Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

     “I know you have the best intentions, Meraxes, but you can’t be bringing vampires into Jorrvaskr. There’s a certain—"

     “Can you hear yourself speak, Aela?” Meraxes rose unsteadily from her seat. Drowned in three times her usual helping of wine, she wasn't in a position to hold her tongue. “Because it sure fucking seems like that’s the only reason you’re talking.”

     Aela snorted in contempt. As Meraxes disturbed her rage, the huntress felt helpless inside. She labored so much to control her anger that she feared she would lose herself in it.

     “I’m sorry. I’ll take her outside if you’d prefer it," Serana offered. Aela caught her brilliant eyes for a fraction of a second before turning away. In the air, she smelled tension so thick she could snap it like an arrow, a musty twinge of disgust, and powerful curiosity.

     “Serana." Meraxes’s face sank, disgruntled.

     “Oh, save it,” Serana snapped bitterly. In that instant, Aela identified the source of the disgust... and the tension. “I hate it when you’re like this.”

     Anchored to the floor by her heavy armor, Meraxes drunkenly gripped the back of a chair hard enough to pale her knuckles. Her vision had at last succumbed to the effects of her vice.

     “There’s an idea. Take her outside, and why don’t you do us a favor and get lost with her?” Aela raised her voice as the fury she thought she’d suppressed swelled in the pit of her stomach. “You shouldn’t have come here to begin with. Your kind isn’t welcome.”

     Serana’s expression—despite her honeyed eyes, which remained alight like boiling gold—became as frigid as her blood. 

     “Tell me why. Why do we have to leave? This is the only home Meraxes has, and you’ve already heard her story. We have to move, anyway, before—“

     “We don’t want the Dawnguard here. That’s certainly a part of it. While they’re not much for numbers like their Silver Hand counterparts, they certainly make up for it with their technology.”

     Aela gestured to the door with an impatient wave of her hand. Then, she led Serana—who practically dragged a staggering Meraxes with her—to Jorrvaskr’s spacious backyard. Outside was empty. Quiet. The sounds of new-bloods calling to Eorlund, announcing they had weapons ripe for sharpening, was shot to Oblivion.

     Farkas was absent, a feat about which Meraxes would have remarked if she were capable of paying attention. She usually found him slicing the heads off the hay-and-flax dummies at the training grounds.

     “You really don’t understand, then? Vampires and werewolves have always been at odds. The Circle, save Kodlak, are bound to see you differently. And that’s not even the half of it! There are a number of larger pressing issues which tell me only that you need to leave immediately, and that's not just for our safety.” Aela’s countenance hardened with disappointment as she spoke, her eyes narrowing when Meraxes’s face twisted stupidly askew. The huntress blamed both the alcohol and her companion’s insolence for that.

     What an idiot...though I have to admit that I miss her sober days.

     Aela shook her head disapprovingly, having evidently lost some faith in her Shield-Sister over the years. Shield-Sister. Sometimes, she didn’t even feel like granting Meraxes that formality.

     “At least there’s hope for one of you. Meraxes won’t remember a damn thing I say, even if I swore it on Hircine’s hide.” Aela’s jaw tightened. No matter how frustrated she grew with Meraxes, she could never bring herself to hate her. The huntress was the reason Kodlak took her in, after all. Meraxes had been a mercenary who’d lost most of her humanity. Aela was afraid to admit it, but still feared—after all the years the Companions spent helping her—that she’d never regain it.

     And Skjor...

     Aela pondered her love lost, and the frustration she felt melted into a partial sadness. He fought in Skyrim’s wars, too. I don’t want to send Meraxes away. Not like this. But if the vampire stays, Farkas will kill her.

     “What's wrong with us being here? I don’t know Skyrim well anymore, but I’ll find somewhere to take her, if you can explain.” Serana thought it was within her rights to know. If it somehow wasn’t, she’d be more than content with leaving. After all, she and Meraxes had only been at Jorrvaskr for a couple of dreadfully eventful hours. “I assure you that I don’t intend to harm anyone here.”

     Serana grew disturbed at the way Aela's face shifted when she confessed her ignorance. Perhaps the vampire should have refrained from commenting. After all, not many would believe that she’d been trapped in stone for several generations, much less a pack of werewolves.

     “Did you notice that Kodlak took two of our members downstairs?”

     “Yes, but I didn’t think much of it.” Serana crossed her arms.

     Aela’s brow furrowed as, like an unwelcome neighbor, her frustration returned. “You might not have, but our family gathers at the table for each dinner. What went on was out of custom. If Meraxes were sober enough to see straight, she would have certainly thought it odd.”

     Serana gave Meraxes’s shoulder the lightest shake—an experiment to gauge her consciousness—to which she failed to respond. The vampire forced a sigh. How much of the they spent together did Meraxes even remember? She’d been drunk so often.

     “Their names are Farkas and Vilkas. And, if you take a single step in what they could remotely consider their territory, they won’t hesitate to kill you. Especially not Farkas.”

     “Well, it’s not like I’m not already dead.”

     “You know what I mean." The huntress's expression hardened.

     “Yes, I do, but why?”

     Aela’s gaze drifted beyond Serana, focusing firmly on the hills and farms beyond Whiterun's walls. She thought of fabrications that might have made the world just a bit more livable for the vampire, but was sure she'd experienced her fair share of strife.

     As much as Aela remained out of touch with her own emotions, she simply couldn’t agree with Farkas and Vilkas, Shield-Brothers or not. They certainly had it out for vampires, but Aela didn't find Serana monstrous at all. There was a bewildering innocence about her that she couldn't shake.

     “Farkas and Vilkas’s father fought in a gruesome conflict. I’m sure you’ve already heard of it. We call it the Great War."

     “The Great War,” Serana repeated, as if she were reading a book aloud. She’d missed so much of the history that fascinated her. 

     “...Right. To continue, their father...” Aela trailed off. It hadn’t been easy saying goodbye to Jergen. He was one of many upstanding men lost to a War which, over the years it raged on, became less and less Great. “He never came home.”

     The tale was harder to tell than Aela had remembered. The one thing Meraxes had been good for in that moment—that ice-brained drunk—was smiling like an idiot, as if she couldn’t hear the painful words that danced macabre around her ears. She’d managed to drown her whole world in a violet bath of wine. “Jergen was a member of the Circle. A werewolf, like me. Like Meraxes. Later, after investigating Jergen’s death to see if the Silver Hand had any involvement, I discovered—“

     CLANG!     

     Suddenly, Jorrvaskr's back doors flew open, banishing the peaceful silence of moments past. Farkas and Vilkas stood at the entryway, having escaped from the cellar, where Kodlak had confined them to prevent any harm to Serana. 

     “You! Why are you taking to that fucking leech?” Farkas’s voice contained within its deep majesty a belligerent growl, which struck Meraxes as out of the ordinary even in her half-conscious state.

     “Wha—?” inquired their drunken Shield-Sister. Rather, she attempted to, as Farkas advanced with his greatsword perniciously drawn. Serana was tempted to shake her back to consciousness, although she supposed that it wouldn’t do much. The promise Meraxes had made—that she wouldn’t get in Serana’s way if Serana didn’t get in hers—was equal parts hilarious and disappointing, now.

     “I’m not here to—" 

     “We didn’t invite Molag Bal to dinner, and quite frankly, none of us want anything to do with him." Wearing a hostile sneer, Vilkas leapt to interrupt Serana. He’d always been kinder than his twin brother, but Aela failed to see that kindness as he readied his weapon to strike down someone who’d done nothing to him.

     Then again, the Companions did that every day. Surely, not all of the Silver Hand carried Skjor’s blood on their fingers, just because one had struck him down. Aela shook her head at her internal dissonance; at something no one else could see. She’d save those thoughts for another time.

     “Could you all shut the fuck up? Talos have mercy.”

     Farkas lowered his weapon. He hadn’t intended to grant Serana any benevolence, but quirked a brow when Meraxes—who nearly fell face-first into a table—finally spoke up. “What’s your Divines-damned problem, Shield-Sister? You must’ve had a whole keg to drink if you think you’re doing something good in defending a leech. Step out of the way so I can—“

     “By Ysgramor! What is this nonsense I’m hearing? You all fight like little children,” a voice bellowed from the doorway. Every Companion recognized it intimately, more so, the feuding members of the Circle:

     It was Kodlak Whitemane’s.

     Vilkas fell silent after sheathing his weapon. Farkas, on the other hand, offered the Harbinger the greeting of a readied greatsword, but not before sending a glob of spit hurling rapidly towards the ground.

     “Could someone tell me what happened here?”

      When Vilkas opened his mouth to speak, Kodlak silenced him with a simple wave of his hand. “Someone reasonable. Vilkas, your emotions consume you.”

     His gaze fell on Aela.

     The huntress dipped her head. “I say we remove these two from Jorrvaskr, but only temporarily. Meraxes has been drinking since she’s been here, and her friend—“

      “I wouldn’t say we’re friends.” Serana wasn’t too meek to correct Aela’s assumption. She’d only known Meraxes for a short time, and despite the fact that the vampire felt as if she owed the veteran her life, she’d acquired a dislike for Meraxes’ behaviors when she fell victim to her substance-related habits.

     Aela sighed, her shoulders tensing. “She’s a vampire.”

     Kodlak nodded slowly. As he did, the brothers watched Serana through narrowed eyes, Farkas staring daggers at even Meraxes. “I’m aware. This is why I shut Farkas and Vilkas inside with me. I did not believe they had it in them to rebel physically, but I certainly stand corrected.”

     Silence followed, and Kodlak spent it pensive—that was—until he finally came to a decision regarding Meraxes and her outsider company. "For Meraxes’s well-being, she cannot stay here. House Whitemane, though it is safe for Meraxes as a member of the Circle, is not so for her traveling companion. I will, however, pay for a room in The Bannered Mare, but on a single condition.”

     What could Meraxes possibly offer this man in such a drunken state? Serana pondered the scarce possibilities. She turned to her rescuer, who slumped almost limp between the her arm and a long table. In that moment, she wondered who had really saved whom at Dimhollow Crypt.

      “You could let me slay the vampire. That would fix everything!” Farkas spoke through clenched teeth, yet Serana didn’t seem afraid of him. Instead, she was consumed by bitterness. To see a man so blinded by the unreasonable reminded her of her father.

      Raising his hand yet again, that time to silence Farkas, the Harbinger turned to Serana. “You have my full attention. Tell me who you are and how Meraxes met you.”

     The inkeeper was more than grateful for a share of Kodlak’s gold. She grinned ear to ear as he passed the pouch over the bar, and in exchange, handed him a rusty key.

     “We don’t have any double bedrooms open, but I’d be happy to bring an extra bed roll in for...” attempting to smile at the drunken heap of armored adventurer, the inkeeper only swallowed nervously. “...for her.”

     The Harbinger nodded—a gesture that helped the Imperial woman forget her awkwardness—and took the key. “That would be ideal. Thank you.”

     The rest of House Whitemane were children to Kodlak, or as close as he’d ever gotten to having his own. He would never leave Meraxes without a place to sleep. Perhaps his kindness was weakness, but that was never how Kodlak himself saw it. The beast inside of him was one he rejected; his behavior only opposed what he was most afraid of becoming.

     Ending the momentary silence, a bard began to strum the lute and sing:

     “I loved a maid as fair as summer
with sunlight in her hair.”

     Kodlak listened to the tune, walking wordlessly at Serana’s side.

    “She’s heavy, even for me," Serana remarked. She gripped Meraxes’s legs from her knees, letting the drunkard's head rest, unconscious, on one of her shoulders. If the half-Nord dared drool on her, she’d drop her on her ass. It wasn't like she’d been locked in that monolith with an extra change of clothes.

     The vampire would have been ready to set Meraxes down as soon as possible, but something felt strange—no—it felt wrong.

     ”Her leg,” Serana wondered aloud, her words lingering on Kodlak's ears. “The pulse. It feels...off.”

     When Kodlak turned his head, Serana saw him frown for the first time she’d met him.

     “She didn’t tell you why the Imperials discharged her, did she?”

     The bard continued, his voice an interruption unwelcome to even Serana, who had not heard a song in hundreds of years:

     “I loved a maid as white as winter
with moonglow in her hair.”

      Serana gracefully suppressed her confusion. “We’ve only known each other for a week.”

     Kodlak arched his head into another nod. Then, Serana could plainly see why the city called his House ‘Whitemane.’ His beard, grown from time and experience, appeared pale as snow under the lights of the inn; even paler than Serana’s own skin. 

     “She was never an open book, but I will give her the benefit of the doubt in that we all have our monsters. Some lie within us as dormant beasts, but if we allow them control over us, we will become them. She struggles with that at times.”

     Serana owed Kodlak’s statement some thought. Whether or not Meraxes had known a monster too many couldn’t possibly excuse her actions, but perhaps it could explain them. She was slowly losing faith in anyone’s capacity to tame her rescuer’s pointlessly cruel tendencies.

     When the innkeeper returned moments later, Kodlak tucked Meraxes gently into the bedroll she'd brought, while Serana perched herself at the foot of the room’s bed. It had been a while since she’d seen a bed, let alone sat on one. The vampire preferred resting in them herself; she hated the small, dark spaces coffins provided her kin. The deep sleep the rest of her brethren could achieve within them would always remain a mystery to her. 

     “I know. She seems determined to drink herself to death, too.”

     Serana’s twinge of sarcasm registered to Kodlak as a coping mechanism. Though it was more innocent than Meraxes’ preferred vice, it was still ever-present. He had his way of seeing through people, and his reading on the Volkihar woman suggested she’d met many beasts of her own. No wonder, even if the two didn’t get along all the time, Serana remained at Meraxes's side.

     They were kindred spirits, destined to cross paths by odd twists and turns of fate.

     “She was not always that way. Not before she enlisted in the War. Although, perhaps she should be telling you these things.” Kodlak settled idly in the room’s only chair, etches of determination still lingering on his aging face. “Serana, is it? If you tell me how Meraxes found you, and why she—of all others—brought you to Jorrvaskr, it would help me better understand why the Dawnguard is after the both of you.”

     From what Meraxes had told her about Kodlak, if she was remotely trustworthy, then he was even more. Serana had a feeling she could could confide in him.

     Determined, her porcelain visage hardened to stone.

     “It began with a man named Isran.”

End of Chapter 1.

Next: Serana’s rescuer is not at all what she expected.

Chapter Text

     Meraxes had never seen purple fire before.

     Of course, she’d borne witness to many things out of the ordinary: magic, undead Atmorans, and even dragons, yet nothing had prepared her for the encounter she was about to have.

     Straining after she'd moved the others, Meraxes pushed the final brazier into place, the flames within it burning an intense violet. Then, the ground began to shake, and Meraxes started to wonder whether she'd done something incorrectly.

     An earthquake? She hadn’t signed up for that.

     “Stupid wolf-man,” Meraxes cursed through clenched teeth as her boots and body trembled. Insulting her wolf-kin seldom bothered her the way it would the Companions, but she made an exception for Isran. That idiot represented werewolves poorly at best.

     And the Dawnguard? Meraxes could hardly convey her frustration with them. They'd sent her on a seemingly-endless quest with no money, little food, and a canteen of water she'd already finished. She hadn't any mead, either. That was what she really needed.

     The earthquake split the ground apart into two, even halves. There were no cracks, only ends that fit perfectly together to form a deliberate, gaping hole at their center. Meraxes eagerly awaited her objective.

     And, soon enough, there it was.

     Rising from the crater was a stone monolith about the size of a coffin, which ceased the earth's trembling upon its emergence.

     Meraxes scoffed at the object's sheer size as it came into view. The Dawnguard might have expected too much when they asked her to carry something that large back to the Fort. Tolan had died, too, so it wasn't like she was going to get anyone's help.

     Suddenly, the tomb opened.

     As the rock turned outward, slowly revealing Meraxes's prize, she drew her greatsword. Often, structures like those were traps, prepared to spring a volley of arrows or treacherous spikes. Sometimes, they even alerted creatures. She needed to remain vigilant. 

     But no matter how wary she was, she never could have prepared herself for what she saw next—lying within the stone wasn’t something—it was someone.

     A woman?

     Still skeptical, Meraxes cautiously lowered her sword to observe the contents of the tomb. A...corpse?

     But it couldn’t have been. If the woman were dead, then why did her body appear so fresh? It wasn’t decomposed like a draugr's.

     “What the fuck?” Meraxes cursed aloud, eyes narrowed as anger and confusion rose within the pit of her stomach. Did Isran truly send her all the way to Dimhollow to fetch a cadaver?

     Then, she saw it:

     The Elder Scroll. It was strapped to the stranger's back, radiating magical energy. Meraxes didn't know much about them, save they were powerful and worth a small fortune.

     That had to be what Isran wanted, and not the woman it shared a tomb with; that only made sense.

      It’s worth at least two thousand septims...

     Meraxes gritted her teeth. Perhaps if she sold the thing, she'd pay herself back for the work she'd done for the Dawnguard. What would happen if I pawned it instead of giving it to Isran? The College of Winterhold would probably buy it.

     But she was a knight, forbidden from the dishonor that stealing exemplified. A day didn’t go by that Meraxes did not regret making that oath, nor did a week in which she didn’t break it.

     As she reached over the dead woman's shoulder to claim the scroll, she cursed under her breath. I can't do that. Perhaps I can sell it after Isran finds a way to read it, though.

     Then, the scent in the air changed without warning, and Meraxes felt something warm tighten around her wrist. The sensation was redolent of radiant fire—blazing and bright—even in Dimhollow Crypt, where everything was shrouded in darkness.

      Everything, save a pair of alight, amber eyes, which casted Meraxes’s extended arm aglow.

      “By Talos! Fuck!” she cried out, initiating a frantic attempt to pull her wrist away as she retreated from the tomb. Meraxes had certainly given up on the scroll then. That ghastly woman could have it!

      If she had one, Meraxes would have spared a moment to relax her heartbeat. Instead, her breaths accelerated to the verge of desperation until she noticed that the woman had released her arm.

      Hah, she exhaled, free at last. A mistake!

      As Meraxes steadied her footing, she raised her greatsword to press the tip against the stranger’s throat. She would not reveal so soon that she was shaking.

      Releasing a gritty breath, the veteran gathered the courage to ask a single question.“How?” Her voice echoed through the depths of the cavern, strong despite her qualms. “How are you alive?”

      The woman failed to react to the greatsword pressed to her skin. Instead, her expression suggested a painful headache, something that Meraxes was well-acquainted with on account of her drinking habits.

      “Where—who...”

      The stranger struggled to speak, slumping over, but Meraxes did not relent. I will not fall for some temptress’ tricks!

      Meraxes was a drunkard. A fool. A stubborn bastard. A liar, sometimes, and a cheat most of the time, but she was not an idiot. Yet, with her eyes transfixed on the mysterious woman—glued to her beauty by a powerful force—she felt like an idiot.

      The air between Meraxes and the stranger seemed so thick, looming with a million curiosities, that she could slice it with her greatsword.

     She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Damned seductress.

      The woman reminded her of a witch from one of Kodlak’s stories; one made from clay by a Daedra who promised an Atmoran Prince a grand power, then cursed him and his children for all eternity. Growling under her breath, Meraxes shook her head. She couldn't let herself slip up on a job.

      Her greatsword no longer wavered, and her voice rang with a regained confidence:

      “Out with it, if you can give me a reason not to gut you where you stand!”

      However firm she'd been, the stranger brushed her brashness away like a dust of snow.

      “Who sent you here?”

      Meraxes raised her chin, arrogant and bitter as she shifted the grip on her greatsword to one that would render the woman headless within seconds if she willed it. Thoughts hidden in the depths of Meraxes’s mind pushed inexorably to leave the woman alone, yet she knew from decades of experience that the temptress would seize her the second she withdrew.

      Meraxes fought herself with a ferocity. She couldn't afford for her thoughts to betray her. “So you can talk,” she retorted condescendingly. “I think you should let the woman with the sword ask the questions.”

      Embracing her newfound confidence, Meraxes's fists tightened around her weapon's hilt, until she noticed something pale forming in the stranger's palm:

      Ice.

      Shit.

      “You think? What...”

      Despite the biting, rhetorical nature of the woman’s question, Meraxes couldn't help but wonder how she seemed so perfectly calm. How could she be, with a sword pressed to her throat? Who the hell was she?

      “What is that light?" the woman asked. Everything in Dimhollow, though, still bathed in shadow.

      “There is no light. Are you mad?”

      Then, without a word, the stranger strode incautiously closer to Meraxes. Too close for comfort. Meraxes raised her sword, doubling back in surprise when the woman's ice melted away.

      “What the fuck are you—“

      “This light.” One of the stranger's hands rested quaintly—harmlessly—atop Meraxes’s head, her palm flat and gentle. The knight was quite unsure of how that happened, with her sword readied the entire time.

      Was it possible that the woman had somehow brought her guard down?

      “That’s my hair, and I don’t want you touching it!" Meraxes snarled, savagely shoving her. The glow in her eyes, which had been intense enough to pierce the darkness moments before, dulled as she stumbled.

      “Need to... drink.”

      Feeling guilt ascend to the pit of her stomach—but bitterness overruling it—Meraxes raised her greatsword high. She refused to look away from the stranger’s paling face in case she was nothing more than a talented actress.

      “Yes, I imagine being trapped in a coffin makes one thirsty.” She grit her teeth. “Unfortunately for you, my canteens are empty.”

      The woman weakly shook her head, all but melting onto the floor in her exhaustion.

      “Not water,” she rasped. Her dull eyes trailed down Meraxes’s face, stopping abruptly at the crook of her neck.

      "Blood.”

      Meraxes strapped the Elder Scroll over her shoulder as soon as the stranger slipped into unconsciousness. That way, if her illness was a ruse, she'd have the best of her.

     The things I do for answers, Meraxes thought, holding a canteen she never wished to drink from again. It contained the blood of a thrall she’d killed in the cave’s tunnels, which smelled painstakingly like shit. Meraxes only hoped it was enough to rouse the woman for an interrogation.

     Kneeling, and glad to be rid of the foul-smelling liquid, Meraxes poured it steadily into the woman’s mouth. At first, she accidentally tilted the canteen too much. Her eyes followed the trickle of red as it leaked beneath the stranger’s exposed cleavage.

     Shit. Meraxes cursed herself as blood rushed into her cheeks. She felt her face grow hot, but was still unable to look away. What is with this woman's dress?

     Then, the stranger roused, coughing and sputtering the cold blood. Her eyes fluttered open with the glow they’d possessed before it had faded into nothingness.

     “This blood...”

     Her gaze met Meraxes', equal parts disappointed and disgusted. “Is this yours? It’s horrible.”

     Meraxes shook her head, her jaw tightening. “And here I am after going through all the trouble to get it for you. I believe you owe me some answers.”

     Then, the woman laughed, her humor mirthless.

     “Are you mocking me?”

     “What if I am? You’re not..." The stranger's chuckling ceased as she trailed off, a stone-cold seriousness replacing her former countenance. “You’re not like me."

     “No. Blood isn’t typically my first choice of a beverage.” Meraxes’s brow furrowed sternly as she wondered whether the woman was toying with her. If she was, she'd selected the wrong person to stall. “And you can’t distract me so easily. Do you have a name?”

     “Serana. Good to meet you, although you’re not what I expected.”

     Meraxes sneered. “I won’t apologize for not being up to your standards. What are you, a princess?”

     Shaking her head, Serana took a long sip of the blood, suppressing a gag as she swallowed it. “That’s not your concern, but to answer your earlier question, I’m not alive. I’m undead.”

     “Excuse me?”

     “You seriously didn’t know that? You just watched me drink half a unit of blood.”

     Meraxes's blink harbored an unhealthy amount of frustration. What was Serana trying to do to her?

     “I’m not the greatest at this type of math," she admitted nonchalantly.

     “You should have been able to smell it, wolf.”

     At the sound of a word, Meraxes seethed, instantly forgetting her vow.“Meraxes,” she hissed, “That’s my fucking name.”

     “Okay, Meraxes, who sent you here?”

     “I’ll ask the questions, you stupid smartass. You’re lucky I want information instead of to lop off your pretty, little head, my occupation considered.”

     The vampire rose from the floor, quickly ascending beyond Meraxes’s shoulders. “What is your occupation? You know what? Don’t tell me. Whatever it is, I don’t believe you could kill me, or that you truly want to.”

     Her expression hardening, Meraxes forced Serana's ridiculing aside.

     “Why’d you touch my hair? That was a stupid fucking thing to do, since I could have sent your head rolling then," she challenged Serana, grinning. Retaliation was satisfying.

     For a fraction of a second, Serana flustered as if she’d forgotten what she’d done. "I...”

     For the first time since her awakening, Serana’s mind blanked. Meraxes triumphantly lifted her chin. She’d tongue-tied the smartass, and she'd done it well.

     “I couldn’t see clearly, and I haven’t met a lot of blondes. You can probably tell it’s not in my lineage.”

     Meraxes snorted coldly at Serana’s reply. 

     “So, do you want to kill me?”

     Meraxes forced a frustrated sigh. She loathed the nature of Serana's questions, and her damn thoughts; they betrayed her.

     No.

     “Yes, if you don’t shut up and let me do my job.”

     Serana wasn't interested in the proposed silence. “I'll ask you again: who sent you here?”

     Meraxes exhaled, exasperated. She all but pinched the bridge of her nose in her annoyance, her face deigning to meet her palm halfway.

     “If I tell you, will you shut the fuck up?”

     “Yes.”

     “He’s a man named Isran.”

     “Could you tell me about Isran?”

     Kodlak arched forward, still deeply engaged in the reminiscing. Perhaps, if he understood who Isran was, and his reasons for wanting either Serana, the Elder Scroll, or both, he’d learn why the Dawnguard was tracking her and Meraxes. If they posed a danger to either of their lives, then his understanding was all the more important.

     “I’ll get there," Serana responded almost coldly. In telling the story of her “rescue,” all of the emotions she’d felt in Dimhollow resurfaced:

     Confusion. Curiosity. Fear. Abandonment, in remembering who’d trapped her there, and frustration at the adventurer who’d supposedly saved her. 

     “I’m taking a break.”

     Without asking Kodlak or Meraxes any permissions, Serana retreated into the tavern. She’d spotted a bookshelf upon their entry and figured reading would serve a suitable pastime, since she'd enjoyed it so much before her sleep in Dimhollow.

     She gripped the first book by its spine, reading its title, The Beginner’s Guide to Homesteading, and then placed it back on the shelf. She had no use for a book like that without a home to stead. She was even less interested in Ahzirr Trajijazaeri or The Lusty Argonian Maid.

     Upon her discovery of a particular book, Serana felt a shiver travel down her spine and her blood freeze in place. As if reliving her awakening hadn’t been enough, the book’s title filled her mind with a sense of heavy, heavy dread.

     It was called Coldharbour.

     After placing it apprehensively on the shelf, she continued her search until she’d found a suitable book. Her temptation to throw Coldharbour into the fireplace hadn’t faded, however.

      She’d settled on The Bear and The Maiden Fair. It sounded like a romance, which appealed to Serana’s interest, though she'd never admit that to anyone. It would have been bested only by a history, but the tavern owned no books of that sort that didn't contain snarky, Khajiiti commentary.

     It was a poem. Serana discovered that when she opened it.

A bear there was, a bear, a bear!
All black and brown, and covered with hair.
The bear! The bear!

     Serana didn’t know what it was about the poem that made her smile. It was too simple for someone with her taste, after all.

Oh come they said, oh come to the fair!
The fair? Said he, but I'm a bear!
All black and brown, and covered with hair!

And down the road from here to there.
From here! To there!
Three boys, a goat and a dancing bear!
They danced and spun, all the way to the fair!
The fair! The fair!

Oh, sweet she was, and pure and fair!
The maid with honey in her hair!
Her hair! Her hair!
The maid with honey in her hair!

      Then, the cause of her entertainment clicked in her mind: the poem was redolent of the many facets of Serana’s life. The bear was an unexpected thing such as her damnation and her rescue. She recalled Kodlak’s lesson of the beasts within each person. Perhaps, when that beast controlled a man, he became the bear, while the maiden danced uncorrupted.

     How nice it’d be to be a maiden still. Serana wasn’t given the choice.

Oh, I'm a maid, and I'm pure and fair!
I'll never dance with a hairy bear!
A bear! A bear!
I'll never dance with a hairy bear!

I called for a knight, but you're a bear!
A bear, a bear!
All black and brown and covered with hair!

     Serana turned the page, but before she could read the next bit, the sound of a man’s cry shattered the lingering silence:

     “JUSTICE FOR ULFRIC STORMCLOAK!”

     The voice belonged to a Nord. Evidently drunk, he summoned armed allies to his side with a wave of his hand. Anger aged him, causing creases which tainted his devilish expression. “Let it be known that the individual—“

     He interrupted himself with a hiccup, but didn’t allow the fleeting pause to stop him. “—who murdered the Jarl and rightful High King of Skyrim, Ser Meraxes Whitemane, is here in this tavern!”

      Serana’s eyes widened, like a wild elk's when faced with Magelight, before she abandoned her book on the table. if Meraxes was truly marked for death, Kodlak needed to know it was time to leave.

      As she urged Kodlak to his senses with a frantic wave, Serana wondered what other things Meraxes had done that she didn’t yet know about. She’d come to doubt, in some of the moments they’d shared together, that Meraxes was truly as bad a person as she’d initially thought. Still, of course she’d murdered someone important. Why did that fact surprise Serana so much?

     “I am Thorald of House Gray-Mane, and when I find her, I’m going to set her head on a spike, just as she did to Ulfric!”

     Serana felt anxiety rise in her throat as she shot a fleeting glance at Meraxes's bedroll. The warrior had awakened her; she’d saved her life more than once. No matter what promises Meraxes had broken, or how many crimes she’d committed, it was high time for Serana to repay her debt.

    Outside, Serana heard tankards clinking and weapons grating against their scabbards.

    “JUSTICE FOR ULFRIC!”

     They men shouted again, however, that was not what disturbed Serana the greatest. It was that, after their cries died, she heard the common folk begin to cheer.

     “Come on, Meraxes, get up!” Serana shook Meraxes by her shoulders, pouring a tankard of cold water over her head when she failed to respond. It jarred the vampire’s conscience how confused Meraxes looked. Wrought in her expression was a kind of innocence Serana couldn’t place.

     “Get up, you idiot!" Her tone sank faster than her heart. "I can’t let you die.”

End of Chapter 2.

Next: An escape and a fateful meeting.

Now that you’ve read the story of their meeting, here’s some art of the girls!

Chapter Text

     “There’s no window in this room." Kodlak's expression hardened. "One of us will have to create a distraction if we’re to get Meraxes out unscathed."

     When he shut his eyes, Serana wondered whether he was calming his racing heart or preparing for something to come. She scrutinized his face, noticing the way his wisdom shone plain on his eyelids, even in the absence of his knowledgeable stare.

     Kodlak had contracted Rot years ago. The disease still consumed his body from the inside, though the Companions couldn’t tell the effect it had on his spirits. Nevertheless, it had been some time since Kodlak had done what he dreaded he might do next: engage in combat.

     He unlatched the leather straps on his holster, releasing the warhammer that, for years, he had no need for. The weapon felt cold in his hands, but familiar. He only hoped he could stay from warming it with the blood of those that would harm Meraxes.

     “Serana, do an old man a favor.” Kodlak’s tone dropped gravely as he held fast to the door handle.

     Serana heard rapping at the entrances adjacent, followed by cries of surprised panic. Not only were the Gray-Manes scouring the main tavern for Meraxes; they were invading every private space for the sake of their search. She couldn’t blame the common folk for screaming when the armed men rushed in, nor could she blame the Gray-Manes for their thoroughness.

     Serana knew it was only a matter of time before someone barged through their door, more likely than not with the intention to kill Meraxes. She was determined to act before that happened.

     “Try not to kill them," Kodlak said, "The Gray-Manes might seem unreasonable people, but they are not at heart.”

     “What should I do?” Serana interlaced her fingers over Meraxes's chest to stand her upright. If only her armor hadn’t made her so damn heavy, then they’d have already fled.

     THUMP! THUMP!

     Kodlak's lips sank when something blunt pounded on their door. Their time was up.

     “Outside the city gates, there’s a stable,” Kodlak said quickly. Despite the situation’s gravity, his urgent tone put Serana off. He’d seemed the kind of man who'd be impossible to unnerve, but there he was, shaking in his fear and contempt. “Ask the carriage driver to take you to Riverwood. The fee is cheap enough for Meraxes to cover. Then, meet me at The Sleeping Giant Inn.”

     ”Open the door!” a voice rasped from outside.

     Serana recalled the exit. There was only one way out of The Bannered Mare, and the stranger at the door stood directly in their path of escape. Serana loathed, more than anything, when others got in her way. Kodlak's request was the only thing preventing her from seeing that the transgressor pay dearly.

     Without warning, Kodlak flung the door open fast and hard, as if he’d intended to kill someone with the force behind the shove.

     THUD!

     The door connected abruptly with something—or someone—which hurdled towards the ground with an unsettling sound.

     Serana's lips tightened. If the mysterious knocker had fallen, the cards were in her favor. If we run now, we could make it, but...

     Meraxes was simply too heavy to flee with. Serana contemplated removing her armor to lighten the load, but if she did, she’d leave her chest bare for the sword. She’ll die if I leave it on; she’ll die if I take it off...

     Shaking her almost violently, Serana hoped to set Meraxes on her feet. Dragging her hungover companion around infuriated her so much that her teeth slid out to bare. Come on, you idiot, just stand up!

     Serana’s thoughts derailed when she heard Kodlak’s bootsteps traversing the tavern’s crowd. Her eyes stilled, frigid. In order to help Meraxes escape The Bannered Mare, she would have to let Kodlak worry about himself.

     As she dragged Meraxes towards the door—her legs hanging lifelessly along for the ride—Serana heard a single word, propelled from Kodlak’s throat by sheer contempt:

     “Thorald!”

     Then, she heard steel clash against itself, and her jaw tightened.

     Every second Serana tried to rouse Meraxes proved a waste. She swore no one would die on her watch, but her shining opportunity faded with each passing moment. She grew apprehensive of the second it expired. 

     “Meraxes, get up! You'll die if you don't!"

     Perhaps it was a miracle—or perhaps dumb luck—but, alas, Meraxes supported her weight on her own feet. She groaned the second she stood up straight, her headache not leaving her much room to think.

     “Serana? What...”

     Serana gripped Meraxes’ wrist hard, prepared to string her along by the arm if she needed to. She couldn't afford to explain. Since she didn’t know how long Kodlak could hold the Gray-Manes before something went wrong, she wasn't willing to waste anymore time.

     “I don’t have time to explain why, but we have to get out of here. Now.”

     Then, something in the tavern crashed.

     Instinctively, Serana spun around, an ice spike taking shape in her palm. Her face contorted almost savagely when a stranger appeared in the gaping doorway with a dagger brandished in his hand.

     He wore a cloak over his head that bathed his face in shadow, making Serana wonder whether he was an assassin. Were that the case, she didn't want a professional killer anywhere near Meraxes. I'm too late, she thought, her teeth clenching in preparation.

     “It’s...”

     The disguised stranger's tone was meek in contrast to the demanding shouts from earlier. More obvious to Serana was the overwhelming scent of his fear, which swirled rife into the air. That, and the fact that his voce hadn't deepened to mark his adulthood.

     Wait...does that mean... Serana swallowed hard. The assailant is a child?

    “It’s... her.”

     However young the hooded stranger was, he was still armed. Serana was in no mood to gamble. So—help her if he advanced another step—she'd kill him. 

     “You have two options." Serana's countenance darkened. “You can run away and take those other men with you, or I can end your life right now.”

     The boy's teeth chattered as he raised his arm, pointing at Meraxes with a single, quivering finger. As if the scent of fear had not been strong enough before, it intensified so much then that Serana could taste it.

     Run. Please...run.

     Serana prayed to a nameless deity. If she could avoid it, she didn’t wish to hurt him.

     “W...wait..."

     Cautiously, he pulled down his hood, raising his trembling hands in surrender. His dagger fell to the floor, a soft clang echoing against its wooden surface.

     Serana guessed, after a brief examination of his featured, that the boy was no older than fifteen. The skin on his cheeks was tight and youthful, wrinkles absent from his face. Although he was dark-skinned, Serana noticed pale, vertical patterns; visibly slight streaks raised on his jaw and lips: scars. Not to mention the mark Kodlak left when he slammed the door on his forehead.

     His jaw shuttered apprehensively as he tried to speak. Serana understood. If she were in the presence of someone who could murder her in an instant, she, too, would choose her words carefully. “Thorald and Avulstein..." his voice wavered until it broke, tears streaming down his tattered face. “...they want her dead.”

     Serana's shoulders went rigid. She didn't want to do any harm, nor did she want to give House Gray-Mane a chance to murder Kodlak or Meraxes. Still, the child's pain forced heavy dread to rise in Serana's throat.

     “I know they do. If you don’t, you’ll leave us and pretend you never saw a thing. Then, I’ll let you live.” Serana worried the boy was stalling her. If he was waiting for the elder Gray-Manes to come to his aid, she'd have to kill them all, though she didn't want to break her promise to Kodlak.

     “No! I can help! Just...”

     His body still trembling, the boy tugged the cloak over his shoulders. He offered it to Serana in a carefully extended hand. "Here!"

     Serana looked him up and down for more weapons, sighing in relief when she found none. All she saw was a flute in his right holster. Surely, that wasn't worth killing anyone over.

     Still, as he approached, Serana held her ice so close to his shoulders that a frigid chill shot down his spine. If she wasn't wary, and something happened to Meraxes, it would be her fault.

     Serana accepted the cloak in her free hand, her gaze unwaveringly fixed onto the stranger.

     “Why would you help us?” Serana threw the garment unceremoniously over Meraxes’s head. She still refused to avert her eyes from the suspicious child.

     “I’ll explain later, if you want. Just...follow me. Please.”

     “Why should I?” Serana's lips drew back in a partial snarl.

     He boldly faced the door, turning his back to her dormant ice spike. Either he’d summoned some courage, or he’d realized just how out of options he was.

     “Because, I can’t...” He swallowed hard, continuing to sob. Serana could still smell his fear, accompanied by fresh agony and sadness. “I...can’t live with them anymore.”

      Alas, Serana settled on granting him a fleeting ounce of trust. She pulled her eyes away from him, if only for a moment, to fix Meraxes's cloak.

      There was something about his pungent cocktail of dreadful feelings that Serana understood. As long as he played by her rules, she wanted to show him her mercy.

      “All right. In that case, I have a plan. You'll follow it or face the consequences."

      Serana pushed hard on the small of her companion's back to set her upright. Whether Meraxes liked it or not, she was going to walk. “I’ll lend you my trust just once, because I don’t see any other way out. But, if you fail to stay out of my way, or if you make any attempts on mine or Meraxes’s life, I will kill you.”

      His breath caught at the word 'kill.' He spun around after releasing an unsteady breath, apprehensively scanning the tavern for signs of imminent danger.

