down, a haunting void swamped the room, and she recalled that she was not at home, but somewhere altogether different.

Once her eyes grew more accustomed, the room around Nemiet took shape. The bed in the guest room was small and creaky, but it had kept her warm, for it was lined with furs. There was a wolfskin on the floor, cured and pale, threadbare from the many boot soles having trodden it. There was a wooden chair, a table, and a wardrobe. The window tapered towards a tip, swallowed by the frost, but there was no light filtering through the crystals. It’s still early, the hunter decided, and, in spite of her plight, sighed contentedly. All in all, the room had been more than enough for her, and by the standards of the rest of Winterhold, up to what one may call lavish.

The inn at which they were staying at–the locals called the Frozen Hearth, and not for nothing, for the weather this far north was indeed deathly if one was to come poorly equipped–was one of the last buildings still intact in the city. Nemiet had witnessed the devastation for herself after their arrival the previous night. A hundred years ere, Winterhold had been hit by a series of inexplicable natural disasters (characterized simply as ungodly by the eyewitnesses), and those who had not died in the storms had soon abandoned their homes and dispersed elsewhere. The event, which was then descriptively named the Great Collapse , had left behind only a handful of wooden walls and stone foundations, still poking out of the snow like the bones of a long-dead dragon–but curiously enough, the entire Mages' College had survived virtually unscathed. This, of course, gave grounds for the local paranoiacs for accusations against the mages, and their ties with the rest of the province had further frayed. It was true that the people of Skyrim had never cared much for magic, preferring to rely on that which they understood (which would be steel and brute force); almost every Nord avoided it like the plague, and although Nemiet did not agree with them on many things, this was one of the few.

Tired, she rubbed her neck, stiff from the long journey. Her mouth was dry, and when she moved her eyes it was as if they were moving in sandy pits. It was inconvenient, but commonplace. That which she could understand scared her not. But even though her body had notably calmed, and her heart was beating at a normal pace, the nightmare would not leave her. It was the kind of a haunting, sickly feeling one failed to forget–the cold, the darkness, the water at her feet. It hadn't even felt like a dream, but more real than this moment that passed her in a dense fog. 

Absently, Nemiet stroked the scar she had received in Dimhollow. It had healed well and readily, but sometimes she could still feel the edges twitch and burn. She thought of it as a reminder; lose, and your loss shall follow you everywhere; win, but do it not for yourself, but for your people. And the Redguard knew she was expected to do what the others could not–and she had sought to turn this baggage to glory, even at the risk of neglecting her own humanity, that beneath her skin there was a heart, frightened and true.

So the Redguard knew she had to go out and clear her head. She arose, and walked into the empty hall to get herself something to eat. Then, when she returned, she sat down by the table. There she had bread and yesterday’s beef stew, trying desperately to direct her thoughts to the day that was ahead, but as she twirled the spoon in one hand, nothing could interrupt her from going back to her dream until there was a knock at the door.

Swiftly, the hunter got up, wiping her hands on the front of her breeches before she let Serana in. The vampire smiled sweetly at her, and she felt deflated, flashing back naught but an awkward half-smile.

“Did you sleep well?” She walked past her, causing the Redguard to close the door behind her and lean smally against it. Nemiet shrugged with unease, and thought for a moment about telling her dream, but decided then that she wanted to push it as far as she was able.

“Yeah," she responded. Intrigued, the hunter eyed the vampire from head to toe, noting her long black cloak and the worn burgundy tunic under her corset, the nice ruffled hem and old needlework. Her clothes were fine, but to the hunter they felt rather impractical. But since Serana needn't have feared the cold might break her skin, or indeed much else, it hardly mattered.

The vampire looked at her with suspicion. She didn't push, even though she knew very well that she was lying, and then said, “okay.”

“Sorry. This takes some getting used to," Nemiet hurried to change her words, swinging her arm through the air, then going on uncertainly, “this. Us, working together. Never stopped being strange.”

“Strange is a word," agreed Serana and smiled, though tensely. The anxiousness within her sharpened off to a peak; none of what she was to say now would be easy. But she had spent the entire night considering it, and now only wished to be rid of the thoughts that nagged at her so much. “Been thinking about what you said to me the night before we left. That you felt alone. And this may come as a bit of a surprise, given my intellect and, well, my social talent, but I went through much the same thing.”

To this, Nemiet said nothing. She kept her arms crossed and listened, an expectant look on her face.

“I was never alone in the castle. Had a mother, a father, a couple of pushy suitors, some fresh, new vampires who hoped my company would bring them new opportunities. They worshiped my father, you know. More than Bal, I sometimes thought," sitting down on Nemiet's bed, she heaved a long sigh, clutching her hands above her thighs. After a pause, the vampire went on, “but I realized that having people around you means nothing. Sometimes you get lonelier... it’s that you don't notice it until you walk away. Your step carries you differently. Lighter .”

Then the vampire faced downwards, troubled. When Nemiet finally did get a word out, it was through a dry huff. “So I was lonely, and so were you. That hardly means a thing.” 

“Maybe," she said dejectedly, “It was just a thought that maybe we weren't so different.”

“We are hardly comparable," the answer from Nemiet was meager. She felt foolish–indeed, she did not mean it in the least. She kept swallowing back her tears as she spoke, hoping that Serana would not notice. “But you’re right. You’re different from them, different from your father. That’s why you didn't belong.”

“Hm," muttered Serana, immersed in deep thought. Admittedly, it hurt her that Nemiet needed to watch her from an angle from which she was no longer connected to her family or background to have any empathy for her. Yet all the while, she understood. The pain that stared back at her whenever their eyes met was far from light. But by no means was the Redguard the only one in whom it lived, the one who had been thrown naked onto the cold floor, made to pray to a master for whom her life meant naught. It may have been years, millennia ago, but she still remembered as if it was only yesterday. There was simply no forgetting such torment. “Tell me, Nemiet, are you still lonely?”

“What?” The Redguard’s question came in a confused tone. “Why would you-”

“Just answer the question.”

Startled by the vampire's candor, Nemiet shrugged, still avoiding eye contact. “Don’t know, guess not. As the captain, I'm not supposed to fraternize with my men.”

Serana nodded smally. “Your father's teachings?” 

“Where is this coming from? What do you get from-” Her question was agitated, cut short, but then as she continued she spoke more softly, as if regretting her words, “you shouldn't talk like that. We're not supposed to... If I have given you any reason to doubt my intentions, I am sorry.”

At first, Serana was ready to protest, ask the Redguard to reconsider, to give her a chance. Words formed into sentences in the back of her throat, which tightened in disappointment. Shame crashed over her head like the cruelest wave in the ocean, then drew her down into the black depths. Hands balling into fists, nails sinking into her palms, she felt like the most foolish woman on earth. Yet, her plight she could not fully understand. Nemiet was forever vigilant, laying close to no one, behaving at the very best like a jittery doe calf. That they would ever come to be friendly was as improbable as that Serana would one day be out in the sun. But if the answer was already known, then why ask? And why did an already known answer cause her to feel so miserable? 

In the end, she said little or nothing. Humiliated, the vampire stood up and brushed past her hurriedly, “well, there you have it, then.”

Once she had slammed the door shut behind her, Nemiet was left alone in the dark, cramped room. For a few breaths she had to hold on tightly to the back of the chair and count to ten, knuckles going pale.  In her distress, she wished she could run after her and apologize–and in the midst of it all, she couldn't possibly justify why something that was supposed to come naturally to her took so much getting used to.

Nevertheless, she got dressed. Leaving the warmth of the tavern she stepped out into the cold, thin mountain air. Far to the east, the horizon lingered in shades of dull blue and rosy yellow. The sun had not yet risen above the sea. The smaller moon, white as milk, loomed full behind the tallest tower of the College; its high halls stood stark over the morning. When she looked up, the stars were still looking back at her–barely discernible, flickering ever above them. Soon the day would dawn, and the vast blue skies above Winterhold would come alive with birdsong and the sounds of people. A nagging feeling washed over Nemiet, and not only because of Serana–she feared the reception they would get once the mages had heard their strange questions. The Redguard wasn't sure if there were answers, but she knew she would never have agreed to ask such things unless she was the only one in her position, and she was. 

They made it through the village buried under a fresh layer of snow. The early light glinted off the hunter’s pauldron surface, engraved with a ten-pointed sun. Water had seeped and frozen into the cracks of the wooden buildings, so much so that she didn't know if it even flowed in summer which, incidentally, was not far away at all. Here, in the absence of heat and leaf nubs, one could hardly notice it. 

The College was located on a cliff that stood out from the rest of the mainland, which had once been part of the city but since destroyed and sunk into the sea.  Once they reached the end of the main street, they started to climb up the dilapidated stone bridge. As well as being in a rather poor condition, it was narrow, and ran high in the air, taking them far above the ground. With every step they took, the Redguard's breath hitched harder, and she didn't know whether it was the spectacular views across the northern coast, where wisps of fog emerged from the coves of the bay, or the climb itself.

And she studied Serana whenever she could, unknowingly, hesitating. The vampire was like a sculpture, born from the hand of a talented artist, conjured to life. As she turned to wait for her again, looking down at her against the pale blue sky, the wind playing with her hair, the Redguard’s heart skipped a beat. Her cheeks soon became hot, and she hoped it was because of the climb, even though she was in excellent condition, and the ascent was not that difficult–it was easy enough to believe.

Even at this hour, the courtyard was bustling. Led by an elder Nord, a small group of apprentices amused themselves outside the front doors. Although his face was warm and patient, he appeared tired as he spoke to them, explaining about a field trip of sorts. They would hear every second or third word as they passed by them. Where the first Arch-Mage stood with his arms outstretched in front of a well with a blue magic pulse rising from its depths, Nemiet noticed another man. The Altmer, dressed in fine gold-embroidered clothes, also seemed to have already spotted them. He squinted his eyes and stepped before them, blocking their passage through the main door. 

“And what have we here? I suppose I would remember if the College was expecting new apprentices," he spoke haughtily, lengthening his vowels. Nemiet straightened up. “I am afraid, if you cannot specify your reason for passing, I must ask you to leave.”

“Our reasons are our own," responded the Redguard calmly. She was not afraid of the man twice her height, even though there was irritation in his eyes, and that rarely boded well. “Strange. I had imagined the doors of your College were open to anyone.”

“That is where you're wrong, young dear,” he said and put his hands behind his back, looking appraisingly at the Redguard. The wind tossed his blond hair over his pointed shoulder pads. “It is your intentions, not your desires, that determine whether you are allowed to pass.”

Distressed, Nemiet was about to say something, but was interrupted, for which she was secretly grateful. 

“Is there a problem?”

Turning towards the entrance to the courtyard, the hunter saw for the first time the middle-aged woman, whose hair was short and skin tan and covered by numerous wrinkles. She stood upright, surrounded by a certain authority that even the elf seemed to abhor. He grimaced, but showed no other physical signs of how much her arrival had dented his pride. 

“I would advise you to leave our visitors alone, Ancano. They pose no threat to you.”

“You insult me," hissed back Ancano, managing to retain some dignity. There was a tension between them that both Nemiet and Serana knew ran deeper than a single incident. “I was simply hoping to hear the reason behind their visit. That is hardly an exaggeration, ma’am.”

“Good. And now, they're coming under my responsibility," said Mirabelle and walked between them, pointing gingerly towards the main doors. Intensely, his golden gaze followed her. “You may take your leave.”

The elf first looked at them all in turn, and then walked off without saying a word. 

“For him, you’ve my apologies," said Mirabelle after he had gone. She carefully studied the guests, trying to also determine the reason for their visit. It was clear that she didn't particularly care about them or their questions either, but had seen it necessary to rescue them from the clutches of her colleague. “Now, what can I do  for you? Here to join the College?”

“No, ma’am," said Nemiet and swallowed thickly, glancing once more in the direction of Ancano's receding back. The day was slowly clearing, and as he left the walkway, light flooded in through the opening of the entrance. “We were told the College has the most comprehensive library in Skyrim. Confidentiality binds me, but we mean no harm. All we are looking for are answers.”

The older mage seemed to consider her words for a moment. Her expressionlessness horrified Nemiet, who flinched once in nervousness, but calmed considerably as Mirabelle nodded towards the main doors. 

“This is the Hall of Elements," she said as she took them inside, her voice bouncing off the high stone walls. The interior was not much to look at, but the foyer was filled with a magical glow, like the clear water of a hot spring; in the middle of the circular hall was a well-like structure, like the one outside by statue of the Arch-Mage, and from within rose a similar magic column, with both dust and tiny blue sparks dancing around it. Nemiet felt strongly about it, something like self-confidence and ambition, like she could have reached into the stream and fallen into a bottomless pool without ever finding a way out. Seen from the door, their figures loomed black against its pulse. In the stone slab beneath their feet, the eye of Magnus was carved; Serana knew it was an international symbol of the mages, a sign usually placed to tell practitioners whether a place was safe for them. It made her feel welcome. And although the College had suffered greatly in its day, neither the storms nor erosion had been able to destroy it or its wonders from ordinary people.

“This is where we hold our lectures, training sessions, and most frequent meetings," the Breton continued, “what you are looking for is the Arcanaeum. It is located directly above this hall. There you will meet the librarian, Urag gro-Shub. Be careful when you approach him–the man cares no less for his own peace than he does for his books.”

She then showed them to the door. They thanked Mirabelle for her help, to which she nodded approvingly. 

As the heavy metal door closed shut behind them, a thunderous sound boomed up the circular tower. Their shadows lined the wall, for the candlelight illuminated only part of them, and not even the slightest of Serana with her hood covering her face. The air was still, but what was worse was the cold that plagued Nemiet as they climbed. When not a word was spoken aloud, the Redguard became restless, ascending quietly in the vampire’s wake, her mind teeming with the things she wished to discuss.

The library was quiet, just as they had expected. It was a vast, circular room with dozens and dozens of fully stacked bookshelves lining the walls. Most of the covers were worn, but all looked well cared for. Bright sunlight shone in through the frosted windows, and though never warm enough to melt the ice, it sparkled playfully over the windowsill. One discolored rug had ink spilled on it; this was perhaps why the sealed ink bottles had been placed in the middle of the round wooden tables.

Serana was, of course, delighted. Her gaze drowsily roamed the shelves, and she wished she could be there another day when danger was not there to whip them forward. Nemiet watched her for a moment, but when the strange feeling crept into her chest again, she left the vampire behind and walked through the sunken middle section to the counter, where the Arcaneum's only guest, the librarian, sat with a book in his hands.

Before the Redguard could say anything, the Orc spoke without taking his eyes off the yellowed pages, “you’re now in the Arcaneum, for which I am responsible. I watch this place like a father watches his daughter. Mess around, destroy something, and you might not walk out those doors alive. Now, what can I do for you?”

“The library’s quite impressive,” started Nemiet cautiously. Urag looked at her from under his brows, licked his finger and turned the page. The words reflected off the surface of the glasses sitting on his nose. “My name is Nemiet Taher. My partner and I are looking for something we believe you can help us find.”

When there was no reply, she continued to speak, her heart pounding with nervousness, “we’re looking for an Elder Scroll.”

On hearing this, the librarian put the book down and looked appraisingly at the Redguard. A disdainful laugh rose in his throat. “And what would you, or either of you, do with one of those? Do you even know what you're asking for, or are you some megalomaniac’s errand girls?”

Nemiet fell silent, shocked by his words. Suddenly, Serana appeared beside her. “Yes Urag, we do know. May I call you that? Sweet. Though, I advise you to say what you know, for it is many, many more tricky to question the dead.”

The Orc watched them both now in turn, bewildered.

Nemiet glanced at the vampire by her side, somewhat worried. Never had she seen her so grave, so irate, and it made her wince with nerves, “all we need is a location. A name. Anything.”

At last, Urag set the book down on the table, crossed his arms and regarded them with a dubious stare. “You are mad. Both of you.”

After a little while, he added, “the thing you two want, you won't find it here. But make no mistake; even if I did have one, I wouldn't let you see it, let alone touch it. It would be kept behind bars in a place where the Gray Fox himself could not go.”

Nemiet drew a slow breath, her chest heaving and then lowering. When she finally did speak, her tone was steady and calm, even persuasive, “hey, Urag. I’ve  nothing against you. And I respect very much your dedication, I really do. But I've got to–and I mean I have got to–find one, and I’ve got to do it soon. We were told you could help us. Can you?"

“Of course, I can," grunted the Orc. After that, his voice softened. “I can give you all the books we have on them, but there are not many. Full of lies, and written by fools.”

Muttering to himself, the sullen librarian rose from his chair, and went out back. As the rattling of the cabinets filled the air, the Redguard cast a concerned look at Serana, who still seemed on edge. Absently, the vampire swayed to and fro a little, looking to the side, chewing through her cheek. Did she look paler than she did before? Nemiet refused to believe that the fault for her bizarre behavior lay solely with Urag, blaming it on herself. The thought ate her when the Orc returned carrying two old books, one green-bound, the other brown and made of leather. 

“Here,” he growled, “handle them gently. The old pages are brittle.”

Still perturbed, Nemiet opened the green one, feeling the parchment with her fingers. The name of the book was ‘Ruminations on Elder Scrolls’ , and it was written in a sloppy, unsteady hand. After only a few paragraphs, the Redguard shook her head, a frown on her face. “This makes no sense.”

“Aye," responded the Orc, with his arms folded over his chest. “That’s the work of old Septimus. He was a little peculiar, but I’ve never met a man so wise. The scrolls were his speciality. It’s a pity he's gone.”

When Serana spoke again, the hunter was surprised by the hush of her voice. “So he's dead?”

“No, Gods, hope not. But he left the College years ago. Said he found something on the glacier, became a field scientist. No one's seen him since," he said and looked out of the window, embedded in frost, though saw nothing. “Should you wish to find him, go north. Look for an outpost.”

“Thank you," said Nemiet and handed the book back to Orc. Urag grunted in response, and watched with satisfaction the backs of his guests.

Having left the College behind, they set off north. There was no road, and the path was naught but a low depression in the thick layer of snow that snaked down the hillside. It was steep, and sometimes there was a large rock or a root that ran along their route. Above them the wind was brisk, but it failed to rock the waves of the distant sea, as it was covered by ice, off of which the light reflected and dazzled the viewer. Midway through the descent, Nemiet would cover her eyes with her arm, shielding herself from the glare. She then turned to look at Serana, who was following her at a short distance. Behind the vampire, the College stood still against a sky strewn with billowing clouds, with a few birds flying through them; their white bellies stood out as separate dots. Higher up the hill, a few pines reached up, black and bleak.

The Nord trudged through the snow like a newborn foal, a far cry from graceful. Nemiet felt playful then. “Doing okay back there?” 

“Eyes on the road, Taher," was a frustrated reply.

“Ah. The famed dignity. It always ends with the first snow bank," laughed the hunter, and the wind caught on to her words.

The closer they got to the shore, the louder the gulls’ calls became. Now, the cliffs stood dark behind them, and there was no telling when they had left the land and stepped out onto the ice. Sometimes a sharply pointed formation would rise up from the ground, covered in snow, but they wouldn't know whether it was a boulder or a small iceberg; their rough shapes reminded Nemiet of ancient teeth bones. There at sea the wind blew stronger, and as it had snowed all night, fresh powder fell in their eyes; licking it aside, it revealed the deep blue ice of the basin, its surface covered with white cracks like scars on skin. 

“Gods, it’s cold," said Nemiet after they had walked for a while. Her many layers of clothing did not prevent the wind from biting her skin.

“Huh," responded Serana, “and here I was, thinking being human was nice.”

The Redguard glared at her. “Rather suffer the cold than run away from anything uncomfortable.”

“It isn’t so bad," confided Serana, “but I do admit that there are certain things I miss. Or rather, the absence of which I miss.”

Nemiet grew curious. “Such as?”

“Hunger is one thing. Have you ever seen the kind of hunger that would make you kill a person to fill your belly? At first it was terrifying. I barely left my room, afraid I was going to suck some poor thing dry. Now, mainly it bores me," she sighed, “but you need not worry. I can keep my temptations to myself.”

“Not worried," said Nemiet with a small laugh, “so I tempt you?”

“Moron," grumbled Serana, supposedly galled, but the tug of her mouth betrayed her. The vampire’s expression turned downwards then, her stomach sinking from the memory, “I did want to talk about what happened before, at the library. To say sorry. Don’t know what came over me, I just... I got angry, so very angry.”

“That’s all right," replied the Redguard, “he was being an ass. I daresay he deserved it. Wouldn't have got what we wanted, though.”

“Not going to deny that," laughed the Nord in response, but then she got serious. “Hey, look ahead.”

Further out to sea, against the clouds which hang heavy and blackish-gray in the sky, a huge iceberg loomed. At its base was a kind of door, made of a few boards placed vertically to cover for a small gap, and on either side of it was a torch pushed into the ice, though both were unlit and covered so thoroughly with frost that they suspected there hadn't been a fire for a while. After blowing out a long breath, the warm air coming out of Nemiet’s mouth obscured what she saw. And she had a chill. She could not understand, try as she might, how anyone could voluntarily choose to live here where even the Gods could hardly find, in a place where great disasters had once ravaged. Not that the problem was hers, anyway; but it made no sense to her.

She asked under her breath, “should we just barge in?” 

“I suppose so," said the vampire, shrugging. “He’s hardly seen anyone in years. Better be careful.”

Together, they walked to the door and tore aside the boards. They were frozen tight, and once the road was clear, Nemiet's fingers cramped from the cold. The only way down into the abyss was a rickety ladder, which gave way with every step, as a thin layer of ice had formed on the surface. Each time it crackled, they would take a breath in fear–never before had any journey seemed to last for so long. When they finally stood at the bottom of the cave carved into the iceberg, they both laughed a little in relief, looking at each other but flinching away. Seeing the strange, inquisitive look in her red eyes, a turmoil came into being inside of Nemiet, and the feeling in her ribs did not calm down even as she filled her lungs with the prickling glacial air. She leaned against the permafrost, looked ahead and pretended not to feel the excitement, no, even though it felt like a fist in her stomach. Sighing, "okay," the Redguard tried to push b the pressure and look forward. The gleaming blue corridor before them seemed to continue deeper and deeper into the ice. From its surface, the buckles of their clothes were reflected off as small, flickering lights, and the ground crunched with every nervous step. 

Without a word, they went on their way. The tunnel was narrow, so that neither of them could have kept their arms straight on their sides; but what it lost in width, it gained in height. Even though they were walking in the dark, up on the ceiling, brightness flooded in. Serana found herself walking with short, labored steps, but as she tried to correct this, she stumbled, without the Redguard noticing. For that, she felt grateful. Her thoughts seemed to stress her, to overwhelm her, but she did not wish to deal with them now.

Then, suddenly, she heard a voice. After a bend, they came to a ledge where Nemiet was about to step over and fall. A few chunks of ice came crashing down. They found themselves looking down on a large opening, inside which the conditions were almost viable; a bedroll rested on the planks on the floor, next to a pair of fur boots; there was a cupboard and there was a table, piled high with empty wine bottles and meat that had curled and turned gray. The cold was now in their favor–in weather that was any warmer the place would have smelt like Lake Honrich.

In the farthest corner of the cave, their gaze was drawn to a mammoth-sized cube, its gilded surface streaked with intricate carvings. Inside the spiral formation there were three aligning glasses, each with a thick layer of frost. Next to it rested a small lantern, whose warm glow illuminated the room. It all seemed to be part of something bigger, something that Nemiet did not understand. What on earth had Septimus found on the glacier?

The man himself, wrinkled and old, was crouching  beside it. The long, uneven beard visible beneath the robe showed that he took little care of himself. Quietly, he spoke to himself, as if he hadn't even noticed their arrival, despite all the noise.

“...once the highest level was built, no others were set. It was, and is, the maximum apex…”

“So you are Septimus," Nemiet exclaimed, trying to see a safe way down. “We were told we would find you here.”

The old man waved a dismissive hand.

He didn't even turn around, let alone give them a word, until Serana spoke. “We have questions? About the Elder Scrolls.”

“Empire... they absconded with them. Or so they think. Those they saw... the ones they thought they saw. I know where there's one. It is forgotten, sequestered," Septimus spoke haltingly, and roused his guests’ interests. He pushed down a strut, which then fell into place. “But Septimus cannot get to it. No, not I, the poor thing. For I have risen beyond its grasp.”

“Why are you here?” Serana eyed the scrap, broken metals and small strips of leather, around them with wariness. “A little cold for camping, eh?”

“The ice entombs the heart. The bane of Kagrenac and Dagoth Ye. To harness it is to know the fundamentals. They are hidden. In here. I needed a vision, deeper than those who dug deep… to bring about an opening," the man's voice faded as he cocked back his head and banged the sheet metal with an open palm. At first he grimaced, but seemed pleased then, oblivious to his company. 

Nemiet asked, her throat swollen with distress, “have you got it here?”

“I have seen enough to know the fabric. The warp of air, the weft of time," his gaze strayed, “but no, it is not in my possession.”

“Septimus," urged the Redguard more strictly now, “where is the scroll?”

“Here. Here, as in Mundus. Tamriel. Near, relatively speaking. In cosmological terms, it is all near," he replied, but still there was no sensible answer. 

Nemiet moved. “Are you all right?”

“Oh! I am well. I shall be well. Well to be within the will inside these walls.”

“Can you tell us the way, or not?” Once again, Serana was inching closer to a place where her patience seemed to rapidly dwindle. She then turned to Nemiet, who frowned at her dark under-eyes and the thin veins running black against the pale skin. Something was amiss. “We should go. Shortly, before I tear him limb from limb. This is a waste of time.”

The kind of ire that she now beheld in the woman's eyes was alien to Nemiet. She peered closely into each eye, debating whether their blood-red was a fresher color than before, runnier, more pungent. Then, her face still grave, her heart leaping with bewilderment, she spoke quietly (so that she would surprise herself again), “hey–you don’t have to do this. Leave it to me. Let me handle this.”

And what made Serana's rage shrink was the way the Redguard's russet eyes met hers, and how calming she could be without them knowing it first. The pinch of her brow softened, and before long her stature relaxed, visibly at ease. What was eating her had not gone away, but like a tame animal it now came to them, with its head low and a tail between its legs. Nemiet gave a hint of a smile, a kind of compassionate and warm smile which didn’t sit right on her face, and felt rigid, as if she had been cast in clay. Empathy had never been part of her training; to the contrary, it was discouraged, having led to speechlessness or harsher, more strenuous bodily exertion. It only took one wrong turn of the back for you to be dead. That is why she was surprised that there was nothing or no one that hurt her, and that afterwards she still felt like herself, and the earth under her feet bore, and swallowed her not up alive.  

“Oh! A brutish specimen! Septimus has no fear for you," said the old man, turning to them, waving his finger, “but where one block lifts another.... I will give you what you seek. But I also seek after something, that which you will bring to me.”

Breaking away from Serana, Nemiet turned to face him, “and what is it that you seek?”

“This is the handiwork of the Dwemer, yes?” Septimus stood up straight, but still hunched over, beckoning to the huge cuboid of metal. “Surely you two can see it? Deep within their consciousness. Septimus is clever among men, but foolish as a yearling compared to the dullest of the Dwemer. Merrily, they left behind contraptions they used to read the scrolls: in the depths of Blackreach one yet lies. Have you heard of Blackreach?”

Nemiet folded her arms, shaking her head. With the vampire at her side looking no more convinced, Septimus spoke again, “cast upon where Dwemer cities slept, the slumbering spire hidden learnings kept. Under deep. Below dark. Tower of Mzark. Venture into its depths, and Blackreach lies just beyond," said the man mystically, and from under his cowl two eyes glittered like little sapphires. Then, his voice got cautionary, “But not all can enter. Not all will penetrate the breakpoint. Only Septimus has a way in.”

“Two things I have for you. Two shapes, one spherical, one angled. The orb is for tuning: the music of the Dwemer is mellow, imperceptible, the sole means of opening the gates to them. The cube is used for inscribing. To us, merely a hunk of metal, but to them, like an archive," Septimus then took the lantern and brought it with him to his cupboard. After he had opened the uppermost of the drawers, they then heard clatter, and the banging echoed through the cracks in the ice. He then gave one for each. The Redguard studied intently the sphere-shaped object passed over to her, its deliberate curves, rotating it in her hands. “Look for Mzark and its celestial dome. There you will find what you are searching for. Trust in old Septimus. He knows you can know.”

Perplexed, yet calmer now, Serana asked, “how will we know what to do with these?”

“The doors of the Dwemer are in search of a singing song. The orb, it plays the notes from the altitude from which they seek. Do you not hear? Too low for hearings?” From Nemiet, the old man's focus shifted to the block lying in the vampire's grasp. “The cube. As he looks into the Elder Scroll, a man loses his sight. Or his mind. So it was with poor Septimus. But they had a method, they always did. A method to put the data into a comprehensible form. Insert the cube into the device. If you make it there, the Dwemer will do the rest.”

“And bring it to you?” Serana sounded incredulous. “What do you need it for?”

“Oh! An attentive fang. Clever to question old Septimus on that," said the man, and seemed enthusiastic, “here, in the permafrost, there is a heart. The heart of a God, the heart of you and I. But it is under lock and key. Hidden. The Dwarves did not do it, no, they were already gone. Something else. Unseen, unknown. It discovered the heart, and with a flair of the ironical used their trickery to hide it. The scroll knows all, you see. For not even the greatest lock can resist the all-sight given by an Elder Scroll. ”

Septimus' cautionary words were still on Nemiet's brain well after they had left. She had no wish for the scroll to fall into his hands, but felt so disempowered by the threat they were prophesied to face that she knew no other way. She still knew not a thing. But the days, cruel and unforgiving, rolled past them like an army, and at the passage of each the shadows grew taller. They had no time to be lost in mistrust. They had to push forward. Hope had not fully waned, and as long as even a sliver of it was still in sight, Nemiet could believe that somehow, goodness would prevail. 

Chapter 9: Alftand

Notes:

This chapter took forever to write, which I am sorry about. I've been experiencing something of a writer's block, also my cat was diagnosed with a terminal cancer, also I went to surgery, am I not living the fanfic author life yet? Anyhow, it is here, and it is queer, I hope you will like it nonetheless :)

As they journeyed southwards, the day turned to evening. From time to time, the path led them up, offering them a view over the sparse groves and snow fields, on the banks of which the sun glistened like a row of tiny gemstones. The sky was pale, shrouded by a thin cloud cover, with the light filtering through; it cast only half-shadows of silvery gray underneath the tree-crowns. They were enveloped by a heavy stillness; it descended from the mountains, engulfing them like the night would, drowning out the animal calls, the snow falling off branches. This world, silent and untouched, was theirs, like two Gods with names that had long since been forgotten by their ilk.

When the highest tower of Alftand at last loomed before them, the late sun glinted off its golden dome, kissing it, caressing it as a lover would. Around it the stunted spruces rose like ghosts left in time, with their trunks standing dark purple beneath the white boughs, until, at some distance, they faded into the twilight. The snow had a soft sheen; it strongly emphasised the deeper shades of blue. Some stone structures which seemed to poke out from some place far below the surface, and a camp, long since abandoned, with a thick layer of snow coating the tent-tops; that was all they could see of it. 

Nemiet had bought herself a cloak with a couple of coins from some young boys peddling them at the inn. It seemed homemade, like the skin of a horker, but there was a thick fur lining that would keep its wearer warm, so she had made the choice to invest in one. It hid her face now as she glanced round. As quickly as she was able, she took in the scene that surrounded them, drawing from it her own conclusions; the two tents, adorned with the dragon regalia of the Empire, and a shaky open hut with snow flooding in through the corners. The silence there was more austere, more heavy. The feeling was akin to how one felt beside the freshly dug grave of a child. Expeditioners, thought the Redguard, strolling past a soot-blackened fire and a pot that had been knocked to the ground, as the wind howled in the corners of the buildings. To her it sounded like a wolf, a lonely, wistful wolf song, and though she might have once found it strangely pleasing, it now saddened her further.

“Wonder which God they angered”, said Serana, more to herself than to the hunter. She gave the kettle a gentle nudge with her boot, but it stayed frozen to the ground, not moving an inch. 

Nemiet squinted her eyes; the sun was shining through the mist over the snowy plains, carving on it beautifully the shape of her head. Then she spoke, “I think there was a storm. See the damage? Look at the shack’s walls.”

Indeed, Serana looked around, but seemed less than convinced. “What makes you say that? Many reasons I can think of. Bandits, wild animals...”

The Redguard crouched on the ground, beckoning towards it, making even the vampire briefly go quiet. “Correct. But the snow is thinner here; I can still make out some footprints, none of which are animal. And look—the food is still untouched. What kind of animal leaves no tracks and searches not for a meal?”

“And she comes out victorious”, the Nord chuckled and then, with her hair fluttering in the breeze, looked at her, but wanly and languidly, as though a malady were festering within her, “incredible. Just remind me not to challenge you on the trail.”

Nemiet shrugged, but there was a small smile as she glanced at the ground. 

They soon reached the entrance. It was a rickety scaffold made out of planks, riding high in the air and tilting slightly to the right, that led them directly to the scar shooting down the side of the glacier. Nemiet felt very intrigued, as she had seen nothing about the Dwemer for herself, having only heard the stories (and the old ruins were of interest to all, not only to scholars). She kept calm with great difficulty, marveling at her own curiosity.  Still she thought that to wonder was arbitrary, a momentary fancy, inventing a new weakness for herself with each successive step; but when the Redguard once turned to look at the land, which was covered with snow and upon which the sun was about to set, its ravines and the distant stretch of the sea, so strongly did she feel part of it that she failed to understand why she was resisting. It was the land from which she had sprung, and though the road before her was not of gold, and though the clothes she bore were not of silk, she vowed in her heart that she would do what she could to protect it. 

They plunged into the permafrost, with Serana having to duck to squeeze through the gap. The world inside was blue, like the deepest color of the summer sky, or the cornflowers known as weeds dotting the arable land. But the tunnel that curved down the slope was not an empty one; there were barrels and crates, a few picks and some huge hunks of ice that had been removed. 

Once down, they were met by a second, much smaller camp. It was not a comforting sight. What they saw were the obvious traces of a struggle; scratches in the ice, a metal frame used for cooking knocked to the ground, but most disturbing of all the blood, dried and caked to the ground. 

“Good Lord”, muttered Nemiet, but there was little response from the vampire. 

Distressed, the hunter rubbed her elbow and spoke, feigning a calm, “we ought to go.”

Their passage was hampered by the ice. Either it broke under their boots and, when it did break, warned all within miles of their coming, or it obliged them to go slowly lest they slipped and hit their heads. It need hardly be said that they were delighted to find themselves at last in the midst of the edifice embedded in the earth, with the tiled floor supporting their feet. And the old hallway was a peculiar sight: wide, gilded pipes ran above their heads, and the stonework of the walls, over which their shadows fell, was strewn with bold geometric carvings. Much of it lay forgotten, buried beneath the years, yet it required little for one to picture it in all its former glory. In awe, Nemiet ran a hand along the metal and felt it shiver. A hollow, ghostly feel came over her; and as if in a trance, she returned to what she had experienced during her dream. 

After rounding a bend, they came to a wide room-like space, with shelves of thin metal rods around the edges, packed largely with gear wheels and pulleys, nonetheless parts of machinery; in the center there was a table that had no legs, but rather a stone slab embedded into the ground, on top of which was stacked a number of things. Bent, oxidized sheets of metal, some old leather-bound notebooks and one larger scrap pile of what appeared to have once been an artificial exoskeleton. It reminded Nemiet of a spider in design. She stepped up to the table and picked up the top book, a cloud of dust falling from its cover, unable to stifle a cough. Having read it for a little while, two things dawned on the Redguard: she was particularly interested in the lost culture of the Dwarves, and the fate of the group that had been studying them had hardly been jolly.  With that in mind, she grieved. She had always been keen to study the bestiary, and now believed that she might also enjoy other forms of literature, but had never once been asked what she might like to pursue. And, while the hunter did not truly think that she would have been a scholar or a researcher now if things had turned out any differently, inwardly she did hope for a life that was more than fighting. 

“Nice book”, said she and offered a lopsided grin, handing it to Serana then, “if that sort of shit fascinates you.”

It was received by the vampire. Only then did she lower her hood and let it fall over her shoulders, revealing underneath the blood vessels that had bulged up around her face. With eyes bloodshot, she parted the pages, and Nemiet, neither able to ask nor suggest anything, stood and watched. “Lie a lot. Might be good for other people, but not for me. I hear what goes on in your head.”

Subtly, the vampire indicated her breast, and immediately the hunter knew what she meant.

“How delightful”, the Redguard would mutter, “keep your eavesdropping to yourself. I don't need to hear about it.”

But they both knew it was impossible for her not to listen. Now, as Serana hungered, the sound rang out in her ears like the screech of a machine, intolerable; it tormented her, cornered her like an animal. The depth of her thirst was beyond even the Redguard, beyond any man or woman who had never known it. Therefore she hoped, tacitly and without a word, that Nemiet would see her misery, her sufferings, that someone might see it. Too long had she suffered alone, and now, licking her parched lips, her bowels writhed and tightened and felt as if they were being hanged in her belly. The wildness was not far away; not a hungry, salivating mouth, not the sharp teeth in the soft skin. She savored it on her tongue, her mind, a need that by its very nature transcended all.

They each felt lucky when given an excuse not to think of the other; the two of them were interrupted by a bang from up ahead, as if an unlubricated shutter had been opened and then closed. Glancing in the direction of the sound at once, they found that they were not alone; a droid spider, identical to the one that lay lifeless on the table, stood now before them, pawing at the air with its forelegs. There were six of those legs, all built round some kind of a magical core, and each joint appeared to be strong and flexible. 

Serana responded quickly, with inhuman speed; she aimed a lightning-like blow square at its core, but the hard metal shell effectively blocked it. Nemiet hardly had the chance to reach for her axes before the vampire summoned up her dagger and tossed it through the air. It hit, and did so very hard; it pushed in through the gash it had made and sank into the very heart of the creature. 

Briefly, the air flecked with scintillatingly bright sparks that blinded them; then the spider buzzed, belched out a thick, black puff of smoke, and burst open. The hunter hid her face with her arm, yet she could still feel the heat against her face.

It was only a moment before they felt at ease again. Deciding it would be best to press on, the pair embarked on a trek through the long, winding hallways and connecting smaller rooms, past the stone dust and loose parts of the ceiling and thinner, broken plumbing. Blood stained the floor, some a little, some a pool; and Serana longed to drop to her knees and lap the ground dry, whatever might kill the compulsion. But it did not sit well with her pride, and she therefore plunged into a greater sense of hopelessness with each stride that led them further into the earth.

Before long they came to a room coated with a thick layer of ice, but with several pipes pushing through it, littered with bedrolls and emptied bottles of skooma. And there they were indeed not alone: two Khajiits, but only one pulse was heard by the vampire. There was some talking, too, jumbled and ill-considered, however solitary the conversation; and though the brownish-gray figure on the ground did not move, it was only broken when they were spotted by the other. It was all very sudden. The widening of the pupils in his eyes, which puffed out like two full moons; his ears, flattened against his skull; an axe, soon raised, with blood, still wet and redder than the deepest of Deadlands, glistening on its blade. 

Soon Nemiet had mapped out the area, the places where she could safely set her feet without the fear of slipping. Her stance was wide and steady, and when her hands found the throats of her war axes, she knew then that she had overcome the man who was inexperienced, if dangerous in his drugged mind. 

It was not a long, glorious battle. It left them wondering, perhaps even saddened. No comfort arose from a body deliberately not cruel, but merely misguided; and Nemiet was so tormented by the sight of the brothers that with ponderous feet she dragged the new-born body to the back wall and laid them side by side. Then, with a sweat of pain on her brow, she pronounced a few words, a request to guide them to a place where their earthly troubles would find them no more. And though Serana failed to at all understand her behavior, she silently listened to the Redguard's prayer, and did not urge her on.

Much of what came afterwards they continued to spend immersed in their own imaginings. Tempers were high not because the two women did not care for one another's company, but because there were many concerns among them. And, in spite of their silence, they were alert, Serana in particular, whose sense of smell was multiplied tenfold; she sought a time to address that which was weighing on her so heavily, but none was offered to her. It was Alftand that made them wary, dreading each step they took down the dank, shadowy corridors, and before long neither of them found the place very interesting and hoped to catch sight of the sky soon. 

At any rate, there was no dearth of foes. They came across a wide variety of droids: alongside the spider-like crawlers came the upright sentries bearing a human resemblance and rising from a ball-shaped metal frame, with their arms sharpened into bayonets. They gave them a great many more headaches than their creeping buddies. And as their journey wound deeper, Nemiet would eventually be walking with a crossbow in hand, never letting go of it, forever cautious, a frown crossing her features. She had chosen to wear it close to her, having suffered a blow to her ribs, which now ached; the bruise had brought up a swelling which now throbbed distractingly in her flank. 

Once they came upon a room that was largely the same as any of the dozens they had yet seen, but with one major detail, and that was to turn them pale: after some time, they had grown accustomed to a certain level of composure, but now, the space was in disarray. Now the shelves were filled with curious objects, small round eggs and thick pieces of blackish green chitin. They were puzzled by them, but what they feared the most was that they were not alone with the old machinery. Supplies had only recently been moved, and some fresh oil had spilled on the floor. People like them, or something altogether worse? 

At last, they arrived at what seemed at first to be a dead end. It was not easy to put into words the darkness that hung around them; it took some time before they became familiar with it enough to see the vast open space before them. To test, Nemiet kicked down a rock fragment, which bounced off the cliff face and continued to echo for a considerable time before it hit the soil somewhere far below the many intersecting footbridges. That made the hunter grimace. But since the only way to move forward was to drop from a height to where the original bridge of stone had collapsed, she lowered herself into a sitting position and pushed herself down.

As Nemiet opened her arms wide to welcome the vampire, Serana eyed her down in disbelief. The courage of the little human astonished her; it would have been far simpler to send the one who had avoided dying for so many thousands of years. And yet, the Redguard was waiting below, gazing encouragingly into her eyes and calling out, "come now. I've got you." 

Easing her grip on the strap of her satchel, Serana heaved a deep sigh before she would follow. 

But something went awry when the vampire, ever so graceful, lost her balance. Perhaps it was the rocks that were slippery at that particular point, or perhaps she had simply misjudged her movements; in any case, she staggered forward. Were it not for Nemiet's swift intervention, gripping her by the arm and hip, Serana would have rested her face in the stone rubble.

“Would you look at that”, smiled the Redguard. As Serana struggled to balance herself, she righted her bag which had flown askew. 

Somewhat embarrassed, the vampire took support from her shoulder as she went by, muttering, “luck of the devil.”

The look of satisfaction lingered on Nemiet's face briefly before it faded. On the ground among the rubble lay a body, its back torn open by a shower of arrows, face propped up against the rocks, eyes wide in terror. The Redguard's heart seemed to have frozen and congealed the very blood in her veins—as her pulse quickened, its roar drowned out all other sound. Suddenly she felt cold, cold beyond the ruins entombed in the ice. 

Indeed, they were not alone. 

There was no going round, and had there been, they would not have turned back. Onwards they must have gone, regardless of their thoughts or their fears, steering a course down the descending ramp of stone. The strength of the superstructure worried them greatly; it was a long way down, so long that Nemiet was counting by the seconds it would take to be knocked unconscious, finding the answer not only intriguing, but appalling as well. 

There was, however, no need for them to walk continuously for long. In the depths of Alftand, an old legend awaited them—the stories that peasants would tell each other when there was a bad harvest or when a person went missing inexplicably on the road. Before them stood one of the Falmer, a memory of the glory of a bygone elven kingdom, now tormented into this gazeless, skeletal state; long and spidery were its limbs, toenails scraping the stone. Serana stiffened as if she had seen a ghost. A feeling passed through her companion, cold and unnatural, as she wondered how penetrating could be the gaze of an unsightly enemy. 

“Shit”, mumbled Nemiet, casting a sidelong glance at the stationary vampire. Hurriedly, she gathered her crossbow, loaded it with sure, if frozen, fingers. Inhaling sharply, the Redguard held the tiller against her nose, the strength of the bullet ramming the weapon against her breast. When the bullet pierced the sternum of her target, the air in her lungs emptied out in a cloud. An ear-splitting cry rang out. The Falmer, whose grip on the war-axe made of a chaurus’ leg loosened, staggered backwards in shock and lost its footing on the slick bridge. Now it fell down several stories, the layered, resounding thuds its death chorus. 

“Your speed is second to none.” Serana looked at her, a few dark hairs flying over her face, “what on earth was that?”

“Falmer”, Nemiet said, trying to conceal her blushing at the compliment. Lowering the crossbow, she let it rest flat against her leg, in the hope that the pain in her ribs would be eased. “One of them snow elves.”

“Snow elves?” The vampire's voice broke, surprising the Redguard. As she continued, Nemiet noticed a note of melancholy in her words, “so they were-”

“Massacred, deceived, and had their legacy obliterated,” cut off the hunter. “What do you know?”

“Just that they should not be on the pages of your books”, said the vampire, and stood on the side of the bridge, staring down. Nemiet allowed her that, but refused to let her words slip past.

“My job—our job—is to protect people”, said she pointedly, “that’s what I was brought up to do. It is selfless work, sacred. I never expected you to understand.”

“How could someone like me?” Serana's cloak flapped, amidst the animal fury resting in the bags under her eyes. “So how many are you willing to sacrifice? How many innocent, how many blameless? Those born into the wrong flesh? Pray tell, when does a self-proclaimed right become a permit to arbitrarily kill?”

“You do not save the world by sympathizing with those who seek to end it.”

“Nor will you by turning into them.”

The frustrated crease on Nemiet's forehead smoothened, but there was no response. With heavy steps she overtook the vampire, who felt anger not only in her heart but also on her tongue, and then, as she passed, addressed her gravely, “let’s move. More may be coming.” 

Again they walked in stillness, not comfortable or soothing, but strung like a bowstring. The shadows lengthened, darkening as they descended deeper, the occupants of which had left them a labyrinth of traps, wolf holes and poison arrows. Human remains they found, of course, but no survivors, and, if they had not been slain by the Falmer, their lives had claimed the bitter cold. One body was carved open, organs removed, table-bound wrists bruised, telling them of the struggle. Then Nemiet could not keep her tongue, and muttered dryly as if to herself, “this is what happens when people rely on fables.”

