Dragon From Ash - Legacy (Not Updated) - Chapter 14 - Mortigaunt (2024)

Chapter Text

To my beloved cousin Alottiana Insward,

As you know, in my last letter I made mention of my intent to travel to Solitude by way of Markarth via the Druadach passes. Unfortunately, it seems the Reachmen are once more rearing their ugly heads, so I found a sea captain bound for Solitude, one willing to offer me a spare bunking in exchange for a truly absurd sum of gold. So, now rather than regaling you with tales of mountain travel, I have instead a tale of the sea!

Nowhere is the Sea of Ghosts more aptly named than in western Haafingar. I have travelled from Necrom to Daggerfall, and always some sign of civilization, brutish or primitive as it might be, makes itself known to the astute eye. So, when I tell you, dear cousin, that between the last watch-tower of Jehanna and the furthest of the Solitude Lighthouses there is nothing but wilderness to be found, I pray you take my meaning in the spirit with which it is intended, and not merely the fancy of an old writer.

Five days I spent on the good ship Breath of Kyne, bound for Solitude out of Farrun, and for three of them we passed only virgin coastline, all but unmarred by the hand of man or elf. The history books tell me there were once kingdoms here, but I could find no trace of them save for a few crumbling ruins that could be mistaken for hillocks or landslides by the unwary observer. I searched in vain for giants or mammoths, but the captain said they would not come this far north, as food was far too scarce. Of the mythical dragons and sky-whales, of course, there was no sign, though I admit I passed more than a few idle moments hoping to spy one dancing amidst some distant clouds.

I would have counted the entire thing a great waste of time and lamented my fate in being denied the Druadach ranges, were it not for a most perplexing affliction which befell me on the third day out of port, right after we passed the ruined keep the Nords call Northpoint (An exception to my description of the region, I confess, as Northwatch has stood the test of time somewhat well. Do forgive my earlier statement, Lottie, but that turn of phrase was simply too good to pass up). As you know, dear cousin, I am only a neophyte in matters of magic, and so I was unable to pinpoint exactly what sorcery was at work, but I feel confident in stating that my malady was not of merely mundane origin. It struck me suddenly, sending me into my hammock for the better part of the day, before leaving just as quickly not twenty-four hours after it had first struck. I was able to spy only fog about our ship, and the wind itself seemed to blow strangely, though whether these derive from the same cause or were sheer and unfortunate coincidence, I can only speculate. I find myself unable to recall large portions of the night, though I am confident I did not sleep, if my fatigue the next day was any indication.

Many among the sailors seemed similarly afflicted, and one fellow even fell overboard! At least, that is what the captain says happened. Some of the more superstitious of the crew, crude Nords from Solitude and the surrounding villages, made signs to ward off evil and whispered of the Volkihar, the frozen vampires of the North Sea, who can turn themselves into fog and ride the cold winds from dusk to dawn. I am unqualified to offer statement on these rumors, but I will say that I did not happily venture above decks again until the lights of Solitude were visible and a cutter from the selfsame city was guiding us in.

I shall not trouble you further with the details of my illness or the remainder of the voyage—which was uneventful, I hasten to add—and shall only note the strangeness of it all. However, dear Lottie, I would not, were I you, travel that stretch of coastline when the cold winds are blowing. Let the Ghosts have their Sea, my dear, and stick to your orchards.

I shall write you again when I reach Whiterun, hopefully with a story or two about ancient Labyrinthian to tell!

Best Always,

Jamas Aldwyr, Explorer and Author

Penned in Solitude, Year of Akatosh 3E 332

Letter 141, Collected Works of the Aldwyr Correspondences

The boatman had been polite until the moment Velandryn handed over the coins. He had scurried off somewhere to stow the purse away, and upon his return the comments had started. "She didn't say you'd be an elf!" "Should've asked your business, more fool me." As they cast off, he abandoned comments for suspicious looks, and Velandryn soon found himself wondering how long it would have taken to simply learn to sail instead. I could have gotten a boat for less than I've paid this fool.

This Nord Jolf that Serana had found was not quite the travelling companion for which Velandryn would have liked to trade Lydia. Serana, for her part, had obviously been surprised to learn that his housecarl wouldn't be joining them but had not, as of yet, inquired into it.

It had not been an altogether pleasant parting. Lydia had been heaping advice on him until the moment the door closed behind her, and now he felt oddly naked without the big Nord at his side. Still, he knew it was the right decision. He was putting himself in a slightly more vulnerable position for the immediate future, but sending Lydia to meet him at the base of the Throat of the World by routing her through Morrowind and Castle Dawnguard allowed him to set necessary plans in motion. Anonymity would not shield him forever, and an elf in Skyrim needed powerful allies, even—or perhaps especially—if that elf was Dragonborn. However, even if he could secure allies—and whether those were allies of conviction or convenience was another concern entirely— among the mighty of Skyrim, his troubles would not end there. Whether it was the Empire, Stormcloaks, or the jarls, all would doubtless seek to use the Dragonborn to advance their own goals. He would need to balance their desires and weaknesses, playing them off one another long enough to do…something. He didn't know what it was he needed, or how this whole thing would end, but he risked living forever in this state of off-balance servitude. He could all too easily become a pawn in larger games, dancing to the songs of others, if he failed to take hold of his destiny now. So, he had sent Lydia away, and with luck he had not made a terrible mistake.

For now, however, Velandryn was alone with Serana and this Jolf character. Their little boat had left the dock some minutes before, and now they were passing beneath Solitude; the bulk of the enormous arch above them was grand on a scale that Velandryn was having more than a little difficulty comprehending. This close to midday, the sun was hidden from view, the ancient city casting a strange twilight on this shadowed patch of sea. Even he had to admit that the scene was magnificent, and the breath caught in his throat as the arch fell away and they sailed into the frigid, brilliant air of the Sea of Ghosts.

Jolf was manning the sails on his little boat well enough without any help, so Velandryn had plenty of time to watch the passing scenery. North of Solitude, the distant eastern shore was icy marsh and desolate expanse, while the western along which they sailed was mountainous forest dotted with isolated farms and stone ruins. It seemed that the same great mountains that had shaped the arch of Solitude gave the northern coast of the Haafingar region its character. As Velandryn watched the outskirts of the great city dwindle away, he glanced over at Serana, but the vampire was sitting quietly and watching the passing shore as well, so he let her be.

Some hours later, the ship had swung west, and now that same mountainous expanse was to their left. They passed mile upon mile of rugged forest and snow-lined beaches, seemingly two of the few things Haafingar Hold had to offer other than its single great city. Here and there clusters of houses squatted on the water's edge, fishing villages likely too small even to be listed on maps of the region. In Morrowind, the only record of their existence would have been on census forms, where they would have been marked with miniscule dots and vague estimations of population.

To the south, a stone lighthouse stood high atop sheer cliffs rising from the water. Across the boat, Serana's hooded head swung to look at it, and then she rose and moved to sit beside him. "That's the Light of Solitude. It's been there for—" she broke off and glanced at Jolf, sitting with his hand on the till, or whatever it was called, then continued, slightly more quietly, "a very long time."

In that case, it truly was old. The name amused him, though. "At least the naming here is consistent. The Light of Solitude, to the northwest of the city of Solitude."

Under her hood, Serana's smile held just a hint of mockery. "And do you know why that is? I can tell you, you know."

He wondered if her story was still known in this day and age. "Nothing would give me more joy, especially if nobody else in this age knows."

She smiled. "I make no promises." She glanced over at Jolf, and waved a hand. The sounds around them grew muted, and Velandryn found himself wondering at the spell. Fields of silence were difficult, and she had cast it without apparent thought or effort. They could talk without being heard now, though, and clearly that mattered to the vampire.

She settled herself into her seat, adjusting her cloak about her shoulders and pulling the cowl of her hood further over her face. Beneath it, her pale skin stood out against the darkness and her golden eyes shone brightly. "Solitude was settled early; back in the Merethic Age. Before Skyrim existed as more than the vaguest idea of a region, Solitude was up there on its rock. Story has it that the first Atmoran ship to spy the arch landed there, and the warlord made his camp upon the spine." She shrugged. "Took it from the Reachmen, it was said, but nobody's shedding any tears on their behalf. Anyways, Solitude got its name because of how remote it was. Lands like my father's were more so, of course, but we never tried to wield political power. The jarls of Solitude wanted to be important, but their stronghold was too isolated to compete with the other cities. Completely impregnable, of course, but with Ysgramor's line in Windhelm, Solitude was, at best, a second-rate power. Frankly, I'm surprised it's grown so much. I can only assume it had something to do with the Empire?"

Velandryn nodded. "As best I understand it, the Septims had connections there, and the Heiroc trade guilds wanted a sea route into western Skyrim. Not my area of expertise, however."

Serana looked out over the water, to where the lighthouse was receding behind them. "I always preferred the name Haafingar, truth be told. Old Atmoran, but the jarls insisted on Solitude, in the Nedic tongue."

"I'd have thought the Nords would prefer the Atmoran word."

"In the east, maybe, but we in the west were never quite as enamored with the homeland across the water. Probably because of the Falmer, truth be told."

The distinctions between eastern and western Skyrim had never mattered much to him, but he figured it wasn't bad information to have. Temple records indicated that the Falmer had almost certainly existed in Skyrim prior to the genocide undertaken by the Atmorans, but information on them was sparse, and he knew scholarly consensus had once believed them a complete fabrication used to justify Atmoran colonization of Skyrim. "How so?"

"Ysgramor chased the Falmer down, slaughtered them where he could, after Saarthal. He and his kin landed in the east, so the clashes were all there. The Snow Elves were already in full retreat by the time Haafingar was settled. We never had much trouble with them, so there was no need for a common Nord identity. The Reachmen were trouble, but manageable, and there were always three Nedes for every Atmoran in the west. Over time, the Nords became our own people, and Skyrim, not Atmora, our home." She smiled crookedly, and Velandryn caught a glimpse of one sharp tooth. "Of course, those easterners never bought it. Each one convinced he's eight feet tall and Ysgramor come again. When Harald named himself High King and decided that Skyrim should belong under a single banner, well, then it became everyone's business." She shook her head. "A bloody war, I heard. Of course, by then my father was…we had other concerns."

Interesting. He had heard of the Old Holds in the east, where Old Nordic culture was the strongest, but had never made the connection to Ysgramor and the Atmoran invasion. "Thank you. I'd never heard that bit of history." Then, he remembered why they had started talking about this in the first place. "The lighthouse?"

Her laugh was a sudden ripple of mirth. "Of course! I'd forgotten!" She grinned at him. "It's not that interesting, in the end. The jarls of Solitude named everything they could after their city, trying to make it seem important. They were losing ships on the rocks at that spur of land, so they raised a warning-pyre, and named it, naturally, the Light of Solitude." She spread her hands. "It could be worse. They might have gone with the sigil of their city and named everything after wolves!"

Velandryn couldn't help but chuckle at that. "True. Of course, they could just use whatever 'wolf' is in Nordic and I'd never know the difference."

Serana's smile should have been unnerving, with those sharp teeth and the knowledge of what she was. However, her obvious happiness robbed the expression of any ill nature. "Maybe they did, and we're all just keeping the joke from you." She gave a little sigh, and sobered slightly. "I'd been reading and hearing about Solitude and the Great Arch all my life, but yesterday was my first time seeing them. It was…nice."

For once, Velandryn had no reply. He took a drink from one of the jugs, filling his mouth with cold water while he searched for some response. "You…aren't what I was expecting when we pulled you from that tomb. I don't know what we'll find when we reach your home, but…well, I've enjoyed travelling with you." He wasn't lying now. He knew what had to be done with her family, but he finally had an answer to Lydia's question. He liked Serana. She was, at her core, a decent person, and beyond even that, an interesting and intelligent woman. The Temple's strictures on vampirism might be absolute, but he had fallen into the trap of getting to know one, and he was slowly becoming convinced that she was not a monster. He didn't know the circ*mstances of her transformation, but clearly the actions of her family had played a key role. He looked over at her, pondering the scraps of her past he had gotten from their conversations. He wanted to ask, but there was so much he was keeping from her—

When Serana finally spoke, the words were soft, as if said in passing or from deep within a dream. Her eyes were on him, but seeing past him, and at first he almost thought her speaking to herself. "You're the Dragonborn, aren't you?"

I said it. She hadn't thought about the question before she spoke, only the fact that she would be home soon. Her mind had been consumed with the idea of returning to her old life, but the Dark Elf had intruded. She'd heard his words, about how he enjoyed being at her side, and fanciful thoughts had taken hold. She'd imagined him, with her, at Castle Volkihar. He would be welcomed, of course; her father would be glad to have one like Velandryn in their ranks. Not as a common vampire though, no, she would insist, as his reward, that he be given the honor of undergoing the ritual and becoming a pure-blooded Volkihar like her. The gift had never been given to one not of her family, but she would insist, and Father would grant her that, since she was at last returned. Then, then Velandryn would understand how she saw the world.