      Following his look around, he met Serana's gaze, signaling that it was safe to run.

      “Hurry!” He led quickly; too quickly for someone who'd never fled from a fight.

      Serana pushed Meraxes onward, trailing carefully behind her. A few more steps and they'd be outside. Escaping was easy work from there, as long as they made haste so the falling snow covered their trail to the stable.

      As Serana turned the final corner, she still heard steel clashing, accompanied by rugged, exhausted breathing, and bellicose shouting:

     “It was war, Avulstein! What was the girl supposed to do, let Ulfric keep his head?”

      The first voice belonged to Kodlak. When Serana heard it, a thin sigh of relief escaped her lips. The old man was still alive.

     “Would you have let Tullius keep his?” 

     The time for eavesdropping had passed. Serana knew that Kodlak had no way to tell whether she’d fled, but his grapple with Thorald and Avulstein had to end one way or another. Hoping silently for his victory, she pulled Meraxes along by the wrist, the boy shivering in his tunic behind her.

      As the horse trotted down the road from Whiterun to Riverwood, Serana returned the boy's cloak. He’d been freezing during their trek to the stable, and she had no more use for it following their escape from the Gray-Mane menace.

      “Here. You’re probably cold.” She draped it over him from the opposite side of the carriage.

      He accepted his item, pulling the cloth taut around his body to keep warm. “What’s your name? I want to properly thank you.” 

     “Serana. Good to meet you.”

     “Well, thank you, Lady Serana, for saving me. I’m Soren. Well, Soren Gray-Mane, unofficially.”

     Unofficially? His remark struck Serana oddly. A far as Soren's apparent politeness was concerned, though, she thought Meraxes could learn a thing or two from him. She couldn’t remember ever hearing Meraxes thank her, although she figured she would soon since Serana had saved her life. After all, that was one of the many things Meraxes owed her for, in addition to using her lap as a pillow.

     Serana hadn't condoned that. She figured the alcohol was probably still talking to Meraxes, somewhere.

     “Just Serana will do.” 

     When Meraxes finally sobered for the night, maybe Serana could convince her to abstain from drinking for a little while. Maybe. Until then, she resisted the burning temptation of gauging Meraxes’ reaction to being shoved onto the carriage floor. Now, that would have been a riot.

     “Why not officially?” Serana finally asked, unable to blink away her curiosity.

     “I’m a bastard." Tightening the cloak around his shoulders, Soren met her eyes. “Thorald is my father, which would make me a member of House Gray-Mane.” He fiddled meekly with the flute on his belt, breaking eye-contact with Serana. As much as his anxious fidgeting made her wonder, Soren didn’t seem to mind talking about his background as much as she’d thought he would. Serana still wasn't an open book even after the centuries she'd had to overcome her past.

     “What’s it like being a bastard in Skyrim?”

     Soren shrugged, spinning the flute between his fingers. “It wouldn’t be so bad, except everyone can tell my mother was a Dunmer. That’s the part that brings real shame to my family. But, I apprentice with Eorlund at the forge in the Plain District, so I’ve learned a couple of things.”

     Serana quirked a brow. The Dunmer, in Skyrim? I must have been asleep for far longer than I thought.

     “What’s it like being a vampire?” Soren wondered aloud.

     As Serana sifted through her many memories, she found the experience ineffable at first. Vampirism was, at best, a gift, but only for those rare few who were capable of taking that stance. She’d witnessed the ability at its worst—the beginning of an endless quest for power—that, if it were completed, would destroy Nirn as she knew it. “It’s something I’d never sacrifice, but if I were a mortal with the option to be turned, I’d refuse.”

     Soren simply nodded. He didn't know how else to respond.

     “Is it true that she...you know..." Sliding a finger across his throat, Soren mimed a beheading. “Killed Ulfric?” 

     “I don’t know, but I can’t say it would be surprising,” Serana replied, holding Meraxes steady when the carriage went over a bump. Nor do I know what to do with her, most of the time. “Every time we go—well, anywhere—I learn something new about her, and it’s usually nothing positive.”

     “Oh, I thought you—you know...” Soren shifted awkwardly in his seat, brushing fresh snow off the side of his flute.

     “You thought what?”

     “I thought you knew her well. You seemed to really care for her back then. You know, when you threatened to kill me and stuff.”

     No, I don’t know her at all, Serana thought bitterly. Changing the subject was the best reply she could muster, for she didn't exactly fancy the topic at hand.

     “Why did you seem so happy about the fact that we’re bound for Solitude?”

     A smile crept onto Soren's face. The switch had worked like a charm. “Oh! I was hoping to enroll in the Bard’s College. That’s what I’ve always wanted to do.”

     Before Serana could ask him why, the carriage came to a halt. The driver turned his head, his expression so drained that Serana would have been surprised if he’d heard any of their conversation.

     “We’re here. That’s forty septims.”

     Septims? Serana was out of luck, for she hadn't any money. Oh, well. She supposed she'd have to search through Meraxes’s knapsack, or even go gold-digging in her pockets.

     Serana spent a while gathering the funds she needed. The driver looked awfully unamused as he watched her count the change.

     After paying him, she shook Meraxes awake by her shoulders.

     "Hey, the fun’s over. We’re here.”

     Meraxes was maintaining a record. Though the potion for her headache had certainly helped, she hadn’t had any wine or ale in almost an entire day. If Kodlak didn’t come soon, she’d probably destroy her streak of sobriety, especially since Serana had adopted Meraxes’ least favorite kind of pet while she slept. Naturally, she'd want to drown out Soren’s banter with Black-Briar Mead at some point.

     Meraxes turned her head when she heard Serana approach from behind. Every time she came around, she asked Meraxes for something.

     Wondering whether it was about her journey home, Meraxes grit her teeth. She'd taken her sweet time traveling anywhere near Solitude, let alone Castle Volkihar.

     Meraxes was beginning to feel guilt and sobriety, two things she absolutely loathed.

     “Kodlak risked his life for you.” Serana settled on an adjacent bench, inadvertently forcing Meraxes to meet her eyes. She couldn't help but wonder if Meraxes was uncomfortable sitting near the hearth in a steel suit. How long until she started to cook?

     Speaking of cooking, Serana felt a strong urge to feed, especially considering the amount of energy she’d expended in a single week after waking from a nap of a few hundred years. Her body was still adapting to the rapid change, even though she'd hardly any blood to drink.

     “It’s not the first time he’s done that." Meraxes's face softened. “I’d be dead without him. And you.”

     Serana let the ghost of a smile tug at the corners of her lips. Meraxes was finally going to thank her.

     “But can we talk about the kid? Why did you bring him with us?”

     Serana’s hope fled as fast as it came, though she hid her disappointment well. At least Meraxes was sober enough to recognize that she’d been saved. That was something.

     “Because his racist father beats him, treats him like a servant, doesn’t allow him a last name, and won’t let him pursue his dream. I thought that was good enough."

     Meraxes's palm rose to meet her face as she forced an exhale. How did Serana even know that? Meraxes didn't have the patience to hold conversations with kids. “I hate children. And their stupid fucking fathers.”

     “I'd be careful with that generalization." Serana quirked a brow. "Soren saved you, too. He disguised you so you could escape.”

     Oh, so it has a name, Meraxes thought bitterly, but held her tongue. Rather, she turned away to stare back into the fire, although Serana’s eyes didn’t leave her when she did. Particularly, they trailed along her the crook of her neck, where the vampire could best hear her pulse. 

     “Hey, Meraxes...”

     The knight didn’t move a muscle, save her mouth, when Serana addressed her. “What?”

     “Can I feed from you?”

     Meraxes turned to meet Serana’s hungry stare with a scowl. Perhaps she was starting to cook inside her armor, but she didn’t want to be anyone's meal. “You know what? Fuck you. I understand that you saved my life, but that doesn’t mean you can drink what you would have licked up if I’d been stabbed, cleaved, or smashed—“

     Falling silent when she heard someone else's footsteps, Meraxes hoped Kodlak had finally returned. When she only saw Soren, she frowned, any emotion she felt abandoning her eyes.

     Soren approached wearing clean clothes. He carried several extra pairs, dipping his head as he offered Meraxes a fresh outfit.

     “You and Serana are my saviors. Please accept my gifts and let me clean your weapons and armor.”

      With a notable lack of gentleness, Meraxes grasped a pair of pants by a leg, promptly unfolded them, and inspected their length with her eyes.

      Her lips curled in displeasure. “Do you have anything longer?”

     Soren shook his head. Meraxes was leaving him with quite the first impression, but it was still somehow better than any interaction he’d had with Thorald.

     “Good-for-nothing kid,” Meraxes muttered disapprovingly. “Fine. I’ll take the shirt and boots, but I’m sticking to my pants.”

     “Why won’t you wear clean ones?” Serana placed the new pair on the table in case Meraxes changed her mind. She wasn’t as offended as she sounded. The pants didn’t meet all of the qualifications of a gift, anyway. Serana had sent Soren to buy them with Meraxes’ leftover knapsack money, but what she didn’t know couldn’t hurt her.

     “Because I like my own fucking pants.” Without another word, Meraxes ripped the tunic and boots from Soren's outstretched arms, stalking into her room—which had also come at her expense—to change.

     “Wait a fucking second, could you?”

     Meraxes had heard enough knocking for one day. Regardless of who waited at the door, she wouldn’t allow anyone into her space until she’d slipped on both her boots.

     After lacing them all the way, she rose to her feet and opened it.

     “Serana? You have your own room." Meraxes made a face, disappointed Kodlak still hadn't returned. "And I checked my inventory, so I know I paid for it.”

     Meraxes didn't know why Serana bothered to knock at all. Certainly, the fact that she'd locked the door should have been a good enough deterrent. Serana had evidently missed the hint. “Why aren’t you in there, or hanging out with your new best friend?”

     Placing an inexorable hand on the door, Serana peered curiously over Meraxes’s head and into her room. “I don’t have to. Delphine is paying him to play the flute.”

     “Who the fuck is Delphine?”

     “The inkeeper.” Gently, Serana pushed on Meraxes’s door, hoping to coax it open with minimal effort. Meraxes, however, pushed back. She was not letting Serana in. At least, not until she'd set her terms.

     “What do you want, then? I already said you couldn’t feed on me, and that hasn’t changed.”

     “I’m not here for that.”

     “Then what are you here for?” Meraxes asked impatiently. In letting her temper slip, she tended to reside on the losing end of any verbal exchanges she had with Serana. There was always a mammoth in the room; something between her and Serana that neither of them bothered to address. Meraxes hadn't deigned to guess what it was. Instead, she settled on blaming Serana for the fact that their interactions grew more awkward with every word.

     “Answers, mostly." Serana's eyebrows knit together. "But also to keep you from drinking.”

     Meraxes sneered. “Why would you do that? And what’s any information I have to you?”

     Serana latched her fingers more firmly onto the door. She knew it had to budge eventually. Either Meraxes would become too impatient to tell Serana off, or her persistence would begin to faze her.

     Either way, Serana was painfully aware of how uncomfortable Meraxes was with letting down her walls. She'd smash a few of them if she needed to.

     “Because I don’t hate sober Meraxes, but I do hate you when you’re drunk.”

     Narrowing her eyes, Meraxes scoffed pointedly. She wasn't sure she even wanted an answer to the question she was about to ask.

     “And the information?”

     As Meraxes spoke, Serana gave the door another, gentle push, inching it open. She'd won at last.

     “This Ulfric...I’d never heard of him before The Bannered Mare. Who was he? Is it true that you killed him?”

     Forcing a sigh, Meraxes bid Serana to stand aside with a wave of her hand. When she swept the tavern with her eyes, no one looked their way.

     Nodding slowly, Meraxes closed the door behind them. She hesitated at the handle.

     "...Yes."

     Without asking, Serana settled on the foot of Meraxes's bed. “Tell me the story.”

End of Chapter 3.

Next: Serana hears a tale of the Civil War.

Warning: Chapter 4 contains graphic depictions of violence and death. Reader discretion is advised.

Chapter Text

     “Why the fuck would you ask that of me?”

     Meraxes lingered at the door handle, her gaze severe. She was convinced that letting a starving vampire feed on her would have been easier—and would have left her less vulnerable—than telling one of her War stories.

      Serana crossed her legs, settling peacefully on the foot of the bed. “Because I want to know why I had to save your life back there.” 

     “You didn’t have to do anything," Meraxes snarled.

     “I expected a ‘thanks,’ not to be growled at. You sound like a wild animal.”

     Meraxes leaned into her palm, forcing a pained sigh. She hadn't been in her room for even five minutes, yet she was already annoyed with both Serana and herself. “You don’t need to know the fucking story. That’s the problem I have with this.”

     Serana cocked her head. “But I want to.”

     Meraxes was intimately acquainted with stubbornness, but she swore Serana's would unravel her someday. She truly didn't know what she was playing at.

     Still, Meraxes couldn't see a way out of telling her. It wasn't like Serana was going to quit asking anytime soon.

     “Fine." She eased away from the door handle. “Fucking fine. But, if I’m going to tell you, we have to make a deal.”

     “How about this?" Serana crossed her arms, her eyes narrowing. "I saved your life, so can you tell me the story and we’ll call it even?”

     “I think you’re forgetting who freed you from your crypt and saved you from a bigass dragon,” Meraxes said with a snort.

     Realizing she was going to be there for a while, Meraxes scoured for a seat. Something about settling on her bed with a hungry vampire felt equal parts dangerous and promiscuous, though.

     She opted for the chair instead.

     “Fair enough. How about I tell you a story from my enrollment at College of Winterhold?”

     “That depends. Is it an uncomfortable subject for you?”

     Serana scrutinized Meraxes' cold expression, as she couldn't understand her motivation to ask something so terribly callous. Was it possible Meraxes wanted Serana to feel hurt, or was an exchange of painful tales her twisted attempt at making things even?

     “Let’s just say it was an experiment I conducted late in my necromantic apprenticeship, and that it may have gone horribly wrong.”

     Satisfied, Meraxes sank into her seat. “All right. Deal.”

     "I'm listening." 

     Serana watched her with a frustrated fascination. As she prepared for the tale, curiosities about Meraxes still swarmed the back of her mind. She couldn't help but wonder why the pulse in her leg was so awkward, why she drank every chance she got, or why she was so disinterested in a clean pair of pants.

     She hoped she'd learn from the story.

     For a short while, however, Meraxes said nothing at all. Her silence plunged Serana into an immense discomfort.

     Instead, she fiddled with a string of beads that hung around her neck. Serana certainly hadn't noticed it before. They were made of metal, but not silver. She definitely would have smelled silver.

     “When I returned to Whiterun from the War, Kodlak told me something I’ll never forget.”

     The trinket was beautiful, though it had Serana curious. Still, she wouldn’t ask about it until the time felt right. She knew what it was like to be on the receiving end of questions she didn't want to answer, especially when they were associated with heavy tales.

     Heavy tales like the one Meraxes was about to tell. Serana owed her an attentive listen.

     “What did he say?”

     “That there are four ways to tell a War story," Meraxes replied, "Each time I do, I have to be wise about which I choose.”

      Serana made a face. “How are there four ways to say the same thing?”

      “You couldn’t run out of questions if you tried.”

     Meraxes wished she could toss a book onto Serana’s lap and that she’d be satisfied with that instead. Any historian’s account of Ulfric’s death would inform her more objectively than a story, after all.

     Of course, Serana wanted it right from the source. She wouldn't let Meraxes live it down.

     “The first is the one you tell a child. You water it down enough for their taste, and erase the parts that are too hellish for young ears." That fact was the largely the reason behind Meraxes’s distaste for children. To tell them of battle while allowing them to remain safe and innocent, she practically had to remove every aspect of the experience that made it a War.

     The truth, if simply put, was that wars were hell, and children would never understand that unless they grew to fight their own.

     “The second is the one you share with recruits. If there’s someone interested in joining your side, you give them the guts and the glory with none of the realism."

     Meraxes became a master at blowing up stories when she worked the recruitment station. She regretted every hour of her Captain days, and certainly wouldn't care to bring them up.

     "Third is the tale from the perspective of a historian. It’s didactic. It doesn’t get much into any glorification or personal perspective, but it's facts."

     Serana was intimately familiar with the third, as she was more than fond of historical volumes. She had yet to encounter any of the Skyrim Civil War, though.

     Picking Meraxes' brain would definitely teach her something.

     “What about the last one?”

     Meraxes stared at an object beyond Serana's idle shoulders, a glint of apprehension making itself known through the silver of her eyes. Serana could plainly see that Meraxes wanted to look at anything but her in that moment.

     She understood the way that felt. Being vulnerable had the same, taxing effect on both of them: it shredded every bit of comfort they were capable of otherwise experiencing.

     “It's the story from the soldier’s perspective. It’s the truth about what we thought; what we saw—what we felt—in combat. It’s purely individual...”

     ...and hard for any veteran to discuss.

     Meraxes didn't finish that sentence aloud.

     She couldn't.

     Serana, however, opted for it.

     “I’d like to hear the fourth.”

     When Meraxes met her gaze again, Serana swore she smelled fear. That made her far more uncomfortable than she'd thought it would.

     Oh, well. There was no turning back, now.

     “Of course you would." Meraxes' knuckles paled as she spoke. “It began when we declared the siege on Windhelm successful.”

     “Legate Whitemane!”

     Meraxes turned to the beckoning soldier, her greatsword readied for any Stormcloak dogs who dared test their bite against her mettle.

     Relief spread across her blood-smeared face when she realized it was Tribune Hadvar. He was her best, most loyal man, who had helped her survive the attack on Helgen years past.

     With a fire in his eyes, Hadvar dipped his head. “What would you have me do, ma’am?”

     Meraxes’s grip on her greatsword tightened in the nick of time. Crimson gore splattered onto her officer’s helmet as a nearby soldier hacked open a Stormcloak’s throat. 

     “We storm the King’s Palace!”

     Meraxes’s eyes narrowed, alert and icy blue. They’d always reminded Hadvar of Riverwood in the deep winter, only they always fell on him more frigidly than the biting blizzards he’d grown up with.

     “Hear, hear!" Hadvar raised his stained sword, signaling his platoon onward. "Let's end this!"

     General Tullius waited just outside the Palace. When she saw him, Meraxes broke into a steady sprint.

     Before the General, she lowered her sword, the promise of her alliance intensifying in every inch of its travel until it finally reached the blood-splattered ground.

     Around them, death was none short of everywhere. The battle had taken enough souls to last each plane of Oblivion several years.

     Meraxes spent the fleeting moment before the Tullius's speech commenced looking around, having never imagined the Battle for Windhelm would be the most casualty-producing operation she’d seen. On the red-soaked ground, medics sorted her fallen enemies and kinsmen alike into lines for identification.

     Which side they allied with hardly concerned Meraxes then. All corpses smelled the same; every soldier shit himself before he died. There was nothing to distinguish soldiers from officers or allies from rivals in the afterlife.

     “It is done, sir.”

     Meraxes spun around to greet the voice's source, her nose wrinkling in angered disgust when she saw it was only Rikke.

     “And the Palace doors?”

     “Already secured, sir. No one will move in or out but we.” When Rikke caught Meraxes’ venomous glare, her smile faded, and her lips tightened uncomfortably.

     She should squirm, Meraxes thought, baring her teeth just enough that her fellow officer would notice. One day, I’m going rip her into a thousand pieces and feed the mess to the Wolfhounds. 

     “Keep your weapons readied. Remember, we need a documented surrender before we execute him if we’re going to present this well to the public.”

     “Yes, General Tullius," Legate Rikke said.

     “Yes, sir.”

     Her sword raised in preparation, Meraxes opened the Palace of Kings. She pressed her back firmly to the door to avoid potential surprises.

     She found Tribune Hadvar’s soldiers lined straight along the walls, standing at a crisp attention. Their commander stationed himself at the end of the throne room, holding Ulfric Stormcloak and his inner-circle at swordpoint.

     Moments ago, Meraxes had wondered whether she’d ever see the light of another day, but surrounded by the soldiers she trusted the most, she'd seldom felt safer. She looked forward to the battle’s end when she would offer each man a golden septim and thank him for serving with her. For the first time, Meraxes realized that even though the war’s end meant peace for Skyrim, leaving the family she’d found in the Imperial Army was going to burn her heart for months. Except she’d never have to see Legate Rikke again. Rather, that thought left a sweet taste in Meraxes’ mouth. She hated that stupid bitch, and she always would.

     As the General and his Legates approached the throne, their weapons drawn, they stepped over casualties littered about the carpet. The mess was nothing compared to the one outside.

     When she reached the throne, Meraxes lowered her sword to grip Hadvar’s shoulder. “I knew I chose the right Tribune." She removed her helmet, a drop of Stormcloak blood dripping from her soaked hair and onto the floor. “You’ve made me proud, and so has every one of your men.”

    Hadvar covered her hand with his own, offering it a light squeeze. “Even drenched in enemy blood, you still remind me of my daughter.”

    Then, General Tullius caught up to them, and they both moved to attention.

    “Ulfric Stormcloak,"

     The General's eyes narrowed as he spoke, the passion with which he delivered his speeches shot to hell. Meraxes had fully expected him to anticipate Ulfric's death with a smile, but he read the Jarl's charges emotionlessly. "You are guilty of insurrection, murder of Imperial citizens, the assassination of King Torygg, and high treason against the Empire—“

     He fell silent when the Stormcloak Executive Officer, Galmar Stone-Fist, drew his battleaxe.

     “Stand down,” General Tullius ordered calmly.

      Legate Rikke sheathed her weapon, but Meraxes’s brow furrowed as she raised her greatsword even higher.

     “It’s over, Galmar.”

     “Stand down. We only wish to accept Ulfric’s surrender.”

     Galmar grunted, shaking his massive head in enraged disagreement. Clotted blood—certainly not his own—matted his auburn beard. “Don’t you see what’s happening? He’s not surrendering, and I’m not, either. Not while Skyrim lives under your corrupted Empire.” 

     Growling, Meraxes brought her sword up to her shoulders. “Yet you proposed Ulfric became the new High King. You didn’t want to influence the system at all. You only wanted to change the man perpetuating it.”

     “Stand down, Legate Whitemane. This is not a negotiation." General Tullius stayed Meraxes's blade with his hand, wetting his palm with Stormcloak blood.

     “Do you know what happens when you crown another King? He dies, just like any other fucking mortal. Just like all of our soldiers who gave their lives today, and then we crown another. Every Empire comes to an end, Galmar, but not mine." Meraxes turned her weapon on its side to offer Galmar a duel. If he accepted, they would fight to the death. “Not today.”

     “By the Eight, Legate!” Tullius raged, anger revealing the age on his expression. “We need the documented surrender! Stand down!”

     Meraxes's lips drew back into a snarl as Galmar, in return, showed her the blunt of his axe to accept.

     “Don’t you see, sir?” She waited, both hands holding fast to her weapon's handle. “He’s never going to give us what we want.”

     Galmar charged, and suddenly, it was far too late for the General to say anything that could stop her.

     The rival officer swung his battleaxe down hard, the blade tearing through the air until it stopped with an ear-splitting clang!

     “Grah!” Meraxes’ own greatsword stopped it from descending any further, her teeth clenched tightly as she shoved Gunmar backwards.

      Galmar staggered, Meraxes didn't send him sprawling. With respect to the knight, he was a large foe.

     Behind them, Ulfric looked on with a defeated interest. Meraxes appraised the fear in his eyes as he met the fire in her own, knowing full well that at the end of the day, he’d die crying and shitting, just like the leagues of his rotting soldiers who laid dead outside. 

     As Galmar doubled back, the Legate swept her sword—narrowly missing his legs—although she’d managed to knick below his knee.

     “Is that all you’ve got, you red-cloaked cunt?”

      Meraxes chortled at his gloat, “You speak boldly for a bleeding man, but I will say, you’re far braver than your commander." Her gaze interlocked with the Stormcloak’s, frigid. “It’s a shame your courage will only go to waste.”

     “I’ll say whether or not it will, Ser!” Galmar bellowed, his battleaxe sweeping like a torpedo towards Meraxes's throat, but only meeting the air. As as he followed through with the swing, the Stormcloak made a grave error, stumbling into an unstable circle with all of his weight behind it.

     Without hesitation, Meraxes impaled him from behind, her weapon’s long blade protruding from the center of his chest.

     Then, Galmar’s mouth began to bubble, and he sputtered his own blood onto his beard.

     Tears welled in the Jarl’s eyes as he looked on, dismayed. “Galmar...”

     “It’s...time, sir,” he croaked, offering Ulfric a proud, stiff nod. “For me...to go to Sovngarde." Galmar coughed, red liquid leaking from his mouth as he sank to his knees. When Meraxes removed her greatsword, blood flooded in waves from his wound, and his eyes lost their fighting vitality.

     “This is...” Galmar gripped Meraxes’ hand hard, meeting her eyes as his palms grew colder “...a good death—a true..." He sputtered again, smiling fiendishly. “Nord’s death...” Then, his body convulsed, his arms and legs quivering their last.

      Then, Galmar Stone-Fist’s head fell lifelessly onto the ground.

     General Tullis stood in silence until Galmar passed on, subsequently narrowing his eyes at the Jarl. “Ulfric, if we do not receive your surrender, we will execute every, living Stormcloak like the traitor he is.”

     Meraxes moved to shut Galmar’s eyelids, her defiled sword resting on the ground. “Sir, is that really necessary?”

     “Do you fail to see every Stormcloak as a traitor? You are a Legate, Whitemane. Do not give me any more a reason to send you home demoted.”

     Meraxes swallowed a wad of rising anxiety at the General's threat, recalling shamefully all the things she’d done to earn her position. Enlisting in the Imperial Army was the only chance she’d had to hold a job following her capture, after all. However, Meraxes had learned nothing from the experience but pain. That was the reality of War.

      “I won’t...” Ulfric’s shaky exhale interrupted Meraxes's thoughts, which she thought better not to finish, anyhow. “I will not surrender Skyrim to you.”

     Rikke gripped the hilt of her sword, but stopped when Tullius gestured a halt. One of his Legates had already drifted beyond his control—he certainly didn't want two.

     “Skyrim doesn’t belong to you, Ulfric.”

     “No,” Ulfric lamented, appraising his sordid company with a hopeless, distant expression, “but I belong to her.”

     “The only place you belong is with the dead.” Tullius lowered himself beside Ulfric, unsheathing his sword. Rikke followed his lead. “We’ll try this one, last time. You are guilty of insurrection, murder of Imperial citizens, the assassination of King Torygg, and high treason against the Empire. What say you?”

     Ulfric lowered his head. Meraxes thought his words courageous, but the man himself a coward for refusing to fight for his life. He was going to die there, and soon.

     “I will not surrender Skyrim or her people.”

     General Tullius nodded curly, his eyes darkening. He retreated a few steps when Meraxes raised her greatsword once more. “Have you any last words?”

     Ulfric sighed, knowing the breath was one of his last. There, he saw her standing—an executioner for the Empire—prepared to strike down her final foe. “Talos, preserve me.”

     Before the General read Ulfric’s last rights, Meraxes felt guilt rise in the pit of her stomach. Why were such feelings stabbing at her conscience? Why, when the end of the War was all she’d wanted since she joined as an Auxiliary?

     “May he always," Meraxes whispered, Ulfric acknowledging her with a grateful nod.

     “What was that, Whitemane?”

     Meraxes grit her teeth at the General’s accusatory tone, her sword unwavering. “I’m only saying goodbye.”

     “Very well." Tullius, ascending the stairs to the throne, passed his sentence:

      “Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm, you stand guilty of high treason against the Empire, among other crimes. I, General Tullius of Cyrodiil, on behalf of Skyrim, her people, and Titus Mede the Second, Emperor of Tamriel, sentence you to die.”

     Meraxes offered Ulfric a gentle nod. He exposed his neck, facing the bloodied floor, obedient to his executioner until the end. Hard—and with her eyes wide open—Meraxes swung her greatsword to the carpeted floor, the Jarl’s head collapsing with a sickening splat! from his shoulders.

     “It’s over," Tullius muttered disbelievingly under his breath, "the war is won.” By his braided hair, the General raised Ulfric’s dripping head, pieces of separated skin hanging from his war-torn, Stormcloak face.

    “We’d better tell the soldiers outside," Rikke said and gestured to the Palace doors.

     From their stations, Hadvar’s men cheered, a few already dancing and laughing with dried Stormcloak blood still caked in their hair.

     “They’ve waited more than long enough," Hadvar added, squeezing Meraxes' shoulder. Meraxes' eyes trained on Ulfric’s severed head for a moment longer until she turned to Hadvar with a nod and a plastered smile.

     “Every one of them deserves the world for what they’ve done. It’s a shame all we can reward them with is Ulfric Stormcloak’s head.”

     Hadvar stopped to laugh. “To some of those boys, Ulfric’s dislodged head is the world.”

     “Fair enough." Meraxes grinned once more, her happiness genuine despite the grimness that day had brought her.

     “You ended the war, then?” Serana asked her first of many questions. “Why didn’t Tullius execute Ulfric himself?”

      I thought I did... Meraxes met Serana's inquiry with silence, still staring at the wall. Nothing had prepared her to answer that, but, after a pause, she decided to grant the vampire a half-truth. “Because I wanted to do it.” But, if anything, I only made it all worse.

    “What was it like coming home?”

    Meraxes’ eyes narrowed, but only for a moment, as she removed her necklace. As Serana scrutinized it, she supposed it contained hundreds of beads. Then, her breath caught. She swore she saw Meraxes’ hands shake while she caressed its pendant and wondered if the alcohol withdrawal contributed to her physical instability. Substances had strange effects on mortals, after all...

     “May I?” The vampire extended her hand, hoping to touch the amulet herself.

     “Drop it, and I kill you.”

     Oh, well.

     At least, if Serana died that day, she’d have done it having gained a minuscule amount of Meraxes’ confidence. She was grateful for that, even if it was only a sliver, considering how much they’d mistrusted one another at first. With Serana’s mother gone, and no knowledge of whether or not her father had changed, Meraxes, Kodlak, and Soren were her only real company.

     Serana made work of counting each bead until she reached the pendant as she settled back onto the bed. She was careful not to let it slip. She couldn’t drop it, after all, or she’d be killed. The thought made her smile, and so did the amulet’s intricate beauty. “There are over two hundred beads. What’s that about? Don’t tell me you’re collecting all of Skyrim’s metals.”

     Meraxes stood to retrieve her necklace, Serana passing it cautiously back to her. “It...keeps track of my debts, to some capacity." That was all Meraxes felt comfortable saying, although, despite her lack of willingness to share, she noticed a grateful glint emerge in Serana's eyes.

      “Thank you for telling me that story, and for doing it the fourth way.” Serana met her gaze with the hope she’d stay sober for a while longer. The way Meraxes had described her deeds during Civil War, she’d been an honorable person. And—if Serana were to be truthful—she was staring to see a glimpse of that individual when she wasn’t totally snockered. Yet, she was also beginning to understand why Meraxes drank to begin with. Like her, she'd had done so much; had seen more than anyone had ever needed to.

     “I believe we made a deal.”

     “We did.” Serana watched as Meraxes fit her neck through the amulet, adjusting it until the axe-shaped pendant sat on the center of her chest. 

    “What are you looking at?” When the knight retreated towards her chair, Serana seized her wrist.

     “You." Her tone dropped as she held fast onto Meraxes's arm.

     Mainly, Merxes felt confused, although that certainly wasn’t the feeling that made her face burn so much. While her eyes wandered back and forth, scouring her room as if she’d never seen it, Serana’s stare was unwavering.

     To Meraxes's surprised chagrin, Serana slid her arms around her shoulders, pulling her close. 

     Meraxes froze. She was dumbfounded and warm; very warm. Though she was supposedly undead, being hugged by Serana felt like lying next to a purring engine. Awkwardly, she cleared her throat, extending an arm against Serana's lower shoulder in an estranged half-embrace.

     “What the fuck are you doing?” Meraxes muttered as her cheeks flushed, her tone more exasperated than Serana had ever heard it. Serana could hear her heartbeat rise and quicken until the pulse in her throat was deafening. She was was awfully tempted for a drink, then—even a very brief feed—but Serana was quite sure she’d have to find another source that night, as her companion would not allow it. Still, Meraxes had given her something in return, even if it had been awkward and one-handed.

     That was progress.

     “Get off,” Meraxes barked, though her apparent frustration hadn’t stopped her blood from rising uncontrollably into her cheeks and in other places it hadn't any business. “What gives?”

     “I feel like I’m starting to understand you. I’m sorry for yelling at you at The Bannered Mare, by the way, and for calling you an idiot.” Serana was beginning to think that perhaps she shouldn’t have moved so suddenly. Meraxes seemed awfully embarrassed at the encounter that Serana so easily shook off.

     “When did you—" Meraxes conceded, sighing into her palm. “Look, I don’t remember that, but maybe you should ask people before you go on grabbing them. Not everyone wants to be squeezed like a fucking lemon.”

     “That didn’t seem to bother you when you slept on me in the carriage. You seemed to quite enjoy my lap." Serana tried once again to hide her disappointment at Meraxes's apparent lack of gratitude. Attempts to fluster her were the only gestures she knew how to employ in retaliation. “How about we do this your way and make a deal?”

     Rolling her eyes, Meraxes finally took her seat. The color failed to drain from her face. I didn’t actually use her as a pillow, did I? Why didn’t she push me onto the fucking floor? “You know what?” Meraxes had accepted her defeat. “Fine.”

     “I ask you if I ever want to touch you again—though it’d be bold for you to assume that I ever will—and you don’t drink any alcohol for as long as I’m in your company.”

     Meraxes released a vanquished sigh. “All that does is make me want to get rid of you faster.”

     Serana snorted in response. “Deal?

     “Fine. You got yourself a fucking—“

     A firm knock fell upon on the door. Hearing its resonant sound, Meraxes silenced herself. She would not hesitate to punch Soren in the face if it were him.

     “You still owe me that College story.”

     “When we have the time, you’ll hear it.”

     Nodding, Meraxes pulled the entrance open, her shoulders slackening when Kodlak emerged on the other side. She let a barely-noticable grin spread across her lips at his presence.

     Her smiles were rare. Serana took note of that one, standing to greet Kodlak out of gladness for his return. She was slightly unnerved, however, at the smell of his blood.

     The sounds of the tavern floated into their room since they opened the door. When Meraxes heard the bard’s song, though, her grin faded and she pinched the bridge of her nose.

     Fucking Nords. Of course, someone had to request “The Age of Agression.”

”Down with Ulfric, the killer of kings!
On the day of your death, we will drink and we'll sing!
We're the children of Skyrim, and we fight all our lives!
And when Sovngarde beckons, everyone of us dies!”

     She looked to Serana, who nodded in understanding, then to Kodlak.

     The Harbinger appraised her in return and placed a firm hand on her cheek. He was hopeful of her escape, but had no way to tell that she survived until seeing her with his own eyes.

     “I’m glad you’re alive," Meraxes told him, gently brushing his hand away from her face.

     “I am, but...” The Harbinger’s gaze turned, for a moment, to one defeated. “Avulstein is no longer."

     Meraxes’ eyes abruptly met his. “He’d always had it coming. You know what he did to me.” Awkwardly, Meraxes itched the back of her neck as she processed the Gray-Mane’s death. She’d need to tell Soren, but not before she relished in the news. I’d wanted so much to end him myself.

     “I have to return to Jorrvaskr soon. Harbinger is my primary duty." Kodlak banished the silence, and as he did, Meraxes wondered how he could focus so intently on his priorities after murdering a man. Kodlak hated having blood on his hands; it destroyed his conscience. “But I want to know why the Dawnguard is searching for you, Meraxes, and Serana as well.”

     Serana exchanged a fleeting glance with Meraxes, who returned her attention to Kodlak following a companionable nod. From the bar, she could still hear Soren’s song:

“But this land is ours, and we'll see it wiped clean
Of the scourge that has sullied our hopes and our dreams!”

     “I’ll tell you.”

     “Excellent. Would we speak over a drink?”

     Meraxes gritted her teeth, almost embarassed. “I’d like some water."

End of Chapter 4.

Next: Kodlak learns why the Dawnguard is after Serana and Meraxes.

Warning: Chapter 5 contains graphic depictions of violence and death. Reader discretion is advised.

Side Banter: Am I alone, or is team Merana killing you slowly?

Anyway, I’ve been posting additions a lot lately, since I’ve been getting so many hits. If you guys like the fic so far, I’d appreciate a bookmark a comment, or a simple kudos. Questions regarding theories, remarks on favorite characters, or almost anything else is welcome and encouraged. It might be a couple of days before I update Kindred again, as my personal life can somethings grow demanding. My career is in the public sector, so it gets tiring sometimes :) I hope you understand!

If you’re reading this little blurb, then I am extremely grateful for your support!

Chapter Text

     “Your name’s Delphine, right?”

     Meraxes observed the steady stream of water as it spilled into her tankard, disappointed in its purity. Any other night, she would have ordered the strongest mead the innkeeper was willing to sell her. It took all the self-control she had not succumb to the latter. 

     The real joke was on Serana. As soon as the vampire turned her back, she was going to get trashed.

     In response to her question, the inkeeper offered Meraxes’ arm a gentle touch—one that felt awfully suggestive—which Meraxes swatted away without a second thought. Delphine's attempt at subtle seduction only made the recipient awfully skeptical of her.

      Meraxes couldn't help but wonder how she came to meet two, sketchy seductresses in the same month.

     “Who’s asking?”

     “I am," replied Meraxes, briefly looking to Serana, who watched the entire exchange with an awkwardly blank expression. It was the first time Meraxes had ever seen Serana without an idea of what to do. She couldn't blame her for that, though, based on the situation's discomfort.

     “Yes, that is my name,” Delphine leaned in close to Meraxes' face. “And you’d better stay out of my business if—"

     For Meraxes' comfort, she was too close.

     “Well, fuck you, Delphine.” Meraxes swallowed what had been a deliberately long sip of her water, wiping the excess off her chin, and all the while maintaining a scathing glare at the inkeeper. “Next time you want a bard, hire one instead of using a kid. And it wouldn’t hurt for you to learn the definition of ‘personal space.’”

     Kodlak clasped his coin purse tightly, evidently embarrassed by Meraxes’ crassness. “What she means is that she hopes the boy is paid fairly for his time.”

     Delphine grunted, but seemed to suppress her vexation with a curt nod. Serana could tell that she was far more aggravated than she let on; the tension surrounding the innkeeper was more hostile than anything else.

     “All right. You all do what patrons do: enjoy the stay and the drinks, but get out of my hair.”

     “I hate business-owners," Meraxes snorted after Delphine turned heel and left. Even though she was glad the inkeeper was gone and that Soren was sleeping, Meraxes found Delphine annoying by nature.

   “I thought The Smiling Knight was an inn, Meraxes. Don’t you have the building title?” Kodlak inquired, taking notice of the irony of her statement. He didn’t relish in it. Kodlak counted out his gold on the table while he spoke, presumably to pay for the round he’d just ordered, although Meraxes didn’t notice the tip he’d included as a subtle apology for her behavior.