The Redguard’s comment was left to Serana’s discretion, but it left a bitter taste in her mouth.

Gradually, the moulded walls were replaced by the textured, uneven planes of nature, as the ruins unfolded into a network of caves, their dank sides coated with liverwort. The soil was again soft, with gravel and overgrowth. Sometimes they would encounter a curious glow, both turquoise and otherworldly, the source of which lay in the undersides of the fungus sprouting from the earth. These seemed to hum softly, like the earth’s native song, one to which, in the bustle of the world above, one went deaf; or perhaps one simply closed their ears to it. 

Many times they wandered astray, and were then obliged to memorise their route back carefully; in time, Nemiet would start tearing up the scarce ferns and laying them at the points of intersection as a kind of landmark. Nothing frustrated the hunter more than wasting time. Bearing a torch she had ripped from its support, she was always grumbling when they reached a dead end. 

When they finally came to the gilded steps, softly glistening in the dim light, they both hoped that their journey was drawing to an end. Nemiet's legs ached, and it felt as if they had been carrying her all week. After climbing to the platform, they stopped to rest. It was then that Nemiet flashed her torch round them, exposing not only the remains of early Dwemeri structures, but platforms housing giant humanoid droids. One pod was empty, a wreck before it; another towered above a still intact one. The small flame made its brassy plating gleam. 

Its size alone was enough to make Nemiet's eyes widen. Her body shuddered like a doe’s, mere seconds before it would be struck by the arrow whose shaft it heard; with ease, the new enemy stood three times taller than her. Her heart leapt in her throat as she sought her escape, but even though time passed, the automaton would not move. Perhaps it was the motionlessness that frightened the Redguard the most. 

Fuck, thought she, reaching behind her until her hand brushed against the vampire. Serana’s cold fingers caught her palm, squeezing her knuckles lightly that she hardly noticed. But she did notice, and it made all the difference.

As they inched forward, Nemiet kept her eyes firmly on the automaton, her back unturned. Sweat was already pouring from her brow. A hand on her axe, her legs could hardly bear her beside the scrap that lay strewn on the ground. Serana was her shadow; alone she would scarcely have been detected by the censor, so well would she make herself one with the surrounding darkness. But Nemiet was no creature of the night; her body temperature, the heart that pounded inside her ribs, those made her a target, a bright, prancing beam that summoned to life the machine. A footstep, the crackling of pebbles over the stony floor, a silence as of death, and then, a sharp crack as the droid came loose from its stand. 

First, it would not move. It leaned gently forward like a great, dead troll, held upright only by legs the thickness of a tree trunk. The Redguard had hoped that the engine had malfunctioned somewhere over the years, but then it picked itself up, drew a long, ponderous step forward, and turned its eyeless gaze on them to the sound of shrieking metal. Steam rose from its vents, then billowed up into a single column above it; the heat rushed over the floor and clung to their bodies. Hot fumes, thought Nemiet in fear. 

They quickly separated from each other. While reaching for her axes, the Redguard dropped the torch and the fire died out on the damp earth. With the darkness now lit only by the bioluminescent mushrooms, the enemy became more dangerous, the scene before them more divine; in its chamber, the bot was like an old God awakened from its sleep by intruders from the new world. As a monster hunter, Nemiet had always been taught not to challenge an unfamiliar enemy, and as it stood before her now, she felt scared to the point of numbness.

The vampire raced to the ascent, leaping up the stairs, hesitating not one step. Behind her, her cloak fluttered as black fire, illuminated soon by sparks flying from the palm of her hand. A rich purple gleam came into being inside her eyes as Nemiet followed her progress through the gloom, an arm raised. She became a woman of the tempest, a woman who held in her grip the strength of the heavens, a ball of light then detaching from her and being hurled through the air directly into the centre of the droid’s chest, where its core was located, marked with a cross. The impact caused its metal frame to crack, causing it to momentarily fall out of alignment. 

It bought Nemiet some time. At a short distance there was a platform from which she hoped to gain a better sight, but the droid was much quicker than she had expected. Because of its format, it covered the journey with ease after clearing the spell. The heavy, sword-like arm struck the ground at her running feet. Jumping up, she grasped the gilded bars and used them to swing herself onto a broken stone pillar. At the top, she regained her composure. All the hunter could see were poorly defined shapes, big and clumsy. Her brow furrowed, chest heaving as she waited, kept waiting, no matter the urgency. Patiently, the axe loomed over her shoulder. 

When the time at last came, it flew with great force through the sheet of metal between the droid’s eyes. If a machine could whine, the sound it made was now a cry. In a gust of adrenaline, Nemiet then propped her back against the stone, placed both her feet over each eye and then, with all the strength she could muster, thrust the automaton backwards. The steam from its vents scorched the fabric of her thigh. The pain made her wince, to breathe hard through gritted teeth; but her efforts were not in vain. Slowly, like a collapsing tower, perforated often with the heaviest ammunition, it tilted backwards; and as it lay in the dust, Nemiet saw in the blackness high flashes of lightning from amidst the smoke. 

The Redguard pulled back. Her hand fumbled at the burnt spot, her other fist striking the ground. She wiped her forehead with a trembling hand, made sticky by a mixture of dirt and sweat. A curse escaped her lips as she flattened her body against the coolness of the stone. 

“Nemiet?”

The call was cautious, diluted with dread. It sounded like it was coming from someplace very far, and she briefly considered that it was the spirits who spoke to her, and that perhaps she was near her death. But then, with a ringing in her ears, she remembered Serana, responding in a hoarse whisper, “all good. It’s all good. You?”

“I had feared the worst”, there was a sigh of relief before her face popped up above Nemiet’s level. And even as fatigue shot out from under the vampire’s eyes, in those flames that licked the dark, her face was set aglow.

The hunter laughed raspingly. “What faith you've in me.”

"Come on”, said the Nord, and then offered her a hand. Grinning weakly, Nemiet grabbed it, only to grimace in agony as she slid to her feet. This forced her to rely on whatever was around her, which so happened to fall on Serana. “Will you be okay?”

“Yep, I can manage.”

Unhurriedly they moved forward. Nemiet felt tired, as if to let go was to yield, to curl up in a ball on the floor. There was still a buzzing in her ears; the song merged with the vibrations of the rocks, and before long she no longer recognized where it came from, or if it came at all. And then, she noticed the torn cloak of Serana, through the middle of which she could see a patch of pale skin. That made her think of the stars. 

So only one final ascent awaited them now. Nemiet tried to apologise, but her pride hung like a tumour above her vocal cords. She was not in the wrong, of course, for no amount of kindness in this world was going to undo the evil that smouldered in its heart. And yet, she did not seek to be unreasonable. She too had once believed that she herself could never fight on without faith, until she had discovered the strength within herself, within the team around her, within the wise teachings, to go on. Change could be forged from one’s own bravery. It was the water that nurtured the hope which grew in the dirt; but hope was no mere seedling, but a soldier, wearied by age and many a battle, but who would not surrender if to survive was to allow the village under her protection to live to see another day.  

She was in her musings when a wailing cry made her jump in alarm. It was feeble, bordering on unconscious, but it caught their attention nevertheless. They could see them now, the few bodies that lay strewn on the floor on the upper platform, the freshness of which was a surprise. One appeared to still be alive. 

The man was dressed in the uniform of the Imperial Army, but where the red was from the emblematic tunic, and where from his blood, was difficult to distinguish in the dim light. His face was grimy, without expression. The thick rivulet that had run from his mouth was stuck to the stone. 

“He is dying. His heartbeat is faint; I heard it not from afar”, said the vampire, stepping to the other side of the bleeding man, crouching down beside him, “we must free him of his pain. It is the only noble act there is left to do.”

The face of Nemiet showed sadness. Still, she nodded, and then turned her face to the machinery that rested in the middle of the top floor. It had to be their way forward.

“So…” Serana cautiously began, “there’s something I needed to talk to you about.”

“Will it wait?”

“I fear not.”

The hunter stared her down, her breath quickened. 

“You know what I am. And you are no fool. You must have noticed the signs”, sighing deeply, Serana leaned towards the body on the floor, a hand resting lightly on him. “I did not think I was to be given the chance, so I held back. And I am aware how much it sickens you. But his blood flows still. It is so loud. We… we can’t save him, Nemiet.”

The Redguard knew not how to react. Unconsciously, she held her breath so that her chest began to ache, her eyes shifting from one place to another. Serana. The near-dead man. Blood dried on the floor.

“If you are expecting condemnatory words, you'll have to wait. To you, I am no captain. But as a friend... as a friend, I ask that you do what must be done to survive.”

“Okay”, responded the Nord, still hesitant, “he will not suffer. I promise.”

With a cautious smile (which therefore showed not only her discomfort, but also her approval), Nemiet passed them by, still a little troubled by her burns. 

After some time studying the mechanism of the centrepiece, she found a round opening into which the sphere provided by Septimus fitted. Not only did the metal feel cold, it felt alive in her fingers. It fell into place, and in doing so set forth a series of mechanical groans that, as they creaked, caused the floor beneath her to recede. The hunter stepped to one side at the very last moment; and presently before her a spiral staircase descended ever lower into the earth.

Before her eyes had left the level that still permitted her to see through the slits in the central structure, Nemiet felt a compulsive need to have a look. A thin strip of light caught her eye, but as it passed she could see her companion for what she was. 

By the Imperial’s side, the vampire was kneeling, her back facing her. There was something very soothing about the Nord’s movements, so much so that it made her stay put as the body began to shift, twitching to the rhythm of her feeding. There were no screams, no pain-filled moans, only an impenetrable, thick silence that poured down the stairs and rose to choke the hunter. It seemed to tickle her lower back, to fill up every corner of her lungs. Perhaps the silence was like fear; it was paralysing, it made the moment into something that was happening to someone else.

It numbed her fingers.

Clouded all her senses.

But it was only when she was stared back by those dark, glittering eyes of a beast, with not malice but a will to survive, fearful but true, that Nemiet could tear her gaze away.

Bewildered, the Redguard’s hand pressed against her own throat, a faint pulse under it. So dry was her mouth that the cough kept coming back to her tongue. With her palm against the cold wall, she went down, unable to refrain from thinking of vomiting. How isolating, how morally corrosive, this sickness of hers. But instead of fear, she felt sympathy, and instead of anger, she felt pity. She was weighing questions that loomed larger than before. What if she had been in the wrong? What if Serana could find it in her to wish her harm? And what if, because of her own naivety and childish will to prove herself, her father would be forced to bury the last of those he loved? 

With this new guilt biting at her ankles, she reached the bottom of the stairs, at the end of which a great door, adorned with raised bars, awaited her. The linear paths seemed to blur, curve into oblique shapes and form circles. She opted to look away. With her back pressed against the shapes, Nemiet felt the strong jump in her lung cavity, echoing sharply in her head. 

Cold sweat. Shaky knees. Footfalls from above.

Just in time, the Redguard assembled herself. She played calm, then asked a little too soon, “shall we go?”

There was no reply from Serana at first. When Nemiet glanced at her, she had not at first seen, among the dark hair, how the blood on her chin had been attempted to be wiped off with a rough hand. The hunter’s throat throttled. She was hurting—and truly, her lungs seemed to dry up and fall away like leaves.

“I think I finally understood something. All this time, you have been right. I was a fool, more of a fool than I had promised myself I would be.”

It became quiet. They were both now facing the large, golden-yellow door, its edges glinting dully in the dim light. Nemiet pondered long and deeply on what she wished to now say; she sought feverishly for a time when she might retract her words and do what felt true to herself, to resist the fear that held her father’s hand. She had to be bigger than it.

“No... it was me who was mistaken,” she began in a voice that could barely be heard, “I was not brought up to kill for the joy of the heart, but to eliminate threats. I am a monster hunter. I serve Skyrim. I make sure her people are safe. But it is lazy to think that, just because there’s a picture in a book somewhere, then someone deserves to die. My father used to say that we mustn’t try to be those we admire. Said we should strive to be better. Sometimes the advice is wiser than the one who gives it, I suppose.”

Off to the side, Nemiet eyed the vampire, whose bloody black jaw still terrified her, but which she was willing to look past. Her heart felt weak, as if the pulse might have slipped and stopped at any given  moment—but with frightened, doubtful eyes, she decided to push on. “The world is cruel and unjust. And if we don't seek to do better, is hope not already lost? And it may be that I am misguided and that I know very little of other people, but what I do know is that I have only seen goodness in you in the short time I've known you.”

A moment later, and to Nemiet’s surprise, the vampire began to laugh, then cry. Her larger shadow beside the hunter trembled. The Redguard’s arm came up as she clutched her shoulder, consolingly.

“Is that not heresy? Surely you know, more well than I do, what they would do to you if they heard you now,” responded the vampire, “they care little for noble intentions.”

“Then… I can only pray that we make this worth something.”

Suddenly, she was fifteen again. Again she made the very choice that led her people into peril. The line drawn on the ground, hardened first by the frost, had now been buried under the snow. 

For a moment, the hunter watched her, as if through some new, dawning understanding. The smile on her face was warm, though tinged with doubt, her brow at ease. “All’s well,” she reassured, and Serana was quick to nod, still choking back tears. Nemiet’s grip on her robe tightened, beckoning the vampire into her embrace. The Redguard buried her face in the crook of her neck, forgetting entirely how close the vampire’s fangs rested to her own. There was no fear then; only a soothing, all-encompassing feeling that reminded her how much she had been in need of it herself. Once the initial embarrassment had worn off, she closed her eyes tightly, and let herself soften in the Nord’s hands. Sure enough, Serana could hear and feel through her thin skin her pulse quickening. A flush would spread across the Redguard’s face later, but she blamed it on the tension, refusing to analyse it any further. 

For now, there was sufficient newness in her life without it.

All the while, her legs were trembling, praying it would not show through. Like when she was fifteen, she longed for her father, for his guidance. Before this, she had never had to dwell on the rightness or wrongness of things, simply on their being; to step away from the Order’s teachings would later prove to be the salvation of its Captain. But Nemiet did not yet feel that way; the dread that crept into her limbs was like being on her tiptoes at the edge of a cliff, with only the cold, raging swells of an alien sea ahead. In the face of it, she was powerless, but the feeling was more than a fleeting loss. It was the first time she truly realised that nothing was under her control, and that where she was now being led, be it by Stendarr or some other unseen force, was a place she needed to go alone. 

Hope was dangerous for people like Serana. Next to her, Nemiet smelled of more than blood; the scent was a mixture of leather and stainless steel, which did mimic blood in parts, but still stood out in nuance. Beyond that, she discerned a crispness, like an ocean breeze sweeping over a few coastal pines, the brininess it would bring. Her dark, withered heart seemed to stir. Never before had she felt she had needed so greedily, afraid that if she gave room to her want, it would grow deaf to her reasoning. 

But still she would not break away. 

The closeness terrified her, in a way it paralysed her, made her lie on the frigid ground as she had done then. That, she supposed, would never change; for the longest time, loneliness had felt like a hole, which appalled her with its bottomless depths. But whether it was possible for her to turn away, or whether she was forcing herself to watch, to endure, seemed to be the question now. 

She felt herself stepping back from the edge. She turned away.

When their prolonged embrace was broken at last, they both felt like two different people. Serana rubbed fiercely at the corners of her eyes, at times laughing in fits of hysteria. Her companion was in no hurry. Patiently, Nemiet was facing her, her hand resting on her war axe, neither commanding nor forbidding. 

Nemiet was only guessing at how difficult it was for the vampire. She knew that trust was the rarest of all treasures. Her doubts were dispelled like mist from a meadow at daybreak, as if Stendarr Himself had come to her, telling her gently, but guidingly, that there was no reason for fear. In truth, the Redguard felt nearer to Him now than ever before, seeing before her Serana, and not another man slaughtered; the Dawnguard had ended many lives, from within and outside their ranks, people whose fate had not been theirs to shape. Many of them had themselves wished for a swift exit, much before the changes would take hold. It never got easier. The pain brought by the eliminations, raw and undiluted, would never truly leave; one only learnt to harden oneself around it. 

So this, this survival of hers, it felt like something. It felt worth fighting for. 

“You and I, we bear more than people ought to,” Serana said then, in a brighter, clearer voice. “I am so glad you are here with me.”

“Know what,” Nemiet began, and let her arms fall to her sides, “so am I.”

Then she waited. She waited for some bad thing to happen, for some God to intervene or for the building to come crashing down on them, but the emptiness that followed was much worse. As she took a deep breath, the tightness in her chest eased a little. But the Redguard was still afraid, not of losing the battle or of death, but of a whole new horror that whispered to her the meanings she had already lost. Friendships, love, laughter, the sort that was true and joyful, and which, in its excess, made one’s muscles ache. Although she had always done as the Order and her father had instructed, this was when she really began to question the doctrine; suddenly, she felt like a baby bird, knocked from its nest, from safety, into the winds of the world. But without the art of flight, even a bird could not lead the life of a bird. A new strength was born in her heart, the doubt changed to a pounding in her chest.

Quietly, Serana wiped her chin. She did know to offer space for thought when it was called for—and Nemiet valued the gesture, even if she couldn’t get another word out.

Now, their journey to Blackreach was about to begin.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 10: Below The Underground Sun

Notes:

BLACKREACH TIME—Blackreach, my beloved/beloathed 3 I like putting my own twist into things so I definitely did depict some things differently, but I still hope it reads well and that the chapter holds that magical feeling when you delve there for the first time. Can't forget about it haha

P.s. The most sincere of apologies for this particular chapter being very heavy dialogue-wise. I'm not the best at it, sorry!

When Nemiet first laid eyes on the cavern stretching out before her, two things occurred to her: never before did she remember having seen anything that could come near to the beauty that she now beheld; and that her dream appeared to have suddenly come true. 

For millennia, the very existence of Blackreach had remained pristine, with no telling what the dimly glowing geodes nestled in the ceiling had seen; they unfolded above them like a sky strewn with tiny blue stars, seeming to Nemiet that they formed a great eye that watched them with appraisal, assessing perhaps their worthiness for this world. No man ruled here. Rich it was, rich like a grove; from its black soil sprang a succession of strange plants and fungi, many of which would overtake them not only with this soft, delicate shimmer, but with a pungent smell in the air. It was dark, thick like the earth after rain, earthy but not stale, condensing to a single sense the wildness the entire place seemed to be exuding. In fact, it seemed to be breathing it—to be the heart of it.

Although a blueness dominated their field of vision, precisely because of this ambient glow, it was the enormous golden orb that first drew their eyes, hanging more or less in the middle of the space above some ancient ruins. So bright was it that it seemed to warm them even from afar, to have the heat caress Nemiet’s skin in those few spots where it was bare. To her confusion, and also to her fear, the sensation was not altogether foreign, as if she had been here before; one terrifying thought lingered in her mind, a memory like an experience, the knowing of what she had a day ago predicted. But how could it be true, that she did not know. 

“That’s, uh,” Nemiet began, tearing her gaze away from the view and back to Serana, “quite the sight.”

Serana laughed softly, relief in her voice, as if the vampire had never expected them to make it this far. With the swelling gone from her eyes, her skin had taken on a healthier colour; her eyes still glittering wet, her chin covered in blood, but, had they not been, the hunter would never have known. It was a shy feeling, the one she now wore. Sadness she could not discern, but assumed that the Nord had long since learnt to hide it. She could not imagine any vampire hugging its mother and pouring out its heart, but then again, neither had she. The comparison, begun as an idle musing, drove her to distress again. 

“We’ve got to get you clean,” said Nemiet, but her voice was cut off by a dryness in her throat that she had not realised was there. “Come on.”

They set off towards the lake in the distance, its blue waves always visible as they rose above the land. This path, which was not a path to begin with, but the nearest equivalent, led them among the mushrooms, the tall peaks of which Nemiet watched, marvelling at how they soared towards the cave ceiling. Here, the fungi were like trees, their stems as thick and rough as the pines back on the surface. And although the area was unfamiliar to her, and while there was never a moment when danger did not lurk about them, she could feel herself relax now. There was so much to see, so much to wonder at; and, if anything, she was now able to convince herself it was part of her job. 

They came to the shore. The sand was black, pebbled clay that seemed to cling to their clothes like a kind of paste. A short distance away, a small waterfall emptied into the lake, but from the noise in the distance Nemiet deduced that there had to be another, a larger one nearby. So she didn’t have to worry about the water being safe for swimming; no, it was the waves, the waves the Redguard had already recognised, that made her stomach painfully twist, that brought bile up into the back of her mouth. What am I not getting here, questioned she, still bewildered, daring not to ask aloud. She concluded it was best if Serana did not know, now that she did not even understand for herself. In one shaky breath she spoke, “should probably bathe for the burn.”

Serana nodded, her thoughts still in the blood that coated her throat, “then I’ll come too. Been a while since my last swim. Need to be mindful of the sun.”

The hunter smiled weakly in response, “well, if you do find any sunlight here, you may as well start calling me the High Queen of Skyrim. Think I’m losing my mind in this dark anyway.”

“With you here, it’s not so dreary,” said the vampire, and then bit painfully on her tongue. Though the blood was only a little, it still tasted bitter in her mouth, sending a cough through her lungs. “You do carry the sun with you, in that pauldron of yours.”

The hunter had tossed her satchel, her belt, and her breastplate on the sand. A small, revealing grin tugged at the corner of her mouth as she pulled the gambeson from her head. “Real attentive.”

“Why, because vampires do not walk in daylight?”

Nemiet had already undressed. In her underclothes, she made her way further into the water, though the cold slowed her progress. Once the waves began lapping against her thigh, licking the area that had suffered the burns, the pain brought her to a sharp intake of breath. “Not just the vampires the Order’s after. Anything of Daedric origin. But we don’t get many sightings except of them and werewolves.”

Nemiet was floating the other way when Serana joined her. All she could hear was a splash as the Nord lowered herself onto the surf. Not being able to see the bottom made the hunter a little anxious, but from time to time she would push her toes into the bottom, to still feel the sand. 

“We at least share a view on one thing. Once I read a novel in which the protagonist’s beloved turned out to be a werewolf—and I couldn’t help but wonder if the smell, or the amount of fur, bothered her. For me, it kind of ruined the whole story.”

The thought of Serana reading some crappy short stories made Nemiet heartily laugh. With her eyes bright, she spun around in the pool and sought out the vampire. The woman passed her then, with her long, graceful strokes, and all the Redguard could do was to look at her, at her pale skin, at the strands of black hair clinging to her temples. A fleeting excitement rushed over her; it was as wild and strange as this place. 

With a grin still on her face, Nemiet swam back to shore in a couple of stretches, turning to rest on her back at the water’s edge. There, she played with the glistening crests of the waves with her hand, gesturing with the other to the old, clear-cut scar across her chest, “what’s the appeal of a lupine sweetheart anyway? They’re bloody clever, they’re strong, and they, not unlike your kind, go for the neck. Saw a big man once try to open those jaws, but take it from me: once they’re shut, any attempt to do so is like trying to squeeze water from a stone. When it catches up with you, you’re dead.”

“And less surprisingly, you fail to understand the enormous potential that lies in the hands of an artful writer,” teased Serana, “and what’s this? Surely I am not picking up some deriding undertone?”

“Nay, miss. I’d never imply such a thing,” sneered Nemiet playfully, “but normally, those bloodsuckers are inarticulate, a bit like big, ugly wild dogs. Their endless hunger drives them crazy, but it also makes ‘em easy to predict. No, it’s the clear-headedness that makes a monster so fearsome — when it knows exactly what it’s doing.”

“Now who are you calling daft, Taher?”

After jesting a little, the vampire rose from the lake. In the dimness, her frame was skeleton-like, with little pearls of water glinting here and there. Many trickles ran from her hair down over her bulging ribcage. Wiping them with her hand, whose bony digits were blackened at the tips, Nemiet underwent a profound sense of pity. Turning away for a moment, but then facing her discomfort and willing herself to look straight at what she was, the hunter spoke, “you’re flattering yourself. I was never talking about you.”

First the vampire grinned, her long white fangs flashing. But then, as she waded towards the shore, she became more serious. “Maybe. But now you have also revealed that you too are afraid of something.”

Nemiet sat up, then on her feet. The soft earth beneath her sank, depositing her footsteps in it. There was a silence as she thought carefully over her answer, for she wanted it to have meaning, rather than just sound like it. “Haven’t denied it. We’re at war. And as long as those monsters keep taking and taking and taking, I cannot live without it, that kind of constant fear. I doubt that any of us can.”

For a moment she pondered as she walked over to her clothes, which lay neatly folded on the ground, so because it was practical; the sand clung to the arches of her feet. 

“And that’s it? Death scares you not? To suffer, to be forgotten?”

With a deep sigh, Nemiet answered, “I know enough to know that there are sorrier fates.”

Serana was picking up her clothes, then stopped to give her own arm a hard squeeze, “as a child, you know, the thought alone made me stay up more nights than I slept. Couldn’t get the images off my mind, of rotting corpses, of coffins crumbling away in the dirt. There is no explaining it... it was so very inborn.”

Nemiet gazed at the darkness surrounding them, compassion in the heart. When she spoke, her voice was gentle but almost commanding, “the thing is, we’re all going to die. It’s in our nature, and we can’t work miracles round it, like we couldn’t control our first breath, or who we love, or if we fall in love at all in that sense. But what I like to believe—I mean I know we can gamble on the way we want to go. But we have to work selflessly for that. As with everything.”

After fastening the belt around herself and locking the clasp, she added, “rather, my fear is that I’ll die an old woman, terribly content with an easy life that in the end will amount to nil. Lazy, and without meaning.”

Sarcastically, Serana huffed. “And that’s not self-interest? So let us say you die in here today; then who will come to collect your body? Who will erect the statue?”

“I’ve no dread of insignificance,” answered Nemiet, taking a serious pause, giving herself a chance to open up, however slightly. “It’s the failure that I worry about. That somehow, someone out there has decreed that this is my burden, but that I cannot bear it.”

Serana exhaled sharply, as if to clear her mind of all the anxiety, the desperation that sought to surface. 

“You can’t save anyone,” the vampire’s voice was bitter, tainted with sorrow, “so long as they remain mortal, no one can. So why all this trouble? Why devote yourself to preserving that which you are sure to lose?”

Nemiet fell silent. She could not, and would have not even wished to retort. Only a broken breath disturbed her rigid posture. But the Redguard was unable to finish the conversation; slowly turning around so that she could see the anguish that had washed over the vampire’s face at last, her expression would suddenly soften. Try as she might, her voice was no longer weighty, but light, as if the wind might have carried it away, if there had been a wind there now, “if everyone round here thought like that, we would’ve already drowned in our own shit. The ones out there, Bal and Dagon and the rest, victory would be theirs. It might already be theirs; really, it’s likely. But we have to fight. I have to... look. If there’s hope anywhere, it’s got to be in me.”

“And what should I care? Your gods care not a whit for the likes of me, or about any woman whose life has not always been so perfect. In religion, as it often seems, good deeds are only enforced through the threat of punishment, and true virtue is naught but cowardly obedience. Rather self-righteous, is it not?”

Nemiey then raised her hand to rub the back of her neck, but it ultimately fell back to her side. Serana's words, sharpened in an instant, tore deeper wounds in her soul than she could have imagined. As with her father, she only wanted to leave without a word, fearing she would only be able to answer with a snarl, or without thinking. Once fully dressed, however, the hunter again spoke, her tone firm but not angered, though the anguish of uncertainty weighed heavily on her chest. “We should be off. It’s been long enough.”

They both felt tender all over again. There was a certain amount of divergent thinking to which one was able to adapt during a day; therefore, they were now walking in a complete stillness, but not, of course, in disapproval of each other, but rather in tasting these differences in the mouth, later digesting them. Nemiet in particular found herself angered at how little knowledge, or indeed anything at all, had been given to her. She felt as small as a shield bug disappearing among the foliage in the forest, but only half as wise. With her forehead scrunched up in an involuntary frown, the Redguard could feel the sweat beading in her palms as she was reminded of Harkon’s fiery gaze, even though the coolness of the water still lingered on her skin. Images of his terrible form filled her head, turning her insides into a swirling soup. As she continued to stare at the tips of her shoes, at their dark edges against the violet-hued earth, hardly did she notice their arrival at the underground ruins. 

Once she at last glanced around, a kind of fervour filled her. After passing through the shadow that lay beneath a huge stone arch, they were dazzled by the artificial sun which was now positioned directly above them. Its use would forever remain unclear to them; in fact, no one was there to tell them anymore, after the mass extinction of the Dwemer that was, what its original purpose had been. But whether one cared for history or not, its brilliance was of a world altogether different. 

The brightness flickered off the thin metal railings and the gilded doors, disturbing them both at the very limits of their vision. Before long, Nemiet became aware of a certain presence about her, and began to wonder, in the depths of her mind, whether the ghosts of the city were watching them from empty balconies and dim alleys. She imagined elf children at play in the street where they now walked, running across it in pursuit of their odd toys; many gathered in the now empty square that must once have been the vibrant soul of their community; there were angry teenagers whose doors had been knocked on for the first time by an ugly heartbreak, and parents filled with joy as they welcomed home their newborn miracles. For all of them, for those whom the society had rejected and those whom it had raised to a pedestal, their time had already come and gone, but as the two now passed through those faded memories, their spirit would once more breathe life into the place.

It was a haunting, if peaceful, atmosphere. The prevailing silence was so thick that Nemiet had never experienced any such thing before nor since—almost, she could see it with the naked eye.  So when it did break, albeit with a small and well-nigh unhearable snap, the hair on the back of the hunter’s neck pricked up. 

From the shade that had fallen beneath Serana’s cowl, her glowing eyes peered at the other in concern, “something is not right. I say we pick up the pace.”

“Won’t argue with that,” replied Nemiet, arid-mouthed with the unease that had suddenly rediscovered her. The sunlight made her eyes gleam a golden brown as she let her gaze graze the sphere’s surface. Across it ran the metal rods that someone must have bent to match its shape; not long into admiring the skilful craftsmanship, however, the concern in Serana’s voice alerted her.

The vampire’s dark brow arched in a grimace, the blade of her dagger flashing as she assumed a firmer stance. “Wait. We’re not alone.”

Without a step forward, Nemiet’s eyes scanned the space around them. Between the old buildings, the shadows were darker than the darkest night—anyone, or anything, could have easily blended into their protection. She searched and searched, but for all her effort, there was nothing to which fix her gaze. What felt like minutes of oppressive quiet followed, during which the Redguard's grip curled around her war axes, mimicking Serana unconsciously in her state of nervousness. 

Then, from between two identical stone houses, a man emerged.

He was tall, nearly six feet in height, strongly suggestive of a Nordic ancestry; his large, angular form was clad in tattered, hole-ridden clothes. The shadows under his eyes were as precise as black stripes of paint. His skin was thin, gray and rough, his lips dry and chapped. The poisoning was indicated not only by the ribs shining through, but by the fact that his heartbeat had slowed to a rate Serana could not very easily separate. 

They needn’t have bothered about starting a conversation, when a second, similarly dressed biped, but this time a Khajiit, stepped forward. Although his brown-rimmed upper lip curved into an enraged snarl, and a shallow hiss emanated from his pale throat, there was little humanness to be found in those dilated pupils.

And very soon, as they were to discover, they were under siege. 

The faces around them differed in both race and gender, and it was perhaps this very diversity which alone united them. Indeed, it appeared that each was merely a hapless citizen who had come to this place by unfortunate chance; in the deep shadows, their masters, the once-enslaved Falmer themselves, observed without eyes. Nemiet did not yet distinguish them, but a chill overcame her body, striking her so strongly that her breathing felt stifled. All her energy she had to focus on preventing herself from fainting. In their hands, the mob held weapons, not just battered axes made for chopping down firewood, but also blunt daggers and swords. On some of the blades, blood and other smears could easily be seen. In spite of this palpable hostility, none of them moved; all of them, mer, men, and beastfolk alike, simply remained silently still. And the Redguard remembered the gripping fear that had last held her as here, yet elsewhere; she recalled her dream anew, but was for the first time utterly convinced of its truth.

“We mean no harm—we’ve just to go through here,” spoke Nemiet in mock calm, her eyes now on the man who stood out from the crowd, the very first. Something told her the situation could not be negotiated—whether it was the look of rigidity on Nord’s face, or the slight, nigh-on imperceptible movements with which his grip tightened on the axe handle, was left to obscurity. After slowly drawing out her own axes, the hunter stepped back only once, only to feel Serana’s shoulder against her own. The realization that she was not on her own had a significant calming effect on her; she closed her eyes for a moment and then took a big breath.

“Oh, Stendarr,” murmured she, “see mercy upon us.”

The vampire leaned closer, and smiled a little, even though the Redguard couldn’t really see it, “hey, we’ll be okay. I promise.”

And the way in which she said it made Nemiet want to believe it; she clung to it desperately, fiercely, like a child to her father as he bore her to safety across the raging river.

Time seemed to be absorbed into a kind of vacuum. With her own two eyes, Nemiet could see Nord's mouth open to a scream, but she could not quite capture the sound, as though a heavy, noise-dampening curtain had been drawn between them and the mob. Then, his hatchet went up. It served as a signal for the crowd to rush forth; there must have been two or three dozen of them, but taken together they were like a fearful, stampeding herd, angry and dangerous. The sound of their feet grew to a roar. 

And the two travellers were way outnumbered.

Not long did Nemiet have time to dwell on their poor chances, when the air was already filled with the fickle song of steel and iron. She crossed her axes, preventing a Breton from splitting her skull in two with the sword. For a moment they watched one another—there was a shriek of metal, and her grip felt slack, her legs weak, as the emerald gaze collided with her own. Behind the eyes of the enemy, though glassy and distant, there seemed still to be a human being; she struggled briefly against her strength before her grip gave way. In this moment of weakness, the Redguard slashed through the barely clothed flank with her blades. The green-eyes’ flesh was soft; the blood that fell in drops on her face was warm, sickeningly so.

The hunter swung wildly to the side, and at the very least knocked out a man. Then, a blade would be thrust toward her. Spinning round on her feet she parried the charge, kicking from behind with such force that the elf tripped and fell into the second sword, whose bearer’s throat she then slashed open. It was the same Nord who had first stood out from the crowd. A shallow gurgle from his throat rose above all other commotion; the weapon slipped from his grasp as his hands climbed to his throat, and as panic flooded his gaze—but there was no more he could have done now. This blade of his, which had now gained much weight, clattered as it hit the floor.

Nemiet did not, however, fight too well. Her movements were ill-considered, though even then she was more skilful than the common thug; either she hurried or she was too sluggish, with her feet entangled in her own thoughts. At one point she was struck by a shooting pain, which could not have been anything other than a tear, and which made her cry out loud. Of course, she could not conceal it. And Serana could hear her voice, loud and clear, as if there were no noise at all. It made her fight harder, to work up a defence where Nemiet failed to look; towards her discoverer, she found she felt a deep protective instinct, and her survival was no longer a mere stratagem, but a more profound, more personal need. 

Little by little, though, they were winning. So many of the enemy were lying on the ground that it was not easy not to tread on an arm or a leg. In dodging two stacked-up bodies, Nemiet was again too hasty in stepping aside. Already one of the cat-people had abandoned her hatchet; with a loud hiss, she flattened her ears against her neck and whipped her clawed hand at the hunter. The blow drew little blood, but it stung, and when it did sting, it temporarily blurred her vision. Her other axe fell as she pressed her palm to her eye, which now burned with anger.  

Heart rate rose in her ears. Other sounds were gone; the throbbing ache pulled her into inaction.

It was enough time for a burly Orc to seize her by the arm and send her flying across the floor. For some time she spun around in a daze, until she felt her back slam into something solid. Not knowing which way the ground was, Nemiet gripped her head and whimpered in her pain. As the air rushed back into her lungs, she sucked it in through gritted teeth, resting her elbow on the rock. The dust impaired her already confused vision. 

Blinking. 

Tears beginning to well up in the irritated eyes. 

Coughing.

Whether or not Nemiet had help from the gods to see ahead, she did not know, but eventually she could make sense of her surroundings. Though the surfaces were still mingling, she saw before her a man with no smile, now watching her in silence. His nostrils flared as he exhaled, his broad chest wet with blood. The Redguard then watched as the figure turned around, slowly, as if someone had grabbed the thread of time and was stretching it backwards; his heavy footfalls dragged over the stone as they set off towards Serana. 

Now that Nemiet had mislaid both her axes (one resting in the midst of the battle, and the other a few feet from her), she searched around with trembling hands for the crossbow that had been thrown from her back. Sweat broke out on her forehead. She tested the air, tested for a while, until she found the shape that she had been after. She could not hear the sound of the weapon as it was pulled towards her; simultaneously, from her quiver, she fished out the bolt. 

The Redguard turned on her back, propped up against the wall where she had hit it a few moments ago. Nemiet looked at the vampire, who was still fighting three with her magic and her dagger, not at all aware of the approaching danger. She got up on one knee. Her arms were still shaking from the hard blow, but she raised her crossbow nevertheless. With one eye closed, Nemiet took aim.

The hunter’s bolt flew through the air. It whizzed by, then split Orc’s cranium before he could lift his axe. 

Covered in gore, the Redguard lowered the crossbow beside her. Serana slashed the she-cat's gullet, sending the last of their enemies sprawling to the ground, lifeless. The Falmer who had arrived at the scene had scampered off. 

They had won. 

A low chuckle sounded in Nemiet’s throat. “Made a bit of a mess.”

Serana gazed about her. From among the corpses, she retrieved her friend’s axe, studied it, held it in her hand for a moment. She herself appeared no more fatigued than before; indeed, now that she had been fed, she was seemingly better than before. Nemiet glanced at the ground, and then at the vampire again, and then took the axe that had been extended to her, swallowing thickly. 

“You need to be more careful.”

Still, the hunter smirked. “You were worried for me? That makes twice already.”

Serana rolled her eyes, but she did have a slight smile, which she couldn’t keep from Nemiet. “All right, all right. Best we leave before three.”

Amazingly, once Nemiet’s belongings had been gathered up, they were able to continue their journey with little difficulty.  They set off from the city, moving towards the high tower looming on the horizon; the path before them wound through a field of pale green grass and blue flowers jutting out of the black earth. Their soft glow astonished them both.

“Wish Deeka was here to experience all this,” dreamed Nemiet aloud. The bugs that buzzed all around them were hardly disturbed by their passage; their shiny metallic shells blended into the surrounding twilight, which buried them in a blue mantle. And all at once, a dream-like calm had enveloped them again, as if those nightmarish moments had happened to some other people, someplace very different. Only the bloodstains remained. “He’s my closest friend. The closest I’ve ever gotten, I mean. We’ve always been terribly different, but we would have agreed on this place. I’m sure.”

“Hardly mentioned him,” replied Serana. Her voice was curious, but not intrusive.

“Dunno. I was angry, I guess,” sighed the Redguard. “The fact that some get away. They get to have more than this, to forget about living this way. And I know I should be glad for him, but I cannot be. Never could.”

The vampire was listening, with not a drop of condemnation. “Nothing to be ashamed of with bitterness. We do not easily allow ourselves to appreciate how hard we are working, or even what is at the root of it.”

“I don’t like to ask for much.”

“I know,” said Serana in a friendly voice. “Would you like to tell me about your friend?”

“I miss him,” admitted the hunter. “The last I heard of him, he was in Cyrodiil. A real wordsmith. You’d love him.”

“No doubt,” responded the vampire. “Sometimes I wonder what life would have been like if I had had a friend. Plenty of people, but no one I can lie and say I miss."

Nemiet furtively regarded her companion. “Eh, I know how it is.”

“Deeka’s no fighter. He’s a storyteller whose tales tend to bubble up. Always did beat him in practice, ‘cause he’s soft on the inside. He didn’t wanna hurt me, or anyone. But I like that about him. It’s different.”

“Well, he’s never had your father,” said Serana, sadder than she intended. “Sometimes those who seem unlucky are luckier than they realise.”

“Are you saying he was lucky to be orphaned?”

Serana scoffed. “Not what I meant.”

“Know what?” 

Nemiet came to a halt. In the middle of the meadow, which was covered with strange grass and strange flowers growing out of it, she felt strange. The ground beneath them was glowing. There were tiny blossoms like scorpion grass, but instead they were transmitting light; and longer-stemmed, bell-shaped flowers with a violet tinge. It all seemed to be alive, breathing. Neither had never, not ever, witnessed any such thing; coupled with post-combat light-headedness, Nemiet was fully overcome.

“He would like you. Deeka.”

Serana stopped in front of her. The gentle light on her cheekbones made the hunter look down.

“And what makes you think that?” 

“Because you’re both deluded fools,” said Nemiet then. Her pulse quickened, something the vampire quickly took notice of, “you are much the same. Must be why I'm warming up to you.”

As she began to walk away, she was first elated. A blush sprang to her cheeks, for the hiding of which the Redguard had only the dusk in the field to thank; in broad daylight, she would have probably been caught. So shortly after this burst of joy, she was caught up by an unbridled shame. Serana failed to notice as the hunter grimaced, inwardly cursing herself. But, of course, the vampire would not mind—in fact, even if Nemiet’s words at first left her confused, the corners of her mouth soon began to twitch upwards. 

The vampire soon caught up with her. Together, they plunged out of the light and back into the dark, back on to the paved path. It was then Nemiet would cough to clear her throat, and cautiously speak, “wanted to ask you something. You said no one can be saved. Yet you’re here, offering aid, just in case you don’t know what you’re doing. Why is that?”

The question surprised the vampire. For a moment she paced in silence, struggling to close her mind to the hand which seemed to be clutching at her throat. “It’s on the personal side, I fear.”

Nemiet huffed. But then she became more serious, her voice full of genuine gratitude, “won’t pretend to have an idea of the demands it makes on you. Thank you.”

The closer they came to the tower, the starker became the truth of its grandeur. Soon, the roaring in their ears grew all but bearable; on either side of the stone bridge that lay before them, a waterfall thundered down into some far-off darkness. When Nemiet looked down, she could barely see a thing, only the white crests of the waves as they crashed against the rocks. The surrounding gloom seemed impenetrable. 

Atop the pale yellow doors, their surfaces adorned in geometric reliefs, rested the gilded face of a man. It looked the same as the automaton they had fought before, but two or three times as big. The entrance was guarded by two braziers; the flickering of their flames not only made the gold shine, but also lengthened the shadows and made them come alive. Staring at those expressionless features, the hunter thought of her father, albeit against her very own will.

One after the other, however, they crossed the gushing stream. Attached to the door was a large, golden crank, the upward-pointing arm of which the Redguard would pull down. Though it resisted, the machine still let them through, if only with disgruntled sputtering. 

They exchanged a small, cautious smile before entering the room. It was cold and empty, and even if someone had made camp there once, it was a long time ago. The smell of rotten meat had already faded. Black bits of food rested against the bottom of the old cooking pot, curled up. Nemiet would fix her hood that had fallen off from her head; the chill seemed to penetrate through even the warmth of her hide-cloak.

After one last door, a large, ball-shaped structure unfolded in front of them, with a ramp leading upwards round the edge. The space above it was vast, and equally as freezing as the one before. Almost the entire floor consisted of the top half of that great sphere; it was encircled by clear glass plates, through which they could see down, but not very far because of the darkness. A large apparatus loomed over the upper tip of the sphere. It resembled a spider, with its long metal legs that pointed in all directions, to each tip of which a round reflective glass had been attached. A thick layer of dust covered each surface.

They guessed it was the scroll reader, as old Septimus had hinted; and much like the other creations of the Dwemer, it was, perhaps, a thousand years ahead of its time. 

Nemiet allowed her gaze to wander as she followed the vampire upwards. At the front of the chamber was a raised section with a control panel of some kind at the highest point. At the top, Serana dug the cube out of her bag; the metal felt almost spirited in her hand, as if it were being pulled towards its place. Nemiet had trouble staying still as the Nord inserted it into the receiver. A soft click was brought about. A faint green light came on the panel, and then traveled along its many joints to the podium. From above two buttons, a protective shell retracted. The glow illuminated her face, her clear brown eyes wide with curiosity; again, the anticipation seemed to fill the hunter. It was bubbling in the pit of her stomach, causing her to stir, as she always did when she was lying, though she herself didn’t notice it. 

Then, after cautiously glancing at the other for permission, Serana pressed one of the buttons. There was an audible screech as the machine began to move—one of the long metal limbs turned backwards, and then came to a stop. 

“Again,” commanded Nemiet, never taking her eyes off the device. With two more clicks, a third button was revealed.

From above, a beam of bright, concentrated light suddenly appeared, much like that at home in Fort Dawnguard; when it was allowed to pass through the lined-up lenses, the machine became active. There was a mighty rumble as each metal part began to move in unison. So loud was the air-filling scream that Nemiet worried the device had broken; from somewhere above, the moving bodies would spew a great cloud of dust, through which the light would filter. And so, from its core, an oblong metal pod was lowered before their eyes. 

Into the air it halted, at a height from which they could reach it. Silence fell as the machine settled, which was followed by a small, faint crackle. The capsule opened, and after the plume erupting from within had cleared, they both saw the scroll inside.

Nemiet remembered thinking that all the Elder Scrolls were the same, when they went to it. Like the one with which Serana had been entombed, its surface was golden, but more so than that of any other artifact somehow; embedded among its delicate, complex carvings were precious gemstones, tiny and perfectly round amethysts and sapphires. It seemed to glow in itself, but not light, but a kind of wisdom, a playful but vigorous form of energy. There was no putting it into words.

“We found it,” said Serana, in a voice that betrayed her excitement. “We really did.”

Nemiet couldn’t tear her gaze away. “It’d seem so.”

For a while, they stared at it together, and neither could help but laugh, or feel a little giddy at such a great victory. 

Chapter 11: Storyteller by the Fire

Notes:

Now, this chapter is full of two things, it is full of dialogue and foreshadowing, and, in my humble opinion, I can't really do either very well. It's a short one too! Took forever to write and isn't too shabby, but we'll just have to do ^-^

With their new scroll, they were only one creaky if surprisingly sturdy lift ride from the surface, and only a small descent from the nearest inn once up the mountainside.