Even as she had the thought, however, she had known it was impossible. Velandryn would never accept such an offer, even as a reward. Not only because of his obvious feelings about vampirism, but because—

He might be Dragonborn. She had to know. She looked at him, imagining all of the futures that could come from this moment. Dragonborn, vampire, Dunmer, thane, the things he could be or not as he so chose. Mage, mercenary, warrior…Hero. It wasn't until she heard the question leave her lips that she realized she was asking it.

So, she waited. At the other end of the boat, Jolf worked studiously, and Serana wondered if he'd realized yet that she'd cut him out of their conversation.

A movement at her side caught her eye. Velandryn shifted in his seat and removed his leather helm and gloves, but said nothing as he ran a grey long-fingered hand through his stringy copper hair. Finally, he looked back at her and inclined his head by the merest degree. "When did you realize?" The words were calm, free from panic or accusation.

I knew it! "After Morthal, actually." She tried not to let her excitement show. I figured it out, and a Dragonborn is sitting across from me! She had so many questions, she didn't know where to begin.

He tilted his head to one side slightly. "That's what you wanted to ask me on the ship, when you came to my cabin." With his helmet in his lap, his dark red hair was unbound and free, and moved about his pointed ears when he shook his head. "It makes sense now, at least."

She was silent for a moment. Not only had he remembered that, but he'd put the pieces together instantly. "How did it happen? No offense, but an elf—"

"Isn't the most likely to be given the mantle of a Nord hero figure?" He glanced over at Jolf, who appeared to be ignoring them as he worked. Likely the Nord had figured out that they had done something, and was either unnerved by the magic or offended by his exclusion. So long as he leaves us alone. "I'd agree." He did not smile, but his eyes lightened slightly. "I'm still figuring this whole thing out, but I don't think there are many in Skyrim who would have me as their first choice." He looked thoughtful. "Perhaps none."

"Not even you?"

He blinked slowly. "Had I been given the choice at the time? No." He fell silent then, looking out to the north, where fog was rolling in as the sun fell. He pulled his hood up over his head, and clamped his gloved hands in his armpits. With a muttered string of words, magicka flowed out of him, and Serana could feel a shield of some sort settle on him. He caught her eye and half-grinned. "Anything that makes me this cold will never be at the top of my list, and it is poor form for the Dragonborn to get chased away by the weather, I think."

She shifted on her seat, suddenly uneasy. "Why didn't you tell me?"

He raised a single eyebrow; she wondered if he had developed that expression specifically to make someone feel like a fool. "Do you really have to ask? I didn't trust you."

It hurt. Part of her wanted to flare up at him, but she knew that would accomplish nothing, and besides, he wasn't wrong. But I have a good reason for keeping my secrets from you. If you knew what I was, really was, what I'd done…

She had questions, more than she could think of all at once, but she knew this wasn't the time. Jolf was steering them towards shore, and so with another wave she dispelled their ward of privacy. Velandryn bestirred himself from his seat, and she clamped down on her tongue lest she betray his secret.

Dinner that evening was a simple affair. Jolf had pulled a few fish from the water during the day's voyage, and the Nord wasted no time in cooking them over a low fire. His claim to know this coastline better even than his own left hand might well be true, as he had found a good place to overnight easily enough. It was a shallow cave along a boulder-strewn and icy stretch of shore, and a well-placed spur of rock made Serana figure no light from their fire should be visible, so long as they kept it small. The tiny villages on the shoreline had grown sparse as the day progressed, and Jolf had shown no inclination to overnight at any of them.

Velandryn was looking about them as the fish cooked. "You chose this place well. Do you use it often?"

Jolf shrugged. "Now'n again. Safe and secret, and too small for pirates."

"Are there many of them on these waters?" Once again, Velandryn was asking seemingly innocuous questions, and once again Serana got the feeling that he truly wanted to know the answers. And the moment he does, he'll lock each one away in that head of his until he can find some use for them. She suddenly wondered where Lydia had gotten to. Any way you looked at it, she should have been here to protect Velandryn. If she had left, there was only one person who could have ordered it. What are you planning, Velandryn Savani? For most people, that would have been something of an idle question. For the Dragonborn, Serana wasn't so sure.

Jolf was nodding. "A few. Pirates don't much like the cold, but they like the merchants fine. Lots of ships to and from High Rock, though not so many this time of year. Autumn storms make the Sea of Ghosts somethin' wicked round about now."

Serana broke in then. "Will we have to worry about the weather on our trip?"

Jolf grinned. "Nah, not likely. Calm skies for a week or more, judgin' by how my knee feels."

"An impressive method of divination. I salute you." Velandryn's face was perfectly somber as he spoke, and a moment later he turned to meet Serana's eyes. The combination of the Dunmer's solemn mien and the absurdity of his compliment were too much for Serana, and she had to bite down on her lip to keep from laughing. He held the gaze for a moment longer before his eyes shifted ever so slightly, and suddenly she could see the laughter he had been hiding. He looked back at his meal as though nothing had happened, and Serana was left with a new appreciation for the strange elf's humor.

After the meal, Jolf wasted no time in checking on the ship and curling up to go to sleep, grunting something about starting early. For Serana, the point was moot, as she neither needed nor wanted to sleep. Velandryn, however, was generally consistent about getting as much sleep as possible, so she was surprised to see him sitting before what remained of the fire, staring into the embers.

She sat across from him, and he looked up. "If you do that silence trick of yours again, I might give you a few answers before I go to sleep." His lips twitched. "Show me how to do it, and my answers might even be true."

She cast it, letting the magicka swirl around her so he could feel something of its shape. "I can try to show you, but the woman who developed it was using vampiric magic as the catalyst." Her mother had designed many such spells, elegant and intricate, fueled by the potent magicka in their altered bodies. She wasn't even sure if one who was not a pureblood could cast it.

He blinked. "I hadn't considered that. Thank you, but I think I'll pass." He was silent for a bit, clearly thinking. "How does vampirism actually affect your ability to cast magic? I had always assumed you simply had more magicka upon which to pull."

"We do, but it's more than that." It was hard to explain, but she wanted to try. "Our blood, it's not…it's alive, we can communicate with blood in a way mortals can't. The mages among us can tap into it, and find precision that would take a mortal decades to achieve." She smiled to herself, remembering her mother's lessons. "Besides, the gifts of Molag Bal let us use magicka in ways mortals cannot even begin to experience. I would have to give you the gift to explain in a way you could understand, and I would not do that." She would never turn another against their will. Though if he asked…

She had looked away and spoken quickly at the finish, not wanting him to dwell too long on that image, but he was staring straight at her when she looked back. "You really wouldn't, would you? Turn me against my will." He bowed his head slightly. "May you walk always in grace."

"I…what?" The words had the sound of a ritual, or a prayer.

He sighed. "You walk with grace, something I never thought I'd tell a vampire. It's a compliment among my people, means you live a worthy life. Now, ask your questions." He eased himself back against the rock. "I have a potion to counteract a lack of sleep, but I'd rather not use it."

"So why are you willing to talk at all then?"

His lips twitched again, and she wondered if that tic of amusem*nt was natural or an affectation. "You don't sleep, so you'd have the whole night to wonder. I'm cruel, but not that cruel."

"And what do you want in return?" If this was some ploy of his…

"Nothing." He pulled off his gloves, reached into the embers and plucked out a chunk of smoldering wood, cupping it in his hands. The nonchalance with which he approached fire still both amazed and alarmed Serana. If I tried that, I'd be short a hand. Even her keen nose could detect no hint of burning flesh; it seemed he truly was as attuned to fire as Nords were to the cold. "We're going our separate ways soon enough, and were I in your position, the curiosity would be eating me alive." He closed his eyes and pressed the coal between his palms. "We still have our secrets, but I'm not going to lie to your face, or tell you to go chew bones when you figured it out for yourself."

She wasn't entirely sure she believed him, but she also wasn't foolish enough to pass up this opportunity. "How did you…become, I suppose, a Dragonborn?"

"They all say the Dragonborn, actually." He blinked, looking thoughtful. "Don't think there's many others to claim the title these days. I heard from Lydia that Tiber Septim was the last one before me, and he's been dead for six hundred years."

"So the Dragonborn have vanished?" In her time, they might not be common, but there had always been whispers. Rumors of those who hunted down dragons and devoured their power had reached even to Castle Volkihar.

"In Morrowind, dragon-born means Imperial. If you have Thu'um, you're a Tongue." He chuckled. "And if you're a Tongue, well, best not to advertise that fact. My people remember the best ways to kill Tongues." He rubbed the coal between his fingers, leaving soot and ash on his hands. "The Septims were called the Dragonborn Emperors, and I thought it was just because of the Covenant of Akatosh. I never thought it meant…" he trailed off and gestured at himself, "…this."

She felt a moment's pity for the elf. He is in so far over his head. She considered her next words carefully. "The Dragonborn of my time were renowned dragonslayers. It was said they could duel a dragon, one to one, and win."

"If so, they're better men than I. Or mer, or…oh, forget, it, you know what I mean." Velandryn blew gently on the coal, holding it close to his face. As he did so, Serana felt subtle strains of magicka flow into the air. A moment later, the ember flared into new life and he sighed. "Blessed warmth. I don't suppose you know what signifies a Dragonborn?"

"A dragon's blood, according to the songs. Supposedly it flows in your veins, and the Thu'um comes as easily to you as breathing. You can conquer dragons and take their power."

"It's not quite as easy as you made it sound, I'm afraid. I've killed all of one dragon, a great bastard named Mirmulnir who was assaulting a watchtower near Whiterun." He laughed. "I say killed, but there were nearly sixty of us there, and my greatest achievement was surviving." He looked momentarily thoughtful. "Well, and saving the life of a Nord woman. A good decision, in hindsight."

Something became clear to her then, the final piece of a puzzle she had been working on for some time. Why his housecarl behaved as she did, and the bond they seemed to share. "It was Lydia. The one you saved."

"Yes." He looked as though the memory was not entirely pleasant to him.

"And you killed the dragon? How did you accomplish that?"

"Ask how we accomplished it. I might have done my part, but like I said, Lydia and I were far from the only ones on the field. I'm not looking forward to the next dragon I have to slay, unless there's an army at my back."

"So dragons have really returned? Why?" They had been in decline even in her time, tales of their appearance becoming less and less frequent with each passing year.

He made a clicking with his mouth. "A good question. Perhaps the Greybeards know."

"Who?" She had never heard of them, whoever they were.

"You've don't know the Greybeards? I thought they were sacred to Nords. They study the Thu'um atop the Throat of the World."

She shrugged. "If they do, I've never heard about it."

"Perhaps they're from after your time. What else do you want to know?"

"What's it like?" She could scarcely imagine it, taking the strength of a dragon.

His eyes went distant for a moment, but immediately snapped back. "The feasts and honors are nice. The expectation that I will save the world, somewhat overwhelming."

"That's not what I meant." She managed to keep the exasperation out of her voice.

He blew air out through his nose in something that was almost a laugh. "I know." He licked his lips, looking distracted. "I'm afraid I'll have to give you your own answer about vampires back, and say you'd have to be one to understand. There's no way to describe it that would make sense. I could try to explain how I can sometimes feel a dragon's instincts, but I've yet to find words that are anything more than the weakest of shadows. Dovah do not experience…anything…as we do. There are modes of thought that actively combat each other in my head. One of the most persistent among them is the urge to… to, oh, I don't know, to…dominate, I suppose, though that word hardly does it justice."

Sudden panic rose within her, but she managed to keep it from her face. "I see." She knew she probably should have had a better response, but she couldn't help her dismay. Dominance, the desire to be more and better than all of the others, was what had driven her father to make many of the choices he had. The idea of the Dunmer doing anything like Lord Harkon was repulsive to her. She served her father, of course, and knew that he was the rightful patriarch of their clan, but she would never…she didn't want to think of Velandryn like that.

He must have noticed her disquiet. "Serana, what's wrong?" His voice was strangely gentle.

She didn't answer, not directly. She didn't want to talk about that, about her family, right now. "So, how do you know it's the dragon that wants it, and not you?"

He chuckled mirthlessly. "Maybe I misspoke there. Like I said, a dragon's thoughts are different—you would never mistake them for a mortal's— but they're both mine. I gave them names, the impulses. Dov is the Dragon, Joor the mortal. I don't know if Dov came from Mirmulnir, or if taking in his memories, his instincts, just taught my own mind how to think that way. At first, the voice acted as though it had the identity of Mirmulnir, but it has been a long time since it gave voice to any self but mine. Perhaps I should have gone to the Greybeards first, learned more about what I am before trying to do anything else." He looked at her with a slight smile on his thin, dark lips. "Although, in that case you'd still be sleeping."

"Well, in that case thank you for not saving the world." She was truly grateful for what he had done, but she had already shown him enough vulnerability. They weren't allies, not really. Dry humor would have to be an adequate reward.

"Any time." It seemed he felt the same.

Something occurred to her. "With Movarth, I felt something, down in the caves…"

He chewed a lip thoughtfully, and spoke after a moment's pause. "Movarth tried to control me. Dov did not approve, and gave voice in kind."