     “About that—”

     “Someone burned it down.”

     Serana didn't voice her opinion aloud, but something about Delphine had roused her suspicions as well. She monitored the innkeeper as she entered an empty room and shut the door behind her.

     “Who did?”

     “I’m still not sure. Could have very well been the Gray-Manes, or even the Dawnguard.”

     The Dawnguard.

     That was why Kodlak had come to The Sleeping Giant Inn. He would later remind himself to ask the younger about her business, as finding the person—or people—responsible for destroying it was something he wanted to look into. For the moment, however, he required information about the most immediate threat to her well-being.

     “Speaking of the Dawnguard, I must know why they’re tracking you two.”

     Serana offered Meraxes a questioning expression, to which Meraxes nodded her approval. She knew that, if vampire hunters were truly targeting them, Kodlak was one of the only men who could assist. His experience with the Silver Hand would be invaluable to them.

     “Right. As soon as we departed Dimhollow Crypt—where I’d been..." Serana hesitated, biting her lip, "...locked away—Meraxes took me to Fort Dawnguard.”

     “I can’t bring you home immediately. I’ve already promised to take you somewhere else.”

     Serana wouldn’t have been the first lost puppy Meraxes returned, but, then again, she'd been trapped in Dimhollow for more than a few centuries. “Are you sure you even have a home anymore? It’s been...well, ‘a while’ is an understatement.”

      “I’m sure. It’s just north of Solitude.”

     Meraxes nearly stopped in her tracks at the remark. Fort Dawnguard was just south of Riften, making that a trek from corner-to-corner of her map.

     That would be the longest trip on which she’d ever embarked. Meraxes dreaded how much her pack would weigh upon departure if she were going to set up at least four days of camp.

     “Do you know what you’re asking me to do?”

     “Yes,” replied Serana, her tone laced with the beginning of an exasperating streak of annoyance. She bore such a distrust for the one who freed her that she’d debated an attempt to find someone else. What stopped her from doing so was the fact that she had to go home, and no matter how detestable she was, Meraxes would take her. “I’m requesting you return me to my family, where I belong, unless you’d rather keep me around and listen to my complaints for an eternity.”

     Meraxes spoke into her palm, having already grown tedious of Serana’s banter, “No, you’re asking me to take you from one end of Skyrim to another. Why didn’t I just kill you?”

     “Because I would have killed you first if you'd tried.”

     Scoffing in her frustration, Meraxes checked the roadway signs to ensure the wooden arrows still pointed towards Riften. Divines forbid they’d say anything else, as changing tack on one of Skyrim’s paths often brought ill fortune, usually in the form of a pack of wolves or a crew of bandits.

      Their journey was quiet for some time. Meraxes thanked Talos for the silence under her breath. Serana must have heard it, though, because she piped up as soon as Meraxes finished her grateful statement.

     “These trees are beautiful. I’ve never seen them in these colors before.”

     “By Ysgramor, you dumb vampire, they’re just trees.”

     Serana seemed to relish in Meraxes’s discomfort, or at least the scene appeared that way to Meraxes, who wished only for the rest of the trip to remain completely questionless.

     “Now that we’re on the topic of beautiful things, did you mean it, back in the cave, when you called me pretty?”

     That caught her off guard. Meraxes couldn’t remember stating that, specifically, or anything similar.

     “I never—"

     “You said you were going to, and I quote, ‘lop my pretty, little head off,’ is that incorrect?”

    Oh. Right.

     Blood boiling, Meraxes seethed inside, her patience wearing thin.

      I did that.

      She did not snap at Serana, although her tone approached the verge of hostile aggression. “Just shut the fuck up until we get there, okay?”

     Then, the silence came again, although it went just as quickly. Such peace, when traveling with Serana, was apparently the scarcest resource in Tamriel.

     “Where is ‘there,’ my charming savior?”

     Meraxes was in no mood for Serana's games. Quite frankly, she’d been sick of her attitude as soon as she’d found her in Dimhollow. As her thoughts raced, she released a ragged, angered sigh. Of everyone she could have been stuck with, why her? Had she lost some kind of Divine lottery?

     “Hey,” declared Meraxes, a growing impatience emerging plainly on her face. It was all she could do to prevent enraged wrinkles from crinkling her expression. “You’d better fucking listen up!”

     Without an ounce of gentleness, Meraxes grasped the clasp on Serana’s cloak, dragging her into a proximity so close that Serana could taste her breath. From the corner of her eyes, Meraxes could see the ethereal glow of Serana’s magic, but her grip did not falter. “I won’t hurt you, but I will get through to you. Right now, you’re in my company. I’m not in yours. So you’re going to follow my rules, shut your stupid mouth, and keep moving. That way, I can take you to this Fort, get you home, and return to the way things were before you became a gargantuan pain in my ass. Got it?”

      Serana roughly gripped Meraxes’ hand, shoving it away from her body. If Meraxes were able to detect emotions in the vampire’s gaze, she would find the beginning of a deep-seeded resentment.

     “Or, if you try that again, I can kill you and find someone else to take me home.”

     The knight’s lip curled disapprovingly. She, who had met people with every flavor of problem, could hardly stand Serana. What was a lesser traveler to do in the event of such an encounter?

     “No one else is going to want to travel with a vampire.”

     “Speak for yourself, wolf."

     Not wanting to grant her the satisfaction of a reply, Meraxes quietly resumed her trek. The truth was, she despised being seen as a means to an end, or as a tool to be used, even when there was money involved. Serana, despite that, had the the audacity to ask the knight to take her home without payment.

      On the bright side—if there was one—she’d finally reached the Riften stable. It wouldn’t be long until they arrived, and then Meraxes could take Serana home and move on with her life. What’s more was that The Rift provided the most spectacular sunsets, and night was preparing for a descent upon Skyrim. For orange light to burst triumphantly through, illuminating the edges of petals and blades of grass, the clouds parted to drown the sun into its nightly rest.

     “Oh, Meraxes, look at these flowers. It’s been so long since I’ve seen them!”

      Serana had Meraxes thinking she might’ve earned a momentary peace of mind. Of course, though, such a grant would have been wildly generous and unrealistic.

     Meraxes' brows furrowed in restored exasperation. “For the love of Talos, keep your mouth—"

     Something sounded in the distance, which rendered Meraxes silent.

     “Do you hear that?”

     “There’s definitely something nearby. Do you think it could be—"

     Meraxes held a finger immediately before Serana’s face—not quite touching her soft lips—a signal demanding her quiet compliance. Meraxes thought the mysterious noises were strange, since they weren’t accompanied by any rustling.

     “Why don’t you shut your fucking face so I can figure it out?”

     “Don’t you mean my ‘pretty, little—'"

     Suddenly, an unholy shadow leapt over the travelers’ heads, unleashing an ear-splitting sound as its passing over enveloped the world beneath its wings in darkness. Beneath Meraxes’ feet, the ground shook, reminding her of the earthquake she’d faced before Serana’s tomb emerged.

     A guard’s helmet rolled past her feet. It was soon followed by its armored owner, who urgently screamed, "DRAGON!”

     In its deadly wake, the beast’s tail collided with a tree, which snapped violently in two, the upper half wilting to the ground below. Meraxes watched it descend above Merryfair Farm. Out of its mouth, in unstoppable floods, came a sea of fire which engulfed the wheat below.

     Meraxes sucked in a breath. That was probably a third of Dravin's income up in flames.

     She’d been gawking so much over the dragon’s capacity for destruction that she hadn’t noticed its physical nature—the distinctiveness of its pitch-black body and ruby eyes—nor had she taken any measure to protect herself.

      It was him. The one responsible for Helgen who’d spared her, but threatened to consume the world.

      In the midst of the chaos, Meraxes had forgotten that Serana was there, too, until she grounded her with another snide remark.

     “I’m not exactly resistant to fire, if you know what I mean," snapped Serana as she crossed her arms.

     Action, then, was a matter of now-or-never, as certain death awaited those who doted during a dragon attack.

     “Shut up and stay close to the wall!”

     Meraxes pressed herself against the stablehand’s quarters as the dragonfire burned across Dravin’s gourd patch. If someone didn’t handle that beast, or those flames, then Riften—in every manner of speaking—was screwed.

     The city is surrounded by water, anyway. What could go wrong? Trying to convince herself that everything was still in perfect order, Meraxes held fast to the little protection she maintained with her back to the wall.

      “Lass yah nir.”

      [Life, seek, hunt.]

     That was, until, after uttering words of some foreign, probably-ancient language, the monster reared its ugly head, its crimson gaze burning directly into Meraxes’ silver with all the intensity of the sunset behind it. 

      Before she could react properly—whatever that meant in the event of an arson-by-dragon—Alduin descended towards her. He hovered menacingly in the air as he scrutinized her every movement...

     Which, then, was none at all.

     She had frozen up.

      For as long as she’d remembered, Meraxes had been brave; stupid, even, in her ordinary acts of courage, which she’d so often performed blindly. In the presence of this giant beast, however, her legs began to shake. Why? Why, of all moments, was she afraid then? Why, when she relied on her recklessness the most?

      Was it because she, in that moment, was not blind? Because she could see? 

      Was Alduin a reflection of death and its Void-like blackness?

     Fuck no!

      Meraxes would not surrender without a fight. She refused, with so many actions on her agenda undone. Meraxes had a wealth of demons to face, revenge to enact, people to save, and most importantly, alcohol to drink, before she left Nirn.

      I still have two canteens of wine to finish! I can’t die now!

      Time seemed to slow as she unsheathed her greatsword. The adrenaline that coursed through her veins made the world spin, as, in her unrelenting grip, Meraxes held her weapon in an instinctively defensive stance.

     “Since you’re not fireproof, now might be a good time to duck!”

     Luckily, Serana didn’t negotiate the order. She rather shielded herself with none other than Meraxes’ own body. Scoffing, Meraxes raised her greatsword higher, cursing aloud.

      “Damn you!”

      Although Meraxes didn’t know what happened when vampires were scorched, and didn’t want to find out, she hadn’t thought that Serana would deign to hide behind her.

     ”Mal kendov, mu grind mindin.”

     [We meet again, little warrior.]

     Life would have been much easier for Meraxes, were she a proficient archer. She’d just shoot the damn thing out of the sky. Unfortunately, Meraxes couldn’t hit a target even for a coin purse or an ale, so, as the dragon hovered above her and Serana, they were essentially defenseless.

      She couldn’t understand the beast, either. Under her breath Meraxes muttered curses:“It doesn’t speak Common. Worthless motherfucker.”

     Meraxes would never know whether the reptile wanted something, or if in exchange for it, would spare her life. Convinced the language barrier would cost her everything, Meraxes ceased her attempt at a negotiation and instead wondered if the alcohol in her canteens would explode if Alduin decided to use a breath attack.

      She hoped not.

    “I believe that’s Dovahzul, the language of dragons. I’ve read about it in—“

     “For fuck’s sake, I don’t—“

     A glint of bright, hot light reflected in the dragon’s throat. 

     ”Get down!”

     When the fire came, Meraxes had thrown her sword and leapt to the ground, holding Serana face-down in the dirt. While eating the earth probably wasn’t Serana's first choice, Meraxes thought it was better alternative to Isran’s complaining. She had to keep her annoying companion breathing if she were to complete her mission, after all.

     “Vah su'um ven fah nu...”

     [Farewell for now...]

     Meraxes had taken the brunt of the dragonfire. Fresh burns covered the places on her arms her armor didn’t protect, and the parts it did felt terribly hot.

     “I hate that big, black, fucking dragon.”

     Alduin wouldn’t have caused Meraxes much unnecessary trouble if she had only slain him at Helgen. At least, for the moment, he sounded as though he was flying away. Yet only when all traces of him disappeared did Meraxes wonder what he’d told her, doubting his words held any particular importance.

      “Enjoying yourself?" Serana interrupted her thoughts with a stark shove from the ground. "I sure am.”

     ”Oh, shit—“

     Distracted by her pensiveness at the dragon’s disappearance, and by observing the raging fire that consumed Merryfair Farm, Meraxes had forgotten that she was splayed out on the ground, Serana directly beneath her. She stood quickly and found the ground with her feet. Then, she adjusted the crooked straps on her armor. Most of the metal was still hot from the fire.

     “You said you hate that dragon. Do you know him?”

     Meraxes grumbled something unintelligible as Serana lifted herself from the ground. Unbeknownst to Meraxes, her breathing was still unsteady as her heart rate had accelerated. She focused, after her pulse slowed, on the dust that covered the front of Serana’s outfit.

     “Hey, my eyes are up here.”

     Meraxes nearly choked in response to the Serana's remark, especially since her corset ceased to be at a very distinctive line near her cleavage.

    It might've seemed to Serana as if she were peeping.

     “I’ve seen him before, once.”

     In the midst of her incredible awkwardness, Meraxes mustered a reply, thankful that Alduin was flying elsewhere. That likely meant he was seeking a new victim. That didn’t mean she couldn’t be thankful that he wasn’t her problem, though. Not for the time being.

     “How does one become acquainted with a dragon?”

     “How does one learn to mind her own business?”

     Serana snorted—a sound she’d intentionally taken from Meraxes' book—then turned to her. She'd taken a moment to more thoroughly inspect her injuries. For the most part, they looked minor, except for the burn on her elbow, where many of the protective layers of her skin had peeled away at the flames’ touch.

      Yet she started off as if her physical anguish didn’t matter. Serana couldn’t help but wonder how she was so callous for a mortal, as she could smell Meraxes’ blood and charred flesh from downwind.

      Didn’t Serana owe her, too, for the save from that dragon?

     “Are you all right?”

     Meraxes stopped short but didn’t meet Serana’s gaze. Instead, she waited for her to catch up, then continued in the direction of Fort Dawnguard, all the while selecting the strongest wine from her cache of canteens.

      If there was a time to drink something as potent as what she had, it was when it held the power to mask her pain.

     “Why the fuck do you care?”

     Meraxes couldn't wrap her head around why Serana cared for her well-being. Steadily, she lowered the canteen to her waist. It wasn’t like her physical state mattered, anyway—Meraxes was merely the means of Serana’s return home—a pack mule with an excellent cognitive map.

     “Let me heal you.”

     “Why would I let you anywhere near me?”

     Then, Meraxes’ skeptical expression fixed itself onto Serana’s, alight with genuine concern. How could someone remain so friendly after receiving such a horrible verbal attack?

     Was Serana truly that resilient?

     “Because you can’t take me home if you’re dead.”

     “Do you know restoration magic at all?” grumbled Meraxes. Serana had already told her all she needed to know.

     Serana shook her head, negating Meraxes' inquiry, although she didn’t want to over-explain herself:

     “Vampires can heal minor wounds. It’s a power Molag Bal granted to us, presumably to preserve our food.”

     “Preserve your food?”

      Though moments past had been awfully tense, Serana allowed a bubbly laugh to escape her chest. “Well, you know...so our thralls don’t lose all their substance.”

     “And you swear you won’t eat me?”

     “I’ve never been apt to trying blood with that type of content.” Serana gestured to the canteen with her fingers, an expression to which Meraxes replied with an exasperated snort.

     “I’m going to expect you to honor that.”

     “Oh, Meraxes, please." Serana crossed her arms defiantly. “If I was at all interested in eating you, I already would have.”

      “Somehow, I actually believe that.”

      Meraxes’ eyes didn’t leave Serana’s hands as she unclipped the straps on her gauntlets and shoulder plates. Though Serana had only pretended to be offended by Meraxes' statement, she remained distrustful of her and uncomfortable with the notion of giving her too much control.

     “Hold still. This is going to hurt a little.”

     “Why didn’t you mention that—"

     Serana pressed her fingers to the open wounds, Meraxes‘ face contorting at the new presence of a sharp, searing pain, although that didn’t prevent her from watching in fascination as her skin mended itself together like she’d never been burned to begin with.

     Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit...

     Meraxes gritted her teeth to stifle an expression of her agony. Serana's healing process almost hurt more than the dragon attack.

      “This one is too severe for my powers to mend, but I can improve it slightly, if you’d prefer it.”

     “It’s fine."

      Meraxes had lost Serana’s gaze as, instead, Serana focused narrowly on a scorched portion of her elbow. The dragonfire had charred more than just flesh there. She noticed, too, how tightly Meraxes held the gauntlets she’d earlier removed, her grip so stern that her knuckles began to turn white. Perhaps Meraxes was in still in more pain than she let on. “I’ll buy a potion in Riften. That will take care of it.”

     “If you’re sure," was all Serana said as she continued following Meraxes down the road. She’d learned from entering Meraxes' company that it was likely best for her to pipe up later, as Meraxes wouldn't change her mind on Serana's whim. But she couldn’t blame her; not for being reluctant to trust anyone. Serana was the same way.

     What she didn’t know was that Meraxes still confided in her so little that she wanted to monitor her every move.

     “Do you mind walking in front of me?”

     “What, feel like you’re missing out?”

     At Serana’s attempt to retaliate, Meraxes snorted, unable to decide whether she was amused or annoyed.

      It was clear traveling with her was going to take some getting used to.

     By the time the two reached Dayspring Canyon, night had descended upon Skyrim and Meraxes had put her wine away.

     She’d decided approaching Isran drunk and with a vampire in her company wasn't Tamriel's greatest idea. Serana had agreed that she was probably right. For a while since her healing, she’d been quiet, too, which pleased Meraxes.

     The silence didn't last long enough.

     “What are you?”

     The question caught Meraxes so far off guard that she stopped in her tracks to ponder it.

     Her mind came up blank.

     “What do you mean, what am I?”

     “Well, I can tell you come from a Nordic background, but there’s something else I can’t quite place.”

     Meraxes accepted her defeat once again. It wasn’t very obvious that she was mixed, as she’d inherited her mother’s wheat hair and blue eyes instead of her father’s dominant, darker coloring.

     That didn't mean she wanted to talk about it.

     But, since Serana had somehow noticed the mystery of her origin, Meraxes knew there was no escaping providing an answer.

     “My father was an Imperial.”

     “Well, that does explain your name.”

      As if she’d wanted to say more, Serana opened her mouth to speak, shut it, and momentarily alternated between the two. Meraxes could see her self-control slipping away like a flyer in the wind.

     At last, the question came. “Was?”

     “His fate is none of your business.”

      Meraxes remained on the path as the clouds above her began to separate.

     “I missed weather like this."

     “Funny, this is one of the first things you haven’t complained about.”

     The path within Dayspring Canyon was meandering but brief. Soon, Meraxes and Serana would arrive to Fort Dawnguard, where Meraxes could at last complete her quest. She looked forward to not only her reward, but eventually disposing of the smartass vampire in her company. In returning to her solitary life, no one would ever tell Meraxes what to do or how to live, or if they did, then she could choose not to listen.

      There would be nothing Meraxes could break in a world with no laws or promises.

      “I’m actually quite glad to be here with you.”

      Meraxes turned to Serana, her gaze burning, and scoffed. “Shut up.”

      Relishing in the quiet as she passed beneath the arch that marked the canyon’s exit, Meraxes finally caught sight of Fort Dawnguard. She then briefly surveyed Serana to ensure the vampire wasn't up to anything suspicious.

     The signals she’d been receiving from Serana had changed; she’d bunched her shoulders up a bit.

     She was anxious about something.

     “What gives?”

     “I don’t like the look of this place.”

     Meraxes shrugged pointedly. “Well, I can’t leave you alone out here.”

     Serana stifled anxious laughter. Fort Dawnguard, though much smaller than Castle Volkihar, was significantly more imposing; her stomach churned at the sight of it. She didn't want Meraxes to know how much the foreign place bothered her.

     “Meraxes, as unsettling as this is, I can protect myself."

     “From silver?” asked Meraxes as they passed a weapon rack rife with several types of fishing rods.

     There, Serana took note of a man seated beside the creek whose hook floated loosely in the water. On his back was a weapon she’d never seen before—a wooden one, shaped almost like a chevron—with a matching quiver full of silver, bullet-like arrows.

     “Why would you bring me here? I’m not entirely immortal, Meraxes. Those could kill me.”

     It didn’t take long for them reached the Fort’s doors. If Serana had a pulse, her heart would have been racing, as—for the first time in several centuries—sge genuinely feared for her life.

     “It’s just the job. They won’t hurt you if I have a say in it, either, since you’re technically what I’m supposed to deliver here.”

     “Well, aren’t you some courier?”

      Serana folded her arms and made a face. For once, her expression gave way to some form of emotion.

      And it wasn’t good. It became increasingly evident to Meraxes that Serana was becoming anrgy with her. “Is this what you meant when you were talking about your occupation?”

      Meraxes sighed, relenting. “In a way. Listen, I promise I won’t let anything unnecessary happen to you. As much as I hate you, I’ve already said I’d take you home. So that’s what’s happening. But, right now, Isran needs to see you.”

     “And here I thought I didn’t entirely dislike you. Who even is—"

     Serana’s questioning ceased when one of the doorguards took notice of Meraxes’ return. Merxes seethed when she realized her warm welcome consisted of a crossbow pointed straight at Serana's chest. 

     “Why did you bring that thing here?”

      Meraxes drew her greatsword, challenging the guard. She had no issue with negotiating but had no knowledge of who remained behind the watchan's Dawnguard helmet.

     “Hey, lower that fucking thing."

      It didn't matter who was behind it. The Dawnguard were friends to her, so she was going to give bartering a try. “Remember when Isran sent me to Dimhollow Crypt to retrieve that ancient artifact? Well, she was what was hidden in there. So I’m following his orders by bringing her here. There’s no need to stand in the way of our progress.”

     While Meraxes couldn’t see the guard’s expression shift beneath his helmet, she certainly took notice of his exchanged nod with the one protecting the door’s other side.

     “If that’s true, Isran won’t want the monster inside the Fort. Agmaer."

     Registering the sound of his name, one of the armored mans' head swiveled. It was no wonder to Meraxes that he hadn’t drawn his weapon in an act of mimicking his comrade; she and Agmaer had joined the Dawnguard together. He wouldn’t hurt her. “Fetch Isran while I keep eyes on this vampire. Tell him it’s important.”

     Would he?

     Before Meraxes could think anymore, Agmaer disappeared. The guard beside him removed his helmet as he departed.

     He revealed a familiar face.

      “Celann?”

     “Where’s Tolan?”

     Meraxes’s gaze met Serana’s for a fleeting second. She’d never seen a vampire afraid before, at least not the ones she’d engaged with—even the fledglings charged into battle like nothing at all could weaken them—like they’d live forever regardless of their kindred bloodshed. There was something about Serana’s fear that was purely human—ineffably so—which made Meraxes begin to see that if she let anyone at Fort Dawnguard harm Serana, she would not only fail in the task that Isran assigned her, but she would eliminate from the earth yet another misunderstood individual. 

      She knew what that was like. While she was growing up, Kodlak, who was insecure of his beast form just as she was, had told her:

     “Meraxes, if we stay only with the monsters we know, and seek to destroy all others, then we are no better than the Silver Hand.“

     “I won’t speak with you until you lower your weapon, Celann.”

      “You see, all of us have them, even if they’re not with us physically.“

     Meraxes recognized the poorness of her usual judgement. She even supposed that it might apply in the decision she was making to keep Serana alive. She’d remembered, however, the feeling of running from death only because of what she was, without any regard for her intentions or person. That mentality, which belonged to the Silver Hand, was something Meraxes realized had begun to infect the Dawnguard.

     “It’s your most important task to ensure the balanced is maintained between those which are misunderstood and those which are true.”

     “Have you gone mad? You’ve brought a leech to the last place anyone wants to see one! Any sudden movements and I’ll put a bolt through her head.”

     Meraxes sneered, her frigid stare meeting the Brenton’s. The time for negotiating was over.

     “Lower it, Celann. I’m not going to say it again.”

      Celann’s eyes reflected the knowledge the knight had been afraid to bestow upon him—that Tolan had died in Dimhollow Crypt—which enraged him more than anything else about his present situation.

     He raise his crossbow higher instead of retiring it and steadily aimed a round aimed at Serana’s temple. His hand lurked dangerously close to the trigger well.

     “Watch it!”

      Without hesitation, Meraxes shoved Serana aside, an act that would have appeared brutal according to any human measure in the absence of the context.

      After the bolt escaped its chamber, it buried itself in a tree just past Meraxes' head.

      Serana wasn’t so lucky. She hit the dirt, mainly because she hadn’t expected for someone to actually pull the trigger, although she was more grateful for the save than she let on.

      “If you’re truly protecting this monster, you’re crazier than I first thought.”

      “Celann..."

      Meraxes held her greatsword steady. How could he not see she needed Serana to complete the quest Isran had assigned her? She was essential. If Celann was so determined to stand in her way that he was willing to kill Serana, he'd force Meraxes to cut him down.

     She didn’t wish to resort to that. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

     The thought of harming him pained her.

     “Usually, I’d say the same to you, but look how you’ve abandoned your reason!”

     Once more, Celann raised his crossbow, only to receive dreadful feedback from Meraxes’ greatsword. The wooden weapon exploded into splinters so jagged they would hardly make adequate firewood in a mere fraction of a second.

      From her periphery, Meraxes could see Serana regaining her footing, and to her front, Celann drawing his war axe in response.

      “No, you’ve abandoned yours. Isran and I may be wolves, but we’ve never expressed a desire to rip you apart. What makes Serana different, aside from the fact that she talks way too fucking much?”

     Celann’s gripped the axe so tightly that his knuckles turned white. Then, the doors opened, and Isran arrived upon his mention. 

      Serana immediately noticed his height; Isran was one of the first she’d met since her awakening who stood taller than she. His armor was likely quite heavy as well, and his warhammer...

      ... it was silver.

     “What is the meaning of this? Meraxes? Celann?”

     Turning to Celann—his most trusted friend—Isran tucked his heavily-guantleted arms expectantly to his chest.

     Before Celann could answer, Isran's expression suddenly changed. His eyes narrowing until the pupils themselves slitted, Isran’s nose wrinkled in disgust. Only one, unholy creature agitated him so: 

     Vampires.

     What’s worse was that he’d noticed the undead woman before him. If Meraxes didn’t act soon, Serana was as good as dead.

     “You!” Isran snorted so angrily steam might as well have risen from his nostrils. “Why did you bring this monster near my Fort?“

      Behind Isran, Meraxes watched Celann deliberate, his stare attached, unwavering, to the unfolding scenario. In one moment, he appeared confused—guilty, even—although something always brought back his resolve.

      “I believe the creature has bewitched our recruit. We have an obligation to Skyrim to rid of it.”

      Celann and Isran made steady eye-contact, Celann resuming his aim on Serana with restored conviction. Meraxes, though, wasn’t about to let her former comrades attack without an attempt at being reasonable. She’d associated with the Dawnguard for about a month; she’d thought incorrectly that they would confide in her upon her return.

     Was I wrong to believe that they might listen?

     “Are you joking?”

     It was Serana who spoke up instead, to Meraxes’ chagrin and worst fear. She was only asking Celann to shoot her again by drawing attention to herself. “Bewitched? She doesn’t even trust me enough to walk behind her, and I’m pretty sure I’m the new reason she drinks.”

     “If you know that, then why—"

     “It can speak. What a disgusting discovery.”

     With a growl in his voice, Isran glared disappointedly at Meraxes. He’d had high hopes for her potential and she'd failed him. Although she was still mortal, she’d become the next-worse thing: a vampire sympathizer. He’d have to fix that, or kill her, too. “Whitemane, I don’t know what you were thinking. Kill it and we’ll get on with our plans. I have to brief you on your next mission.”

     How could I have been so blind? Of course they want to hurt Serana.

     Meraxes felt like an idiot. How could she have seriously thought that if she’d brought a vampire into a den of thoroughly trained hunters, they might value her quests’ completion and seek meaning in her discovery? 

      I can’t do that. I owe it to Kodlak, at least.

     Her resolve hardened.

     “No," replied Meraxes as she squeezed her greatsword tightly. It was warm; she’d held it ready for some time, itching for an excuse to hear the clanging sounds of it in action.

     She took pride in her response to Isran’s request. Even if Serana was among the most annoying individuals Meraxes had ever met, that didn’t mean she was simply going to run her down. 

      I don’t have a cause to end her life. There’s no brotherhood, no money...

      No. Meraxes was not going to stick to the monsters she knew.

     ...and at the end of each day, Kodlak is the only real mentor I’ve ever had.

      She was going to leave them for the one she loved instead.

      I’m not a mercenary anymore.

     For Kodlak.

     “Excuse me? I just gave you an order, recruit.”

     “I thought you would get it, Isran.”

     From the tightened, leather straps on his back, Isran unstrapped his warhammer. He brought to his hands its weathered silver. Meraxes knew a well-trained blow from his weapon would destroy anything undead or nocturnal without discrimination.

     “What is there to understand, other than that if we’re to solve Skyrim’s vampire crisis, all of them must die?”

     “The Vigilants threw you out for the same reason you want to kill Serana. Did you ever think about that?”

     Isran shot Meraxes a warning glare that threatened to crush her where she stood, his hands finding the firmest possible grip on his warhammer. She knew when they stared at one another that she and he were much alike in the sense that they normally struggled to express their emotions through words alone. What she saw was raw anger and the most blatant sign of denial in his eyes which took the form of deadly spite.

     Then, the door opened once more. Agmaer emerged helmless, armed with his crossbow. He saw only a flash of metal as Isran’s warhammer made crushing contact with Meraxes’ greatsword.

      He’d certainly arrived late to the affair.

     “If you won’t kill her, I’ll do it myself!”

      Meraxes gritted her teeth, as fending his blow required nearly all of her present strength. As he slid the hammer across her grip—in a clear attempt to reach her face with its blunt end—sparks flew across her weapon and into the night sky.

     Then, a shard of ice hit Isran square in the chest. It was unable to penetrate his armor, but still nearly took him off his feet.

      Behind Meraxes, Serana formed another cold spell in one hand, and in the other, some crimson magic that seemed to reach into the Void itself. Although Meraxes appreciated Serana's assistance, she worried that the vampire had only made herself an easier target for Celann’s and Agmaer’s crossbows.

     “Hhrah!”

     Isran struck again after Meraxes proved herself distracted. He easily tore past her greatsword following her delayed attempt at self-defense. In her haste, his hammer’s blunt edge made contact with her shoulder, crushing the armor surrounding her joint.

     That single blow was enough to make Meraxes taste her own blood. It rose within her mouth, threatening to stream over her chin. Her vision grew hazy—too hazy to notice that Isran, taken aback by his own violence, had hesitated—although, suddenly, that fact became irrelevant.

      She saw Celann instead. He’d aimed a silver throwing axe at Serana’s chest, waiting for the proper moment to release it.

      Beside him stood Agmaer. He remained frozen in all parts but his eyes. 

      Everything was still, for a moment, as if the world had stopped to ask Meraxes whether or not she was sure of something.

      Did she truly want to harm her allies for the sake of a dumb vampire, who had vexed her the entire way to Riften? Did she want to end Serana’s life to prove her loyalty to the Dawnguard and end this momentary strife?

      Time slowed for Meraxes the way it had during the dragon attack as she pondered the world’s many injustices, excluding the fact that her shoulder had been bashed in.

      She’d probably deserved that.

      No, it’s too late. Too late to think now.

      Meraxes spat in the dirt, her saliva mixed with blood that had risen from her throat.

      They’re just like the Silver Hand. I can still make this right.

      Then, as a blinding flash of light shot across Meraxes’ line of vision, the scene came back to life.

      Serana had seized Isran’s diverted attention with her Life Drain spell. Meraxes could see his vitality weakening, although, more importantly, she spotted Celann behind him. He was prepared to release his axe.

      When his arm raised, charging the release, Meraxes grunted and swept her greatsword across his legs. Her shoulder buckled, as she’d nearly forgotten, in her rush of adrenaline, that Isran had hit her there. She lost control of her blade quickly.

     Meraxes had done more than simply hinder Celann. She’d gotten carried away—far beyond her intentions—and had severed one of his legs.

      Celann gaped at her and dropped his axe behind him as he crumpled to the floor. As he laid, still attempting to sit himself upright, his life’s blood squirted from the wound with every heartbeat.

     “Celann! Fuck!” screamed Meraxes, horrified at what she’d done to her old friend. She could see Celann’s pulse from his wound as his blood drained in seemingly-infinite pools. It mixed with the dirt to look like sanguine coffee grains.

     Then, Agmaer met her gaze once more, and the farm boy within him had returned. He looked like an elk in bright magelight, terrified of the moments past and those to come. Agamer turned his heels and sprinted down the path to Dayspring Canyon without hesitation. He left Isran, Celann, and the entire bloody scene behind.

      Meraxes stood in a haze, her eyes transfixed upon Celann’s bleeding body as Agmaer fled. He was far from the first person she’d mutilated, but one who’d been far too close to her for comfort. 

       He hadn't deserved that regardless of how much he hated vampires.

      Meraxes only looked away when blood began trickling down Celann's chin. Soon, his body would force him into his horrid final movements, a feat she didn't want to watch.

     It’s...my fault.

     That’s when Meraxes noticed the movement to her periphery. She’d forgotten, in the obfuscation that Celann’s fatal wound caused, that Serana had been fighting Isran himself.

      Though his chest still rose and fell rhythmically with his breaths, Isran appeared to be dead. Serana, stood over him with merciless, glowing eyes, but did not deliver a final blow. Her spells fizzled into nothing within her hands instead. Meraxes was amazed. How did Serana defeat the Dawnguard leader, and why wouldn’t she finish the job?

     “Hh—“

     Then, something sharp stole the air from Meraxes’ lungs. 

     Checking her chest; feeling for any discrepancies after moments of struggling to breathe, Meraxes grabbed ahold of something abnormal.

     Protruding from her breastplate was a steel bolt.

     After Agmaer abandoned his post, Celann had seized his weapon and shot her. She met the business end of the unloaded crossbow when she turned to face him once more.

     Like a true Vigilant, he'd die fighting.

     “Meraxes, we have to get out of here!”

     “Celann!”

     He had fired the short arrow straight into Meraxes’ chest, yet she still failed to forgive herself for killing him. Especially as she watched him die with her own eyes.

      No longer able to hold Agmaer’s crossbow in his shaking grip, Celann slowly retired to the ground, his blood ceasing its squirting to flow in slow, desperate trails instead.

     “As soon as someone else realizes what’s happened out here, they’re going to call in backup. We can’t stay!”

     Serana reaches for Meraxes’s arm, but she promptly swatted the vampire away. She didn't flee and instead stayed at Celann's side as he died. Guilt stuck itself in her throat.

     “I’m so sorry.”

     That was the first time Serana had ever heard Meraxes apologize. Something about her tone made Serana's stomach sink, as she could feel her sadness in her own bones.

     “Meraxes...”

      Serana gripped Meraxes' hand, in turn feeling the gritty wetness of sanguinary sands which Meraxes had propped herself above to observe Celann’s brief deathbed. “Let’s go.”

      Meraxes stood and shoved Serana away. As she did, she wore the coldest expression Serana had ever seen. She knew Meraxes was distant, but this? Her gaze was nearly pale as ice and just as frigid.

     “It wasn’t your fault.”

     “Just...”

     Meraxes checked Celann’s pulse.

     She felt nothing.

     Then, she sheathed her greatsword without bothering to clean it. Serana was right. If they stayed too long, reinforcements would come. So, before she even thought of closing Celann’s eyes, Meraxes started back onto the road to Dayspring Canyon. “Shut up.”

     Traveling to Falkreath felt different. 

      It’d become apparent that the carriage sides weren't good for leaning on after being shot. If Meraxes dared move an inch or the cart went over a bump, a searing pain coursed throughout her entire body.

     Serana could smell her blood. Hers and Celann's, which had dried on her hands.

     She was hungry. Trying to suppress her urges for the sake of simple politeness was difficult, as she hadn’t fed in nearly a day.

     “Can I see it?” Serana offered her hand and gestured to the bolt still protruding from Meraxes’ chest. Perhaps she could tear it out and they could both be done with it.

     “Why? What the hell can you do about it? I can’t even take my fucking breastplate off, so good luck helping me.”

     She’d noticed how stern Meraxes' tone was. Even though she was rude—unnecessarily so—crass, and not an overall charmer, Serana had never heard her spit so savagely before.

     “Then we have to take it out.”

     Meraxes didn’t respond. Instead, she grasped the wine canteen she’d had earlier, and took a long, deep drink. 

     “Let me handle it. I’ll see what I can do about sealing the wound afterwards.”

     Scoffing, Meraxes stared out the carriage and into the moonlight, wondering how long it would take for the Dawnguard to find them. Then, they’d both be dead for good, and the bolt in her chest wouldn’t matter. The fact that she killed Celann wouldn’t matter.

     She wouldn’t feel anymore.

     “Hey, look at me," Serana’s voice sunk to one lower than before, containing a hint of something like sympathy. Something Meraxes had never quite caught onto. “Meraxes, I’ve done so many things I wish I could take back—so many things I can never atone for—“

     Meraxes fixed her gaze on Serana’s for only a moment before tipping her head back for another swig, but—even if barely—she allowed Serana's words to reach her ears.

     “But what makes life worth living, even if it lasts thousands of years, are the people you choose to save. You’re writing Tamriel’s history without even knowing it.”

     “Bullshit. Is that why you’re telling me you didn’t kill Isran?”

     Although Meraxes had finally piped up, not much had changed; her expression remained just as pained as it was before. “You had the perfect opportunity to do it, if you’d wanted.”

     Serana knew grief well and in nearly all its forms. She understood that tearing down Meraxes’ walls, if she decided to attempt it, would not be an easy feat.

     Something about that stupid drunk made her want to try, though.

     “The world needs people like Isran,” Serana replied, staring for a moment at the night sky. For a long time, she’d missed the stars. It was nice to see them out again. “As much as factions might war, one thing books taught me is that sometimes, that’s the only way to fix things.”

     If Meraxes knew what Serana did, perhaps she would have been able to see things her way. She was silent, though. Remarkably silent, even if she had been somewhat before.

     “Why did you save me?”

     For the first time in what might have seemed like a steady conversation, the two made eye-contact. Meraxes’ stony expression met Serana’s own, which burned beneath her visage with a hidden fire.

     Because I was wrong about them. All of them.

     Meraxes couldn’t bring herself to say what she thought. Not exactly, anyway. The things Kodlak taught her existed in her mind as tenets, even if she didn’t always follow them.

      Even if the mercenary she once was wanted to return every once in a while and destroy whatever progress she’d made.

     Because maybe the truth about monsters isn’t in their body or their blood. It’s in the way they treat others. It’s in the degree to which they discriminate against anyone who’s not enough like them. I mean—for fuck’s sake—Celann shot me.

     “I thought perhaps it was best if I branched out from the monsters I know.”

      Serana nodded quietly as the carriage rolled onward, even if she didn’t understand. There were times to ask questions and times to sit still.

      Serana didn't always know the difference, but she was willing to try. “Well, it seems are certainly enough of them to go around.”

      The remark was simple enough to suffice, and following it, Serana let her rescuer enjoy the silence of the night.