At first they did not know if it was night or day, for it was often misty in the mountains, and there was really no guarantee of any daylight; now, too, they were buried under a white veil, under which it proved difficult to see very far. Around them, the sharp rocky outcrops that rose from the ground and the naked trees, frozen black, emerged from among them. But it was so dark, perhaps too dark to be day, and the only sound to break the surrounding silence was a crow taking frightened flight from a nearby fir branch the moment the metal gate behind them clattered shut. For a long time after, that clang echoed, though softly, between the sleeping mountains and the distant, far-away sun.

Slowly, large, feathery snowflakes fell from the sky. The snow under their boots dared not crunch.

Later, as they entered the tavern, where the cosy lighting was, at least for Nemiet, a very welcome guest, exhaustion would take over the hunter. For a little while she managed to keep up with the innkeeper’s tales, but although the balding Nord was strangely pleasant, it had been so very long since she had last slept that the following day she could not remember half of them. Her muscles had begun to ache and her neck had gone stiff, and while she remained terrified of the strange visions she had had before Blackreach, she now longed for a bed more than a relief of any other kind.

With a heavy yet contented sigh, the Redguard brought her food and drink to the table on a small, wooden tray and then sat down. She was admiring the bears’ heads scratched into it as she fell into the chair. “Er, I don’t think I know how to eat, or sleep no more. Been too damn long.”

Serana was seated across from her, smiling a little, with her legs crossed over one another. “I can imagine.”

A weary smile also spread over the hunter's face as she leaned forwards to eat. Grilled, long-stemmed green leeks, potatoes glazed with herbs, and thick slices of venison were piled high on her plate. The place was quiet, warm, and very empty, no doubt because of its remoteness and the harsh traveling conditions, but that did not bother Nemiet. To the contrary, she found the mood peaceful, almost magical; in the pit of her belly, it became a weary, tingling joy to which she felt herself surrendering.

She cast upward glances at the vampire as she forked. Serana’s dark eyes gazed back at her from beneath the shadow of her hood. “I’m sorry, though, for the things I was saying out there. When I think about it, I know I was sounding... well, rather churlish.”

Apologies were not something that Serana was particularly experienced in receiving. She straightened in her seat, searching for the right words to say thank you. 

“I wanted to say—I like more the Nemiet I have now seen. The one Blackreach gave me glimpses of.”

Nemiet huffed, her mouth full. Still, she sensed a rising heartbeat, one so high that she could soon hear it above her teeth grinding. The food was becoming more difficult to swallow. 

“All this needs a dollop of honey,” the Redguard then said to distract herself. 

“I understand. I also used to be very fond of sweet things.”

“You? A sweet tooth? No.”

Serana laughed. “No, really. In the early days of my condition, I could hardly stomach blood. It was revolting… Imagine something like that for yourself, and try to remember I was once very much like you.”

Despite her efforts, Nemiet could scarcely hide her curiosity. “So what happened?”

“I ate only a little, just enough to sustain myself. Putting up a performance in my family is so very important, always has been. It got me through at the start. But then, I remember hitting a stop, a kind of wall... and then I quit feeding. Just like that.”

Gravely, the hunter glanced down, then back at her.

“Mother was worried. She feared what my father might do if he were to find out,” spoke the vampire quietly, swinging her arms through the air. Then, she leaned over, propping her elbows on the table, “she would sit there for hours, brooding, staring at her concoctions and her mortel, and I would sit there on her bed. And I would ask her to wait, to see if it would pass in time. But what I would not realize then, I realize now. All I had been doing, thinking, was wide-eyed.”

“Of course you were,” interrupted Nemiet, with a desire to defend her, “it’s not right, the shit that happened.”

“That’s when my mother came up with the idea of mixing honey with the blood. It was the most disgusting thing I’d ever had, but it went down.” Meekly, the vampire shook her head, “from then on, she insisted on being the one responsible for feeding me. I suppose that’s where it all started. The cult, and the honey.”

Nemiet wiped the corners of her mouth with a small light-coloured cloth. “Well, all things considered, the honey’s a nicety.”

The vampire let her arm rest on the table, grinning slightly. “I guess so.”

“Tell you what,” said the Redguard then, and almost without realizing it, placed a hand over Serana’s, then looked the vampire in the eye. Her voice was brimming with sincerity as she added, “when we get back, the first thing I’ll do is visit the butcher. I’ll buy from him the blood shed from the carcasses of the day. And then I’ll get some honey, put it in the mix, and then I’ll bring it to you.”

“Did I not just say it was disgusting?” Serana’s jesting was easy, and she could not resist a laugh. She swung her hand around on the table, so that their fingers very nearly slipped into the spaces between each other. 

“Well, if you don’t want it…”

“No. It’s a nice thought,” said the vampire then, smiling. It was a strange sort of feeling; she knew, somehow, that if her heart had still been beating, it would have burst through by now. Nemiet’s brown eyes had such kindness in them that she believed for a moment they would soften that way just for her, just this once. Her cheeks began to ache. “I appreciate it.”

“‘Course. I’d not have made it this far if it weren’t for you.”

Then they sat together, in a silence that was both comforting, and oddly restoring. Nemiet felt it as a soothing salve over an angry wound, as she watched the reddish-orange embers darting playfully up towards the smoke-filled ceiling. Suddenly, she found herself wishing not to go back to her duties, back to her father; and on that night, she dreamed of only pleasant things, of the gentle waves of the lake in the valley where she lived and the distant sounds of horses, the warm summer breeze on her skin.

The journey back to the Rift took about two days. They were blessed with favourable weathers; during the day it was crisp and spring-like, the skies bright blue, while at night it was pleasantly mild. Much of the distance was covered on foot, but from south of Windhelm they were given a lift in a horse-drawn carriage, during which Nemiet slept all she could, although her dreams were fitful and restless. While awake, she reflected on her premonition of Blackreach and deeply pondered the reality of it, never believing she would experience such a thing again. But more than mere disbelief, there was hope in her, hope that it had signified naught, that it was only a kind of chance event in some of their lives, and that she was indeed not about to lose her head now, when it was needed most. 

When she next saw the valley of her home, its tree-lined slopes and overgrown floor were bathed in the rich light of early evening, and it seemed that summer had arrived. Not all the snow had gone, but it was now confined mainly to the sharp mountain peaks and shadowy hollows where little sunlight could reach. Brightly coloured wildflowers, freshly bloomed, dotted the undulating grass; their scent came off stronger than Nemiet could remember. They were escorted by a flock of birds on this final stretch, flying in formation through the purpling sky, flying back home, and from time to time, one of them would croak. 

When they arrived at the barricade, the Redguard immediately saw from the Orc guarding the gate that something had happened. Durak’s toothy grin was so wide that it crossed his dated face from right to left; his silvery grey hair flapped in the wind as he opened his gravelly voice. 

“Nemiet! Your scaly little friend is back. You better get in there before they boot him out.”

Knowing that the Orc was merely shooting the breeze, Nemiet smiled broadly, if wearily, as she opened the wooden latch.

As soon as she got inside, she knew her brother would be there.

From the dining room came a cheerful chatter. Nemiet hurried to the door, at a near run, so that her feet scarcely touched the ground. Many who knew Deeka were already there; they all swarmed about him, but from between their heads she made out a crown of black feathers. When their eyes met, there was no restraint on the Redguard. She took the missing steps to the Argonian, regarded him for a lingering time, as if the man would vanish from under her gaze, and then wrapped her arms around him. With her face pressed into the curve of his neck, Nemiet closed her eyes, breathing in for a moment the years of her childhood. 

Later that night, with the two moons high in the eastern sky over the black woods, and the ghostly call of an owl from somewhere in the trees, they were sitting together around a blazing fire. On the hill behind them rose the fortress, grand and venerable as it always had been, and Nemiet was still only looking at the one lightless window, the one that belonged to her father. Her grip tightened on her other bicep. All but Serana had a wooden bowl of last night’s stew in their hands; of them all, Deeka, Nemiet, Agmaer, who, for some curious reason, had still stayed with them, though he had said not a word aloud, and though Gunmar, and Beleval had already gone, the food was too salty and the meat too chewy, yet none had the heart to complain.

Having had the time to eat again, Deeka emptied his mouth. “So I ran into this litter of cats from outside the city. Travelling salespeople. Got interested in one of them... cannot describe in words the beauty of her fur, black as night, or them eyes…”

“Many thanks, Ravius Terinus,” thanked Nemiet with a disgruntled nod. “Is it any taller than the tale about the Arena girl? The king of all tales, say?”

“A tall tale? Maybe. But are they all not?” The Argonian chuckled, “so I was bored then, that night. I had only just escaped the bustling city, and there was little happening in the countryside, beautiful as it was. I’m a restless man, you see. So I chose to stay.”

Somewhere, a wolf bayed. The golden flames that were reflected from Nemiet’s eyes swallowed up the dark blue sky. 

“The caravan was on its way to Elsweyr after enriching itself in Hammerfell. Been on the road for sometime. The elder had stories to tell, very clever, very intriguing. Happily, I had time to hear many. But only one stuck in my mind. It speaks of a city that no longer exists—a city destroyed by the war of men and elves.”

The man leaned over to stir the blocks of wood while Nemiet was grinning. “Be sure to throw in a couple of unicorns. Y’know, so as not to make it too believable.”

Deeka’s upper lip curled up in a small smirk. “Will try not to take that to heart. I am a master storyteller, after all, one of the very few.”

The Redguard laced her fingers together as if to pray, then cast a sidelong glance at the vampire, who sat on the lowermost branch of a crooked pine tree, one leg down. In the dark, she could not see her expression, and could only turn back towards the flames. “So how goes the story?”

“‘Tis was told to me by the old cat. At least a thousand moons old, been blind at least half his age. Old Misty-Eyes, he was called,” said Deeka, “once he’d been the servant of a noble house. In many parts of our beautiful land, life is not so easy for us beastfolk. ‘Tis often one of servitude, or destitution.”

“Must’ve seen a lot of it on your travels. Can’t be fun.”

“No,” answered the Argonian truthfully, “they’ve no memory that they themselves were once strangers in their land. Many native peoples have been lost to them. But we are far more prosperous than they think. We have each other, we have stories. And they are more precious than gold, than any jewel.”

They all sat in silence for a moment, before Deeka would go on about his tale. 

“Once there was a city that was very unlike any we know of here. It sat in the middle of a desert; or, well, that would be a lie, for the sea lapped at its sandbanks,” said he, “the city itself was absolutely beautiful. Jewel of Khefrem, some called it. Rumour has it that its water was crystal clear, and the skies were bluer above it than in any other place. But this splendour, e’en it concealed a darkness. The people of the city were very much divided. There were plenty of rich, and plenty of poor. ‘Twas there, I was told, where the thieves’ guild was born.”

Nemiet had fallen silent to listen. But now, a surprised expression spread over her face. “Thieves’ guild? The same as in Riften?”

“The very,” said Deeka, “‘tis of interest to you then.”

“Ah,” grimaced Nemiet, “you’re right.”

With pride, the Argonian puffed himself up on the log. He then continued, “starting, they did quite well. It spread, not least among the poor. ‘Twas rumoured that, at one point, almost every resident of Hammerfell knew of someone with ties there.”

Nemiet shifted. “So what happened?”

“They became all too self-assured, that is what,” replied he, “it happens, no? E’en the humblest of men is not free from it. And so one day, after too little and too cursory planning, the thieves’ very best set out on their biggest heist to date. A grave robbery, no less.”

“A pity that, everything that could go wrong, did go wrong. The man who led them died, along with many others. And since misfortune so seldom comes alone, it so happened that one wealthy lady, the very one whose family fortune they had been robbing, hired a private army of a thousand men to do but one job, and that job was to exterminate these thieves. To the last man.”

“Did a pretty shoddy job too.”

“Aye,” laughed he, “after that they were gone for a long time, scattered through the province. The cities in Hew thought, ‘ha! So much for them thievin’ scoundrels! Our land, and our darling gold, they’re safe now!’ ”

“M-hm.”

“But the rest of the story has many versions. Some say that the thieves made a pact with Nocturnal that they were to be cultists who would get their fortune from Lady Luck herself; some say the new leader seduced this rich lady. At any rate, if that was now possible, they returned e’en stronger than before. But much it took. Many were hanged, and in Taneth there was a whole new invention, the guillotine.”

“It’s a righteous world,” said Nemiet, “a world that wants no crooks.”

“A world of unfairness, and of human cruelty too,” answered Deeka, “you have no understanding of what makes a thief. It can be wealth, the promise of easy living, but it can also come from hardship, poverty, alienation. You needn’t have thought about it.”

For a moment Nemiet looked away, and she felt like a fool, but not directly because of Deeka, but because of her own thoughtlessness. “I’ve been trying to learn it, how to forgive. Never even knew its worth before… Feel like everything is changing. Like I was the crook, in a sense anyway.”

The Argonian regarded her brotherly from over the fire, “to do the right thing is rarely that simple. Otherwise everyone would be doing it!” 

“I suppose,” said Nemiet.

“Come on, now, come. I know you, friend, and I know there’s not a hair out of place on your head.”

Briefly, the hunter sat silent. “Thank you, Deeka. Very kind of you.”

He finished his stew, offering a little quiet to those present, standing up then with the wooden bowl in his claw. With a broad grin, he announced, if mostly to the Redguard, “I so cherish it when the night-time gets you thinking. Really boggles the mind. But this lizard has to hit the hay now—and save the requests!”

“Now go to bed and maybe someday you’ll be a grown boy, too,” joked Nemiet, “and do spend time with your mother. She’s really missed you.”

“G'night.”

More than willing to go, the hunter rose from her seat and stretched out her back, until what she had fearfully envisioned seemed to be coming true, and Agmaer would break his stillness by stepping between her and the path back to the fortress.

“There’s something I needed to say,” with a pitch that did not quite sit on him, said the Nord, and then gave Serana a disgruntled look, “to you alone.”

Any warmth in the storytelling now seemed to have gone. The wind had gathered speed, whipping its way up into the tops of the gloomy trees, and when Nemiet would glance after Deeka, she could no longer discern in the darkness even his back, only the tall grass rustling in the breeze. Then, unwillingly, her gaze drifted back to Agmaer, whose dark eyes glared, and whose dark eyes gave the Redguard a foreboding of evil. 

“How quaint,” commented Serana in exasperation from a little further away. The vampire had little fondness for Agmaer. Still, she was prepared to go, if only it meant Nemiet’s convenience; but when the hunter next spoke, she knew that she very much wanted not to leave.

Never taking her eyes off the man, Nemiet shook her head. “No. You stay.”

The Nord, clad in a rather modest looking white cotton shirt, swallowed thickly, his eyes squeezing into narrow slits and wandering about. He felt very powerless in front of her plea, so in frustration he would breathe out, ‘okay’ .

In short, tense steps, the man strode by her, his boots dragging through the mud. The Redguard followed him with her gaze, but Agmaer’s angular back did little to talk back to her, nor did it say at all what was to come. It was this very not-knowing that put fear in Nemiet’s breast. Confused, she asked, “so? What is it?”

“No. Don’t go there-try and act like you don’t know,” he cried, and then turned round. At the sight of Nemiet, however, his annoyance somewhat subsided, and the harshness of his voice returned to a much softer pitch. “I don’t at all understand why you’re doing this. We used to be partners, you and I. Yesterday still, I thought we still was. This kind of venture, searching and finding, this is what we do. Or it used to be.”

“I’m needed now elsewhere,” clarified she, and watched with concern at Agmaer's tightening jawline, “the other side don’t rest, Agmaer. Now’s not the time, I don’t think, to worry about partnership. I do as I’m told, follow my orders. As should you.”

Out of nowhere, the man laughed. “See, this is where it gets real funny. Who ordered you north? Who said to follow that thing? Who’d have given such orders?”

Agmaer then addressed Serana, but only briefly. “You. It’s ‘cause of you, no? You know, Nemiet woulda never been this way if she in’t have pity on you, or some other womanly shite.” 

“Quit it!” Nemiet then stepped in between them, really angry this time, perhaps not having been able to avoid grabbing him if he had tried to get past her. “And I mean it, Agmaer. This ‘has got to end now.”

“Let’s end this then! But don’t you go giving me that look, like I was the halfwit here,” grunted he, “we’ve had just one rule above all, that we don’t fuck with those bastards! How’d you do this to yer pa, to the very man who taught you? Must’ve really upset ‘im, you.”

His words were an arrow through her breastbone, and like an arrow they tore at her skin and opened up what devastated her the most. Her mouth opened, but rather than breathing, she started crying and could not speak in her pain. The Redguard angered at herself for weeping in his presence, yet she could do naught to the might which was now sent to subdue her; and when Agmaer approached her, she would not look the Nord in the face, but touched him with her eyes elsewhere, anywhere, on the stain of his shirt, on the pine-needle in his hair. 

“Er,” blurted him, but did not exude concern, in spite of his efforts, “no use wailin’. I’ve a proposal that coulda been the answer to both our problems, yours and mine.”

Nemiet glanced up. 

“Been thinkin’ bout what you were saying to me in the Reach. Remember? You was talking to me about companionship. But I’ve been thinking, and thinking some more bout it. And maybe I wan’ something more than that.”

Nemiet's eyes widened in shock. From beneath her brow, she looked him in both eyes, but found no sign of any uncertainty.

“Nemiet,” said Agmaer, taking the woman’s arms, then sliding his hands down hers, and holding them between them, “my pa’s been writin’ to me, asking me if I’ve got myself a nice girl. I say often that I’ve got someone, but the time’s not yet ripe. I s’pose it is now. We’ve not got any to lose. I want a family, a true family, I want you, you, and a couple o’ children.”

It was then that Nemiet wished dearly to be someone else, someplace else, anyplace, at any time, as long as it was not her, and not then,  not there. Suddenly, the hunter could no longer feel her legs, or they changed shape or turned from flesh to wooden stumps; in desperation she prayed that they would carry her now, as an alien fear sought to seize control of her. She seemed to be filled with it until there was no more left, not even a thought, not even a tear, not even a memory of the year or of the High King.

“All I ask of ye is that you consider.”

Ever abashed, as if the target of some miserable, terrible mischievery, Nemiet dried her eyes. “This is some sort of a jest, no? It’s got to be.”

The man let go of her hands, walking stiffly between her and the vampire, his teeth clenched. Agmaer could not contain his temper—and he felt himself shamed, mocked, almost humiliated in a very public way. To mask it, he leaned lightly against the curved pine tree, crossing his boots, looking elsewhere for a few moments. The wind had ruffled his linen-blond hair; in the dark, the color was more golden, though dirty like tea leaves or autumnal earth.

“A jest, you’re saying?”

“Agmaer,” repeated Nemiet, “I want no harm your way, but know this, that I am no wife.” 

The Nord swallowed dry, then used his thumb to scrape off a bit of dead bark, and watched the brownish chunks tumble to the ground. And then he smiled, of course with a venomous and disillusioned grin, “sure. So you think you can do better than me? And why’s that? ‘Cause your pa’s the General? Or ‘cause I’m just a lineman?”

He then fell silent, before he added in a much, much more resentful voice, “nay. Doesn’t sound much like you. Unless… unless you already got someone bedded down?”

There was no time for Nemiet to respond, nor even to blink, when the vampire had already dug her fingers into the man’s throat. Agmaer’s eyes went wide with fear as his own hands struggled to loosen the stranglehold, his feet barely reaching the ground, flailing hither and thither. From somewhere low, at the back of his gullet, came a hissing sound. And Serana, in her rage, held him against the tree trunk, her eyes glaring against her long teeth. They howled at each other like animals, like two angry wolves, but Nemiet feared that like men they would kill one another, or at any rate Serana would kill Agmaer and then the Dawnguard would kill her. 

Agmaer tried to kick at her, but she did not flinch, but tightened her grip. Groaning, he got out of his mouth then a desperate, breathless, ‘say something, goddammit!’

“Serana,” said Nemiet with a shaky voice, taking a step towards them, and regaining a quick, displeased glance from under a sharp eyebrow, “will you— please —let go?”

Serana’s nose wrinkled up as she breathed out a grunt, and it was clear that she had no desire at all to let go, but still allowed the Nord’s feet to safely land. Agmaer’s face was red, and he was spewing clouds into the air like a dragon, nervous, full of ire. Quickly he stumbled away, his hand rubbing at his angry throat, eyeing them both from under his thick eyebrows. Once he was far enough away from Serana to feel safe, he snarled before disappearing into the shadows, “nice that you’ve such a docile wee whore.”

The vampire would not settle down. Infuriated, she had moved a little further away, and the Redguard had no immediate strength to go to her. So Nemiet stood there, letting her shoulders slump, gulping back some tears of despair she had not known she had. Sighing long, she felt herself grow weary, and for a moment held the back of her hand against her forehead, her trembling hand, against her damp forehead. 

“Something’s not right with him. He’s not… ah. I’ll take care of it. I must still have some leverage, I guess, somewhere.”

Shakily, she would then flop onto the log, let her face rest on her hands and watch the embers die down. Her legs felt weak still, and the deepening night about them felt blacker now and colder than before. But in all her desolation, Serana was there; silent as a ghost, she went to the hunter, laid her hand consolingly on her shoulder, and Nemiet said not a word, but felt great appreciation for the Nord, and, lifting her eyes, offered a genuine, if tired, smile.

And when, at last, on going to bed that night, she thought she had survived it all, another very unusual dream would be coming her way.

There she stood in the yard of the fort, a lovely summer’s day overhead, listening for a moment to a far-off sparrow’s song before realizing exactly where it was; the place, she knew, where they would often burn the bodies, and the smell, forever etched in her memory, pungently recalled her to the occasions.

She spun round once, and then again, and saw before her a crowd of people, who appeared to be gathering to look at something. From their backs Nemiet could not tell their expressions, but as she passed Beleval and Deeka, she could see a trail of tears down the elf's cheeks, and Beleval was not at all the weeping sort. Looking at the Argonian, the man who was to her like a brother, the hunter did not recognise him in his grief; and as she glanced about her again, she realized that she knew them all, and that they were indeed at a funeral, and up in the wood lay a corpse.

A short distance away, she then saw Isran, who also seemed to be crying, but it was a sight so strange to Nemiet that she did not believe it. Walking through the people lining his path, neatly dressed in a long blue shirt with a beautifully embroidered neckline, he carried in his hands a crossbow, which looked very familiar, but the Redguard could not associate it at first in her mind. Helplessly, she watched her father bear the weapon over a silent pyre, then set it gently down on the wood. Shortly after, he would raise his hand, and thus give the command to light the fire—and Nemiet, to her horror, realized that the dead body was her, and that she felt not fear so much as an all-encompassing, deviating nothingness that would haunt her for many days to come.

A few rapid glimpses followed; a horse, pale white, in the midst of a mist-shrouded meadow and some wild clary; a castle courtyard, flanked by a garden of sorts, though grey and wilted; a purple wasteland, over which thunder rumbled. There came the smell of blood, the taste of it, and lastly, when the visions had tired her, the clearest yet the least sickly of all the lights she had ever seen, and it wrapped her in its embrace and roused her from her bed.

As her eyes fluttered awake, she found herself first thinking of her mother, and longing for her as if she had lost her only yesterday. She then sensed something, someone, beside her, and in all its unfamiliarity, the feeling of weight startled Nemiet. She saw only a shadow there. With her heart leaping against her throat she glanced behind her with only a flick, then quickly drew from under her burlap cushion the small knife she used to store there for safekeeping. And although the hunter was very fast, owing to her training and her overall fitness, the attacker firmly caught her wrist before the blade could have tasted a major artery. 

Serana.

For a moment, the vampire held her hand, “it’s just me.”

Still in fear, Nemiet stared intently back at her, into those eyes crimson red, but was soon reassured. When Serana loosened her grip on her, she felt a pang of near disappointment, but rolled back into a reclining position, and buried her face in her hands. “I’m sorry. Took you for someone else.”

Serana was understanding and smiled. She was sitting on the edge of Nemiet’s bed now, leaning a little towards her. “I take it your dream wasn’t a sweet one.”

Slowly, Nemiet shook her head. It hurt her deeply, both the need to share her dreams with the other woman, and the fear that in talking of them she might have somehow conjured them into reality. To carry them alone felt crushingly lonesome; but this time she understood less still, so that she would not even have known where to begin. So instead, she would lay still, staring at the ceiling, hoping for some answers to fall through the seams in the tiles and the old cobwebs above her, but when all there was was emptiness, the resounding nothingness became paralysing.

“Deeka came by a little while ago, brought you your meal,” said the vampire, “said he was concerned. He said you never sleep past sunrise.”

“Well, he hasn’t been around for a long time,” answered the Redguard. 

She was still troubled by the thought of her mother, of why she no longer felt so distant. That was why Nemiet asked, somewhat mindlessly, “did I ever tell you about my mother?”

“Have not.”

In thought, the Redguard dug under her shirt for her amulet, and fiddled with it between her fingers. Serana looked at it, but said not a word. “I cannot remember much of her. I was so little when... when it happened, y’know.”

“Had very few parents after that. Most of the time no one was there. When I was young, I’d spend a lot of time with a trainer. He’s a good man, Olaf.”

She turned her gaze to the wall to keep from crying. Serana looked down, then back at her. The compassion of her heart passed to her hand, which sought Nemiet’s own, and round which the hunter’s fingers wrapped and unexpectedly tightened.

“Shot another soldier in the toe, tore my trouser leg completely once. If I were to tell you the things I sometimes did just to get scolded by him, surely you’d laugh. I’d be laughing too, if it wasn’t so miserable, this whole issue. Guess I just dunno how to not care now.”

“Well,” began the vampire carefully, “you need not not to care. If there is any one thing I have learnt of you, it is that you really do. And let me tell you, Nemiet, that evil things are rarely the result.”

“Ah. ‘Cause seems to me awfully like you know about me,” said Nemiet, “and ‘cause, and I fear to say, I seem to know about you, too. That would be, I’ve got to care about this too, about who we are now, partners, or friends, and I haven’t a clue how much caring I got in me.”

For a long time they were then silent, hand in hand, watching the passing specks of dust and picking up the threads of their thoughts, weaving them together. The stillness was in some ways soothing, but Nemiet felt as if there was a gaping hole in her chest that would not heal, and which she feared would fester now that it lay nearer than it had ever been to being exposed to the outside world. But for all its brutality, no wound healed before being allowed to breathe, and a little, it was more than none; for once, Nemiet allowed it, and herself, to ache well and truly. 

Chapter 12: The Salvation of Florentius Baenius

Notes:

A new chapter soo soon... struggling a lot with self-confidence right now, and this story in general, but I hope the quality has not gone down the drain because of it ;w; been writing so much though! I can't believe I already have drafts up to 120k ish words... feels crazy haha. Anyway, into the chapter (and into my version of Florentius, I really do be loving the Dawnguard NPCs)!

A week passed, during which very little came to happen.

Throughout this time, Nemiet would diligently pray and meditate. Again she went in for a fitness test, which was something she would often do in a time of great distress, and, of course, passed with excellence. At the third light, on a day of mild and all-round pleasant weather, Deeka took her fishing, and, later, when the heat had died down and the sun had turned towards the night, she asked Serana to go riding with her. When at red dusk they then did, they would reach a place high on a hill, looking out over the grassy slopes to the lowlands far below, each with a shyness in their hearts. 

The following morning, Nemiet rose early as usual. After dressing, she headed downstairs to the dining room, where many people had already gathered to eat, or talk, about various things; all of them she greeted courteously, but aloofly, and grabbed herself a delicious red apple. Absent-mindedly, she then wandered over to the fireplace, which was already working to heat the room. One of their war dogs, Bran, lay before it, claws now and again scraping the stone floor. He had a friendly expression as he looked up at the Redguard with curiosity, more perhaps about what she was holding in her hand. Nemiet patted on his upturned muzzle, playfully scolding him, “instead of a meal, you’d think of crooks. ‘Sides, it’s an apple—what’re you, a bunny?”

“Ay, Captain,” came a voice from behind her. When she looked out over her shoulder, she saw that it belonged to one of the junior recruits, a fair-haired woman whose name she could not remember, and whose face was dotted with red scabs. “The boys and I were thinkin’, we wake up as normal, we piss and shit as normal, we fight as normal, only all of a sudden we’ve got a fang in our midst. You don’t think that’s a mite odd?”

Slowly Nemiet stood up, a disgruntled look on her face. “The fang’s one of ours now. Were it not for her, we’d still be rolling round dumber than lemmings, but then some can’t seem to see any further than their whiskers.”

Looking frightened, the woman only held in her hands a wooden mug, and gave a big-eyed glance at her companions, who to Nemiet appeared more like leggy moose calves than soldiers. “A-aye. Sorry I said a thing.”

The Redguard’s features softened a little then, but still an uneasy feeling resided within her. She was on the verge of opening her mouth to apologise, and to say she did not quite herself understand her behaviour, when they were joined in the conversation by a third member. 

“Mornin’,” greeted Gunmar, and smiled broadly from beneath his bushy beard, “doing well?”

“Hey,” said Nemiet, pleased, now that she had no need to carry on talking to her, “could be better, if I’m honest. But worse too, so this does.”

She then turned wholly to him, offering the young woman some time to flee, a growing sense of anguish in her chest. “Say, Gunmar, Isran’s back yet?”

“Aye. Was havin’ a dip by the lake when he went by. A couple of rowdy boys with ‘im, carrying some cargo,” replied he, “actually, he’s the one I was s’posed to be talking to you bout. But you’ll want to hear it from the horse’s mouth. Not much of a messageman.”

Arms still crossed over her chest, Nemiet's brow furrowed as Gunmar nodded ambiguously towards the workshops. From his stern air, she was quick to gather that it was an urgent matter—one that worried her greatly since it had to do with her father, and because that seldom meant any good. She nodded curtly, then contented herself with following the Nord rigidly out of the spice-stinking dining hall. 

Part of the fortress was so designed as to blend in with the network of caves in the mountain, through which, of course, ran another route out. It was not often used, and whilst there had been many a rumour among their people about the illicit storing and transporting of skooma, no one had yet cared enough to inspect the area;  all Nemiet could be sure of was that, for the air in the deep bedrock was bitterly cold, the space connected to the caves was the furthest from the sleeping quarters. This room, with its earthen floor, was made tolerably warm by a pair of furnaces with smoke escaping from a square vent high in the ceiling, and by an old smelter, where once the Dawnguard’s very own crossbows and their bolts had been made, but which had not seen a smith such as Gunmar now for a long time. Past the dogs’ enclosure and feeder, and a much sturdier fence from behind which she could make out the discontented roaring of trolls, Nemiet was taken by surprise when the Nord tapped a fist once against the wood, quieting the noise almost in an instant.

“Be good now, lads,” he said.

Though it was still early, and the sun had not yet climbed into the sky above the valley, Sorine was already at her worktable. A tallow candle was shining on her pensive, oil-smeared face; the flame was dancing across the metal parts laid out before her.

“Here,” said Gunmar, but in response the Breton merely raised a gloved hand, never lifting her eyes from her work. A short while passed, during which Nemiet glanced a time or two at the large man, to which he would reply with a shrug of his shoulders. Moving one piece to a slightly new angle, Sorine at last began speaking. 

“I am someone who tires of long, fallacious talks. So let me be blunt, and say, ‘we need you’, ” announced Sorine, but not with malice, more in an unchanging voice, “me and Isran go way back. He’s competent enough as the General; as a man, not much to boast about. Know what I mean? But there’s one thing he is above the rest in everything he does— cautious . And, when it comes to strangers in his vicinity, what he can be is rather antagonistic, no? So Gunmar and I figure if he’s willingly gathered all these people in here, then the threat of a full-scale war must be real.”

“We’re talkin’ mass slaughter, invasions, things much bigger and bloodier than infiltration and isolated attacks,” added Gunmar. 

“I understand, but that’s precisely what we’ve been preparing for for years,” responded Nemiet, “what more could I possibly be doing?”

“Granted, you have plenty. Men, fit for arms, solid ties all over the province. But there’s one thing you’re missing. When this hellish army comes to your door, you will need a specialist. One to heal the wounded, to give these men a dignified end,” said Sorine very convincingly, “you’ll need Florentius.”

“What kind of a specialist?”

“Well, he is a priest. A terribly un-priestly one,” admitted the Breton, “he is an apothecary. A herbalist, and a mage too, and knows the fine art of experimenting. But, most importantly, he can be trusted.”

“Right. Sounds wonderful,” said Nemiet and looked at Gunmar, “so why haven’t you gone after this miracle man?”

“You’ve come up to our problem,” spoke the Nord, “we’ve no clue where he is. Vanished into thin air, seems like. My guess is, only the vigilants were keeping in touch with him, and only Isran would know anything about them. He’s always got one or more mole running about. So we thought... we was hoping you might bring this to him. You’re, as far as I can tell, his right-hand woman.”

She glanced away, then back to the tips of her boots, her fingernails clenched on her own arms. Unexpectedly, she gave a small laugh. “Right.”

“As I was saying,” said the truthful Breton, “not much of a man, he.”

The next time she spoke, Nemiet’s throat felt parched. “I’ll do what I can.”

“And that is all I ask of you,” concluded Sorine, and then waved her hand through the air once more. “Quiet, I must have some quiet.”

With the Breton left behind to do some thinking, Gunmar accompanied a quiet Nemiet back to the dining room. To her, the space now felt almost tormentingly empty; only the ashes smouldered noiselessly in the hearth, small fiery embers in their midst. The people had all gone about their chores. Still upset, the Redguard could not tear her eyes from the table, which was now virtually bare save for some dirty plates and candelabra, and one of the larger serving trays. 

“You don’t need to do this,” initiated he, and with his sensitivity he surprised the worrying hunter. “I hear you, y’know. My old man cared very little for me. Always meant to be better for the boy, but…”

A wistfulness crept into Gunmar’s mind, smothering the remainder of his sentence.

“This isn’t yours to clean,” said Nemiet, smiling guardedly but full of gratitude for his efforts. “Sorry for your loss. This’ all very unfair.”

“That is the one way we cannot go,” said the Nord then, but not scoldingly, but with fatherly advice. He would then gently pat Nemiet on the back and say, “unfair, yes. But we’ll get by, always ‘have. As for your pa... I can only hope he’ll come round.”

Having thanked the man for his words, Nemiet set off upstairs. Her steps soon grew long and heavy. She thought hard about the words she would speak, and to what she might appeal to her father; it was particularly difficult because she did not half know him as well as she would have liked, and because sometimes she really did feel more like his underling than any child—and in the end, no thought of hers made any difference, for she seemed to have forgotten it all at the sight of Isran’s back. 

Nemiet took note of the rigid shoulders, of the way he did not turn to look. The lump like a stone on her chest increased in weight, in diameter. 

“Reporting,” said Nemiet, her voice trembling against her will, her back straight, though he was not looking. “A word, please?”

“Granted,” grunted Isran. His hand was moving as he was taking inventory of what he had earlier hauled in. 

“You’ll have heard about our past successes, the gains in the field,” said Nemiet, walking up beside him and peering out his window into the misty morning. “I was sent for three scrolls, two of which are now in our possession. It is my hope that we will shortly locate the final one.”

“I never sent you nowhere,” said the man, sullen, “when you were needed here, you chose to chase after legends round the province. Aside from flouting the rules, from flouting me, in bringing back that creature you have successfully betrayed even your loyalty.”

Nemiet swallowed so loudly that the sound seemed to resonate through the emptiness of the room. There was no salvation for her in the white world beyond the glass.

“Even those I could live with. But I made you a soldier, Nemiet, not a rebel! So why is it coming to my attention that this sick experiment of yours has aggressed against one of our own?”

Then she could not conceal her fear. Eyes wide, she glanced at her father, whose verdant gaze under his bushy brows was pale with disappointment. 

“That is not what happened,” explained she hurriedly, “she did what she did in my defence. Did Agmaer come to you? He-”

“That is enough,” grunted Isran, “I’ve come to believe some ridiculous claims in my life, but never in the goodness of its ilk.”

Nemiet fell utterly still. In secret, she was fighting a cry, but did not show it at all to him; she felt like such a pitiful creature, one that even her own father did not want.

“This is what we’re going to do… I need be assured that I shall never, you hear, never, hear the like again,” said Isran then, and Nemiet became aware of a slight softening in his tone, “you swear to me, Nemiet, that we’re both still working together, that you maintain your fidelity to your people. I need to hear it. Even when it gets tough. Even if temptations arise.”

Silently, Nemiet nodded. “I know mine oath, sir.”

“Good,” said Isran, and even his posture would settle. “That is good to hear. Now would you tell me what you were about to?”

“They want me to find someone,” spoke Nemiet cautiously, her hands still shaking behind her back, fingers twisting more tightly into their sockets, “was told that you were still on the watch for the vigilants, and that it would do us some good right now. Florentius Baenius is his name.”

Isran stopped writing, but he did not look at Nemiet, only stared expressionlessly before him. “Who’s been speaking to you, Sorine or Gunmar? Figured they would already have my answer. I do not trust that man, and I do not want him in my home.”

Nemiet was far too weary to struggle against him today, so she simply turned back towards the doorway. Already she was worried about Serana's absence, which had come to her too as a surprise in the morning, and whom she was anxious to locate at the soonest convenience; but she had also found her tolerance had fallen towards her father, who now inspired in her strong feelings of resentment instead of endless appreciation. The golden glow from the corridor beckoned to her. “Good. This’ not for me to argue. Leave you to your work.”

She was indeed about to exit when his voice would halt her.

“Do wait.”

It so surprised the younger Redguard that for a moment she was unable to turn around, simply staring into space. 

“Suppose they’re right. Mustn’t let my emotions take precedence over my reason. Last I heard of him, he was offering his expertise to the vigilants at a dig. Ruunvald is the site name. Sorine knows it,” said he, “if you see to it that he behaves, he may stay.”

Nemiet could not resist a small, cautious smile, born of a small, cautious spark of hope in her heart. “Thank you. Don’t know what else to say… I-”

“Suggest you go before I take back them words,” said Isran, then went back to his writing, “and Nemiet, do get a hold of that beast. Next time, I will not be so lenient.”

“Understood.”

She then slipped away like a naughty stray dog, back into the safety of her own room. There, first to her delight, then to her sorrow, she realised that Serana had come back; and, when the vampire rounded so that Redguard could see her grave face, then she knew something must have been amiss.

“And where have you been?” The question from Nemiet sounded inadvertently petulant. “I was worrying, is all. Just got yelled at over the thing with Agmaer... afraid they might’ve done somethin’ to you."

“I wouldn’t have wished to leave saying nothing, but I must.”

Mist had thickened into droplets on Serana’s black robe; her tall, slender figure stood out in sharp detail against the glaring daylight. She extended her hand towards the hunter, and beneath her white knuckles she revealed a small brooch, an eight-pointed wheel, identical to her own. The sight of it made Nemiet frown.

“I believe my father has sent spies. I did not like telling you, worrying no more than you already worry,” said she ruefully as she set the piece of metal down on the table, “but I must go to them. It is my responsibility—only I can help guide them to the path that is right, a path other than the one he chose for them.”

Nemiet was becoming nervous. “You wish to help them? But-”

“Simply not desiring the world to end in shadow means not that I have abandoned them,” said the vampire then, sternly, a storm within her which seemed to creep towards them in a menacing mass. The blackness of it terrified her, but it came out mostly as rigidity, firmness. “They are my kin, Nemiet. You still blindly follow your own.”

Today, those words struck Nemiet more poignantly than usual. “Only mine is trying to put an end to the folly which yours has wrought.”

“I do not need your understanding,” said Serana, “I ask for patience. You aren’t an unreasonable woman. Let me tell them the truth, allow them the choice. That much you owe them, to call yourself their defender.”

“Their choice has already been made,” insisted the Redguard,  “you did also not need me to make one. It is only fair to expect the same of them.”

“So you don’t want me to even try?”

Displeased, she strode past her, but only so as not to let Serana see the ill-feeling on her face.

“It is a foolish thought.”

“Yes… I’m afraid I’ve already come to know the simplicity of your world,” said Serana, sounding very disappointed, “know, Nemiet, that all this time I have been hearing the blood in your veins rushing to your heart—think of a river, a raging, frothy one, think of the sound it makes. And all the time it torments me. Not because of disgust, but because I hunger. There are things, sufferings, about which you know nil.”

“I-”

“For a while there in Alftand, I truly believed that you were wanting to be better than Isran. Turns out, you're just like him.” 

Nemiet’s lower back seemed to slump. Never meeting the vampire’s eyes, she leaned over the back of her chair, then glanced cautiously over her shoulder, some part of her soul heavier than before.

For a moment Serana stared at her, in anger and disillusion, but mostly in hurt, a tear digging its way down her cheek. She brushed it away, far from being gentle, for she had put her hurt in her hand;  then she left, and only the breeze from her cloak was stirring up the dust in the corners of Nemiet’s room.

The Redguard’s upper lip pursed in pain as she again fought back tears. In one rash move, she gathered her fist and smashed it against her desk, the sound reverberating long after in the stone walls of the fortress.

When she descended the stairs again a short while after, now clad in a more lightweight, padded version of her armor, Nemiet was surprised to find Sorine and Gunmar already in the hall. She bit her lip as she ran her gloved hand down the railing, a hollow sensation in her chest of Serana’s absence, a sensation somewhere between longing and restlessness. This so frustrated the hunter that when she came up to them, her steps had become absent and careless, nodding her head in a small greeting. 

“Ruunvald. Know anything about it?”

The sound of Sorine’s buckles filled the empty space with a clatter. She had made some modifications to her own breastplate so that it bore little resemblance to the original. “Ah, a lot. But much of it is of no use to us—all we need is the location…”

“It’s in the mountains, just north of here, when we first come through the valley,” said Gunmar, who was equipped with a bulky knapsack and a heavy pelt over his form, “see? Knew you had it in you.”

At that she smiled a little. After gathering up their belongings, they then set off on their journey, through the bustle of the training grounds and courtyard, and out the huge gate. 

There was a fog over the Rift that would not lift. The dewdrops that had condensed in the grass sparkled all round, but the world came to a very sudden end only a little way off. In the distance, birds were singing, but the sound was lost in the powerful roar of a distant waterfall; already some butterflies had awakened to this spring, stretching languidly their colourful wings as they flitted past them. The air was humid, and Nemiet’s undershirt clung to her skin, forcing her to wipe at her damp forehead every so often. 

The stables outside the city were quiet, save for the odd clop of a hoof or rustling of hay. With a weary grunt, the old steward greeted the curious band of hunters, then went on with his work in the yard, raking out the rotten leaves under the melted snow. Inside, Skadi was resting her head on the wooden half-door, her bottom lip dangling, peaceful as she could be. At the sight of Nemiet, however, the mare’s ear perked up, and a low, kindly rumble emanated from her mouth. 

The Redguard held out both palms for the horse to sniff before reaching out and scratching her neck under a thick black mane.

Nemiet was in no great hurry in putting her in shape; she relished the contentment Skadi expressed as she ran a coarse brush over her reddish hair, smiling amusedly at the sleepy sigh the animal let out as she tightened the cinch. Her saddle, old and greying in spite of being well looked after, bore on its side the sun printed on the leather. The same horse had been carrying it all those years and, though Nemiet herself would deny it, she was as affectionate with it as she was with Skadi, whose hairs had long since turned to silver; and silver was sometimes worth more than gold in weight, for the preciousness of time, the indispensability of a life one had lived.

After leading out the mare, she threw herself on her back, grabbed the pommel and set her stirrups to a comfortable height. They soon loaded up with the spare bedrolls and some warm furs that Gunmar had brought with him. But as only one of them was on horseback, even Nemiet then set off north quite eagerly, well aware of the long and arduous day that lay ahead. 

Their outward journey passed idly, in mostly calm spirits, with Gunmar teaching them all he could about the wilderness, about animal tracking and skinning deer, about plants of the most widespread kind and their toxicity. As the ascent steepened, he too fell silent for some time, concentrating his efforts into pushing himself off the earth’s surface. Little by little, the snow along their path became flecked with patches of brownish hair as Nemiet clawed at the itchy bits of Skadi’s winter fur. In her unspoken thoughts, she wondered after Serana, and how she found her a very elusive character, but also more of a fit than most. The Redguard was as much frightened as fascinated by this; and silently she imagined before her her face cast in white stone, the intensity of her hungry eyes. But when her heart really started to close in on her throat, she spat to force it back in place, collected the reins from round her horse’s neck and focused again on the rough trail.

Around noon, they reached the excavation site. There came a mean wind, a brisk one, as if it were trying to pick the flesh off their bones, and Nemiet did all she could to tighten her collar; the trees on the slope had bent and grown into a variety of strange forms. During the ride it had started to snow, and it would not let up, only seemed to be getting heavier by the hour. Skadi was steaming from the climb and vigorously shook her large body. The window of the small wooden door set into the mountain wall barely let out any light. The surrounding campsite, the few tents frozen solid and the fire long since extinguished, was possessed by a ghostly, desolate presence.

“No denying it, eh,” said Gunmar, sweeping the lightest layer of snow off the tree that was holding up the kettle, “don’t seem too welcome.”

Nemiet got off the horse. With a heart-rending whimper, the wind cut into the sharp outcrops. Already, their footsteps had been covered behind them.

“We must enter with full vigilance,” said the Nord, who had suddenly become very serious; perhaps he also sensed in the atmosphere its unnaturalness. He was holding his hand with his axe, which was still resting on his hips, not restlessly, but with preparation, “travel discreetly, and act with haste if it so demands.”

It was about as cold indoors as it was outside, apart from the lack of a breeze—the long floorboards were frozen to the ground, and made the steps very slippery. Firm wooden stilts were holding the passage upright. So much did it all seem like an ordinary mine that Nemiet would not have guessed that the digging was not for extracting ore, but for something else entirely; even inside she felt haunted by the feeling that something had gone terribly wrong. 

But not a soul appeared for a while. 