She shuddered. Even at a distance, she had been all but knocked from her feet. How much worse must it have affected Movarth, who had experienced the full force of the backlash? Vampiric control could be thwarted by a strong mind, and a dragon's soul would have been unlike anything the vampire, unless he predated even her father, could have experienced. No wonder he fell so quickly. She almost felt sorry for him.

Velandryn, oblivious to her realizations, continued in the same line of thought. "It happens sometimes. The differences can be disorienting, but the power is real. Hopefully with knowledge comes more access to it." He opened and closed one gloved hand, clenching it tightly. "It's as if there's a voice, but my ears are ringing, and I cannot quite make out the words. They know things, Serana, know them in their bones, and I think I could as well."

"Have you learned why they've returned? The dragons, I mean." Everyone was talking about it, and from what Velandryn had said, he could well hold the key to the mystery.

Unfortunately for her curiosity, Velandryn was already shaking his head. "The instincts don't come with a history lesson. Whatever knowledge is hidden from me, it's more cosmology than chronology." He looked puzzled at the words he had spoken, but then nodded and continued. "I have a hint of Mirmulnir's past, but I get the feeling he was only ever hiding from mortals. Physically, I mean, old ruins and distant mountain valleys. Whatever brought the dragons back in force, he learned of it later." He looked away, and his brow furrowed. The lines around his eyes deepened in concentration, while the red of his irises darkened nearly to black. "He…heard of something, of Helgen…"

"Helgen? What's that?" The scent of his blood, always stronger than a normal human's was growing. Ordinarily she could push it away, not think about the fact that her companion would be delicious to feed upon, but in his reverie Velandryn seemed to be accessing whatever power it was that made his blood sing to her. Quietly, she focused on breathing, on soothing rhythms. It wouldn't do to embarrass herself.

Velandryn paid her no mind, still speaking as if to himself. His eyes were dark, turned inward without seeing, and his voice, always sounding as though he were on the verge of growling, grew even deeper. "When the village burned, when he heard about it, he rejoiced. He had been hidden for so long, holed up in lost valleys where no Joor could reach, hiding for centuries. He smelled Yol on the air, a wundunven that made him remember when they ruled. He needed to go forth, to relnir, to prove…" Velandryn looked up and saw her again, noticing her this time. By the look of it, he hadn't noticed the words in that strange other tongue, the ones he had growled instead of spoken. "…to prove something, though it escapes me. Memories are iffy things, and a mortal sifting through the memories of a dragon is like trying to pick up the ashes of a fire with spread fingers. You can clasp fragments, but they'll fall away, and the whole eludes you. That's all that's left of Mirmulnir now. Thousands of years of life turned to ashes, being pushed about by…" He trailed off, but then he jerked his head slightly, and the moment was gone. "I don't think there's much more I can get out of it right now."

She thought she realized then, why he had turned aside from going to these Greybeards so easily, though she had never heard him speak of it. It frightens him. For people like Velandryn, understanding was everything. She was much the same, where comprehension made a thing seem manageable. And, from how he sounded when he talked about it, the Dragonborn couldn't even begin to make sense of it all. I must have come as a welcome distraction, something to let him put dragons from his mind. Maybe he hadn't done it consciously, but it made sense to her. She cleared her throat. "You might want to see about visiting these Greybeards, if you think they can help you."

His eyes were their normal red again, mere fire rather than the dark and ominous things they had temporarily become. "So I've heard." His voice was dry again, but he didn't seem upset. "Just helping you acclimate to this new world first. No deed like charity, hmm?"

"Indeed." She didn't know what she was feeling anymore. The thought of going home had been her driving goal. It wasn't so much a wanting, but she had to do it. Suddenly, she didn't feel like talking. "You should get some sleep."

"You're not wrong." He sounded the slightest bit confused; likely he didn't understand why she was giving up a chance to interrogate him so easily. He rose from the fire, dropping the ember in his hand back to rest with its fellows. "Cold night." He was wearing his leather armor and heavy furs over it, and pulled his gloves back on over his hands. With a shiver, he passed a hand over the dying fire, and it blazed into new life. He wrapped his cloak tightly around his slender frame, and stretched out around the conflagration. He lay there for a moment, then spoke, his face still turned in towards the roaring flame. "I know you have more questions. Talk in the morning?"

"Count on it." With quick strides, Serana retreated into the darkness. She could see by night as easily as in brightest day, and nothing would bother them while she kept watch.

Why had she stopped asking him questions? His discomfort shouldn't have mattered; he was clearly willing to keep talking. She bent and grabbed a rock from the shore, hefting it in her hand. After a moment's thought, she hurled it with all of her strength, out over the water. It whistled through the air for a long second, before vanishing into the black waves. The exertion felt good, and she began to hunt for another. The moons were slivers, but the stars gave enough light for her to see.

She didn't like it, this indecisive streak. She was so close to home, she must just be feeling the pressure. She didn't know what she would find, that was the only reason for this. And being confronted with a Dragonborn, well, that would be enough to throw anybody off-balance. He would make a magnificent gift for father. Lord Harkon would be overjoyed to not only get his daughter back, but a vampire with the potential of Velandryn Savani.

But, she knew she couldn't do that. Turning another against their will was a line she had never crossed. You wouldn't have to do it, father would oblige. He had always enjoyed turning others; he liked the power it gave him. And Velandryn would forgive her, would understand. When the hunger came, when he had to feed, he would be just like her.

May you walk always in grace. She shook her head. He knew nothing about her. When he reached her home—

It wasn't a noble thought, but it intrigued her. She could do it. She had that capability. A word to her father, or even a look. Lord Harkon had always been perceptive. Perhaps she could even convince Velandryn to accept willingly. If he submitted without conflict, he could have great power, and an entire host of allies at his back.

She sat on the shore, throwing stones out to sea, and considered the future. The Dragonborn, at her side, and her family's. An ally such as the Volkihar had never known. And perhaps Velandryn had anticipated this. He had sent Lydia away, and to do such a thing to one's housecarl was an extraordinary circ*mstance. Perhaps he already plans to do something he knows she would never accept.

In the darkness, with no one to see, Serana smiled. She liked him, and wanted only the best for Velandryn Savani.

And that was why it would be in his best interest to become a vampire. He would see that. He had to see that.

Velandryn did not sleep well. It was cold, for one, the coldest night since he had come to Skyrim. If the little cave-like place they were sleeping did anything to cut the winds coming off of the water, it was not much, and the fire around which he had huddled offered only the merest warmth. He had developed some techniques to cope with Skyrim's frigid climate, but this was on a completely different level. Circulating his magicka through a heating ritual might work in Whiterun or Morthal, but the Sea of Ghosts in autumn laughed at his paltry attempts to defy it. So, he slept fitfully, and dreamed of home.

The sounds of movement woke him from a dream in which he watched the entirety of Skyrim burning, and relaxed among the ashes as dragons roared overhead. No Nords, and warm besides. He almost would have preferred to stay asleep. However, Jolf was busy preparing the ship to sail, and it would be unworthy of Velandryn not to help. Besides, the fire had died and it was gods-damned cold. There was a chance that moving around would warm him up. Grumbling to himself, he made his way over to the Nord sailor and offered what help he could.

Serana too was assisting, though she kept her prodigious strength from the boatman, and soon enough they were ready to leave. The day was much as the one before, clear and bright but bitter cold.

As they cut through the water, shore once more to their left and sun rising behind them, he studied the vampire. She hadn't spoken yet today beyond the few words needed for breaking the camp, and her entire air was one of distraction. He could see little of her other than her golden eyes framed between scarf and hood. As the morning dragged on, and they sat in silence, he felt his eyes drawn to her hunched form over and over again. She looks miserable.

He remembered how strangely she had started acting last night. She had cut off her questioning abruptly, despite clearly wanting to know more, while he was trying to make sense of a dragon's thoughts. He wondered if something he had said could have unnerved her, but truth be told, he was having some trouble remembering what exactly had been spoken. If he had given offense, he would apologize, but something told him that she didn't want that. He knew what Serana looked like when she was upset with another; Lydia had sometimes been less than perfectly diplomatic around the vampire and Serana had made her displeasure known, but this was different. If anything, he would say she seemed focused inward, upset but on a personal level. He knew enough about conflicts where both sides were in your own head to know that uninvited help from another was worse than useless, so he admired the clouds, the ice floes—he was fairly certain that was what the floating chunks of ice were called—to the north, and the rugged, sparsely wooded shoreline to the south.

Around midday, he accepted a piece of what Jolf called horker jerky. He had seen horkers in the water and playing on the ice, and it turned out their meat was only almost as bad as he'd feared. It was rank with musky flavor and it had the consistency of uncooked trama root, but he was willing to concede that his harsh assessment might only have been his own jealousy. Lydia would be eating fresh guar ribs with creamy beetle scuttle and grilled kwama egg and wickwheat mopate, while he was out here forced to consume the dried flesh of a sea cow. Why would anyone eat something that comes out of the water and isn't a crab or fish? The Nords had many offensive ways, but he would still fight to defend them. Even if they feed me horker jerky.

He kept stealing glances at Serana, hoping to catch her gaze and figure out what was going on in behind those golden eyes. He wouldn't bother her verbally, but he had never been good at leaving mysteries well enough alone. He didn't consider it a flaw in his personality, though he knew some among his peers at the Temple who would disagree. Now, it led him to add the Volkihar vampire to the list of things he investigated over the course of their journey, along with sky, water, ice, and shore.

Serana did not speak for the entire day, and was silent all through dinner and the pitching of their camp. Jolf had set them ashore on a stony island across the water from a second lighthouse, this one rising from the shore rather than any cliffs. This lighthouse was abandoned and unlit, discernable only by its dark bulk against the reddening evening sky.

Jolf was explaining to him that once the light had warned shipping away from the treacherous rocks in the area, but most ships swung far to the north to avoid the entire region now, and any attempt to man the lighthouse was generally met with pirate attacks. "Empire won't spend the men and money to hold it, plus nobody much cares these days."

Velandryn considered the Nord's words. It made sense; the Mede Dynasty was not the equal of the Septims, and this Empire could hardly hope to match its predecessor's achievements. However, if they couldn't protect shipping between two of their core provinces—and Jorik's news of Reachmen attacks suggested that overland routes were similarly impacted—then the Empire was coming apart at the seams even more thoroughly than he had believed. My people did well to divorce ourselves when we did, else we too would be dragged down with it. Morrowind might be part of the Empire on paper, but his people recognized only the authority of the Great Council. If Serana had an opinion, she was keeping it to herself.

If Jolf was bothered by the vampire's silence, he hid it well. She ate the fresh fish and withered vegetables without complaint or comment, but watched them both with her singular eyes.

After eating, he was struck with a desire to see the island, small as it was. He set off down the shore, stopping every now and then to inspect and take sketches or samples of the sparse plant life or interesting shells that had washed ashore. He found an outcropping of rock that jutted out over the water to the north, and sat himself on it. Off in the distance the shoreline swept north in a great broad cape, and beyond that a fogbank was rolling in. The sun was descending into that fog, and red was swiftly being overtaken by violet and deep dark blue. It was serene, and a fine place to watch the day turn to night.

Azura Lady of Twilight, I honor your name and face unshaking the veils that hide my future. Boethiah God-Eater, I shall walk in burning courage through this night, and all the nights to come. Mephala Blade Unknowable, mine are the silent words that weave the web of lies and truth. Blessed Three, Triune of my people, I walk in the shadow of the uncertain and unknown, but I am not alone. I have the lessons of my people and the tests of my gods, and for these I thank you.

He took a deep breath, tasting the salt of the ocean and the ice on the wind. Thank you for my suffering, Blessed Three, for it has made me strong. Thank you for your hatred, House of Troubles, for it has given me resolve. Thank you for your sacrifice, Nerevar Twice-Holy, for it has shown me righteousness.

It had been too long since last he taken time to pray. He opened his eyes, though he did not remember closing them, and beheld the night around him. The silence was thunderous, but he was not cowed. "I am the fire eternal, the light of my people in the darkness of the infinite trial." Prayers were not offered to the Triune with the expectation that they would be answered or even heard. The gifts of the gods were faith and courage; the Blessed Triune did not deny their worshippers the chance to overcome their own struggles.

Behind him, he heard the scuff of leather on stone, and Serana sat beside him, seemingly completely at ease. "What was it you said there?"

He realized he had been speaking Dunmeris. "A prayer," he said shortly, not wanting to get into the theology of the Test of Lorkhan. He was glad to hear her voice though. A silent vampire was dangerous, and though he did not think she would attack him, he much preferred her speaking to brooding.

She nodded. "I hope it helped." Before he had a chance to wonder what she meant by that, she peered at him, golden eyes intent. "You need to shave, unless you're trying to grow a beard."

Startled, he brought his hand to his chin, and indeed, he could feel stubble beneath his fingers. "Hmm, you're right." He ran his thumb down the line of his jaw experimentally, trying to remember when last he'd taken care of that. Not since Whiterun, he thought, so possibly a month or more. He recalled Lydia asking about beards on his kind, and smiled. "Have you ever seen a bearded elf, Serana?"

She shook her head. "I didn't even know your kind could grow them."