      Perhaps she didn’t understand her strange companion or why she’d saved her life. All she did know was that, when her and Meraxes arrived to Dead Man’s Drink, she was taking that arrow out whether the other liked it or not.

End of Chapter 5

Next: Kodlak returns to Jorrvaskr. Meraxes finally sets the course for Serana’s home and encounters an unwelcome surprise on the way. Soren’s life turns upside-down once more.

Warning: Chapter 6 contains graphic depictions of violence and death. Reader discretion is advised.

Side Banter: Sorry this chapter took me so long to release! It’s definitely my longest one at around 8,000 words, so editing took forever! Thank you for your support if you read the whole thing, and I hope you’re enjoying my fic so far!

Chapter Text

      “I understand why they’re after you."

      Kodlak ran a few, wrinkled fingers down his snowy beard as if to comb it, bruising evident on his knuckles from the night before. Meraxes had almost forgotten about what Avulstein and Thorald had done to him earlier. “When harm comes to the Companions, you children tend to find your own vengeance as well. The Dawnguard likely sees this the way Farkas and Vilkas did when they attacked Serana.”

       “Oh, fuck all."

      Meraxes stared into the bottom of her tankard. To her chagrin, it had been refilled with only water, and—no less—by Delphine. “If there’s one thing I learned about the Dawnguard, it’s that they don’t give a damn about your mettle unless you’re human. And I know hundreds of humans who’ve done more damage to Skyrim than the Circle or a couple of vampires.”

      Meraxes still wasn’t altogether accepting of vampires, as Serana had proven herself more the exception than the rule. Most of her kind, especially if encountered in a cave or ruin, would rather hope to make a meal out of Meraxes than accompany her on a long journey.

     Kodlak caught Meraxes' gaze when she stopped thinking and looked above the brim of her drink. His expression was methodical, though brief, and wrinkled with the wisdom only time could provide. He promptly diverted his attention onto a pouch of gold hanging from his belt, beginning to count out pieces on the table.

     “Right and wrong; good and evil. They are such extremes, but we’ll never have the truth of them. I see a curse where young-bloods grasp what they’d rather name a ‘gift.'" He set the total aside and surveyed Meraxes with a gentle focus. “You children are living proof that a point of view is the difference between living oppressed or free...and so am I.” 

      Still wrapped in bandages where he’d bled the night before, and with bags drooping beneath his eyes from a lack of sufficient sleep, Kodlak rose from his seat. “As always, Meraxes, you have a home in Jorrvaskr. I must return to our family before chaos ensues.”

       Meraxes knew that Farkas and Vilkas were bound to burn Jorrvaskr to the ground if Koldlak ever decided to stray from the Companions for too long. She was surprised he even bothered leaving for a few days, considering the way the lot behaved in his absence. Then again, her being sober and away from the place eliminated several of the risks that he would’ve otherwise faced.

       As Meraxes held Kodlak steadily within her gaze, one hand still resting on her water-filled tankard, Serana approached him. She grasped the old man’s hand—not too tightly—between her own.

       “Thank you for what you’ve done for us,” she said in a low voice, releasing him from her fleeting hold. She couldn’t help but admire him for his assistance. She would have lost Meraxes without him, and that war-torn knight was her only means of seeing the Volkihars again. “I’m in your debt.”

       “If you believe you owe me,” started Kodlak, his smile slight and innocent despite the blood that altered his bandages’ hue, “then you can repay me by ensuring my daughter returns to Jorrvaskr safely.” He turned toward the door and looked over his shoulder to meet Serana's eyes. “Before I depart, I will apologize on behalf of the Companions. Farkas and Vilkas...” the old man’s eyes clouded momentarily, saddening and distant, “after Aela investigated their adoptive father’s death, she discovered it was a vampire who’d killed him, and not the Silver Hand or the Thalmor. They are young, but still, they should have known better than to wish you any harm.”

       Meraxes’ attention flitted back to her beverage as Kodlak informed Serana of the true cause of Jurgen’s untimely demise. It was then that Meraxes wished she’d been drinking strong mead instead of boiled water, as she recalled the days that Farkas and Vilkas returned to Jorrvaskr, exhausted and often sick from searching for the reasons a vampire would have to target their father. Jurgen was merely a soldier and a member of the Circle; useless to a vampire and dead to the Thalmor who fought against him.

       “I..." Serana hesitated, swallowing, "I did not know of the circumstances. I’d have waited somewhere else had I understood." She who broke focus from Kodlak to shoot yet another inquisitive stare at Meraxes, who must’ve known the risks of bringing her to Jorrvaskr when she had.

        Aela tried to tell her, thought Meraxes, shoving away any traces of guilt she felt for dragging Serana into the literal deathtraps they’d encountered. But that conflict wasn’t my fault. The Dawnguard didn’t leave me with much of a choice.

       “I’m not one to question my childrens’ motives unless I locate reason for it,” countered Kodlak, rescuing Meraxes from an attempt at self-defense. Kodlak knew how horrible his daughter was with words and how she tended to exacerbate an already-less-than-ideal situation if she tried to talk her way out of it. “In fact, I’m glad she came to me. There was a time she would refuse my help, believing she could handle anything on her own.”

       “You know, I’m sitting right here,” Meraxes finally rose from the table, standing at Serana’s shoulder. She met Kodlak's eyes and their gentle paleness filled her with memories of Jorrvaskr’s mead hall. There, she’d rest by the fire with cooked meat and fine ale, relishing in relaxation before embarking on her next campaign. The corner of her lips twisted into something of a grin at the memory. Serana swore she had never seen her look so peaceful before. “You and I both know I can look after myself. I’ll return to Jorrvaskr in no time, old man.”

       Kodlak’s smile expanded. “Perhaps that has become true. Farewell, Meraxes.”

       For a fraction of a moment, Kodlal set his hands on either side of Meraxes' shoulders, his eyes carrying within them a glint of fatherly pride.

       Meraxes didn't utter another word.

       Instead, she let Kodlak slip out the door and begin his journey home.

     “He loves you, you know,” Serana commented upon her return to the main hall after she and Meraxes had each packed their belongings. Meraxes observed her, taken slightly aback at the lack of immediate context accompanying her comment.

      “Kodlak?” Meraxes assumed her reply to Serana’s question was somewhat necessary, although she preferred to keep the conversation minimal. She liked to avoid pointless diatribe even in her sobriety. “Well, with how many times that man has come to my rescue, I hope he does.”

       “Have you ever told him that you love him?” Serana asked and fastened her Elder Scroll onto her back. Though days had passed, Serana still appeared just the way Meraxes had found her. Meraxes supposed that was one of the side-effects of eternal life.

       The Scroll. That’s right. If only I could pawn that off for the damn supplies I’m going to need for the next few days...

       Meraxes, catching Serana’s burning glare when she’d found herself distracted, stiffly adjusted her posture.

       “No. I’ve not.”

       “Well.” Serana pointedly folded her arms. “You should. Soren just lost Avulstein, which we’ll have to tell him when he wakes. With how short your lifespan is, as a mortal and a wolf, and how many deaths your kind face in mere years, I’m surprised you’re so terrible with your emotions.”

       Right. Soren. Fuck.

       Meraxes had momentarily forgotten that Serana decided to adopt a child without asking her permission. As much as she hated maintaining responsibility for him, she knew Serana would remain awfully bitter with her if she neglected it and the rest of her journey north of Solitude would become a living hell.

       “Look, if I wanted someone to discuss my fucking feelings with, I think you’d know it by now.” Meraxes pinched the corners of her nose between her fingers, her expression revealing increasing vexation. “Besides, I’m not the one who decided to adopt a pet without consulting the primary party. So we’re waking Soren up now, getting our asses on the road in no less than twenty minutes, and you’re going to tell him what happened to Avulstein while I watch the damn map.”

       Serana remained persistent as usual. Rather than sitting on the bench attached to the main hall’s long table, Serana seated herself on the top, using the chair as a footrest.

       “I’ll tell Soren about Avulstein if you write to Kodlak. You have to let that man know how you feel before you lose your opportunity.”

       If Serana had learned anything about Meraxes in the time they’d spent together, it was that she favored a compromise. There were remnants of a mercenary within her; of someone who preferred to cut deals rather than face direct losses. That was simply how Meraxes was used to surviving. Serana thought it was obvious, too, that Kodlak’s thought of Meraxes as his true daughter and that she saw him as a father in turn.

       Meraxes considered and eyed the wall behind Serana's head. “All right. I’ll tell Soren, then. But you have to wake him up. Let’s get out of this damn inn.”

       Disappointed in her companion, Serana turned her back on Meraxes to rap at Soren’s door. She’d teach that ignorant knight to appreciate those around her eventually, even if it meant she’d have to find another way.

       Soren unlocked his room to face Serana behind her. As Serana spoke with him, she could hear Meraxes’ belligerent tone as she paid Delphine for their stay.

       She sighed, frustrated, and cursed under her breath.

       Kodlak had selected himself a crass family indeed.

     “Ugh, I’m starving.”

       Serana, we’ve been on the road for forty minutes.”

       Serana had truly tested Meraxes’s temper throughout the duration of their brief ride. It was a horrible idea, too, to force Meraxes to become the more reasonable between the two of them. “I’m sure we’ll find you some bandits for dinner. It’s not uncommon for them to come after carriages like this one.”

       “It’s...” Soren’s ashen face sunk following Meraxes’ revelation, his void-like eyes widening apprehensively. “It’s not?”

       Meraxes snorted, amused by his easy startle. “Again, boy, this is why I carry a sword. You should try using that dagger of yours for something.”

       “Don’t worry." Serana offered Soren a half-smile. “If her long hunk of metal fails us, I’ll blast them with ice. I’d be especially useful to the both of you, though...” Serana cocked her head, her amber gaze playfully searing. “If I were fed.”

       “You know that’s not happening,” said Meraxes as a growl rose in her throat, "so hold onto your shit and I’ll figure something out when we get to Rorikstead.”

       While Meraxes hadn’t intended to snap so fiercely, she noticed the way Soren’s blackened eyes shifted—perplexed and fearful—between her and Serana. Meraxes couldn't help but feel intense anger toward those who shared the carriage with her and the way they made her circumstances seem so ill.

       Serana raised an eyebrow, her arms sliding defensively over her chest as Meraxes resorted again to her primal evasiveness. “Oh? I could always eat you. That’s not entirely off the table, right?”

       Meraxes' growl became audible following Serana's remark.

       Her face contorted with rage as she prepared to shout at Serana. Her yelling was dismissed only by a fearful wave of Soren’s hand. Instead, she turned to the the half-Elf, who cowered when he gained her wrathful attention.

       “E- excuse me...” The young boy remembered the ferocity Meraxes displayed when she ripped the shirt, pants, and boots from his hands at the Sleeping Giant Inn. He'd been afraid of her since that moment. Though Soren was better off in Serana’s company, he wouldn’t have much luck speaking to her in solitude while Meraxes was in charge of their travel. “Lady Serana can have some of my blood if she wishes.”

       Meraxes' scowl replaced itself with a grim, realizing frown.

       “You understand she’ll have to bite you, right? You’re okay with holes in your throat?”

       ”Actually,” Serana retorted sharply, leaping to correct Meraxes as soon as she finished her question, “that type of feeding is extraordinarily intimate for vampires. I don’t quite feel comfortable with it. However,"  Serana's voice calmed as she gestured to the dagger on Soren’s belt, “if you don’t mind slicing your hand, that would be more than enough.”

       Soren pulled the blade from his belt and nodded understandingly but hesitantly. “Okay...I can do it.”

       “Doubtful,” Meraxes muttered as Soren grimaced when he spotted his shadowy reflection in the knife’s polished blade.

       “She saved me,” Soren said, still staring at the palm of his hand. Serana’s stomach sank as she wondered whether or not Soren had the guts to make the cut. “Besides, she can heal me. I’ll be okay.”

       While Soren occupied himself with the matter of Serana’s next meal, Meraxes, still vexed with her, cued her to her side of the carriage with a beckoning wave of her hand.

       Serana obeyed. She bore the same burning, inquisitive look she usually carried, accompanied by leftover disappointment in Meraxes’ earlier display of apathy.

       “What is it?” whispered Serana, her voice soft despite her underlying frustration. “Did you not tell him yet?”

       “No,” Meraxes said. Her focus shifted to the subject of their conversation, who—to her astonishment—had managed to slice open his palm. “I didn’t exactly have the time, with how quickly I wanted to erase any evidence that we were in Riverwood.” Meraxes watched as Soren’s blood trickled down his wrist and dropped onto the carraige floor. “You heard Kodlak. The Dawnguard won’t stop tracking us until they think we’re dead.”

       Serana's eyes brightened as Soren's blood spilt and stained the wooden boards. She looked forward to the time it would reach her tongue. “I understand that some things are worth the wait, but you can’t neglect that entirely. You need to tell him at our next stop.”

       When Meraxes thought of the families she’d visited during her time in the Imperial Army; of all the parents she’d informed of the deaths of their sons and daughters; of all of the children to whom she had to explain had become motherless, fatherless, or completely orphaned, her heart—and her lips—sank. “I will,” she promised and her chest grew heavy with dread. “Why don’t you eat? Soren can’t sit there bleeding for much longer. The kid might pass out.”

       “It’s like I said. Some things are worth the wait.” The corner of Serana’s mouth threatened a smile as she met Meraxes’ eyes. “You needed to speak with me. That’s important—“ Serana did not touch her, but came close to it, compromising with only a reassuring gaze. “—but, rest assured, I’ll eat now.”

       The sun began its descent over the farmlands as the carriage continued down the road. Meraxes watched Serana drink from Soren’s open wound. Though she did not particularly like the boy, she was thankful that he’d probably saved her from becoming vampire food.

       Meraxes noticed the faint light of Serana’s restoration spell from her periphery and heard Soren’s grimace which likely accompanied his realization that the vampire’s healing hurt more than he’d initially thought. She’d tried repairing Meraxes’s shoulder, which had begun to feel better after Isran bashed it in with his hammer...

       ...until something sharp pierced it, through her steel plates, from behind the cart.

       Meraxes seethed and a growl rose from her throat.

       She failed to anticipate being shot.

       “Get down!”

       When she lowered herself into the carriage bed, Meraxes noticed the projectile embedded in her armor was not a conventional arrow, but a steel bolt.

       The Dawnguard had found them.

       “Meraxes, you need to come clean on how many people want you dead,” Serana teased. As if an ambush were a prudent time for games. She frowned, though, when she noticed the bolt protruding from Meraxes' armor. “And can you please stop getting shot?”

       Soren’s newly-healed hand shook in petrified fear, his eyes wide at the result of the Dawnguard’s expert strike. They’d seen who was onboard; it was too late for him to do anything that could get the three of them out of enemy crosshairs. What was more, he was the weakest of them. The easiest target.

       “All right, here’s what—“

       Meraxes closed her mouth when the carriage stopped completely. From where she’d ducked beneath the cart bench, she saw the driver retreat, running as fast as his legs could go until a man in the treeline fired a bolt between his lungs:

       Isran.

       Isran wasn’t aiming for a slow pursuit, either. He'd left his horse dismounted meters away and turned back to retrieve it after the driver dropped dead onto the stone and grout.

       Of all the times to have dry canteens... Meraxes scowled, wondering if there was a way in desolate hell she could think herself out of the hole her party had just landed in. If only they weren't traveling with a child—they'd have been able to run through the woods instead!

       She growled under her breath, itching to blame Soren for the dire situation they’d encountered, when the dark whirl of his cloak passed before her eyes:

       He'd leapt out of the cart before she could act at all.

       ”Hey!” barked Meraxes, who flew out behind him without hesitation. Serana followed as the road grew more perilous with each of their steps. Behind them, Isran mounted his armored horse.

       When Meraxes caught Soren by the hood, violently pulling him into a painful armlock, her voice dropped to a low, furious rasp, “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

       Meraxes didn’t care how young or fragile Soren was. It wasn’t her job to save his ass. If he continued endangering her, she’d have to give up on making a temporary peace with Serana and drop him on the side of the road for the sake of her survival.

       “Lady Meraxes, we have to get out of here!” His voice was fearful and distressed, like an Imperial recruit’s on his first midnight patrol. “Someone has to get on the horse!”

       The horse...the horse!

       The animal was their way out, if Meraxes could separate it from the weight of the carriage. She'd have to find a way to fit all three of them on its back.

       It wasn't going to be a pleasant ride.

       Meraxes didn’t care. She was going to see another day, and that was all that mattered.

       “I’m no Lady,” Meraxes said stiffly, gripping Soren by his legs and unceremoniously tossing him onto the horses’ back. “Serena, get behind him. I’ll take the end. You know how to ride a horse, right?”

       “Well, I wasn’t exactly born yesterday, Meraxes,” Serana replied and hoisted herself onto the saddle without much of an effort. Perhaps vampires hadn’t much of a need for horses, but Serana had learned the basics in Winterhold.

       Isran gained tremendous ground behind them. Serana witnessed his catching up when he checked her six, as well as the startling news that followed—

       —he wasn’t alone.

       “Meraxes, he brought friends. That means more crossbows. We have to start moving.”

       Meraxes drew her greatsword in response to Serana's remark, her jaw clenching through the shoulder pain as she readied it.

       SNAP!

       With a impressive force, Meraxes swung her weapon to the ground, shattering the wood, iron, and leather that held the horse a prisoner to the carriage. The animal released a clarion cry and reared.

       Then, it charged down the road without Meraxes.

       “Serana, wait!” she hollered, reaching toward the vampire in an effort not to get dragged along the road by one of Skyrim’s quickest animals.

       Meraxes had never felt the need to run so rapidly in her armor, but as her legs left the ground and she struggled onto the horses’ back, she knew that she would have been left behind had she sprinted even a second slower.

        They didn't have time to waste. Meraxes needed to lose Isran and his soldiers if she wanted to keep the three of them alive.

       “If you don’t want to lose the kid,” Meraxes warned after releasing an exasperated breath, her grip on the reigns tightening until her knuckles paled, “Then you’d better hold onto him!"

       CRASH!

       One of the Dawnguard ran her horse into the abandoned carriage, tripping the animal violently onto the road in a flurry of thrashing legs.

       “Well, Meraxes, I don’t think we’re in for that much of a—Molag Bal be damned!” Serana exclaimed as Meraxes turned the horse sharply left. She nearly ran them into a cluster of trees.

       An amused grin crawled onto Meraxes' face when she found an opportunity to tease Serana. “Why, are you—”

       —hhh...fuck...”

       A sharp pain interrupted her joking; the stinging sensation mimicked that of her shoulder.

       She’d been shot in the back.

       “Are you all right?” Seran asked, ensuring Soren didn’t stray from his seat on another one of Meraxes’ wild turns.

       “For now." Meraxes gritted her teeth and fought to remain upright in her seat.

       With her remaining strength, Meraxes squeezed the horses’ ribs between her legs, urging the creature to gallop onward and away from her Dawnguard pursuers. Meraxes thought it better that she sat on the rear. She was the only one who wore armor enough to protect her from the crossbow bolts.

       My armor...

        Meraxes' frosty eyes widened when she came to a stark realization.

       It’s making our horse too slow to escape. That’s why we can’t get away.

       Meraxes’ breath grew rugged as she realized what she'd have to do.

       This time, she didn’t have a choice.

       “Serana, I need you to get back on the road and follow it along the path I drew.”

       “Meraxes, you know how I can’t follow directions,” Serana cajoled, although she wore an expression of pure concern. “What are you doing?”

       If she gets herself killed, my chances of seeing Castle Volkihar are slim to none, Serana thought, slowly realizing their odds against the Dawnguard horde. That, and I’ll have lost one of my only allies...the only person who’s refused to leave me behind.

       “Well...” Meraxes’ head felt light when she made another turn with the reigns. Before she lost anymore blood from her puncture wounds, she had to act. “I’m an idiot, right?”

       Dawnguard bolts soared past the horses’ former trajectory; ones that would have hit Meraxes had she not moved out of the way. Following the turn, she offered Serena the leather straps, relinquishing her control over the animal.

       “You’re one of the dumbest people I know,” Serena confessed and lightly squeezed Meraxes’ hands as they traded the reigns. “But you’re not allowed to die until you take me home." Her voice was filled with a conviction that made Meraxes believe she might see another day. “Do you understand?”

       “I’ve survived a lot, Serana."

       Meraxes grinned, though her eyes clouded with the same uncertainty a soldier carried each time she stepped off for war. “I think I’ll manage.”

       With that, Meraxes shut her eyes, traveling to a place of immense suffering and pain; a state of mind that burned her bones and forced her blood to boil within her veins.

       The transformation was always excruciating.

       Meraxes, though, had never endured it while tumbling off the back of a horse. She supposed there was a first time for everything.

       As she fell, her muscles expanded, wheat-colored fur sprouted from her pores, and her arms and legs increased rapidly in length. Immensely sharp, intimidating claws shot from her fingertips quickly enough to take the nearest Dawnguard horse cleanly off its feet.

       A roar charged itself her throat as she transformed; as the unbearable pain of the wounds she’d suffered met the horrifying transition into Beast Form.

       ”Stendarr preserve us!” screamed one of the Dawnguard as two green recruits retreated into the depths of the woods.

       Take it or leave it, Isran!

       Meraxes swung a mighty paw at the Isran's horse and sent the animal’s head crashing into the dirt. Her lips twisted in a vicious snarl as she decapitated it. Frankly, she'd had enough of the Dawnguard leader and his relentless pursuit. 

       When you see me, you're gazing at a mirror. Serana should have killed you when she had the opportunity.

       Just beyond Isran’s forces, where the carriage horse had stopped, Serana looked onward at Meraxes’ transformation with a glimpse of rare astonishment. Never before had she realized the full extent of Meraxes' power. She’d only begun to realize how much she didn’t know about Meraxes—about what she was capable of.

       There was, however, one thing she knew:

       She wasn’t about to let her have all of the fun.

       Meraxes told me to go...

       Serana halted in her tracks and left Soren on the horse as she dismounted. The contrasting crimson and glacial hues of Vampiric magic spiraled around her nimble fingers. ...but when has she ever left me? I’ve pissed her off so many times, but she’s never abandoned me; not once...

       There’s no way I’m letting her do this alone.

       “Soren—"

       As one of the braver Dawnguard soldiers started towards her, brandishing his silver hand-axe, Serena shot a bolt of ice from her palm and cleanly through his chest. Soren gaped at the scene in horror. He was unable to grasp the horses’ reigns in his moment of dreadful apprehension.

       ”RRRRAAAAARRRRRRGGHH!”

       Meraxes snarled from the front lines as she threw a powerfully charged blow, slapping a massive forelimb across the path of two Dawnguard men. While one merely collapsed straight into the snow—the blanket of precipitation swallowing his chest and face—the other went airborne toward Soren’s horse.

       When the soldier’s sword made contact with the animals legs, it bellowed, rearing and screaming as Soren tumbled off its back and onto the ground. He covered his neck as the creature nearly trampled him. It released a pained gruff, sharply thrashed its head, and galloped away, leaving a trail of burgundy blood in the freshly-fallen snow.

       “You damn fiend! I should have killed you when I had the chance!”

       Torn between Isran’s furious cries as he raised his silver warhammer to strike Meraxes, and Soren, who had just fallen from the horse, the battle froze in thin air for Serana.

       She'd seen blood many a time—so much of it—in fact, that she hadn’t thought herself capable of feeling what then chilled every bone in her body; a sensation so terrifying that she, too, stopped to breathe.

       Perhaps Meraxes hadn’t abandoned Serena like everyone else the she'd become close with. At least, not yet. But, just as she thought she was making a friend; as she hoped she had gained at least one person on her side, Meraxes was—objectively—a nightmare.

       Meraxes’ jaws, longer than the average tree was wide, snapped viscously at Isran as he followed through a hammer’s swing to her muscled abdomen, the blood which flowed from that wound the darkest that Serana had ever seen and the most bitter she'd smelled in all her life.

       Serana turned at the sound of metal scraping against itself. Her nose burned at the scent of a familiar substance:

       Soren’s blood.

       Serana was fortunate she’d left the boy his dagger, as one of the Dawnguard had passed her and Meraxes’ line of influence to reach him. Serana couldn’t see where Soren was bleeding from a distance, but the scene unfolding was significantly more troubling:

       All she noticed was the dagger protruding from his attacker’s throat as Soren himself looked on in desperation. His void-like eyes glazed over in a way that told Serana he couldn’t comprehend what he’d just done.

       The assailant made slow journey to the ground. His fingers searched for his open wound as if it were one he could close and repair, blood draining at a rate that would rapidly fill several buckets. It wasn’t long before he knelt—gazing up at Soren’s empty hand—which held the ghost of the dagger that marked his death. His eyes took in the final scene quickly. Before he even had the chance to pray, he collapsed.

       Serana wasn’t ready for time to return to its fleeting state, but as Soren’s hand began to shake as if the winter had possessed it to freeze, her whole world drowned in red.

       There was blood at every turn: Soren’s. The Dawnguard’s. Isran’s. Meraxes’. Serana even recognized Agmaer’s.

       If she hadn’t fed before the ambush, she would've completely lost herself in the fray.

       Even though she’d eaten and her only friends were each faced with horrors of their own, Serana couldn’t seem to take her mind off the blood.

      SNAP!

      A distraction presented itself.

       Serana turned rapidly towards the sound of an object shattering. She found Isran’s hammer in two pieces, each, broken side falling onto his chest as Meraxes held him down in the snow. Her jaws snapped mere inches from his throat and face.

       “You give me no choice, Stendarr damn you!” Isran growled, his meaty hands barely keeping Meraxes’ teeth at bay. Had he been anything but a werewolf, she would have already ripped him open.

       As the last remaining Dawnguard retreated and Serana deemed Meraxes capable of handling herself against Isran, she sprinted to Soren, who crouched over a dead man’s limp, blood-soaked corpse...a man who's life he'd ended.

       She promptly turned his eyes away from the remains. She held him opposite the growling, tearing sounds of Meraxes and Isran’s fight. Lowering herself to her knees, she offered Soren her hand.

       The roar of battle was loud. Soren would not hear her if she tried to offer him words of sympathy or remorse.

       Over his shoulder—as he'd used Serana's arm to lower himself gradually to the ground—Serana saw not one wolf, but two.

       Isran had transformed.

       He barreled at his highest speed towards Meraxes, who sprung from a crouched position to clasp her teeth into his forearm. Instead, she bit into the wiry meat of his bicep, shredding it to tender pieces before Serana’s eyes.

       They were fast. Their slashes were like strikes of lightning and their roars the thunder in her ears which accompanied the storm-like fury of their movements. Meraxes unleashed the torrent of her teeth, clamping them fast to Isran’s well-muscled upper leg and squeezing as hard as she could muster, to which he responded with a pained roar.

       ”RRRRAAAAARRRRRRGGHH!”

       Soren couldn't seem to hear the squall raging on behind him. Rather, his stare was still empty and unfeeling, his grip loosening on Serana’s.

       Serana's brows knit together with worry.

       She couldn’t spot a single wound on Soren, but swept his body for one, her hands sliding gently down each of his arms to feel for the crimson liquid. Then, outside the lines of her vision, Serana spotted a flash of darkness dash rapidly across the red-stained snow.

       She felt the wind shift where she knelt. Promptly, she checked Soren’s breathing, which grew weaker by the passing second.

       She continued to search him and monitored the rise and fall of air in his torso. The shadow she'd seen revealed itself to be Isran himself, who charged towards Serana and the wounded boy.

       “This won’t end well for you.” Serana opened her fist, a bolt of ice charging in her hand as the werewolf made his final bound. His overwhelming size overpowered her first shard. However, he soon crashed into something else—

       "RAARRHHHGG!”

       Meraxes roared, shielding Serana by absorbing the impact from Isran’s heavy interception. The two tumbled into the fresh powder. They each left streaks of blood on the pieces of ice which remained there from days past.

       Serana couldn’t afford to stare in awe; to express her dumbfoundedness at the ruthless, terrifying beast which leapt to her defense.

       I still think she’s stupid, Serana thought, allowing a relieved exhale to escape her lungs as she continued to search Soren for injuries. But she’s the bravest mortal I’ve come to know.

       Soren, though, had killed a man. He, who seemed incapable of such a feat when Serana had first rescued him, had cut his own flesh to feed her, leapt from the back of a horse-drawn carriage while an arm man charged him on the road, saved her and Meraxes from certain death with his hasty thinking, and defended himself from a Dawnguard soldier.

       “Your father might not have thought much of you, Soren,” whispered Serana as she leaned over the bloodied snow to sweep over his legs. “But you’re a courageous young man.”

       When Serana turned Soren’s body over to examine his back, she found it:

       A puddle of burgundy sleet, dripping with a concoction of Dark Elf and Nord, creating a warm hole which quickly drained onto the ground beneath it.

       The Dawnguard recruit had slashed Soren's inner leg before he got his strike in. He severed one of his most vital points.

       Soren's breaths grew shallow and rugged as Serana held him in her arms, her brimstone eyes glazed over with something like tears.

       If she couldn’t fix him—and fast—he was going to die.

       “You don’t deserve this...” Serana choked up, lamenting, as Soren’s blood soaked the frills of her dress. She slid her arm beneath his knees to embrace him tightly and held on as if she could keep him alive with her touch. “You...”

       Soren's suffering reminded Serana of her own from when she was young.

       A dreadful feeling drowned her senses.

       Serana lost awareness of the thunderous werewolf fight, of the fresh snow which had just begun to fall gently from the evening sky, of the corpses surrounding her, from each of which she could glean an entire meal. Instead, she swallowed hoarsely and contained the pain which threatened to emerge in the form of burning tears. “...You have just begun to live...”

       Before Molag Bal had turned her, the Daedric Lord abandoned her to suffer. He forced her to comply to his will in all the ways a little girl shouldn’t.

       After the ritual had ended, Serana remembered every, single part of it.

       Centuries had passed, and she still couldn’t forget.

       But she was left with a choice. A choice to let a young boy die, or curse him for eternity.

       A decision she’d already made.

       ”I’m sorry...”

       Serana whispered, rocking the dying boy in her arms like a newborn child.

       Then, she unsheathed her fangs, found the fading pulse in the crevice of his throat,

       and bit.

     Meraxes awoke in the midst of her bloodlust.

       As soon as her eyes opened to the moonlight woods once more, her ears lowered, their narrow tips pressing against her head. She felt her entire body ache—a sensation enhanced by the frigid terrain.

       Meraxes rarely felt pain in her Beast Form. But, as soon as she reunited with her consciousness, it was as though something heavy and blunt had swung at her skull, jostling her mind inside.

       She couldn't rise to feed. 

       She was too broken.

       Instead, she inhaled the scent of the air around her, breathing in the blood which coated the snow she’d collapsed in.

       Though she could not move, Meraxes soon realized that she rested on a blanket of red.

       She knew she was not alone, either. Beside her, Isran’s mutilated form was scattered and shredded—hardly recognizable, even as a werewolf—sprays of his blood painting some of the nearby trees.

       “I’m sorry I couldn’t get to you sooner."

       Meraxes turned her head slightly towards the sound of a voice. Her vision was too blurry to see. She couldn't tell if her line of sight was blackening or improving, but that didn't matter.

       "You make such a mess without me, Meraxes. I don’t think the Dawnguard is going to want Isran’s body back.”

       Serana.

       Meraxes wanted to hold on—to store her consciousness until she gained her human form again. But she felt herself slipping; giving in to the horrible exhaustion that threatened to consume her.

       You really can’t follow instructions...you should be at the Frostfruit Inn....

       With a final gaze at Serana, though it was blackened and clouded, and Soren, who rested peacefully in her arms, Meraxes let her chin fall back into the crimson-soaked snow.

       ...you stupid vampire.

       Then—for the first time in years—a deep sleep swallowed her whole.

End of Chapter 6

Next: Serana discovers one of Meraxes’ biggest insecurities. Soren learns about what he’s become.

Warning: Chapter 7 contains graphic descriptions of nudity. Reader discretion is advised.

Side Banter: This chapter definitely took a minute because I needed a to take a bit of a hiatus from writing this! I love this story and will be working on it more frequently again, although, if you’re wondering what kept me from updating it until now, I had a lot of schoolwork and some family business to deal with. I hope you enjoyed this chapter of Kindred and that I’ve left you hungry for more! Get it, because there are so many vampires?

Okay, bad joke. Get ready, though, because Harkon and his court will most likely debut in Chapter 9, and within the next few misadventures, our protagonists all have their fair share of surprises. I’m even considering commissioning a cover for this story to release post-Chapter 10 if it continues to get as much attention as it has been. Thank you all again for your endless support, and stay tuned for updates!

Here’s a lovely portrait of Soren, who plays a song for you to thank you for reading this far into the tale. Rest assured, he has written very many tunes about it!

Chapter Text

     The fire Serana had built served two purposes:

      One, to keep Meraxes warm. She knew that mortals, unlike her kind, could freeze to death. While she wasn’t entirely sure about werewolves, she wasn’t about to take any chances.

      Two, to brand Soren. She’d have to burn him with the pin of her cloak—the Volkihar seal—infused with her blood.

     It was the only way to keep him alive.

     If she failed at that task, Soren was at risk of becoming a feral; a Falmer-like creature that would turn to ash immediately if exposed to sunlight.

     Being a vampire herself, Serana despised fire, and memories of her own branding still haunted her every day. Her Maker was Molag Bol himself: the Daedric Lord of domination and mortal enslavement. Both she and her mother wore his Mark.

     She watched Meraxes sleep beneath the makeshift blanket she'd made with her cloak as she heated her seal in the fire. Before she pulled it from the flames, she watched it grow a searing, molten orange.

     Gripping Soren’s dagger from his belt—the same one he’d used to provide her blood and to kill his Dawnguard assailant—Serana sliced the side of her hand, pulling the clothing back from the nape of his neck to drip her blood where his spine met his skull.

     That was where his Maker’s mark had to be.

     Still, the branding hurt like hell. Serana wasn't awarded such a privilege not to feel it burn.

     “Hold still,” Serana whispered, hissing at the pain retrieving the broach caused her; it was white-hot from the campfire’s scalding flames.

     Then, she pressed the pin down onto the circle of blood she’d left, infusing it onto Soren’s skin.

     She smiled when she removed it and a sigh of fleeting relief escaped her lungs.

     His body had accepted the Volkihar brand.

     Even if she had to gain permission from her father to keep Soren alive, as nobody turned a Volkihar vampire without his consent, at least he would awaken to another day.

     Serana left Meraxes wrapped up in her cloak. She was human once again—though still asleep—and her body probably wouldn’t do well pressed against the snow. She pulled Soren’s away, ensuring the hood covered his neck and face when she gently propped him against a log.

     Then, she sat, her brimstone eyes keeping wary watch over her sleeping friends.

     And she waited—her Volkihar broach cooling in the snow at her feet—for when both would awaken changed.

     A tremendous amount of physical pain greeted Meraxes upon her awakening.

     The injuries on her back and shoulder persisted, though her transformation into beast form had done away with the bolts. Gashes from Isran’s hammer and claws lined her rib cage and legs. When she braced with her arms, preparing to sit herself up, a groan escaped her lips.

     “Talos can go fuck himself this morning."

      Serana met her eyes when Meraxes finally propped herself on her hands.

     “You’re awake."

     Serana approached Meraxes and knelt beside her. She wasn’t sure what to do, as Meraxes clearly wasn’t wearing any armor beneath the cloak—only her necklace. Serana could see her bare shoulders, though the cloth draped over her breasts and inner legs. “You...”

     Serana swallowed hard when she saw the way Meraxes’ legs protruded from her limited cover.

     It was no wonder, that when Soren brought her pants wouldn’t have completely covered her, she refused them—

     —from the knee down, her left was made of wood.

     “...You stayed for me.”

     Serana didn't understand Meraxes most of the time. But she had to be honest with herself: a lot of the things she’d missed began to make sense when she saw Meraxes' leg. Despite her misunderstandings, Serana's thoughts of Meraxes had evolved into something different than they were before.

     What they were, Serana didn't know. She was only grateful Meraxes hadn't left her behind.

     Her entire life, Serana had been abandoned: Molag Bal left her to struggle for life after his despicable ritual, isolating her for days of tremendous pain as he waited to see whether or not she was strong enough to retain his Mark. Her mother sealed her inside a sarcophagus for centuries, and her father’s search party failed to find her where, somehow, Meraxes had succeeded.

     “Let me take care of you,” Serana said softly, “I’ll patch up your wounds.”

     The moment she realized what Serana had seen, Meraxes hid her face within her hand, which was bruised and scratched at the knuckles. She took a deep breath and pulled the cloak farther over her body.

     “You’re not supposed to know about that,” She said firmly and refused to meet Serana's eys. Her deformity was more than the cause of her hatred towards Avulstein: it was the reason for her hideous transformation.

     Meraxes despised herself for it.

     “What about it?”

     Serana had never seen Meraxes look so ashamed about anything, as, throughout their travels together, she’d always seemed so confident. Perhaps the alcohol helped her with that, but, still, Meraxes’ unusual behavior concerned her.

     “Meraxes...you protected me and Soren. You didn’t have to do that. I understand keeping secrets from others probably better than anyone, as much as I’m not proud of that, but,” Without asking, Serana intertwined her fingers gently with Meraxes,’ urging her hand away from her face. Over the shadow of the protective cloak, Serana caressed the Meraxes' palm with her thumb. “There’s nothing wrong with you. You, like I, are a result of the events of our lives, some of which were not beautiful. Considering the weight of our burdens, we’re not doing too badly.”

      “Get off me,” Meraxes growled but did not snap. She offered Serana an occasional look in her direction instead of avoiding her altogether. However, her embarrassment only continued to grow. She was one of the only female knights in Skyrim, a symbol of power and strength; of loyalty and fidelity—

      —and a one-legged drunk.

      An amputee.

      “Let me show you something."

      Serana promptly released her hand from Meraxes’, her voice soft as she reached for the nape of her own neck. Meraxes then heard a heard metal click as Serana slowly lowered her decorated collar from the front. Around her throat were scorch marks, which fed into the branded design of a three-pronged skull, seared into the place where her neck met its stem beneath the skin. “It’s my Maker’s brand. The Mark of Molag Bal.”

      “I’ll admit that I was curious about the collar.” Meraxes almost scoffed when she took a second look at herself. “Can we find some pants before the boy wakes up and I scar him for life?”

      “I’m not sure where we could obtain anything like that unless you’re feeling indecent enough to steal from dead men.” Serana clipped the choker back onto her throat, the beast-like carving staring at Meraxes from the front once more. “But we can't leave the forest unless we can beat the sunrise to the inn.”

      “If I give you the cloak back, it’s not like the sunlight is going to kill you. You’ve walked through it before.” Meraxes still wasn’t quite sure how Serana's breasts hadn’t burned off, considering the exposing parts of her dress set perfect conditions to sear them both. “What’s the problem with the sun?”

      “If Soren is exposed to it within the next twenty hours, he could die.”

      Meraxes’ expression turned from something mild to an unforgiving snarl. As if her nudity didn’t matter at all, she stood, dropping Serana’s cloak unceremoniously to the ground.