They made several bends and turnings in the tunnel, their only company the echoes of their footfalls through the empty passages, until they came to a ledge and the room that fronted it. From there, between a few boards raised as a fence, they could see all the way down to the bottom, and, where the room again narrowed into a new tunnel, they could see a figure standing with his back to them. It was very dim, but by the light of the torch held by him, they saw the modest sand-coloured robes he was wearing, which Nemiet at once recognised as those of the vigilants; but as they themselves had already surmised, all seemed not to be well, and the figure was standing in the doorway strangely stiff, not budging at all. 

Gunmar then motioned both Sorine and Nemiet to stay at the spying spot, while he himself rose to his full height and set off down the wooden ramp, winding his way round the chamber. Gingerly, the Redguard lifted her crossbow so that it rested securely against the wood, and aimed it at the stranger as a precaution. 

She watched with her gaze and bolt-head as the vigilant spun around at the sound of Nord’s descent. Now, the Vigilants had never been peace-loving people, after all, they had devoted their lives to the war, always fighting to prevent the possibility of a second Oblivion crisis; but to ordinary folk they were not violent, rather reclusive if anything. It was precisely why Nemiet was so concerned to see the man’s body go rigid. 

In a short time many things happened; the vigilant gripped the neck of his mace so that his knuckles clearly strained; Gunmar opened his mouth as if to speak, but had not had time to finish his sentence when already he was under attack; Nemiet aimed her weapon and shot, accurately as she normally did. 

She rose from the dust and shadows then, gazing curiously in the direction of the others. “Doesn’t look so promising.”

“Good shot,” said Gunmar, breathing heavily with tension, “Sorine, what’d you think?”

“I think you are sometimes slow,” said the Breton, moving closer to the corpse on the ground, then leaning over its head. With care, she tilted his head so that his face was visible; using two fingers, she then enlarged the glazed nut-brown eye. “It’s illusion magic. Some novice mage, I presume. Doesn’t take much to corral this lot and make them do as dogs.”

“You heard the woman,” said Gunmar to Nemiet, who was still standing above them, “let us be careful, though I don’t suppose this is enough to make it challenging for you.”

So they continued their journey through the excavations, passing many vigilants and their dogs, who fell one by one in their path. 

As they once came by an area with a row of bedrolls laid out on the floor, Nemiet tripped over a leather bag, the contents of which clattered about.  Among them was a sheet of paper that drew her eye—she was not in the habit of prying into the belongings of dead people, but this time she could not resist bringing it up to her face. Reading its untidy writing, evidently the work of a child, and glancing at the little charcoal drawing, some of which had been rubbed out, the Redguard was overcome with a sadness so heavy that her heartbeat became uneven and her feet numbed beneath her.

“His daughter’s at home, waiting…”

“Sorry, friend. We can cure even a vampire, but such dark magic, simple as Sorine puts it, is beyond us.”

A funny feeling came over Nemiet. “Hold on—what’d you mean by curing?”

“There are some folks, mages all, putting their expertise into healing, in particular for ailments such as. Know of one in Skyrim. Speak of some strange rituals—now, doesn’t your pa teach you about this?”

“No,” said Nemiet in dismay, “seems he don’t teach a whole lot of other things.”

When they made it to the top of the great chamber, Nemiet realised at last how long and painstaking they had been digging, and how very crowded they really were. She gazed in fascination at the ramps crossing over and over, at the dust drifting from the ceiling above, and at the thick ropes that, along with the pillars, were holding up the huge structures. It was quite a fall, the hunter realised as she peered down, and of course she had no wish to lie among the rubble anyway. Still clutching the crossbow in her hands, she tried very hard not to dwell on Gunmar’s words and her own faltering faith in her father, unwilling to speak aloud of this doubt.

At the best, Nemiet shot, reloaded, and then shot again at three people before they could even realise they were being targeted. So they survived the danger posed by Ruunwald rather lightly; and all they had to remember were a few scratches and a bruise.

Astonishingly soon they had explored the dig and its short side passages, and then entered through an old-looking black door belonging to the very building the vigilants had been trying to unearth. It let them in with only a couple of whimpers, but once Gunmar had pulled the door shut behind them, the place seemed to acquire a darker, more sinister shade. 

The dust-covered cave walls gave way to the carved indentations of Ruunvald’s old temple, softly lit by several candles on the walls. Unlike before, they now had only one corridor to walk along, but it was even more complicated than the dig; they soon felt fatigued, somewhat restless. After some time in the deepening dark, they reached the far end, and there they were greeted by a rather chilling sight.

In the final indent, there was a table-like platform, over which a shrine of sorts had been erected; in the middle sat a human skull, which had been poorly cleaned, and which Nemiet judged to be only a week old from the degree of decomposition and its location; it was surrounded by many candles, some burning their last and some stretching out to the ceiling and the wreath of withered brown snowberries which hung from it, as well as some other plants which the Redguard failed to recognise. Gunmar then said he would go ahead, and, for a large man, walked round the corner very quietly. 

A number of leather-bound books lay here and there, one of which Sorine collected only after appraisingly eyeing around the altar. “Well, this clears all the little questions. Pity. Was hoping this site would prove me wrong, now we’ve bothered to come all this way, but as it turns out I was right from the start. A mage who’s charmed and harnessed a bunch of fools to her work. Name’s Minorne. So very dull…”

Nemiet glanced at the book over her shoulder. “Mm. Like Deeka’s journal, when he was infatuated with Ingjard as a boy.”

“The lady who growls like a bear in her sleep?”

“If only I’d tell you the things he does-”

Before she could finish, Gunmar was back, and even in the gloom they could see the Nord’s face had turned ashen. “They’ve got him, in a damn cage.”

The Redguard nodded, soon forgetting her small joy. “Got a plan?”

“Aye. I’ll show you, but let’s stay well out of sight. They’re several.”

They moved noiselessly to the main room of the old temple, where the healer indeed sat in his cage as a prisoner, lamenting aloud his plight. Even from afar they could hear his voice as he recited loud, obsessive, self-repeating prayers, accompanied by four people in all, the mage and three vigilants.  Nemiet soon had a sense of where they stood in the space; the high elf with one of her henchmen near the huge, rusting cage, high up in the sanctuary; two on guard with blank expressions on their faces, yet they did not seem to have noticed them yet. Both men were holding crossbows, so the Nord asked Nemiet and Sorine to handle them first. 

Together, they positioned themselves on either side of the doorway, and exchanged a few gestures as to which of the men to shoot. Quickly, the Redguard glanced at Minorne, who was indeed an ordinary elf, but who certainly did seem pleased with herself, before returning to what she was tasked to do—and when the Breton nodded once she was ready, they sent their bolts whizzing through the air. 

Under the guise of this surprise, they gained a little time. The mage’s mouth parted in a wail as her ward fell to the floor, lifeless; Nemiet swiftly slung her crossbow on her back and pulled out her axes. 

At first, Minorne sought to have them frozen; soon so much of the floor was covered in ice that they needed to be very careful as they moved around. As the next sharp, perilous spike of ice came hurtling towards her, Nemiet ducked behind a pile of rocks at the very last minute, and pressed herself tight against her hiding place. In her heart she hoped the others would fare well, but had no chance to do much for them before the remaining vigilant would slam his pickaxe into the stone next to her head with such force that sparks flew from its surface. 

As the red-haired man struggled to remove his weapon from the wall, Nemiet made a one-handed attempt to strike him with her own, but he dodged it and tried to kick back at her. With the threat removed, he was able to swing his blade free; vicious and fierce, he charged directly at the hunter, but with only a few well-timed swerves and one precise swing, she defeated him. 

Looking back, Sorine and Gunmar were both standing by the now collapsed mage. Gunmar’s brow was slick with sweat, a few red locks clinging to it; while the Breton tirelessly rummaged through her robe, groping for any thing that might do them good, then pulling out a heavy iron key.

Weary, but content with their efforts, Nemiet laughed.

Snatching the key from her hand, Gunmar soon strode with long steps to the cage, where the rather nervous priest was already stirring. 

“Ah, praise be to the good Arkay, honour be to you!”

A little later than the others, Nemiet also arrived at the cage door. She eyed keenly the long-robed priest, whose black beard was growing long and wild, and whose eyes twinkled before his rescuers, but who seemed to be limping badly on his right leg; but she yet said naught, waiting only for him to finish speaking.  

“But what do I spy? Gunmar, Sorine, such a joy to the eye! Oh dear, but I do now owe a lot, don’t I... for Him I’ll think of something, but for you... how may I be of help? Whatever I can do, for your most glorious rescue.”

“We was hoping you would join forces,” Gunmar said, and then leaned against the bars, “think of it, the three of us back up in the field, kicking arse, like the olden days. What say you?” 

“Well, I… I do suppose my duties here are finished. You killed the very man I was working for... fine by me, in fact. He had a very unpleasant character. And that was before the whole cage was locked up.”

“Heard a lot about you—me, I am Nemiet, Captain of the Dawnguard,” said Nemiet, pleased that even to a stranger her position was still clear, “we're here at Isran’s request.”

“Isran? Surely this is some sort of miserable joke? Who are you really, a first-year at the Bards College, coming all this way to pick up some tricks?” In spite of his sore leg, the Imperial swung round quite briskly, raising his hands in the air in a gesture of denial. “Preposterous. Isran’s done little more than mock me. I demand respect, I demand appreciation, I... I refuse.”

“Nay. You shan’t,” said Gunmar and shook the bars, “or you’re staying in the cage. I’m sure Arkay will send you a second convoy.”

Nemiet would then look at her companions pleadingly. “Would you go on ahead?”

Sorine curtly nodded, and having handed her the key even the reluctant Nord was following her out.

When they were had been left on their own, the hunter spoke calmly in a voice that was not pressing, but rather grave, “know how you might feel. Haven’t been to his good books in a while myself. But just today I’ve decided, I’m not gonna do this for him no more, nor do I think you ought to either.”

“I don’t know. I really do not.”

“Not gonna leave you here, if that is your fear,” said Nemiet, pushing the key into the lock, “but allow me to take you to my home—on the way I shall be explainin’ it all to you. You can rest and heal. Then you may go, if you find what I say is pointless.”

“While I appreciate all of this, Captain, I really…” As the lock clicked open, Florentius was hearing something, silencing himself briefly to listen as if to a conversation; and once he would open his eyes, there was to be sheer disappointment in them. “Very well, very well—He said that it is ordained. I do not love it, but I seem destined to come with you. And still I’d like some explanation, with all the finicky details.”

Nemiet was smiling crookedly as they started to walk out together. Since Florentius could scarcely walk, he was leaning heavily on her shoulder, with the Redguard holding his arm about her neck. “Say, talk to Arkay often?”

“That depends highly on what you intend to call me afterwards,” said the priest, “pray tell, what has your father been telling you of old Florentius? And yes, I’ve deduced so myself. Guess you two have the same looks... since you happen to be wearing that Taher nose.”

“Only that he don’t much like you,” grinned the Redguard. “Which in itself is not so unusual.”

Later, when together they emerged in the white night where Gunmar and Sorine were waiting, the temperatures had already fallen far below freezing; and as Nemiet drew a big breath as she allowed Florentius to rest against the rock, the air became denser before her and was swept away by the wind. A layer of fresh snow was covering Skadi’s fur as she padded over to ensure all was still well, then yanked some furs from her back. Delivering it to the priest, white clumps fell off it at the hunter’s feet.

In earnest, she gathered the reins to her horse and raised her voice so that it would not be lost in this breeze, “I shall take Florentius on ahead. He’s injured, needs help soon. You two are managing?”

Nemiet got on the horse. Gunmar walked up alongside her and eased the Imperial behind her; then the Nord nodded towards her in agreement. “Go. Ride safe; in the open as early as you can, away from the tree line.”

With a click of her tongue, she then urged the mare down the mountain, a shadow trailing behind her. 

Chapter 13: A Shadow from the Past

Notes:

Let me launch it off by saying that this chapter by no means my best work. Sorry for that in advance lol! I struggled a lot for some God-knows reason. But it's done and I'm tired to here it is anyway

I have a playlist for this fic also if it interests you! https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6lCQgRR8HW6eWHgTh96PmX?si=I0RJZp-DTaKWixm6CbETbg&pi=e-LYYnkbLlRf6g

When Sorine and Gunmar had fallen behind, the snow around her muffled the noise so utterly that Nemiet would not have heard a twig snapping a mere toss from herself. Skadi had already torn through many a fresh snow bank, but from her labored breathing the hunter could tell the journey would be hard on her, and the surrounding forest grew even darker. There seemed to be no end to the whiteness; and in her mind she was beginning to dread the nesting holes and sudden falls into which the horse might break a leg in this twilight. Furthermore, Florentius' body, resting propped up against her back, soon extinguished any hopes of an easy return within her.

Following a line cut through the snow, they trudged on, among spruce trees with their lowest branches bent and frozen to the ground. Now and again, the Redguard would lean forward to murmur encouragements to the mare. Skadi’s whiskers were ice-covered, and for a good long while she kept on turning her discontented ears and chewing the bit; then suddenly, as a flash of lightning against a dark springtime sky, she ceased her walking, stiffened in place, with her neck craned up and gazing out ahead.

Nemiet agitatedly stirred, struggling to see over the horse’s flexed nape. She looked about her and forgot to breathe, with her chest rigid and unyielding, and beneath her the animal moved restlessly, but never forward.

“I need you up now,” she managed to say to Florentius before the first ghostly howl had filled the air. 

She then made her decision very quickly, shook up the priest and dismounted. Brow knitted in a troubled frown, she collected the reins and placed them in the hands of Florentius, who was still sitting hunched over, but seemed a little livelier, if the colour on his face was the result of pure horror. “Listen. Skadi has a way home. Let ‘er carry you to safety.”

The Imperial would nod, then clench the leather tight between his frozen knuckles.

“Now go,” rushed Nemiet, and, glancing around, saw for the first time the three vampires, and with them a grinning hound. 

And, it should have gone without mentioning, with the rider out of her sight, and only a cloud of loose snow hovering about her, the Redguard was feeling very much alone, and more than ever she missed her vampire friend. 

Nemiet removed the crossbow from her back and pointed it at the nearest two, though they quickly scattered and circled her like wild beasts. 

“Alas, girl of the Dawnguard; you are so very far from home,” said the Dunmer, his voice deep and dark, two pale eyes twinkling in the gloom, “it is your courage that shall fail you here!” 

“Suppose you come and try, arsehole,” growled the Redguard, curling her upper lip, and then fired; but the bolt narrowly passed his head, taking with it only a bloodied chunk of his left ear. 

The whistling was followed by a pained cry. Infuriated, the wounded vampire skipped aside, then bared his long teeth, “lousy shot, you wench -”

But since Nemiet had only ever intended it to upset them, she now, with her fingers frozen, succeeded in reloading her weapon, turning round in surprise to fire at the Breton who was trailing behind her. Frantic, she took a slightly awry aim, but still hit the woman’s forehead so that her eyes rolled back in their sockets. The body made scarcely a sound when it struck the ground. While she lay motionless on the slope, the wind rolled over her, rustling the long black clothes, and Nemiet gave her no more thought of rising. 

The enraged elf then took off running at her, and Nemiet grunted as she reached for an axe. Even in the dim light, she could see the flash of a dark blade, and deftly dodged the strike, using this movement to spin and knock her attacker on the nose with the butt of the axe. It was not a killing blow, but indeed it hurt, and blinded the target for a moment; and as he staggered backwards, spitting, the Redguard drove the sharp heel into his chest, barely above the collarbone. 

Only a breath later, she was swept over her very head by a mighty battleaxe that must have weighed as much as her, its wielder a massive Nord woman who challenged even Gunmar in brawn, and Nemiet at once felt a great fear of her. The second brushing came so quickly that she only had time to raise her weapon into the path before the blade could cleave her in two, but then lost her footing. On the ground she crawled backwards, grieving over the blade lost in the snow, trying to hurriedly reload her crossbow. With icy digits, she tucked the stirrup under her foot, pulled back the string, and loaded a new bolt from her belt pouch into the nut. The enormous woman neared her, her mouth open to roar, drool raining down on her; but as Nemiet lay about to fire directly through her palate to silence her, a voice appeared, stilling them both. 

“Have you lost something?”

The hunter and her attacker both then turned to look behind her, from where this very familiar sound had come from, and heard a heavy weight falling limp on the earth. This, as Nemiet quickly discovered, was from the now-dead hound at Serana’s feet. 

The Nord’s attack fell as she would utter, “Lady Serana? What’re you-”

Contentedly, the vampire grinned, and wiped the long, tarnished blade on her cloak. 

“Your pa thinks they’ve taken you prisoner. Sent to find you,” explained the huge woman, nearly shoving Nemiet, now on her feet, out of her way, “why’re you chumming up with cattle?”

Only then did the hunter seem to understand the situation, and again raised her arrowhead against the Nord’s backbone. 

“Nemiet, please,” pleaded Serana with her, “don’t.”

Though she was filled with fearful rage, and though her every instinct and visceral teaching urged her against it, Nemiet’s mouth was quivering as she lowered her weapon. It burst out in a frustrated exclamation once she had turned around, “damn it!”

At once, Serana was relieved to see that the Redguard was indeed listening to her. After a cautious smile, although she did not know if Nemiet was seeing it in her agitation, she then addressed the other Nord, “you can not go back to him. My father’s gone mad—his plans are worth every one of your graves.”

The flaxen-haired woman grunted. “That’s s’posed to tell me something?”

“It means the world he is after does not exist,” replied Serana, and stood still, while the other turned around with a scowl of anger on her face, “listen, friend, if you will listen to no one else; I am his kin, his blood. If any one of us were to believe in him, it would have been me.”

Nemiet was listening quietly, her back still to them. These words, particularly now, pained her, and if she had not known any better, she might have sought the exit of the blade from herself, for blood staining the cloth. 

But the other vampire shrugged grudgingly, her huge shoulders slumped. “So you left on your own will, jus’ like that.”

Then the hunter turned to them. “What’s stopping you from doing the same? Look round you. Think he’ll worry when you won't be back? Send you a search party? No. Harkon doesn’t care if you are the bodies that make up the steps to his throne.”

In anger, she then came to Nemiet, and shouted at her, saying, “Sod it! You rotters are out to destroy us all!”

“She is right!” 

Serana’s voice was pleading now, as she came to pull the woman away from the hunter. She shook her arm discontentedly and stepped away. “We ourselves must decide when our leader has become incapable of serving our people. There must be a change of power. There must be a revolt.”

The other vampire slammed her huge blade to the ground. Easing her tightly clamped brow, she then crouched over the dark elf, and spoke softly over her shoulder, “Faven and I were to live together in the new world, where vampires needn’t be hiding, and game would be plentiful. The old bastard’s gone now—and you’re trying to tell me that ‘is dying meant nothing?”

“No one wins in war,” said Serana, “he means to darken the sun. Without it, there will be no world; no plants, no animals, only death and destruction. There must be precious little in Nirn worth saving, even for you.”

Sunk into a pensive silence, the other Nord smiled sadly, the breeze in her hair. “Well, I’d be loath to part with a good, bloody steak. Or a swim in the sea... Sometimes the sky is so beautiful when the sun is in the east, it’s red. I… I dunno what to think.”

“You are not alone,” said the vampire reassuringly, “when this is over, and the tyranny of my father is past, I promise to do all in my power to carve out a place for us in this world, as part of it, and not above it.”

A moment of quiet went by as they all pondered her words. Nemiet, in particular, was finding it very difficult to imagine a world in which the very people she had been brought up to hate would walk among them like any other. Her heart was seared raw with fear, a stagnant hatred. But the way her friend now said it, and all that she had learned from her during her travels with her, almost made her believe in the chance; and, as she was secretly fearing more than all else that she would only grow up to be her own father, she decided, in spite of her doubts, to trust Serana now. 

Then the vampire spoke again, straightening up and looking at them both with suspicion. “All right. I shall withdraw from his plan. But if this turns out to be a ruse…”

“It is no ruse. Have you any clue how painful this is for her?”

Nemiet’s words were not lost on Serana, but actually greatly warmed her insides. 

“Do make sure your promise is kept.”

With these words, she picked up her weapon from the snow, and then disappeared into obscurity.

They would then stare at each other in a rather awkward silence, with Nemiet shedding snow and small debris. The vampire slid her dagger back into its sheath, then rested her hand on its hilt; they together lingered at their last meeting, in the heightened tensions.

“I appreciate what you did. And I really... no, sorry. What you did for me is greater than any words,” said Serana, and then removed her own brooch from her robe, placing it in Nemiet’s hand, a touch lingering over her closed fist, “take it as a token of gratitude. If I am ever to become the head of my house, I would have you know that you shall be the most valuable of my allies.”

Accepting the vampire’s gift, Nemiet then unclenched her hand, and gazed at the pin that rested in her palm. “Thank you. It is a kind gesture.”

At this the Nord smiled a little, and the hunter marveled upward at the beauty of her snowy dark tresses, her high cheekbones turning up in a grin; and at once she became ashamed of her thoughts, a blush spreading over her face in the way that only a raging wildfire in the summer heat could.

“Shall we go? You must be freezing.”

“Yep,” responded Nemiet, and then went in search of her lost axe. “I’d not care to remain here any less.”

Together, they forged the long journey through mountainside forests, icy rivers, and, further down the valley, thawing wild meadows. They would again talk about many things, and forget about themselves and that they had been born into this world to hurt one another; at the same time, it felt to them as natural as a liverwort flower unfolding in a burst of colour and the snow that preceded it, and yet difficult, and shy, and humiliating. But when, in the early hours of the morning, the city gates of Riften were at last revealed, each felt disappointed that their time together, as only the two of them knew it, had once more come to an end.

“Hope Florentius made it here,” said Nemiet as they were on their last stretch to the stables, “without breakin’ all four legs, anyway.”

But with Skadi already dozing in her own stall, barely turning to greet her master with a soft huff, they concluded that the Imperial had already entered the city. 

At that time, Riften was fairly quiet. There were a few Argonians stationed at the bunkhouse, all of whom worked at the fishery, and who still occupied most of the building. To them, they hardly uttered a word.

A moment later, Nemiet found herself opening the door to Florentius’ room. The man was fast asleep, quite content in his worn bedding, snoring so loudly that she could hardly be heard, “looks like you made it back! Good. Come on, we still have some way to go.”

It was the start of a most beautiful spring day, sunny and clear, with not many clouds casting a shadow on their path; as she listened to the babbling river and the far-off sounds of a woodpecker, the Redguard found her mind quite at ease. Still, as she went on, she was thinking about her bed, and dreaming of a mug of mead before her, weariness already beginning to catch up with her and slow her down. For the Imperial had been fitted with a wooden brace on his leg at night, he was now walking a little more steadily, though the way back to the fortress was slow, and there was no end to his grievances.

“I cannot believe I’m being hauled off to this gods-forsaken place to assist the would-be vampire hunters, and my lady escort has one of them with her! Unheard of, indeed.”

Delighted, Nemiet grinned, striding after him. “You’ll live.”

In the yard of Fort Dawnguard, after a brief farewell to the hunter, Serana separated from them. She was unwilling to add to their merriment, which the Redguard well understood, but soon felt a longing in her breast.

The dining hall was teeming with people, and so filled with the clatter of plates and mugs bumping into each other and of forks scraping against serving dishes. In the air, something was smelling strong, tangy. Even in the midst of this busy scene, however, they soon distinguished a troubled-looking Gunmar, and Sorine, who tapped her arm with her fingers in dissatisfaction. Deeka was also seated at the long table, but he too did not look merry; of them, only Agmaer was stuffing his face with food, not looking particularly distressed.

As the Argonian’s eyes met hers, a broad, toothy smile broke out on his scaly face. In response, Nemiet smiled back.

Gunmar then bounced up from his seat and strode towards them, grabbing the Redguard by the shoulders and then tightly embracing her. “Praise be to the Divines! Got me fearing the worst.”

Already they had begun to gather curious glances round the table.

“We were unharmed. Even Florentius. Send your thanks to Riften,” said Nemiet, “there was an attack, cultists from the castle. They caught up with us. Skadi had him carried to safety, but me... if Serana hadn’t come, I’d be worm food.”

“Your Captain is quite a woman. If only you had been there! Selflessly she rescued me, and was herself left in the jaws of death,” praised Florentius, who seemed to have put on a gladder mood, “though I have to admit that the company she keeps is a little dubious…”

Wearily, Nemiet grinned. “We’ll have to introduce you, if you’re planning to stay.”

“Hey folks! Look here,” Gunmar's mighty voice rang out across the hall. Even the last of the new recruits now turned their eyes to them, stopping from doing whatever it was they were doing. “What a joyous day! Florentius, meet your new family; and family, here is Florentius, our new healer. A man of faith too. Whatever is your ailment, he is your man.”

“Many thanks, Gunmar, but I can introduce myself,” spoke the priest, “indeed. I have made the noble choice of joining your ranks in these dark times. Salves, concoctions, a poison or two, you name it, you will find it with me. So long as I get my supply of ingredients first…”

As he spoke, Nemiet felt herself detaching from the conversation for a moment, her mind wandering back to Serana, back to her own deeds. Within her, she was reliving the fierce maw before her head, the dark blood, and the dread in her heart. So fearful was she of going mad that she hardly heard her name mentioned. 

“Sorry. Just tired, is all,” said she in her defense, “you were saying?”

“I said we have enough to feast on,” replied the Nord again, earning a resounding 'aye' from the audience, “tonight we celebrate!”

Viewing the gleeful people, all oblivious to her sacrifices, and now simply astride the wing of her plight, the hunter felt the urge to leave as soon as she could. Nevertheless, she stayed, and when Gunmar then brought her a cup of wine, she welcomed it with a smile.

When Nemiet finally entered her room, it was blue and dim after being bathed in golden light from the dining hall. There was no one there, not even Serana, not one lone candle. From downstairs there were still screams, chanting, as the Redguard dragged her heavy feet over her cold bed to sit down on it. Putting down her belongings, her belt bag and weapons, she watched the dust fly out from under them, then leaned back on her knees and peered into some obscure corner, but did not know where, nor did she care.

While the Order was preparing to have a party, their captain paced wearily about her room, shifting the chair until it was right and taking out all her clothes, of which there were not many, and folding them again. On her knees, she sat before her wardrobe, as she at last pulled out even the only memory she had of her mother, a beautiful old dress, the handiwork of Hammerfell’s finest seamstresses. Against its stale-smelling fabric, she pressed her cheek and inhaled deeply, her body aching, tired, and though she very much desired to lie down to rest, she would not allow it to herself.  

Under her clothes in the closet she still kept a small wooden treasure-box which she had filled with Deeka in her younger days; it held drawings, some very nice stones (particularly from the lake, those that under water appeared like a striped tiger skin), some acorns, two birds’ feathers, one a raven’s and the other a house sparrow’s, with sand at the bottom. She smiled at them, and raised in her hands the stack of paper on which she had drawn with charcoal as a child. Some of the colour was badly smeared beyond her ability to see the pictures, but she still remembered some of them. 

In the first of these she had drawn herself as a hero, with a sword twice her size in her hand, the beast she had slain at her feet; in the corner was a little smudge of what was meant to be Isran. 

“Have things got so bad on the front that it’s time to wistfully reminisce on the past for what could be the last?”

The Argonian had arrived at the doorway, casting a large shadow across her floor. In his claws, he carried a green-glass wine bottle and two cups. Nemiet smirked, then invited him in. “Quit scuffing the floor and come in, lizard brains.”

Deeka padded over to her bed, on the way playfully grabbing Nemiet's head, and then sat cross-legged on top of it. As he spoke, he would pour them drinks, “figured you weren’t much for the downstairs revelry. So what shall we reminisce on?”

She showed him the drawing accompanied by laughter.

“Oh, how we longed to be heroes once... I, too, wanted to save Isran from danger and win his favour. E’en if we didn’t know the price of being a hero then.”

“Right,” said Nemiet, “I do miss those days, Deeka. For the first time, I’ve started to get scared. Very much so.”

“Ah, I know,” replied the Argonian, “do my best to help you put aside your troubles. Here, have some wine. If this is to end soon, then let us make the remaining days well worth it.”

With a smile, Nemiet accepted the cup, and took a long, hearty sip from it. She then wiped the corners of her mouth, contemplating the next drawing. “Remember this? I so badly wanted to marry a prince one day.”

“O yes, this I remember,” said Deeka, taking the paper off her hands, “you’ve drawn quite a descriptive vampire too. Many things seem to have changed. Now you don’t like princes.”

Nemiet placed her drink on the floor, her cheeks flushed with tension, her heart pounding in her chest. She felt herself shrink as she spoke carefully, “so you do know.”

“Hey, no need to get nervous with little ol’ me.”

“M-hm.”

“So ‘tis that vampire friend of yours, yes?”

Because for a while she could not get a word out, she was already conscious that her character had failed her. 

“So I was right to think, on seeing you, that there was someone!” Deeka’s joy was dampened as Nemiet drained her goblet of wine and told him to refill it. “You little shit! Tried to leave me out of such a thing! I want to know everything.”

“Keep it down! I mean it. Anyone might hear...”

“I know, I know. Forgive me. Sometimes I get a little carried away.”

Once the situation had calmed down, however, the Redguard spoke much more composedly, “nice that you are so fine with it. No one else knows, and I wouldn’t hope that they do.”

“Why wouldn’t I be? It is your life, not mine, not anyone else’s. There’re enough bores around already. Nothing wrong with being a little special. Besides, I could do with a prince…”

“Please shut up,” said Nemiet in a playful reply and then tossed him with a cloth in her cupboard, “how about you make yourself useful, if we rearrange my closet?”

All evening they stayed in Nemiet’s room, donning the most ridiculous combinations of clothing (and, with wine, even a few outfits revealed a surprising number of them), and late into the night they even took to dancing some dances whose names they did not know. As the sun was setting, it cast a gloom over the dim world outside; they finally had to light a bundle of candles to see ahead. Below, the celebrations peaked at midnight, but it didn't seem to concern them at all anymore. Such was the fun they had, the drink flowed, and their adversities and troubles were beginning to seem very far away. 

Then, a little after one, when Deeka went back downstairs, Nemiet was still feeling restless, and would not go to bed, knowing that perhaps tomorrow a new journey across the province and north towards Serana’s home in search of her mother would await her; so she decided to go out, still with her mother’s dress on. Then, as she drunkenly climbed up to the battlements, she could not sense the chill of an early summer wind on her skin, but instead was overcome with the delayed heat of alcohol and good company. The black sky over her seemed never-ending. She fancied she could have reached just a little higher, and the stars would have wrapped about her wrist like a bracelet, and in her imaginings she did not even notice the vampire’s presence until she spoke. 

“Captain! A charming look, I must say.”

She flushed, but knew that the night would cover the redness the vampire’s remarks had caused. Broadly, the Redguard was grinning as she went to sit down, in that very same spot from their first night. “Come on, sit down with me! After all, our efforts were shared.”

When she came and sat down next to her, a breeze went up the hem of Nemiet’s dress, making it ripple against her shins. 

After silently gazing at the stars for a moment, Serana would warily laugh. “People will start talking when their leader misses a party to sit outside with people like myself.”

“So let them talk. Wouldn’t be the first time,” said the Redguard, then pressing her head against Serana’s shoulder, to which she tensed in response, and not at all in discomfort. “Say... when we met, you were wondering if Agmaer and I were… well, y’know. And I got very pissy on you for that.”

“I think I understand why-”

“Maybe not…” began Nemiet, and had a long, meaningful pause, “guess what I’m trying to say is, but the words just seem to slip from me, that I really like sitting out here with you.”

There was a grave look on Serana’s face, not because she was not fond of Nemiet, but precisely because she was. Her insides were clenching violently, with tears on the verge of breaking out, her voice faint and distant, “ah. You are indeed drunk.”

“No! Not so much! I can easily name all the things I love. Swimming in the lake. Fishing in it too. Deeka. Do not even get me started on how much I love the horse. Stars, and the moons, and this lovely pine-stench, but doesn’t everyone?” Detecting the disbelief in Serana’s voice, Nemiet gathered some distance, and studied her intently. Something stirred in the air, like the anticipation of a kiss, and the hunter seemed certain that her gaze was touching her lips as she spoke, “no… thanks to you, I was never quite so clear.”

For a long time Serana said nothing, only looked at her long and earnestly, as if to memorise her face, or to negate her feelings; the suspense gripped the Redguard, who could suddenly feel the thumping of the heart, the blood rushing to her ears. Say something, she wanted to beg, but held her tongue, into which she had bitten without realising it, so that she quickly tasted the blood. Then, as the vampire was just about to open her mouth and break the still silence, the door at the end of the battlement swung back with force, revealing a figure in the yellow light who cried out her name.

The next thing Nemiet remembered was an argument in the dining hall, which was now empty. The revelers had long since retired to their sleeping berth. The table was still full, heaving with the weight of empty plates and bowls, like the one Isran felt he had once set for his daughter, but which no longer seemed to appreciate any thing he had done. But all the while it was her who was hurting the worst, and all that she had been through outside was beginning to feel like a distant dream, and this was the reality; a mere child in a dress that was not even hers, screaming at her father, the fire lighting up all that she did not even want to see. Nemiet indeed was in agony. For so long she had been playing her part, but it was only now, after seeing for the first time a glimpse of what she had been missing in his care, that she realised she had been no more than a pawn, robbed of her dignity and honed into a weapon in his hands.

“Shame on you at least. And in your mother's dress… You put her memory in disgrace,” said Isran, in his own uncaring way, his gaze on the crackling fireplace. “I do not like seeing my soldiers frolicking at night in unfunctional, silly clothes. Since when did you become so troublesome?”

“Must’ve been when you became a sluggard,” replied Nemiet, a roughness in her throat, but still relatively calm, “you treat me as a horse that died a long time ago, but you beat me with a lash and hope I’ll move.”

“My teachings seem to have been lost on you,” said he, “you talk back to me again, and you’re out. I have no room for troublemakers.”

This was, of course, a mere ploy to scare her; but for a moment Nemiet really believed he was speaking the truth, and cried out in alarm, “I've always done everything you've asked me to do! I want to talk to my father. Go find him somewhere in the depths of your black heart!”

“It is because of my heart that we stand here, Nemiet!” His shout echoed throughout the cavernous stone building, telling everyone of their quarrel. “My love for you, all of my life, is what has brought us to this. To make sure that what happened with your mother can never happen again.”

Nemiet stood there in silence, with tears burning holes in her gullet, her heart frantically hammering. 

“Say something, damn it,” said Isran, “stand up for yourself! Tell me why you have turned your back on all that I have given you-”

“Because it seems to me, disappointingly, that we’re not trying to do it right, but what’s easiest for ourselves!” yelled Nemiet and slammed her palm on the table so hard it was hurting her, only to distract herself from the tears, “you tell me, when did you last make a difficult choice? When did you last decide what was right-”

“The day I had your mother killed!”

At first Nemiet started to feel very dizzy, as though she were spinning round her centre hundreds and hundreds of times; she clung to the table, but could not look her father in the eye. Is that the truth , she wondered, and feared very much that she did not doubt it at all. Why, how, those details all seemed to elude her like everything else. She shut her eyes tight so that a string of tears fell between them like pearls, and then asked with a rueful laugh, “explains why you never told me about a cure. Oh, are you a sad man…”

“You do not know what you’re saying,” said Isran more calmly, “this cure you speak of is experimental, dangerous. I never meant to fill your head with dreams, but it seems I didn’t have to. You’ve been spending time with the wrong people. Perhaps I made a mistake in accepting any old acquaintances here.”

“No. Don’t you dare now start insulting even those who’ve been doing their work better than you,” snarled the younger Redguard, “you are in no position to berate them before me.”

There was silence as they both gazed in separate directions, Isran towards the hearth, Nemiet into the gloomy corridor. 

“I heard about the ambush,” said he then, “by keeping that vampire in here, you are condemning us all to danger. Who do you suppose Volkihar's fangs were after? Surely it wasn’t Sorine, or Durak.”

“And I would have died if not for her! Surely you, of all people, who preach it time and again, must understand the risks,” spoke Nemiet, “and if it’s your plan to make me choose between her and you, let me tell you, you’re in a real bad spot.”

“I’m trying to say that it has to go,” responded Isran sternly, “whether you go along with it or not is unimportant. This is my final warning. I cannot endanger the entire Order because of one ill-disciplined woman.”

“I cannot believe you,” said Nemiet, and then looked in desperation at his profile, the tense jaw, the bushy beard, the dark eyebrows, whose crease was lit by the flames, “we still need her, regardless of your feelings. And I’m starting to give a rat’s ass about those-”

“No. When we have already come this far, what we need is the last scroll, and the Bow of Auriel,” replied he, “and we shall find them, believe it or not, without its tainted assistance.”

“There is no chance without her! And even if there were, I wouldn’t wish to do this without her. If she goes, I go.”

“Then go,” replied he, taking the other hunter by surprise, “you’ve become what I always feared you would be. Weak, blind-hearted. But you'll learn. Pity it had to be this way, when I offered you all; go, Nemiet, but when you return sucked dry, and when the sun is scorching your skin and hunger wrings your insides, do not tell me I didn’t warn you.”

Angered, Nemiet swept what she could reach off the table. An empty clatter soon filled the chamber. The older Redguard would not budge, only stand rigidly with his hands behind his back, with great pain in his chest, with uncertainty on his shoulder. Together they weighed him down and made him feel small. Isran’s anger, festered over the years into bitterness, passed into the stomach of his daughter, where it sought to spew out like vomit. The back of Nemiet’s tongue was on fire. She could not say another word as she walked out, even though she wished all the while that he would apologise and call her back to him, take her in his arms. So keen was she still to be his child that she felt herself regressing again back to youth, to ignorance, to incompetence. Only now, she was fully alone, and couldn’t even hear the thud of her footsteps.

Soon, a final cry rang out after her. “I would rather have you die, Nemiet, than be one of them!”

It was then, at the very latest, that she made the heavy choice to leave forever.

She went into her room, packed an old leather backpack, the cloak she had bought at Winterhold, and some warm clothes. Underneath it the Redguard rolled and fastened a bedroll. Her belt pouch she packed with bolts, different from anyone else in the Dawnguard, for they were made of hickory, and ordered from afar; there wasn’t much to eat, but she hoped to do some shopping in Riften before the walk. All this she did, in tears, in haste, and at last put on her gambeson and her armour, though it was night and she really ought to have been asleep instead . 

With everything ready, the young Redguard headed out through the front door. With trembling fingers, she cleared the gate, glancing up at her father’s window, where, to her surprise, she caught a glimpse of Isran’s form. This made her stomach turn, and her features stiffen as she finally left, hoping, perhaps, somewhere in some deep corner of her soul, that he would come running after her, show her he was as distraught as she was, and ask her to return. But that did not happen. That hope, and fear, instead, they condensed into a tumour in her, and Nemiet seemed not to be breathing well.

Had she been less agitated, she would have marvelled at the dreamy night about her; torchbugs were hovering over the training grounds as a flock of stars descending nearer to earth; a few lanterns softly lighted her path; the valley floor lay shrouded in a blue veil, from which now and again a hillock would rise above the mist. Her steps were brisk, and under them the pebbles would sometimes move and tumble down the slope. The red Masser was reflected from the surface of the lake, making it look alien, made-up. Then suddenly, she felt a strong urge to go swimming, to wash away her parents’ haunting presence. Her mother’s absence, and her father's past, together they were too many. 

Once at the lake, she threw down her belongings and began to remove her armour. The belt was stuck, and she cursed loudly as she tried to take it off. When it finally came undone, the hunter took off her boots, then walked barefoot to the water’s edge on the cold, wet sand. Already on her skin she could feel the wind, the chill, but it did not discourage her from taking a step, then another, to breach the surface of the water.

When she was knee-high, Nemiet heard a cry, but she was not sure, for the waves were crashing against her feet, and the blood pounded loudly in her ears; ignoring it at the time, she took a stance and dived in. 

As the cold water fully enveloped her, something occurred that caused her to lose consciousness. In that moment, though brief and fleeting in truth, but to her as long as a year, she saw again as if in a dream; there they stood with Serana in the garden which she had seen once before, in the midst of which sat a queer gadget. Around them towered some steep stone walls and a few naked trees. And because it was a very ominous, dismal feeling, Nemiet knew that they were in Castle Volkihar, and, because that was where they must be going, she knew then that it would come true.

A great force then seized the hunter, pulled her to the surface. Amidst the crashing waves, she could not tell which way was the sky, but gasped for breath and surrendered to be dragged towards the shore. 

Upon her wet body crashing to the ground, she grimaced. Between the eyelids, puffy with grief, she saw glimpses; the sky, slowly covered with clouds, the green trees in the spring breeze, Serana’s troubled face.

Only half an hour later, Nemiet was seated by a fire, her eyes on the dancing flame, her cloak draped over her shoulders. There was a hefty bruise on her forehead. Together they were now at the tree line, only a little higher up the mountainside, with some tall evergreens springing up on both sides of them. Somewhere nearby, an owl hooted as a ghost. Still, spasms crept up Nemiet’s calves and arms at times, sending her to shiver from the cold. Now that she was feeling calmer, though disappointed and increasingly weary, she had become so ashamed of what she had done and of having been saved that she dared not speak at first. 

“How’s the head?”

Nemiet did not answer. The words seemed to cling to her throat. 

With no further urging, Serana came over to her and sat down, despite the heat from the fire stinging her where her skin was bare. She put a hand on her shoulder, and seeing the familiar sadness on the other woman's face, all the vampire said was, “oh, Nemiet.”

“I have no regrets. Just feel let down, is all. Without him, I’ve got nothing…” 

“You have plenty. You’ve got yourself,” said Serana, seeking for her gaze, “yet I can’t shake the guilt that what you’ve done, you’ve done for me. You are the most selfless, bravest woman I have ever had the pleasure of knowing.”

“I don’t know,” responded Nemiet sadly, “I don’t think we’re up to it, not even you and I. Now I know there is much we can do; I’ve learned that about myself, all thanks to you. Things I’ve done that I never thought I’d ever do. But this is too big, I fear, and there are too few of us.”

“It is grim. But we still do have each other. That is worth something, is it not?”

With a small smile, Nemiet gazed into her now shining eyes. From under her cloak, she raised her hand, then moved aside a few wet strands of hair from Serana’s cold face. Her warmth hurts not, thought the vampire, succumbing to the gentle touch. 

“Think we may be too hard-headed to hang up our blades.” 

Then she drew back. “It does hurt worse than I thought it would. But for the first time, I feel like someone! Never been on my own before. Made decisions, not big ones, that is.”

“I think I know what that feels like,” spoke Serana, “sometimes it does help knowing that people will choose their own path. We cannot change who they are, or who they will become. I for one didn’t know who you were going to be, or what choices you would make... but my choice of trusting you turned out more right than any other in my life.”

Looking at the vampire, a tiny, flickering glimmer of hope lit in Nemiet’s chest.

As they watched each other with a very wistful look, with the night wind over them and a wolf baying in the far-off distance, Nemiet felt fear, but also a kind of tenderness. The same was echoed on the vampire’s end. It all felt very delicate, their closeness, their shared warmth. The hunter thought then that if things had turned out differently, and they’d grown up together somewhere away from here, in a warm safe place, they might always have been friends; there was something about Serana that was so innate, so her own, that there was no going back to her old life at all. 

“I don’t know if I’ve ever said it myself,” said Nemiet, then looked up at the sky, where a faint swath of light was rising from the horizon, “but I’m also very thankful for you.”

“You are?”

The hunter softly grinned. “I am. Used to think all there was was this war. For a long time, it really felt that way. But now I’m starting to see that there’s more. Much beauty, much good… and who knows. Maybe some of it can be salvaged with just a little kindness.”

In silence, they would soon begin to pack up and hurry away from the soon-to-awaken valley dwellers, but now, they were content with watching the pale, rising sun, and the mist that would soon lift, for only a little longer. 

Chapter 14: The House of Despair

Notes:

Long time no see if only because this chapter IS SO LONG I'm sorry. It's also gayer than gay sex (to me it is) and has some gore, so if that grosses you out, just a heads up! The story kinda finally picks up as we search for Valerica. I've made some lore changes that align with the ending of this fic that is FINALLY set in stone yay but I hope you enjoy anyway!

Nestled in the embrace of the mountain range, in the north end of Whiterun Province, there was a small open hut, used chiefly by the occasional hunter and other passers-by when there was talk of game in the area. Directly behind it, on each side of a small dell, a mighty pine forest rose with no end to where the trees winded up the slopes. The heat of the day had given them a distinct scent. As one stood on the porch, looking south, one could see across the vast expanses of tundra, those fields of dry shrubbery and reddish, barren undergrowth; somewhere among the rocky terrain, a herd of reindeer roamed, but they did not much care for the visitors, and were content to pasture in a more secluded spot. At that time, the sun was setting. It gilded the hills and the tops of the pines, but still on the horizon towered the pillar-clouds, a memory of rain that had only just cleared, peaks rosy red against the dull blue sky.

Nemiet had purchased some greens from the spring market in town, where she had also written and sent a letter to Deeka saying she had left, but that all was well. The wild herbs and a pair of rabbits she had harvested herself. At sunset, the Redguard was crouched before a low campfire with a heavy cauldron hanging from a frame above it. Gray smoke billowed from its bowels. When she mixed the mass with a wooden ladle, a mild and pleasant scent mingled with the smell of wood. 

Serana’s unease was more evident. She had not settled down, merely paced about and stared out at the open clearing, almost as if half expecting some evil to come their way at any moment. Her father’s cruelty had begun to really dawn on her, and in some ways she felt responsible for Nemiet too, now that they had been together through much. She was also so very troubled by these new, arising emotions, which she had been trying dearly to avoid; clear as a day the hunter aroused in her a great contradiction. Her affection for her not only reminded her of her own brokenness, but also brought her enormous courage and strength. Balancing the two was in itself a struggle.

"Worry not," said Nemiet reassuringly, "be at peace. They aren’t sending out another attack so soon."

"I do know. I just…" began the vampire, and then allowed her arms to fall more freely to her sides, "he now proved by his deeds that he no longer sees me as his daughter. I worry about this return. And you don’t?"

"Anybody in their senses would," answered she, "but with you, not even the worst of the worries seem quite so bleak."

The vampire tensed for a moment, biting back the nervousness that had built up in her body with a laugh. "You are much too sweet."