"It takes a very long time, truth be told. If I run a blade over my face once every couple of weeks, I never see so much as an errant hair. However, in all of the excitement, it seems I quite forgot." He stroked the stubble again, unable to leave it be now that he knew it was there." He sighed and gave her a reproachful look. "I suppose I should be thanking you, but now you'll have no more than four parts in five of my attention. No one to blame but yourself." He spoke almost without thinking, annoyed that he had let the hair on his face progress this far.

"Better that than you with a beard. I don't think I could take the shock." If the idea actually shocked the vampire, her tone hid it well.

Time to get to the heart of things. He briefly considered trying some subtle tactic, but could think of none. "Would you like to talk about it, Serana?"

"About what?" She sounded genuinely confused.

"Whatever the reason that you barely said ten words all day. If you want to talk, I'm listening."

"And you think I'd want to tell you about it because of what, precisely?" That might have been insulting, but he knew Serana well enough by now to sense the amusem*nt in the question. She wanted to talk about it, but didn't want to have to bring it up. Well, he could accommodate that. He was curious, after all.

"Because there are three of us on this island, and I don't think Jolf has the…breadth of experience necessary to comprehend the kind of problems you face." Truth be told, I'm not sure I do either.

However, the answer seemed to satisfy her, and she settled back against the rock before continuing. "It's not a problem, really. I was just deep in thought, and…I didn't want to be distracted."

Velandryn wondered what could have consumed her so. "You lost a day to thinking? I once spent four months in a library, but even I'd be hard-pressed not to let out a stray sound every now and then, if only to make sure I still had my voice."

She laughed lightly. "Where would you be without it, hmm?" She placed her hands behind her, legs outstretched in front, and threw her head back to the sky. "I was thinking about the future, and what it means for you to be…" She looked around, and waved a hand. The sounds of waves from along the shore were muted, and the rolling moan of distant ice was suddenly absent. "You're Dragonborn! That's the kind of thing, it's…it's like something out of a story!"

"Yes," he knew his voice was heavy with sarcasm, but couldn't help it, "the kind of story where the elf gets a choice between freezing solid from the weather or roasting in a dragon's gut. Good for all the little Nordlings."

She laughed again, but it lacked any mirth. "If you die, make it glorious, and the bards will sing of your heroism for centuries to come!" He turned to look at her, but she was staring resolutely upward.

He wanted to say something, to remark on how oddly she was behaving, but the effect of her sitting enraptured beneath the shimmering sky overwhelmed him, and he found that words had fled. Instead, he just watched the vampire as she gazed up, eyes glistening. Her hood was around her shoulders, and the scarf that ordinarily hid her face now hung free. The aurora spun and flickered overhead, as vibrant as he had ever seen it. This far north, framed by the ocean to the north and the mountains to the south the lights in the sky had no competition. They outshone the moons and stars alike, they were—

"Magnificent." The word was half a whisper, and Serana looked unaware that she had even spoken. Her eyes were wide and her lips slightly parted as she gazed upward. The aurora's colors played over her pale skin, and in its light she took on an otherworldly beauty. Not that she needs the light, he was forced to admit. He'd been shying away from such thoughts for a while now, but he could no longer deny that Serana was a beautiful woman. Her skin shone in the moonlight, snow to his ash, and her eyes were drops of honey—

She glanced over, and Velandryn had to resist the impulse to look away guiltily. Internally, he flushed at the direction his thoughts had been taking. The seduction of the vampire is subtle, and a fair form may hide a foul soul. Somehow, he doubted this was the case with Serana, but he wasn't planning on taking any chances. Instead, he carefully raised a single eyebrow. "A drake for your thoughts?"

"You really want to know what it was that had me thinking all day, don't you?" She reclined even further until she lay prone upon her back, hands behind her head and eyes staring upward. "I've been away from home for a long time. I don't know what I'll find when I get back."

Neither do I. Anything was possible, and Velandryn was brought back to reality with a nasty jolt. He was headed into the vampire's lair, and he had to be prepared. "Can you tell me about them? Your family?"

She was silent. He waited for long moments, looking out over the water but she made no move to answer. Finally, curiosity got the better of him, and he turned his head slightly to see what she was up to. Serana was staring at him, golden eyes inscrutable. They sat like that for long moments more, until she sighed. "I…I can't. They're…they value their privacy, and I don't…they'd come for you if you knew too much."

So much for gratitude and reward. She was a vampire, he must not forget. He put a small smile on his face. "I understand completely." Well, soon enough he would have his answers. One way or another.

Conversation ceased after that, though the two of them remained sitting on the ledge in companionable silence. Serana didn't mind the quiet and dispelled the ward of privacy, as she actually liked the sound of waves and wind, and there was nothing to worry Jolf's delicate Nord sensibilities anymore. She was interested to note that Velandryn dozed off not half an hour later, seemingly unable, for all that he was Dragonborn, to stay awake through the night. He had downed a potion against the cold, but apparently that comfort had been too much for the tired elf. His features relaxed into something approaching peace when he was asleep, and she wondered where he would be at this moment were he truly no more than a simple priest.

I once spent four months in a library, he had said. Would he be back in his beloved Morrowind, among his people and his culture? She tried to imagine it, him sitting silently for days on end, but the image wouldn't come. He was not a typical warrior, but he had a fire within him that demanded attention, and should he live, she knew that this Dragonborn would shake the world to its core. To her, he was in his element, a lanky grey outsider who nonetheless belonged in Skyrim as surely as the snow. Were he to seal himself away from the world, all of his potential would be wasted. As I was, for far too long. Mother, you have much to answer for.

For all of Velandryn's complaining, he thrived here, and she wondered if he would ever see it as clearly as she. Is this what Lydia understood when she swore her life to his? The thought of the other woman, however, brought back the reality of her situation. Lydia had departed to parts unknown, and Serana was more than half-certain that the Nord's absence was a countermeasure against her and her family. Even my allies keep secrets from me, and I from them. She was alone, for better or for worse, until she made it home. For now, however, she could enjoy this moment. That much, at least, is fine.

As the night dragged on, she felt no need to leave their ledge. The aurora overhead was as brilliant as she remembered; it was on clear nights like this that the charged magicka of Aetherius, entering their world, displayed its glory for all below to see. Her mother had only seen it as a potential source of power, and her father had scorned it as a far-off distraction unworthy of his attentions, but Serana had loved nothing more than reading by its light, trying to capture it in paint or song, or simply marveling as the incandescent ribbons danced. So she sat, and watched, kept company by the unknowing elf beside her.

He would not willingly accept her family's gift, this much she knew. She had spent a night and a day and half a night again trying to think like he did, to find some way to convince him, but again and again she came up with nothing. She didn't know him or his people well enough to argue past his culture and religion, and she knew too little of the current state of her family to make many assurances on their capabilities. In short, she had too large a problem to overcome, and too few tools to do it.

She had made up her mind, she knew. He will go to my family unknowing, and likely reject their offer. With a sigh, she looked down at Velandryn. She wanted him to succeed, and the gift Lord Harkon would offer could very well make the difference for the Dragonborn. I must let him choose. As much as it pained her, he had to face this himself. As I did.

Slowly, the sky to the east began to brighten, and Velandryn slowly roused himself from the curled position in which he had been sleeping. With a raspy wordless grumble, he pulled himself upright and blinked at her, confused. A moment later he seemed to remember where he was, and gave his head a shake before settling himself cross-legged facing east.

Serana couldn't help but ask the question that rose in her mind, though she would wager she already knew the answer. "A morning prayer?"

The look he gave her was, for lack of a better word, measuring, piercing eyes bright in his still face. "No. I've missed many dawns of late, and as it is my favorite time of day, I am going to watch this one. Would you care to join me?"

She nodded and settled herself next to him. As the sky lightened, she found her hood and scarf, and wrapped them about her face once again. She would watch the dawn, but she wouldn't burn for it.

"If you're going to bring up turning me into a vampire, you had best do it before the sun rises." His words sent tremors through her. He knows. Nothing he had said or done—

But you can't read him, can you? Not really. Sometimes his moods came through, but her guesswork was less than perfect. So now she was left sitting on a rock staring dumbly at the Dragonborn as all of her plans crumbled away. Desperately she tried to keep her composure. "Is there something special about the sun that would change your answer?"

Velandryn gave no answer, but pointed east. Far past his outstretched hand, the first rays of sunlight slowly crested the horizon, and the world changed. The greys of predawn receded, and red and gold consumed the sky and set the clouds ablaze. In an instant she understood Velandryn's mute argument, but she couldn't tear her eyes away. As the sun itself drew up over the sea, pain lanced through her and the skin of her face began to ache; vampires, no matter how powerful, would never be suited for the light of day.

"It hurts you, doesn't it?" Velandryn's words were soft, spoken without malice or mockery. The dawn light drew out the blue undertones in his skin and set him in sharp repose. More and more she found herself noticing the subtle movements of his face and body, and the way that they changed to accentuate the fierce will that drove him. "The sun."

She did not try to deny it. "Vampires are creatures of the night."

He rose, and raised his hands above his head. "And there you have my answer. I love the dawn far too much to ever let it go. Look!" The sun was before him, and his hair set alight in a hundred shades of crimson. She couldn't look directly at the sun without pain so blinding it made thinking impossible, so she made do with studying his face and the colors of light playing over his skin.

"So, you would reject the gift of the Volkihar because you like watching sunrises?" When she phrased it like that, hopefully he would see how trivial his objections were. "Against all the power of an immortal life, that is your counter?"

He answered with slow speech, still basking in the morning light. If he was cold, he gave no sign. "Tamriel. In the old Aldmeris, it means 'Dawn's Beauty.' The Arena, the Starry Heart of the Aurbis and all that ever was or will be. Where Lorkhan created the world, and where his holy task is given form." He dropped his hands to his sides, and folded them behind his back. "What you ask of me is to forsake the Psijic Endeavor, that for which my people believe this world was made. To remove myself from the world as it is, to abandon the Dunmer, and to relinquish forever any claim on Lorkhan's legacy. That, I cannot do."

She didn't understand. Clearly the words held great meaning to him, but to her they were little more than nonsense. She'd never been much of one for theology before her transformation, and afterwards there was only one god who concerned her. "What is the Psijic Endeavor? What is Lorkhan's legacy?"

He turned to her then, eyes a complement to the sky behind him. "Mortality, and through that, divinity. Lorkhan created the world so that the et'Ada would become mortal, and in doing so understand life through modes they had never before possessed. The Aldmer believed that Creation was a curse, something inflicted upon a superior spirit. They longed to be as they were, and cursed Lorkhan for his trickery. The great boon of the Blessed Triune was to expose the hollowness of the Aldmeri worldview and the lies of their gods, and give my people a chance to be more, to take full advantage of this holy gift. My people rejoice at the world that has been given us, the universe that that we have made for ourselves. We are here, and given the chance to become more than we were. Do you understand why we despise the vampire so, beyond even the danger you pose to life and limb?"

She did, in a strange way. "You think we're denying you your destiny."

The Dunmer nodded gravely. "Through the trials of a life well lived, we take our rightful place in the world. Every soul that is born mortal is allowed an opportunity which the gods themselves warred to afford us, and you would pervert that with the taint of Molag Bal. The Triune test us always with trials, and the Four Corners seek to tempt us from the right ways of being. Your Lord, the King of Rape, is the most insidious of the Four, and his finest work is the vampire, sent to seduce mortals from the right-thinking way. By offering a twisted vision of immortality, Bal would deny us the true purpose of our being." He smiled, a brief flash of white teeth that she knew could only be for her benefit. "Also, I very much like the dawn."

Truth be told, she had no answer to that. She had never been especially religious, and Velandryn's clear devotion made all of her slapdash planning futile. She would never turn him. With a sigh, she turned to face westward, away from the rising sun, and peered out into the distant fog, trying to see some hint of her home. However, the morning had blinded her, and all she saw was light.

Serana was looking west, and Velandryn wondered if perhaps he'd said too much. As he was wondering how to follow up his passionate declaration of faith, she turned, her expression neutral. "I guess we've agreed to disagree."

That was about as good an answer as he could expect, he supposed. Releasing his magicka, he let the frigid air of Skyrim invade his body once more, though this time he found it much less disagreeable. Much that is intolerable by night becomes mere inconvenience in the light of day. He half-suspected he'd just made up that saying, but it was very appropriate, and contained a nice amount of religious symbolism. It would need to be tweaked, of course, but I can see using it to illustrate some point about faith to a batch of neonates.

Returning his focus to Serana, he nodded. "Out of curiosity, what was it that convinced you to accept the curse?" Once, he had thought that perhaps she had been turned against her will, but her disdain for the behavior of others of her kind and certain comments about what it meant to be a vampire had led him to the conclusion that she had chosen this for herself.

However, she shook her head. "I can't…I don't think…it doesn't matter, not for you." She peered off to the west again, "We should get there today, I think."

Velandryn nodded, knowing how it felt not to want to share every part of yourself. We aren't friends, after all. Only travelling companions, and just for a bit more. More and more, that thought was accompanied by a feeling that he was helping her harm herself, that she belonged out in the world, not with this family that had locked her away beneath the earth. That, however, was not his decision to make. "How does it feel, knowing that you'll see home again after so much time?"