      ”Did you do what I think you did?”

      For a moment, Meraxes’ boldness rendered Serana speechless. She wasn’t surprised to see that Meraxes had quite the muscular build, or that she could see a few of her veins poking out from her most wiry points of strength. Those vessels surely held her blood; that warm deliciousness Serana had sought since they'd met. She was surprised, too, to see beautifully symmetrical breasts, though they weren’t quite the size of her own, and proof of Meraxes’ femininity between her legs.

      “Did I...”

      Serana refocused herself. She surely wouldn't admit the extent of the effort she spent doing so. “Yes. I Turned him. While you were occupied with Isran, a Dawnguard soldier..." Serana stared at her feet "...The soldier would have killed him. It was the only way I could save him.”

      ”Save him? Do you really think that’s what you did?”

      Meraxes’ lips drew back in a snarl. “You sentenced him to an eternity of oppression and shame! How dare you make that choice for him?”

      “Do you think I don’t understand the consequences of my decision?” Despite the brazen nature of Serana’s words, she took a cautious step back from furious Meraxes. “The vampires in Castle Volkihar will keep him safe. All I have to do is ask and he’ll be accepted there.” Serana lowered her hands calmly. She wasn't willing to draw magic against her rescuer when there were better ways to solve such problems. “You know what that’s like, don’t you? To have a group of people accept you for who you are, even though they know you can be a mess to handle?”

      Meraxes knew Serana drew on her experiences in the Companions; on the way Kodlak treated her like a daughter and the others granted her the title of Sister, even though she tended to show up shitfaced and unwilling to work on recent occasions.

      Even when she’d wished she was never born, the Circle loved her.

      But love was always a difficult concept for Meraxes to understand. Serana was right: mortals were terrible with their feelings.

      “Are you prepared...” Meraxes' expression eased slightly from anger to simple frustration. “...will you tell him what you’ve done to him when he wakes?”

      Something in Serana’s eyes dulled.

      “As his Maker, that’s my duty and my solemn promise.”

      Meraxes checked the sky for an approximation of the time and rifled over the corpses to find armor that would fit her. The truest consequence of her transformation was that each time, she lost her set of armor and almost her entire inventory.

      She was fortunate enough to find a set of armor, complete with boots and gauntlets but no helmet, a few hundred gold pieces, and to rediscover her own greatsword and canteens near where the horse had run off.

      “We have time to reach Rorikstead before sunrise,” Meraxes said and returned Serana's cloak. Serana clipped it on with her Volkihar brooch.

      “Let’s get going, then. I’ll carry him.”

     Serana didn’t intend to allow Meraxes a chance to settle into her room.

     Instead, after ensuring Soren’s space was properly darkened so no sunlight would reach him, she set foot near Meraxes' room. She found her door open and hoped she'd find her inside.

     Perhaps Meraxes would let Serana heal her. Maybe they could even talk about what happened.

     Except Meraxes wasn’t in bed—like Serana had thought—or in her room at all.

     There were a few places Serana had thought to look for her, except something caught her eye:

     A piece of parchment on the nightstand, with sharpened charcoal beside it rather than proper ink.

     I shouldn’t read that, Serana thought, wondering if Meraxes was writing a letter to someone, and, if so, to whom. Meraxes didn’t seem very attached to anyone in her life. She figured it was more likely travel plans or a ledger. Reading such things would waste Serana's time.

     If only the timing of her discovery weren’t terrible. Then seemed like the worst possible time to further betray Meraxes’ trust, after she’d enraged her with Soren’s turning.

     Instead, Serana opted to search for her, knowing exactly where she should start:

     The bar.

     Leaving Meraxes’ mysterious note behind, Serana strode into the inn’s great hall. She felt a great warmth pass over her from the hearth.

     Something about the places she’d stayed with Meraxes felt comforting, despite the horrible scene at Bannered Mare. Perhaps it was the smell of the food roasting over the open fire, but such a thing rarely appealed to Serana, who only drank blood and did not get along with flames or sunlight.

“He rode through the streets of the city,
Down from his hill on high.
O'er the wynds and the steps and the cobbles,
He rode to a woman's sigh.”

     It might’ve been the way the tavernfolk danced to the bard’s song. They moved according to their levels of intoxication; the drunker, the merrier.

     Serana hadn’t much understood the appeal of alcohol, unable to experience anything from beverages because of the way blood diluted it. Still, visiting the bar hadn’t been a bad idea.

     She found Meraxes holding a tankard full of something dark and flat.

“For she was his secret treasure,
She was his shame and his bliss.
And a chain and a keep are nothing,
Compared to a woman's kiss.”

     “You’re still hurt,” Serana said, occupying the seat beside hers.

     “Yeah?” Meraxes avoided eye-contact with the vampire, sipping her drink until she’d emptied the tankard by a third. “If I admit that I am, are you going to Turn me, too?”

“For hands of gold are always cold,
But a woman's hands are warm!”

     I should have known she’d still be mad at me.

     Serana suppressed nervous laughter at Meraxes' cold words, which surprised her more than they should’ve. “This is going to sound strange, but I want to take care of you, Meraxes.”

“For hands of gold are always cold,
But a woman's hands are warm!”

     Then, Meraxes did laugh, stripping Serana’s good intentions down to their very core.

     “By the Nine!” The Bartender suddenly shouted. "Meraxes? As in Ser Meraxes Whitemane? In Frostfruit?”

     Meraxes' amusement ended then.

     “What’s it to you?” she asked, taking another, long sip from her tankard.

     “I’m...sorry. My name is Erik. I’ve always wanted to do what you do, and I’m a very big fan of your work.” The man offered his hand to shake. “I’ll buy this round of your drinks, if you’ll allow it.”

     “You have odd taste in achievements.” Meraxes accepted his greeting, though skeptically. Trusting strangers in bars was never a grand idea. “But I won’t argue with someone who’s supplying my mead.”

     Then, as he refilled her beverage, she made her way across the bar—tankard in hand—and to her room. She motioned for Serana to follow before Erik could get in another word.

     Meraxes stiffly shut the door behind them, locking it in case the bartender caused any trouble.

     “What’s your interest in my well-being?” Meraxes sat in the chair beside her bed, her eyes focused intently on Serana’s every movement. Serana had confused her lately with her actions. She wondered often how a centuries-old woman could be so impulsive.

     “Meraxes...I don’t think you understand."

     Serana perched herself on Meraxes' bedside. Unlike the last time they spoke in an inn room, they were not on opposite sides, but rather faced each other. Their setup inspired within Serana a strange type of anxiety which made her feel as if she were warm; like her very blood was on fire. “Everyone else in my life left me as soon as they saw an opportunity. You had several opportunities, and instead, you stayed.”

     “What of it?” Meraxes’ tone still held obvious resentment. “There’s a lot about me you couldn’t begin to comprehend.”

     “That’s largely because you won’t open up to me, or anyone, but I get that. It’s like I said: I know how it feels to keep secrets from people.”

     Serana stood from the bed, pointing to signal Meraxes' mounting it. She didn't. “Now let me repay you. I’ll repair the damage the Dawnguard did.”

     “You know what you’ll see if you do, right?”

     “Oh, aren’t you a prude, for someone who stripped naked in front of me earlier?” Serana teased her, releasing a mirthful laugh when color filled Meraxes’ cheeks.

     “Fine,” Meraxes conceded and lied down. She was still as stiff as a board despite her slight mead buzz. “I’ll let you heal me if you can shut up while you do it. Don’t remove the undergarments, though, or I’ll cut your fucking hands off.”

     “I do have one question,” Serana said, unclipping the shoulder straps on Meraxes’s armor so she could take it off after the gauntlets. Serana was amazed to begin with that Meraxes allowed her to undress her, even with an accompanying threat.

     “Of course you do,” Meraxes replied and undid her own gauntlets. “You never fucking run out of them.”

     “How did you become a werewolf?” One by one, Serana slid the armored pieces from the knight’s wrists.

     “You couldn’t have picked a less sensitive subject to ask about? I’m damn sure you don’t want to tell me about how you became a vampire. Besides, you still owe me that College story.”

     Serana apprehensively shook her head. Meraxes couldn’t help but notice the way Serana's fang dug into her lower lip as she pulled her breastplate apart by the straps.

     “I had a feeling it had something to do with why you’re mad at me, though. About what I did to Soren.”

     So much for the shutting up, then.

     Meraxes nodded curtly and then gritted her teeth in pain when Serana sealed the cuts and dissipated the bruises on her rib cage. “I don’t want to ask how you figured that,” she replied through the searing sensation of the Serana's restoration spell. “I’m more concerned about Isran’s death, anyway. I’ll probably be wanted for murder in more holds than one.”

     “That wouldn’t be the first time.”

     “Hm,” Meraxes grunted, annoyed, and refused to say another word while Serena worked. Instead, she accepted the pain as it came and went, allowing Serana to touch her various wounds.

     “For what it’s worth, Meraxes,” Serana said as she closed the final gash, “this isn’t just about my getting home anymore. It’s about keeping you safe.” She strapped Meraxes' armor back on piece by piece, ensuring the leather on each fit well. “So stop risking your ass for me and let me fight with you the next time we’re in trouble for murder and whatnot.”

     After what felt like minutes, Meraxes met Serana’s eyes.

     “Fine. But only if you stay quiet.”

     “I can’t promise anything but that I’ll lock the door behind you. Something tells me you don’t want your biggest fan barging in while you’re trying to rest.”

     Then, Serana stood and started toward the door. It was as difficult not to gaze back at Meraxes as it was not to admire her despite her crassness, for the way she defended Serana without fail. Though there was much not to like about Meraxes, Serana had begun to see past those things.

     Serana had seldom felt inclined to tell anyone the story of her Turning; of Molag Bol and the horrors she witnessed in Coldharbour.

    But, as she shot a final look at Meraxes over her shoulder—lying sprawled out on the bed she dwarfed in a full set of armor—she felt like that might be possible for her one day.

     Soren’s eyes didn’t take long to adjust to the darkness.

     He’d woken up in a pitch black room, his vision blurry and spotted with a strange shade of crimson.

     That, and as soon as he could see once more, he felt a hollowness churning inside his stomach:

     The unmistakable pain of starvation.

     He could smell food, though; what, to him, carried the scent of the greatest meal in the world, though it was something he’d never been exposed to before.

     He swore he could feel every one of the nerves in his soles touch the wooden floor when he stood—

     —every one of his sensations had awoken with him.

     With them, the world became a blur of overwhelming stimuli.

     “Don’t let it scare you. It’s been a long time, but I remember how difficult everything was to take in.”

     Soren’s Void-like eyes—which had reddened with his strengthening vampiric powers—turned to the smooth voice, his ears startled by all the undertones he heard.

     He listened to all mortals in the inn. Their heartbeats pulsed at different rates. The voices in the tavern, too, blended together in a confusing conglomeration of conversation.

     Except he could not hear Serana’s heartbeat.

     Only her voice.

     “Lady Serana...”

     As his gaze penetrated the normally-blinding darkness, he tracked the smell of a tempting meal to a tankard that the older vampire had set on his room’s entable. “...For how long did I sleep? I’m starving.”

     His eyes glowed brightly as his hunger only increased, until he stood over the cup itself. He swallowed nonchalantly at what he found inside.

     “I know, Soren,"

     Serana lifted the tankard by the handle and offered it to him. “Drink this. It’ll help you.”

     “It’s...”

     Soren grimaced, near the point of shedding tears. “....it’s blood. Why—“ he hesitated, torn between pouring the appealing substance down his throat or throwing up what little he had in his stomach. “—why does it smell so good?”

     “Because it is. You have to trust me.”

     Serana didn't remember being so disgusted with herself following her transformation. Perhaps that was because she had some idea of what was going to happen, her parents being devout worshippers of Molag Bol and all. Still, she found it as rewarding a task as it was painful to show the boy she’d turned some kindness.

     She’d never been anyone’s Maker before. Soren was her first, and he had to know why. The prospect of the conversation, though, made Serana feel a deep-rooted lamentation she hadn’t thought herself capable of.

     When Soren poured the blood down his throat, he discovered his nose had been right: it was the best meal he’d ever tasted. The brimstone hue of his eyes was reduced to its usual blackness.

     The world suddenly felt a lot less overwhelming.

     “Lady Serana...am I...”

     Soren already knew the answer, but it was all too shocking for him to reach the conclusion on his own. “...am I like you now?”

     “Yes,” Serana said. Her voice was low and understanding as she accepted the tankard, gently placing it back on the end table. At least Erik had been good for something, though Serana didn’t prefer taking advantage of mortals while they slept. His blood was clean, though. Good for Soren’s fledgling digestive system. “You, well...”

     Serana found that being centuries old did not help as much as she’d thought it would to tell a young boy the truth of his Turning. While she showed him no apparent regret or grief—things vampires could learn to detect with practice—it tortured her on the inside. “...you died. A Dawnguard soldier killed you.”

     Her eyes shifted to the door of Soren’s room. As much as she owed him the truth, it was hard to look at him while telling it. “I chose to Turn you rather than let you die. My choice will come with consequences for both you and myself.”

     ”Oh.”

     Soren had not remembered his bitter fate.

     All he recalled was that the world before was loud and bright red, and then it became silent, desolate, and dark.

     “I’m...sorry. I...did I really?”

     Soren couldn’t bring himself to say the obvious rest.

     “You’re really apologizing for your death?”

     Serana shook her head disapprovingly, taking Soren’s hands gently within her own. “You should not be sorry. I am sorry, for the repercussions you’ll face because of the decision that I made.”

     “It will take some getting used to,” Soren admitted and fastened his cloak. He’d known it would come in handy, but he hadn't expected to use it as shelter from the sun.

     He’d never anticipated that the daylight would hurt him.

     “You’re already handling this better than I did.” Serana released him, watching him fix his outfit. She was glad he already had one that would protect him. “There are a couple of things I have to tell you about your new form and powers, but first, it’s important that you know I have to take you to my father’s Court. You have to get a special permission to keep my brand, and if you’d like, they might even let you stay there.”

     “What about the Bard’s College?”

     Soren had already wondered if any inn would want him because of his Dunmer ancestry, but now that he was a vampire, his opportunities looked even bleaker.

     People hunted the kind that he’d become. Who would possible hire him to play music for them?

     “That’s still possible, one day,” Serana said, her expression darkening. “But not as soon as you might like. You’ll need to meet my father first and foremost.”

     Though the delay disappointed him, Soren felt apprehensive about meeting Serana’s family—

     —why did they have a Court? Who was her father, a King?

     Kings didn’t like people like Soren; commoners from questionable backgrounds. Ones that were out of their control but nonetheless shameful.

     Soren’s situation had become a burden to take in.

     “Now that it’s been over a day since your Turning, you’re clear to walk around. Just make sure you’re more cautious around strangers and pull your hood up in the sunlight."

     Serana took the tankard from the end table to bury it outside. That way, no one would know she took Erik's blood. “I owe you all the answers and explanations you want at the proper time, but we’ve been here too long.”

     Serana wondered if Soren truly handled the news as well as he let on. Nonetheless, he did impressively in a situation that long ago had caused her to break down; to lose her will to live until she regained it at the College of Winterhold.

     He would need an experience like that, too, and she hoped he’d be able to find it at the Bard’s College one day.

     Regardless, Serana was certainly correct about their being in Rorikstead for too long.

     It was high time for them to reconvene on the road.

End of Chapter 7

Credit: This Chapter’s title is a William Blake reference.

Next: Serana pays her debt at Dragon Bridge. Soren debuts.

Chapter Text

     “I’ll take three.”

      Meraxes considered her party lucky to arrive at Dragon Bridge unscathed. Especially regarding their previous outings, the fact that they traveled without being followed or ambushed seemed some sort of miracle.

      Faida, the Nord innkeeper, accepted Meraxes’ handout of gold. It was nearly the last of what she’d looted from the Dawnguard corpses. Their stay would render her near broke until an opportunity arose to collect income.

      Meraxes hoped Serana’s family had plenty of money waiting for her.

      “I’m sorry,” Faida said, her plain expression shifting to one troubled. “Four Shields only has three rooms, and one’s occupied for the next few days. You’re also a few gold short, but I can offer you two rooms and a bedroll instead.”

      “Fine."

      Meraxes' tone bordered on hostile as she accepted the keys and bedroll. Then, without so much about turning around to look at him, she tossed the folded roll at Soren. “Set it up in Serana’s room. You two leave me alone.”

      Serana's eyes followed Meraxes as she started away, leaving Serana the keys to where she and Soren would sleep. Unsurprised, but still disappointed in Meraxes’ harshness, she decided that she wasn’t going to award her any peace at all.

      First came the matter of settling Soren into their room. Serana figured she owed him some emotional checking-in after their previous conversation. When she approached the door, however, he did not follow, instead sitting across the wall at one of the long tables.

      “You’re not tired? We need to sleep, too. You’ll learn that quickly.”

      “Thirsty,” Soren replied, distracting his hunger with parchment and a quill. He wrote more quickly than anyone Serana had seen in a while.

      “Right. I need to teach you about feeding.”

      Serana realized she didn’t have many options regarding food sources. Meraxes was definitely unwilling, as certainly were most of the patrons at Four Shields. They didn’t have gold, either, which meant it’d be impossible for them to buy raw meat to suck dry.

      But perhaps they could trade.

      “Do you have anything you think might be worth a coin or two?”

      Soren’s inventory was pathetic. The two most valuable items he had—his dagger and flute—he was unwilling to part from, since those were the only weapons and instruments he knew how to use. Turning to the front desk, he cleared his throat.

      He had something else in mind.

      “Excuse me."

      The fact that Soren sought Faida’s attention on his own accord surprised Serana, especially given the way the inkeeper’s eyes widened as if she’d seen a ghost when he did. That wasn’t shocking. A half-Dunmer vampire probably wasn’t a regular sight for the Dragon Bridge folk. “Does this establishment have a bard?”

      Faida shook her head. “No. We’re not lowering our rates, though. Lots of renowned Imperial officers come around these parts, and I assure you, our location is very safe.”

      “I’m sorry if I’m bothering you, though that’s not why I was asking." Soren's tone was polite, as if he’d been conditioned to speak that way his entire life. He probably was, given his ancestry. Dark Elves couldn’t typically get away with mouthing off to any other of Skyrim’s many races. “I can sing and play the flute. My friend and I would like some fresh rabbits or a goat, and I’d be happy to provide live music in exchange.”

      Serana had not expected Soren to be so proficient at bartering, especially since he cowered in most of the interactions they’d had with others. Then again, she hadn’t the opportunity to see him speak with someone outside a dire situation.

      He was a good child.

      Serana's proud expression shifted into a frown—

     —it was her fault he would never grow to be a man.

      “Hm...” Faida considered aloud. “I suppose that would be all right, as long as you play well. If you chase away my patrons, though, I’ll have to kick you out of the establishment.”

      For the first time since his transformation, Serana saw Soren smile.

      “It’s a deal.”

      When Serana had admitted to being terrible at following instructions back in the Rorikstead forests, she’d certainly meant it.

     All context considered—as she approached the door of an unruly beast and mass-murderer, who likely had traveling bounty on her head for slaying the leader of a once-legendary organization—most would’ve thought her insane for daring to cause a disturbance in Meraxes’ rest.

     Serana did not.

     She’d become adept at testing Meraxes’ limits, and the pastime had amused her from the very start, no matter how terrifying it might’ve been the couple of times she earned a greatsword to the throat or verbal threat.

     Serana rapped on her door with hardly any qualms.

     She was surprised when it opened, and even more so when Meraxes didn’t curse the second she saw her.

     “What do you want?” Meraxes asked in a displeased tone, hardly distinguishable from the sound of Soren’s flute reverberating behind them.

     “You’re as pleasant as always, Meraxes.” Serana's voice was as sharp with sarcasm as a sword on a grindstone. “I’d like to come in.”

     Naturally, as Meraxes thought about the previous times she’d let Serana into her room, her brows furrowed in a curious frustration.

     “Let me ask you again. What do you want?”

     Allowing Serana near her never seemed to end well. She’d told the vampire one of the most personal, horrendous experiences of her lifetime, and afterwards, became involuntarily trapped in a prison-like embrace. She'd had an arrow ripped from her chest. And—worst of all—Serana had discovered the secret of her missing leg.

     Talos knew how many questions she had yet to ask about the things Meraxes wanted urgently to seal away forever.

     “Well,” Serana began, knowing well how to play Meraxes’ game. “I owe you a story, don’t I?”

     Meraxes' scoff told Serana all she needed to know. Without asking again, she strode inexorably into the room and sat directly on Meraxes’s bedside.

     She knew what she could get away with, and she knew it well.

     “You’re damn right you do,” Meraxes replied and sat backwards in a chair she'd pulled up. Nonchalantly, she propped and crossed her arms over the backrest. “I think I’ve saved your ass more than anyone else’s at this point, and I’ve gotten hardly any gold or liquor for it. So, go on.”

     “Is that why you’ve been so horrible lately?” Serana leaned into the increasingly-uncomfortable conversation, irking Meraxes further with every word she spoke. “Is it because you’ve stopped drinking so much?”

     Meraxes' expression bordered on a snarl by the time she’d finished asking.

     “Why don’t you try letting somebody know the last thing about you that you’d want them to see?”

     There were reasons why Meraxes drank.

     Naturally, they didn’t excuse her habit or the actions that accompanied it, but Meraxes firmly believed that Serana would never understand the pain associated with years of trying to forget the horrors she’d experienced.

     War, famine, pestilence...

     Meraxes had seen it all.

     Avulstein had taken her limb, the Imperial Army her youth and its beauty, and Rikke her innocence in every form. On top of it all, on several occasions, she almost lost her life.

     “Wait until you know what that feels like; how kind you’ll want to be to everyone who thinks they’ve seen the worst in the world when they look to you.”

     Serana had underestimated Meraxes’ length of pondering into her own experiences. She couldn’t help but wonder if her reflection was a fluke. For so long, Meraxes had blatantly refused to open up to her, and even though it felt like Serana was making progress—even though it felt like something was changing, she couldn’t lose the thought that as soon as Meraxes deposited her at castle Volkihar, it would be as if they’d never known each other to begin with. They’d return to the dismal state of strangers. The kind that only ever meet once, never to cross paths again.

     “Look at me," Serana ordered, her glowing stare forcing Meraxes’ temporary compliance. It was then that her heart sank; that she finally embraced the fact that she and Meraxes were more similar than they’d ever be different, whether they were strangers or not.

     “You can’t run away from the things you’ve been through or what you’ve done."

     Meraxes avoided Serana's burning gaze once more and retracted from her touch when she offered her hand. No matter how hard Serana tried, Meraxes could not so much as grant her the illusion of her undivided attention. “I can’t, either. I tried, just like you, when I was younger. I almost lost myself to an obsession."

     Magic.

     Serana had an unhealthy affinity for Necromancy, the discipline to which she’d later lost her mother, Valerica. “Do you think that people see someone who belongs in the world when they look at me? Are you audacious enough to believe you’re the only outcast in the universe?”

     To cut the tension in the air between the two would have required a sword much sharper than Meraxes’. Serana, who’d thought she’d done all there was to do; who thought she’d felt all there was to feel, had experienced nearly as much over the course of her travels back to Castle Volkihar than she had in the rest of her life.

     She didn’t want it to end; Serana wanted to taste more of the journey she’d stumbled into, even if it wasn’t what her father would want.

     Because all that mattered—

     The only person who’d remained by her side no matter what—

     “It’s you. Don’t you understand that?”

     Meraxes wasn’t all wonderful. She’d threatened Serana countless times, including the day before, and nearly took her head off when they’d met. But the fact Serana couldn’t shake was that she’d spent several lifetimes with people ”like” her; other immortals, who defaulted to depraved, unsavory lifestyles contrasting her own. Regardless of the company she kept, though—even when she thought she’d felt safe in the arms of her own mother, who locked her away for over an era of history—

     only Meraxes remained.

     “You’re the only person who’s never treated me differently for what I am, even though I know you wanted to." Meraxes didn't avert herself when Serana reached for her shoulder. Beneath her armor, there was no way Meraxes could feel Serana's touch. “Even though you tried.”

     “I thought I told you to leave me alone,” Meraxes said, her tone bearing a softness Serana hadn’t yet known. “But the last thing you ever want to do is listen.”

     “You’re not entirely wrong, Meraxes," Serana replied, amused at their shared persistence for opposing outcomes. “But I’m doing it now, aren’t I? You know, Soren and I probably understand you than anyone else you’ll ever meet, and we’re all bound to say our goodbyes as soon as I’m home."

     Serana squeezed Meraxes’ plated armor tightly, as if the warrior could feel her hand beneath the steel. “But if there’s anything I’ve learned from our adventure, it’s that people like us will only ever belong with each other.”

     “Be careful.” Meraxes' eyes darkened with an emotion Serena couldn’t decipher. “If you keep talking like that, people might start thinking we’re friends.”

     Serana had previously thought herself proficient at separating Meraxes’ sincerity from jest, but that feat had suddenly proven itself difficult.

     “I am your friend.” Serana allowed an impending grin to corrupt her face, as if the conversation hadn’t become heavier than a carriage full of bricks. “And, given what we’ve been through together, I’ll always be. Nothing I know about you could change the way I see you, but I doubt you’d do harm exhibiting some decency every now and then.”

     “That’s what you think,” Meraxes said. Serana’s smile faded at her cynicism. “But if I never see you again after I take you home, then we’re not friends at all. That’s now how it works.”

     Meraxes decided it was probably best if she fled the room for a while, leaving Serana with nowhere to corner her. Public settings tended to chase away the possibilities of those conversations Meraxes didn’t like; the kind that Serana so often sought.

     Without another word, she rose from her chair, starting for the door.

     “Where are you going?”

     “I’m hungry as shit,” Meraxes grumbled and pushed it open. She could smell fresh bread on one of the tables, and even though her need for food was merely an excuse so she could see herself out, she hadn’t eaten in nearly a day.

     “Can’t it wait until after the story?”

     “So now you want to tell it." Meraxes released the door until it closed.

     “It seems you’d like to listen. Come and sit with me." Serana pressed her hand against the bed’s furs, a gesture which sent Meraxes’ visage awry at its implications.

     “I’m not getting on that bed with you.”

     “Why not?” Serana couldn’t have hid the amusement alight in her eyes if she’d tried.

     “The last time we sat on the same bed, you ripped an arrow out of my chest." As if instinct guided her to protect herself, Meraxes’ own hand reached for her right breastplate. “I don’t want that twice.”

     “Do you want me to make you talk about the time you slept on my lap?”

     Wordlessly, Meraxes lowered herself onto the bedside, letting her legs hang over the side. Those words were all it took for her to give in.

     “That’s what I thought,” Serana cajoled. Meraxes couldn’t help but notice the way Serana swung her feet to and fro a couple of times, like a child on a tree-swing. “No one’s emptied a quiver in you for a little while, ice-brain.”

     “Hmph,” Meraxes snorted impatiently. “Get on with it. I want to hear all of the embarrassing parts.”

     “Thank you, Meraxes. I’m so glad we had this talk.” Serana turned to face Meraxes, the sarcasm gradually fading from her voice. “I do owe you. You’d better pay attention for me, though.”

      There was nothing that fascinated Serana more than the Winterhold School of Conjuration; than the nighttime sessions her class spent reanimating animals, or the field trips to the cemetery.

     Nothing—

     —except a girl.

     “Hurry up, Petra, we’re going to be late,” Ahmabi urged the fire-haired woman with a wave of his hand, coated in gray fur that Serana supposed must’ve kept him warm in the terrible Winterhold weather.

     Khajiits weren’t all too common in Skyrim, but Ahmabi did well for himself, possessing the gifts of a natural mage.

     Petra, though she lacked the massive threshold for magic that Ahmabi and Serana had, was ambitious and highly intelligent. She was rumored to be a direct descendent of Shalidor, the College’s founder. No one knew who started that gossip, or whether or not it held real truth, but everyone still believed it to a degree.

     She, Ahmabi, and Serana were the Colleges’ brightest three; the exception to the policy that their institution only existed to produce court wizards.

     Following graduation, they would be necromancers instead.

     “What is it you’re presenting today, anyway? That bag looks heavy.”

     Ahmabi couldn’t help but comment on Petra’s bloated tote, which she’d filled up to her eyeballs in soul gems and cans of paint.

     “I won’t tell unless you do. You’ll have to see.”

     The three made their way beyond the corridors and outside, where snow fell delicately onto the College grounds. Serana lost track of the other students’ heartbeats, since they were all resting in the dormitory wing.

     If the vampire had a pulse, it would be racing.

     Presentations were undeniably the most important occasion for any Cojuration student with a necromantic focus, and the final obstacle separating the three from graduating the College of Winterhold as full mages.

     Serana’s thoughts of her future success had distracted her from the fact that Petra was shivering beside her, her teeth nearly chattering from the cold.

     “After three years here, one might think you’d have adjusted,” the vampire unfastened her cloak—as the sun was nowhere in sight—and draped it carefully over the Nordess’s shoulders as if she were tucking her in to sleep.

     “Thanks, Rana,” Petra replied in a soft tone, expressing her gratitude by standing on her tip-toes and planting a kiss on Serana’s cheek before they resumed walking. “You must not be that nervous about tonight, huh?”

     “Get a room,”

      Ahmabi chuckled, clutching the staff he’d brought and grinning as if he was preparing to indulge in all sorts of mischief.

   Knowing him, Serana figured he probably was. His project was the one she couldn’t wait to see, despite her warmth towards Petra.

      It wasn’t long, though, before the three reached the cemetery for their presentations. The vampire hadn’t thought to ask Ahmabi why he only brought a treebranch and a horse hair, or even why Petra opted for a bag filled with just about every class material they’d ever used, as the students were prohibited from discussing their projects with one another.

     Serana figured that Archmage Basolar knew better, and that his subjects conversed about forbidden subjects anyhow. Still, she wouldn’t risk asking.

     “Welcome, students of necromancy,” a rumbling voice seemed to shatter the fog which floated over the snow, consuming the field of gravestones in its wake. “There will be no trials today. I shall reveal myself to you and you, in turn, shall reveal to me your talent. Many aspiring mages began this grueling, educational journey, but only you remain.”

     Then, the Archmage himself appeared before three, stone slabs, which remained untouched for the sake of the students’ assessments. They were long enough to conjure just about anything on, bared freshly for the presentations.

   “Volkihar. You are first,” Basolar gestured with his commanding hand to the rightmost workspace, where she would have to contain her experiment. “So that I am aware for validation purposes, what is it you are attempting tonight?”

   “I’m reversing a soul trap.”

   Among the three others gathered outside, the Archmage himself was the only who refrained from expressing shock at Serana’s proposal. He had an elder face, even for a High Elf, suggesting he’d seen just about everything there was when it came to magical research.

   It would have been a stretch, though, to assume he’d witnessed anything further than ambitious corpse reanimations.

   Petra and Ahmabi exchanged near-horrified expressions, knowing well that Serana was attempting something that had never been done.

   She wanted to reach into the Soul Cairn.

   She wanted to bring a trapped soul back to life.

   “Very well,” replied Basolar, his voice failing to waver at Serana’s unlikely proclamation. “Proceed.”

   “Wait. Rana,” Petra whispered from behind the vampire before she could approach the casting circle, reaching for her hand. “Are you sure you want to go through with this?”

   Her expression contained a rare form of desperation. Serana did not know what to make of it, as Petra wasn’t going to talk her out of the performance she’d spent years preparing for.

   “It’s going to cost so much of your life force,” she spoke gently, her voice low and revealing of the concern she carried, “I don’t want you to put your life at risk like that.”

   Archmage Basolar observed the exchange with a disinterested eye. He allowed his students to back out of an experiment at any time, but at the potential cost of their graduation. Still, he did not bother rushing them.

   They had the entire night on their side.

   “Do you not have faith in me? I’ve prepared for this for three years,” retorted Serana, who looked onto her casting sight with a burning, inexorable gaze. She was determined not only to graduate from the College, but to impress her mother, Valerica, by doing something that had never been done.

   Perhaps Petra would finally listen to her, too. They’d studied together as long as they’d been at the College, and had maintained a romantic relationship for two years.

   Petra wanted to marry; Serana didn’t. If she was right about one thing, perhaps she was about another.

   “I do,” the Nordess’s countenance sank when she saw Serana stride off towards the casting circle despite her request.

   It was apparent the vampire would try her hand regardless.

   Basolar, Ahmabi, and Petra watched in anticipation as Serana drew thin lines onto the slab with enchanted charcoal, the particular type designed to absorb whatever liquid the daughter of Coldharbour deemed necessary to pour on it.

   Then, she placed soul husks beneath a full, black gem, nesting thin fragments on either side.

   One ingredient remained if Serana was going to make her project work:

   her blood.

   Only an undead’s life force could open the Cairn, or so she’d fathomed from her research, but Serana had never gone through with the entire process before. Instead, she’d utilized her time to ensure her summoning circle and incantations were correct, so she would open the proper portal the first time.

   With a knife she’d borrowed from the College kitchen, Serana sliced the tender area between her thumb and fingers, letting the enchanted charcoal soak up her blood until it illuminated a radiant purple.

   Still, nothing happened.

   Basolar and his other students were patient, waiting with watchful eyes.

   More seconds passed and the sky above began to rumble, electric lightning crackling above.

   It was working! The vampire’s mouth threatened to curl upward in a satisfied smile.

   Then, Petra struck.

   The Nordess erupted in an invigorated sprint towards Serana’s work station, upending her focus by tackling her full-force to the ground.

   ”Petra! You’re not supposed to be in the casting circle!”

   Ahmabi shouted over the sounds of booming thunder, which reverberated around the cemetery and beyond. Above him, the sky swirled with clouds highlighted a sinister violet.

   For good reason, he dared not move.

   Basolar, on the other hand, was nearly blown back by the sheer force of magical energy surrounding the circle when he tried to enter it.

   It was remarkably apparent that there was nothing the Archmage could do.

   “Quoro,”

   The Khajiit’s ears turned, startled, to Basolar, when the High Elf spoke his surname above the sounds of the roaring sky.

   “Lock down the dormitories. Make sure the Masters know what’s happening here.”

   Too frightened to be amazed at how the Archmage kept his calm at the situation unfolding, Ahmabi took off running towards the College grounds, leaving his staff and horse hair behind.

   As Basolar retreated from the source of insurmountable magical energy, the torrent of angry, purple light descended, entirely blocking his ability to monitor the happenings inside.

   He knew he had to help his students, but no book or tome had any guidance on dispelling such a terribly ambitious attempt at opening the Soul Cairn.

   So he stood, looking on, powerless, but faithful that those at the College would see tomorrow.

   Things were not as peaceful within the magic circle.

   Having stolen Serana’s knife, Petra straddled the vampire at the waist, forcing the the blade above her wound, while Serana held the Nordess’s wrist to prevent it from descending.

   “Give me...”

   Petra growled, beads of sweat dripping down her forehead as she attempted to press the knife deeper, until the tip was mere inches away from Serana’s leaking cut. “...your blood.”

   “What’s wrong with you?”

   As Serana’s vampiric power greatly overwhelmed Petra’s mortal body, there was almost nothing the Nordess could do to accomplish her mission. She’d hoped to upend her, but Serana had somehow ruined her plans. “I’ve known you for as long as we’ve been here. I’ve trusted you.”

   Serana was beyond infuriated.

   She hardly recognized the torrent of violet magic energy swirling around her, or the way the snow beneath her and Petra’s bodies had begun to glow a harsh, unforgiving indigo.

   All she knew was that she’d wasted a great deal of her life caring about the mortal who wielded a blade against her.

   All she knew was that she was mad.

   “You think,” Petra nearly collapsed from her futile efforts, a desperate laugh erupting from her exhausted lungs, “you think I don’t know who you are?”

   Tightening her grip on the Nordess’ wrist, Serana hissed,

   “If you thought you could ever defeat me, then you certainly don’t.”

   Petra’s cackle became a startled gasp and she dropped the knife to the snow-covered ground when Serana grasped the collar of her robe.

   “Make me...”

   She gagged, her breath escaping without an intention to return, “...a Volkihar vampire. Turn...me...and we—“

   “So that’s what you’ve been after. This whole time, you’ve stayed with me for information. You’ve been getting closer thinking I’d offer you power,” Serana’s grip on Petra’s clothing tightened, “you wanted to marry into my family thinking they’d offer you our gift. Even the bag of materials you brought here was a ruse.”

   When Petra’s body was finally so sort of breath it slumped over, Serana shoved her off. Standing, she pressed her fingers to the wound on her hand, stopping the bleeding entirely.

   “How ridiculous.”

   When Serana regained her balance, the magic circle spiraled towards the ground, leveling off.

   A spectral gate spiraled open, glowing a deep blue at its center, like a clear ocean.

   Whatever soul Serana intended to free from its black gem, however, did not emerge from the portal she had created.

   Rather, it swallowed Petra’s body whole,

   and disappeared into the night as if it were never there.

     “Well, I can see why you left that place.”

     “Thanks for your heartfelt comment, Meraxes.” Serana brought her arms to her chest and offered Meraxes the most serious side-eye she’d ever seen. “Your unrelenting kindness truly is the stuff of legends.”

     Meraxes merely grumbled an acknowledgement under her breath, sitting up from the bed. She didn’t want to be there any longer than she had to.

     “What happened to everyone? Is your wild portal experiment the reason the College looks like shit now?”

     “Really? Of all the questions you could have had, that’s the one you want to ask?”

     “Of course you’d be the one to answer my question with a different one,” Meraxes countered and seated herself back in the chair with a smug expression.

     Serana had to stop herself from sighing. That story wasn’t one she liked to tell or one she thought of often anymore. “Archmage Basolar stepped down from his position. His replacement was the first woman to be charged with the care of the College and its students. Nothing happened to Ahmabi, although he caught the back end of some cruel gossip. He and I graduated after he presented his project, and if Petra’s still alive, she’s not in Nirn. I don’t know where I sent her.”

     “Hm,” Meraxes grumbled, her expression surprisingly curious. “Why didn’t you marry her? It would have been a horrible idea, clearly, but it sounds like she was pretty, with that fire-like hair and everything.”

     If Meraxes were to have been completely honest, she would have guessed Serana wasn’t the type to date women. She seemed more like somebody with an interest in burly men.

     Then again, it was hard for Meraxes to tell. Her only true interest was in gold.

     “I don’t ever want to marry,” Serana said and folded her hands over her lap. Meraxes had discovered one of her sensitive subjects. “It didn’t turn out well for my parents.”

     “And you’re so quick to put your trust in me when that woman betrayed you? How do you know I won’t stab you in the back? Or the hand, I guess, in your case.”

     Meraxes had no overtly malicious intentions, but how was Serana to guarantee something like that? It unsettled her that Serana was so willing to go wherever Meraxes told her as long as she presented it as a necessary means to bring her home.

     “Oh, please, Meraxes,” Serana retorted, her voice containing a surprising sharpness. “I’m a lot less naive now. You may be an asshole, but you’re not an ill-desired one.”