Concerned, Nemiet then glanced up towards her. "Wasn’t trying to imply any. I didn’t mean…"

Serana gazed back at her, her mind still squeamish. 

"Ah. Forget about the last one. Tell me about your mother."

Although it still felt dreadful, Serana felt it was nice to change the subject. "There is precious little to tell you that I already haven’t. Have not seen her in a very long time. I think I might be angry with her too."

"I understand," said Nemiet sadly, "but there’s much to that anger. Hope betrayed, and love. Only a parent can betray you in such a cold, vicious way."

"That is true," replied Serana, and then sat down on a stump seat next to the fire, her red-lettered black hood covering most of her face, "I realize a lot of it is because of him , but for a while now I have been hoarding up reasons to be mad. I do not understand: why did she not leave? Why let him tear our family apart? There are times when I would just like to curse her, and then forget about it. I know, very childish."

Nemiet listened, in her heart remembering her quarrel with Isran. "None ‘at all. What you’re feeling is natural."

She looked to the reddening sky, in the hope that she could somehow cheer up her grieving companion. "You’re a long way from weak, or even childish, my friend—and I believe that though the courage now to confront her seems as distant ‘as the clouds or perhaps the sky behind ‘em, it will yet find you, and I doubt it’ll be cautious, or soft-footed. Imagine more of an armour-clad knight. May it find you well."

They then sat in stillness, a stillness that was like a real place, but not one filled with expectation. Slowly the food was prepared, and as the sun drew ever nearer to the walls of Whiterun, Nemiet at last got up and wiped her hands on the hem of her shirt.

"Now I must pray."

"I need to ask you this," began the vampire, her voice still downcast, "when you pray, what do you ask for? For that is what all prayer is, asking ."

"Not just," said Nemiet sternly, "it is also a sacrifice, a sacrifice of time. And it requires more discipline than you may think. It’s a skill as much as shootin’ a crossbow, or trackin’ game."

"Not what I meant."

The hunter seemed to hesitate for a moment. "Thought you wanted to do the guesswork on this one. You always surprise me with your deductive."

"I can think of a few things," answered Serana, "but I want to hear it from you."

‘Hmm’ , wondered Nemiet aloud, quiet as she listened to the silence surround them and gazed at the deepening purple shadows falling from the trees in the forest. "Not just one or two things. The one I most hope for every day is that we make it through it. I always pray for my father next. He doesn’t know that, and would certainly see it as a sign of weakness."

First Serana did not answer, only looked out silently over the tundra. From somewhere, a gust of wind rushed up, and as it swept over Nemiet, it made her shiver. 

"And do you think he also prays for you?"

As if to hide her unease, the Redguard smiled after a quick glance at her feet. "Well, that I cannot say. But I don’t need him to return the favour to do what I do. That much I am my own master."

The vampire’s sharp features broke into a slight, coy smile. "I know. But it is good to hear."

Then Nemiet felt an intense need to go back to her side, to look at her long and tenderly. In the cavern inside her, her heart began to pound; her breathing became involuntarily more rapid. In her temptation, the hunter lingered, and did not go off to pray, simply brought her hands to her belly and began to stare at her fingernails and then scrape them loose. 

When she asked her question, her voice was high-pitched and strained, and she could not recognize it. "So what’re you gonna do?"

Serana froze, as if it were a secret, but all she feared was ridicule. "Well, I... well. I do not know why I would keep this from you; I suppose it sounds so mundane after everything. Thought I’d do some writing. Not a diary, or something to that effect maybe, but there is one thing I have dreamed of since I was a little girl. I wish to be a real writer one day. And here, I feel very inspired."

Nemiet smiled sheepishly. "I think it’s a nice dream. What do you write about?"

"About our travels, for a start. But I would still like to do a work of fiction, perhaps a romance, but above all an adventure story. To give some other little girl the same kind of fire in the belly that books have given me. I don’t know if it’s at all feasible, but it is what I’ve always wanted."

Nemiet then felt a strong need to assist her friend, and said, filled with compassion, "I believe it’ll be done! Someday, when this is over, I will help you."

A joy so genuine that she felt movement within her, like tiny fireworks-like explosions, filled Serana. She smiled broadly and swung her leg excitedly over the other, "thank you. But right now we need to be focused on making it through another day, so go ahead and pray. A little help never hurts."

So Nemiet went to her duties, and Serana to write up some things for her forthcoming works, and again the morning after they set off towards the northern sea.

A few dawns had yet to break before their boat parted from the mainland and set sail for Volkihar Castle. They left early that day. A thick fog lingered over the gulf, but Nemiet suspected that because of the climate, it hardly ever lifted, and above them the cloud cover did not even break. Today there were no birds, and not even the sound of their calls; only the waves bursting in white foam-heads against the hull. The wind was blowing rather fiercely. Nemiet wrapped her fur cloak more tightly round her as she watched the dark shore disappearing from sight. 

She would carefully ask, "how do you do?" 

Predictably, the vampire cast long glances into the waves, "I can’t say. I never imagined that returning would be so dreadful. At least I don’t have to go alone."

Nemiet understood well. Soon, through the white wall, the sharp peaks of the black fortress began to protrude, and although they were still circling the island from a considerable distance, the despair hanging over the place was already finding them. In silence, they often shifted positions on their wooden seats, with neither of them saying anything more. 

But the true awfulness struck only when the boat bumped violently against the bank a little further out in the cove. The impact almost threw Nemiet out of balance. Her arms and legs felt stiff, and when she got up and tried to tie the boat securely to the beach pile, the thick rope between her fingers would not obey. The time before she succeeded seemed to pass at an agonising rate. Over their heads, a few bone hawks were now flying around, intimidating in their noiselessness; their kindred sat quietly on the cliff face. 

"Those birds are just awful," said Nemiet, staring at the black animals, their feathers rustling in the wind. Eyeless sockets stared back at her. 

"Nor do I love them. Come on. The entrance is round here."

The hunter got to her frail feet, and then went after her. 

They followed the shoreline for a while before plunging further into the shadow of the great castle. There before them was a small, rather narrow, stone pier, and a number of doorless rooms which, from the crates stacked in them, had evidently been used as storerooms. Beside them in the channel, several shipwrecks rested in their watery graves, with only the bows and part of the masts pointing, broken, to the grey sky; Nemiet had no desire to think about what they looked like when seen from the water, or about what the shells hid. The grey stone that formed the jetty had frozen in places when cold waves sometimes crashed over it, so they both kept their eyes on their feet as they walked, reluctant to take a dip in the churning black water.

When they came to a rectangular corner where they turned back north towards the door above, Serana very suddenly tensed. Her companion hardly heard a peep, but asked the vampire anyway, her voice a mere whisper, "what is it? Are you hearing something?"

Before there was an answer, or much anything, Serana had already leapt aside with a generous gesture, dragging a bewildered Nemiet after her. There, under the shelter of the passage’s casings, she was given an excuse to hold the hunter against her, and so close was Nemiet to her that the collar of the vampire’s white blouse was touching her chin. Not wishing to hurt her, Serana’s grip on her eased a little, but not quite enough to release her fully. Nevertheless, the Redguard remained close, glancing warily first back to the dock, where an animated skeleton was walking past them, bones creaking, and then back to the vampire. 

Then Serana looked away, but as their gazes soon met, both her and Nemiet’s features softened in ways that revealed only the unspoken sentiments they were still trying to hide from each other. The Nord cocked her head to the side slightly, and watched through her lashes the other woman's tightening jawline. Her mouth felt dry. There was a warm pulse in her belly through their clothing, which seemed to fill every lifeless corner of her; but finally Nemiet withdrew, and awkwardly she cleared her throat.

"Thank you for that," said she in a hushed tone, but did not mention it again.

Quiet and swiftly, they would cross the bridge and then go up the steps, keeping low so as not to be seen or heard by the odd swarm of bone-men milling around them. Fortunately for them, they were quite slow-witted, and none noticed them slipping into the castle; none, though the old wooden door was creaking at its hinges, almost collapsing to the ground as the weight shifted off its centre. It had not been much used.

It took Nemiet a while to adjust to the dimness inside, and dim it was; Serana had no trouble with her keen sight. In the dark, her eyes rounded into gleaming circles that lapped at the dusty corners, straining only to remind herself that this was indeed her home. Nemiet sensed the vampire’s discomfort, but, as she was about to raise her hand to console her, a voice from beyond halted her. Hurriedly, they both retreated to a spot near the wall, and the Redguard drew her weapon from her back, clutching it in her ready hands. From where they were now, they moved a few paces to a small balcony, where, peering over the railing, she too got a clearer view of the interior.

"This is the old cistern," said Serana, "some days, the stench would float up to the bedrooms... be thankful you weren’t here then."

Face pale and serious, Nemiet turned her gaze back down from the balcony. She guessed that the Volkihar clan had, at one time, chosen to feed on living victims, and cut down on the butchering; right now, at the bottom of the dry water channel running through the floor, only old bones, so old that they no longer reeked, laid. An old, dilapidated stone bridge crossed them. Water droplets were falling from the ends of the long dripstones above, which hit the floor in all parts of the chamber. If not for the continuous dripping, it would perhaps have been easier to hear the death hounds pattering about with their hideous skinless paws, but, in spite of the barrage of many faint sounds, the hunter saw them, and quickly counted five in all. 

Within moments, Nemiet fired two shots, between which she reloaded her crossbow so fast that before the second one struck the enemy in the skull, the others did not even realize that anything was happening. But despite their precise nose, they did not at once know from where the attack was coming; they had been so surprised by the hunter. She cocked the weapon one more time, and aimed the sights at the third beast, its ugly head pointed toward the meandering trickle of gray water at the bottom of the canal. All three were killed by those first shots. Then she decided not to be greedy, and quickly hooked her weapon back onto the rack at her back until she felt it set in place. 

By then, Serana was already jogging towards the stairs that opened to the left, her palm closed, and inside, the magic glowing a pale shimmer of blue. In the space round her fist, the frigid, cloudy air began to condense into an ice crystal, which soon formed a thick, sharp spike. Nemiet then joined her with only one axe in hand. She came to the corner only in time to see how swift the black jaws of the hound that had found them burst open to grab the vampire, but it was then that the icicle that had grown in the Nord’s nurture sprang forth with a light shriek; easily it pierced through the creature, lodging itself in the back of its mouth. The force of the blow threw it down the steps, startling the remaining hound as it went. It was still snarling, the blood-curdling low growl still coming from it, and its glowing red eyes terrified Nemiet greatly; but then it ran away and soon disappeared from sight somewhere in the depths of the castle. 

Serana spoke lightly, but Nemiet could tell that she too was in distress. "Most unusual. Why are these creatures down here? I used to think my father never let many of his people in, but it seems many things have changed."

The hunter took a moment to regather her possessions. "You spent much time here?"

"Well, I am the way I am; I like exploring, and with my parents reluctant to let me leave the island, this place seemed the most exciting thing I was allowed access to. But then, there were certainly no hounds about. Rarely did I even see rats, when they were frightened of lively little girls causing ruckus."

"You’re quite strange," laughed Nemiet good-naturedly.

"Maybe I am," answered she, "and so are you. Perhaps that is why we are here now, and not some other two."

"Yes, yes. Do you think we’ll be made into songs? Or tales to tell children? That is, if we do make it. And I’m not saying I wish it’d happen. The thought just crossed me."

"My hope is not," said Serana, "those tales are often exaggerated. And sometimes that is good, but I would not like it to happen to us. No. If I can, then I will write it myself. I would hope to read you some of my writings someday; I would very much like your opinion."

Nemiet reddened, but was content to have the darkness conceal it. "Aye. It’d be good hearing them."

The vampire smiled. "Very well, then. As soon as we leave here. Come on, let’s go."

In a line, they descended down the stairs. Nemiet let her gaze wander round the old cistern; it was all very beautiful, intricate and built with great effort. If every stone surface had not been covered with black stains or holes chipped away by force, she would have truly marveled at the place. The dark walls blended in nicely with the lighter capstones, such as on the water tank itself, and the suspenders on the bridge deck had curves and decorative little flourishes. Of course, everywhere there were dust-covered coffins, some closed, some open, with plenty of cobweb growing in the corners. So the Redguard readily recalled where they were, and was not too comforted; and when they came to the crossing which divided the chamber, Serana’s eye was suddenly drawn to the nearest door.

The hound that they had scared away had returned, but this time it was with a master. Alongside it now was a high elf, a vampire as well, Nemiet reasoned, but had no clue as to whether or not she was one of Harkon’s own. The Redguard had still held in her hand the war axe, perhaps for such surprises, and was now grimacing. 

The vampire cried, "get them! Get them!" Loyal, no longer hesitating, the hound galloped onto the bridge towards them, but Nemiet deftly dodged its teeth. She was caught in a series of swerves, but knew she could calmly devote herself to the creature now that Serana was with her. The sounds of struggle soon faded into the distance as she waited for it to charge again; and when it did, the hunter thrust her blade down its throat and reeled it up against the bridge railing. As though to ensure the outcome of her work, Nemiet twisted the axe once more, and the creature gave a sickening, dry croak before falling completely lifeless against the deck, then dropping to the floor as she loosened her grip.

Quickly she knew to see if her friend would need help, but Serana had already all but vanquished the second vampire; she held on tightly to her throat, her hissing mouth just a few inches from her own face, and then unashamedly cut open the golden throat. There was not much blood, but that did not make the sight any more bearable. Revolted, the hunter wiped at her face, and tried not to meet the eyes of the corpse now that the face about them rested away from the rest of the body. But it was difficult, and still she glared as she made her way over to the Nord.

"Good work," said Nemiet. "I guess she was not in favor with your father."

"I suspect the same," responded Serana, and let her dagger slip back into its sheath, "must have thought she could rise up. Poor wretch."

She had a look of sadness, and Nemiet responded to her mood by glancing down, trying silently to understand. But soon they were moving onwards, out of the cistern and into the vast undercroft, where the smell that had once been absent was becoming overpowering in places, and before long, more fresh bodies began to emerge in their path one after the other. Most of the carrion was left with parts that even the vampires would not eat, lungs and fat. The putrefying flesh was covered with egg-laying flies and their buzz filled much of the space. On the walls there was a clumpy, yellowish-red smear here and there, which in the darkness looked black, the origin of which even Nemiet, as a skilled tracker, could not guess, and she did not even think she wanted to.

But for all the horror, the remainder of Volkihar Castle was deserted, and they encountered no more enemies on their way to the courtyard. The door to it sat there at the top of a tall, winding stairwell, and creaked at least as much when opened as the one through which they had first come. Light, though grey, poured in as Serana went out first; and Nemiet was instantly overcome with great relief as she felt both the bright day and the little cold drops of rain on her face.

However, when she recognised the place because of what she had seen in her dream, her good feelings were rapidly dissipating. First she saw the withered garden, enclosed by the dark walls of the castle, which formed a quadrangle; then she smelled the rich scent of nightshades rotting and of decaying wood, stretching their gaunt branches into the cloudy sky. The wind whipped the dry, rustling leaves that the rain had not yet had time to paste to the ground. Small parts of the land, once sown by Valerica, were enclosed by stone walls and a framework of metal. Plants, death-bells and monkshood still grew in the old flower beds, though few of them were now alive, and many had languished along the years.

"I can’t believe we’re truly here," said the vampire slowly, looking round, "It was never bursting with colorful blossoms or scented peas, but..."

Nemiet said nothing. Serana then went to a strange device resting in the middle, in which from a frame-like ring jutted upwards a huge hand. She shook her head gently under her hood, with her eyes fixed on the strange thing, and spoke, "all destroyed, or torn out. This place is dead. I don’t think that anyone has been here since my mother left. This was her garden. It used to be so beautiful... do you know how beautiful a thing can look when a master has tended it for so many years? But she is gone. I understand it somehow more clearly now."

"I do believe," said Nemiet, "what strangeness happened here?"

"I think I might know," spoke Serana rather bitterly, "when my father saw she had gone, and took me and the scroll with her, he got very angry. And because we were no more here to be the subject of his rage, this is where he came. All of this must have reminded him of us."

"And then he made it unvisitable. Destroyed some of the towers as well. Such a pity."

"That is what it looks like," sighed the vampire, and appeared thoughtful. "He must have wanted to put the memories behind him. But they were also my memories. Maybe if he had spent more time with me or my mother, he would have liked us more. Now the thing is, he hardly liked us at all."

There was a moment of silence before Serana had had a chance to inspect the gadget that lay before her. "Hold on. There’s something amiss. The moondial seems broken," said she, "the task of the hand is to point out the phases of the moons. See? But not all the moons are in place. I had no clue they were even detachable."

Indeed, in the frame were small domed glass lenses set in a circle, all representing crescent moons; some complete, some almost gone. Among them were some holes that were empty. Nemiet’s brow furrowed in contemplation as she padded over to the vampire's side.

"Parts do seem to be missing."

"Yes. This moondial is one of a kind. Actually, it was originally a sundial, but for her it was far too common. So one day an elven artisan came all the way from the south, and made it like this. I do not know what she paid him, but the work took several weeks, and he did not even do it alone, but only led a small group."

"But I don’t follow. What’s the use of a moondial?"

"That is the point!" exclaimed the vampire, "I always wondered why she was so fond of it. Me, I would have been frustrated and ripped such an ugly gadget off already. I think we will have to find the missing domes. There must be a reason for their disappearance."

Nemiet glanced round, with her hands on her hips, and then realised that locating Valerica would not be so easy after all. 

Then she went for a walk in the garden. Serana scarcely made any effort herself, but stood by the moondial and reminisced about her old life. At times, her mutterings were lost in the rain, which would bounce merrily against the metal frame and the remaining moons; Nemiet wondered how she was faring, now that she was faced with a return.

In other words, the Redguard went alone. Pensively, she gazed at the large buildings, and climbed the steps that rose before a tower. Most had been reduced to rubble of wood and masonry, the doorways of some still standing on their hinges, but the structures had suffered much damage. She explored the garden as though out of interest, but in truth she was more hungry for her home than she could admit to herself, or indeed to the vampire. For her father, she felt a combination of longing, deep anger and frustration. She suspected that these latter were the result of the very love she still bore, and realised that his teachings had gone awry. At the time, Nemiet was as much ashamed of them as proud; but that hardly mattered to her now, only that it hurt, and she was not at all equipped for such pain. 

Then, from out of the corner of her eye, she caught a quick flash of light coming from the surface of a glass dome hidden at the foot of a small table. She stooped to gather it up from the ground, and swiped the hood, which had been caked with tree seeds and dust, then saw the half-moon on it. "Look! We have one," she exclaimed as she stood up. The rain was picking up. Still, she could not but imagine how nice it would have been to have afternoon tea in that very spot on a beautiful day, at a time when the garden would have been in its full bloom.

She took her findings back to Serana, who promptly started fitting it into place. Wishing to waste no further time, she went in search of the other two missing moon mosaics; the first, after a little digging, was found in a murky brown-water pond, from which it was only just visible; the second, in the soil, in a place where fading nightshades lay under tufted bushes. Their violet colour seemed to remind her of something, a bruise, a thunderstorm over a desolate land, and after some thought, she grabbed some flower heads between her gloved fingers, and plucked them from the stems. The Redguard then pocketed the flowers and their seeds and wrapped them in a small cloth. 

When she returned, they went together to fit the missing pieces into the moondial. When the third or last dome was in position, it screeched wickedly, and then spun once on its shaft. Since then, the dull golden frame did not budge any more. But the ground around it opened up, as it had done in Alftand, and before them, stair after stair, a secret stairway of stone descended, leading directly into the earth, and raising a cloud of dust that soon vanished into the wet heavens.

Nemiet watched Serana with great astonishment. "Don’t know about you, but it’s starting to feel like we have a knack for finding these."

The vampire laughed. "This is what I was expecting from my mother. Perhaps a little too convenient, and yet... maybe she also knew that even Harkon knew her not well enough. From there we can enter the castle, or at least some part of it. We are heading down the right way, Nemiet. I feel it in my heart."

Serana went down first, and the hunter allowed her some room. At the end of the steps stood a door, very much like the other doors they had encountered there, old and made of spruce. Beyond it a new darkness opened, into which they now dived; but much it frightened them both. 

They arrived in a small, dark, and narrow corridor, but there was neither a door at the end of it, nor anywhere to go at first glance. For some time they spent pressing on the walls, with only the old spider webs gleaming silver in their corners, until the Nord’s hand mistakenly fell on a pressure plate. Finding it before them, the door, which had the appearance of a very brick wall, retreated to the ground, clear of the doorway. 

A pale greenish light enveloped them. With it came a mild scent of dried herbs, of lavender, rosemary and mint, that hung in the kitchen; they had most evidently been sitting over the unlit fireplace for quite some time. There was only a table and a few chairs in the room, and on top of the table, pieces of shrivelled meat on one serving dish. Shards of sharp bone were pointing towards the ceiling. Not even flies, or other small critters, were still feeding on it.

"So this is where she’s been hiding," said Nemiet, wrinkling her nose as they walked, "at some point."

"Yes," spoke Serana, "at any rate, I do think we are approaching the truth. I have grim suspicions. Better not to mention them, lest they come to fruition."

They soon encountered all kinds of curiosities: fireplaces that ignited as if by themselves, bathing them in a golden light; enemies animated with ancient magic, skeletons that would almost collapse and the much more resilient giant gargoyles. Dread was welling up in Nemiet’s heart. As they ventured deeper into the dark halls, the longer were the shadows which followed them, and the greater was the sense that some powerful evil was watching them, but which they hoped was only the tricks of a fearful mind. On several occasions, the Redguard in particular had spotted something moving just round the corner of her vision, but when she would turn around, there would be nothing there. Then she would shake her head and go on her way, but she still clutched her axes in her hands, and her grip no longer weakened.

Then they entered the largest of the halls, which was as cluttered and deserted as the others, but which seemed again to break their journey. There appeared to be no way out, not even when they braved the two stone statues guarding the place; but, dashing into a corner in a rage, and stretching his huge wings, one of the gargoyles knocked over a rectangular object covered with a grey cloth against the wall, which, when the danger was over, drew their attention. A feeling ran through Serana that was not unfamiliar, but very unpleasant. She bent down to it, her dark face softened as though in sorrow, or in yearning; and she drew aside the sheet, and revealed beneath it a painted likeness of her family. There she was, herself young, her eyes open and innocent, with her mother clutching her shoulder, grave and dignified; but the canvas was torn from Harkon’s face, like it had been slashed with a knife, and the scrap dangled over the rest of the painting. 

"Must be your mother," said Nemiet, "you look like each other a lot. She tore the canvas?"

"I think so," said the vampire and then, having straightened the picture, stood up with a bleak look on her face, "a part of me still wishes we could have been together. That my father would have chosen us. How silly…"

Comfortingly, Nemiet put her hand on the Nord’s shoulder, and offered a small smile. "No, not ever. I’m with you.”

In spite of her sadness, Serana smiled too, then took the hand that was resting on her in her cold one. They embraced each other for a fleeting moment, light and cautious, as if it were to mean less than it really did; but after they had separated, they already craved it anew.

"We have to find a way forward. A passage has to be around here somewhere," said the vampire then, and glanced around. There was rubble, dust, and webbing everywhere; but there was no passage or even anything like one.

They soon circled round the hall together, until at the same time they arrived at the small fireplace. "Got nothing," said Nemiet. Her gaze, however, soon landed on the hearth, with five or six pieces of wood in the nest, but which appeared to be fairly new and not at all used. Frowning, she crouched down, and lifted one log and spun it before her face. Serana then knew to start seeking clues about a secret passage, before long groping the walls, and after a short time was finally able to budge one of the candle holders planted on the wall. With a more vigorous pitching, so that the shaft turned to the side at full strength, the ground began to gently shake. The fireplace broke away from the walls, scraping the floor as it slid open like a door to a hallway where narrow steps led directly upwards in a steep angle so that the top was out of sight; they exchanged surprised glances that told them they shouldn’t have been.

"She was much craftier than I had thought."

"Aye. Guess I’ve got to acknowledge some, too."

More stairs were revealed than they had first thought, and just when Nemiet had believed there would be no end to them, they reached the door which led to Valerica’s covert. 

Their first shock was the light flooding in, which one would have thought absent entirely from a vampire's lair; but perhaps Valerica did not mind, or perhaps she needed the light to stir the potions and to read. There was a row of broad windows near the ceiling of the great room, before which a dust cloud hung, and let in the gathering darkness of evening; the dark grey rain clouds were bordered by a red rim as the sun broke through them. All the walls were lined with shelving. So many books they had seen perhaps only in the library of Winterhold, and under round glass casings prosperous plants and fungi sprouted. On the table there were yellowed pieces of paper on which were written recipes and directions and drawn charts and schematics. From the wall opposite them, a short staircase led from right to left on the side of the room, curving toward the centre, and ending abruptly at an open end. Below the drop was a huge, circle recess in the stone floor, the nature of which, at least to start with, was a riddle to them; still, there was plenty to wonder about as they passed through. 

"This is it!" Serana was filled to the brim with awe. "Of course I knew she was studying necromancy; she did teach me what little I know. But see this! All this has been years in the making and piecing together. And for why? There’s got to be a reason. We must find some explanation in her writing."

"So we are now looking for a diary? Not an engraved skull, or a stone tablet? Know how old-fashioned your people are."

"Ha ha. The notes on her research must be here somewhere. Now start looking."

The hunter strolled to the north end of the room, browsing the scrolls with her eyes. Many of the words were old, and some of the sentences she could not even understand. "So your mother’s had quite the arrangement here. You knew none of this, then?"

"Not a clue. She kept a modest little alchemist’s table and some supplies inside the castle, but none of this. But I understand now why she was always chasing me from the garden towards the end."

"So what’s she researching? You ever found out?"

"I don’t know. Spells on the dead, the science of the soul. She certainly wasn’t after immortality; to a vampire, that would have been time lost."

Nemiet huffed. She left the table and wandered about Valerica’s hiding place, marveling at the bones and bodily organs she did not recognize (particularly at those she strongly suspected had belonged to a dragon; but the thought was foreign, and she did not fully believe it). On one wall, a great hornless skull had been erected, and it was peering at her from its hollow sockets, and she was looking back at it. A peculiar grief filled her, but Serana’s sound from below woke her from her thoughts.

"Here it is! Her diary; or, rather, there’s a series of them. But the answers are here, of that I’m sure."

For a while Serana lapsed into silence then, reading the pages with great earnestness or fascination, as a clergyman would a sacred script. Nemiet came back down and watched her from a distance, curious but somewhat timidly. She wrapped her arms round the handrail after lowering her rucksack and her weapons to the floor. Inwardly, she relished it, the chance to watch the vampire from a little further away, though a great fondness still lived in her. Serana was so beautiful in the twilight that it had settled over them. There was almost a stillness in the air, and if not a calm, then at least a sense of peace after passing through the busy fortress; but then, the vampire began to speak, and in her voice only the hunter heard that something great was afoot. 

"So how well do you know about the soul gems?"

Nemiet said nothing, only shrugged. 

Serana closed the diary, and put it back on the shelf. "I knew about some of my mother’s ideas. She was intrigued by those gems, but most by the souls in them; they never seemed to vanish, so where did they go? They were bound to go someplace. She called it ‘the Soul Cairn’. "

"I see," said Nemiet, "so? Has she somehow got there? Is it even possible?"

"In theory, yes. But the place is favoured by all those with an interest in necromancy. It is said to be home to very powerful beings who, so to speak, trade with these souls, and every soul has a price."

"If that is where she has gone, we’ll find her."

"She wrote that she’d been preparing the portal for some time, but I believe the diary I have read was not the most recent one. Still, it had instructions, kind of a recipe for what to put together. The ingredients have to be poured into that vessel over there," said she, nodding towards the drop, on top of which Nemiet now saw a low pillar, and atop it as a serving tray.

"There’s to be a ‘but’ somewhere. There’s always one. What’s it this time?"

"We need pieces of a soul gem, the kind that once had a soul in it; bone meal, crushed very fine; voided salt, purified kind, rare, but I think mother used to keep some around. But those are no problem. The problem is, well, we need blood, her blood."

Nemiet appeared to be baffled. "What? Are you not sharing hers?"

"Yes. That is true. But I fear what may happen if we commit even a tiny mistake. These portals can be unpredictable," said Serana, "I hope that your prayers will continue to be answered today. Let us get to work. If we are indeed tearing a hole in reality, we’d better do it soon."

The Redguard waved her hand, as if saying, ‘I suppose’, "so we know all the ingredients are here?" 

"Of course. She would have needed them to open the portal, and she wouldn’t have gotten only enough for one attempt, because she knew it could go wrong."

Serana then started searching the shelves she was now standing next to. The hunter went up again, but as she rummaged through the cupboards and drawers, her mind seemed to still wander; indeed, she was becoming nervous, but was not wishing to show it. "Now that we’re very definitely headed there, is there anything that you can tell me about it? The Soul Cairn?"

"It is a small realm within a realm, a part of Oblivion. And you may know more about it than I do, about the Daedra and their ilk. I think... I think that the masters of the Cairn deal precisely with Molag Bal. I think he’ll be glad to acquire souls for his collections," said Serana, her voice loud at first, then softer towards the end. "To be honest with you, it scares me to go there. I can’t promise whether we will return unharmed, and if we do, whether we will still be the people we are now."

The hunter shrugged. "Seems mad to go there."

"Or bright. My father would never find it there, or perhaps even have the courage to enter. Besides, as I said, necromancers are always after souls. This might well have happened in the absence of any danger." 

"Fair," said Nemiet, and gathered a grey mortar in her hands, on the bottom of which rested small pieces of a purple soul gem, "and the masters?"

"I fear that I don’t know much. There are no sightings of them, no hearings, not even many successful trades. The fools who barter with them tend not to come back to tell the tale."

"Ah. Dandy."

" No point in fretting about that now. I’ve got the salt. And you? Any luck yet?"

"I’ve the rest."

"Coming, then."

They went together to the vessel. Directly beneath it was the hollow, which must have been the gateway, or at least very near to it; Nemiet grew very uneasy, and in a moment remembered all her dreams, and thought they were warnings now. Her heartbeat quickened like that of a small shrew shortly after Serana had emptied it all from their hands into a mass at the base of the stone basin. 

"Well only I can do the rest. Ready? I have no clue as to what to expect when we add my blood."

Swallowing thickly, the Redguard then took a quick glance at her. "I thought that I’d have enough time to eat before we left. I thought, if this really is my last day here, it’d be better to die on a full stomach. But I cannot yet die, when so much is at stake, and neither can you. But would we eat anyway? I still have some of the bread I was savin’ from Solitude, the one we bought from the baker’s. Dried meat too."

Part-displeased, part-relieved, Serana nodded, and they went to have late dinner.

Soon Nemiet was feasting on large loaves of bread with wild strawberries she had picked up on their journey, but which had already begun to wilt; on a starving stomach, however, they tasted no less good. They were sitting together on the floor next to the hunter’s belongings, but Serana did not hunger, only stared off somewhere in the distance. As they searched for Valerica’s notes and materials, it had become dark, and now only a few candles were burning after they had lit them. The windows were about to begin to gleam with tiny white stars.

"So if we do find her, then what’ll you do? ‘Tween the two of you, there are many lifetimes of mine."

The vampire sighed. "I don’t know. I have not forgiven her for not having done something before; but I don’t know if I can not regress to being a little girl before her. It’s been a long time."

"She sure made a mess of it. But trust the heart. Know that you cannot always say who has done well and who has done badly; we often do what we feel is right. Any of us could be anyone."

"Very true. Thank you," responded the vampire and smiled a little, "and I know that you also know the pain caused by a parent. How it feels watching them turn into someone you do not recognize. It is worth more than gold to be able to share this with you."

Nemiet nodded. "You’re my friend. Now it would seem that I’m already following you into Oblivion."

"Yes. For that I am thankful. And as for our travels, I would be very disappointed if they were to end now; so we’re still living tomorrow, are we not?"

"The world owes it to us, a few more miles, and beautiful air, because we’re sacrificing all we have to save it. Let’s go now. I’m finished."

Reluctant, Nemiet gathered her things into one pile, and took her weapons and cloak with her. Up the stairs and back to the vessel they went, and one last time Nemiet stared out of the windows at the deep blue night sky, and hesitated. Having turned away, Serana drew her dagger from its sheath, but made no cut at once; she grasped the hunter’s hand, and laid the black blade in her outstretched palm.

She would then ask, "could you do this for me?"

With large brown eyes, only dimly glinting in the darkness, Nemiet looked toward Serana; but when she did not hesitate, her throat dry, she nodded. She stripped off both her gloves as though fearing they would stain the vampire’s hands, and then took the bony fingers above the bowl on her own. A chill overcame her, but also something more; the will to hold her hand much longer, but without the blade she now held just above the vampire's palm. The incision would have to be deep. Vampires’ blood coursed more slowly, if at all, than humans, and the veins were not near the skin save in states of utter starvation. Once more she glanced into Serana's shining eyes, as if to ask permission, and when she thought she had it, she lowered the dagger to her and then drove it deep into her flesh.

It was not done lightly, and Nemiet was sweating to work for even a few droplets. Serana’s blood was black as death, thick as tar, and only a little of it fell onto the materials. Their hands, when the work was done, lay resting for a moment against each other, with only the slender dagger between them, Nemiet's earlier scar against Serana’s fresh but bone-dry cut; and the vampire’s blood clung to Redguard’s skin, and withered on it. She could feel her heart beating even through this. They were each about to say something, perhaps lamenting the collapse of their plans, or something much more profound and dear to their different hearts, when suddenly there was a loud crack from beside them, like a clap of thunder from inside the floor.  

It was all very sudden; soon the dark room was awash with purple light as the portal burst open. A nameless force, not nourishing and warm, but chilling and terrifying, as of a nightmare lived as a child, gushed out from within and swept over them; Nemiet hid her face by turning around quickly, but almost fell to the ground from its might. When she opened her eyes, the wind was already at her feet, and the new colour had her stomach turning over, its contents almost forced out. The dreams like memories invaded her mind, the fear, an emptiness, the void itself as a breathing beast.

Serana faced the gaping hole in the ground, where the stone had shattered (and made such a loud boom) and settled before them like a pathway. Her eyes went wide with surprise, "it works. It really works! The portal exists."

"Indeed," said Nemiet, no less fearful, "best go soon, before it caves in, or something worse happens."

Being the brave woman she was, the Redguard then took a step to go first; but there was something blocking her way in. As though enormous hands had seized her, and the sharp claws of those fingers had pierced her, a great force threw her backwards. Made numb by the pain, there was no hope of her legs keeping her upright. No; as the hunter struck the floor, it seemed to surround her on all sides, and then, poking through her mind, a black shadow would descend.

Chapter 15: The Prisoner of Soul Cairn

Notes:

And that marks 100k words! Gods I never thought I'd get this far, not really. So this is a huge milestone for me personally, as OCD has truly been an ass in publishing this work and it continues to be so. Still, here I am! Atp this fic is around 300 pages long, and I'm nowhere near finished, but it is making me feel proud of myself anyhow :> special thanks to my best friend Taro for proof-reading my chapters, giving me incredible ideas and being their lovely self. <3

Hope you enjoy the chapter!

The Redguard woke from the floor soon after. There was a new pain in her ribs that robbed her of her breath and left her grimacing; the ground seemed to be crushing her backbone.

"Can you hear me? Nemiet!"

"Aye, no problem," answered Nemiet through her teeth, still squirming, a pained expression slowly giving way. "But damn does it hurt. Where’d we go wrong?"

Serana had drawn nearer, a concerned look upon her pale features. She bowed towards Nemiet, then spoke as if in regret, "I should have known. And I’m sorry. The fault is mine."

Nemiet leaned on her arms, although the movement continued to hurt. She shot a questioning glance at the vampire, who quickly returned her gaze, but her expression did not bode well. "The Soul Cairn is hungry. I can’t think of any better word, no matter. Doubt it would dare to run through a living person any more. I think it tried to tear your soul from you as payment, but since you refused, they denied you access."

"So that’s it?" Nemiet’s question was hollow, beaten. "There’s no way in for me, then."

"There may be a way... but you’re not going to love it." Serana’s red gaze darted down. "A vampire is not living, so one might walk in without a problem."

Nemiet's eyes snapped open. In place of the aching she had just felt, a tremendous terror overcame her, bringing sweat to her brow and a limpness to her muscles; Isran’s words seemed to come back fresh to her. She shifted in discomfort, and then stuttered, "trying to say what I fear? I-”

"Don’t worry. I already know," said Serana comfortingly, though she felt sad about not being able to do very much. It was clear that her respect for Nemiet mattered to her more than what she herself was experiencing; and her understanding bore no sign of hesitation.

Grateful for that shared mind, yet still fearful of her fate, the Redguard then spoke, "there’s got to be another way, Serana. Please tell me there’s. Any other."

The Nord fell into a moment of thoughtful quiet; but not even when she broke it did she seem content. Far rather would she have turned Nemiet into a vampire herself, and then aided her through the transformation and starvation, then together sought a cure later, than do what she was about to suggest. "I believe I know of one. As I said, it will want your soul. And I think we need to surrender it."

"Peachy," said Nemiet sarcastically with a deep sigh, "then what? Just how wouldn’t that leave me dead?"

"Mm. I know a few tricks," said Serana, not at all convinced, "perhaps, if you allow me, I can deposit only part of your soul in the soul gem. That we could then offer it in return. But I am not about to lie to you. It would weaken you severely, and I know not what we will face out there. Nor do I know if your soul can ever be restored. The consequences may be deadly."

"These are really our only choices, aren’t they?" Nemiet got up, but was still grinning in pain. In the next few days, another bruise would appear on her flank; the skin was tender and warm to the touch, and a new despair now reached out from beneath it. Moment by moment, this plan was starting to sound more like utter foolishness.

"I’m sorry. This is all I have. I wish there was some way, easier and less painful. But..." Serana said, before her voice weakened from worrying. "Whatever you decide, whether it be this, or retreat, you have my full support. We can’t always win. I understand more than anyone."

Nemiet looked round with a blank expression on her face. Then she waved her hand in the direction of the vampire, with a little shake of her head. "Nay. We mustn’t go back, not until the last scroll is in our hands. Okay. Take my soul, if you can. May my faith protect me."

"You have to think this through," said Serana, and grabbed her arm, but the hunter did not meet her gaze. "Nemiet look at me. I have no clue how much it will diminish you. All I know is that it could work. So please don't make any rash requests of me. I couldn’t bear it."

Nemiet's eyes wandered to her. In Serana, there was a genuine care that was again emerging from the crevices of her heart, and which the Redguard could now truly see. From it, she at last drew her courage. "We’ve no time for more, my friend. But I trust you, and I know I’ll be safe."

And so she trusted; after all that, she could no longer afford not to rely on her old enemy. Serana had indeed transformed what she had thought was unchanging inside her, and she could not continue to look at the world through the eyes she had had in her youth. With an unwavering stare she perhaps convinced the vampire, who, with grave thoughts, stepped back and nodded. In this light, she seemed particularly pale, skeletally thin, unwilling. But despite her reluctance, she uncurled her slender fingers, and a violet flame lit up between them; or rather, it wasn’t a flame at all, more like a gaping void in the middle of a dark, circular sea.

"I will do all I can to make this as pleasant as it can be. Hold still. It will be over soon."

Nemiet shook her arms and shut her eyes. She hoped the vampire’s spell would come to no great harm, but pain was not her chief sorrow, as she was soon to discover; a cold emptiness engulfed her, as though suddenly someone had swept the ground from under her feet and plunged her into deep, icy water. The hunter felt herself stretching in its black swirls, but could neither open her eyes nor gasp for breath. If she still had had a mouth to scream with, she would have asked Serana to stop, but her voice was lost in the darkness; and words did not even have any meaning there.

Rapidly, wheeling so that Nemiet was nauseous and almost vomiting all around her, the starkness of reality crashed in around her. The stone floor was impossibly solid, though she could not even feel her feet from the knees down, and when she did, she hoped she would not. It was a state she had not ever experienced before. Blinking open her eyes, the Redguard at first saw nothing but a blur, until she began to distinguish between surfaces intersecting and objects; by then, it was already too late to call off the trade.

Serana’s voice was alarmed, but it sounded as if it was coming from somewhere far away, from across several rooms. "Slow down now. How are you feeling?"

"Like the worst drunken stupor of my life," replied Nemiet with honesty, wiping her sweaty face, feeling so light, as if the wind might blow her away; but she was not telling a lie. She was leaning heavily on the handrail, but feared she would fall. "Like having a few too many pints at Keerava’s tavern. If I go down, I’ll..."

Serana then seized her by the clothing and dragged her backwards to safety. They held each other's shoulders briefly, Nemiet’s gaze rolling languidly, until Serana gained her attention by grabbing her face and staring deeply into her eyes. She kept nodding, but her hands went to the vampire’s hips as if of their own accord, heedless, but true. "You need to pull it together. I can’t watch you as closely as I’d like there. Treat this as any fight. Been in those ever since you were old enough to walk, you’d all still know it in your sleep."

The hunter was struggling to keep her feet, but her head would become much clearer; yet she did not raise her hands. There was a moment, between the earnest talk and its increasingly grave consequences, when they both desperately wanted to kiss one another in this twilight. Still there was something that kept them apart, perhaps a sense of duty, or a great uncertainty; at any rate the veil between them was thinning, though not entirely gone.

"That does not mean we shouldn’t still be cautious. You go first, I will follow. And Nemiet, all the forces of this world willing, we’ll return soon."

Reluctant, the Redguard would finally part from her, and glanced into the crackling purple depths with a look of concern but resolve. Their lust felt somehow intimate. "We will. All we’ve now is to find your mother. Her flight’s ended."

On their way in, they would be broken up into little pieces and assembled someplace new. As soon as they awoke again, they knew they were not in Tamriel any more, or even on Nirn; the cold lay not on the skin, but in the heart, as ice on the surface of their bones. Nemiet shivered under the force, which was not wind—indeed, there was no breeze at all, though the grey sands were blowing, and something was pulling her frame askew.

Inadvertently, she was hanging on to Serana again, to her robes, to anything she could fall back on. The vampire held her faithfully, and said no more than was necessary. Even she was horrified by the dunes ahead. 

Nemiet would cough so that the sound scraped her from somewhere deep in her belly, and then lift her gaze up. None of the land appeared to be living, not as they on earth understood it, but it all, from the dark buildings to the vast violet skies, felt like they were watching them. The chill was piercing and worse than any winter. Where the sand had not piled up in mounds, the soil was grey and dry, but even they were constantly shifting; no plant, not a mushroom, grew among it. They looked at all they could see, at arches and stairs that seemed to lead nowhere, and at the great wall that divided the horizon in two, with a gap in the middle; and above some of them floated what looked like great purple gemstones, from whose surfaces some light was reflected. Their glare stained the many, many bones on the ground with the colour of bruising, muddy green, swarthy blue. Then they could both hear it: the sky would rumble, and in the distance the dark swirling mass of clouds flickered. In the roar, the Redguard recognized what sounded to her as a male voice whispering to her, but she could not make out any of the words or even the tongue; in any case, she did not like it, but found its very presence ominous, even evil.

The hunter’s mind tried to fool her. Pain shot through her skull like a thousand knives. One moment she remembered being dead, and having fallen into the void; but then she was reminded of her body of flesh, and thus understood why she belonged here not at all.

"Feel how cold it is? And those terrible voices..." Her weak question almost faded into the wind before Serana could hear it.

"I have never felt anything like this. I feel so sorry for bringing you here," said the vampire, with fear building a nest in her heart, "I knew, yet still... I failed to understand. Come on. The earlier we leave, the more chances we have."

Nemiet nodded. Gingerly, she had begun to rely on her own legs, and though they still trembled, they were no match for her stubborn need to fend for herself. Nor was the Redguard at all aware of the dangers that lay ahead; these alone terrified her, though she did not particularly voice this concern. She then set off along the path, blaming her occasional stumbling on the wind, and though the vampire watched her for a moment with great care, there was nothing more she could do to help.

For some distance the two followed a trail that stood out in the dirt towards the great storm, which now and then howled, until Nemiet spoke, for the most part to hide the feeling of being naked, stripped to her bones in this land, "suppose we’re meeting the masters of this place? Or is it that their prestige is greater than they are, you think?"

Nervously, Serana laughed. "See, no one has ever actually seen them.  No-one even knows what they look like, or where they live: they are underground, or flying above us, or something else entirely. They could be the land itself."

As the hunter looked up at the churning skies, Serana noticed their gleam as though with a fever, and then turned away. There were souls wandering about, wailing ghostly figures, who came and went as they might; they seemed hardly to notice them.

"My point stands. Wonder what they're gathering all these souls here for?"

"There must be many theories. Some claim that the masters feed on them. Some say they are currency, not for anyone less than Bal himself," said Serana, though Nemiet was barely concentrating on half of what she was saying as she tried to count the souls to distract herself, "and whatever they do with them, they have been collected for centuries, if you can even count the years here. I have no clue how many there are. Actually, maybe I don’t need to know."

"I cannot believe that mages or necromancers would spend years of their lives to get here," said Nemiet, not at all understanding. Meddling with the dead, now so crudely put, was against all her tenets; Stendarr cared little for the undead, and much of the Redguard’s work in the past had been to eradicate or avert them. The climate at home had hardly ever been more open than in a sect. 

"Right. It is a dying craft. Uh, no pun intended," responded Serana, "most of us use whatever bodies we have at our disposal, often fallen enemies in battle. But the souls of Soul Cairn are special. Do you feel it? They are imprisoned by the strongest of soul gems, where they have had to do something to earn their place. They were particularly powerful, or remarkable people, while they were alive. When it comes to souls, it is common knowledge that not everyone is equal."

"Cruel. Me, I’d sooner my soul be worth a red fox than any great man," said Nemiet, her heartbeat pounding in her ears, accelerating from time to time, "I think if more of us were content with the small joys of life, the world could be a brighter place."

"You may be right," sighed Serana, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, "just sometimes I dreamed of something big myself. My mother certainly did. There’s a kind of chasm where it's easy to fall into, in reverie. Makes you cocky and stubborn. It’s happened to many here."