Serana looked a little sad. "I know, on some level, how long it's been, but it still doesn't feel real. I think I should walk back in the front gate, and it will be as though I never left." She sighed. "That's impossible, of course. Things will be different, but I don't know how."

Admittedly, Velandryn had no frame of reference for such an event. He had been away from Morrowind for just over a year now, but there was no risk of anything major having changed. A few Prelates might have changed offices, or some unlucky Anointed shuffled off to Necrom for a decade or two of corpse preparation, but the world as he knew it would be intact. Serana knew nothing at all of what would be waiting for her at her home.

He tried to find the right words to put her at ease while maintaining a good amount of emotional distance, but he couldn't. Finally, he settled for the truth. "Neither do I, but whatever happens, you'll make it through." He tried to put the feeling he had about her into words. "I might not know your story, Serana, but I can see your strength is real. You woke up without any clue of what had happened, and then drove a path through draugr, a master vampire, and an unknown world to reach your goal." He knew his eyes would be lightening with humor as the memory of their verbal sparring during those first few days returned to him. "You stood with mortals against a monster of your own kind, and delayed your own quest to help a town in need." He paused for a moment as he considered Serana as a whole being. "I make no claim to love vampires, and I won't pretend that we always agree, but I don't think you'll be defeated by so small a thing as the passage of time."

Serana smiled at him. "Thank you." Her eyes truly were unlike any he had ever seen. The Promise of Azura had altered the eyes of his people, to be sure, but Dunmer eyes were shades of red, and emotion was conveyed through light and dark, and subtle changes in overall tone. Outlanders might find his people's eyes unnerving or exotic, but to him they were so commonplace as to merit no consideration. The eyes of humans and other mer, for all that they came in a dizzying array of colors, lacked the subtlety of his people's, and it was impossible to read anything more than the crudest of emotional cues from their depths. Serana's eyes, on the other hand, were almost kaleidoscopic in their complexity. He had thought of them as gold many times, but the truth was that they had flecks within that caught the light in odd ways and could harbor flashes of color of which were all the more beautiful for their transience. They weren't tied to her mood in any way, but he found the environmental nature of their change oddly fitting for a vampire. Perhaps paradoxically, they were most striking when the sun hit them just right, though that doubtless caused Serana no small discomfort. He would never admit it to another, but he had come to the conclusion that he quite liked her eyes.

With a start, he realized that he was staring. Her eyes had shifted, and now she seemed guarded, doubtless unnerved by his staring into her face. Quickly, he jerked away and looked in the direction of Jolf, hidden by the bend of the shore. "We should be going. Best not to let anything more happen in your absence, hmm?"

She barely acknowledged his attempt at levity, giving him a sober and searching look as she passed. With a shake of his head, he followed her along the beach. What in the holy name of Nerevar is possessing me? It wasn't sorcery, unless Serana had gained some magic in the last few days that could penetrate the dragon's defense as though it were not there. Besides, that would be an odd use of her ability to control me. No, whatever had happened had been him and him alone.

It didn't matter, though. Their journey was almost at an end, and Serana would be reunited with her family. And then we will tear them out, root and stem. We must. However he felt about Serana, a coven of vampires beholden to none but their own desires was too dangerous to be left alone. Even if it means I sign her writ of execution myself.

He didn't like the thought of it, but duty was not always pleasant. So long as Serana stood with her family, she was his enemy. But if she renounced them? The idea was intriguing, but it would be beyond foolish to even begin to incorporate it into his plans. No, despite any personal misgivings he might have, she had to be considered an enemy. The dead should burn, remember?

If he repeated it to himself enough, he could almost believe it.

Serana tried to keep her mind on the prospect of home, but that moment on the rock ledge kept swimming to the front of her thoughts. Velandryn's little speech, his cryptic comments about mortality and vampires, and then the expression on his face as he looked at her; she had to admit that she didn't have a clue as to how the Dunmer actually felt. He had seemed sincere enough, but his declarations about how her very existence was wrong still rang in her ears. He confused and agitated her, and she needed to put him from her mind. He had helped her, true, but their time together was almost at an end, and if Velandryn would not join her, then there was no point in her dwelling on the Dark Elf. Yes, I am almost home. There, he's nothing but a memory. She wouldn't turn him, but she wouldn't let him dominate her thoughts either.

She reached Jolf's camp and took her place on the boat, letting the Nord move about packing his gear. Once she returned home she would have to readjust to life in the castle; her father brooked no disagreement from any member of his court, even if it was his own daughter. Doubtless he would want the Elder Scroll, and although Serana had grown quietly attached to the bundle on her back she would part with it if that was what was commanded of her. We aren't so different, Velandryn and I. He has his Temple, and I have my family.

That thought lasted until the Dunmer took up his place on the boat as well. The sight of his lean form in the morning light reminded her of their conversation in Morthal, where he had confessed that he had gone against the strictures of his faith by helping her. Could she have done that, directly defied her father? It was one thing to strike against another clan, but the thought of raising her hand against a Volkihar conjured ice in her gut. Which of us is the better follower?

She tried to figure out what she was feeling, what this tense companionship meant to her, and got so lost in thought that by the time she became aware of her surroundings again, it was the better part of the way to noon. Angrily, she realized that she had again spent hours trapped in thoughts of Velandryn Savani, the morning after a heart-to-heart brought on by this exact behavior.

She thought that might be ironic, but then again she'd always had a bad habit of attributing much as irony that was not. Her logic and rhetoric tutor had despaired more than once of her, as she preferred a lyrical or romantic turn of phrase over one that was strictly true. So, for her purposes, it was ironic.

She looked up, but Velandryn was gazing out over the water, face turned away from her. His cloak was draped over the armor her wore, and his leather helmet hid the lines of his face and concealed his red hair and true-ashen skin. From this angle, he could be anyone, nothing more than an anonymous sailor in the far north. Until he turned back, meeting her eyes. In that instant, all doubt fled. I was a fool to doubt that he was the Dragonborn. The fire in his eyes shamed common men, and his every movement was filled with purpose.

The Dunmer looked over at her, his ordinary inscrutability making way for a flicker of light in his eyes, setting her to wonder all over again. The moment passed, however, and he placed his hands in front of him, conjuring a small flame. He held it before his face and sighed. The sight of Velandryn trying valiantly to keep himself warm was so incongruous with the thoughts Serana had been having about him that it made her laugh out loud, drawing Jolf's attention.

The Nord shouted in alarm, storming back towards them while waving his hands. "Put it out! Are you mad? Fire on a boat, you'll send us to the bottom of the sea!"

Velandryn looked unconcerned. "I have control, boatman. Focus on bringing us to our destination." He wiggled his fingers, flame dancing in the air above his hand.

As Jolf raised his voice in protest once more, Serana sighed and looked away from the Dunmer and the Nord. A moment was rapidly approaching where she would have to make a choice. Letting Velandryn go put her family, her entire race, at risk. However, the thought of forcing him…it was repugnant. Once more she was going in circles. Sighing again, she watched the two of them quarrel.

Velandryn was easy enough to read, if you knew the way of it, and he was loving this. The fire was an extension of his body, and as he made it dance and Jolf panicked further, the Dunmer's eyes gleamed brighter and brighter, until Serana suspected the boatman too must realize that he was the butt of a joke that needed no audience but the elf playing it.

Finally, Velandryn snapped his hand shut, snuffing out the fire. "You win, boatman, I'll sit here and freeze to death in silence. Unstick my corpse when we get there, and you can use it to prop open the door." He glanced over at Serana. "You do have a door, I hope. I'd hate to think that I froze solid for nothing."

Jolf had returned to steering the ship, but she wasn't taking any chances. She cast her spell of silence once more. It might be the cold that was giving him this wry humor, but she would take it over the bizarre intensity of this morning. She'd answer him honestly. And maybe have a bit of fun in the process. "We do, but it's a big door. I'm not sure a little elf like you would be able to hold it open."

He shrugged, red eyes alight in his dark skin. "A shame. It has always been such a dream of mine." He reached looked out over the side of the boat and stretched an arm out as though he were going to reach into the water, but snatched his hand back at the last second. "And clearly I'm going mad, since I just tried to reach into this frigid water." Shaking his head, he chuckled. "No matter how interesting the fish, it's not worth it."

Serana laughed aloud. She could say with certainty that she liked this Velandryn far more than the grave one from last night. "Well, you know, become like me, and you never have to worry about the cold again!"

She'd been joking; she knew someone like Velandryn Savani would never take her up on the offer for a prize as trivial as comfort. However, as the words left her mouth she realized how easily they could be misconstrued, or be taken as aggressive. She hadn't yet made up her mind about what would happen when the elf stood in her father's hall, but she knew that she couldn't breathe a word of her thoughts to Velandryn. If she went through with it, if she had him turned regardless of his wishes, he must suspect nothing until the moment it was done. She snapped her mouth shut and waited for his response.

He did not explode with rage or accuse her of trying to coerce him into vampirism, though she hadn't expected anything so overt in the first place. He simply looked at her, his levity gone. "A question. Was there something in my behavior that led you to think I would be amenable to becoming a vampire, or—"

She broke in, as there was no need for him to finish the thought. "It was…" A moment ago she had known how to respond, but the words failed her as she tried to say them. "I think… I think you would be an excellent…addition to our clan. You are intelligent, driven, and—"

"Dragonborn?" Something flickered in his eyes, but Serana could not say what. Velandryn didn't appear to be enraged or disdainful of her reasoning, at least. However, neither was he on one knee pledging allegiance to Molag Bal. "I believe I understand." He leaned back, onto his cloak, arms spread slightly and elbows protruding out over the water. The hood of his cloak streamed out behind him, a scrap of black and grey fur at the mercy of the wind. "Even if there is little chance I'll accept, the Dragonborn is too tempting an opportunity not to try."

He wasn't wrong, not entirely, but there was more to it than that. She was thinking of how best to say it, to try to clarify what it was that made her think he would be a magnificent Volkihar, but something on the wind caught her notice, and she spun to peer off to the north. Velandryn sat forward intently, apparently having picked up on her new focus, though she barely noticed the Dunmer's action. Off to the north, she could feel it. Power, the shape of winter made flesh. The power to shape the earth and freeze the skies. Father. She shivered.

Velandryn was watching her. "Are we getting close?" He too was keeping one eye on the water, but clearly he could feel no hint of what she did. It wasn't surprising, she supposed; her family had gone to great lengths to ensure that their stronghold could not be found either by accident or malicious design. Still, she had wondered if perhaps the Dragonborn would fare differently. If he had been able to bypass her family's protections, it would have told her…what, exactly?

Whatever he would or would not have been able to do, it didn't matter. They were close and getting closer, and she still had no idea what would happen when they walked through those doors. He sent Lydia away, but why would he do that if he had no intention of joining me? She could always ask, she supposed. If he was planning on opposing a coven of vampires, abandoning a skilled warrior was not the play she would have expected.

When she asked about Lydia, however, he only blinked at her. "She left. She saw me growing a beard, and couldn't stand the thought of an elf with more facial hair than her, a Nord. She is travelling Skyrim, trying desperately to find someone capable of—"

"If you didn't want to answer, you could have just said so." Of course, that little bit of nonsense had been slightly more amusing than a flat rejection.

"Very well. I won't tell you because it isn't any of your concern, even leaving aside the fact that I don't trust you enough to give you that information."

That shouldn't have stung, but it did. Of course, she was holding back things as well, but those were just stories of the past, things he didn't need to know. You aren't allies, remember?

Jolf was swinging the ship around southward, and she looked to where they were headed. The shore ahead was barren and devoid of structures or life of any sort, save for a single forlorn dock with a small rowboat pushed up on the shore nearby. I know this place. One, it had been a village of moderate size, one of many that bowed to her family. Now, there was no trace of the simple people who had lived here. Wood and packed earth could not weather the years alone, after all. It was sad, in a way. But why are we here? This isn't—

She dispelled her ward of silence and turned to face the Nord. "This isn't where you were supposed to be taking us." With some effort, she kept her voice calm. Perhaps they were only stopping over for a moment.

He pointed out to the north, into the fog. "You want to get out there. Well, I'm no fool. I know what's out in that sea." He pointed to the abandoned rowboat. "That can take you where you need to go."

Irritation flashed through Serana. After all that she had paid him, this was the service she had procured? For this miserable man to have the audacity to stop and leave them to…to row their way back to her home took her breath away.

However, before she had a chance to give the Nord a piece of her mind, Velandryn had swept in, seeming to overtop Jolf despite his lesser height. Where she had kept her annoyance with the man internal, Velandryn was letting it show clearly. No, she amended. He's displaying it. It was easy to forget that the vast majority of his emotional cues were for the benefit of others. "You are altering our arrangement, Nord?" His voice was harsh and whip-thin, cracking in the cold air.

"Said I'd take you to here. Never said nothing about going to a haunted island." Jolf folded his arms over his chest and waited.