     The two paused, attentive to one another as if a staring contest had arisen, until Meraxes' stomach rumbled loudly.

     “You should probably get that food now. Soren has some for me—I’ll come with you.”

     Meraxes opened the door to her room and allowed Serena out with her. As long as they remained in the public eye, Serana surely couldn’t get away with her directness as she did in clandestine.

     When the two emerged in the main tavern, though, both were swept away by the sights and sounds.

     Meraxes, who had probably bought drinks at every bar in Skyrim, had never seen anything like what had come to pass at Four Shields that night:

     Everyone was drinking, laughing, dancing, singing, or some combination of the four. The flame from the hearth was bright and healthy and swayed along to the music. Even Faida was out and about, talking to soldiers out of uniform, who Meraxes recognized by their well-kept hair and beards.

     “There she is!” exclaimed an evidently drunken man, who pointed a swaying finger at Meraxes before she had a proper chance to walk out the door. Serana then observed her expectantly and shot a look that asked, Who wants you dead this time?

     “Look, everyone, it’s the Wolf of Whiterun! She’s here!”

     “Excuse me.” Meraxes, having never heard that nickname before, tried retreating to the innkeeper so she could buy some bread. Even though the man was drunk, Meraxes figured he’d take the hint. The sound of tavernfolk cheering screamed that her desired peace was wildly unlikely.

     “The...what? Meraxes, or stranger, explain,” Serana demanded. She supposed Meraxes knew what he was talking about, but neither she, nor the man, responded.

     “BARD! Play the song again! She’s over here!” He shouted instead.

     Serana wasn’t surprised to see Soren standing opposite the hearth, but his song was certainly unfamiliar:

“In the war-torn Pale forests,
The winter wind howls.
Through the shrouds of our dead men
In a beasts’ churning bowels.
From the fair Whiterun farmlands,
A battle ensues,
To the Rorikstead village,
Shed their armor and shoes!”

     Without warning, many of the tavernsfolk broke into song once more. Faida balanced several drinks on either arm and passed them to patrons. Many of them were beyond the point of their own awareness and probably wouldn’t remember a thing the next morning.

“Oh, what long claws she has,
A terror of the night!
Oh, what sharp teeth she’s grown;
The white crowns of her fight!
Oh, what menacing stature
She’s balancing upon!
From the lives she has taken,
The she-wolf’s long gone!”

     Before she could do anything about it, the intoxicated man pulled Meraxes into a growing, drunken dance circle, which spread around the hearth.

     “What the fuck are you doing?” Meraxes snarled.

     He ignored her still.

     “Don’t let the Wolf out!” he merely remarked—loudly and drunkly—then passed her along to dance with Faida.

“Across the blue moorlands,
Off Skyrim’s bright shores,
When the moonlight is ample,
Two wolves wage their wars.
But when Sovngarde calls them,
Only one hero comes;
The Hall’s short a soul
At the sound of death’s drums!”

     ”Do let me out, inkeep, I’m trying to buy bread to eat.” It took all of Meraxes’ inner strength to prevent her from cutting down the dancing man or inkeeper.

     “Why would I do that?” Faida nearly laughed, her mouth twisted up in a broad smile. “This is the most gold Four Shields has made since the Civil War!”

     ”The hell it has,” Meraxes muttered. Faida’s only response was to spin her into someone else, though Meraxes wasn’t sure how to dance to begin with. Nobody seemed to care about that, though.

     All I want is some fucking bread, Meraxes thought as her expression sank further into anger.

”Oh, what long claws she has,
A terror of the night!
Oh, what sharp teeth she’s grown;
The white crowns of her fight!
Oh, what menacing stature
She’s balancing upon!”

     Meraxes’ scowl lightened when she realized Faida had nearly thrown her into Serana, a collision she narrowly avoided by stopping just short of her.

     Still, though, she managed to say, “Oh, wonderful. You again.”

     “Well Meraxes.” The corner of Serana's lips curled into a mischievous grin. "Someone has to teach you how to dance, don’t they?”

     Without bothering to ask, Serana grasped Meraxes’ hands and pulled her closer.

     “What did we say about contact? I haven’t had anything to drink,” Meraxes hissed, nearly spitting, "or to eat."

     Serana merely laughed and refused to let her go.

”From the lives she has taken,
The she-wolf’s long gone!”

     As the night went on, Soren’s song and Meraxes’ legend became the talk of Dragon Bridge, and, having told a story, Serana was satisfied with the debt she’d repaid.

     Meraxes failed to let Serana onto her true feelings but secretly enjoyed learning to dance. She believed Kodlak would be immensely proud of her sobriety despite her passing the time in the vicinity of a bar. The letter she was writing him sat in the pocket of her undergarments, nearly prepared to be sent by courier when she finished taking Serana home.

     With Castle Volkihar on the cusp of Meraxes’ journey, she danced into the morning—newly dubbed the Wolf of Whiterun—with genuine faith in a better tomorrow.

End of Chapter 8

Next: A family reunion.

Side Banter: I don’t know about you guys, but I was definitely ready to see our protagonists be happy after all of the shit they’ve been through.

Full confession: this is probably my favorite chapter so far, but a lot of work went into it since I had to do research on the College and on Serana, as well as do some hefty world-building and character creation. The song Soren sings at Four Shields is also original poetry, which I wrote just for Kindred.

I’m curious: do you guys have any plot predictions? Character development ideas? A favorite character? If so, I’d love to hear about them in the comments!

Chapter Text

     ”We need to lose the divide-and-conquer strategy. All of us have to go."

     Durak seethed, burying his war axe into the wooden bannister beneath the winding staircase. “They murdered him out of cold blood. Hunting them down in parties clearly futile. All of us must find them.” He gritted his razor sharp teeth. "All of us must end their miserable lives.”

     For an Orc, Durak was generally mild-mannered and knowledgeable. He was a rational being capable of recalling history and learning from his mistakes.

     But when vampires were concerned?

     Those times made him angry.

     “Think about what we’ve lost!” Spinning to face his comrades, Durak released his axe’s handle. He surrendered the weapon to his spiteful rage.

     Vampires had killed his wives. Most of the Dawnguard had also lost family or friends to the creatures. Some had even been bitten themselves and came to the Fort out of desperation for a cure. Others only joined because they wanted a purpose for living.

     To him, every reason for enlisting in the Dawnguard was a noble one, because the thought of vampires alone made Durak’s face contort with a primal fury—so much that steam ought to have risen from his skin and disappear before the stairs above him.

     No one dared touch him, and for a startling moment, the main hall fell silent.

     “You’re right that it’s up to us to avenge them.” Beleval shattered the room’s tension, though her typically-cutting tone had reverted to a foreign softness. “We’re the only ones who can: Isran, Celann, Tolan, and the others. That’s why we have to be rational. We can’t go charging off and get ourselves killed.”

     “The lass is right. We humans know what’s wrong with the world. That’s what separates us from the vampire scum.” Gunmar strode to Beleval’s side. He carried a long, cloth-wrapped burden. The remainder gathered around them in a semi-circle, not daring to advance with their comrades toward Durak.

     “What do you propose we do, then?” Calmer following Beleval and Gunmar’s approach, Durak loosened his grip on the edge of the bannister. He was unaware he’d been squeezing it and had nearly burst the wood into a flurry of splinters and sawdust.

     “We’ve got to come up with a plan. A real plan, since we know they’re not going to come to us. We must track them down with an idea of what we’re going to do once we corner them,” Beleval said. Though her face remained stoic and strong, Durak knew well the sadness lurking behind her eyes. “We can’t underestimate them. Agmaer was the only survivor from the party we sent to Rorikstead, and he hardly made it out in one piece.”

     Durak couldn’t stop himself from snorting with contempt at her proposition. The Dawnguard’s enemies deserved to die now. He didn’t want to wait to strike.

     “We don’t even know all there is about the enemy, though we understand she’s immensely powerful and is traveling with Whitemane and a young boy. And we’re well aware of how dangerous Whitemane is, especially with that temper of hers.” Beleval approached Durak and offered his shoulder a gentle touch of her hand. “I know you’re angry, but the vampires will get what’s coming to them in due time."

     Beleval retreated, collecting the covered object in Gunmar’s arms. She peeled the cloth aside with a surprising gentleness. “Because we’re going to give it to them.”

    Within the sheet rested an unsheathed sword, long, light, and thin, tempered with clay and sharpened. Though it wasn’t the first of its variety, as Gunmar had heavily based its design on the Blades’ ancient weapons, the silver along the serrated edges was evidently enough to shred vampire flesh to the point of no return.

     “You see, Gunmar here is going to forge these for everyone if they’re as effective as we think they are. Our intelligence has told us we might have a prime opportunity to test this one soon.” Beleval gripped the sword by the pommel and held it so that the faint light within the Fort’s walls glinted off of the silver edges. “This weapon has the potential to become an even more efficient exterminator than our crossbows if we can close in on the enemy.”

     “All right, Beleval,” Durak grunted, though his shoulders tightened in a way that contradicted his words. “You’ve convinced me.”

     His dark eyes shone with ambition and hatred, but for what, Beleval was not sure. She could only hope that he was telling her the truth.

     “I’ve got an order of business before we head off to training.” Gunmar peeled his eyes away from his creation, which Beleval proudly wielded in her sword-hand. “I understand it’ll be difficult to resume our regular activities in light of what’s happened to our organization. But I believe that Beleval is the best person to carry us forward, and that she should be our official new leader.”

     “We haven’t even held a funeral for Isran!” Durak’s lip curled scornfully upward, his lower canines drawing blood from the bridge beneath his nose as his tone sunk into a growl. “He’s not so easily replaceable!”

     Beleval refrained from speaking despite the fact that she looked like she wanted to pounce on the subject without a trace of hesitation.

     Gunmar picked up the slack instead.

     “You’re not wrong about that, lad. But the sooner we choose who’s going to lead us, the sooner we exterminate the vampires. So whether or not you want to delay our mission up to you.”

     Durak couldn’t help his own anger. Hell, the Dawnguard didn’t even have Isran’s body. That idiot Whitemane had ripped it to so many shreds that they couldn’t have even extracted pieces to cremate. And now they wanted to choose Isran’s replacement?

     They wanted Beleval?

     It should have been Celann, but Whitemane killed him, too.

     “I think Beleval is our best option,” Morgrul chimed from the crowd, to which his husky, Bran, responded with an affirmative bark. “Back on track with us! We can’t let this feud tear us apart while vampires are out and about killing our citizens.”

     “Beleval is our best hope! Look at that sword she and Gunmar made!” Sorine shouted and Durak’s expression shifted into one of partially-suppressed shock. “We’ll be slicing those monsters up in no time!”

     No one agrees with me?

     Durak held his tongue so steadfastly he pierced it with his teeth. No one in this entire organization...

     “Long live Beleval!”

     “Long live the Dawnguard!”

     No one will listen...

     As the reverberating shouts reached his ears, Durak could do nothing but seethe in silence, for Isran’s fresh replacement had already been named.

     Serana was beyond old and had borne witness to so much. Yet Clearpine Pond at moonrise was still one of the most beautiful sights she’d ever taken in.

     Since the three had stayed at inns in the nighttime, they hadn’t often such a clear view of the stars, nor had either vampire ever seen a place with such lush trees or tranquil waters.

     The flowers, too, bloomed at every turn, butterflies and shining insects hovering above them.

     The whole area was rife with auspicious beauty and fortune.

     Something about it set a fire in Serana’s undead heart, which needn’t much of a spark at all.

     But Meraxes knew that Clearpine Pond was probably the last place they’d be safe before they reached Serana’s home. They were almost as far north as they could go, and at the final location in their route where both predators and bandits tended not to wander.

     “I need to piss,” Meraxes said and unclipped two canteens from her belt. It was only natural that the three take a break in a save haven before departing, and Faida had been kind enough to give Soren plenty of free rabbits and pheasants for Meraxes to drain. She’d designated one blood canteen for each vampire and had begun carrying them around along with her water.

     “Oh, Meraxes, you have such a way with words." Serana accepted the canteens gratefully after sassing Meraxes. Meraxes then headed off.

     Because it was nighttime and the sun still hid beneath the horizon, the vampires left their hoods undone. Serana considered herself fortunate not only to be on her way home after centuries of imprisonment, but also to look upon Clearpine Pond in the midnight cloak that marked her wanton freedom.

     She liked the company, but was less keen to admit that than to remark on the environment.

     Soren seated himself on a log and he and Serana both opened their canteens. Unable to imagine how he’d felt for the past few days, given his transformation was awfully recent, Serana could not bring herself to tell him about Avulstein.

     The truth would come out someday. Serana knew how damaging it could be.

     She only hoped that she or Meraxes would tell him before he found out for himself. Until then, she owed him a whole slew of distractions.

     “The song at Four Shields—where did that come from? Have you always written music?”

     “Well—"

     The sound of a gently-flowing stream interrupted Soren, which Serana quickly realized wasn’t the pond.

     “Meraxes,” Serana scolded loudly, “you couldn’t have gone just a little further away?”

     A familiar grunt resounded from behind a column of trees. “If you can’t see my ass, I’m far away enough.”

     “It wouldn’t be the first time,” Serana jested, averting her eyes to make contact with Soren’s. It wasn’t hard to see he was a bit horrified at the conversation he’d come to overhear.

     “I...have written my own music. For a very long time, actually. But Thorald and Avulstien forbade it, so I had to hide my old journals with Eorlund.”

     “Remind me who Eorlund is.”

     “Eorlund Gray-Mane,” Soren said and paused to sip on the rabbit blood. He knew it didn’t compare to a human’s, but still found the idea of feeding repulsive. “He’s a blacksmith at the Skyforge in Whiterun. Ser Meraxes knows him.”

     When Soren thought back to meeting Meraxes, he remembered her armor was made from Skyforge steel. Sets of it weren’t very common around Skyrim since only one man could produce them. He figured Meraxes must have done Eorlund some kind of great favor to earn something like that.

     Yet she didn’t seem to react too harshly after losing it.

     “Speak of Hircine." When Meraxes emerged from the treeline, Serana felt grateful to see that she had all her armor on. She couldn't fathom how she went so quickly. After all, she knew how difficult it was to take armor off and put it back on.

     Then again, Serana seldom saw Meraxes without her armor on. She’d probably gotten the hang of it long ago.

     “Feel better?”

     “Much.”

     Sitting on the thickest portion of the log, the Meraxes removed some bread and dried meat from a bag she’d tied to her belt.

     She found humor in the fact that, though she’d been a mercenary and a soldier—an apex predator in her finest form—her blood was still food to the vampires beside her.

     Perhaps it was the fact that she hadn't a proper drink in so long rather than her hilarious situation that her head hurt so badly.

     “I’ve never seen a place like this one before." Soren’s voice made Meraxes forget her headache. It surprised her at times how outspoken he was becoming, given his tendency to shy away from interactions. “It’s all just...”

     “Such an example of what life would be were it properly balanced everywhere,” Serana interjected as Soren trailed off. “That’s why it’s beautiful.”

     In a way, Meraxes found herself agreeing with the vampires, even though she knew how Clearpine Pond used to be home to a few evil creatures. Something was still special about the place.

     It was a sanctuary, and not only for its unparalleled splendor.

     But Meraxes had a tendency to let beautiful things distract her. She could not if her party were to remain safe.

     “Mind you two. If you’ve finished that blood, we’d better get back on our way.”

     She didn’t know if the Dawnguard was still tracking them or if they had something up their sleeves. Frankly, she didn’t want to take the risk, even after tearing Isran to ribbons.

     “Just a moment, Meraxes,” Serana said as the sun began its journey above the horizon. It set the treetops aflame with an orange glow. “I am glad to exist in such a wonderful place..." Fastening her hood to combat the approaching daylight, she stood, turning to meet Soren's and Meraxes’ eyes. “With my friends.”

     For a fraction of a second, Meraxes swore she caught a glimpse of bright green flashing along Serana’s gentle gaze—

     —like a flashbulb memory, lost to time.

     Meraxes wouldn’t admit her hesitance to board the boat that had been left unattended upon their arrival to shore.

     It wasn’t necessarily that she liked Serana, or even Soren, but that a life alone would surely seem strange after their weeks-long accompaniment.

     Those two had grown on her—well, one not quite as much as the other—like a vine grows on a stone wall after it has stood for a few hundred years.

     Besides, Meraxes generally had a fine amount of trouble forgetting the few people who’d seen her naked. She could count them all on one hand.

     “It’s just like I remember it," Serana suddenly said, “though I’m not sure much can change about it at all.”

     Castle Volkihar was imposing, sure. But Meraxes still didn’t think it looked all that big from far away. The intimidation factor laid largely in the ebony hue of its bricks and the bone hawks circling about where its roof greeted the foggy cloud ceiling.

     Something about Castle Volkihar stirred up a feeling of dread in Meraxes' chest.

     I hope her father is loaded enough that the reward money will allow me to live well for a couple of months, she thought and wondered how the castle’s size compared to that of Fort Dawnguard up close. After everything I’ve been through these past few weeks, I deserve to be rich.

     “Why’d you tell me to stop calling you Lady Serana?” Soren asked, his jaw dropping slightly at the sight of Serana's home. Surely, the largest buildings he’d seen were Jorrvaskr and Dragonsreach. They didn’t quite measure up to Castle Volkihar. “That sure looks like a lady’s house.”

     “Because I’m not a lady,” Serana replied matter-of-factly and lowered herself into the boat after sweeping the skirt of her dress beneath her legs. “I don’t think most ladies have been locked away for several centuries, but if I’m wrong, either of you may correct me.”

     “That’s not true,” Soren joined her promptly. “A lot of ladies’ fathers strand them in their castles. At least, in the fairy tales I’ve read.”

     Scowling when she noticed that the vampires had both chosen the seat across from the oars, Meraxes pushed the boat offshore until the sand conceded its grip altogether. It was only natural they’d appoint her to row.

     “And most of them have dragons,” Meraxes said, rocking the watercraft so much upon her entry that she nearly capsized it. She gripped the oars firmly by their handles and set off toward the castle. “I suppose any damn thing is possible at this point.”

     “You need to start being careful with your weight before you kill us, Meraxes.” Serana released the starboard side of the jetty, which she’d squeezed to avoid being thrown into the sea. “But I suppose you have a point about the fairy tales. Stranger things have indeed happened.”

     “What about when we get there?” Soren asked and pulled his hood up higher after Meraxes’ dramatic motion nearly dropped it. “What happens then?”

     “My father will undoubtably want to see me. I’ve been gone for...”

     It wasn’t until then that Serana realized she’d never told Soren the entire story of her meeting Meraxes or why she had an Elder Scroll strapped to her back. Then again, she herself wasn’t aware of the second part. “...Well, I’ve been absent from his Court for quite some time.”

     “Did you say ‘Court?’ Are you sure you didn’t lie to me when I asked you if you were a princess?" Meraxes snorted and finished another powerful stroke.

     It wasn’t long after that before they were halfway to the castle.

     “I’m afraid royalty wouldn’t count for much, considering Skyrim seems to regard vampires as pests in your era. But mortals never truly welcomed us as regular members of society, anyhow." Though Serana’s eyes had been transfixed on her family’s castle in the distance, her gaze had closed in on Meraxes’ while she rowed them across the water.

     Being unwelcome was something all three of them had in common. Being an undead bastard, a werewolf knight, or a vampire heiress. They were all misfits, only celebrated by the few like-minded people they were fortunate enough to cross paths with.

     And Meraxes would not be well-received by the Volkihar family.

     She was simply too different.

     Serana had high hopes for Soren, though.

     “Are you going to tell me why you’re staring at me like that? You ate seven hours ago. I’m not budging.”

     Of course Meraxes thought she wanted to feed. After rolling her eyes, Serana said, “Meraxes, Soren, I need you two to refrain from speaking unless you are directly addressed by a member of the Court." Her gaze scalded Meraxes when she sized her up. “And choose your words carefully. My family had never a reputation for congenial hospitality.”

     “That doesn’t sound too different from what I’m used to."

     Meraxes felt the jetty drift beneath her as she pulled the oars to the surface. “Rich people tend to have cunt attitudes, relying on people like me to do their dirty work. I used to do shit like that for a living. I should be able to navigate your situation without a hitch.”

     Serana couldn’t stop herself from laughing at Meraxes’ comment. Rich? Oh, Molag Bal rest her misguided soul!

     The Volkihars’ problem wasn’t that they had too much money, rather, that her father lived under the delusion that he alone was omnipotent.

     While there was some truth to that, Harkon’s own daughter and mother were Daughters of Coldharbour. They possessed more power than he.

     “I don’t think you understand, Meraxes,” Serana replied as the boat collided with the sand and streaked across the snow-dusted beach. “My father’s not going to accept you because you don’t have vampire blood. It would be most prudent to keep your mouth shut until he speaks to you.”

     Meraxes set the oars down with a surprising gentleness, spinning the boat around for her future departure after the vampires made their way into shore.

     She’d found Serana’s sudden intensity off-putting.

     It was quite unlike her to behave that way.

     “If you don’t mind my asking, Lady Serana..." Soren, hands buried in the pockets of his oversized cloak, stared up at his counterpart. “...What’s going to happen to me in there?”

     Serana had come to accept that Soren would never stop referring to her as "Lady." But, since he’d come to encounter her residence, she couldn’t totally blame him.

     “I suggest you remain quiet as well,” Serana replied, “let me do the talking for you. Because I Turned you, you should be allowed to live in Castle Volkihar for as long as you’d like. But you may not enjoy it at first. My father's taste can be...peculiar." Serana hoped her family would not give Soren as much trouble as they’d given fledglings past, though she thought that unlikely. “He takes quite a while to warm up to new residents.”

     Not knowing how to reply to such a statement, Soren started ahead at the long, wide bridge the three had yet to cross.

     “I take it you two are ready, then?” Serana asked as though any of them had a choice in the matter.

     They’d come too far to stop now.

     Soren offered her an affirmative nod, though their nearing their quests’ conclusion inspired some thought. Alas, he would never see Meraxes again, though he hoped Serana would teach him more about his vampiric powers.

     Maybe he could still attend the Bard’s College someday.

     “What the hell; let’s go." Meraxes was prepared for the end. She wondered what leaving Serana and Soren behind would feel like, but she’d been alone for most of her life.

     She'd be fine in the end, like always.

     Besides, she’d ended many a good life to stand where she stood. And when it was over, she’d go home—

     oh—how she missed Kodlak and the smell of honey mead.

     “You three had better think twice about where you’re wandering."

     The watchman, an old, gruff mortal, with a voice that more than matched his description, reached for the hilt of his sword. Meraxes couldn’t help but notice the cataracts pooling in his eyes like moonstone. “You’re trespassing on this property.”

     “You probably shouldn’t be a guard if you’ve gone blind, old man,” Meraxes said. Serana responded by flat-handing the back of her head.

     “Ow—"

     “I told you to mind your words, Meraxes, if you are to speak at all.”

     Soren nearly had to bite his cloak to prevent himself from laughing. Normally, such a feat would have filled him with anxiety, but he noticed a quick change in the watchman’s expression that inspired him otherwise.

     “What in Nirn? Lady Serana, is that you?”

     Without anticipating an answer, the watchman released his weapon’s pommel and pulled a lever to open the door. “Your father will be so ecstatic! He has toiled so in his waiting!”

     “I knew you lied about the princess thing, your highness,” Meraxes said from behind Serana and grinned.

     “We’re on my territory this time, Meraxes.” Serana turned her head, her brimstone eyes still alight with a vexed amusement in the shadow of the doorway. “I will hit you once more.”

     “I hadn’t any clue you were such a sadist,” Meraxes jested as they progressed into the corridor. “Touch me again and you won’t like what you get in return.”

     “Oh, Soren, help me, I am oh-so-afraid for my life.” Serana couldn’t contain her laughter even after the watchman peeled the main hall doors open to reveal the area where her father’s Court convened. “That is not a bet you should make with me, Meraxes. I’m familiar with methods of prodding handsome mortals that you are not.”

     As Serana continued to laugh, at least twelve pairs of beady, bloodthirsty eyes turned to stare in her party’s direction.

     “You...”

     One of the men dropped a tankard of blood in his disturbed shock, which then spilt all over the already-stained tablecloth. “You...what? Why would you want to put your fingers on mortal drudge?”

     He narrowed his eyes as if he were seeing something both familiar and foreign.

     “Who even are you?”

     “Namasur, shut up, before I feed you to the Death Hounds,” an Altmer-like man scolded from near the front of what looked like a throne room. He strode toward Serana and her companions with a flat, apathetic expression. “That’s not something you want to ask about. That’s—"

     The Altmer’s bloodshot eyes twitched in frustration as the sound of glass shattering from another room interrupted his speech.

     “Master’s having one of his rages again. I’ll go tend to him—“

     “Don’t, Modhna,” the man interrupted a young vampire woman, striding ever-closer to Soren, Meraxes, and Serana. “Not yet.”

     “Could that really be—“

     “Yes, Orthjolf, you ancient dolt. It’s the Elder Scroll that our Lord has been missing.”

     Orthjolf pointed his finger accusingly at the Altmer man, his voice raised to a shout: “Don’t lecture me, you Thalmor fascist! My inquiry was in reference to our Lady Serana!”

     “Orthjolf, Vingalmo, I can see plainly that neither of you have changed at all. Would you kindly stop bickering like children?” Serana had never enjoyed it when men fought over her, but she derived the most frustration from her uncles’ petty battles.

     “Yes, my lady,” Orthjolf said with a slight bow. Vingalmo muttered something indistinguishable.

     “And whatever your name is...Modhna, was it?” Serana locked eyes with the female servant that had nearly departed for Lord Harkon.

     “Tell my father I’ve come home.”

     Meraxes found the Master of the house quite underwhelming.

     Clearly, the rest of the castle did not. Vampires in every direction offered him varying degrees of slanted bows. Some even groveled on the floor. Soren copied them, dipping his head and shoulders towards the ground.

     But Meraxes seldom knelt, and she would not for some evidently-overrated vampire lord.

     “I see my scroll has returned."

     The man stared reverently at the burden strapped to Serana’s back as if it had enthralled him. “Have I you to blame for this, weak mortal? There is no way or how this could be, given your scent reeks of foul disease.”

     Boy, are his priorities fucked, Meraxes thought, He’s got his long-lost daughter right in front of him, and all he gives a skeever’s ass about is that scroll. Well, it could be worse, at least he doesn’t sound all bad—

     “Serana, how dare you bring such a disgusting creature into my Court?”

     Well, fuck, never mind that.

     Meraxes debated retreating a few steps because of the sheer volume of the man's sudden shouting.

     Exasperated, Meraxes shot Serana a pleading look that said, Help, he's going to blow out my eardrums!

    She figured speaking out wouldn’t behoove her at all.

     “Forgive me, father, but this woman is the one who saved me from my crypt. No vampire accomplished what this warrior has.”

     Serana gazed back at Meraxes, her eyes filled with a gratitude of her own.

     “Fine, then,” the Master replied. His voice churned with contempt as he forced himself to look at Meraxes. “I am Harkon, the Lord of Clan Volkihar. I suppose the least I can do is rid of your horrible curse and give you my family’s gift in its place. Then, you can join my Court and serve me loyally as you have by returning my scroll.”

     “Funny that you’re offering a reward,” Meraxes said and smiled, “because I was hoping for an adequate sum of gold. You see, Elder Scrolls are worth at least two thousand septims. I was hoping you’d award me with three or four for my troubles.”

     “Meraxes, no,”  Serana hissed at the volume of a whisper, shamefully burying her head in her palm as blood pooled into Lord Harkon’s face.

     “I offer you centuries worth of a nearly-perfect gifted power..." Harkon's fangs nearly split open his lower lip with how tightly he held his tongue. “...And you have the audacity to ask me for a pouch of currency that weakens by the day?”

     “Well, yeah, that’s how people like you normally pay me.”

     Serana turned to Meraxes, her expression the most concerned she'd had ever seen it. Soren had already cowered behind her, so he had an undead shield in the event that Harkon’s temper literally caused him to explode.

     “Wait, are you saying I’m not getting paid for this?”

     “You little, lupine fool,” Harkon snapped and bared his fangs. Then, he turned to Serana. “What is the meaning of this? Who’s that other insignificant whelp you’re hiding?”

     “He’s my ward."

     Meraxes was impressed with how Serana appeared so unafraid and stable, her father’s short fuse and misplaced priorities considered. “I’ve brought him here to become a member of the Volkihar court, with your approval.”

     “Well, then." Harkon scrutinized Soren. “The boy has the blood of a true vampire. I can smell it on him. He can stay, as a lower-ranking member of this court, until he proves himself...”

     Before Meraxes' eyes, tendrils of dark shadow curled over Harkon’s fingertips and beneath his skin as he shed it like a snake's onto the ground. His mouth turned upward in a hissing grin and he flashed Meraxes with teeth sharp enough to filet her like a fish.

     “...but this mewling mortal must become a member of my Court or I shall banish her back to the realm she’s always known.”

     Before Meraxes could count to ten, Harkon emerged in the full form of a Vampire Lord.

     Who knew their true form was this fucking ugly? No way in hell do I want to turn into that!

     “What will it be, mortal? Keep in mind the only reason I’m not killing you is because you have returned my scroll.” A halo of darkness surrounded Harkon as he spoke. “You are driving my patience.”

     “I think,” Meraxes began, her eyes narrowing and face contorting with increasing rage. It was no wonder the woman was a werewolf. Her expression resembled a ferocious beast even without a transformation. “I imagined you’d be taller, considering Serana’s height. Her mother must be a giant, because you’re certainly lacking!"

     “Why, you insolent—" Harkon snapped.

     Meraxes’ growl was louder, “I think you need a motherfucking mint, because your breath should never be that dark or shitty."

     Serana’s jaw nearly dropped—a difficult feat to accomplish—as she’d seen nearly everything in her long life.

     But her father, humiliated?

     That was new.

     “What’s more is that you didn’t seem to give a damn that I brought your daughter home. It’s the scroll you want, truly. So, no. I don’t want your gift."

     Lord Harkon’s green-tainted hand reached for Meraxes’ throat in a flash. With long fingers and extended claws, he squeezed her jugular, veins protruding from his forehead in exasperated rage.

     “...I already...have a curse of my own,” Meraxes snarled. Blood leaked down her chin and dripped onto the castle floor. "And at least...it’s one...my family gave me.”

     “Father, don’t hurt her. She’s the only reason I’m here!"

     Serana felt pathetic, resorting to beg for Meraxes’ life. But there was nothing else she could do. After all, Meraxes had begun to bleed. There was no way every vampire in Harkon's Court didn't smell it. They’d devour her, had they the chance.

     Serana didn't want to grant them the opportunity.

     “Very well, then." Harkon released Meraxes’ throat within inches of her life. “I suggest the likes of you never approach Clan Volkihar, or its great stead, ever again."

     In both of his hands, swirling, dark magic emerged, rising towards the castle ceiling.

     “Because next time..."

     Midnight tendrils grew from the approaching spell and hugged Meraxes’ body like a blanket of death.

     “...Next time, I will kill you.”

     Then, Harkon’s Court disappeared, and then the castle, and Soren, and Serana—

     as Meraxes lost her footing and hold on dismal reality—

     falling

     and falling

     —into a bleak and silent nothingness.

     “Where did you send her?”

     Harkon had seldom seen his daughter so furious. Soren certainly never had, since she made a conscious effort to treat him with the patience and kindness that others had not shown him.

     “Not far,” her father said. His eyes averted briefly toward the castle’s main door. “She’ll be disoriented for quite some time. A shame if someone would bolden enough to take advantage of her in that state.”

     Harkon bristled, fury still plain on his countenance. If his daughter’s claim was true, and Meraxes had rescued her from Dimhollow Crypt, then that mortal was powerful enough to bring death to some of his strongest court members.

     He might've needed her to end the Tyranny of the Sun...as much as he dreaded relying on mortal fools.

     “My one request was that you did not hurt her,” Serana seethed angrily.

     Soren drew back in fear. He was unfamiliar with this side of Serana and did not like it.

     “My dear, you and I know how violence sometimes is the answer. Besides, the most important thing is that you’re home."

     Lord Harkon clasped his hands together gleefully, as if he’d forgotten his anger in a fraction of a second. “And you have my scroll. We should celebrate at once, after you introduce me to your little ward.”

     “His name is Soren, and he goes where I do." Serana’s tone grew in brashness and contempt as she crossed her arms defensively over her chest. “So it’s a pity I won’t be staying here.”

     “Whatever do you mean?” Harkon snapped, baring his teeth fiercely at his kin. “You are my blood in more ways than one. I will confine you and the newest member of my court here if I see fit.”

     “No, you won’t,” Serana hissed as her own fangs emerged just as quickly. “Because I will rip your Court apart if you don’t let us walk free.”

     Laughing, Lord Harkon sheathed his razor teeth, reeling back a step. He was prideful, but not a fool. Never was it prudent to face a Daughter of Coldharbour head-on.

     “Very well, then. You are your father’s daughter after all. Return to harsh reality with your fledgling ward instead of reigning as a Lady in a haven for our kind.”

     Serana only paused for a moment, but not for the reason Harkon had surmised.

     “You are your father’s daughter...”

     Those were the words that haunted her rather than his remarks on the world beyond.

     Without hesitating a second longer, Serana reached for Soren’s hand, interlacing his fingers between her own, and started towards the door.

     Harkon turned to the senior-most members of his court after it closed behind her and offered them an arrogant raise of his chin.

     “Follow her and bring them back to me."

     His eyes brightened as he reverted to his human-like form, surrendering his true power to another day. His mouth curled upward into a smile; a smile that promised his ambitious dream would come to pass if it was the very last thing he did.

     “All of them.”

End of Chapter 9

Next: Soren and Serana embark on a tracking mission, but they’re not the only ones searching. Meraxes encounters an old foe.

Warning: Chapter 10 contains themes of sexual abuse, torture, and death. Reader discretion is advised.

Chapter Text

     Never had Meraxes experienced such a string of miserable awakenings, even with her drinking habits as horrid as they were.

     She blinked open her eyes and took in the slowly emerging hysteria that accompanied Black Arcana—Harkon’s Vampire Secret Art—dark spots slowly dissipating from her vision.

     What disturbed her more than her compromised eyesight was a rancid smell that corrupted the air around her.

     Talos end me...did I seriously piss myself?

     Meraxes oriented her beached body sideways, wondering if her undergarments would squish.

     They were dry. Good.

     “P- please...”

     Then, she heard the whimpering. That explained the piss smell—some poor bastard probably soiled himself.

     “You just...appeared out of nowhere! P- please, don’t kill me!”

     “Holy hell, relax," Meraxes murmured and tried to stand. She was dizzier than she thought she’d be but managed not to vomit. Still, her vision cleared so slowly that she could only see the outline of a man. The finer details, like his clothing, were beyond her ability.

     It almost reminded her of being drunk.

     “I don’t know who you are, but I don’t think I’m in the state to run around killing people. You should probably get yourself a new pair of pants. Pissing yourself is pretty juvenile, you know.”

     “Are you...”

     Meraxes heard the man gulp. Her words must have done very little to reassure him.

     “Are you Meraxes Whitemane? If so, I’m looking for you...I’ve got some things I’m supposed to deliver...looks like they’re from Dawnstar and Whiterun.”

     “Good for you,” Meraxes said and finally reached her feet. “You found me.”

     Skyrim’s couriers were pretty strange, or at least Meraxes thought so. To whom mail was addressed hardly mattered; the couriers would go anywhere and deliver anything.

     Then, it occurred to her: the man would certainly know her precise location.

     “Where exactly are we, anyway?” Meraxes asked but received no reply.

     Before she had a chance to react, the courier had already departed and left two parchments—distinguishable to Meraxes as off-white blobs—in her hand.

     She was secretly glad that the man left so quickly.

     He definitely needed a change of pants.

     The contents of her letter and her location, however, would be lost upon her until she regained her sight.

     “Man, this day sucks." Meraxes lied down once more to view the open, vast sky, which blended into a single color with her limited vision.

     A stark loneliness entered her heart as all thoughts abandoned her mind.

     She was on her own. No one was coming for her, because not a soul aside from Harkon knew where she was.

     Meraxes was notoriously self-reliant. She could handle just about any detour the world provided her, but still felt a wave of genuine sadness wash over her for the first time in years, like the seawater lapping on the shores of Castle Volkihar.

     Serana rowed the jetty to her freedom.

     It was exhausting, even with her ancient strength, but Soren’s petrified expression kept her going. She needed to get him out of there fast.

     He'd been through far too much in such a short amount of time.

     “Will Ser Meraxes die if we don’t find her?” Soren's voice was distant and dull despite bright eyes that indicated he was still well-fed.

     “I’m surprised you care for her, given how much she terrifies you,” Serana replied, offering him the most hopeful half-smile she could muster. “She will be just fine. You heard her say that she’s survived a lot.”

     Soren’s question was similar to the one that lingered in Serana's mind.

     Meraxes had been alone most of her life—that much was true—but so was the fact that she needed others around to bring out the best in her.

     Meraxes was dangerous on her own. She had no one to help her terrible impulses or stop her from conceding to her habits.

     Without friends and family, Meraxes was on track to destroy herself.

     “Are you all right, Lady Serana? You look pale.”

     “Soren, all vampires are pale.”

     “More than usual, though,” Soren urged. He hoped to be of help despite the fact that Serana was more than capable of finding Meraxes on her own.

     “I’m quite all right. My father said he did not teleport her far, and she was bleeding when he cast the spell. I’m trying to sniff her out.”

     “I’ll try, too," Soren said and watched Serana draw the oars into her chest a final time before the boat skidded to a halt on the narrow mainland beach.

     “I cannot pick up anything as of now, but look for a trail. It’s unlike Meraxes to sit around. She probably went someplace.”

     “I can’t smell her, but there’s a human somewhere around here, I think. Or maybe it’s an animal.”

     “No,” Serana objected and gave him a curt, approving nod. “A lot of vampirism is sticking to your initial feeling. It’s usually correct, as we have incredibly keen instincts. Alas, you were right the first time. There’s a mortal in the area. A dirty mortal, by the smell of it.“

     “We should find this person and see if they know where Ser Meraxes went."

     To no avail, Soren tried not to look proud of himself for using one of his enhanced senses properly. Not too long ago, his transformation had been incredibly overwhelming.

     “That’s not a bad idea,” Serana agreed and set off towards the human’s scent. He emerged from the treeline not long after, hefting a bag full of letters along with him.

     He must have been a courier, on his way to give Clan Volkihar’s mail to the watchman.

     “You two are, um...” He scratched the back of his neck and stopped in his tracks to offer the vampires one of the most anxious smiles Serana had ever seen. "...A little far from home, don’t you think?”

     “Not quite,” Serana said, stepping closer to the courier. He was rightfully frightened but that wouldn’t stop her approach. His pants being soiled motivated her to keep some distance. “We were wondering if you happened to pass a Meraxes Whitemane on your way to the jetty,”

     With a flash of her brimstone eyes, the courier’s own gaze suppressed itself beneath a looming, pink veil.