"Nothing wrong with ambition," said Nemiet, "it only becomes a problem once you’re willing to do anything to achieve your goal. Then it’s no longer a dream, but greed."

As Serana was about to quiet down to ponder her words, Nemiet bent violently in two and almost sank to her knees. She gasped deeply at the pain that had suddenly exploded in her chest, and spread from there to every little nerve, and though the worst edge would soon be blunted, for a long time Redguard was left with a nagging, discomforting sensation that made her feel much older. Vomit again sought out and stung her throat viciously. Her body was freezing, but the skin on her forehead was beaded with sweat, which then trickled down her face in rivulets. After that big breath, she could only silently cry, whether she liked it or not; the vampire came up to her and made an effort to look her in the eye, but in vain.

"You’re hurting. We should never have come here," said Serana in distress, "do you want to stay here and rest? It’s more sheltered here than out in the open."

Nemiet was leaning against the flat side of a large, dark building, and felt its warmth seeping through. She then looked at the raging storm before them, her heart hammering, her lungs heaving for breath, yet still she would jokingly rasp, "and miss out on all the fun we’re having?"

So they went on. The closer they came to the great wall, from the midst of which shone a kind of brilliant light, the further they pushed into the soul-filled wasteland. Soon they were all round: on the stairs of the buildings, at their fronts, on the path, above and below the dune-ridges. Empty stares, voiceless cries, cruel grimaces; whisperings in the breeze grew louder in Nemiet’s ears. Irritation quickly turned to agony. Already breathing heavily through her teeth, she felt the wetness on her neck, but it was only when she lifted her hand to her ear, and saw the crimson on her fingers, that she truly felt weak.

She was about to call weakly to Serana for aid, but was too late when the most curious thing happened: only a stone’s throw from them, a startled figure ran into the path. He seemed more panicked than most, flailing his arms about, shouting, but stifled, as if from under a mass of water, "Arvak! O Arvak! Where are you, my friend? Please come back to me..."

Confused, Nemiet had no time to consider her plight. "Now slow down. Who is this Arvak?"

"Arvak... my horse, we... we came together to this dreadful place. We were attacked, on this very road, I tell you!" This was what he said; and then he started shouting again, as loud as he could, "Arvak! Find him, please! Please ."

But before either of the bewildered travellers could respond, the soul had already been lost to the wind. Only sand was flying on the cracked dark earth.

"I suppose we’ll have to keep our eyes open," shrugged the vampire. Nemiet said not a word, staring only at the ground, and trying not to hear the voices still in her head.

When they finally came to the great wall, which seemed to stretch on for ever, or at the very least in both directions out of sight, they saw before them more of the wasteland, and a wide hill, whose slopes were fringed with walls. It was like a fortress, and towards them pointed a black gate that reached high into the sky; but the gate’s posts broke off midway, and the fragments hovered darkly against the heavens. Seeing it somehow made Nemiet freeze. Her breath came in quick gasps and she paused to stare at the light that was shining directly over it, never before knowing that light could feel as ferocious and unforgiving as the source of it did now. The ceiling softly crackled. She could not recall ever being so frightened, but now, her exhausted body had no other response but to use its last strength to beg her to leave.

Despite her fears, it was now that she was reminded more than ever of her father’s teachings. Nemiet had always been told that she was his finest soldier—she was the fastest swimmer in the whole fortress, very strong for her size, but above all agile and quick. Isran had forbidden her to think of herself, and to work relentlessly towards goodness, however much it might take from her; and now, when the hunter’s courage was about to fail, the memory of his face was of grand help. Don’t be a coward, he would have told her, be smart enough to know when to take heart, for worse than the enemy is a craven friend.

"That must be where we’re going," she said, while still stationary, "are you sure she has the scroll? Because I sure am starting to wish I’d never come to this place."

Desperation and guilt overcame the vampire. "No... but she would not have left it in Tamriel, not without a guard, and she trusted no one but herself. No. She needed to bring it here."

The Redguard sighed, but not in disappointment or anger, more in weariness, and rested again for a moment against the wall. "And what if not? Think there is hope, if there ever was? What if all the forces were always going to be against us?"

"There is hope in you, Nemiet. You’ve said it yourself," responded Serana, "if she has not got it, she will know where it is, and then we shall both find it together. That is all we need. Hard deeds, and not miracles. No prayers, and certainly no Gods."

It was as if the hunter had woken up from a dream. Now she looked much more determined, "mhm. I cannot imagine any other way of filling my days than a brisk day’s stroll through Oblivion. Just don’t understand why she wouldn’t have come to drop it here, and then come back."

While Serana had little fondness for this place, before it had caused her only mild unease—but now, as she looked ahead, she detected a stir in the corner of her eye. For a moment, she had seen a shadow which brought back a memory. There, a little girl was running through the dark corridor of a great castle, with a monster in pursuit; and at the very end she had a vision of a grin full of sharpened teeth, felt a terrible pain, and then shuddered violently under it. Right then, her eyes flooded with tears and she could not speak an answer, only stood silently and then rubbed at her face fiercely with her cold fingers.

"Serana?"

Nemiet’s concern shone through, but the Nord was no longer looking at her. "She avoided him. I thought it was obvious. May we go now? All I want is to be out of this place. I abhor it. It is trying to fool me..."

The Redguard was alarmed, but following the vampire’s gaze, all she saw was sand. "This’ll be over soon. Let’s go find her."

But Serana would not smile. "You must be thinking that a vampire would thrive here. But you’d be wrong, you’d be so wrong."

This new chill in her behaviour first shocked the hunter. Still, she could not summon the courage to start arguing, or even to ask any more questions; and before she even had the chance, the Nord had already gone down the steps. All Nemiet could do was follow.

After they left the wall, it continued to recede from behind them, but looking forward, it seemed that they had made no progress at all. The footsteps in the sand were heavy and sluggish. The whispers in the wind died away again; but the spirits wandering about them wailed and wept, and it was not easy listening to them. The Redguard had almost forgotten about what they had just talked about, but there was a weight in her heart. She struggled to recollect, but only woke from her hot flushes when they reached the summit of a small hill.  

As Nemiet was watching around, there was only one building where there was commotion. A sound came from that direction, but nothing clear; she thought it was not even speech, but rather a strange chanting. It was tall, tower-shaped, but narrow, and had no closed bottom. In the middle of the four-sided shape there was a black pedestal, and atop it what looked like a blue horse’s skull. The sight confused her, but not unduly. Here, she knew to expect a lot.

The vampire would not have them interrupt whatever was taking place there; for the pedestal was swarming with souls, many of them bowed or kneeling to it. A small light twinkled from just above the skull, and it seemed to grow brighter by the moment. A ritual of some kind, Serana knew, but the mere thought of cults and strange practices made her skin crawl. Certainly she would not have allowed the Redguard to become part of it unless the spirits had first noticed them, and evidently took Nemiet watching as a threat.

Out of nowhere, the mysterious song ended. The ghostly shapes, fluttering pale, scattered into the air as if blown away by a mighty gust, and the light in the centre went out. For a moment nothing at all happened, and they thought they had got away with a mere fright—but then a rumbling sound began to emanate from beneath the ground, as if someone, or something, were trying to escape from within.

Soon, many black finger bones protruded from the holes in the dry earth. They were stronger than ordinary skeletons, Nemiet knew at once by the strength with which they dug out; she watched in horror how readily a dozen skeletons formed an army before her eyes. They had no legs, but their bodies seemed to end at the hip-bone, and some magic was keeping them upright. In those dark eye sockets, purple lights lit up. The creaking of bones, jaws opening to silent cries, and arms raising with their black swords, made the hunter long to hear the song again after all.

Panic-stricken, she asked, digging a bolt out of her little bag, "what are those things?"

"Angry is what they are! Watch out!"

When the attack could no longer be avoided, the Nord would rush between them, dodge a sword and then plunge her own dagger through one of the skulls. With the skeletons surrounding Serana, the hunter loaded her weapon in what felt like a painfully slow time. Her fingers were sweating, not obeying; her foot on the stirrup shook and wouldn’t get in place. Once she dropped the arrow and could not find it in the sand, so she had to dig a new one out of her satchel. By the time Nemiet finally fired, albeit well and accurately under the circumstances, the vampire had already dispatched several enemies. Still, aid came not too late.

After she had shot, the focus shifted to her. Since Nemiet did not have time to recharge her crossbow, and it would not have been worth it, she avoided the slash of the first bone-man and then used all her power to slam the prod against the black ribs. In that flash, she somehow managed to wrap her fingers round the hilt that the bones swirling down the slope had been holding. It was, in spite of its curious, jagged appearance, like any blade; and, gritting her teeth, the Redguard turned and, in time, held it as a shield against another sword. In a tremendous urge for survival, she swung her sword at all she could, sending many skulls hurtling down into the sand. And though the Redguard did not acknowledge it, as the battle died out, she felt a surge of pride in herself, no matter how much fatigue now gnawed at her breast.

Together they destroyed every last skeleton and stood victorious at the end. The wind beat strongly through the cracks in the earth, tossing sand into a new mound. Briefly, even the murmurs it bore ceased. The light above the pedestal was gone, and they didn’t think it would come on again.

They glanced quickly at each other. Serana’s braids were loose from both the wind and the fight. The dark locks now moved about freely, and framed her dignified features; and Nemiet thought she was the most beautiful thing in the world, even in this awful place. She had no clue that the feeling was mutual, and she would not have guessed it. The more strongly the vampire felt towards her, the further away she became, not at all able to face the difficulty of it; because for all her talk, even she was beginning to be highly distrustful of what the future might hold. This is how it must be, she thought bitterly, when this is over, our paths will surely part, and all that will remain will be a memory. But, it is a pity, I will admit that much to myself.

Together, they then quietly went to the stand. The skull resting on it glowed with a peculiar purple radiance. Nemiet gazed deeply into its vacant eyeholes as they both listened to the low hum that seemed to float from it. "Bloody hell! Now how are we going to break this to the poor boy; don’t suppose there’s much of a horse left to ride, is there?"

Serana laughed, even in her distress. "Now, now. Let's find a nice tall bone, and he’ll make for a fine stick horse."

The Redguard grinned to the side as she was leaning over to inspect it. "What if we became travelling merchantry? ‘Come, my friends! Come and meet Oblivion’s finest steeds; no right of refund should you lose your night's sleep!’"

"No, madam, he is not underfed, you see, he is of the light model. Does anybody good, no? I have one just like it myself... oh, the cost? A mere two dozen souls; the quality of them is not so important."

Nemiet giggled. "Included free with the deal is a jesting vampire. But be prepared to protect your ears, because when she’s done, you will wish you had abandoned the trade!" 

Serana whined, "not if the jesting vampire first sucks the foolish peddler dry."

The hunter straightened up, and looked at her for a moment, filled with playful mirth. A peculiar, warm feeling flared in the pit of her stomach as, bright-eyed, she asked, "was that a promise? Because to me it sounded like it was."

All Serana could do was look down coyly and grin. She moved closer, and touched her friend on the shoulder, but then grew serious as she again looked at the skull. "Wait. I hear something."

The Nord said no more, only raised a hand and touched the skull; her eyes closed and she became lost in her own thoughts. Nemiet regarded her in silence, admired her too, a tender heart still fluttering. There was a movement in the dark shadows of the bone, like an undulating little gleam, but it faded so quickly that the hunter could not tell for certain. 

When Serana again opened her eyes, she felt a presence near her, mournful but not quite evil; and turning around, she saw the same soul that had earlier crossed their path. The vampire said nothing, only stared at the ghostly figure with her mouth agape as he gently took her hands, "thank you, my friend. He is free now from those abominations. I can feel it. Here, I shall show you how to summon him."

The air began to shimmer, and the Nord could feel a cold current of energy sweeping over her. It entered her like a dream, from which she awoke, and she knew what to do; but still she seemed astonished. 

"It was loyalty which brought Arvak here; now, take him away, allow him to prove his mettle somewhere where the warm sun shines. Farewell! I shall never forget about you."

Then he was gone. They both looked round and saw that the skull was gone. Serana then stared at her hands again, as if they had grown new fingers—perhaps it felt like they had. 

"Well, that’s something. It’s a shame about all of them, isn’t it? All this needless suffering… it just isn’t right."

"It is not," answered Serana. "It never was. As I said, it’s easy to fall in... but tricky coming out."

They left the conversation there, but both seemed somewhat sad as they slowly continued on their way. No longer did they feel they were so far from the great gate; they returned to the poorly discernible path and it seemed to lead directly up a steep slope to its foot. The place seemed to mock them at the time. Dotted around the hillside were low wind-whipped trees and pebbles, around which the non-wind flung grey dust. Through them they passed, and Nemiet sometimes glanced into the black earth, for it was less terrifying than the unending purple storm above them. The nearer they came to the big barrier, the more distant became the sounds, the breeze and the whispers that accompanied it. Still, the journey was long, and at times she almost collapsed in the sand from exhaustion, and could not imagine being able to stand up again from all that gloom.

Before the gate there were black stairs, which in no way led them directly to the gate, or would have done if there had not been some kind of an obstacle awaiting them at the top. What separated them from the way forward was a clear blue-violet wall that seemed to wrap round the great structure in both directions and so far up that they could not see its summit. This disheartened them very much (for they did not yet know whether they could somehow bypass it), and when Nemiet laid her hand on it to feel it, it almost seemed to quiver with life. The magic was old and foreign even to Serana and they had no means of breaking it themselves.

But as they pondered and studied, they failed to notice the figure, which lingered for a moment at such a distance that one could not distinguish her through the wall. Many emotions crossed the old vampire’s face; at first it was sheer surprise, then pain from torn soul wounds, then displeasure at the company her daughter now kept; the grave face of Nemiet she pressed closely into her keen mind, and then drew nearer so that they did indeed see the creased face turned into a frown.

Valerica said naught, merely stared at Serana through the wall as her own mirror image—and the younger vampire was looking back, her features softened by pained memory.

"Mother? Is it really you?"

Her voice was soft, muffled by tears. Valerica made a little nod. From a short way away, the Redguard regarded them with suspicion. Still she didn't trust her; and perhaps she never would.

"But how can it really be you? Serana, why have you come?"

The younger Nord pressed herself closer to the barrier, as if she were reaching out for her mother’s touch; all the hatred that she had gathered within her, and which she had openly spoken of, was now gone.

"Mother... I– we are here to ask for help. Something terrible has happened, some really terrible things."

Valerica stayed firm. "Be calm, dear child. First tell me, where is your father? He must not come here. I now know more than I did then."

"No, no. He doesn’t know where we are. But we haven’t time to think about him now. Nemiet-" continued Serana, agitated, but her mother abruptly interrupted her ramblings.

The older vampire retreated from the blockade, and looked up at the skies in despair. Her dark voice grew higher, too, "you did not show up to tell me of his death, nor did he follow you here; so he has now figured a way to make the old prophecy come true. Then I have failed. My work is vain."

"No, just listen! We are here to stop him, to make things right and good! And I have brought someone who can help..."

She turned suddenly towards Nemiet, who seemed rather absent as she stared out over the dark wasteland. When she finally caught sight of the two vampires, she could see a piercing glare in Valerica’s eye that told her that she did not like her at all. "I see. But would you care telling me which of my teachings went so horribly wrong? What is this half-souled stranger here doing?" 

"Let me explain, I-"

"Quiet, Serana. You, hunter, come forward to me. Oh yes, I recognize that symbol anywhere. You are by no means the first generation of the Dawnguard."

Doubtful, Nemiet stepped closer, still evading Valerica’s stinging gaze.

"Now, will you tell me now what you do alongside my child? Surely you have not come all this way only to slay me, and lied all the while that it was some grand plan for the ruin of Harkon? Because your people have a tendency to turn stories on their head," said she coldly, her eyes fixed on the hunter. When Nemiet finally pulled back to look at her, the urge to defend herself surged inside her. 

"This is no ruse, if that’s where you’re," said she, in a surprisingly steady tone of voice, "it’s not in my nature to bow down to brutal lords who rob not only me, but those I love, of all they have got. So do not preach to me the faults of my people. I’m above them."

The old vampire laughed in a raspy voice. "Of course! So you do know that the First Order was set up to protect the son of Jarl, who had been attacked in battle and fell ill with vampirism? But that protection quickly turned into imprisonment. Violent, they were, relishing in their power over the boy; even in beasts there is more of a dignity. And when the boy at last fled, I would find him in the wilderness, starving and near crazed, and take him far away. But the Dawnguard never ceased. The Jarl’s men reported his escape, and began hunting for him throughout the province. The truth is, all vampires, and not only those who used their special abilities to do harm, fell victim to their pursuit. Do you not see? They care not for justice, nor for virtue. They are driven by some other dark force altogether, something that seems to be very innate to the race of men."

Nemiet had gone pale as a ghost. And even Serana was still, only looking the other way. There were tears burning in her throat trying to get out, but she refused to let them fall. The younger vampire’s nails had already dug deep crescents into her palms. It was the hunter who ended up speaking, "and why on Nirn would I trust the likes of you? I’ve seen too many pyres burning, children orphaned by your ilk, if they’ve left any alive at all. That what was true once is no more. And even though I am not involved with them now, they are still good people."

"And why are you not involved with them, girl?" asked she mockingly, "your good people are not the only ones making sacrifices. You do not understand what Serana has been through. She had to lay down her entire life just to prevent her mad father from bringing an end upon us all!"

After glancing at Serana, Nemiet was silent for a moment, but could not meet her gaze. Then she spoke again to Valerica, "that is why we came, in search of the last scroll."

"You still think I entombed my daughter in a sarcophagus far underground because of some scroll. No. Those scrolls are merely theater," scoffed the older Nord, "the true keys to unlocking the prophecy are Serana and me."

"Just what does that mean?"

It was Nemiet’s question in all its simplicity; but she already had a premonition of everything.

Valerica sighed. This now seemed to finally weigh her down too; the deeply prideful woman who felt she had lost, a prisoner here in the darkest depths of all existence, now shrivelled up. As she spoke, her voice echoed the gravity of it, but also its personal significance, "when I fled the castle, I fled with two scrolls. One is about Auri-El and His mighty weapon; but you have already discovered that. In the scroll I have here, there is a riddle: ‘the blood of the daughter of Coldharbour shall blind the dragon.’ "

With her arms still crossed over her chest, Nemiet shrugged as if to ask for more.

"Me and Serana were people once. We were all very conscientious followers of Bal," replied Valerica, "an old tradition orders every female member of a cult to be offered to Him on the twentieth of the Evening Star, on His summoning day. You understand, if they teach you anything there in your fortress, what that means. Not many survive; in my time and Serana’s, we were the only two. We became His daughters, children of Coldharbour. Many powerful, indestructible vampire families have been made this way."

"So what? Harkon will need her blood to execute his plans?"

"So you are not as daft as I thought," sneered she, "Serana and the scroll that tells of us had to be kept separate. But do we now have any other choice? You have freed her, and that means she is as clear as a glimmer of light in the dark. Should the knowledge come to him, she is in even greater danger."

The Redguard breathed deeply to keep from hitting her fist solid where the vampire’s face watched her. In her speech, she could not but sound as if she had swallowed poison, "let me be honest: if it weren’t for this barrier, you too would be. I shall never forgive the horrors you simply let happen to her, you hear?"

"And why do you assume that I need your forgiveness? Serana decided for herself. It was expected of her all her life, as it was of me. To survive was an honour, though you may not understand it," said Valerica sharply, "she would not have abandoned her family then."

"Abandoned?" asked Nemiet in anger, "so I already know what you’re thinking, but what about Harkon? Is he really hoping to kill her?"

Valerica watched her for a long time, her eyes glazed over. "If he were to receive both the bow and the blood of one of the daughters, the prophecy would be fulfilled. We would be mere hapless victims on the road to the age of the Vampire."

Nemiet quieted in horror. She glanced at Serana, who seemed at least as distraught; but most of all, her mind was consumed by the desire to protect her friend, whatever it might demand of her.  

More decisively, she then turned back to Valerica. "Well I shall prevent it. I fear neither pain nor death, and at this very moment my reasons outweigh my will to return to the Order."

"I see," replied the older vampire, glancing significantly at her daughter, "and how do you plan to stop him? If you truly believe that you and Serana alone will be able to destroy him, then you are more of a fool than I imagined. You think I didn't carefully consider that before I left?"

"And what of her? What is her opinion on this, or are you not still asking her?"

"Quiet! You have no interest in Serana, nor in the plight of our ilk. I do not know what it is you hope to gain from my daughter, but your path has brought you here through a need to cleanse. We are monsters to you, are we not? Evil creatures of darkness, with heads fit only for the ends of your spears!" said she in shared wrath. 

Nemiet studied her for a long time before saying anything, and then her voice was dry. "So why not ask her?"

Finally, Valerica’s attention was drawn in surprise to the pensive Serana. The younger vampire's hair was in little tangles, her eyes bleary with swollen eyelids under them; and it grieved the hunter to see her in such a malaise. Of course she had expected this reunion would be difficult, but the truth was hard to know, or even to imagine.

"Serana?" asked she quietly, "this stranger is not so noble as the way she speaks! You cannot have such blind faith in her."

"This stranger has done more for me than you and my fool of a father have in thousands of years," replied Serana softly, and Nemiet felt a lump in her belly. 

"How dare you! I have given up everything to keep you safe from him," exclaimed Valerica, still angered, "it is him who is the monster, not we! And he shall be the undoing of us all."

"He may be," said Serana, and her voice broke; then Nemiet took her by the shoulder, and the gesture did not escape her mother’s notice. Though she meant no harm, she shook the hunter loose from herself, "not now. And you... you don’t seem to realize. You are so blinded by your hatred of him that you do not see. It is true, he is a monster, and I do not will him to live any longer than he must; but he is still my father. And once I was his daughter too, I think, rather than Bal’s."

Nemiet kept her distance, but was still waiting for Valerica’s reply.

"Oh, dear child," spoke the older Nord tenderly, "you must not think that way any more. When your father learns your true part in his plot, there will be naught keeping him from killing you."

"So to protect me you chose, with nary a word, to imprison me in Dimhollow? Because there I was as good as the body," said Serana coldly, "you never bothered to ask, to think even for a moment about what I might do. Neither of you cared for me, never did. And I, the dullard of this story it looks to me, only hoped that we could be together again. I believed that was what we all wanted. But I was mistaken. Guess we no longer deserve such joy, not after what’s been done. Now we are forever on a chain, on His chain, where none of us will ever be good or whole again. But we still need to stop Harkon, and we need to do so before he succeeds. We need the final scroll."

Valerica fell silent, not responding to her child’s glare. When she did speak, her voice trembled with her uncertainty, "Serana, please, forgive me. I was not aware. I let him invade too much of our lives. I should never have... The Elder Scroll is yours, if such is your wish."

When Serana made no reply, the older vampire turned to Nemiet. "I still do not know what it is you're after; but for her I shall aid you."

"So you do have it? Where?"

"Yes, I’ve had it here, I’ve had it since I first arrived," said Valerica, "the story of my predicament is a long and tedious one, and you are in a hurry. But I can not bring the barrier down on my own. You will have to do it for me."

Wearily, Nemiet sighed. To her surprise, however, she found she was starting to grow a little used to this place, and although she still felt faint, it no longer felt as unbearable. "So what do we do?"

"The boneyard—the very place behind me—has three towers surrounding it, each taller than the last. At their feet are like wells which draw in the energy from the souls; and that energy sustains this wall," said she, "each spire also has its Keeper, a great monstrous spirit bearing bone-armour, and the light of whose eye pierces through steel. You must destroy them before you can enter." 

"Then I guess we will be coming round again soon," said Nemiet. The courage in her chest slowly began to wane as the journey seemed to be growing enormously in length.

"Heed my warning before you go," added Valerica, if possible even more earnestly, "there is also a dragon that roams here. He calls himself Durnehviir , but seldom does he emerge from wherever he is hiding; but it is his duty to watch over the Keepers. Keep your eyes on the sky."

Although the remaining colour seemed to drain from her face, the Redguard nodded. The storm was turning more heavily overhead; a chill penetrated her heart and stiffened it in place. As for whether she ever thought she would see a dragon before her, she herself did not know. They were, after all, beasts long-lost, though the miracle days were far from over.

"Come what may, we can manage. Now come on,” said Serana, and already went back down. As she moved away, the red and black cape flapped lightly in the breeze, but something about her was certainly amiss.

With a nod from Valerica, Nemiet then followed after the younger vampire, with quite a struggle ahead of her, and terror in her thoughts.

Chapter 16: A Shift in the Winds

Notes:

I'm really proud of this chapter actually aaaagh but it's also very long and very sad so it took me a long time to write ;w; I hope it brings someone else the same feelings as it did me! AGAIN a tremendous thank you to Taro for being my proofreader (and best friend) <3

From the great gate, and they no longer followed the path, they would turn sharply to the left towards the most distant of the towers. Again, the dunes had shifted places. The further out of sight they disappeared, the more closely they were blended into the dull purple sky; but still, even from afar, they could see the grey, undulating peaks. Nemiet’s stride was lighter now. She felt as if she had been ill for some time, and at last the fever had broken; her eyes were bright and alert once more. 

But where the Redguard, despite her already halved soul, seemed to fare sounder, Serana was sinking into despair. The vampire had not known such things for as long as she could remember. Her cold hands were bathed in sweat, the faraway terrain (and so near) felt hazy and as if she could not properly see. Where before Nemiet had heard only whispers in the wind, in the Nord’s head there was a beating. Thump-thump , it thudded away, and with each thump the pain jolted all around. It stabbed like a knife through the skull and had her clenching her teeth together so that it rang in her ears. Soon, all Serana would have wanted was to kneel down and cry out, until the agony would lift, and there would be only a black stillness; but somehow she kept herself upright, and thrust a heavy boot before the other.

"Tell," said Nemiet, and with her soft voice broke the silence in which they had been walking, "need to talk of your mother? Silence will do if that is your wish."

For a moment the vampire considered saying no more; but quickly she yielded, and the sharp brow loosened. "It is a strange feeling. I feel light as a feather, yet heavier, clunkier than a pile of iron. I’ve wanted to utter these words so many times, but a dream is not equal to the truth... I think I will need time, plenty of it, actually."

The hunter had no time to think about an answer before Serana spoke again. "But you need not lie to me. You must be wondering why I consented to that ritual on that day... must think me daft or, at the very least, filthy or revolting. And I can offer you no better explanation than that it was an obligation at that time. You will not meet a finer persuader than my father. He made it seem glorious, and perhaps that was…"

Nemiet gazed down in sadness, recalling the manner in which she herself had once regarded all cultists such as they. "Nay. I wouldn’t think ill of you. But for your father, I cannot pity him one iota. You never did get along, did you? I know the story."

"No, not ever," Serana shook her head, defeated, "Not even before Molag Bal came and courted my father into marrying Him. No. He was never a family man. Now that I think about it, I think he only ever saw us as hindrances, or assets. ‘Power must take precedence’ , that’s what he would always say."

"Not the fairest arrangement," admitted Nemiet, "a nasty place to stay stuck in, between a father and duty."

"Only realized how so now," answered the vampire, "he wanted to have power; she wanted revenge at all costs. You were right before. Greed is in them. But what does that make of me? Because all I have right now is guilt."

"The fault is not with you," said the hunter softly, "you wouldn’t blame yourself, then? Remember when you were tellin’ me about people choosing their own paths: it’s good advice."

Now Serana smiled a little as they came to a halt. They had covered some ground, but there was still plenty of it ahead before they would arrive at the spire. Its topmost part, soaring high above the ground, loomed black and sharp against the dim sky.  "But I can’t do much about the confusion in my head. This situation, and this place… how she’d lived here all these years remains  unclear to me, or maybe she has deluded herself into believing it to be a necessity."

"That’s something I cannot help," said she compassionately, searching for the absent vampire's gaze, and promised from the heart, and such promises were not taken lightly by Nemiet of the Dawnguard, "but I vow to be with you through this all. You have proven your quality many times. Trust that I am proud to be your companion."

The storm raged again. Nemiet glanced up briefly, while the vampire moved closer and wrapped her arms round the Redguard tightly. Surprised, her eyes raked the wasteland from between Serana’s hair; her wary fingers traced their way up the taller woman’s spine. The vampire remotely smelled of the rain-washed sky and her mother’s garden. Though she closed her eyes tightly for a moment, expecting tears, they stood in each other's embrace with their gazes open, and felt something much more than themselves awaiting. 

"I once considered you sanctimonious," mumbled Serana, "I loathed that little Order of yours. Couldn’t bear the thought that some of us were born righteous, while others lay soiled in the cradle. I will not yet say anything about them, but I can say about you: I was mistaken."

And then it would happen: a scent would come into Serana’s nose—it was familiar and foul, as of warm blood and cool, earthen stone, tinged with rowan and blackthorn. In only one place had she worn such a crown on her hair; and suddenly she was choking again, and soon parted from Nemiet, clutching at her throat with her cold digits and circling the endless dunes with her gaze. The vampire now felt that wherever she looked she would see the monstrous maw, and that He was coming, and that He knew where to find her. Fear filled and poisoned her every limb. As she staggered backwards, the hunter tried to grab her, but missed her in time; and the Nord collapsed to the ground, gasping for breath as if it would have made any difference.

Alarmed, Nemiet crouched down to her, but hitting the ground seemed to have woken the vampire from her memory at last. "What is it? What’s come into you?"

But Serana could not answer. Quickly she stumbled to her legs, but however hard she stared about, at her feet as much as at the distant structures, she could see Molag Bal no more. All was back as before. All that was in the wind was dry bramble wood and ashen stone. The Redguard waited eagerly for her to say something, merely watching her shoulders, fearing very much her strange bearing and not knowing about it; and felt at any rate guilty for not having been willing at all to tell her of the premonitions she herself had foreseen. 

One more time, she cautiously asked, her eyes squinting with suspicion, "what is it?"

"For a moment there, I thought I’d seen…," began she, "it’s nothing. We should get a move on."

Despite Serana and her long legs trotting ahead, she adjusted her speed to Nemiet’s pace, and made sure that she was never too far behind. The hunter was grateful, and soon forgot her own troubles as she gazed up at the high tower. It grew to frighten her with its pointed edges and unwavering nature; its peak was ringed with thin wispy clouds, and in looking at them she felt a rising mist in the corner of her mind. The journey had seemed long at first, but now the spire was before them. There seemed to be something rumbling underground where the black stairs lay. The Redguard’s brow would wrinkle in worry.

They began to walk round the steps clockwise towards the top; but as Nemiet struggled to catch her breath, she was struck by the deceptive state of her wellness. Not only that, for the first time she felt the height was terrifying, and already halfway up, she was cold and weak in the legs. She was trying to conceal from the vampire the startled sighs that were sometimes escaping her lips. But Serana did notice, and she wanted to help, but she did not seem to know how; so she kept quiet, even as the tumult inside her roared as it did above them.

After a long climb, they reached a flat ledge. Before them was a steep drop straight down, with no barriers or fencing, but opposite, embedded in the dark floor, was a huge, angular throne. The wind, which was not there at all, blew harder here: perhaps it was the height, or the giant pile of bones that now sat upon it. As Nemiet took the finishing step to the top, the breeze seemed to shift. It now hit her in the face. Over the highest bone of the heap, two eyes lit up like brilliant stars.

Nemiet panicked. Not so many times had she fought anything that didn’t take the form of flesh; for wraiths and possessions were not the territory of the Dawnguard. She had no pure iron, no silver blade. Nevertheless, she raised the axes in her trembling hands, and took a few long breaths. The bones on the figure squeaked and snapped as the Keeper stood up. No other noise was made, though the Redguard could have sworn it was speaking, but would not have been able to tell what, or why. 

The monster lifted its bony hand, and a blue wind gathered on it like a great axe. The hunter knew it was sharp without touching it, and weighty without clutching it in her hands: and she knew that if she was to hold on to what was left of her soul, she must not come into contact with it. 

The being took a step, then another. They felt heavy but made no noise, and the eyes of light vied to steal their attentions. Nemiet was frightened, but as it inched closer to the snarling vampire, who also seemed to dwindle in size next to it, she was overcome with a will to protect her that outweighed her fear. 

She would roar, and then swing her axe at it. The blade scraped a notch in the thick bone, but it was scarcely enough to disturb it. The Keeper turned to Nemiet, more chagrined than otherwise, and before the Redguard could escape, caught her firmly by the throat, and slammed her against the stone. All the air then left her, and though her lungs struggled to fill, they could no longer budge in any of the directions. For a moment Nemiet imagined that she would die now, and that those ghastly eyes would be the very last light she would see. 

But then the rigid grip loosened. She soon fell to the floor, panting heavily as the beast before her began to tremble. Still the Redguard failed to see what was happening, only rubbing her sore neck fiercely and trying to calm her thunderous pulse. It was only when the fragments of the armour, the large, flat breastplate, and the thinner gauntlets, crumbled away, that she saw above them the vampire, holding her arm as if it were aching violently. Her face was pain-warped, and from between parted lips Nemiet could see sharp teeth poking out.

"Soul magicks. I believe it is the only way of winning," said Serana, "are you alright? I was afeared the Captain of the Dawnguard might snap like a twig."

In between breaths, Nemiet laughed, tensely and not at all lightly. Somewhere in those seconds lost to the mere possibility of death, she had come to realize that she wanted to live now more than ever. 

The same nervousness still sat on her shoulders when the open dunes called to them again. The Soul Cairn was a maze, in which buildings always seemed to be roaming about, and distances stretched at will. On a few occasions they set off on the right course, only to discover they had been moving further away. As their frustrations grew, these illusions became heavier and more frequent; and when they at last came to the next tower, it was not too soon at all. 

Up they climbed again, and again they found the beast. Though its face was no longer new, Nemiet was surprised at how terrifying it was. But this Keeper was quicker, and more furious; within instants it had strode up to them and raised its fiery weapon.

They fought bravely and triumphantly, but in the midst of it all, the Redguard observed instances when Serana hesitated, and confusion shone from her face. She was very worried about these, but still she had not said a word. As the bones lay in a pile between them, she again introduced both her axes to her waist. They clicked into place with a dull hum. 

Once they set off on their walk towards the last spire, the vampire became even weaker. She had little recollection of what the fever was like when it descended on people, but remembered imagining that it felt like this at the time. Her skin seemed to glow with warmth, even though it was alien to it; sweat rose in drops on her forehead and under her clothes. Soon, as their feet trod the dry ground anew, a white mist formed about her, which came slowly, but quickly let nothing through; silently, frightened, she called out to it, "Nemiet?"

But there was no reply. Serana dug a dagger out of its sheath and clumsily held it over her heart. She swung here and there and lost the direction of travel, with tears of fear welling up in her eyes. The silence was like a beast, big and many-eyed, and it saw all her trembling hands. Dread as never before befell her. Only one voice pierced the vast emptiness, scraping and low like a creature trying to enter, and it spoke her name. 

"No, no," cried the Nord, and struck out at the faceless hostility. Somewhere there was laughter, twisted and mean-spirited.

In terror, Serana closed her eyes. Someone grabbed her with a firm hand. There she had time to lift her blade to strike, but one arm prevented her; yet the fingers that wrapped around her wrist were warm and familiar. Her red gaze widened, but the fog had cleared, and all that was before her was Nemiet's worried, long-suffering countenance.

"Snap out of it! Serana!"

Now she stood, deathly stiff, and faced the hunter. The vampire’s eyes darted round her, in search of any sign that would admit to her the reality of what she had just witnessed; but she neither heard nor saw anything but the storm in the heavens.

"That’s right. It’s all right," ordered Nemiet, amiably, but with a hint of urgency in her voice, "you know I’ve no wish to impose on you! That’s the last thing I want. But I need you right here, right now. I need to trust you to have my back! What if the dragon comes? Do I fight you both with one hand?"

Serana shuddered as a chill swept over her, but her mouth spoke no reply. The gaze was absent, blank.

The Redguard’s eyes were fierce. "You damn near stabbed me."

"I am sorry," in the end came a feeble, soft answer. "Please trust me when I say I am... I am..."

Nemiet’s brow softened. Her body no longer stood frozen, but adapted to a more receptive posture. A great pain filled Serana. It poured out of her body, until soon they were bathing in it, in the years and their sorrows. Alone, they were alone. 

"I cannot take away your pain," said Nemiet, and slid her grip down to her cold hands, "but if there is some way, then let me be the one to help you."

The Nord looked devastated. For a moment, the hunter wondered if she were to stretch her arms out in front of her now, the vampire would slip right through them. "There’s nothing more you can do. You are special. You were from the first moment. But I swim in black waters, Nemiet. Some poison landed there a long, long time ago."

Nemiet glanced down sadly, through her dark eyelashes.

"His presence is strong here," admitted Serana, but without saying the Lord’s name aloud, "Him and His demons send me memories of times I had thought I buried deep enough to forget. I can’t separate such moments from reality when they come. Everything is like sand... time, earth. It drains only to pour over me."

The Redguard pondered a while, with a cold sorrow in her heart for her friend. She then reached into her shirt and fished out her amulet; the metal felt warm, even here. Sighing, she stripped it off and placed it in the vampire’s hands. 

"Here," said she and helped to entwine Serana's fingers round it, "I don’t know what good even Stendarr will be in this dreadful place, but... it’s kept me safe all these years. Let it protect you now."

A faint smile lit up her face. The amulet disappeared into her fist. "Thank you. I know it means the world to you. Your mother's jewelry…"

But Nemiet would just wave her hand as if it made no difference, although it did. At any rate, they were now on their way, and whether it was because of the amulet or something else, Serana no longer suffered from terrible visions or much of anything else. Together they defeated the last Keeper, and, foot by an unhurried foot, they both began to feel more whole and hopeful again. But in her naivety Nemiet believed that the worst was already behind them, and that they had overcome the atrocities of Soul Cairn; and on their return to Valerica she found a new weariness now creeping in. 

The old vampire eyed them oddly. Still there was an appraising, grim look on her face; but Serana’s presence brought the hunter much comfort. Nemiet stood now holding her shoulder, which had suddenly begun to ache, but she could think of no explanation for her pain. 

"You return, and you return in victory. The barrier is gone."

Yes; there was no more keeping them from, say, embracing. But in spite of this, the younger vampire would not move closer to her mother.

This time it was the Redguard who broke the silence by speaking, although her voice was drowned out by the thunder. "And the scroll?"

"No, not yet," Valerica then said unexpectedly. Without her noticing, Nemiet’s body tensed. "First, come forth, hunter."

She did not quite wish to, but she saw no other solution; Serana offered her mother only a look of discountenance. The Redguard took a step, then another, until she was standing right in front of Valerica, facing those burning eyes. They seemed to pierce through her clothes and skin and stare into her heart, and this made her redden. 

"As I feared it would be," spoke the older vampire, "this is no place for a living creature. There is a reason behind your well-being. Part of your spirit is detached and fragmented as if in a hole in the rock, and it is not at all as good as it may at first appear."

Concerned, Nemiet glanced at the other Nord. She felt quite well now, tired of course and the imagined wound on her shoulder ached, but she felt neither hunger nor complete exhaustion. Little did she know that it was perhaps one of the signs of things to come, and of how very important the Soul Cairn would become in her destiny; but Valerica’s cold calmness reassured her then. "Yet we mustn’t worry. I have something for you that may be of help. It might put you back in pain and suffering, but believe me now when I say it will be needed."

Serana’s stern gaze softened ever so slightly, and she nodded as she gave her mother permission to lead them deeper into the shelter of the stone arch. The black material glistened brilliantly as the light swirling overhead fell on it. To their right was a tall, dark gate on which circles had been carved in two straight lines. It appeared heavier than any of them would be able to push; yet Nemiet decided that it was through it that they should pass. Next to it, where they now halted together, was a small alcove, and over it Valerica had erected a rather unassuming alchemy set. A few things she had brought with her from the castle, empty flasks  and one larger alembic, as well as some ingredients; but it was clear that she had hoped to return to replenish her stores. Some, therefore, had been collected directly from these dunes and their terrible inhabitants.

Only one vial had some dusky, dirty-looking liquid in it, and this she offered to the hunter after swirling it. "Here, drink this. It won’t do you any harm, if not any use."

It was received with suspicion by Nemiet, who felt as if some malicious force were watching her from within. The fluid was warm to the touch as it moved. Then she brought the bottle to her lips and took a deep swig, but a cough at once rose to greet it; the taste was horrible and nearly borne her to tears. "Woe betide! What sorcery is this? You’d think with your skills you could produce even good taste. What was in that?"

The pain in her shoulder burst and then slowly spread through her body, easing to a dull throb. Now she found herself so tired that she wanted to lie down and fall asleep there, but this exhaustion, much to their fortune, seemed to be fleeting.

"The heart of a lesser Daedra, from which I have removed the silverskin," said Valerica, "and-"

But the hunter waved her hand in denial. The liquid still burned on her tongue. "Enough. Maybe I needn’t know…"

Proudly, a little mockingly, Valerica huffed, and then asked them to follow her to the big gate. It was arduous for their hands to open, but open it they did; its ponderous base scraped the stone as it moved, and made the earth tremble.

They set off down a narrow passage under an open roof, with a high black stone wall on either side. It looked like it led to some kind of courtyard. "So how did you end up being a prisoner here? The story was unfinished."

Now Valerica gazed at her daughter, who addressed her for the first time since her return. Deeply did she sigh, "when I came here, I was passionate as much as I was angry. I was determined to strike a bargain with the Masters; through them, I would gain sanctuary, and with it enough time to fight back against Harkon."

Serana huffed. "Such a bargain often demands a promise to reciprocate. I thought you knew better."

"They tricked me, girl," Valerica replied crossly, "I was only meant to shepherd a few souls, until I learned that they had counted mine among them. I would have never predicted the value of one of His daughters. Very few people like us from Nirn have perished or died in all of history."

Nemiet gave an uneasy cough. "How awful! Is Serana safe here?"

"She is not safe anywhere. This is the first thing you have to understand," said the older vampire sharply, but her voice then softened. "The Masters heard about my plans to escape—indeed they did, they know all that goes on here. They created and sent those terrible sentries to take me down, but when we fought in this very fortress for many a long time, and they failed, they retreated and set up the barrier."

"Quite a feat," said Nemiet, "so that’s why you were imprisoned."

"Yes. They could not tear my spirit from me, nor could I tear down the barrier. We had come to the end of our negotiations," spoke Valerica, "but time is of little importance to me. However, it does not carry any weight with the Masters either; I suppose you could call this the final stalemate."

"Suppose so," said Nemiet, "so who are the Masters? Surely human men would not have that kind of power. Are they Daedric?"

"I only know a little," admitted the older vampire, "I know that they rule over this land; they are its Gods. They are the reason it looks as it does, and whatever you may experience here is because of them. For I see that both of you have already been subject to its horrors."

Nemiet and Serana were both quiet. But Valerica filled the space by talking about the questions that the travellers undoubtedly had, "I have spoken to some of the spirits here, the ones who are still of sound mind. On your way here you will have seen large, violet crystal stones; they float above some of the structures. Some say they are the Masters themselves. But I believe there is another explanation."

"Often the simple answer is the right one," said Nemiet.

"Yes," answered Valerica, "but I do not believe they exist in any form that you might touch or even see. At one time they were men, vampires perhaps, devoted to the Father of Coldharbour. These are His grounds. The way I see it, He blessed them by making their souls grand and stripping them of their bodies. But of course they still work for Bal, presumably mindless and unthinking, under Him like the rest. It is slavery in equal measure."

The hunter would then ask, "so those gemstones, what’re they? Merely decorations?"

"I have been observing the buildings for quite a long time. Through them I believe some souls are speaking directly to the Masters. Sometimes there is a clear... drainage . But I do not know any more than this."

Serana broke her quiet. "But why do the Masters need them? In their greed, no?"

"Correct," sighed Valerica, "their weakness is their insatiable, cruel avarice. It is the reason for the existence of the Soul Cairn, and the sole force behind the mortal commerce."

Nemiet had long had an uncomfortable feeling inside her. They had reached the end of the passage, and were now standing on the edge of the courtyard. "One thing I don’t get. Why’d you not carry out the prophecy yourself? How come you didn’t choose to turn his plan against him?"

Their path curved from the opening to the left. "Harkon longs for a world that can not exist," said the old vampire mournfully, as if something had reminded her of a far gladder time, "he wants to plunge Nirn into darkness and usher in an age where the vampire no longer has to hide. But in his lust he does not realize the price of that world. There are powers mightier than he, smouldering beyond his reach; they would put an end to him and all our kin."

It became quiet. Nemiet now took a good look round; in the middle of the garden was a square of flagstones, with a black tree growing in it. Had she known better, she would have called it sorrowful: the black, thin branches clawed the skies like the fingers of a man in need, and the wind did not reach its trunk. The rest of the land was just as lifeless, littered with stone dust and large pieces of masonry and sharp tips torn from the surrounding, rusted metal fencing. The rumbling above came softer now. They had walked into the eye of this storm, and that eye was open and deathly clear. It seemed to peer directly into the fearful soul of the Redguard.

When there was no response, Valerica continued, "if the eternal darkness were to fall, many of Nirn's protectors would awaken. Men, Mer, new champions from all nations. They would raise armies to restore the light, or they would be slain in their efforts; and when the sun was no more, very soon all life would cease, and so would the vampire wither away."

Nemiet smirked. "I think I understand now. You are no fairytale monster. But pursued by fear, and love, perhaps dimmed by the hatred that festered in your home. You’re not so different from me."

Valerica stopped, and the dust rose after her footsteps. A small, miserable grin broke out on her face. "Maybe so, hunter. Our ambitions do indeed take us in quite different places; but often the source is the same. Change. Moving towards greater things."

Serana remained silent. Few knew the heaviness that had entered her; the longing, the wounds scarred by years that her mother had now ripped open and bleeding, Nemiet. Long had she been waiting for this moment, but now, she was beginning to wish she were someplace else, anyplace else. There was shame. The wind ruffled her hair as she stood rigid, with bitter tears in her throat, before the air erupted with a mighty roar. A shadow passed over the bright light from above; it cast them in blackness for a moment and a chill came on.

"It’s Durnehviir!" cried the elder Nord through the last moments of silence, "he has come! To arms!"