Velandryn's lips slowly curled into a mirthless smile, showing a great many teeth. "Very well. You will wait here, and upon my return, you shall convey me to Solitude. This was the agreement, yes? Or have you decided that some other part of it was not to your liking?"

The Dunmer was making no effort to curb the energy now radiating off of his body, a force so strong that she would wager even Jolf could feel his skin tingling in its presence. Serana wondered if it was deliberate, or if he was so aggravated by the idea of the Nord refusing to take them to her doorstep that he was emitting uncontrolled magicka. For the elf, who seemed to value restraint and discipline highly, she found it unlikely.

And, indeed, Jolf buckled in the face of Velandryn's ire. "Aye." His eyes were perhaps slightly wider than they would have been otherwise, and he took half a step back as Velandryn leaned forward, seemingly without noticing that he had done so. "Aye, I'll be here." With a start, he seemed to regain a bit of his spine. "But I'll not go out to that…that place, and you shouldn't either, if you know what's good for you!" He pointed a shaking finger at Velandryn. "I don't know why you're helping her, but it's evil out there!" He swung to point at Serana. "I've seen the way you wrap yourself in the sun, and those eyes, those eyes are wrong, you hear me? You're a vampire, and you're working some foul craft out there! I want no part of it! I'm a godly man, I am. You paid me, true, and I've done my bit, but I won't go into that fog, nor be part what lies beyond!" He pulled a stone token, what appeared to be a snake coiled around a crescent, from a pocket on his vest, and swung it before him. "By the bones and blood of Shor, I swear it!"

Velandryn had let his magicka subside, and now studied Jolf, expression inscrutable. "Conviction is admirable. We are all godly here, in our own ways." He bowed slightly, and made a strange gesture with one hand, running his thumb gently across a small leathern book she had never seen before. "We will be fine from here, I think. Be waiting for me, and ready to cast off." He had raised his hood, and now tugged the edges forward, the thick fur enshrouding his face. "This air does not agree with me, and I will not linger. As you said, there is darkness at work ahead."

Serana paid the others only half a mind as she pushed the little rowboat into the water. She was so close that she could almost feel the stone of the castle beneath her feet. At Velandryn's remark, however, she spared the elf a thought.

She pitied him his inability to ignore the cold. Or perhaps his refusal to do so. If a vampire could not feel the cold, was he embracing his misery in order to draw a contrast, revel in even his weakness? She couldn't say, and while she would never ask him, it seemed like the sort of thing Velandryn would do.

With a sigh, she gave one final tug and the old boat came free of the shore. She was so close. Amazingly, it floated, and did not even seem in that poor of shape. Did someone from the castle use it? If so, she might be stranding them ashore. But, she could have something done about it once she was safely returned.

Returned. She would be, soon. So close to safety. To home.

Serana rowed with inhuman strength, and the boat fairly flew across the water. Velandryn, sitting in the prow, was at once impressed with her ability and annoyed that he was forced into a situation where he had to witness it. As the time approached for him to actually come into contact with her family, he found himself running over every way this could go wrong. He had marked his location back with Jolf, but there was no telling what would be waiting ahead. In this pale facsimile of sunlight amidst the fog, all of his worries, those fickle imps who had hidden in the recesses of his mind throughout their travels, came to the forefront.

For once, he saw no purpose in planning out contingencies, as his information was so sparse as to be nonexistent. He could not even begin to imagine what was waiting for him as their destination, as the only thing his analysis of Serana's abilities had revealed was that her magic operated within a framework wholly alien to his own. The combination of her vampiric abilities and pre-Galerion magical theory meant that any attempt to anticipate her abilities was folly. So, he focused inward, to quell his fears and muster strength that he might pass through whatever lay ahead.

The little jetty and their reluctant boatman had fallen behind quickly, and now they pierced into the great fogbank that lay offshore. Velandryn tried to peer through the fog, but even his night-eye proved insufficient for the task. Serana rowed on confidently, silent and seemingly drawn onward by some force felt by her alone. Eventually, he decided to speak. Ordinarily he had no issue with silence, but this blank stillness around them was unnerving.

"Is the fog part of your family's defenses?" He had no idea how far this Volkihar clan's power extended, and if it was about him now, he wanted to know. Besides, when they returned to strike the Volkihar down, this could save lives.

She looked up, apparently startled. "Hmm? Oh, yes, it helps to hide us, but it's mostly just," she shrugged, smiling a little, "one of the joys of the Seas of Ghosts. I always loved when the fog would roll in. It's nice to see that we still get it. Feels like home." She paused for a moment, still rowing, and then continued. "I don't know everything my parents did to keep the island hidden, but any of our blood can find it. My mother once said that," she bit her lip and turned her eyes downward, clearly trying to recall, "'The only ones who can find it are those who know where it is.' Perhaps the magic touches those who have come, or something." She smiled again. "I'm afraid I'm not half the witch my mother was."

"Clearly." He spoke without fully thinking, words coming easily as he tried to figure out the implications of her statement. Such magic was impressive, but it did raise the issue of why Serana had tried to get Jolf to bring her out to the castle proper…

"Excuse me?" He looked up, to see Serana's golden eyes fixed on his. "I say I'm not half the witch my mother was, and you agree?"

Oh, fetch it all. He hadn't been paying much attention to his words, lost in thought as he was, but when he went back over what had just been said, he saw it. "Serana, listen—"

"Oh, listen is it now?" Something flared in her eyes. "Listen while you disparage my ability! I don't have to take that from you!"

Velandryn was caught off-guard, flailing around in his mind looking for some answer. Then, belatedly, he realized just what it was that he had seen in those eyes. "Having fun, are you?"

She smiled broadly. "If you aren't going to pay attention when I answer your question, you have to pay the price." Rowing on, her smile saddened a little. "Truth be told, I really am nothing compared to my mother. She lived and breathed magic, while I just benefit from vampiric gifts and the spells she taught me."

"From what I've seen of you, then, she was a good teacher." Serana bowed her head then, and Velandryn almost thought he could see a flush of color on her pale face. He dispelled that thought, though, before such foolish fancies got the better of him. Something else occurred to him then, a flash of inspiration. "By the sound of it, she also designed the ward that Movarth used?" At the vampire's nod, he felt a slight twinge of satisfaction as another piece of the puzzle fell into place. A single family, responsible for so much vampire history. And bearing the name of Volkihar besides… "If she was responsible for your home's defenses, I pity the one who tries to breach them." Which, by the way things are shaping up, will eventually be me.

She made a sound of assent. "Mother always had a wicked sense of humor and a knack for…appropriate punishment. I would not envy the foe who tried to find us with an eye towards violence." She gave him a look. "You might want to keep that in mind."

Right. The same qualities that drew him to the vampire made her an agile opponent, and he would do well not to forget that. Instead, he tried to focus on looking as innocent as possible as he gazed out into the fog. "Well, whether magic or no, it does a good job of hiding your home."

"Doesn't it?" Serana's voice was light, but there was a hint of something else behind her words. "It's as good as any spell, for sure. The fog comes and goes, but I always felt safe, as a little girl, looking out my window and seeing it there."

Velandryn wondered what the proper way was to ask a vampire their age. Considering that physical development was halted when the curse corrupted the soul, Serana should technically have both an age and a duration, though he doubted that she would appreciate it being referred to as such. So, he wondered in silence, and watch the vampire work the oars. Under her black cloak, the linen of which was looking decidedly threadbare given the ordeals through which it had been dragged, her movements were strong and sure. He noticed, not for the first time, how clean her motions looked, with her pale skin accentuating the subtle play of muscles as she powered the boat onward.

Velandryn had never found humans on the whole particularly attractive, which might have been the reason Serana was so fascinating to him. At first, her superficial similarity to a Nord, combined with her paleness that verged on pallor, had been something else to mark her as foreign, the ultimate outlander, and an antithesis to his own values. However, somewhere along the way, his view on her look had changed. He wasn't sure when he had first realized that she was beautiful, but now it was simply one more thing that was true about her. He was still slightly concerned that it was some subtle form of vampiric seduction, but the fact that he was still planning to wipe out her entire clan seemed to preclude that. If I find myself seriously considering the offer when she makes it for true, then I can be concerned. The fact that she would offer him the curse of vampirism seemed to now be an open secret between the two of them, at least as far as he was concerned. He wouldn't accept, of course, but it was flattering, in its own way. The only thing worse than being coerced to join a gang of undead bloodsuckers, he supposed, was them not thinking you were worth having in the first place.

Serana spoke suddenly, interrupting his thoughts. "What is my lord to you?"

"I'm—what?" He genuinely didn't understand what she was asking. Serana must have been getting better at reading him, since she clarified immediately.

"Molag Bal. He's some sort of evil spirit to your people, right? The way you reacted, I was curious."

Tempting as it was to give her a long theology lesson, Velandryn decided to keep it simple. "My people recognize seven principal Daedra as significant. Of those, three comprise the Triune, and four the House of Corners. The Blessed Three want the best for the Dunmer, to see us fulfill our destiny and theirs. The House wants to see us falter. Bal is one of the four. I oppose him as I would Mehrunes Dagon, Malacath, or Madgod Sheogorath. "

"So, you have nothing against him personally?"

Velandryn had to laugh. "I'm a priest, not a Daedra. I know the rituals and stepping-ways to negotiate his pitfalls and negotiate with him should his presence come upon me, but I'd not call it personal in the least!" He chuckled again, amused by the image of newly-made Anointed trying to enrage Daedra Lords with personal vendettas. "The Temple teaches us to stand strong in the face of their trials, not to start blood-feuds. Truth be told, they're more metaphysical concepts than individuals to the populace at large."

Serana looked slightly put out by this, though why he could not say. "Do any Dunmer worship him?"

Velandryn thought, trying to recall if there were any cults of Bal not involved with vampirism. "I don't think so, not openly at least. They all go to vampires eventually. Why?"

Her smile was bright, but her eyes were sad. "I was just curious."

He very much doubted that, but decided to leave it be. They would soon be parted; there was no point in quarreling now. Ahead, he could see sunlight, and the fog seemed to be thinning. Then it was, and a moment later, it was gone.

It took them less than three heartbeats to go from twilit gloom to full sun. With an annoyed hiss, Serana dropped an oar and pulled her cowl forward, moving so fast that she had the hood up and her hand back on the oar before the wooden shaft had even touched the boat's railing. Velandryn briefly admired her speed, but as he took in the spectacle around him, he found his gaze arrested.

Behind them and to either side, the fogbank squatted, long and looming, a grey wall of that hid the world to the south. To the north was open water, dotted with floes of ice, and a single rocky island, devoid even of a shore upon which to land. Velandryn didn't know what form Serana's home would take, but he had expected something…grander. The vampire, however, began rowing with new vigor.

Slowly, as though sketched out by the hand of a god, lines resolved out of sea and sky, and a great swirling mass took shape. At first, it seemed a heat mirage as one would find above a pit of lava, but it gained in strength and definition, and soon it bore the unmistakable impression of solid stone, ancient and unyielding. Sky became towers, craggy island became sheer walls, and in what seemed no time at all, a castle rose before them, dark and imposing against the radiant sky.

Velandryn's breath caught in his throat as the reality of what he faced sunk in. Here it is. After all of this, he was going to come to face to face with Serana's family, with the Volkihar vampires who he half-suspected had spawned the clan. Worshippers of Molag Bal for certain, and ancient beyond the imaginings of most mortals. A father who commanded power and respect such that his very name had nearly sent Serana to the ground, and a mother who had designed spells whose very basis was impossible for him to understand.

Serana drove them towards a shore that had appeared with the castle, a hundred feet or so of gently sloping sand and snow that was the only harbor amidst the craggy rocks rising from the sea. It sported another desolate jetty and was watched over by a crumbling stone tower set some way back from the water. She leapt out and splashed out through the knee-deep surf, dragging the boat behind her.

Velandryn rose and leapt onto the beach, taking care not to let the water splash on his cloak or legs. He was quite cold enough without factoring water into the situation. Before them, a stone path rose gently to a bridge that arced up to kiss the stone of the castle, wherein was set a massive gate. The bridge was lined with gargoyles like those they had encountered in Dimhollow, and Velandryn eyed them suspiciously.

Serana strode forward, however, and Velandryn found himself following her. Dov would not allow him to do otherwise, to quail where a mere Daedra's spawn walked boldly. Joor quietly pointed out that she might be returning home, but they walked into the unknown, and a dangerous unknown at that.

For that, Velandryn found his two halves in agreement. Learn, and the unknown is just another challenge.

And challenges?He smiled to himself. I live for those.

The bridge was exactly as she remembered. At the far end, the gate had been altered slightly with the addition of two more gargoyles, but the castle was all but unchanged. She stepped onto the bridge, and walked past the dormant gargoyles quickly lest the memories overcome her.

From behind, she could hear Velandryn's footsteps as he followed. Under other circ*mstances, she might have taken a moment to reassure him that the gargoyles here would not bestir themselves at anything less than a direct command from one of her bloodline, but she was too caught up in the moment. If it feels as though I've been gone no time at all, then why does this affect me so? Shaking her head, she hurried onward.