     Serana scoffed when he started drooling. Despite being a pure-blooded vampire, her powers were still weaker when she’d fed recently. Her poor victims of enthrallment tended to drool all over themselves.

     “Is that...normal?” Soren inquired in a low voice and looked on with a disturbed expression as the courier’s saliva dripped onto his shirt, pants, and eventually, the ground.

     “No, truly not,” Serana informed him nonchalantly.

     “Meraxes Whitemane...yes...”

     In between his words, the courier’s drooling became even worse, to the point where he was spitting at almost every syllable.

     “Where was she?”

     “By the...main road...to Solitude.”

     “That’s all I needed. Be on your way, then.”

     “Be on...”

     With that, the courier snapped out of his reverie and walked the remaining route covered in his own spit and piss.

     What an unfortunate time that man is having. But at least we know where we’re going—

     —wait, I’m horrible with directions. I have absolutely no idea where Solitude is.

     “Do you know where we’re supposed to go?” she asked Soren, hoping he had some idea. She hadn’t even a map to reference.

     “I think so,” he said. His tone was more confident than usual. “I’m pretty sure the main road forks near here, and there’s also a back route. We could start looking for blood traces there.”

     “Very well."

     Serana offered Soren a genuine smile. Though their situation had become dire, she could not misplace her pride in him. “Let’s go save our friend.”

     Meraxes collapsed just inside Solitude’s main gate.

     Whatever spell Harkon had casted on her worked like a strange poison; one that seemed to wear off only to return to its full effect just hours later.

     In the time she’d planned to pass setting off towards Jorrvaskr, Meraxes had fluctuated between a near-operational state and a total blackout at least twice. Her state left her helpless when she slumped over.

     Were she fully aware of her surroundings, she would suppose that Solitude was not the worst place to collapse at, considering most citizens in the Imperial City recognized her as a retired Legate.

     That was no small feat.

     Yet she sat slumped against a building post for a half hour until a guard dressed in what Meraxes thought faintly resembled the Army’s armor lowered himself beside her.

     He’d brought something that was cool to the touch.

     Meraxes felt a frigid cloth press against her forehead. It was surely meant to dispel the feverish temperature that accompanied Harkon’s teleportation magic. Cold towels were always handy with drunk folks, too, something she couldn’t put beyond herself.

     “Don’t try moving on your own. It won’t help your case,” the soldier said and planted a knee on the stone while he treated her. “I am Gaius of the Penitus Oculatus.” Removing the cloth when water began to drip down Meraxes’ face, he reached beneath her armpits and locked his fists together over her chest to help her walk. “I’m well aware of your service to the Empire. It’s the least I can do to bring you to a doctor.”

     Meraxes only grumbled in response. When the spell impacted her most severely, it seemed to have an effect on her brain function.

     “Come on,” Gaius urged, struggling, even with his strength, to pull her along the slope that led to Imperial headquarters. “Up we go, Legate Whitemane.”

     The soldier received another mumbling reply that dragged on pointlessly until he finally opened the Castle Dour.

     Gaius carried on, hauling Meraxes’ dead weight dutifully.

     Not a soul occupied the headquarters’ main corridor.

     Few officers lived there, after all. Castle Dour was typically a temporary and rare assignment, only utilized in cases of wars, capital trials, and visits from the Emperor.

     Still, someone was always present in the War Room to guard decades’ worth of executive Imperial protocols, strategies, and verdicts from possible destruction and theft.

     Such was one of the many purposes the Penitus Oculatus served.

     “You, there, halt.”

     The voice that gave the order was feminine but sharp. It was so familiar, too, that even Meraxes snapped further out of her dreary, sickened state, to utter a single word:

     ”No.”

     But Gaius straightened until he was rigid at the appearance of his superior.

     “Of course, General Rikke.”

     No...

     Meraxes had lost her voice once more. Her expression, however, explained more than words ever could: the adventurer’s fiery personality; that rebellious, death-defying glare she wore so often in the face of danger, had been replaced with a look of sheer dread and horror, spread plainly to all regions her face.

     Those feelings typically buried themselves in the back of Meraxes’ silver eyes and refused to depart the cage in which she kept them.

     But if anyone could bring them to the surface—anyone at all—it was Rikke.

     “Take her to room thirteen. I’ll ensure my personal doctor sees to her condition.”

     Gaius prostrated himself at the words of his better, lowering his head in reverence.

     “At once, General. You are too kind for offering this hero such pristine care.”

     With that, beads of sweat dripped down his face as he hauled Meraxes slowly-but-surely up one of Solitude’s many spiral staircases.

     Room thirteen was almost always unused and separate from the medical ward altogether. Gaius supposed that Meraxes, being a war hero, deserved the finest treatment. His instinct was that General Rikke’s assigned doctor would take fine care of her.

     He had no qualms at all about leaving her lying on the bed, which otherwise no one would sleep in, or standing guard near the doorpost until help arrived, and still none when General Rikke appeared alone, her doctor nowhere to be seen.

     “Leave us,” she ordered.

     Gaius stalked off and promptly resume his regular duties.

     “What a fool,” Rikke whispered beneath her breath and locked the door to room thirteen after she’d made her way inside. “Then again, you’re pretty stupid right now, aren’t you?”

      She merely laughed when Meraxes failed to respond.

     “Let me guess: you’re drunk again? I told you myself that habit would undo you one day. But it was always ‘no’ with you. ‘No’ this, ‘no’ that; ‘no’ when I asked you to share a bed with me..."

    Rikke opened the closet after closing the door and removed a satchel of medical supplies and an emergency rope kit. First, she got to work restraining Meraxes, tying an appendage firmly to each bedpost. “You’re the one who resorted me to learning all those nasty secrets about you, you know. And when Tullius made us equals, he went ahead and fucked it all up..."

     The veins in Meraxes’ head bulged and turned an agonized shade of red. She hadn’t water in so long that she’d begun to pant—dehydration would soon get the best of her.

     “So, tell, me, Luci..."

     Rikke pulled the necklace from beneath Meraxes’ armor, ripping it off by the ornate axe. Metal beads flew off the broken string and in every direction. Some even scattered across the floor and beneath the doorframe.

     “...Tell me, before I taste you again, as I’ve longed to for so many years..."

     She discarded the pendant onto the ground, her honeyed eyes alight with a predatory glare. “...Does anyone else know the name your daddy gave you?”

     Rikke snipped the leather clasps away from Meraxes’ Dawnguard armor with the shears from her medical kit. She peeled the heavy layers from Meraxes' body with sickening haste.

     “Have you told the rest of the world the terrible truth of your missing leg? Or your illegal worship of Talos?”

     Rikke’s expression intensified, her eyes narrowing at the dissonance bustling about her mind.

     On one hand, she’d waited for Meraxes to cross into the wrong place at the wrong time so she could have her revenge for all the years she spent sharing command of Skyrim. All because General Tullius had been too dull to understand Meraxes could hardly think for herself.

     On the other, she regretted withholding the truth about Meraxes for so long, and in exchange for what?

     A lot of sex, a couple of promotions, and permanent silence.

     It was wonderful at first, but didn’t amount to her trouble.

     The least she could do was tear off her undergarments then. She'd make Meraxes pay dearly a final time for those many years of toil.

     “Or, perhaps, the fact that your scheduled execution at Helgen wasn’t a mistake after all?”

     By then, her voice had risen to a gritty, provoked growl; a sound harboring all of the hatred General Rikke held for her now-defenseless victim.

     “And when I kill you—which I’ll do slowly—“

     Rikke halved the medical shears to wield the remainder like a dagger between her fingers. Decisively, she looked over Meraxes’ breasts, a burning conviction spiraling in her eyes as she located the perfect place for her first incision.

     “Do you truly think you’ve done enough good in your miserable life to see Sovngarde? Or will you reunite with your dear daddy?”

     Then, the blade descended at last, and Meraxes’ dulled senses blazed painfully back to life.

     Solitude was a beautiful and prosperous city, far greater and more auspicious than Serana had ever imagined. Even the sawmill and barracks were glorious.

     She’d have liked to remark on the city’s good fortune, except her father had banished one of her only friends there with a spell that inflicted disastrous side-effects.

     The Bard’s College resided just down the street. It remained Soren’s dream to go there even though he’d faced unforeseen circumstances in his recent past.

     Their priority, however, was not to go sightseeing or to apply to a prestigious bard school: they needed to locate Meraxes quickly.

     There was no telling what was going on with her or if she was even alive. Serana knew she had a lot of enemies that would leap to take advantage of her horrid state.

     She would not be quick to forgive Harkon for what he’d done to her friend.

     “Look, Lady Serana,” Soren urged, pointing at a fading trail of blood by the base of a building post. The sign above it read:

     THE WINKING SKEEVER

     “Is this Ser Meraxes’ blood?”

     Serana knelt beside the source and dipped her small finger into its residue. Its scent was certainly familiar and contained a lingering bitterness similar to the smell from their battle near Rorikstead.

     “There’s no denying it. Good work." Serana was irrefutably proud of Soren’s efforts. As she hadn’t time to teach him how to use his full powers yet, he was doing a fine job adjusting to them when he needed to. “We should check inside this building and ask the patrons if they’ve seen anything.”

     Soren only nodded, pulling the door open and holding it until Serana went in.

     Both could plainly see that they’d found themselves inside another tavern inn.

     Serana searched first for the innkeeper. Her first instinct was that Meraxes had bought a room and was staying in The Winking Skeever before she set a course for wherever she wanted to go from Castle Volkihar.

     Maybe Serana would find her more quickly than she’d hoped, and in one piece, no less.

     “Pardon me,” she requested and immediately gathered the innkeeper’s attention. He was a middle-aged Imperial man, and, judging by the amount of time he spent staring at Serana’s exposed cleavage, he wouldn't make very pleasant company.

     At least she was going to get the information she needed quickly.

     “We were wondering if a short-haired woman in heavy armor bought a room here.”

     “Oh, my,” the man gawked and straightened his posture. Soren couldn’t help but wonder what he was staring at, since his eyeballs seemed so attached to Serana’s chest. Her brooch, perhaps? “There was a commotion outside when some civilians complained to me about a woman bleeding on the ground. She didn’t purchase a room, but I sent a soldier on his lunch break to remove her from the premises. Unconscious ladies lying at the door mid-day don’t do well for my business."

     Without waiting for her response, the Imperial pulled the cork from a bottle of alto wine. “But I’ll be happy to sell you a room for half-price. I’ll even put you in the suite. It has quite a luxurious bath."

     He offered her the bottle. She placed it back onto the counter, her brimstone gaze burning into his own.

     She hated enthralling people, especially when her powers were weak. She hoped she wouldn’t have to try that with him. After all, if she resorted to using those abilities twice in a day, she would feel sick to her stomach for hours.

     Her best option was to play to the inkeeper’s taste.

     “Well, I might take you up on that, but you see, there’s something else I need to handle first."

     Serana felt moronic, batting her eyelashes like a constipated doe. But, if she were going to save Meraxes, she had to employ the subtle art of sex appeal. “So could you tell me where that soldier went? I’m sure I could find some way to repay you for the information.”

     When she leaned in closer to the inkeeper, his cheeks flushed a bright, flustered red.

     “Well...um, of course, of course." He backed slightly away from the edge of his counter, appearing about as sexually exasperated as a man could possibly look. “He probably went to Solitude’s barracks, the Castle Dour. It’s right up the ramp that’s just beyond my building.”

      Serana turned away without another word and Soren followed close behind her.

     “Wait! You don’t want your wine?”

     She laughed on the way out, glad that he couldn’t pursue her and make a profit at the same time. She'd figured he’d probably drugged whatever beverage he was hoping to gift her—

     —because in Skyrim, seldom anything was ever given without an intent to receive.

     “Lady Serana, how do I get people to tell me things like you did with the courier and inkeeper?” Soren asked as they made their way up the ramp that the Imperial had mentioned. He turned around a bend where a blacksmith hammered a blade into its proper shape.

     “That’s one of the many things I’ll teach you in time,” Serana said. She strode past the smithy where a soldier stood guard beside a door. “After we resolve all of this, I promise we’ll talk about your abilities.”

     “Stop in the name of Skyrim and her people,” the guard ordered, calm and mild-mannered. He stood up straighter than anyone Serana had ever seen, though. He must’ve been a soldier all his life. “I am Gaius of the Penitus Oculatus. Civilians are not permitted beyond this point.”

     Serana heard Soren take a deep breath beside her, for what, she didn’t know. There was no excuse she thought could get her out of conflict with Gaius.

     As she stared into his dark eyes, prepared to shroud him in enthrallment, Soren interrupted the process: “Sir, we’ve come to join the Legion,” he claimed. He knew that if either Thorald or Avulstein had overheard, they’d kill him without hesitation.

     His father and uncle were avid supporters of Ulfric Stormcloak. They hadn't quite recovered from the fact that the rebellion lost the war. As a Gray-Mane—bastard or not—becoming an Imperial soldier was a death sentence.

     “Very well,” Gaius said, offering the vampires a stiff nod. “The Empire could always use more strong soldiers. When you’re inside, Legate Hadvar will speak with you about recruitment. You’ll find him in the War Room, behind a closed door at the end of the hall.”

     Serana was surprised that Gaius let them enter Castle Dour without any skepticism, but supposed he couldn’t abandon his post without another guard’s relief.

    Hadvar’s name had also caught her attention. She was sure Meraxes mentioned him before, probably in the story of Windhelm’s siege and Ulfric’s execution.

     He was a friend. If he knew where Meraxes was, surely he would tell her.

     “You keep impressing me, Soren,” Serana commented as she made her way across the corridor. She stopped at the end of the hall near the War Room.

     Supposedly, Legate Hadvar was there, and she was supposed to speak with him. But something much sharper lingered in the air. It disturbed Serana’s senses to the point of a near frenzy:

     Meraxes’ blood.

     “Lady Serana...do you smell that above us?” Soren whispered, his expression rapidly transforming into something stark and panicked.

     “Yes.”

     Neither of them could do anything. The guards posted in the facility had fixed themselves upon their every movement.

     Withholding her fear, Serana knocked twice on the War Room door. She was relieved when an older gentleman opened it from the inside.

     “Fresh candidates for recruitment, I suppose?”

     “Are you Legate Hadvar?”

     “That’s right,” he replied, a proud smile evident on his face.

     It wasn’t difficult to see why Meraxes liked him. His demeanor was optimistic and comforting, like a loving father’s. “Come on in.”

     “Forgive me,” said Serana, pulling the War Room door closed once they were all behind it. At first, Hadvar looked alarmed, reaching for the pommel of his sword. He only released it when Serana didn't advance. “I was wondering if you’re familiar with Meraxes Whitemane.”

     Legate Hadvar chuckled at her mention, but Serana could sense his unease.

     “It’s been ages since I’ve heard that name, but, yes. We fought many a battle together.”

     Serana could hear the restlessness of his heartbeat, slowing when she made no effort to attack him, but quickening at mentions of Meraxes.

     Were there things he knew about her that he wasn’t supposed to? Did he have something to do with the fact that she was at the Castle Dour?

     “She might be in danger,” Serana replied. Her tone was as grave as the worst-case scenarios she’d drawn in her mind. “I have reason to believe she’s in this building, and I need you to escort us to her so your guards don’t catch us trespassing.”

     “Meraxes, in danger? In Castle Dour? I would suppose she’d be rather safe here,” Hadvar said, although it was difficult to argue with Serana’s cutting tone. She was so straight and to-the-point that he would never assume she was lying. “What’s your relationship with her? Why are you trying to find her?”

     “We’re her friends." Soren revealed the emptied canteen Meraxes had given him. At Clearpine Pond, it had been filled with rabbit’s blood.

     On the cap was the Imperial sigil, a model carried by officers during the Skyrim Civil War.

     “That’s all I needed. Come with me."

     Hadvar opened the War Room once more and find himself behind Serana as she ascended the staircase. Because his expression had changed when he saw the canteen, she guessed he’d come to realize that the vampires were only looking out for Meraxes. They had no reason to lie about her being in trouble.

     That, and she could smell the tendrils of fear rising from his mortal body.

     “The scent of her blood is much stronger than it was before." Soren's legs began to shake. It was no wonder he was scared, and likely overwhelmed, as newer vampires often reacted poorly to large quantities of human sustenance.

     But for him to quiver as much as he was...

     How much blood did Meraxes lose?

     Dread stabbed at Serana’s tightening chest. For the scent to be that potent, Meraxes had likely lost a vital amount of her life force.

     The beads on her necklace, Serana crouched, lifting one of the minuscule gold pieces that Meraxes had worn. This can’t be good. She might be...

     Serana was not often afraid, especially for Meraxes. But it was plain to see that something had gone incredibly wrong.

     She might be dead. We might be too late.

     Soren pointed to a closed door, easily distinguishable from the open ones around it. Meraxes must have been behind it.

     The scent of her blood where they stood was so overwhelming that it caused the vampires’ eyes to glow hungrily.

     “Room thirteen,” Hadvar remarked, his voice dropped to a whisper in case there were others inside. He wouldn’t want anyone to overhear him, especially knowing some of the data on Meraxes was critically taboo. “Stand behind me.”

     If someone had read the copy of her file in the War Room before he’d burned it, they would know her true name, and that she was a high-value target.

     Hadvar couldn’t take any risks when it came to saving his friend.

     Striking with his foot, Hadvar’s forward kick exploded, breaking the lock on room thirteen and sending the door flying open.

     Raw horrors awaited inside, staring the Legate and vampires unrelentingly in the face.

     General Rikke stood over Meraxes with a scalpel. She drained her blood in painters’ trays collected at either side of the bed’s foot. Meraxes was covered in all kinds of fluids, absolutely reeking of death.

     Meraxes’ had been stripped completely naked, her breasts sliced and beneath them burned, each of her fingers and toes had been torched, and slices in between her ribs bled trickling streams down her flanks. Her kneecaps and elbows had been bashed, but not broken, and her ankles were almost completely flayed.

     She was tied to the bedposts with a cloth gag stuffed into her moth. So, when the door opened, and she tried to call out, her voice was muffled to the point that even Serana could hardly hear it.

     Serana was so angered by the state of Meraxes’ body that she hardly thought at all.

     Her legs moved, magic spiraling between her fingertips without her so much as casting a single spell or willing herself forward.

     She advanced towards General Rikke, unable to see anything else or hear Soren vomiting on the ground behind her. All she felt was hatred and contempt hot enough to torch a city.

     Hadvar said something; the shadow of his voice reached Serana’s ears.

     But she did not care what it was. As her starving, searing gaze intensified with her anger, she watched Rikke choke on her words:

     ”M- monster—“

     The vampire did not wait for her to finish, sending a premature ice spike soaring through Rikke’s left chest.

     Even her officer’s armor could not protect the General from Serana’s rage.

     The word she’d strained so much to utter had been her very last.

     Vingalmo was less than pleased with his assignment.

     It wasn’t like he could argue with Lord Harkon about it, but pairing him with Orthjolf might have been the dumbest thing his Master had ever done.

     Tailing Serana wasn’t a brilliant idea in itself. Vingalmo and Orthjolf were third-generation vampires, while the Daughter of Coldharbour was pure-blooded.

     She was much stronger than either of them. They would have to be careful to avoid detection.

     It was hard to be cautious when arguing about everything seemed inevitable.

     “I can’t tell whether they went to Solitude or Dragon’s Bridge. There’s not enough of the stupid mortal’s blood,” Orthjolf remarked, checking the traces of Meraxes’ nosebleed that remained near a tree trunk.

     “You boorish oaf! You’re just as stupid as the day you debuted in Court,” Vingalmo snapped. He was angered with his companion’s dull nature. “They’d obviously go to whichever one is closer. They’re doubtlessly in the Imperial City.”

     “Whatever,” Orthjolf grumbled, suppressing the urge to pop Vingalmo’s head off his willowy shoulders. “You couldn’t do this garbage side-job without me and you know it. We’ll go to Solitude, and if we can’t find them, I bet they’ll be at Dragon’s Bridge.”

      Vingalmo offered Orthjolf a conceited snort in response as they started side-by-side down the road to Solitude.

     “Why doesn’t Lord Harkon get off his stupid, glorified chair and find his daughter himself?” Orthjolf adjusted the Volkihar brooch on his robes with an overconfident panache.

     “Because then he’d have to leave us in charge, and Molag Bal forbid someone else ever rule Clan Volkihar,” Vingalmo shot back, straightening his shoulders with an arrogance that matched—if not, exceeded—Orthjolf’s. “Besides, I’d murder you over lordship, anyhow.”

     “Not if I killed you first,” Orthjolf replied with a gritty laugh. “You’ll struggle against me; I’ll tell you that much. I’ll look like a prized pig to Harkon when I bring Serana to him alone. And when he asked what happened to you, I’ll place blame on that mortal whelp.”

     “Well, you sure have thought this one out. We’ll have to see if everything goes according to your little plan, won’t we?”

     Vingalmo smiled, though his grin was no more charming than a snake’s.

     Orthjolf could have sworn he even heard a hiss accompany it.

     To Meraxes, the sunlight felt cold.

     Horrified onlookers watched as Hadvar and Serana carried her, wrapped like a mummy in a white sheet. Some of her blood already leaked through the thick cover.

     Hardvar wasn’t sure what to make of the situation.

     He knew that Rikke and Whitemane had once been rivals for Generalship after Tullius was killed at the siege on Windhelm, but never thought such a thing could have amounted to the crimes he’d caught her committing.

     Especially because she won, though that was, in part, because Meraxes had lost her leg.

     The truth about Meraxes was complicated. Those who knew her father’s true identity were bound to reject her for any position, as it was easy, then, to mark her a traitor to the Empire.

     Look what you’ve gotten yourself into, He thought and paid the inkeeper who’d recognized Serana from earlier for a room where they could treat her wounds.

     Keeping her in the Castle Dour medical ward would be too risky considering she was tied to the General’s death. They wouldn’t be able to stay in Solitude for long, either.

     Lucille Cornelius...

     Hadvar then tipped the keeper for a promise of silence, slipping into a room behind the counter. Though some of the tavern’s patrons had seen Meraxes, the least he could do was shield her from those in the back of the building.

     ...you never should have returned to the Imperial City.

     He closed the door behind them.

     “I can’t say what will become of the situation that I’ve witnessed, although it would have been better if you’d allowed me to arrest Rikke,” Hadvar said and turned the lock closed. “All the Empire has to explain this is my word and yours. I trust you'll want to avoid a murder conviction."

     Soren still looked sick; Serana had to carry him for some time because he’d fainted at the sight of Meraxes’ body. She propped him against a chair in the corner of the room, returning to Hadvar and her disgruntled friend.

     “I didn’t know what else to do,” Serana replied with all the honesty she could muster. The instant she’d seen Rikke and what had become of Meraxes, she’d lost all control of herself. “I...don’t often have moments like that. I apologize.”

     Hadvar shook his head, Meraxes’ blood staining his armor from his earlier wrapping her up.

     “Many would argue that you did what was right. She might have killed Meraxes if you’d given her enough time to react. I’m convinced I would not have been able to save her if I had gone alone.”

     To Hadvar’s surprise, Serana slid her arms around his shoulders, pulling him into a tight embrace.

     She didn’t leave him much space to do anything but return it half-heartedly.

     “Thank you for helping her,” she said quietly and released him.

     “It’s not much, really,” Hadvar replied, lost in thought for a moment as he stared at his old friend. She was still wrapped in a makeshift full-body cast. “Not compared to what she’s done for me. If you don’t mind, I’m going to pay Angeline and Vivienne next-door a visit. They’ll give me some healing potions to ease Meraxes’ pain.”

     Unable to express her gratitude for the Legate in words, Serana simply waited for him to leave.

      She turned to Soren when he did. The color had mostly returned to his face.

     “Wait outside the door, would you? Things won’t look kindly in here.”

     The younger vampire obeyed her without a remark, unable to ditch the image of mutilated Meraxes from his mind.

     He didn’t want to see it again.

     When the men were both gone, Serana unwrapped the sheets from Meraxes' body. She was careful not to hurt her when peeling the final layer away from her sticky wounds.

     The view horrified her as if she were seeing it for the first time.

     Her anger, too, returned, but she channeled it into the energy she needed to heal the more minor of Meraxes’ slices.

     Why would someone do this to her?

     Serana pressed her fingers to Meraxes' flanks and sealed them closed like wax on a letter.

     After healing the first one, she heard Meraxes groan.

     She’d awoken at the very worst of times.

     I have only the memory of what pain she’s in...

     Molag Bal had abandoned Serana's body in a similar state long ago. She was well aware of how much it hurt to lie there, helpless.

     Although Meraxes was not alone.

     ”Serana?” Meraxes croaked and tried to sit up. Serana did her best to remain gentle as she pushed her friend, by an uninjured part of her chest, back onto the mattress. ”Is that you?”

    “It is.”

     Serana had never heard Meraxes speak so softly. She figured the pain had subdued her usual crass ardor.

     She hadn’t the energy to be herself.

     "That hurts.”

     “I know,” Serana said, her magic repairing the skin over the burns beneath her breasts. “I know it does.”

     "Why’d you come back?”

     Normally, Serana would have laughed, but Meraxes was in such a grave state that she couldn’t bear to find humor in anything.

     “Why, Meraxes,” she said in a low and soothing voice as she pulled her hands away. She’d done all she could. Hadvar’s potions would have to finish the job. “I thought it best to stick to the monsters I know.”

     “That doesn’t—"

     Meraxes coughed. Her voice emerged stronger after Serana had fixed a couple of her wounds. Still, she felt the tightness in her chest associated with holding back tears, and her fingers, toes, and ankles hurt so much that she could not describe the pain were she so asked. “That doesn’t make sense. You had a whole castle of vampires almost to yourself.”

     Serana pulled up a chair and planted herself by Meraxes’ bedside. She knew how Meraxes was vexed by her own nudity, so Serana would have covered her with a blanket. But she didn’t want it to stick to her cuts and leave behind wool fibers.

     “You would have come back for me for reasons they’d never,” she said and examined Meraxes’ hand that was closest to her.

     Every single finger was broken and burned, twisted to the point that healing it was beyond the vampire’s power. “And look at what she did to you. Had I not intervened, you could have died.”

     Meraxes chuckled, though Serana was lost on how she could have derived any sort of amusement given the amount of pain she was in.

     “I wouldn’t let myself die by Rikke’s hands,” she laughed and propped herself against the bedframe with her wrists.

     Being in Solitude, all the furniture was upscale.

     It was a shame she’d bled all over it.

     “I’d sooner kill myself.”

     “It so happens that I took care of her for you.”

     Meraxes leaned back until her shoulder blades touched the wall behind her, losing herself in disturbing, guttural laughter.

     “Meraxes, lie down. I don’t want you up like this until you’re healed.”

     “You don’t understand,” her amusement faded. “I’ve wanted to kill that bitch for years.”

     There it was: the side of Meraxes that terrified Serana.

     Though she’d retained her human form, Meraxes always had a wolf inside her. It waited to emerge and rip the world apart.

     The way she looked at Serana, though, was different.

     Or so Serana thought. When Meraxes' attention diverted to anything else, her eyes contained a glint of unadulterated, destructive power. It was sometimes as if she secretly wanted nothing more than to unravel life and watch it burn in her wake.

     But Serana saw kindness there somewhere. A kindness she’d been blind to before.

     “You needn’t trouble yourself with her any longer,” she replied in a low, comforting tone, before she heard rapping on the door.

     She let Hadvar back inside once he revealed himself. He carried a clunky sack filled to the brim with different healing potions and bowls to put them in so she could soak her fingers and toes.

     “It seems I owe you my life again, Hadvar.”

      It had been some time since Serana saw Meraxes smile, but the Legate’s appearance did the trick. The satisfaction of greeting an old friend was a feeling she had long forgotten.

      “The last time I saw you, you were holding Ulfric’s head by the braids." He laughed heartily and uncorked the potions one by one. “You’ll never owe me your life. You’re the reason Skyrim is free of rebellion.”

     “That was not an individual effort.”

     “Well, you’re right about that. As good as it is to see you again, my best advice for you is to leave Solitude as soon as you’re able."

     Hadvar poured the elixirs into bowls, giving each to Serana. She helped steady them so Meraxes could soak her fingers. “I wouldn’t return, if I were you.”

     “Don’t worry; I’m not planning to."

     Meraxes gritted her teeth as the potion worked, bending and setting her broken bones. “Could you do me a favor before everyone starts wondering where you are?”

     “What do you need?” Hadvar asked as Serana removed her hands from the elixir-filled bowls. They were good as new, save the fact they’d still hurt for a couple of hours.

     “I had letters in my shirt. I want you to read them to me.”

     Hadvar smiled, lifting a garment torn beyond recognition from the end table.

     “I have to head back now." He offered the mutilated blouse to Serana, who removed Meraxes’ mail from the breast pocket. “But I’m sure she can do that. It seems like she takes good care of you.”

     Meraxes snorted at Hadvar’s off-hand comment as he turned away to leave. Since Rikke was gone, Hadvar was the only person in Nirn—save Meraxes herself—who knew her darkest secrets.

     “If not in the near future, I’ll see you in Sovngarde.”

     “If the Void doesn’t take me first, you just might.”

     With that, he departed, returning to clean up the horrible political storm a dead General was bound to cause.

     Meraxes' attention shifted to the sound of paper crinkling after the door had closed behind him.

     “This one’s from Gregor.”

     Meraxes sighed, exasperated at the mere mention of his name. She hated Gregor, the Housecarl Jarl Skald assigned her for taking care of a little mage problem.

     “What’s it say?”

     Serana unfolded it to read:

”My Thane,

I am still investigating the crime of arson as it relates to The Smiling Knight. Until then, I have moved my surviving belongings in with Jarl Skald. The guards believe the Silver Hand have something to do with it. They are placing a hefty bounty on a nearby encampment, and will contribute toward the fee to return our inn to business.

Your obedient servant,

Ser Gregor.”

     “I want to put a blade through that man’s head sometimes,” Meraxes grumbled and poured the remaining potions into the bowls to fix her toes and ankles.

     “He sounds polite. I can’t see why you dislike him.” Serana refolded the letter, placing it back onto the end table.

     “Try traveling with him for a year. Part of the reason I opened The Smiling Knight was so he’d have a job other than following me around,” she said, fighting a pained growl as the elixirs began to repair her egregiously damaged feet. “What does the one from Whiterun say?”

     “Hm. It’s not signed, so I can’t tell who it’s from. And the penmanship is awfully messy,” Serana remarked but examined it anyway. She could make out most of the words, but it would still be a struggle on her part.

     “Can you read it?”

     “I’ll try.”

     The vampire had to rely on context to fill in some of the sentences, since the letter looked like it was written by someone barely literate. She did her best with what was there:

“Shield-Sister,

Where have you been? While you were on one of your trips, you failed to protect one of our own. The Silver Hand...”

     Serana choked on the rest of the sentence, tears forming at her eyes. She hadn’t expected to learn what she’d read on the remaining lines.

     Worse, still, she had to break the news to Meraxes.

     “Woah, hold on, you never cry."

     Meraxes' brows furrowed as instinctively reached for the letter, which Serana withheld. She obligated herself to finish telling Meraxes; the vampire would not allow her to look upon the words. Yet she felt her chest tighten with a foreign pain—one that she’d not felt in decades—when she tried to read it again. “What the hell is going on?”

     “It’s Kodlak..."

     Serana couldn’t bring herself to finish the letter aloud, for it would urge more tears from her eyes. Meraxes was in no mood to handle her hysteria.

     Nor would she be in the near future, because parchment she held between her fingers had the potential to do more damage to her friend than Rikke had.

     Serana reached for Meraxes’ healed hand, offering it a gentle squeeze. That was all she could think to do in her shock.

     Meraxes did not pull away. At first, Serana wondered why. But as soon as she looked into Meraxes’ eyes—glinting a pale silver that mirrored the intensity of the moon itself—she could see that she already knew what had come to pass.

     “He’s...dead.”

End of Chapter 10

Next: The journey to Jorrvaskr is a long one, and our protagonists don’t know they’re being followed. When Soren and Meraxes begin discovering some of Nirn’s darkest secrets, Clan Volkihar and the Dawnguard learn that accomplishing their respective missions won’t be so simple after all.

Warning: Chapter 11 contains graphic depictions of violence and death. Reader discretion is advised.

Side Banter: I treat every tenth chapter kind of like a season finale, so I hope I didn’t shake you guys up too much with the thickening plot!

In case you didn’t notice, there’s definitely a lot to Meraxes that Serana doesn’t know yet, and Soren still has to learn some of Meraxes’ and Serana’s background information. That, and there are also unexplored regions of Soren’s past...

Anyway, the next few chapters have a couple of moments you guys have been waiting for. You know what some of them are, but others are surprises. The Dawnguard will finally begin its new mission, and there will be some wild encounters. Additionally, prepare to meet a new main character in Chapter 11!

As always, thank you, loyal readers, for sticking with me! Until next time on Kindred!

Chapter Text

     When Beleval told him she was outsourcing her options until the Dawnguard regained its full strength and morale, hiring a Dark Brotherhood assassin hadn’t been Gunmar’s first inkling.

     Of course, when anyone in Skyrim grew doubt, the best course of action was to involve the Daedra.

     He supposed it was like fighting fire with fire. Like a skirmish between Sithis and Molag Bol.

     Still, the Black Sacrament unnerved him.

     ”Sweet Mother, sweet Mother, send your child unto me, for the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear...”

     From a wooden chair posted outside Beleval’s private quarters—which was once Isran’s own room—the blacksmith listened to her chant those words for hours each day.

     ”Sweet Mother, sweet Mother...”

     The smell of lavender and death had made him sick, sleeping beneath the doorframe and wafting throughout the corridor, but he was acclimating to it quickly.

     ”...send your child unto me.”

     Gunmar’s steady breath caught when he felt the hairs on the back of his neck raise. He gawked as if his lungs had opened to welcome a flurry of Skyrim’s winter air.

     Something—no, someone—was touching him.

     But he couldn’t see anyone—

     —not until he looked up.

     And when he did, his heart stopped.

     Two, beady eyes stared intrusively into Gunmar’s own from behind a mask. It belonged to a woman who hung like a bat from the rafters.

     The assassin released her feet and slowly climbed down from the ceiling. Gunmar could see, even in the subtle light, her form-fitting armor made with light leather dyed hues of obsidian and cherry.

     Is that what a member of the Dark Brotherhood looks like?

     Beleval had assigned Gunmar to guard her, but he only looked on, petrified, when the woman opened the door to her room and closed it behind him.

     He gathered his courage to follow since the Dawnguard’s new leader had instructed him to remain close. But he still harbored fear and resentment towards the Dark Brotherhood as an organization.

     When he entered the room, the woman had her mask off.

     She was a Dunmer; a dark-skinned one, tall and beautiful, save a few scars on her face and neck. Her long, black hair was tied up in sections, each separated by clips.

     He identified the clip material as bone when he looked closer and could make out a simple beetle design on each.

     Gunmar hadn’t remembered a single time he thought a Dark Elf woman possessed any characteristics of physical charm, but the one before him certainly did.

     The blacksmith would have struggled to hold his tongue were she not an assassin.

     “You, performer of the ritual,” she addressed Beleval in a firm and unrelenting voice. “Is it all right with you if he’s in here while we discuss your contract?”

     “He’s the closest thing I have to a personal guard at the moment,” said Beleval, “so he stays.”

     The assassin pulled up a chair, her eyes diverted to the skeleton assembled in the middle of the floor.

     One sweep of a fan she unfolded from her pocket was enough to extinguish the circle of candles surrounding the bones so only the hearth’s light remained.

     “Who am I killing?”

     Beleval turned to meet the assassin’s dark eyes; her question was as straight and to-the-point as ever.

     She didn’t expect the woman to start laughing after Beleval didn’t answer her.

     “Oh, the look on your face! You’d better get comfortable naming somebody. After all, you did perform the Black Sacrament for a reason."

     The assassin’s laughter died but sparks of amusement shone more than visibly in her midnight gaze. “I doubt you robbed that poor sinner’s grave and dropped him on the middle of your floor just to speak with old me. So, who am I killing?”

     “Her name is Meraxes Whitemane."

     Beleval didn’t see the harm in replying, though she had to double-take when she turned to Gunmar. He was blushing like a drunken Altmer. “She’s gotten in the way of Dawnguard operations, and so we need her dead. We’re willing to pay you half up front and the other after you’ve killed her.”

     “Oh, well, there’s no need for that." The assassin’s mirthful chuckle returned. “I collect the full payment after completing the job and come back with a fun, little tale to tell on the house.”

     She unclipped one of the scarab clamps from her hair and extended her palm for Beleval to take it. “This is what I give my clients until I’ve completed my contract. It’ll serve as a reminder that you’re my employer.”

     Reluctantly, Beleval grabbed the clip and examined it briefly before placing it in one of her pockets.

     “Would it benefit you to have any background information on Meraxes?”

     “Little details are always helpful,” the assassin said and met Beleval’s eyes after she’d parted with her beetle accessory. “Go on and tell me what you know.”

     “One thing, before we begin..."

     Beleval’s gaze held an unquantifiable level of skepticism, although she supposed she had nothing to doubt.

     After all, the Dark Brotherhood sent one of their own in response to her Black Sacrament.

     She preferred reassurance still. Beleval wanted to guarantee she didn’t accidentally sell her soul to a Daedra by taking the woman’s hair clip, or by speaking with her.

     It was best if the Dawnguard leader could ensure the assassin was, in fact, a mortal. That she went by a human name.

     “...What should I call you?”

     The woman smiled eerily, charisma barely noticeable in the shadows of her teeth.

     “Zira.”

     Serana was less than pleased—but not surprised—to find Meraxes drinking at the bar.

     The pain of losing Kodlak surely wasn’t something that would impact either of them lightly. Meraxes had known him for what Serana presumed to have been at least a decade.

     His funeral was the only reason she budged on Meraxes' decision to travel straight to Morthal’s Moorside Inn even though she and Hadvar had just healed her and that process hadn’t come close to fixing her completely.

     Her body was a derelict, still covered in bandages, and armorless, since she couldn’t afford any to protect herself.

     Meraxes was near the most physically vulnerable Serana had ever seen her.

     Serana supposed she wasn’t too far behind emotionally.

     Naturally, she wasn’t about to let Meraxes slump over the countertop alone. Instead, she claimed the barstool to her right and caught Meraxes’ silver gaze as soon as she detected her.

     “I thought I lost you for a minute there,” Serana said. Her hand reached for the one Meraxes used to hold a bottle of honey mead to her lips. She brought it down slowly, her fingers hugging each of Meraxes’ with a gentle squeeze. “You should be careful with yourself. Hadvar and I went through a lot of trouble to make sure you can so much as walk.”

     “What did I tell you about fucking touching me?”

     Meraxes’ first instinct was to dismissively grumble at the vampire, who’d have been lying if she said she wasn’t fed up with Meraxes' bitching every once in a while.

     “What did I tell you about drinking?”