There was a thunderous sound as heavy wings beat in the wind. With trembling hands Nemiet drew out her crossbow, and loaded it with a bolt. Her and Serana wheeled about in search of the dragon, and in the end stood shoulder to shoulder; the touch, in all its briefness, gave them courage. 

A mist had descended on them; it had curled around the tree and held it tightly in its grip. Soon they neither saw nor heard a thing. They peered towards the masses of silvery clouds, but only grey wisps glided across the white void; and listened to the hunter’s lonely beating heart as she fought to keep it still. 

Then a shadow emerged from the light. It grew darker at a tremendous speed, and soon a distant but great bellowing could be heard. 

Durnehviir had come.

When the dragon’s form breached the clouds, they were all appalled by his size; he was larger than any living creature Nemiet or even Serana had ever encountered. Only in books had they heard of such flighty fables; hundreds of sharp spikes rose from his impenetrable skin; opening his monstrous jaws full of knife-like teeth, with a single flap of his wing it threw debris over the bare ground. The Redguard took aim, and fired her despairing shot at him. It hit, but the little bolt had no effect on this beast. A dragon’s hide was, of course, tougher than any iron or steel, but when Valerica attempted to conjure his mind with her magic, even Durnehviir was overcome.

But the dragon was far from vanquished. The spell only caused him to seek a landing site. His grey-green wings brought him directly before them: as it descended, he crushed the ground beneath his claws and lifted a vast cloud of dust into the sky. Nemiet now saw only empty pits where his eyes had been, after a heavy, cold current of air had brushed over her. A small piece of slab flew by her forehead and grazed a shallow cut. It made her grimace, and for its dimensions left her throbbing with hot pain for a long time afterwards.

The dragon roared, and green, viscous slime fell over the stone. Valerica and Serana now joined forces to calm the beast, but Nemiet’s first thought was to run as far away into hiding as her legs could carry her. She tried to load her weapon again, but all her bolts fell from her clumsy fingers, and sweat trickled down her brow, dazzling her. 

But their efforts had chiefly irritated the dragon. He craned its neck, and tried to swallow Nemiet whole in his formidable mouth, but somehow she made it out of their way in time. As she spun round, she managed to throw her weapon to the ground and draw an axe with which to swing at its cheek, but the weapon held naught but a low, awkward clack . Then she would almost get trampled on by his huge claws scratching the earth, but in her rage she struck at its ankles as fast as she could. All the cries were lost in the turmoil.

Then something would happen; a change stirred in the air. The attention of Durnehviir was turned from her, and back to the two vampires. He had had enough of their attempts, and now swished his weighty tail at them. Somehow they dodged the first blow, but when it returned, sweeping the sand with a wild fury, Valerica vanished under it and slumped to the ground. Even Nemiet was horrified by the sight: a creature much older and more knowing than she now lay motionless in a grey heap. Her eyes widened in horror amid the rising dust.

Durnehviir shrieked, but did little to attack yet. A shadow then flashed across the hunter’s gaze, swift as black light, only more solid; Serana ran on through the garden and towards her mother. Long ago her hood had flown aside over her shoulders. Tears of distress glistened in her eyes; the vampire had not known for a moment the terror that now gripped her.

Nemiet looked at them, and then at the dragon; he was now looking at the vampires with a triumphant grin on its scaled lips. In that moment, she berated herself, forced herself to memorise the words of her father, so that they might be of use. Her brown eyes searched the courtyard, and found only misery. The dragon took a slow step, then another; and at last, through the thick dust, she saw a despairing salvation. 

Time was not plentiful. With shaky legs Nemiet took off at a run, narrowly avoiding the spiny tail and the sharp claws in her path. She was upon them when Durnehviir spread open his mouth, eager to devour them all; she could feel the warm breath on her face and smell the victims that had come before them. She took several deep breaths to forget the pain in her shoulder again, and then grabbed the fence post at her feet. This was a tall metal stake, the end of which pointed to a sharp arrow-head; and though it was heavy, and at first it seemed to her that she could not raise it in time to protect them, as Durnehviir’s neck slithered forward to attack, his throat was pierced by the Redguard’s weapon.

Valerica was waking up from her brief period of unconsciousness. Amid the blur, she saw the dragon, now with a sharp stake stuck in his maw; he thrashed his head once or twice, and cried out in painful weeping. After a few croaks, however, he disintegrated into tiny black specks, whose darkness soon melted to grey, and was then carried away by the breeze. There was no more of the great beast left.

Nemiet’s legs trembled and she fell to sit on the sand. Her chest heaved in fright, and her gloved hand flailed in the air as if to prove that she had not been asleep. But Durnehviir was no more, and his presence was revealed only by the slowly dissipating dust and broken flagstones.

Valerica, with the help of her daughter, had managed to assume a sitting position. She was looking at Nemiet in shock, though she spoke calmly, muffled by the blow, "Forgive the astonishment. I had never thought to see that dragon die; he is timeless, and has no enemy whose defeat he has not been."

The hunter looked at her in bewilderment. "And I had never thought that that would work!"

"There is another, grimmer scenario," admitted Valerica, "your strike may have only briefly broken Durnehviir’s bodily form. It could be that he is only rebuilding himself now."

Serana now looked at Nemiet, but there was a new gentleness in her gaze. It made the hunter’s heart skip a beat, and she closed her panting mouth; her own fondness over the vampire made her face flush.

Then the younger Nord focused again on what her mother was saying. "So how long will it take? A moment? Or enough for our escape?"

"That I do not know," said Valerica. She rose to her feet, gritting her teeth, but still remarkably agile for her age; and she no longer needed her daughter's help, or that of Nemiet. "I can only propose that we not hang about and wait for that time to come. Let us go. I shall give you your scroll, and you may leave this place in the past."

With pensive expressions, they followed the old vampire as she made her way across their battered warfield towards the second alcove where they had been headed in the first place. It was little more than a table and a counter full of odd ingredients in many different colours and empty flasks; there was also a calcinator and a retort. Nemiet would not have known how to use any of the equipment. But her attention was soon drawn to a large, oblong box with many words unknown to her and intricate flourishes engraved on its gilded surface. Inside it could only have been one artifact. In this moment, the Redguard pondered where she had come from: in so little time, she had made history by discovering three of the Elder Scrolls. Still, as on both previous occasions, she could not fail to be amazed on reaching it. 

Valerica opened the box with a soft click. It slowly opened, and from within, light flooded all about them; even deep in the heart of the Soul Cairn, it was a hand of comfort on their shoulders. It lit up their weary faces, then faded to a faint glow. The older vampire gathered the Elder Scroll in her arms, as full of endearment as if it were a child, and, after holding it for a short moment, handed it to Serana. In her hands, it radiated warmth and safety, yet the same mystery that had inhabited them all.

"You must now leave," said Valerica, and Nemiet had detected a sadness in her speech, "if there is anything I can do for you before we part, now is the time to say it."

"There is one thing," spoke Nemiet, and had not taken her eyes off the surface of the Elder Scroll, "for me to get here, there’s this ritual that had to take place. Can you tell—is it possible for me to have it back? That part of my soul that I had to give up?"

Valerica seemed at once dejected as well as prideful. "I see my child has heeded my teachings after all. And I taught her much of what she now masters. But, venerable hunter, I regret what I shall say now: I do not know the solution to the conundrum you have at hand. I can only provide you with the next step."

"Any assistance is forward."

The older vampire nodded. "So Serana has deposited part of your soul in a gem. It was then offered to the Masters as a boon, as a kind of pass; so the soul gem is here, in this land. Retrieving it ought to be relatively simple."

"Right. So you know where that is?" Nemiet was beginning to sound hopeful. "Then what? Is there a way to reverse the spell?"

"A short distance from here there is an altar. To it new souls appear, and above it I have witnessed soul gems before they disappear in mysterious eternity. If yours is still within our reach, and we must hope that it is, then it will be there," said Valerica, but then became more serious. "but I can neither restore your soul, nor can Serana do so without harming you. Inside it is your life energy, and if the gem were to be shattered, that energy would go with it. There are some mages who could be of help. You must find one for yourself-"

Her words were cut off by a far-off, stifled scream. This caused them all to stare suspiciously at the skies, which now, however, seemed to the Soul Cairn to be comparatively quiet and serene. "Now go. The longer you delay, the greater the chances of his return. You are very brave, hunter. I may have underestimated you."

Nemiet nodded. Valerica’s friendly tone sat strangely over her. "Many thanks for your help."

"So you stay here," said Serana bleakly, "I suppose that was to be expected. I just-"

Valerica looked at her daughter for a long time with pride and dim love. She raised her hand to her shoulder, then addressed Serana fortrightly, "I have no choice. I am His daughter, as you are; if I return to Tamriel, the chances of Harkon succeeding will increase. It is a risk we can not take."

"Then we shall come back for you, when his era is ended," said Nemiet, resolute, "you’ve got my promise."

Somewhat unwillingly, Valerica broke away from the younger vampire; then she snapped her slender, blackened digits, and she and Nemiet faded into a kind of haze. The world slipped away from them like a soft dream, and although the Redguard was very confused, she listened intently to her message. "Now Serana is all you need to care for," said she gravely, "keep her hidden, keep her protected. Harkon is not to be trusted. Remember: he can promise you the very things you want, but his promises, for all their soft and sweetness, are naught but damnings and curses."

"I’ll look after her," responded Nemiet,  "if I die in the attempt."

Valerica smiled, but desperation diluted its genuineness. "Of that I have no further doubt. But do try not to. After all Serana has endured for me and for him, I wish for her only a true friend. This shall remain between us."

The Redguard would nod. In a dizzying flash, they were back with Serana. No time seemed to have passed at all in their absence, and no one said much more of it. The younger vampire lightly touched the hunter’s arm, "come. Time to go back home."

So Valerica remained watching their trailing backs. After they had gone, in this silence she returned to her work, and for a moment feigned to be busy; but at last she only sank into her chair, and gazed out over the courtyard and its one naked tree.

Nemiet gave the silent vampire shy glances as they left the fortress. To even think of speaking made her throat seem dry and unpleasant; and this discomfort quickly put her off the urge. 

Of course, they were hoping for a quiet, uninterrupted return journey; but as they emerged from the gate, they knew this would remain only a beautiful wish. First there was a sound, a rush of air from great wings, and again fear settled in Nemiet’s heart. Directly before the entrance, in the midst of the sands, there was a large, flat structure, which looked a trifle like an old foundation that had since fallen into decay; upon it now sat the dragon Durnehviir. His old, scale-covered muscles quivered, and still his horned head soared up proudly towards the sky.

Though battle-weary, and though her bones ached with equal pain, Nemiet reached out and pulled her axe from its sheath. But the great creature confused them by bowing as gracefully as his size would allow, and then he was speaking, "stay your weapons. I would speak with you, Qahnaarin."

The Redguard’s gaze would not falter, but she made no further move to use her weapon. Rather, she stepped between the dragon and Serana guardedly, her mind fresh with the sight of the still-gaping, hideous mouth full of jagged teeth; and discord gnawed at her insides. "Hm. Turns out this dragon is like a cat: agile for his size, with rumours of nine lives..."

The old dragon laughed, insofar as the great creature could—but his voice was lost in mournful jest. "Nay. You could not have defeated me. A curse grows on my scales. For I am condemned to a life eternal; trapped between laas and dinok , life and death."

"That I can see," said Nemiet, "but say, dragon, why are we speaking? I wouldn’t hope to oppose you again, if it is to be avoided."

"Avoided? Most certainly," reassured Durnehviir, "I came because I believe in civility among great warriors. I feel your ears are worthy to hear my words. But first I would assure you, Nemiet, daughter of Isran, that I have not attacked you in weak minds or in blind hatred. I fly under an oath."

The Redguard glowered at the dragon in suspicion; Durnehviir saw this and contentedly blew thick air through his nostrils. "Oh, yes. There are things I already know of you, and if you were to try enough, you would know something too about me. Now we are both part of this land, a grain in its sands, a breeze in its storm. You are bound by an oath as my own, but yours is broken; so tell me, Qahnaarin, how is it that I still cannot distinguish the shadow over your heart?"

"What do you know? A mind-reading dragon," huffed the hunter, "still I take this as a courtesy. But what’s that name— Qahnaarin ?"

"Long and tirelessly have I fought; my claws have tasted the flesh of many a foe, but never before has there been one to defeat me. It is a honor-name, Qahnaarin. It means vanquisher in your tongue."

A small, crackling spark of pride flickered in Nemiet. "and you fought just as gloriously. But this is as a field mouse said to a fox, well done ."

"Ah. But your words bring me such joy. Perhaps there is more to this mouse than she believes; or perhaps this fox has fewer courage than his fur," said Durnehviir, "but my desire to talk to you, Master Nemiet, has not come from an expectation of praise. I have a rather unusual proposal to make to you."

"And what’s the nature of your request?"

For a moment, Durnehviir was silent, as if cautiously considering the words with which to plead his case. When he finally did speak, there was an ancient sorrow in his voice, "I have been wandering these ever-skies for longer than any man can comprehend. I have served faithfully and well, but into my service I was fooled," said he. "Before then, I walked in Tamriel: there I would like to return once more."

Though Nemiet first hesitated, and weighed in her mind the consequences of returning the dragon to a land that had not seen such a creature in thousands of years, there was something in the old Durnehviir that felt moving to her. "So what’s to stop you? How can I help it?"

"My time here has weakened me," lamented Durnehviir, but seemed to be in no mood for pity, "hm. The expression sounds somewhat poorly. I cannot leave here, not on my part; if I were to do so, then my life would dwindle away until I was no more."

"Oh, yes. Trying to restore something that thousands of years ago wiped out virtually everything in its path is a brilliant idea—what next? Do we let my father win, since we are so very charitable?"

The dragon’s attention was captured by Serana’s call. "Greetings, Serana from the Clan Volkihar. For eons I have been your mother’s gatekeeper. Good to see you share a sharp tongue."

"So unless she has more to tell me during our time apart, I do not think you are her boy. And yet, your speech is no less smug," remarked the vampire, "but if Nemiet wishes to assist you, I will not stand in the way."

Durnehviir puffed as though he cared little for Serana's defiance. He then turned back to the hunter. "I place my name before you, as well as the knowledge of pronouncing it in a manner of value in Tamriel; and should you pronounce it, I shall come to your service upon it, as your ally, your Grah-Zeymahzin."

Nemiet looked incredulous. Admittedly, the opinion of the vampire was weighing heavily on her shoulders. "So all I’ve got to do is speak your name? ‘S that so?"

But the dragon only shook his big, heavy crown at her doubt. "To you it may seem like a little, purposeless act, but you do not understand the importance of spoken language, not to my kin, not to the Dov. Come on, little mortal. Ask your questions. Perhaps my answers will convince you of my sincerity."

So the Redguard took a swift glance at the tips of her boots, swallowed dryly, and then raised her gaze back up. "So how does one of your ilk wind up in such a place?"

"Once I lived in Tamriel. It was a time when the dovah still ruled; the territorial battles were not only long and brutal, but also great feats of strength," responded Durnehviir, and somehow Nemiet understood that these memories were painful for him, "but Bormahu had blessed me not with great size, nor with power; no, among my brethren, I was small and insignificant. I had to turn to other ways to obtain that which I thirsted for. I was attracted by what they were calling Alok-Dilon ; in your language, the lost, forbidden art of necromancy."

Nemiet was forced to squint; the brightness over them seemed to widen. "So you came in here in search of a source for your magic. So did Valerica."

The dragon stirred. "The Masters promised me high things; armies of thousands of the living dead, a deadly legion to call my own. And in return, I was to guard the one who calls herself Valerica until her very death."

"Arrogant fools," muttered Serana, "now I understand that there are no grand promises. If something appears to be too good to be true, it is; may I never repeat the mistakes that passion or vengeance has made here." 

But to her surprise, Durnehviir lowered his neck in repentance. "Yes. They are traitors for whom the honour is but an empty word. I realised it much too late. Now, none can sever the bonds I have formed with this place."

Nemiet then asked, and a foreign sadness had entered her heart, "so that is it? We cannot release you, can we?"

"Release me? Nay. I have been here for too long, Qahnaarin," responded he, "but you may still bestow on me the illusion of liberty. Ponder it. I shall be waiting."

Nemiet had no time for an answer. Although she wished she could help the old dragon, she was not quite sure that she could; so she watched the flight of Durnehviir in silence, as the great brownish-grey shape first leapt off, then faded into the clouds. The light dimmed, and it became dark.

They then set off towards the altar, which was indeed only a short distance from Valerica’s fortress; and in that silence they became very suspicious. It was no miraculous structure, merely a series of narrow black stairs, with a small flat platform at the top, and above it a metal structure. In its crown lay a soul-stone, small and flat, of a dark colour. Round it in an arc on the floor there was a pulp which looked like dead black ravens, and from which stuck out beaks and feathers which then moved about quietly in the wind. The sight was very unpleasant, and neither wanted to tarry; so Nemiet reached over the carcasses and curled her fingers against the hot, shimmering gem.

It was then that the first dark-feathered arrow came; it whizzed past the hunter and clattered blankly into the frame. In small flashes of terror, Serana would turn round, and cast a freezing whirl from her fingers over their enemies. The skeletons were not many, and they all crumbled in Nord’s hands, but a few arrows still escaped. Not one gave her so much as a graze, but as the calm settled she became very concerned about Nemiet, and even before turning to her, she could smell the thick, pungent stench.

The Redguard stood with her side facing her, with her chest heaving, her lip trembling. She had been pierced by an arrow through the shoulder; and though the vampire would never have believed it to be death, and much less for a woman such as Nemiet, Serana now felt a great fear taking root around her heart; it came to her and asked little permission, and for a moment no command was obeyed by her body.

Nemiet fell to the ground. The pain was new, it was alien, and unlike any she had ever known before. The light stung her eyes. More blood than was decent gushed out—hesitantly, she lifted her hand to the shaft and groped about, but her grip was weak, and did little more than smear blood over her armour.

"Shit," she muttered faintly.

Her word made Serana rush to her side. No longer did she care for the suspicious carrion under her feet; she was only concerned with her friend. Up through the thick fabric, Nemiet’s wound showed badly and throbbed out. Only the vampire’s arrival raised the Redguard’s gaze, but to her horror it was distant and milky, misdirected. 

"Sorry," Nemiet said in a trembling voice, "all this blood... I’m sorry."

Hurriedly, Serana put her hand on the wound and tried to stem it from bleeding. "You have to resist it, Nemiet. I can’t-”

But rather than finding the strength to walk, the hunter would softly grunt, and sink further into the ground. The metal frame pressed deep into her muscles, but she could not feel this. Her body convulsed, her fingers ceased to work, and finally she became still, resting upright with only the aid of the vampire’s body. There was undoubtedly great sentiment in Serana’s eyes as she regarded Nemiet’s pale but still beautiful countenance, and despair smouldered in her breast.

“Come on, Captain, you have to get up. We can't stay like this.”

No answer was given. Serana’s trembling arms wrapped round her collar, and she pulled her to her side. A familiar scent wafted into her nostrils, but the reek of her crimson would taint it. Tears began to stream from her eyes wild and uncontrollable. She then squeezed them tightly shut, and for the very first time uttered a prayer, though she knew not its name, nor even to whom it was intended. 

For the vampire, this was a moment of a tremendous loss; but once the pain had gone, for Nemiet it was like falling asleep in a pair of safe, loving arms.

 

Chapter 17: The Siege in the South

Notes:

Sorryyyyyy this took so long... I've been writing the rest of this fic in the meanwhile, trying my best to make out the outline at least to an extent! Wow! It actually feels as if I'm near finishing the story (even though there are logically many chapters left yet...)

I hope you enjoy this one regardless! It is mostly my own writing with little taken from the source game, so I can only wish it's still worth your while <3

 

A cry, both gusting and devoid of hope, filled the bruised sky.  The air stank of rust and flesh rotting. Serana’s fingers were curled round the leather straps, bony and increasingly pale, and she knew hardly the convulsive strength with which she was squeezing. The world surrounding them felt cluttered and dream-like, nigh detached. She lay with her face toward Nemiet, but now and then she would turn to glance about in a hurry, as though expecting some evil to ride up to them on a tall black horse at any moment now; but though no-one entered, and the loneliness was in itself inconsolable, it was, indeed, as if the Masters’ unkind eye were watching, patiently waiting. Her whimper of complaint grew into a defiant howl.

"Good Gods," she bayed, in a voice which was too wavery, "no, Gods."

Once she had settled down from her weeping, there was a lull. The desert threw sand on the altar, grey little grains over the blackness. She would close her eyes only to open them again and see that little had changed. A shaky, feeble hand stuck to her chilled brow as, from some obscure crack or crevice, she sought the clarity on what to do now, but the few responses in the wind were quiet, mocking. Fool, boor. It was you who brought her here. 

The corner of her eye, misty with grief, then caught a glimpse of light—like that of the sun on a hot day hitting each wave of the lake in its turn—originating from the polished surface of the little rosy-colored soul gem. She reached to her side, still cradling her friend’s body in her arms, until the warmth of it was there. Nemiet’s heart was still. She would have heard it. Hearing, or not hearing, was, of course, a terrible thing in and of itself; but somehow the emptiness struck more poignantly as it rested against Serana’s chest.

Was it the end? With them still so far from a chance at victory, with their journey not yet half over? In her father’s castle, Serana had hardly seen the dead. None of those close to her, that was. There were carcasses, of course, and she could still smell the blood and tissue fluids as they dried onto the wooden tables and the discarded parts rotted and burst into transparent, foul-smelling gases. One wintry day, a man whose wife was dying had come to their beach. Not even the bite of a vampire had spared her. This man, he would become a friend of her father’s; this was the very nearest she had come to touching it. But neither the loss nor the dying of someone she loved, of someone whose name and story she knew, she could not grasp. This was the endless, twilight chasm of Death. The monster that walked in her nightmares, the nameless fright of a time when she spoke in no language and her horror was naught but an animal instinct.

In the vampire’s palm, the gem throbbed with heat. She became aware that she had been pressing on it very hard, which is perhaps why she now felt the crystal crackle as if to catch its breath. This confused her so much that her few, thick tears were stilled, and she murmured, though she felt terribly foolish after hearing no answer, "Nemiet?" 

But the stone let out a mere quiver. She would have to go alone to sink her blade into her father’s ribs.

Nemiet’s head jerked back softly, so violently did Serana shudder. She slid her arm upwards as if it were important, as if she would not want her to be hurt. There was a terrible tenderness to it. Blood covered the front of the hunter’s plate-laden cuirass, it was on her neck, on her chin, even on the altar. Her lip trembling, Serana braved this confusion of red, and reached out to caress her cheek, though the mess was spreading where she touched. Slowly, the sickeningly sweet smell was gaining a more pleasing tinge; and a compelling urge to lick her own fingers clean, and not at all to end the consuming there, filled her. "Please," she spoke in a low voice, shivering in need, "you would not leave it at this, would you? Wake up and say I was imagining all this. Please..."

But Nemiet stirred not. This was the world awake, a trueness which did not bow to her despairing pleas. Serana closed her eyes. From the distance, there was an approaching, hissing sound as the wings of a great dragon tore through the air. The floor shook in his landing, crashing heavily against the side of the altar; solid claws scratched the smooth black stone, enormous mass crushed the structure and small crumbled pieces fell to the ground. A gust of wind swept over Serana. Her lithe face was a pearly white, her eyes dark and deeply hollowed. She sought in the expressionless head of Durnehviir for some sign that might tell her that the remedy to this predicament was with him; but in place of words of wisdom, the dragon craned his neck—covered with thick, ragged horns—his gesture one of reverence and (unbeknownst to her) a hint of fear.

"Save us, I beg you," said Serana, her black hair the colour of dead leaves dishevelled and pasted to her cheeks and close to her mouth, "I know not what I may offer a dragon, but that which is mine to give, I will gladly surrender."

But the creature spoke calmly and unhurriedly, his voice still low and oddly mellow for his appearance. "Save still the water of your sorrows," said he, "it is not yet her time to depart."

Serana glanced at a lifeless, grey-skinned Nemiet, in confusion and in incredulousness, and then turned her gaze back to Durnehviir.

"Aye," spoke the dragon, dragging his large paws round, leaving everywhere a trail of white streaks, "I perceive the presence of another. Bormahu . Akatosh. The father of all dragons. He is known under many names."

" Akatosh ?" repeated the Nord, hastily. Anger and bitterness mounted again in her throat. "And why? What more do the Gods wish of us— what does the time-dragon?"

"Forgive my amusement, young Volkihar."

After Durnehviir had grinned with a rasp of old pride, he continued to speak with a self-satisfied slowness. "For your rather venerable age, it is easy to forget who you are descended from," explained he, only to be met with a suspicious glare in return, "yes. In many ways, you differ from them. They had not all the time in the world; sickness and famine roamed in their midst. But your grief, your love for a mortal such as her now, it is writ in deeper in you than you know. What one of your ilk might call a curse. It has also turned mankind into a relentless and uncompromising fighter for all history. Rarely do the Gods seek approval for coming to you; one would have to say the same of fate, if one were to believe in it. This is the natural and unchanging order of things. An eternal arbitrariness."

Her cravings were only a little disturbed by the dragon's speech. Serana’s fangs stretched; they bulged in their sockets. She was overcome by hunger, the fate of her friend and the hatred of God; and she knew not how much more she could struggle against that whispering beast.

"I can sense your anger," said he, patiently, "she will be saved by Bormahu."

Serana’s expression turned almost into an enraged snarl. In her bones, she felt the transformation into her father: a vengeful monster that would do whatever was necessary to put an end to her feelings of smallness and insignificance. Again, she was at the mercy of the Divine. Powerless, weak. Ravaged in a cold chapel, her belly and gums bloodied and clotted with vague bruises. They would always catch the bright morning sun, the dusky violet turned a verdant yellow-white. An unwilling, tied up pawn. So strong was her desire to be loosened from them that the shadow of Soul Cairn would not pass from her for a long time to come; and so proud was Serana that she scarcely spoke of its presence, not openly, not without a thousand acres of winding, narrow by-ways. "All the Gods are murders," grumbled she, "but we must pray for them in turn. Should she not improve, I myself shall enter the sun into their endless feasts and eat the heart out of every breast."

As much as this fury would have frightened many, Durnehviir would have seen her outburst for what it was: a tremendous fear, a veiled sadness. Bitterness. Unexpectedly, a great sorrow swelled in the roots of the dragon’s ancient heart, and seeped out through the slits between his scales. "You now need help her," instructed he, "she must be made ready for transportation. When, and in so far as she awakens, she had best be with her people. Summon the steed, Arvak. Trust him to carry you both from the North to the valleys of the Rift swiftly and with ease."

Very slowly, Serana became calmer. Her anger was left circling her mind like a restless creature, its hairs bristling against the bars, but no longer roaring or crying. Tightly, she sealed her eyes. There was a look of surrender in the Nord’s gaze as she again opened it. Then, in all silence, she rose and lifted Nemiet into her arms, lightly, as if she weighed nary an ounce. The Redguard’s blank expression was resting against the vampire’s white throat, with one hand across her chest, the other drooping towards the ground. From somewhere, new blood was still flowing. It trickled down her gray sleeve and hit the slabs, tap-tap-tap . Each drop was like a mallet against Serana’s sore temple bone.

The vampire moved unhurried down the stairs, never allowing the dead body to sway, clutching her tightly and with love. The unseeing gaze of Durnehviir was upon them; though he could not see, his hearing was so keen and so distinct that he knew her every step. When the black boot had trodden the sand a few times, he again spoke, "good. Now you may cast your spell. Lower her down to my attention for this while."

Deep in her defeated thoughts, Serana carried the corpse to Durnehviir’s feet. Having laid her down on the sand, not being able to restrain herself from setting her gracefully and lifting her arms to her chest, from straightening her legs and giving her the distant appearance of a sacrifice set on a stone altar, the vampire watched her for a moment longer in great mourning. Nemiet showed no alarm, no pain; on the outside, it only looked as if she were having a long, dreamless sleep. From a crimson pit, the arrow was still pointing skyward at her shoulder. A tremor caught on to Serana’s limbs. 

Then, hesitating, she turned back and closed her eyes. Unbeknownst to him, the dragon was a greater aid to her than either of them would have known from their first meeting. There was something very warm, even fatherly, about him now. Serana felt the magic prickling at her fingertips. 

Unsteadily, she raised her right hand, which began to trace short, sinuous little patterns in the air, all of which came to her readily, as did the memory of her friend’s death. The azure shapes lingered briefly against the dark sand before snaking away with a hiss; and they tore open a rift in the sky, from within which a large, skeletal steed darted. First he tossed his head about restlessly, with bright, vibrant lights blazing in his eyeless sockets, then turned into a small circle and lunged on his hind legs. Dust rose from the flaming hooves. Serana sensed in Arvak his resilience, his goodness, his loyalty, but also his gnawing sadness and a longing for his master. She moved nearer, fearing not the horse’s agitated stirring, and then laid her hand on his shoulder blade. They both seemed to grow still. The flames of Arvak would not rise to scorch the vampire’s blackened fingers. From behind them, Nemiet’s wound began to glow, but it gave forth a golden yellow light for only a fleeting, imperceptible moment, escaping the notices of both Serana and the horse. 

For a long time they stood there in silence, with their eyes closed on the Soul Cairn, engaged in a devout discussion somewhere out of reach of the others. There they would share their worries and knowledge and then quietly accept each other’s intentions and agree to serve each other. Time was lost; and when the Nord again opened her eyes, not much seemed to have passed, but all she knew had altered. She found that she thanked Arvak profusely for all he had taught her and then felt guilty that she could not say more on her own. 

What followed, she could not quite recall. All her memories thereafter collapsed into one, muddled mess. As a grayened statue, Durnehviir watched after the galloping Arvak, never to speak again; and when they had disappeared from his sight, the dragon took the wind under his wings and flew away.

While Arvak was running faster than any earthly animal, although their long journey was only about to begin, the Redguard had slipped out of her body and travelled elsewhere. She would relive the entirety of her little life, its peripheries and all its people, not only as vague recollections, but vividly before her; yet with a sudden awareness of her every deed and its far-reaching consequences. She saw the few missteps which had brought her to Dimhollow, and what a tumult it had made; she saw her father, and lived for a time in the place of his heart. Sliding out, she saw before her the face of Serana, bright and clear, with not the slightest glimmer of a dream. There was great affection in it, enough for her to well comprehend, yet something more, hidden, repressed. Teeth close to her rippling neck muscle, a cold hand groping her stomach. She was about to open her mouth as if to ask what the vampire were thinking, but her fiery gaze, too, faded away. All the times of the world rolled over her, and, having gone, were absorbed back and withdrawn into the whiteness from which they had come.

It became dark and utterly calm. Nemiet felt as if the void had opened up and swallowed her up into the depths of its endless black belly; a nothingness was settling in her. The divine clarity had gone. No longer did she have a body, only shadows meandering, and a blur of dim impressions now and again. But alone she was not. Out of the clusters of thick time and the spoken names of the Gods arose a Being, old and wise, so she knew, and Akatosh knew her too: a great, gilded dragon whose breath was condensed into dewy-yellow droplets and whose eyes glowed with white opal. He came to her and they conversed for all eternity, but when the hunter later would reminisce on it, she could not recall a word He had said.

To wake up days later in her own bed was to feel as if all of her body had been torn open in tiny little slits. For a while Nemiet could not remember her name, not her story, not even the way to fill her lungs with the sharp, fresh air that was suddenly in abundance. It lodged in her throat as a fish bone and brought on a cough. The pain was excruciating. It rattled along her spine and sent tears prickling to her eyes; and she saw naught, for the daylight streaming in through the window, and the tallow candle sitting on the table in its silver holder, though not very bright to the healthy gaze, dazzled her completely. A hand, however frail from days of lying idle, lifted shakily to her shoulder. In place of the black-feathered arrow there was now a rough, clean linen cloth wrapping round her finely muscled shoulder and upper chest. Sweat swept over her frame, her heartbeat became light and fast. Indeed, Nemiet feared Death only after having wriggled out of its grip.

Soft light poured in from the corridor of her doorless room. Somewhere there was a faint smell of smoked fish and anise seeds imported from near Skingrad. 

"She’s awake," then said a little agitated, familiar male voice from the side of the bed. It was Florentius. "Now go and fetch Isran. Quickly now, boy!"

"On the spot." 

Deeka left to find her father, but when they returned, Nemiet was no longer awake. Still she tried to move a time or two, small, feeble efforts, but the priest soothed her by placing a calm hand on her forehead. "Tremendously sorry to put you back to sleep, but you must be calm now," said he, laying a warm, blanket-like spell on her from the palm of his hand, "you have been grievously wounded, my child. Until a full examination of your injuries, I cannot suggest flailing about. Cold and grey as you were… it is a miracle you survived at all." She fell back into a fevered, fitful sleep: and the danger, blood-red and fierce, a mouth full of sheer canine teeth, stalked each of them.

The next time the Redguard opened her eyes, round her there was a keener, truer movement. Clearness had returned to her mind (with the exception of slight lapses of memory and fuzzy-edged visions.) Dried tears clenched her cheeks as she grit her teeth. She lifted her head, heavy as iron, and there was a throbbing at the nape of her neck. It was noon. The floor was bathed in the white light of the dustless glass. On the table lay an immaculate stack of books: the newest volume of the Bestiary of Tamriel, the Varieties of Daedra , The Totems of Hircine, Immortal Blood. Someone had obviously been spending time in there while she slept, tidying up while waiting. There was talk in the hallway. Nemiet pricked her senses to make it clear; the two men were most definitely not speaking in whispers. 

"I cannot only tell you the things you wish to hear!" exclaimed Florentius. His tone was tense, perhaps even hostile; yet it eased in the very next breath. "Isran, sir. I understand, I so very much do. It is your daughter we’re speaking of. But this is beyond the limits of my expertise."

"Don’t believe one word," said Isran crossly. Was she the cause of his agitation? A strange, unpleasant emotion made Nemiet roll back onto the bed. "Where is Florentius, he who patched up a man with a throat so flooded with blood that his lower teeth were not visible? The man who cured hemophilia from another four days after his infection? What we need is a prodigy! Where’s he?"

"Sorry… I am so sorry."

"Not sorry enough," responded the Redguard, "now you go back in there and do what you must. Examine her afresh. Don’s care if it’s some black magics, or damned be Dagon Himself, you’re savin’ her. That is an order!"

It became quiet. Then, a muffled voice again spoke. "I shall do what I can."

"Good," said Isran, much more calmly, "do try to remember that I took you in here with all your little quirks. Show me some respect and do your job."

"Yes, sir." 

The shadow of Florentius in the hall shifted as if in a slight bow. Presently he entered the room with his head hanging down, but his gloomy, dark features were soon spread with wonder. There was a flash in his chestnut eyes. "Nemiet!" he exclaimed, hastening the few remaining steps to her bedside, "Arkay’s pantaloons! Nod if you can’t speak…"

Her bedroom was soon crowded with visitors; worried but wearily glad looks. And Deeka was crying. According to his own defense, he was fresh from the kitchen, where strong herbs had sensitised him. It made Nemiet chuckle, though her lungs were seemingly packed with grit, and the jumble of colours hurt. Gunmar and Sorine both came, Florentius, Agmaer, Beleval, and other Dawnguard men. All seemed greatly relieved, save for her father. Isran showed as if he had not been asleep for a fortnight. His eyes were shadowed by gaping furrows and the ruptured blood vessels had made his eye-whites red. While the rest of them were drowning her in questions ( "where were you? How come you left so suddenly? Where is ‘it’? Have we won the war?" ) he stood silently in the doorway, and it seemed to Nemiet that only he was seeing the true awfulness of it, that these were not faint pink scars that were healed, but foul, shooting gashes into the festering marrow of the bone.

There came a time, and not all too soon for the rather befuddled Redguard, when her father at last turned people out. "She must now be given a rest," said he, with such calm authority he said it that all were dispelled in a fleeting moment. Nemiet heaved a sigh of relief. However much she was moved by these hearty concerns, it was the presence of her father that now brought her great solace. Isran would sit at the foot of her bed. He seemed to have aged much in her absence; the wrinkles of his brow drew dark shadows on his gaunt face. 

"Nemiet, I-" said he then, in a voice so soft it did not suit his lips. He would cry. "Goodness."

His fingers pressed firmly against the bridge of his nose, the other reached across Nemiet’s knees for her hand. Her father’s grip was warm, his coarse thumb rubbed her knuckles. She spoke, in a low, gruff voice which had been suffering from her pain, "sorry to- to cause you all this grief."

"No, don’t be," sighed Isran, his hold tightening, "I should be sorry for..."

Nemiet coughed. "Fret over that some other time. Thank you for letting me back."

They sat there together for a very long time, and the stillness between them was heavy and expectant. They no longer made a sound. These were not fractures that were made to be mended in a day’s work; but for the first time he was there, indeed he was, present and fittingly a father. Nemiet’s amulet, once her mother’s own, since dedicated to Stendarr as a testament to her life’s duty and commitment, was laid out beautifully on her desk by the books. She never touched it that day.

In the hours that followed, Nemiet was chiefly asleep. Never when she was awake was she alone; there were many guests. The very next Turdas morning Agmaer was at her side when she awoke. Startled by the presence and wide grin of the wheat-haired man, she made a hurried movement to the side as she lay down, then stopped to breathe heavily at the sharp sting. Having calmed herself she took a good long look at Agmaer; he was clad in his work clothes; one of his teeth had chipped; a stubble was poking out from his broad chin. There was dark dirt caked over the sweat stains. He was heading out to chop wood or help with the drying or slicing game.

"Glad yer back. That dust-up left me wrecked."

"Me too, me too," said Nemiet, though she was looking a little bothered, "you and I need to talk."

"Aye. Could do now. Unless yer busy."

She was not, of course, but it was not so easy for her to answer in the affirmative. Her throat was hoarse, her body sore; these could readily have been weaved into a plausible story. But there was no chance of her escaping. Agmaer would want to talk to her again tomorrow, and then again the coming day. She would sigh and turn her gaze right past him, towards the corridor and its dim light and far-off sounds. "I shouldn’t have been so harsh on you. I mean that. And it was not right what Serana did. But you did give ‘er quite the spook. It’s not-"

Agmaer did not directly interrupt. All he did was lay his hand on her shin, which stunned Nemiet into silence. A heavy rhythm began to ripple at the back of her tongue and thud against her teeth. 

"No, that’s all right. Honest," said he, "you’re a kind one, I know. What you did was charity work. But you don’t got to. You don’t owe nothing to its sort. Trust me."

So weary was Nemiet that she scarcely put up a fight. "Its sort?"

“Aye. Those fuckin’ gnats," spat he, "look, you and I, we’re good folks. And we understand each other. That’s why I got so worked up. I don’t like seeing you like that. Me poor heart breaks."

She gave him a crooked, defiant smile. "Yet I would’ve died if she hadn’t brought me back. She saved me, didn’t she? Serana?"

As if uninterested, Agmaer gazed into the corridor, but, in truth, a disgruntled grimace took over his face. His hand withdrew, and when he did turn back, he could not hide his irritation. "You shouldn’t fall for that," said the Nord, "you’re more well-read than me, no? This’ a trick. It tries to get under your skin. Almost from the opus. Charms ye and then goes for the kill."

"A trick."

"Like you wouldn’t believe," said Agmaer, and stood up incredulously. He circled round a small, taut ring, a smug smile broken over his face. "So let’s not talk about that after all. I an’t come in here to sermonize."

"That would be best," responded Nemiet, "then let’s let off some steam. Go to town. Buy you ale at the tavern."

"Sure," grinned the Nord, "if the calendar allows it. I’m the Commander now. They’ve finally spotted me readiness when I was acting by my lonesome."

Nemiet could not keep a small, surprised 'oh' from escaping her lips. "Congratulations’ in place."

"Cheers," said he, "well, find me when yer not crippled no more. Maybe we can work somethin’ out."

His tone of voice rang nastily in her ear. "Yea. Maybe."

Then Agmaer left. Nemiet remained sitting there alone in the empty room, staring at her idle hands long after he had gone.

After a week of careful footwork and re-orientation of thought (curated by their very own Florentius, who had rapidly developed into a most remarkable carer), Deeka would take Nemiet to the lake to go fishing. To step out into the sunshine after all this time was to feel like a stranger in one’s own home; it was as if the foggy curtain of an illness had suddenly lifted from a lucid, sharp-defined world. The golden light tingled on her skin, then deep down it seeped in to melt and lubricate her stiffened joints. Air was heavy. It bore the thick scent of lilac, and of wild roses blooming on the shaded wall of the battlements, covered with jagged brown stones. Over them, moss writhed. Somewhere a blackbird was singing, a beautiful, undulating lyric, which was then joined by another. Nemiet closed her eyes. All the valley was awash with joy ripened by the summer heat, nigh bursting. A shaky, anticipating sigh escaped her mouth. The sun made her dark brown eyes turn the colour of honey. 

Fishing poles in hand, together they trudged down the trail through the weather-beaten hummocks of grass. But where the stonework chapel, ringed by a small cemetery, and the training ground lay deserted, further below, passing through the large wooden gateway and facing the lake, the Redguard was startled. A town of tents had risen up outside the shelter of the fort. The path to Riften was striped brown; there were leather tents, sewn from pieces of hide of varying shades and roughnesses; there were others of linen and cotton. Columns of smoke emerged from among some. People were boiling and frying their food, they were drying their clothing. Amid the modestly dressed, scarf-wearing mothers and light-clad children roamed men in the gear of the Dawnguard. Guardsmen , thought Nemiet in a foreign dread. Their heads were covered with steel helmets, gray metal viciously reflecting the daylight. Their hands were laden with loaded crossbows.

The hunter came to a stop next to the guard. From behind the head-cover, Beleval was revealed by her voice. There was a gravity in it that frightened her all the more. "Refugees," said the Bosmer, her words muffled by the helm, "the situation’s worsened in your absence. Feral vampire tribes from the west have banded under the banner of Harkon. They’ve overrun small villages in the North. These here are the survivors."

Someone came to the camp from the lake and brought fish for his children. The rest he distributed to the families round him, casting a long, chilling glance at Nemiet.

"And they need all this guardin’?"

"Commander’s orders," responded Beleval, "he fears a spy or a revolt. Says they could seize the fortress."

Nemiet gazed past her in disbelief. A round-cheek child and his scruffy, odd-looking mutt were frolicking round a nearby fire. Under the brown-grey fur, ribs shone, a tongue lolling with thirst. There were holes in the boy’s clothes. Still, the twosome made gestures of mirth, of sparkling bliss absent in an adult; a sight that introduced great sadness and hatred into the hunter’s heart.

"I see," spoke she at last, throat dry of unpleasantness, "so you watch them day and night? Surely you could use a pair of helpin’ hands. Put me on the night. Don’t sleep much these days anywho."

"’pologies, kid, but I cannot," answered Beleval. "’Tis stipulated that you must not be given work until you have made a full recovery. You’ve had your position annulled. For your own good, if may I add-"

" Ma ," pitched in Deeka, concerned lest Nemiet should become discouraged with this enforced period of leave, "you’d let her do something to contribute. Carry some water or chop firewood or stand guard with someone. The Nine knows you need all the help you can get."

Shaking her head, the elf seemed to be powerless. "I’m sorry."

Nemiet showed disillusionment, but there was no surprise on her. Now what do I do, thought she gloomily, I cannot not do any. Her Argonian friend put a hand on her shoulder and offered her an encouraging smile as they departed. It lit a faint hope in her. A number of children peered curiously after them from within the tents and from behind their parents. The dog barked. It was starving. 

That day, the lake was serene. Its clear blue waters glistened in the sun. A narrow, animal-paved path wound round it before disappearing into the mountains; to the east, a dense, evergreen wood bordered its shore. Further away, in the lap of a grey obscurity, where the waterfall roared and breached the calm, the slopes were bare. There was folly in their flatness; behind them, the rolling hills grew into sharp, snow-covered peaks. This was very much different from the lush northern edge. Where Nemiet and Deeka had reached the waterline, the wildflowers, the white hogweed and purple heathers abounded. Buzzing all round were pollinators and mosquitoes. The bed where they would sit down with their bait (which consisted of both earthworms gathered by Deeka and bits of cheese and fish pilfered from the kitchen) to put on hooks was carpeted in soft tufted grass.

"We ought to buy a boat," said the Argonian after a while, "we’re guaranteed to miss the fattest trout just sitting ducks!"

"Ha! Speak for yourself," laughed Nemiet, piercing a piece of cheese on her angle, "remember that giant bass I caught three years ago? Your little minnows were second to it."

"Ah. You know what they say, that luck is a comfort e’en for the unskilled."

For a moment they sat in a well-earned, restful quiet. The evening was alive with the hum and the intermittent murmur of water as the fish came close to the surface. Insects sought to conquer Nemiet’s knees and shoulders as tiny explorers, but she swatted them aside before an exhilarating triumph. Serana lived in her mind all that time. The memory brought sweat to her skin and a longing to her breast.

"O, how one can miss home in such little time," said the Redguard at last, "for how long was I gone? Summer’s well under way."

Deeka looked about them. He was very tempted to abandon his fishing and plunge into the cool waters of the lake himself. His black scales soaked in all the light. "You were in the North for about a month," responded he, "and then you lay at the bottom of the cot for a few more weeks. Midyear is positively up."

"A pity," grieved Nemiet, then pulled the twitching line to shore. It came up empty. "I do love the summers in the valley. It must always be like this in Nibenay."

"More or less," snickered Deeka. "But I don’t like you talking like an old lady with brain fever. You’ll have your northern summers. You’ve still got years to go."

"Don’t know. Don’t even dare trusting that no more."

"Pardon me, but you’ve no choice," said the Argonian, lightly, but with a heart fraught with fear, "the first oath you took is to me, namely to be my fishmate, until all the ponds in Tamriel are depleted, or until we together perish in the attempt. I shall not see you dying a dull, heroic death."

"Thought you liked tall tales," smiled Nemiet crookedly, "but no. It’d be cruel to have the fish listening to what you call poetry all by themselves."

"Ah. But they don’t mind."