The gate, as she knew it would be, was shut up tight. Behind a steel grate off to one side, a Nord in elegant armor—not a vampire, she noted—was peering out at her. "Hey, who are you? You're not one of ours!"

Doubt flooded her. Could this all have changed? Had her parents fled Castle Volkihar, or could some other calamity befallen them? Had bandits or pirates taken up residence here, turning her family's home into nothing more than a glorified hideout? Had—

Velandryn jabbed a finger into the guard's face. When he spoke, every word was accompanied by a puff of breath in the cold air. "Listen here. This is Serana of Volkihar. Do you want to be the one who stands between her and Lord Harkon?"

The man went pale, and began hurriedly working at a great winch. "Apologies, my lady! Of course, you are welcome! Please, enter, and it is so wonderful to see you home!" The gate lifted, the heavy doors swung wide, and he bowed deeply. "I am beyond honored, Lady Serana!"

The tunnel was long, she remembered, studded with murder-holes and alcoves from which defenders could slay any enemy who had breached the front gates. At the far end was another door, one that had in her time been made of rich dark wood from the forests of Falkreath; her father had always insisted on elegance as a display of his power. That door too was shut tight, and the guard remained outside, so she and Velandryn had a moment to themselves.

He looked…odd, for lack of a better word. Worried, but with resolution in his eyes. As if he knew that something unpleasant was coming, but he intended to face it no matter the danger. His posture too was paradoxical, at once wary and proud, adamant and guarded. Heroic. That was a good word.

The moment ended when he chuckled, and suddenly he was just Velandryn again. She found herself curious as to what amused a Dark Elf in a vampire's lair. "Does something about my home amuse you?"

He continued chuckling for a moment more before responding. "Only that I am capable of forcing my way into a vampire's lair if I'm cold enough." With another huff of laughter, he ran gloved hands along his arms. "By the gods, your family picked an inhospitable place to call home."

She quite liked it, actually, bleak as it was. "Would you like to meet them?"

The look he gave her contained so many emotions she couldn't begin to sort them all out; how had she ever thought him stoic? "Do you, know, Serana, I quite think I would."

With four quick steps she was at the far door, and a single push served to open it. All at once, light broke in, and she stepped forward eagerly before being accosted by a vampire she recognized. He was tall, with haughty features that shouted his Altmer blood. When last she had seen him, Vingalmo had been a freshly blooded schemer, eager to make his mark. Judging by his rich robes and fine accoutrements, he had succeeded. And if the look on his face was anything to go by, he knew who had just walked in.

"Lady Serana." His voice betrayed the surprise he must surely feel. With a bow, he stood aside, but as she passed, he shouted out "The Lady Serana returns!"

She stood on a balcony she remembered well, overlooking the hall below. Two stairways wound down to the floor, where the court of the Volkihar passed their eternity. My people. They were perhaps a hundred, and each pulsed with the power of their lord. They sat around the great long tables than ran the length of the hall or stood near the walls, talking or feeding or simply watching the others. The cattle stood placidly for the most part, though here and there some danced for the amusem*nt of their masters. At the far end of the room, seated on a great heavy chair that dominated a richly laid table adorned with both food and the comatose bodies of feeding-slaves, sat her father.

Father was unchanged. Lord Harkon. She had to remember to call him that. Not even her mother was permitted to call him otherwise, not after their transformation. Mother! She looked around for the Lady Valerica, but she was nowhere to be found, and her eyes were drawn back to the man who had dominated every aspect of her existence from the day she was born. My Lord, second only to the God-King Molag Bal. He had taught her those words himself. As memories surrounded her, his eyes met hers, and she felt the years fall away. For a moment, she was back at the altar, hearing the voices crying out. Pain, blood, cold metal and—

No. She was stronger than that. The past was the past, and Serana of Volkihar was stronger than that. I am stronger. She forced herself to meet Lord Harkon's eyes, and prayed that he had not seen her weakness.

Her father rose, eyes fixed on her, and the hall fell silent at once. The assembled Volkihar stared away from her, gazing upon their lord—my lord as well, she must not forget that—with curiosity. Clearly he was not in the habit of addressing his underlings during a feast.

Nor did he now. Instead, Lord Harkon stretched out a hand towards her, and spoke with the rich tones she remembered. "Come here, Serana." He acted as though she just had been up in her room rather than missing for the past four thousand years. Of course he did. Lord Harkon believed firmly in power being as much in perception as fact; he would never allow himself to show surprise or be taken off of his guard.

She descended the stair as though in a dream, her surroundings feeling unreal. Velandryn was a step behind her, but stopped when he reached the bottom, seemingly not wishing to approach Lord Harkon. For an outsider, it was understandable. However, for her to disobey her father was unthinkable; she was halfway up the hall before she even considered the possibility of pausing to wait for the Dunmer. She strode forward, heedless of the mutters from the surrounding court. Although she did not recognize any of those she chanced to glance at, they would doubtless have heard Harkon's words and now know her, by reputation if nothing else. She would not give them the pleasure of seeing her balk or hesitate; her return would be nothing but triumphant.

Lord Harkon had come around to their side of the high table, and now stood at the end of the long path she trod. Ten paces away, she sank to one knee and bowed her head before him, as propriety demanded. "My lord, I return."

"My long-lost daughter returns at last." She looked up, eager to see her father's face again, but the stern visage that looked down at her held little warmth. "I trust you have my Elder Scroll."

After all these years, that's the first thing you ask me? Her hand dropped to the bundle on her back, the one she sometimes forgot existed. "Yes, it's…yes, I have it, father." She held it out to him, and he moved forward with long steps and snatched it from her. His eyes were still cold, but now alight with triumph. Father. She wanted to…to…

She didn't know what she wanted. This was all wrong. It should have made sense, it was supposed to be right, she was finally home. So why did she still feel so worried? Lord Harkon ran a hand over the container, seemingly enraptured, and Serana felt her annoyance flare up. "It's good to see you too, father."

He looked down at her. "Your time away has made you impertinent. Of course I'm delighted to see you, my dear. Must I really say the words aloud?" If he was delighted, his voice his it well, and his eyes could not leave the scroll.

She bowed her head again. She had pushed him, but it didn't do to push Lord Harkon too far. "And I you, my lord."

Her father held the Elder Scroll tightly in his hands, as though he feared it would vanish if he let it go. Well, you never know. She smiled slightly, remembering Velandryn's reaction upon learning what it was she carried. He couldn't decide if he wanted to snatch it away from me or get as far away as possible. She was sorely tempted to glance back over her shoulder and see what the Dunmer was doing now, but such rudeness was unthinkable when facing her father. Instead, she merely waited for her lord to speak.

He gestured, and she rose. Turning the Elder Scroll over in his hands, his eyes flicked between it and her. "Ah, if only your traitor mother were here, I would let her watch this reunion before putting her head on a spike."

She found her voice at last. "I take it you two never managed to work things out?"

Her father's lips tightened. "She betrayed me, stole away two of my Elder Scrolls and my daughter besides, and you think we could simply make amends?" He laughed darkly. "No, my dear, your mother is beyond redemption."

She bowed her head, hoping he wouldn't see the look on her face. "Of course, father." She didn't like playing the part of a cowed child, but certain things were expected of her. I'd forgotten what it feels like to just be another one of his prizes.

Lord Harkon stepped forward, and his free hand gripped her shoulder. "You return absent the master I sent to retrieve you." His voice was a harsh whisper in her ear. He's angry. It never ended well when her father was angry.

She bowed her head. "I never met him. That elf," her eyes found Velandryn, now with arms at his side and the aspect of a hunted animal as others in the room began to notice him, "woke me and saw me safely here." She turned and stared into her father's eyes. Not a challenge—never a challenge—but strong nonetheless. I must be strong. "I wish him rewarded."

Her father's eyes widened imperceptibly. "I had thought him a thrall, something you had picked up on your return. He is here of his own volition?" With a swift motion he let go of her and swept down the hall towards Velandryn. She hurried after him. She didn't want the Dunmer harmed, after all. If he rejects the gift, though…

Lord Harkon stopped before Velandryn, and slowly looked up and down, surveying the Dunmer. "I understand I have you to thank for returning my daughter to me." If such impressed him, his face and voice hid it well.

Apparently, Velandryn had no wish to be the more emotive of the two. "Certain mysteries require investigation."

At that, Serana decided she'd had enough. "I'm right here, you know." Her father's dismissal was what she had expected, but Velandryn wouldn't get away with referring to her like that!

Her father raised his hand sharply, a gesture she recognized. Silence is it, father? You wish me cowed? But she was not a child anymore.

Velandryn, however, gave her a look with eyes full of mirth. "I think only one of us is to blame for you being a mystery, and it certainly isn't me." Well, she couldn't argue with that. Smiling just enough that she knew he'd see it, she inclined her head the merest amount. Turning slightly, he addressed her father, words now formal and laced with something she could not identify. "Serana deserves the credit, in truth. She has moved Aetherius and Nirn alike to return here."

Lord Harkon did not even deign to look at his daughter. "As is expected of her. But you, you came here as well, even, I think, knowing what we are." Her father was taller than Velandryn, though not by as much as she would have thought. Her family had too much Nede blood in them to equal the stature of those who primarily descended from the Atmoran invaders, and the Lord Harkon from her childhood memories was a towering figure. The Harkon of this new world, for all of his power, was of a merely human stature. It was strange, realizing that. "Do you know what we are, truly, I wonder?"

"Vampires." The single word left his mouth quietly, but somehow it carried to every corner of the room, and amplified itself against the waiting crowd. Vampires. "An ancient coven, reclusive and powerful." They smiled, or bared fangs, or merely watched to see what would unfold. She knew those looks. Lord Harkon's court still did not lack for those with ambition. Vampires. Velandryn, however, was not done. "The Volkihar Clan." He snapped his mouth shut, and Serana wondered what else he was suppressing. Clearly part of him wanted to say something else, but he had decided against it.

It only took Serana a moment to figure out his odd behavior. She felt half a fool as she wondered how much of their history Velandryn was carrying around behind those red eyes. How many of their secrets had she let slip, or given him the pieces to assemble? And now, faced with her father, the side of him that rejoiced in revealing his knowledge was warring with that bit of him that knew doing so might well spell his mortal end. It was too funny, and Serana wished desperately that she could laugh. Not now. Such discourtesy before her father was unthinkable.

The three of them stood there for a moment in what felt uneasily like the calm before a storm. Then all at once, her father smiled, and for a moment he was the man she remembered. "You have done well, Dunmer, and must be rewarded." He gestured to the great hall. "Can you guess your reward, my clever friend?"

The assembled vampires' laughter filled the room. Around them, the blood-thralls stared blankly or lay without emotion on the tables. Once, Serana would have found that only proper, but now it gave her a shiver of repulsion. Tinged with hunger, to be sure, but mostly she found their bizarre calmness wrong in a way she never had before.

Amidst the merriment, Velandryn stood silently. As the noise began to die away, he finally spoke. "Humor me, Lord Harkon. What do you offer?"

Her father spread his arms wide. "This. The fellowship of a superior breed. There is only one gift I can offer equal to the return of my daughter, and that is the gift of the pure-blooded Volkihar. Take my blood, and you will walk as a lion among sheep."

Velandryn said nothing. Serana, though she knew what his answer had to be, hoped against hope that he would change his mind. Don't refuse. It's only going to be more painful if you refuse. She knew that first-hand. But the Dunmer's red eyes simply watched Harkon.

Finally, he spoke, quietly and without apparent worry. "You are asking me to give up much, and for what? I can train my body to be strong, my mind is sharp and I have centuries to live. You would offer me a short-cut to power, but one with prices that render it ruinous. Why should I accept?"

"You doubt me?" Her father reared up, and Serana knew what was coming next. She hated this, hated seeing the form. She didn't like being reminded how that was inside her too. But, it came anyways. Her father's skin tore, great wings pushed out from his back, and the monstrous form of Lord Harkon loomed over the suddenly diminutive Dark Elf. His dark features were twisted and bat-like, and now his golden eyes shone with renewed fire. Serana could feel her own blood pulsing, yearning to join its master in showing her true form. No!

Velandryn, for the first time since entering the hall, was taken off-guard. He staggered back mutely, eyes opened wide, and one hand came up in a gesture she recognized—

She darted forward, but her father had moved first, and faster. He raised his wings and lifted himself from the ground. "Do you see now?" Velandryn's hand clenched into a fist, but no fire came forth. "Do you see what we truly are?" He gave one more beat with his great wings before landing on the ground again. "This can be yours. A gift I have bestowed upon none other, even here among my court. The true-blooded power of a Vampire Lord, given from my own bloodline in the presence of Lord Molag Bal. It was for this gift that Lokil was sent forth, for which Vakken yearned so deeply. The chance to accept purity such as no other vampires save those of my own blood possess. What say you?"

Clearly, he expected Velandryn to accept. Of course, Serana thought with a smirk she let none see, he didn't know the Dunmer. Velandryn had regained his composure, even if his eyes were still horrified.