After perforating a chunk of what looked remotely like the unreflected eye of a fish and tossing it into the lake, Nemiet became grave. "Hey Deeka?"

"Yes?"

"Why are you still here? It’s nice and all, swear, but... you aren’t never stay this long before."

He was quiet for a still moment. "Remember the year the valley flooded? It rained as if the floodgates of Hell had opened round our necks. You were maybe on your tenth summer," answered he with a question, "e’en then Isran showed none of his mercies to you. Once you came to me, hiding your cuts and your bruises, but I saw them. I said to you, 'Nemiet! Now I will seek out your father and teach him a lesson! You shall never again be so treated!' "

"I remember. Felt so nasty to worry you."

"Or the time you told me you were travelling with him to Haemar’s Shame to hunt the Great Beast. I knew not e’en where it was. Or the nature of the beast. When we were young, your schooling eluded me."

"Eurgh. That cave and the shrine still chills me."

"I remember watching you leave. ‘Tis wonderful, the things you remember when you’ve feared for your little life," spoke he, and Nemiet regarded him piteously, "I was good at playing a big boy."

"So what? You’re here ‘cause you were scared shitless as a child?"

"In part, yes," grinned Deeka wearily, "I left because this was your life and not mine. My thinking was, if one day you would not return, then the pain would be less unbearable if I were someplace else. Which is why I always fled again. To forget is easy when you’re sitting in the fine gardens of Cyrodiil or under a palm tree in Hammerfell, sipping on delicious fresh pomegranate wine in pleasant company. There you can become anyone, be from anywhere. My boyhood need no longer be mine."

Nemiet had been listening in silence. "Ah."

"Yea," laughed he, "it’s hardly worth digesting. The cowardly boy runs away."

"You’re no coward," said the Redguard, searching for her green-blue gaze, "I always thought you were very brave. Still do."

The sun had begun to sink. As it fell, it had burst the flanks of the mountains with a rosy glow. A few wisps of clouds faded dark against it; a gentle breeze was swaying them and the reeds by the waterline. The number of gnats was on the upswing. 

"You were my closest friend," responded Deeka at last, "but I let the world turn you into a hero and me a runner. I rue it each day. It is why I stayed. It is why I’m staying until this war’s ended."

"Deeka."

At last, the Argonian glanced towards his friend. His eyes were sharp and intelligent, but wild with terror. Nemiet curled her arms round his neck and drew him nearer. Her voice was soft, "what dark times have befallen us…"

"Nay," said Deeka, laying his clawed hand on the hunter’s arm. The warmth from inside radiated onto her skin. "Not only us. Times in the world are unchangingly dark. A fresh fear always arises. People forget the old wars and atrocities and allow new ones to occur. No man will rise alone to power. One must have courage. Only I wish we needn’t, sister. If only we needn’t."

The fishing pole between Nemiet’s knees began to wobble. She and Deeka parted in good time: the Redguard would then pull ashore a big perch. The green-skinned, shiny-finned fish was left flopping on the grass. Grief was inevitably replaced by a wide, white-toothed grin. The warmth of the day had not yet forsaken them.

By the time they set off again, the star-studded sky was a pale shade of berry purple. Over the meadows hung orbs of warm yellow light, the last crickets chirped in the grasses. The forest was dark, but against it, like one great structure of cloth, rose the tent city. Earthy fumes still billowed from somewhere, but the sounds of conversation and restless barking had died down. They swirled round the treetops in a ghostly mist.

Nemiet thought of Serana.

So intent was she, bright-eyed as she was in the early hours of the night, that she nearly overlooked the child. From somewhere, a little girl had scampered at her feet. She must have been six, perhaps seven; and Nemiet could see from her dark curls that she was breathing fiercely. Her hands gripped the hem of the hunter’s shirt taut. 

"Easy, there," said she, slightly puzzled, and looked forward towards Deeka. The Argonian shouldered fine four fish. "Where ‘are your folks?"

But the child would only cry. As Nemiet bowed to her, she beckoned towards the edge of the wood, her loose linen shirt fluttering in the wind. "Monster! Monster!" Nemiet’s brow furrowed. She turned to the blackness where the trunks of trees were forming a hungry maw; large stones were its teeth. A throbbing, nameless thrill emerged from the stillness. There were no watchmen in sight.

"You go ahead. Get the fish ready for dryin’," said Nemiet to her friend. "I’ll see her get to her family."

"Right," answered he, clearly displeased with her choice, "only, don’t go into the woods."

"Am still on the mend," smiled Nemiet reassuringly, "I’ve got it."

As the Argonian made his way uphill towards the great gate, Nemiet lifted the tearful girl from the ground and then carried her, on her arms frail from the rest, back to the midst of the camp. The child was of no help. She scarcely listened to the Redguard’s queries, merely chattered on about a monster in a tremulous voice. At the very last, a pallid woman emerged from the caches of a light-coloured tent, with the same black hair framing her face as the one in Nemiet’s arms. It broke out at once into a relieved smile. 

The daughter extended her hand in her mother’s direction. Nemiet offered her the child, then smiled as consolingly as she could. "This belong to you?"

"Thank you, oh thank you," sobbed the woman, and then pressed her head on her shoulder in the throes of great love, "something’s afoot in the forest. A shadow. It scared my Carys."

The edge of the forest was now before her, vast and foreboding. Past the first pine and juniper trees, and the noble growth of fir, the dimness was impermeable. The hair on the nape of Nemiet’s neck stood erect. She was unarmed: her fish-pole, long and sturdy as it was, was of little use in case of a fight. After a day’s exertion, her legs were soft and still bent in a manner that rendered her stride unsteady. Only the bandaging tied tight round her upper chest would keep her spine upright and clear of any discomfort. 

"Would you go and see? Be so kind."

Her plea was sufficient. The uncertainties vanished from Nemiet’s head. For a while, the mother watched the hunter slip away into the dark; then she and her child lay back in their own tent and slept peacefully through their night.

In the trees, the pungent smell of honeysuckle wafted against her face. Heat was trapped in the soil there. The whirling, squawking bugs offered her no respite. There was no path; the ground was densely netted with a variety of low shrubbery. Before long, the ascent grew into a sparsely wooded ridge. The hunter found a footpath, old and seldom used, which led well upwards, winding through moss-covered rocks and towards an abandoned watchtower. 

In the years between the First and the Second Order, years about which Nemiet had precious little knowledge, the valley had been heavily used for smuggling. With the Oblivion Crisis having severed the internal structures of Cyrodiil, and the beginnings of the Civil War breaking apart the good people of Skyrim and scattering them, some viewed these strained relations as an opportunity afresh. It was then when the illicit trade from Morrowind had been at its strongest. Matters had deteriorated to such extents that the Jarl of Riften had himself established in the area a modest garrison. This outpost had remained operational until it emerged that the hired men were themselves complicit in the importation of Skooma, moon sugar, and illegal Dwemer devices. Quietly, the operation had ceased overnight; but the decaying watchtowers and small dwellings were left to haunt those very woods. Growing up, Nemiet and Deeka had played plenty in those very ruins.

In her thoughts, she was clambering, and sweat poured down the creases of her back muscles. Silence fell. Through the green canopy, she saw hither and thither a darkening sky. Even the wind blew not. Nemiet was forgetting the danger that lurked and the reason for her arrival. 

Then, from somewhere, a low bough crackled. Like a startled doe, the Redguard stiffened; her thewing strained, keen eyes seeking a monster in the landscape. There was no movement. This worried her much more than an honest animal. "Who’s there?" asked she, but there was no answer. Overhead, a breeze ruffled the leaves. 

With a sigh of relief, she hurried on her way, when the sound came again; only this time it was from beside her. Frightened, the hunter spun about and threw out her back. In spite of the painful shock that fired upwards, she kicked at the stranger, then thrust her pole against the chest of the snarling woman. The grimace melted from Nemiet’s countenance. She first saw the glossy, untidy black locks that framed the pale neck, the lips that were bloodless, the eyes that scorched through the night as if the sleepy fires in a far-off harbour. Her leaping heart felt newly born. Her gaze was one of fervent longing. 

"It’s you," said Nemiet, her voice hoarse with the anguish of reunion, her eyes roaming over Serana’s mouth, "of course it is. The monster of the wood."

She freed the vampire from her grasp. Serana did not stay rooted. The moment Nemiet lowered her pitiful weapon, she moved in and enveloped herself in her arms. Together, the anguish and the moments of sheer terror experienced at her friend’s body were a seething mass of water lapping at the edges of her ribcage. The two eyes closed. The sounds of the forest merged into one, gentle chord; time dragged on and then turned into a soft circle. The wave’s devastating crest shattered into a million tiny ripples and washed out to sea. 

By the memory of Nemiet, the fading ghost was again flesh.

The watchtower was a plain, rotund stone building that seemed to be rooted into the cliff face as if it were a grape vine. Time had skewed it. Round and round it, up a flight of balustraded stairs, and, at last, through a wooden door which had come loose from its hinges and fallen to the ground to rot among the old leaves, one could reach its sole room. Inside there was virtually nil. A stone table, crumbling at the edges, had been built into the floor; above it was an altar of Talos, in the shape of a small, double-edged axe.

Serana had let Nemiet rely on her for the rest of the journey. The hunter had grown weary. It was the longest she had walked for weeks, a steep, uneven climb at that; but with the vampire’s aid they had made it to the top of the tower. Three narrow windows, carved circular at their summits, provided a view over the forest to the lake. Even though it was dusk, any would-be wanderers’ lanterns would have been readily seen from afar.

Nemiet remained in the doorway, propped up against the stone wall. The Nord passed her, walked to the window and peered out. 

"Cannot believe to see you again. It’s incredible."

"Say no more," spoke Serana, before turning round to regard her friend, "you’ve been little more than a ghost to me over the past few weeks."

"I an’t no spectre."

They were both smiling, with Serana allowing her back to lie against the table. The Redguard had a slight limp until she came to her. 

"If you’ve been around all this while, playin’ the beast and scaring folks off, then why not come and visit me?"

"That was not my intention to scare people," responded the vampire truthfully, "about my visit, whether I was willing or not, you can consult with your esteemed Commander. He made it very clear that I was to be exiled."

Nemiet was watching her in disbelief and grief. "He’s no such power. You saved me. We all owe you a debt of gratitude."

Softly, the hunter’s hand sought out the vampire’s longer, colder digits. They gazed at one another, with Serana staring down through her dark lashes, her bones heavy with sorrow and embitterment, Nemiet upward, brimming with hope and wary felicity. In the small touch there was at once an unquenchable fire and a beatitude, both warm and tender. 

But then the vampire was again averted. Their touch came undone. "That is what I need to talk with you about," said she, gravely, "you will know that the situation is escalating. I’ve little love for him, but even I know when to put any sentiments to one side. What is of greater importance is his cruelty. These people seek shelter. They are in need of it. So why are the walls of the Dawnguard closed to them?"

"No clue," responded Nemiet with honesty, "they don’t seem to me to pose any threat. The town’s filled with children."

"Precisely," muttered Serana, a sharp eye cast down on the tents. "They would fit in the castle with ease. Many halls are nigh deserted."

"And danger stalks outdoors," sighed Nemiet, "what a fool. He don’t realise he’s playin’ the enemy’s side. If there’s an uprising, the guard will collapse."

"People are desperate to save their families. We need do something."

"What do you suggest?"

"Let us enter the tent-town. Hold up their spirits, help soothe the most restless fathers," answered the Nord, "but it only works to start with. You need to address the Commander. Turn it into his idea of letting the crowd in."

"You think it could work?"

"Why would it not?" asked Serana. At last she returned to face the other. As the darkness had fallen, there were long shadows on Nemiet’s cheekbones. "The man fancies you. You may be the only one he’ll listen to besides your father."

Nemiet looked out the window. Over the meadows of lupine drifted light, thin clouds. Her expression hardened only to again become slack. Exhaustion weighed on her limbs. 

Never before had she so longed simply to lay her head on another’s lap and fall asleep in that softness.

"I dreamt of you when you were away."

The words came out gentle and quiet after the ones firm and grey. Serana tensed. Nemiet’s hands, so lovingly slow, grazed the vampire’s flanks. Their gazes were intertwined, but adventured restlessly in the twilight, from one another’s bare throats to the eyes, smothered and truth-bearing, each wanting to ask, are we mad? Is this the much debated, little known, labyrinth called madness?

Nemiet lifted her hand to the vampire’s cold jaw. She rested against it and lowered her coy gaze. 

Their eyes had been kissing for a long time before their mouths first met; Nemiet closed her eyes and foresaw this collision, the last jolt to her flesh. But when the kiss did come, in the shape of Serana’s chillingly wet, rough lips, there was a creepiness in the familiarity of it. She was the meal, the water, the covering over a freezing body. The first hunger quelled and the final hope about to bloom after the horrors of winter. The Redguard’s body, so soft and warm-blooded, thawed in her hands into a swirling mass, which, as the vampire’s fang scraped her lower lip, mingled with a hot spurt of crimson; the taste was searing and acridly sweet on her tongue. On Serana’s brow, a vein was ticking. 

Some ancient One, who had once refused to descend to deliver their mothers from their doom, now beheld their fortunes and saw them come true. 

The following morning, Nemiet awakened with her back pressed against the stone wall, in a sitting posture on the floor of the tower. The birds were twittering, sunlight streamed in through the tiny openings. Serana was nowhere in sight. Wiping the corners of her mouth dry, she returned briefly to her dream, restless and dark, before shaking it fully from her shoulders and rising. 

A tired brown gaze peered across the cloudless sky. The day would be wonderfully warm.

Chapter 18: Sweltering Days

Notes:

Aaand here's a new chapter!! Slowly but surely working through this thinggg. I've been hit with a mental health spiral and my father was injured pretty badly, but I'm getting back on track with publishing I hope. Special thanks to my bestie again for proofreading this one <3 Have fun with it!

Late on that Loredas morning, Nemiet was padding her way back to the fort, along a path flanked by lush lupines and low, berryless clumps of lingonberries, her body still stiff from rest, and now with a nagging ache. The trees about her were hissing, whirring, buzzing and humming. Continuously a hand had to come up to the back of the head to squash a clear-winged visitor. From among the greenness, she would often catch a glimpse of the sparkling lake. The air was stifling. A quilt of thick, glowing heat had descended over the valley. 

With her skin still tingling from the kiss of last night, all that longing embodied and erupted on the floor of that old tower, the Redguard had all the more forgotten of Agmaer. But this illusion, as soft and unexpectedly tranquil as the sky after the rain, was dispelled as she left the forest behind; the sweating meadows were full of his men. Military exercises. The Commander had ordered everyone into the yard. 

And, shifting ever so gently, Nemiet had become her, the armourless one in the midst of the men costumed by the horrors of war, and the violent battle cries, and she no longer had any part or place in what she had once held all her life. 

Among them all, the sunlight glistening on his almost white hair, passed Agmaer. His boyish face had a wide, smug grin; arms draped in a thick, red cloth sat behind his back. Too inexperienced and too young to have even the dignity that age brings, thought Nemiet very glumly as she watched him, too late to realise that perhaps she would have been wiser to slink off. The Nord had come at the end of a strip of grass between the pairs practising. His eyes had circled the field, but then returned to the Redguard and settled, stirring only subtly at the belongings she carried in her hand. The smile narrowed, but not so clearly that any outsider would have necessarily interpreted it as dissatisfaction. The hunter did know. The fist round the pole tightened.

With a nod to his knightly soldiers, Agmaer approached her. Nemiet made not a gesture to move. 

"Where’d you spring from?" asked he, not so much to inquire as to demand; his gaze went all too soon to the Redguard’s throat, an act which made her tug upwards at the collar of her white shirt.

"Woke up early. I was in the mood for a walk."

"Must’ve been a long one, if it took you all night," said he, a doubt in his mind. "That little friend of yours was askin’ for you before. And the rod! What’re you wearing that for?"

"Deeka?" Nemiet ruined any cover with a voice that spoke mainly of dishonest malaise. "There’s a pond in the woods. You can catch bass there and sometimes catfish."

"Oh sure. It’s a pity then, you had to come back empty-handed," said he, glanced round as a thief with the Amulet of Kings in his hand, and then added very quietly, "nought shameful ‘bout finding yourself a man to frolic in the woods with. I an’t no fool. Look at you! Yer practically glowin’."

"It’s only sweat," hurried the Redguard to reply. For a moment it seemed as though Agmaer would keep pushing her, but then the Commander’s grave expression returned to a grin.

"All right, all right," said he, lifting his hands toward the sky in surrender, an act that infuriated Nemiet. "So, you’ve no need to decline my invitation. Let’s go for a dip. I’ll have the boys off duty in no time."

"Sorry. Can’t soak the wounds yet," she soon came to say, and then went on, "we could do the town."

"The heat’s awful," complained he, but then let his shoulders slump in acceptance. "Very well. Isran had wanted me to pick up some cargo anyhow."

Nemiet forced a smile to her face. She could not comprehend when being near Agmaer had become so agonizing, a pulse that struck at the very wrong spot, that swirled in her belly rather than her chest; she so wanted to agree, to nod and call him good thoughts, to say yes, but now, when she had so profoundly changed, she was coming to the understanding that this noble gesture, or even the ghost of a friendship past, she could not sustain. No, not even the olden days could now save them. They had turned yellow and shrivelled at the tips, floating on the autumn’s ripening, dew-rotted grass. To smile was lighter than any word she could utter in return—and that was not to say that she did not, at times, very much desire to crush his nose with a fist of her own and to see the grief unfold as it had in her.

"If it gets you off my back, I’ll help."

Agmaer was laughing, the kind of laugh that only a clueless, self-important man could laugh; it was dry and coarse, but cracked not. "As you really want me to. Come on. Let’s get goin’."

About an hour later, they were trudging together through nature quieted. Nemiet’s stride was light, unencumbered by armour and the obligations of work, yet soft, deliberate. At her shoulder, Agmaer marched a warlord on his way to battle, with his army outmanned and his enemy downtrodden. The scent of fear made the eyes glisten in a primitive pleasure; only the gilded chalice of glory lacked from the fingers. Beasts, both great and small, tenaciously stayed in their many burrows and nesting holes. Those footfalls, ponderous and noisy, seemed to frighten even the boldest of creatures; the only critter that the Redguard made out before it was lost and merged with the bark of the trees was the grey squirrel that swept past. In these few remaining, sheltered places, where the leaves and the crowns of wild hay were golden against the dark of the forest, a pleasant, tender dream stole into her mind, where two bodies, hers and Serana’s, lay at rest in the tall grass. So beautiful and kind was the image, so chilling and yet so warm, the flutter of a butterfly’s wing and the thunder of a horse’s hoof on the plain, that she would not let go of it until the valley and all its bounties were well behind them, and the day had sunk into the blue expanse of the Rift.

As they stepped aside from the paving on the main road, and stomped over fallen branches and dry mounds, the man began to speak again. "Have you spoken to your pa?"

"Huh?"

"Aye," said Agmaer. "When you were gone, we went on a couple of jobs together. Few clearances, a mole in Jarl’s court. Y’know, grunt work. But I sure had fun. Felt almost like his own boy."

The Redguard flinched. "How nice."

"A chatty one, you," he remarked, and took support from the flaking trunk of a birch as he was about to topple over, "could at least tell me about your own travels. Were you at our base in the north? What’s new?"

"There was no time to stop by," replied Nemiet. Now and then she would glance at the side of the Nord’s face, his straight nose with a wide, round tip, his beard growing. What an unsightly man, thought she, repulsive . "See, I’ve been thinkin’ bout those refugees."

"No need to worry your head with that," replied Agmaer. Rather than allowing the other to continue, he was quick, yet not very graceful, in changing the subject in hand, "old man said he’d be at the market today. Think we’d have time to grab an ale before we’ve got to meet ‘im? Don’t fancy going to the tavern later when the place is crawling with drunkards."

"Not sure if I’m in the mood to drink," said Nemiet with honesty. On the rocky hill, the parched grass broke under the boots. " Those people outside, Agmaer . We’ve got to do something."

Agmaer gave a sigh of displeasure. "They’ve got a damn army on ‘em. What more could they possibly need?"

"Are you not the commander? I suppose it might be a help that they don’t feel like they’re the ones that need guarding ‘cause you fear them."

"Me? Afeared of a few babes, whoring mothers and aliens?" asked he, closer to igniting anger than the dry meadow that drew fire. "Who feeds you this shite? Is it Gunmar? Never really liked me, that one."

"No one does," hurried Nemiet to clarify, "they’re terrified. You can see that, can’t you?"

The Nord turned solemn. "They’re smart to be," said he, "got word at the meeting that a black day is coming. The goddamn sun’s goin’ out! Of course it had to be at a time like this. Fangs’ve been sunk into half the province."

"A-" echoed her, and then fell into a brief, careworn silence. Seldom did she hear it referred to by that name: in the vernacular it was merely an eclipse, a vampire’s day. A day in which each being that drew his strength from the lords of Daedra was no longer himself, a day of animal madness and famine; a day when shadows lurked and not even the town was a refuge. Under ordinary circumstances, it had been a day full of work. They had often been posted round Skyrim to be on duty a week before. In a way routine, as with all abominations. Only now Nemiet, with a new, heavier heartbeat in the back of her throat, dared not venture a guess as to its meaning. "When? Do you know for sure?"

"When was the astrologer ever wrong?" Agmaer asked back sternly. "In a couple of days. Tricky to say for sure."

"Then you have to have them inside the walls for shelter, and you’ve got to do it soon," spoke Nemiet. "You cannot leave them to their fate! They cannot withstand a single invasion! As their herder you have a responsibility, Agmaer-"

They both halted under the hill, in an arid thicket, where the sun now barely shone; it was shielded by the rustling leaves of the trees. There was a light breeze. 

"Aye. Mine responsibility is to make the crappy choices so the others don’t got to," said he, "you have said it yourself: cannot get whiny about these things. It’s our people I’m thinkin’ of."

"We’ve got a code. Soldiers must not pursue their self-interest, but place themselves first of all at the service of the public."

"Hear," said Agmaer in a strict, perhaps hostile tone, and pointed his gloved finger at her; now it became hopeless for Nemiet to escape his icy stare, which pierced as deep and thorough as an auger. But the smaller hunter did not let herself fade or falter, simply stood and took what was coming. In her brown eyes, a fury sat. When he did continue, his voice was oppressive, and told her, more of all, that his actions were not to be condemned, and that he would not heed a lesser one, "it’s nice that you’re tryin’ to help, but whilst you were off playing the grand hero all round, things here changed. Now times are a fuck lot tougher. Your guilt don’t make you no better than me. There will be casualties. You’ve got to beat that sissy out of you if you want to be useful. Can you?"

"They are people, Agmaer."

"And so are we. I an’t no monster. Yer forgetting the real enemy," said he in conclusion, his gaze still unrelenting, "don’t you forget who that is."

The Redguard regarded him partly with appalled fascination, and partly with dismay, for if Agmaer was caring, or even a little doubting of his own words, there was no sign of it in him. His last breath smelled of stale booze and something musty, rancid. Then he passed her, his gaze darting north, where there were travellers on the road; between the sun-gilt foliage, the weather-beaten wooden ramparts of Riften stood out. On either side of them, the green grain had begun to turn red. He expected her to follow, and follow him she did; but for the remaining journey they spoke only little, and all their words were curt and devoid of meaning, movements stiff and thick with vexation. And, after their swift return to the fort, and having left the delivery of goods (chiefly spices; Nemiet could not recall their last receipt of fruit or other luxuries from other provinces) in the kitchen, she woke to the awareness that it was still a young day, and that, as she waited for nightfall, she might die many more a time. 

And, for the first relieving time, Agmaer made no gesture to stay in her company.

In the north, when summer was at its peak or newly burst, the sun hardly ever dipped below the treetops; but, even where the light was unyielding, a faint twilight would always creep into the sky late at night. It was what Nemiet would wait for in her room, reading the Bestiary concentrationlessly, tapping a well-worn leather cover and, now and again, peering out of the gray window. Already the room had gathered a new dust. On the table sat a dimly shining bottle of wine. Her senses, those restless animals that only calmed when the alcohol settled at the bottom of her veins, were racing and rearing their heads. Interference . The little word, the irresistibility of which she had been cautioned against all her young life. In the beginning, all her attentions had been on religion, forged in the fiery hearts of crisis, then polished to lustre by the hands of fearful men; Stendarr spoke only to the patient, to those who obediently waited and acted in His name and without demand. The presence of God remained even after her mother had died, but Isran shaped for himself the right to train his daughter for her new work, for her fresh, undisturbed duty to defend the innocent, to slaughter as her own people had done. There had never been a place for dissent, and time had beaten even the will for it out of her, before Dimhollow at any rate. And now, as she left, though it was still too early, and though the sky had only moments before flushed red with the praise of the moons, she did not think herself distracted. No, though her desire to see Serana was greater than she had before feared; no, if that night it made her forget for the first time her prayers and the commitments of her former life. All at once no other thing signified but that her heart should again drink greedily from that fountain, that which was her highly unplanned lover.

When she left the main doors, quiet, the bottle in hand, the air was still warm. From somewhere on the lake, there was the rising cry of a loon. A pale blue blanket of clouds had slid over the mountains, and behind it the sky was the color of soft salmon flesh, the highest, rounded peaks tinted red against the dull background. In the thinner places, the sun’s rays pushed out in lighter streaks. One day the heat would come back and take its toll. They would then be struck by a thunderstorm unprecedented, one that would chase the hardiest of woodsmen into his hut, and, as giant bolts of lightning would flicker and slice through the black sky, and in doing so frighten the children of the town and any thief living in the sewers under it; but the time was not quite mature yet. This evening still was mellow, agreeable, an embrace in which to settle after the foulest scorch had passed, with a gentle air and all the proud, stalwart scents of summer. 

The Redguard looked round, but saw no one near, no guard before the valley sloped down. There, they loitered about the stew-pot as a herd of domesticated horses, now and then a fit of laughter racing up and through the woods, where it startled some crow. Only the wind answered its frantic shrieking. It ruffled her loose, white undershirt, with the hem tucked into her trousers, the neckline left casually unbuttoned, and the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. The remnants of wine tingled Nemiet’s face and made the skin glow; it was only her eyes that twinkled brighter and more playful.

Rather than leaving through the gate at the front, Nemiet veered off the path to the east, to a spot where the palisade was never manned. Not a figure could be seen over the post-tops now. Where the attention was seldom drawn, the virgin wood had been so severely decayed, owing to the shade, that part of it had been felled. Someone had, of course, been intending to have it repaired, but she could not recall whose task it had been, and suspected they had all forgotten anyhow, so distant and foreign to the eye was this small opening, its nullity proving to be the hunter’s good fortune. She bent down, squeezed her frame through the gap, until she was truly free—free from what, it was perhaps a question of simple perspective, be it the walls of the fortress or a more visceral, more intimate burden, the expectations placed on her, any life planted in the rich soil of her soul. Already, at the moment of liberation, she was running through the shadow-ridden night, first on the grass for as long as it would last beneath her feet, then plunging into the trees, where the lack of a path and the undergrowth were all that slowed her, and each war-scar and arrow-torn canyon faded out of her mind like a waking dream. 

Her running was reduced to a deer-like leap and then to a brisk walk. The low thicket and shrub raked tiny wounds over her flat footwear, and the light bleeding would alert her friend, probably it would; she would pause for a breath, and through the canopy of pines having chiefly overtaken her vision she could catch a glimpse of the tall watchtowers of Dawnguard. A handful of golden lanterns were burning on the platform. The woods grew silent about her. Even the crickets ceased their chirping, stilling to listen to her shallow breathings, a heart that was ticking dense. For the rest of her days, she would imagine that she was invisible then, and that no one had seen her leaving, that perhaps this sudden discreetness was a divine gift, a permission to indulge her true nature, a gentle steering and movement of the hand in the right direction.

Before long, she was content to walk up a small path which she knew to be near. So narrow was it that she could only fit one foot on it at a time, but she had been exploring that forest alone and with Deeka since she was a little girl, and there were not many stones on its southern edge which she had not turned over a thousandfold; she could have sworn that she would have noticed a branch hanging a little nearer the earth if only its weight had shifted. She had indeed come back from a nightmare so dark, returned and wandered backward to her childhood. There it had been, somewhere in the roots of the woodrush and the fir, not dead but dormant, awaiting her call, and now Nemiet was grinning, white teeth bared, as she strode up the bare slope.

The old watchtower was where it had stood the previous day. There were no lights within; the structure was empty and dreary, dark against the gloom of the night. Disappointment flickered through Nemiet’s head. Her gaze was left alone to roam the valley floor, the distant sources of illumination, the movement of people, the small sun that hung over the sky. Hands stiff on her hips, the Redguard let her hot, quivering muscles go limp and cool from the running and the wine. Rather than climbing in, she then trampled the long grass in front, plopping down on it. The soft earth gave way beneath a clumsy body. 

Nemiet had already fallen asleep when Serana came. So startled was she by the tender awakening she almost tipped over the bottle in her hand, but fought to hold on; in the end, only a little of the drink spilled, and the hunter soon settled at the sight of her friend. "Thought you were not coming," she would mutter indistinctly, suddenly flustered before the bewitching smirk, "I, ah… it’s so good to see you right now."

The Nord’s two eyes were bright, they shone faintly like an animal’s, constructed little beams of light in the dark. "Of course I would come," said she, with an air of promise, "but I imagine an exile must be very careful with where she goes. A pale woman in the woods after dark is no inconspicuous thing."

"Aye," said Nemiet, "wish you could be with me out there too."

"But what of you? Is the drink any good?"

She took a quick look at the bottle she was holding, then shrugged. "Well, it works. I was never a day drinker. Shit’s all over the place."

"To put it mildly," said Serana, "did you hear there was a scuffle in the camp the other night? I heard a guard complain that a man had spat in his eye. I have my doubts."

"Well, most of the folks at the Order are pretty decent. But these new recruits from Agmaer, about them I wouldn’t speak for."

The vampire tensed, was expectant. Her posture became rigid. "Have you had a chance to talk to him?"

Nemiet gave a sigh exposing her displeasure, an ill feeling sitting at her breast. "Yea, sure. But naught came of it."

"Tell me."

So she told her; the story was not very long, and it became all the less sophisticated as it poured out of her mouth a second time. Serana sat beside her on the ground, with her long legs curled up against her chest, with her chin between her knees and her fingers drumming a restless beat on her cloak-covered shoulder. Not one word did she insert into the Redguard report. The warmth of the day had receded. The summer night was overflowing with peace, alive with the muffled sound of insects and smudged shadows, the subtle light of celestial bodies and the scent of willow. The grass bank was a kind of bed, warm with the residue of the sun’s body and soft, drowsy. It hid their every inch from the eyes of this world.

"That’s all," ended Nemiet, and twirled a long blade of grass round her finger, "makes me feel so goddamn daft. As if my word no longer had any weight. It’s funny, I suppose, how quickly you can lose your whole life’s purpose."

But Serana remained quiet. The hunter glanced at her from under her brow, swift and cautious, and caught the absence; her eyes were narrowed, one hand in her pocket, rolling over something. She was very worried, and began to wonder if it had been wise to tell the truth after all, until the vampire reluctantly tore her gaze from the distant mountain range, and then looked at her, red eyes as poison. Kindness was not in them. 

"No, you are no fool," spat she then, "The Commander has gone mad. We must do something: that much is clear. Only I have no means of how. Perhaps the only way to stop him is through force."

She made a quick, tugging move to leave, but Nemiet called out to her and, even if Serana could have with ease freed herself from that delicate plea, there was something in the voice that caused her to stay. "No, don’t go, I…" The vampire turned round to face her, the harsh air easing, her anger subsiding, she looked at the Redguard, whose expression was soft around the edges and worrying, mellowed with alcohol. She took a new, thirsty sip from her bottle and then wiped her runny mouth, gazing elsewhere and regretting silently, "sorry, really. Just wish you’d stay."

The vampire returned to her side, still restless, her thoughts as heavy as a sky that waited for rain,"I very much wish to change the subject."

"Yea, sure," replied Nemiet awkwardly, "I can make up a story, or two, but they won’t be any good, not with my imagination. Ah, but I could also keep on moanin’ about things. Whatever the lady likes."

Unexpectedly, she would respond with a question, "how is your shoulder?"

The hunter glanced down, even though much of the clean bandage was hidden by her shirt, "er, it goes. Keep forgetting that I was hurt." 

"Well, we must take the good where it comes," said Serana in slight relief, "who knows. Maybe we will be on the road again soon."

"Yea, I don’t know," said Nemiet thoughtfully, still looking at her hands, the hardened lumps under her fingers, "Florentius says it is too early to do nothing. I cannot work out why. I think he may know more than he lets on."

"Caution is a good thing. I simply do not know how much more we can afford."

"For my part, we could leave right now. I feel fine. But something about his behaviour makes me wary," added the Redguard, "is as if he were expecting a collapse coming. A closed wound won’t just split open like that, will it? Yet he insists on a physical every other morning."

"Could be your father’s doings," mused Serana, "almost losing you must be keeping him awake at night."

"You cannot know that," responded Nemiet, "as far as I know, things are the same as they were before. Sometimes you get injured in fight. No use weepin’. You know that joining the Order requires surviving the Trial of Guinevere? It’s a month-long fast, the month that a wild vampire clan laid siege to Guinevere Light-Bringer in her watchtower. The ruins are near here. No food parcels could be delivered to her men, who, as the legend has it, spent all their time praying and drawing strength for battle from the mercy of the Gods."

"Must be a local legend," grunted Serana, but still asked her to continue, "then what happened to her? Your Stendarr came from the heavens to thank her for her undying loyalty and perseverance and brought her a gift of gold-plated armour?"

"Not quite," laughed Nemiet, "don’t think many of them even prayed to ‘im. He is a remnant of the Vigil. But Guinevere, and her men, they did forge a way to their survival. See, one dawn, malnourished and weary, the Light-Bringer led her army to an empty fortress, which they then occupied. They discovered silver weapons and, in the recently abandoned place, still warm, scraps of food and water. Since it was built to keep out vampires, they were safe, and soon the tribe was off in pursuit of a new prey."

"Ah. Your tale misjudges the patience and tenacity of my people. When you have endless time, you will want to bring matters to a close, however many decades it may take. But, again, the Volkihars are a particularly cruel and calculating tribe. The little peasant clans may not be able to reach that same potency."

"Well," said Nemiet, and spread her arms to support her story, "years later, Guinevere was murdered on a morning round. An unhurried, quiet day. Not even a vampire, but an ordinary, inexperienced mugger. As a child, this story would always scare me, in a way. That you can never guess at what is going to take you down: that maybe it won’t be you on your big mission, but some very different thing, a knife not worth expecting."

"You are afraid of strange things, Taher," spoke Serana, "Death is still Death, even if it is clothed in white."

"It’s still out of our hands to decide," replied the Redguard calmly, a queer feeling in her heart as she unfolded, so tenderly, that she could easily have been torn from her arms and legs and pulled asunder, "I suppose all living things fear it. And yes, that does include me. But doesn’t all the evil in this world come from a lack of adequacy? That no amount of coin is enough, no amount of time given to you."

The vampire was briefly silent. 

Nemiet drew a deep breath of fresh air, with the mild scent of alder smoke and thick mulch, "so much for that. Now we can consider our real problem."

Serana had a questioning chuckle. "The real one?"

"How do I tell my father that his daughter might be a homosexual?"

"Darling," jested the Nord, "you are twenty-five years old and have never been with a boy."

"I never told you that." 

"But the look on your face tells me I was right."

"As if there were plenty of boys—or girls—round my age to be had," confessed Nemiet, "I had only Deeka, later a few young ones, but none that would stay. And I was in service from the age of sixteen. Leaves little time for infatuation and young lovin’."

"I cannot say that I would not understand," said Serana, with a mirthless smile, more like a lift of the corners of the mouth, "I was wedded to Molag Bal. One of His many wives, or His many slaves. So I’ve no wish of marrying. Or any commitment, really. I am only sad, I think, that the idea of it was ruined for me in the hands of others, and so very early. That they have made of me a monster that is unfit for most anywheres."

"No, that’s all right. Wedlock’s such an old-fashioned union anywho," answered the Redguard, "you are no monster. You are an innocent, terrified like a kid, and you are my friend. Even the parts of you that you believe have been tainted by some past happening."

"You must not see me for what I truly am."

She gazed then, with eyes wide and gentle, at her fanged companion, her heart tugging at its strings in exuberance, her face aglow with warmth. Yes, she thought she knew: Serana was the most exquisite creature she had ever beheld in all her years; her beauty was greater than the curve of the waterfall and the flight of the many a red robin, the moment when the flock lay splattered against the grey sky as mere drops of blood. Even in the twilight, in the darkness of her robe and in her worn shelter, she could tell the slanting curve of her mouth and the eyes, eyes that were intelligent or hungry, unfamiliar, the black curls of her hair. Perhaps it was for this, perhaps out of incautiousness, that Nemiet was obedient to this stranger, because she was, before all else, a wild one, no less than a crop that did not grow only at the will of its sower, wild as a dog that could turn on its owner when hungry; half untamed, half out of reach, beyond her reach too. 

"But I do see! Havin’ you makes it all seem simple. I have you, and you have me. For that, all I can be is gladsome."

As the hunter grinned, her cheeks rounded in a manner that made even the inwardly vampire believe in better days. None had come as near the white, sun-drenched bedroom window, all that beautiful simplicity that was good and alive. At once aching, wistful and beckoning, it was a vision of what she had never known herself to crave; and she saw for the first time phantom dreams of what she was losing in the flimsy, precarious heart of mortality. The warmth, a bond of belonging stronger than all the Gods in the sky, an alluring brightness. She raised a pale palm to her lips and cupped it to her bottom teeth, laughing all the while, feeling embarrassingly tall-limbed and unseemly, but then gazing intently into those brown eyes, undaunted by any adversity, still gentle, always faithful to her. Neither of them thought then that they had sacrificed any for the other, not even in the tempests of Oblivion, not even in the jaws of a dragon. If that was not love, with all its tenderness and bruised skin, its tattered clothing and tearful eyes, she did not know which could ever be. 

But it was not on its lonesome; something large and dark loomed over it, with eyes more bright than the stars drooping nigh, a blackness more gaping than the Void, and it thirsted only to satisfy its appetite. 

The taste of Nemiet returned to Serana’s tongue; each tooth between her back molars ached to the core of her jawbone. It made the lie vain. She would glance down at her fingernails, milled short, gridded with white lines, unkempt. Beneath them, black, leathery skin peeked out. "For a former child soldier, you are quite endearing." What she intended to use was naive , but, of course, did not. It would have fitted oddly into her mouth.

"Thank you, I guess," laughed the Redguard, gruffly, from the pit of her stomach, so that it lightly wavered. "Forget the troubles for now. Want a drink?"

For a moment, the vampire looked amusedly towards the bottle the hunter was trying to offer her, the selling point being a slight waving motion that caused the beverage at the base to glisten.

"Not that old, warm liquor does not appeal," she said with a joke, "but it will not be of much use. I do not imbibe."

"You don’t imbibe," repeated Nemiet with interest, "fun. How come it’s not been mentioned in the book? It’d make for a hilarious finishing sentence."

"Yes, well," laughed Serana, "I do not believe the author ever sat at the vampire’s table to ask how they liked their drinking."

The hunter fell silent. The idea had been in her head before: Deeka would sometimes tease her about it still. No longer was she looking squarely at Serana, but ahead, across the undulating grasslands and the sharp tree-tops with branches like coronets, across all to which she felt she belonged and owned her battle. She released a heavy sigh and then asked, disguising her question as a banter, albeit one that sent her blood surging madly through the rivers of her veins, to overflow, and which, when it came, felt more like a confession than an inquiry, "what if you were to drink from me now? What’d come of it?"

"Nemiet, I-"

"Save your breath. Take it in a hypothetical spirit."

"I cannot say," admitted Serana, but was now dreaming of other things, feeling her consciousness blurring in the middle and her vision blackening, silently cursing her own self. "But yes, composition does have quite the effect. The blood of a sugar-sweetened maid will be richer than that of a peasant."

"Oh-kay," Nemiet said, and deliberately breathed tensely on the word, "no. There is nothin’ more to lose. Maybe my place on Stendarr’s bosom, if I ever had one. But I don’t care. I’m already a woman lost, to them I am."

Her gaze wandered off. Her supple neck arched so that its apex was perfectly open, uncovered and free for the taking. Her mood was emboldened by that call of the blood, that compelling song, the one that made the vein throb on the surface over her clavicle. Serana felt the heat crackle in her mouth. The timing was all wrong. The eclipse was approaching, she had been unknowingly sensing its presence for the past week, she was angered and worn and famished, and the flavour of righteous flesh was known to her. Bending closer to Nemiet, she had made a promise not to part her lips; but, on reaching the skin, she had already reneged on her own vow, grabbed her lover by the chin and allowed her nails to drag lightly against her skin. The hunter had long forgotten the risks of illness and the certain scars. In her little drunkenness, she made no sound, only leaned on the cold palm and soaked in one last afterglow of the sun before pressing close her eyes. For, her mouth quivering with despair, Serana would plant a kiss on her rippling neck, damp with light sweat; it was a tender sign of death, the wolf’s tongue on the rabbit’s stained fur before wringing its neck, and the crunch of bones did not torment its mind.

If the kiss was a dim, hazy dream, the teeth were an awakening to the grey, battered stone ceiling and rain-whipped glass. Soon the first pain left her. In the moment of the gorging, naught was terrible to Nemiet, the aching washed out in favour of an overpowering calm, and there was no resistance in her muscle; no, her neck yielded sheepishly to the long, white canine. A weary, ponderous sigh erupted from her lips. Her head had been spinning for hours, all that bickering and waiting and stale wine, but Serana drank greedily and incessantly, and her thirst was proving to be almost the end of the woman under her. Nemiet’s fluttering eyelids began to show her blotches of red and orange, which would widen and then fade away, but when they were gone they would flare up again, all the more brilliant. Her body went flaccid and soon lay only in the arms of the vampire, devoid of any autonomous power, drowsy, thoughtless, until she at last realized to remove her insatiable mouth and look at the fruits of her labor, a fresh red mark on her pearly skin.

Nemiet opened her swiveling eyes. Her hand had come loose from the bottle and was now fumbling with Serana’s clothes, clutching at them as if about to fall. The Nord’s crimson eyes were glowing as again they lazily kissed. Her heart beat so closely against her paper-thin skin that she could not resist feeling its every whim. Long digits scraped down the ribs. Nemiet’s shirt inadvertently lifted. And she was laughing, a tired, chest-echo laughter that came between kisses, and she could not quite believe she was; Serana was upon her, a tall shape against the waning summer night. The hunter would scarcely have resented it if she had admitted then her desire to thrust her fingers under her breastbone and excavate her trembling heart, sputtering still, before swallowing it whole, tasting on the way down any fragile wish or craving she had hitherto harboured.

"See," said the Redguard then, her breath hitching in her throat, her voice faint and low, "not so bad then."

Even as Serana’s every human instinct was pulling her aside, all she did was grin and shake her head in a lie. The line had now been ruthlessly broken. To cross it again would no more require anything of her, and in one silver flash, the world had become for her an honest door.

It dawned slowly and languidly on Sundas. The valley beyond Nemiet’s window was still shrouded in a blue haze when she awakened. Since she was not their Captain now, and—it had begun to strongly look and feel this way—she no further had a part to play within the Order, she would simply roll over, and let a weak snore clear her throat. But, as her mind’s footstep was moving back from waking to the unlit edge of sleep, she found her body roused anew. The sound was small, light, but unquestionably deliberate: a peck-peck-peck. Disgruntled, she spun round to the side of her bed, and then lifted herself upright to see the intruder. All she could see, however, was a solitary white-collared magpie tapping a tiny seed against the glass to crack its skin. For a moment it stared at her straight through the window, its head turned, its round brown eye knowing, cawed once, and flew out; but there was something in its keen, age-old gaze which had already made Nemiet’s flesh crawl.

Perhaps it already knew: that night Serana was a taciturn woman.

"Hear," said she, staring expressionless out of the watchtower’s window, and the hunter could not tell where the eye was truly fixed, "ever wonder how far you would go if you knew it was right?"

Before them, a table was laden with paperwork. Old, yellowed maps, the authenticity of which they had no knowledge; a list of people in the name of the Dawnguard, from rowmen to Commanders and Drill Instructors, of neutral parties; trading documents. Deadened routes of commerce, likely nesting sites, and poorly guarded stakeout sites had been drawn over and circled. It was then that Nemiet was sitting on a low ledge jutting out from the slate wall, the structure overhead having crumbled to the floor among the old leaves. She let the brittle book in her hand sink lower, and, shrugging her good shoulder, regarded the vampire with a questioning grin.

"Which way is the wind now?"

But the Nord would not join her in her laughter. The corners of her mouth were still as she cast a long, dark look at the hunter, and she noted the ruddy whites of her eye, with black, lightless isles floating in their midst. Fatigue had made the veins in her statuesque face bulge. "If only you could ever answer the question."

What had pushed her into such a corner?

Nemiet would cough to clear her throat, her voice tinged with a hurt. "Pardon me, Gods’ sake," responded she, "well, I do want to think that I am capable of the hard deed. After all, I’ve been the Captain for many years. No getting away from head trouble."

"Yes, yes," replied Serana, hastily, with a somewhat troubled air, "but what is the hard one? Would you slay one of yours to spare a beast’s life if he were guiltless?"

"You mean to ask, will loyalty to the Order outweigh justice," replied Nemiet, thoughtfully, but then shook her head. "No, of course not. And you shouldn’t got to worry. I an’t no one no more, and I an’t in charge of nothin’."

Serana did not respond. Her gaze was again on the map of the valley, its darkened and eaten lines.

"Serana?"

"Hmm?"

"If you have any next plan, will you promise to tell of it?"

The vampire let her shoulders drop as she peered out. "I don’t have one."

"Promise to me."

"All right, if that calms you," she replied at length, grudgingly, and with no honesty either, "I promise."

Half from tiredness, half from the will of faith, Nemiet was content with this, for she was used at least to promises being kept, if only to a certain extent; but there was naught that would have prepared her for the day of the eclipse.