"You state this power is held by none at your court. Why would you gift it to me?" There we go. Velandryn would pick this offer apart, even if—as she strongly suspected—he meant to refuse. It wouldn't do him any good, of course, but if her father turned him…then he would come to me of his own will. I would be his only friend. That thought, at least, pleased her.

Her father's voice always sounded strange coming from his greater form, as he liked to call it. "There are events at play of which you have no understanding. My daughter has a part in all of this, and I believe you could as well. There is power in you, in your blood; I can feel it in ways you cannot comprehend. I offer you a position at my side!"

Velandryn glanced around the room, and Serana wondered if he too could feel the resentment of the court. She knew what Lord Harkon felt in him, though her father doubtless could not identify it as a dragon's soul. None of the others would feel it, though, and so see only an impertinent upstart being elevated far beyond all reason. An opportunity like this was one that many present would kill for.

Again the Dunmer paused, and when he spoke, his words came slowly. "No. No thank you. I decline." His red eyes blazed suddenly. "Were I to tell you all the reasons why, you'd slay me before I was half done." He bowed his head in Serana's direction before fixing her with a stare as intense as any she'd ever seen from him. "You're better than this, Serana." He pointed at her father, but his eyes never left hers. "You're better than him."

With a roar, Lord Harkon lunged forward, claws outstretched. Velandryn, however, danced backwards and pulled a small leather-bound book halfway out of his coat. She'd seen it before, but she couldn't quite remember where…

There was neither flash nor sound to signal his departure. One moment Velandryn Savani was there, and the next he was gone. Her father's grasp passed through the space where the Dunmer had stood, and his bellow of rage echoed off the cavernous ceiling. The court broke into alarmed chatter, and Serana sagged against a pillar, completely drained.

Her father reverted to human form and confronted her, voice harsh with fury. "Where is he? Where did he go?"

She could only shrug helplessly. "I don't know." She looked at the spot where he'd been. I don't know…

The world spun around Velandryn, matter and time, light and sound, and his own soul existing as one and the same and—for an instant—switching places in a trans-liminal dance. It was one thing to know intellectually that all of reality was simply webs of creation layered over a complex magical and metaphysical framework, but getting a glimpse of it made his head hurt. As reality reassembled itself around him, however, his first thought was sheer relief that he had managed to get out of that castle. His second, as he felt himself yanked downwards abruptly, was that perhaps not everything had gone exactly according to plan.

He hit the ground hard. His knees buckled, and he pitched headlong onto the frozen earth. Rolling, he tasted salt water and opened his eyes just in time to see a wave crest over him ready to break. Gasping, he sucked in air and held his breath as it crashed over him, drenching his head and sending a chill into his bones all at once.

Not ideal. Scrambling out of the shallows, he took stock. He was on the edge of the water, apparently in the far north. Instead of the castle Volkihar there were only trees and scattered rocks. Offshore lay the omnipresent fog, and off to one side—

The jetty. Perfect. That same dilapidated jetty meant that he had only been off by a few paces. He winced as he pulled himself to his feet. He had never actually tried field teleportation outside of practice arenas before, and had no desire to do so again, for all that it had likely saved his life. By the look of things, those vampires hadn't been planning to let him go. The safeguard built into the spell seemed to have worked, even if the one who had scribed them had been a bit overzealous in enforcing the minimum distance between the subject and the nearest solid mass. Or perhaps that was me. Either way, he was away, and safe.

With another wince, he checked himself for wounds, missing limbs, or anything else that could have occurred after hurtling oneself through time and space. Fortunately he seemed to be intact. All things considered, that could have gone worse. It could have gone better too, but it was foolish to hope for everything in life. He focused on a spell of healing, but the magicka only swirled around him, not locating anything in need of work. Good.

He remembered his last words in the Volkihar hall, denouncing Harkon, and smiled. That felt good. Then, he thought of Serana, and his levity faded. She had looked very alone behind her father. He hoped her homecoming was everything she had dreamed, and couldn't even tell himself if he was being facetious.

He gave a tremendous sneeze, and suddenly remembered where he was. Looking around, he saw the jetty once again, and felt that same surge of satisfaction at a plan well executed. That feeling lasted for all of a moment, until he noticed the worrying lack of a certain Nord and his ship.

No. He pivoted, hoping that he had simply misremembered where Jolf had beached his ship. Not good. For the length of the coast as far as he could see, there was no sign of his way back to Solitude. He spun to check the sea. Perhaps he put out to fish, or—but no, there was nothing.

Panic rose in his throat, and he looked inland. Craggy mountains rose far to the south, and the sparse trees that made up what could charitably be called a forest did little to alleviate the feel of desolation. Whether in Morrowind or Skyrim, to venture too far from civilization was to take your life into your own hands. Without the Nord, he was alone in the middle of nowhere.

He recalled the fishing villages they had passed, but the nearest of those would be days away on foot. It was possible there were clans of the Old Nords hereabouts, but given their primitive ways, even if he found them they would be unlikely to embrace an elf. What else is there? These infamous Reachmen that apparently plagued the roads to the south were unlikely to offer much aid, and while he had heard stories of Orc strongholds in the Druadach Mountains, he had neither the means to find them nor any reason they should offer him aid. That is, if they aren't the pious type and shoot me on sight. Malacath bore the Dunmer little love, and Morrowind had never had especially warm relations with Orcish leaders.

That left heading south and east, and hoping to reach something approaching civilization south of the mountains. From what he recalled of the maps in Morthal, there was little between him and Solitude, but the Empire must have patrols or outposts. They claim this land as theirs, after all. It was a thin string on which to hang his hopes, but the alternative was returning to the Volkihar and accepting Harkon's foul offer. If he'll still have me, which I somewhat doubt. Velandryn knew his type, powerful and immensely proud. Rejecting his gift had left him incensed and fuming, most likely. Which, while immensely satisfying from a moral standpoint, doesn't improve my situation any.

He had to move, and fast. The day wasn't getting any younger, and he was cold and wet besides. The majority of his possessions were either in his saddlebags in Morthal, or in the keeping of a money-house in Solitude. Quickly, he took stock of what remained to him. Full leather armor lined with fur, well-made but now a bit the worse for wear, with the sacred hand Ghartok blazoned on the breast, and padded linens beneath that offered some warmth but little protection. A blade, of Orcish make; and two daggers, one of simple iron and the other of vampiric craftsmanship sat on a belt studded with pouches. In those pouches he had a flimsy mortar and pestle made for the travelling alchemist, a few dried flowers and roots as well as the journal in which he had recorded their alchemical properties, a folded map that helpfully informed him that there were neither roads nor landmarks in northern Haafingar, and four soul gems, two of which were filled with meager souls from slain wolves. He also had a bedraggled fur cloak and a purse containing three hundred and eighty-two drakes in small coins. Another pocket contained a few strips of dried meat and a chunk of stale bread. A half-full waterskin hanging from his belt completed his perishables.

One small pouch, carefully designed, contained eight potions, four of which were designed to inure him against the cold alongside three for restoration of magicka or stamina, one for the healing of minor wounds, and a single dose of a curative for most diseases that he had wedged into the pouch despite it not having a slot. He had brought that one in case things with the vampires went wrong, and while he was fairly certain he hadn't been infected, he swallowed it anyways. He carefully placed the empty vial back into his bag; by the look of things, he would run short of frost resists and need to brew his own long before he made it back to Skyrim's closest approximation of civilization. This should be an interesting experience, if nothing else.

That thought gave him pause, and as he dug through his last bag, unearthing a small hood and some pieces of jewelry that facilitated magicka use, he felt something he couldn't quite place. It wasn't a foreign thought such as a vampire would have placed there, nor was it Dov and Joor quarreling over courses of action. This was…excitement.

At first, it seemed too strange to be true. Here he was, abandoned in a dark and desolate corner of a frozen hellscape of a province, and he had nowhere to go but—

Nowhere to go but forward. Just me and this damned province. He grinned a Dunmer grin, though it was something of a waste that there were no humans around to be unnerved by his eyes. Pulling deeply on his magicka, he suffused his body with heat and felt the water steam and the cold flee. It would return, of course, but his control of magicka was greater than it had ever been. By day, at least, he could keep himself from freezing, and by night, well, there was plenty of wood lying about.

It wouldn't be easy. His map suggested it would be some three hundred miles to Solitude at the very least, and that was as the dragon flew. He would have to either stick north of the mountains and content with the frigid weather or try to force a passing over the peaks and deal with the warmer but possibly foe-infested lands to the south. That's for later. For now, he had to start. And once I finish, I can find Jolf in Solitude and feed him his own spine. That would be a nice reward for the both of them.

Filling his lungs with frigid air, he slipped on the necklace and rings, feeling his magicka swell within him. The task ahead would be arduous, but he would persevere. If it wasn't difficult, it wouldn't be worth doing. He checked his blade, and let fire flare out around his hands for a brief moment.

It's three hundred miles to Solitude. I've got a full brace of potions, half a flask of water, it's cold and I'm the gods-damned Dragonborn.

Skyrim, do your worst.

Home

The court didn't know what to make of her, that much was certain. Vingalmo, seated down near the end of the high table, was surely plotting on how best to turn this to his benefit, but the rest of them were likely reassessing where they sat in the current hierarchy. For her part, she was still trying to figure out what exactly was going on. Since landing on the island, everything had become a bit of a blur, and most of it still didn't seem real.

Damn you, Dragonborn. For the life of her, she couldn't figure out how he pulled off that escape. A part of her was happy that he had, even as she recognized that he could very well pose real problems for her family in the future. A family, to be fair, that seemed to need no help in tearing itself apart.

She was seated beside her father, but Lord Harkon clearly didn't care too much about how his daughter was feeling. His attention was on the Elder Scroll and a great book he had open before him, and the intensity of his eyes belied any attempt to break his focus. The others of the court might be curious, but none of them were coming up to make conversation. There was too much tension in the air for her to feel comfortable, and the sounds of feeding from the assembled Volkihar did little to settle her. She was hungry, but right now she didn't want to feed. So, she sat, and tried to feel as one with her people.

All at once, the far doors slammed open. Her head jerked up at the sound, and she stared into the blackness. Had they found Velandryn? Unless he was a far greater mage than he had given evidence of being, he could not have gone very far. She couldn't place the feeling, this unease at the idea of seeing him dragged in through the doors. It would be for the best.

But it was not her onetime companion who entered. Rather, a pack of three vampires strode up the length of the hall, a very familiar Nord shambling along behind them. Jolf looked none the worse for wear, but the vacant look on his face and slackness of his motions betrayed his enchantment. The vampires went down to their knees, and Harkon beckoned at the foremost to speak.

The vampire, a woman of Nord blood and with cruel features, rose. "My Lord, we patrolled the coast as you commanded, but upon our return we found our ship missing. This one was there, and tells a most interesting tale. Speak!" She grabbed Jolf and pushed him forward.

Serana had no wish to hear whatever version of events the Nord would tell, so she rose as well. "This is the one who brought us here. He's a common fool but I hired him to do a job." She turned to face the three vampires below. "I took a boat that I presume was yours, but I had need. I am glad to see you made it back safely."

The lead vampire hissed in anger. "Lord Harkon, who is this? I have never—"

"This is Serana, Hestla. My daughter." His voice betrayed no emotion at making that statement after four thousand years, but Serana felt a familiar warmth somewhere in her chest. His daughter. I'm home.

The other vampire, who was apparently called Hestla, fell to her knees once again. "My lady! Forgive my impertinence! Had I known you were returning—"

Once more Harkon cut her off. "You did as you should. Nobody," he shot Serana a dark glance, "who sees this place may be allowed to leave, and even this one," his hand indicated Jolf, "must be taken care of."

Serana felt a brief pang of guilt for Jolf, but there was nothing she could do. Even if she had wanted to rescue him, it was impossible.

Her father was speaking again. "But, this is fortunate. You have done well, Hestla." He approached the stupefied Jolf, and turned to Serana. "You must be famished, my dear. Come, let this Nord help you one time more."

She rose without thinking, trained since birth to obey her father's voice. Only as she was rounding the table did she realize what she was about to do. He helped me. Reluctantly, to be sure, but she had brought him here.

As she approached, the scent of his blood rose in her nostrils. She had grown accustomed to suppressing her hunger, but her father's words and the presence of so much feeding around her now brought those feelings to the forefront. As she approached, she reached out subtly to influence the Nord's mind, and Jolf knelt.

With a shudder, she realized what she'd done, what she was about to do. It's so easy. Here, among her family, it was the simplest thing in the world to command mortals. Standing over him now, it felt so natural, so right. It was so simple, letting go.

She knelt beside him, and felt the blood pulsing in his veins. His eyes were dull, but she knew he was in there somewhere. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry it came to this." The court chuckled appreciatively at her light-hearted tone, but she felt better for having said the words. This dissonance was unpleasant, but with time, surely it would fade.

Her father leaned in close enough that she could feel his breath when he spoke. "You have been away a long time, Serana, and I will not fault you for having become…unfocused…in your time abroad. It is easy to forget our place, or even to feel some misguided sympathy for the cattle, I know. However, now you are returned." His soft words became more insistent. "It is time for you to feed."

"Of course, father." As the court watched, she bowed her head and drank.