     Since Serana understood Meraxes was having a difficult time in light of Kodlak’s death, she thought it prudent not to vex her incessantly. She hoped to drag her away from the bar at the very least.

     But Meraxes was not having it:

     “Why’d you come back for me?”

     Rather than turning her back to Serana or ignoring her altogether, Meraxes’ iron gaze seared into her own with a burning conviction, inexorable as the sunrise. “If you disapprove of my habits—if you don’t like the person I am— then why didn’t you just stay with your father in that castle?”

     There was something about Serana’s decision Meraxes certainly didn’t understand.

     Admittedly, it was more than just something.

     Serana could have lived as a Lady in a castle full of servants she shared with Harkon. She could have had a constant stream of food and almost whatever else she wanted.

     Instead, she chose to wander back onto the roads of uncertainty, unsure where her next meal would come from or who would make the next attempt on Meraxes’ life.

     “It doesn’t make sense. Not in the slightest.”

     Meraxes conceded the beverage and abandoned it on the counter. Her brow furrowed in the way it always did when she felt troubled.

     Serana did not let go of her hand, forcing her to leave the alcohol behind.

     She lead Meraxes patiently into the room she’d paid for earlier, satisfied when she sat on the bed and let her feet hang over the frame’s edge.

     Protruding from one of her pant legs was the wedge-like, wooden end of her artificial foot, which the shoe had slid off of due to its smaller size.

     Serana closed the door after she’d surrendered her grip on Meraxes. She then pulled a chair up by the bedside so she could speak with her friend.

     Serana knew how Meraxes didn’t like sitting on beds with her after that the arrow-removing incident at Dead Man’s Drink. Accordingly, she kept her distance.

     “It’s true that my father’s clan could have offered me a lot. And I believe, truly, that most other vampires would have accepted his offer to remain there without much hesitation, if any at all."

     Serana truthfully wasn’t sure of any explanation beyond that. She wasn’t overly emotional and sometimes didn’t know how to express her feelings at all, so she usually resorted to physical contact. It didn’t often matter how much she meant what she said; she lost track of her words so easily, anyhow.

     “I simply didn’t want to.”

     That was what it’d come down to. Most vampires would have gratefully accepted Harkon’s living arrangements, sure.

     But to Serana, that lifestyle seemed instead like a death sentence.

     “My mother left because she’s like me. She didn’t want to be confined, especially not with my father. I can’t say I blame her. Selling ourselves to a Daedric Lord was my father’s definition of a family activity, so I suppose we both owed it to ourselves to part ways.”

     “So you came back for me? What the hell made you decide that?”

     Serana didn’t need to think as hard about Meraxes’ follow-up, but she decided not to answer at all.

     Instead, she relaxed into the bed frame from her chair, scooping Meraxes gently up into another one of her warm embraces. She rested her chin on Meraxes’ steady shoulder and was careful not to squeeze to hard in light of her injuries.

     “You are an idiot, Meraxes.”

     That was her single response, carrying all the emotion of any other she could have given. Meraxes was the only one who’d come back for Serana, after all, in her centuries of living.

     She was Serana's best friend.

     Meraxes wanted to say something about what she’d been roped into but couldn’t form the words.

     Lingering in her mind were the fading feelings of abandonment; of how she thought, when Harkon left her stranded on the beach across from Castle Volkihar, that certainly no one would bother finding her.

     Not only had Serana done that—

     —she had come to her rescue.

     Meraxes seldom needed someone to save her. She was quite used to doing the saving, in fact, and often earning a sum of gold for it.

     But Serana had starkly separated herself from Meraxes' usual crowd in society. She broke away so harshly from Nirn’s true monsters that she’d even slain General Rikke in Meraxes’ besmirched name.

     Serana was her exception.

     Meraxes' shoulders slackened as she acclimated to the contact, and before any more doubt could form in her grieving mind, her hands found themselves trailing along the divide between Serana’s shoulder blades.

     She could feel the vampire’s stiffening in surprise at first. Afterward, she felt an emboldened, tighter squeeze around her body.

     Releasing a drawn-out sigh over Meraxes’ shoulder, Serana realized she forgot to place her own feelings.

     Was it relief that would have made her heartbeat quicken, had she one?

     Surely...surely that was it. Relief.

     “I’m so glad you’re alive, Meraxes."

     That was all she could think to say. She was still shocked by Meraxes' sudden warmth towards her.

     And Serana swore that before Meraxes uttered her next words, she felt dormant laughter bloom within her chest:

     “So am I.”

     The Nirn Soren knew had bolstered into something sinister and terrible as he drifted off to sleep.

     He did not know where he’d awoken, but he felt its stark inevitability in his bones.

     The dreamworld, dare he name it such a thing, resembled the Moorside Inn...

     ...except it was drowned in dust and shadow.

     Ebony vines and tendrils from dead trees twisted around the bed frame, swallowing the wooden floor whole. It ate the rest of the furniture, too, some of it beyond recognition.

     It became clear that Soren was not truly dreaming—

     —rather, he’d found himself trapped in a sinister nightmare.

     What would Lady Serana do? he thought and sat up on the shadowy bedside.

     The floor was so Void-like he worried he'd fall through it if he stood.

     But Serana was brave; much braver than he. Surely, she would find the courage to walk in such a damned place.

     “Be not afraid..."

     Soren turned his head at the reverberation of a voice from outside the door.

     The voice had been soft. Feminine. Not what he expected.

     He didn’t wonder for long, though.

     Bending until it broke to create a makeshift entryway into a twisted main hall, consumed by the black, dead plants like his own room, the wall warped and twisted and shattered into a mass of splinters.

     Through the portal stood a woman, short and straight-haired. She was clad in a white dress with red bodice ties.

     She was difficult to miss, given that the ivory of her clothing was the only light in all of his pitch-black nightmare.

     ”Beautiful child...sweet abomination...come unto me.”

     Soren apprehensively found his footing on the Void-like floor. To his relief, he did not sink into it.

     It was difficult not to approach the woman, though a voice in the back of Soren’s mind screamed at him for even fathoming such an action.

     Something about her was just as inevitable as the place in which he’d found himself. His bones and still-beating heart seized that conviction before his brain could ever begin to process it.

     “Where am I?”

     He found himself asking the woman a question, still on the other side of the hole she’d made in the wall. Soren’s curiosity often coexisted with his fear, although with every minute that came to pass, he was not as scared.

     He knew not why. Soren was, on most days, a coward in its finest form.

     ”Oh, my darling nephew...” She smiled at him. The wrinkles around her grin hid centuries of buried agony. ”I have brought you to Coldharbour.”

     Without asking another question; before his mind could think to conjure one, a hand much stronger than the boy’s own yanked him across dimensions and out of the lingering darkness.

     Soren awoke in a cold sweat, in the same, well-kept inn room—free of dead trees or a floor that taunted his demise—where he’d fallen asleep.

     ”Don’t fear, my dear...I will come to you in time...”

     He could still hear her lingering voice despite the fact that he could plainly see that he was no longer in Coldharbour.

     ”...and I shall tell you the truth...”

     What he heard left him terrified and bewildered, petrified so severely he could not even move the eyes inside his skull.

     ”...the truth of the Tyranny of the Sun.”

     ”And who are you, the proud lord said,
that I must bow so low?”

     The Four Shields’ new hire, a fresh graduate of the Bard’s College, strummed the lute along with his song. He’d been trained to sing and smile but not to handle infighting vampires who barged into the tavern.

     So, when the door swung open, he tried his best to offer the visitors a grin. But what he heard nearly made him swallow his music.

     “I told you, you moron! They aren’t in here, either!”

     Vingalmo was less than satisfied with Orthjolf’s prediction even though their search in Solitude had been equally fruitless.

    “Only a cat of a different coat,
that’s all the truth I know.”

     Orthjolf did not seem to care, at least as much as Vingalmo thought he should. He’d already seated himself at the bar and begun conversation with the innkeeper while she washed dishes.

     She was a mortal female. Vingalmo knew how Orthjolf liked keeping their company.

     “Why don’t you stand back and let me handle it?” Orthjolf smiled mockingly at his forced company, then turned to address the woman across the bar.

     “In a coat of gold or a coat of red,
a lion still has claws.”

     “Hello—" Orthjolf cleared his throat. “I was wondering if you’d be kind enough to tell me your name.”

     Then, a pink mist weaved in translucent tendrils around the inkeeper’s skin. Vingalmo quickly realized that Orthjolf had enthralled her.

     “And mine are long and sharp, my lord,
as long and sharp as yours.”

     “...Faida.”

     “Well, Faida, have any other vampires passed through Dragon Bridge recently?”

     Vingalmo hated enthralled mortals and their tone-deafness. He had to admit, though, that they made better chattel than conscious ones.

     “There were two...last week. They...spent two nights here. One played...flute...”

     “Could you tell me whether or not they were traveling with an armored woman?”

     Faida's mood seemed to brighten. Normally, thralls spoke with a distant, disinterested tone, but the inkeeper’s almost seemed happy.

     “Ah...yes...”

     On her face emerged a trace of a smile.

     “...the Wolf.”

     Orthjolf shot Vingalmo a glare that screamed, I told you so, and caught the edge of a visibly disgruntled sneer in return.

     “Did they mention where they were going?”

     “No...” Faida shook her head. “Boy said...she is from Whiterun.”

     Satisfied with the information he'd obtained, Orthjolf pulled Faida out of his spell.

     “I’m sorry...did you want the double room?” she asked as if nothing had happened and pulled a board of keys up over the bar top.

     Orthjolf flashed the inkeeper a superficial grin, removing his hands from the counter.

     “I’m afraid we won’t be staying here, Faida,” he returned to Vingalmo's side. The High Elf had grown even paler in his suppressed rage.

     “We’ve got a city to visit.”

      It’d been kind of Hadvar to throw a few septims in the potion bag he’d given Serana. She wouldn't have been able to travel otherwise.

      The three had to hire a carriage to Whiterun, as neither Soren nor Meraxes could walk efficiently.

      Soren was still severely shaken up—Serana assumed because of Rikke’s terrible scene—and Meraxes still wasn’t well enough to travel long distances on foot. The journey to Morthal had been difficult enough for her.

      At least Meraxes had acquired a cheap set of iron armor to keep her safe in case the Dawnguard felt bold enough to murder another carriage driver.

     “What’s eating you?”

      Serana was surprised when Meraxes asked Soren about his feelings. She'd previously figured Meraxes didn't care very much for him.

      Still, whether he wanted to or not, Soren knew the secret of her missing leg. His fear of her still largely derived from the incident with the clean pants.

     “Nothing, since I became a vampire,” he replied dryly, unable to retain eye-contact with either of the women.

      “Did you just make a joke?” Serana said and grinned in temporary relief.

     “He tried to."

     “Oh, come on, Meraxes. It was good.”

     Meraxes had seldom seen Serana so content, especially when the sun loomed high in the sky. She didn't even bother to complain about it.

     The vampires were bound to burn to a crisp if they removed their hoods, though. Meraxes still wondered how Serana’s cleavage didn’t roast since they were always exposed to the daylight.

     “She has a point, though, Soren. You’re not usually like this.”

     The boy shrugged it off, turning at last to meet his Maker’s eyes.

     “I just had a nightmare. That’s all.”

     Meraxes and Serana both fell silent.

     Each knew what nightmares were like. They’d had plenty of their own. It wasn’t difficult to imagine that Soren would, too, considering what they’d put him through the past few weeks.

     Such were the consequences that followed adventurers who’d given themselves to Daedric Lords.

     “Well...” Serana shattered the lingering quiet. “I’m here if you need me, Soren. And we’ll find a shining opportunity to discuss your powers soon.”

     Were Serana to tell the truth, she wanted to speak with Soren alone for more reasons than teaching him about his abilities. She wanted to know why he came with her and couldn’t help but feel guilty about the fact that he’d been caught up in Meraxes’ mess.

     That was one Serana had taken on, but what if it wasn’t what Soren wanted?

     While she was deep in thought, a startling sound reverberated through the air; one so guttural that it shook the ground.

     “What was that?”

     Soren lifted his head, finally appearing alert.

     Moments passed before the noise echoed again. By then, the driver had arrived to the Whiterun Stables.

     The sounds were strange, but Meraxes had a one-track mind. Kodlak’s funeral was that evening. All she wanted was to cross through the city gate and see her family at Jorrvaskr.

     But as she approached the tall doors—the vampires close behind her—a flock of city guards came charging out, some of the Companions and armed citizens mixed in.

     “You!”

     A Dunmer woman stopped sprinting momentarily to point her finger at Meraxes.

     “You’ve got a sword. If you know how to use it, then by order of the Jarl, come with us!”

     Meraxes recognized Farkas and Vilkas among the crowd. They scowled at her and the vampires with fury and contempt.

     With an exasperated sigh, she wordlessly joined the mob.

     Serana followed her at the shoulder, refusing once more to leave Meraxes behind. Soren trailed at their feet.

     It was only after minutes of running that Meraxes realized the magnitude of the threat, as it came barreling through the sky at immeasurable speeds.

     CRASH!

     In a fraction of a second, stone debris flew from the Western Watchtower in every direction, the building itself collapsing on one side.

     "DRAGON!”

     One of the tower guards released a visceral scream as a rock crushed his companion. It sent a spurt of blood flying up to soak him.

     ”Yol toor shul!”

     [Fire, inferno, sun!]

     Then, a rain of flames blazed down from the clouds, setting the watchtower and surrounding grass afire.

     In the Pale, the fields were dry—

     —and dry grass was tinder.

     “If we don’t stop the beast, it could burn our city and its people!”

     The woman who’d asked for Meraxes’ participation sent a rallying cry through the ranks of guards, Companions, and random townsfolk, and then unsheathed her sword.

     “...So let’s kill us a dragon!”

     Some of the party cheered while others appeared close to soiling their pants.

     All, though—even Soren, who Serana had informed was quite vulnerable to fire with his new nature—charged forward to meet the threat at the tower.

     The vampires remained close together. Meraxes thought it best to return to them.

     After all, Farkas and Vilkas weren’t bound to welcome her warmly. That was something best saved for after a dragon attack.

     “You two should stay in the tower,” Meraxes said. Her eyes grew troubled when she turned to Serana. “You were the one who told me you’re not fireproof.”

     “And you’re injured, Meraxes,” she retorted sharply. “I won’t apologize for staying with you.”

     “It’s not just you.”

     When Soren met her eyes, Serana finally understood.

     He'd almost died the last time she’d left him unattended to help fight one of Meraxes’ battles. She had to learn from her mistake for his sake, if not for her own.

     Serana accompanied Soren into the tower without arguing any further. Magic wasn’t particularly useful around dragons, anyway, but guilt still stabbed at her heart when she couldn’t help Meraxes fight.

     Serana was just beginning to discover her love of adventure...

     ...And adventure seldom happened without a little danger, whether or not it took the form of dragon fire.

     From the partially-sunken window, Serana could see the occasional burst of fire descend onto the field, and the volley of arrows flying up at the imposing beast which dominated the sky.

     It grounded itself occasionally to bite some of the mob. Meraxes was stationed there to inflict damage with her greatsword.

     It swallowed a man nearly whole, except for his leg, which hung, severed, from the base of its mouth.

     ”Tin, tin, tin...”

     The dragon snorted as a chuffing sound escaping its giant muzzle.

     Serana wasn’t sure what it was saying, or if anyone understood Dovahzul enough to, but it sounded like laughter.

     Was it possible that the beast was mocking them?

     Were that the case, Meraxes was quick to shut it up with her blade.

     Extending her greatsword high, Meraxes brought it down with all the force she could muster. She left a bloody gash along the dragon’s long neck.

     The other ground forces joined her to tear the leviathan apart into a mess of blood and scaly sinew, until it released another deafening roar into the shifting battlefield.

     Serana noticed its wings were too battered to fly. The beast was stuck on the ground, now, subject to a small army of guards and townsfolk.

     She didn’t know why she was surprised to see the mortals winning when they outnumbered the dragon a good few.

     But not all of them survived.

     As the monster released its final cry, Farkas’ greatsword buried through the thick scales protecting its chest, Serana realized the toll it had taken on the guardsmen.

     Based on the way Soren gawked at the scene, he, too, was awfully focused on the stray gore and appendages littering the plain by the watchtower, and the blood that soaked nearly every blade of grass.

     The scent of it in the air was terribly thick.

     What surprised the vampires the most, though—something neither of them had dreamed of seeing in their entire lives—was a nearly-blinding light that peeled the dragon’s skin away, leaving only the bones behind.

     Unlike the sunlight, it was tolerable and didn’t burn Serana’s skin.

     But she was still afraid to approach it. She was afraid because she intimately recognized the woman the aura surrounded.

     It seeped beneath her armor—beneath her pores—filling her with illumination brighter than a star’s.

     Serana’s breath couldn’t help but catch the moment she realized that her eyes were not deceiving her—that the feat she’d witnessed was real.

     While she was not the only one staring in awe at the knight, Serana was the only one that the sight had brought to tears.

     Her reverent voice hardly rose above a whisper.

     ”Meraxes...”

End of Chapter 11

Next: Assassination and kidnapping attempts are a lot harder when your target is the last Dragonborn, and attending a funeral is difficult business when you are the last Dragonborn.

Bonus Content: I commissioned an artist to create a cover for Kindred.

She’ll be drawing it digitally in a colored-lineart style (think Tarot cards), so you’ll see it on the front of the first chapter when she finishes it!

I’ll let you guys know when it’s finished below one of the chapters, but until then, I’ll let you guys anticipate it :)

Stay tuned into the story! Shit’s about to go down!

Please welcome everyone’s favorite Dark Brotherhood Assassin to the story. She’s got quite a bit more up her sleeves than it seems.

Chapter Text

     ”My name is Irileth. I’m Jarl Balgruuf’s personal housecarl."

     The Dunmer woman introduced herself, the muscles in her face contorting to reveal her frustration and contemplation of the events that had come to pass. “I need you three to come with me at once. The Jarl will want to know what happened at the watchtower.”

     Serana was so hungry that she considered enthralling Irileth—not just because Meraxes was pissed about her delay to Kodlak’s funeral—but because she wanted a sample of the housecarl’s blood.

     “I have somewhere to be." Meraxes' tone approached a snarl. It was so charged with annoyance and fury that it visibly disturbed Irileth. “I don’t understand why I have to help you deliver your little report. It’s going to make me late.”

     “Your business can wait. Ours is more important." Irileth wasn’t budging. She knew her city’s priorities well. While Meraxes was hostile and unpleasant, Irileth didn’t have a choice.

     Farengar Secret-Fire had searched the ends of the earth for a human who could absorb dragon souls, and Jarl Balgruuf trusted the Court Wizard’s intuition with his life.

     It was the housecarl’s duty to string her along whether she liked it or not.

     “Besides, could I choose, I would gladly walk to Dragonsreach without your attitude trailing behind me. I have no reason to trust you around Whiterun’s great authority.”

     When Meraxes began to anger, Serana swore she could see steam rising from her body.

     “I’m from here, you inconsiderate—“

     Serana squeezed her wrist right where the gauntlet ended, hoping she’d stop Meraxes from going completely postal.

     There was no way Irileth could've known that Meraxes had come only to attend Kodlak’s funeral. Nevertheless, Serana noticed similarities between the housecarl and her friend that she could hardly ignore.

     The two were bound by personality to butt heads.

     Meanwhile, Soren could hardly pay attention. He was disgruntled from a lack of proper sleep.

     The hunger he felt added tremendously to his exhaustion, especially since he was still a fledgling and had not acclimated to his new diet.

     Worry clouded his mind as he approached Dragonsreach. He’d never met a Jarl before, especially in his home city, and passing by House Gray-Mane had rattled him enough.

     “They’re with me. We’re on official business.”

     The guards posted on either side of the bridge dipped their heads to Irileth and opened the door. Behind it was a well-lit main hall chocked full of staff, food, and ale.

     Before Meraxes had time to process the livelihood of Skyrim’s wealthy, a boy no older than twelve rushed up the stairs to greet her.

     “Woah!”

     He seemed excited to meet a real adventurer—or so Meraxes thought—but Irileth appeared dissatisfied with the interruption. Meraxes soon discovered why.

     “Another wanderer, here to lick my father’s boots. Good job!”

     As if the housecarl hadn’t pissed her off enough, Meraxes’ lips raised in a partial growl. The boy retreated a couple of steps.

     “What’s that, kid? You want to know what the bottom of a boot tastes like?”

     For a few, lingering seconds, the boy gaped at her boldness.

     The Jarl’s son was not used to anyone talking back to him—possessed or not—alas, the remark was enough to make him run away, up the stairs behind his father’s throne.

     “What do you think you’re doing?” Irileth whispered her seething remark. Half the Court had begun to stare at the interruption once the boy had reached the staircase. “That’s Nelkir, Jarl Balgruuf’s son!”

     Soren audibly gulped as he noticed just about everyone in the keep was transfixed on the housecarl’s silent scolding.

     There was nothing Nobles of all sorts loved more than gossip. Soren was learning that quickly.

     “So the guy I’m about to meet is a shitty father. That was something I could have done without knowing,” Meraxes shot back. She was still less than pleased with her entire situation.

     The funeral was scheduled to begin in less than an hour and she was on track to be late.

     Irileth gritted her teeth in order to hold her tongue, unsheathing her shortsword and stationing herself promptly behind Meraxes.

     That comment was her last straw.

     If Meraxes wanted to be an asshole, Irileth was going to treat her like a prisoner.

     “I know she’s crass, Irileth, but she doesn’t mean any ill—"

     “I didn’t ask and I don’t care.”

     Irileth brushed Serana’s remark aside with a ferocity of her own and poked the back of Meraxes’ breastplate with her weapon’s tip.

     “Move. Now.”

     “You could have just fucking asked.”

     Serana had forgotten what Meraxes’ biting hostility sounded like. It had been a while since she’d heard it directed at anyone. She and Irileth were both inexorable forces of nature, and the sooner they separated from one another, the better off they’d be.

     Regardless of what Serana thought was best, Meraxes marched on towards Jarl Balgruuf’s throne at the end of the main hall.

     The man himself was ripened slightly with age, which didn’t seem to hold him back. He’d armed himself with a war axe. Meraxes couldn’t help but wonder whether or not he could actually use it.

     He dressed in finery, which wouldn’t protect him much from an aggressor. Meraxes assumed his weapon was only for show.

     These nobles are pathetic, and they think they can drag me up here to report to them!

     Meraxes grew more furious by the second, her thoughts sending her spiraling down a chute of inevitable, cynical anger. Does a surplus of gold make people stupid, I wonder?

     Every minute she spent in Dragonsreach was one fewer with the Circle. All she'd wanted was to celebrate Kodlak’s life.

     “I advise you calm down." Balgruuf spoke, Meraxes’ rage apparent to him. But the way he scrutinized her with his eyes only irked her more.

     “Irileth, I trust you brought these people to Dragonsreach for good reason,” he attested on behalf of his housecarl and averted his gaze prudently from Meraxes'.

     “Yes, my Jarl." Irileth prostrated herself with a curt bow. “We defeated the dragon at the Western Watchtower. But, after it died...”

     Irileth, who usually was quite sure of herself, trailed off.

     Jarl Balgruuf rarely surprised himself with anything. His jade gaze widened, though, at her calculating moment. Whatever she had to say must have been imperative.

     “...I believe this woman absorbed the dragon’s soul. Some of the guards were whispering about her being a Dragonborn, like the ones from stories.”

     “Have we any proof of this?”

     Behind his warm expression, Jarl Balgruuf suppressed his shock and partial disbelief.

     On one hand, he had no place doubting Irileth, the woman who’d fought by his side for so many years.

     On the other, the rumored existence of a Dragonborn was nothing more than a legend for children.

     “With all the respect in the world, and my friendship which has been yours for many years, my Jarl, the dragons have returned despite our cherished beliefs in their extinction,” Irileth replied. Her head was still bowed to Balgruuf. “Who are we to ignore the possibility that a Dragonborn might be real?”

     Meraxes would have spoken, save she hadn’t anything to say.

     Serana remained silent out of sheer respect. Being a vampire in Skyrim was risky enough without trampling on its mortal authority.

     And Soren was scared straight of the situation in which he found himself. He refused to talk around any of the Nobles.

     The Jarl put a hand to his beard, running it along the whitening hairs. He released a prolonged sigh, his verdant eyes deeply pensive.

     “As usual, Irileth, you are right. You have served Whiterun well in ridding of the dragon."

     Balgruuf turned to Meraxes. She'd partially upended his façade to reveal true concern. “And you...if you are truly Dragonborn, you must go to Ivarstead and climb the seven thousand steps. Those who learn the way of the voice are the ultimate dragon slayers and can help Skyrim rid of the threat.”

     At first, Meraxes liked the idea of her being Dragonborn. She figured she could make a great heap of gold slaying monsters. Perhaps their bones were worth something to merchants.

     But traversing a fuckton of stairs?

     That seemed a little excessive.

     “Additionally, I would name you my Thane for handling the threat, and offer you a few things that might help you on your journey.”

     “That’s not—“

     “Lydia!”

     The Jarl interrupted Meraxes the second she raised her voice, and at his summoning, a plain-looking, armored woman approached the throne.

     “This is the personal housecarl I’m assigning you. She’ll follow any and all of your orders as long as they’re within the law.”

     Lydia offered Meraxes a metal key, but Meraxes' furious stare had certainly thrown her off.

     Whether or not she was supposed to be unconditionally loyal to her Thane, the woman was utterly terrifying.

     “That is the key to Breezehome, a property in the Plain District. It is fitting that the Thane of my city live in it.”

     “Listen, this is great and all, but—“

     “Now be on your way, Dragonborn,” Jarl Balgruff uttered dismissively, “You have seven thousand steps to navigate.”

     ”Why are you giving me this, my Thane? Breezehome is a gift for you.”

     Lydia didn’t understand why Meraxes had passed her the key, or why they’d stopped in front of Jorrvaskr. She’d figured the warrior would want to visit her new home immediately.

     Most people would have.

     “You’re not the first housecarl I’ve been assigned, Lydia, and frankly, I don’t like having them."

     Lydia's mouth tensed into a flat, disappointed expression at Meraxes’ nonchalant words. “I want you to take these two to Breezehome. Obey her requests for now,” she ordered and pointed at Serana.

     “Why can’t Soren and I go with you?” Serana asked. Meraxes shot her troubled look that told her all she needed to know.

     “I’m attending this funeral alone,” she replied, her gaze cold and distant like a frosted mountain peak. “I’ll return when it’s over.”

     “Very well, my Thane." Lydia started toward the staircase. “Your wish is my command.”

     Without a word, Serana turned her head to watch Meraxes approach the Skyforge’s beacon of fire and smoke.

     “My Thane demands that you are in charge of the house while she is away,” Lydia said and descended the hill until she reached Breezehome’s humble entryway. “Is there something you two would like while she is attending her business?”

     “Actually,” Serana said softly, hoping Lydia wouldn’t cower at what she had in mind. It was high time she ate and taught Soren to feed properly. “This is going to sound sudden and blunt, but if you don't mind, we'd like some of your blood."

     Serana cursed inwardly. She wished she could have made her request sound better in Lydia's mind. After all, who was she to ask for such a thing? Only a friend of the woman in charge.

     Lydia’s brow raised in surprise at the odd request, but she supposed she couldn’t refute it. At least Serana gave her some actual choice in the matter

     “My blood is my Thane’s. She would want you to have it,” Lydia replied definitively, opening the door to Breezehome.

     The inside was modest. On the main floor, there was a small hearth, populated bookshelves, a few wall decorations, and a stocked bar.

     Serana noted she might want to hide the alcohol before Meraxes arrived home.

     “Forgive me,” Lydia said and interrupted Serana's visual exploration. “But I have never bled for anyone in such a deliberate manner. Is there a particular way you’d like me to do it?”

     Soren had already settled near the fireplace by the time Serana gestured for him to come, but he spent several minutes heating a stew pot before obeying.

     He figured Meraxes would want some sustenance after Kodlak's funeral.

     “Here."

     Serana offered Lydia her dagger, her expression warm and patient. Anyone who gave her full consent to feed was someone she considered worthy of respect and kindness. “Just make a slice in your hand with it. After we’re done, I promise you I’ll heal the cut.”

     Serana led her to sit by the hearth and perched on an adjacent bench. It was traditionally polite to keep mortals comfortable during the feeding process, were they not enthralled.

     “Might I speak freely?”

     Holding the knife like a well-trained warrior, Lydia’s dark eyes met the vampire’s.

     “Lydia, I understand you’re new to our group, but we tend to throw opinions about fairly loosely here. Especially Meraxes, though I know your first interaction with her wasn’t the greatest."

     Serana felt deeply amused with this odd replaying of personal history. She hoped Meraxes would feel warmth toward Lydia one day, though she’d never with Gregor. “When I met her, she tried to kill me. I’m still alive. That means there's hope for you yet.”

     “And you almost killed me,” Soren added from behind the pot.

     “That, too.”

     For the first time since Serana met her, she saw Lydia smile.

     “I simply didn’t expect vampires to be this welcoming,” she said. Her tone was mirthful despite her fighting a groan as she cut a jagged line into her palm.

     It hurt, but Lydia’s instincts told her that feeding Meraxes’ companions was well worth it.

     “Soren, come here." Though the flame-like red in Serana’s eyes swirled with temptation, she offered blood first to her ward. “I never taught you to feed, It's about time we learn something new.”

     The meal was particularly enticing to Serana since she hadn't fed in days. There would not be much left for her, but Soren was a newer vampire and would respond more poorly to hunger.

     “Put your mouth around the wound, but be careful not to stab her with your teeth. She’s already bleeding,”

     Instructing him through the process was important. Without a proper lesson, he could seriously wound someone. “Remember, this is one of a few ways to feed. It’s the one I use most often.”

     Soren obeyed, unable to help feeling a bit odd for having his beak around a woman’s palm.

     But Lydia was cooperative regardless of how progressively strange the situation became.

     “Now you can start sucking gently, but don’t let bloodlust get the best of you. You’ll hurt her if you do.”

     Soren slowly ingested the blood. His eyes dulled, retaining the smidge of brightness a well-fed vampire maintained.

     Serana remembered she’d done a lot worse the first time she fed on a mortal. Her father had shown her how to create her own wound; how to steal the life force from a human throat.

     She’d killed someone as a result.

     “Not bad,” Serana commented and offered him the shadow of a grin. “It looks like you’re done. Be careful when you come off.”

     Slowly, Soren pulled away from Lydia’s hand and wiped it off with the corner of his black cloak.

     He’d wash it later. It felt unfair to leave his spit all over the poor housecarl’s fingers.

     It didn’t take Serana long to drink her share, or to clean Lydia’s wound once more with a dark handkerchief she kept in her pocket.

     “One more thing, Soren.”

     The vampire pressed her fingers gently to the wound, sealing it partially together. She caused Lydia to curse at the sudden pain. “Finish what I started here.”

     While Soren wasn’t sure what Serana had just done, he was careful to stay tender when he applied touch to the cut.

     But nothing happened when he did.

     “I don’t understand,” he said flatly. “Is it a spell I should know?”

     “No."

     Serana shook her head and stood to observe his attempt from the faint light of the fire. “Just think about what her palm looked like before and it should fix itself.”

     That didn’t seem impossible.

     A hand; a pale, Nord’s hand. Soren had seen many of them before. Not women’s ones, but they weren’t all that different.

     Lydia’s were soft despite her years of training—her fingers far more slender than Thorald’s or Avulstein’s—appendages on the fists that struck him when he was only a boy.

     He still was a boy. He’d be one forever.

     Beneath Soren’s touch, the wound began to heal.

     He had done it.

     “It gets easier every time.” Serana praised his efforts, meeting Lydia’s smile as she examined her scarless palm. “Now you’re not a fledgling anymore. After your first feeding, you become a true vampire.”

     Soren didn’t bother fighting the grin that edged onto his face.

     His entire life, he’d never truly fit in anywhere, even with the talents of an amateur blacksmith and reputable bard.

     But Serana saw him as one of her own. Not a bastard. Not someone else’s son, who brought dishonor to the family. Not someone who cared for him out of legal obligation.

     A vampire. A true vampire.

     “Thank you, Lady Serana!”

     Before she could anticipate it, Soren had roped her into an awkward, partial hug.

     She’d thought him too shy to touch and thus stiffened in surprise at the contact.

     But he was benevolent and sweet, so Serana felt a natural warmth toward him; one she couldn’t place. After overcoming her shock, she returned the embrace.

     Feelings were confusing in the world of monsters.

     “I hope you don’t mind my saying that I’m honored and excited to work with you all,” Lydia confessed. She stirred Soren’s idle stew since he was still stuck on Serana. “You know, you’re just like a family. I can’t wait to be a part of it.”

     Serana’s attention shifted quickly to Lydia’s words, and she felt her heart rise into her throat.

     The housecarl was still mostly an outsider, unaware of the dynamics between herself, Meraxes, and Soren.

     But she supposed that word described it well enough—

     —Family.

     Zira had always wanted to see the edge of the world.

     It wasn’t as sexy as she thought it would have been, and it sure was a lot whiter than she’d imagined.

     There was ice and snow everywhere. She'd traveled about as far North as one could go; all the way to the College of Winterhold.

     This had better be worth my trouble, Zira thought as she ascended the ramps. She’d had to incapacitate some poor mage near the city who’d asked her to cast a spell before starting the journey up.

     Then again, it was her fault for trying to end Zira's little hunt.

     Zira was after one thing, and one thing only:

     Elder Scroll detection magic.

     Since Beleval told her the vampire traveling with her target had a scroll, if she could find a way to track the it, Meraxes would never get away from her.

     It’d make her job a hell of a lot easier. Too easy, even.

     She reached an impressive foyer where yet another woman tried to stop her.

     “I take it you’re one of our new recruits?”

     She had an annoying, conceited voice. Zira wanted to dismiss her immediately.

     But she obligated herself to be polite. She was a woman on a mission, after all.

     “No." Zira nearly laughed at the question, which she’d quickly deemed an accusation.

     Why would she join the College of Winterhold, of all Skyrim’s institutions?

     Why would anyone?

     Most Dunmer fighters were fire mages, but they were the very people Zira wanted to take down.

     They lurked in Solstheim, disbanding and burning one Great House after another. They failed to stop at her own family’s destruction and would continue unless someone put an end to it.

     I don’t like mages, she decided and turned her masked nose up at the woman.

     “I’ve come for your library. There are books I’m looking for.”

     “Very well,” the woman agreed, “I’ll accompany you there, you know, since you’re not a member of the College. My name’s Mirabelle, by the way.”

     Zira couldn’t truthfully say she cared about the mage’s name, but equally couldn’t expect her to trust a strange, masked individual who showed up one day asking for books of an unspecified variety.

     “It’s very nice to meet you. I’m Esmeralda.”

     “Esmeralda..." Mirabelle ascended one of four staircases once they were inside and opened yet another door to reveal the massive library. “That’s a pretty name.”

     Lying about her identity used to bother Zira, but she’d learned it was one of the best ways to protect herself from arrest, in combination with hiding her face.

     Besides, she’d gotten what she’d wanted, for the most part. All that was left was a bit of research.

     The library was the largest Zira had ever seen—not that she’d come across many—but it was certainly impressive.

     A massive collection of shelves and countertop circled around a central collaborative space, and the walls were made of filled-to-the-brim book storage.

     It was going to take her a while to find what she was looking for without assistance.

     Fortunately, she spotted an Orc standing at the front desk, holding a glass close to his eye as he examined loose pages.

     “Excuse me,” she declared from the entryway. He dropped his glass onto the table.

     It promptly shattered.

     “Oh, no, pardon me—"

     The Orc’s deep voice certainly didn’t correspond with his personality.

     From what Zira noticed, he wasn’t used to much company outside of the books he kept, and he couldn’t multitask all too well.

     “Is there something I can assist you with?”

     “Forgive Urag, Esmeralda,” Mirabelle chimed from behind her. “He means well. He’ll help you find those books.”

     “Oh.” Urag picked up on Mirabelle's input. “It’s books you’re looking for? Just let me know the titles and I’ll find them.”

     “I don’t know the titles myself,” Zira said, invisible annoyance lurking beneath her mask. “I just want to know where I might find an Elder Scroll. Got anything on those?”

     At the mention of a Scroll, Urag Go-Shub’s face lit up, his underbite practically curling over his meaty top lip.

     “Now you’ve gone and gotten him all—"

     “An Elder Scroll? I would love to have one in his library!”

     He interrupted Mirabelle without much regard for what she’d begun to say. It was as if Urag had become deaf to everything that didn’t pertain to the artifact.

     “I have a couple of books on them, but I’ve read them cover to cover and they have nothing on location. However, I can help create a device that will allow you to track Elder Scrolls. You’ll just have to promise me you’ll bring the ones you find back to the library. I’ll personally pay you for them!"

     Urag looked about ready to leap over his desk, even though it extended to meet his shoulders.

     Zira’s spirits raised as well. The device the librarian had described sounded perfect for her purpose, although she wasn’t sure she’d get her hands on the scroll to begin with. After all, her mission was different.

     But lying was an assassin’s task.

     “I’ll do that for you.”

     “This is amazing!” To Zira's chargin, Urag continued his raving, “I’ve waited so long for someone like you to come around here, and look at you, with your daggers and all! You’ll surely stab or shoot anything keeping you from the Scroll.”

     “I sure will." Zira nearly bit her tongue to prevent searing sarcasm from reaching the librarian’s ears.

     Urag pulled a gold necklace over the counter with a canteen-like pendant as she spoke. The inside was transparent and empty, despite Zira’s figuring it would have held some sort of magic.

     “Take this, unscrew the cap, and prick your finger on the spire. When you fill it with your blood, this necklace can take you to the magical artifact you’re looking for, as long as you bless it at the proper Divine’s shrine.”

     When Urag told her he’d help create the Scroll-tracking contraption, she figured there’d be more steps involved. She at least figured she’d have to travel to a few places to pick up components.

     Zira figured he must’ve been over-the-moon about the artifacts. He had all he needed right there.

     “For Elder Scrolls, that’s the Dragon God of Time, Akatosh. You should be able to detect the relative location of Elder Scrolls at least two cities away after you bless it.”

     “Helpful." Zira peeled away her leather gauntlet to press her fingertip against the tiny needle.

     Soon, her blood filled the device and she tightened the top closed. “I’ll find myself a shrine of Akatosh and return with an Elder Scroll in no time.”

     From behind her mask, Zira caught the shadow of Mirabelle’s smile and an excited wave from Urag.

     “Safe travels and good day, Esmeralda!”

     Urag called after her as she traversed the library. She started immediately towards the nearest temple.

     Time was money, so she had to move quickly.

     Safe travels? I doubt it,

     Zira usually found herself in varying degrees of peril during her adventures, but the second part of Urag’s farewell was the one she thought amusing.

     Good day?

     Oh, Zira smiled to herself as she departed College grounds. Payday is always good.

     The funeral pyre burned brighter than the sun after Aela had torched it, though Meraxes felt deep remorse as she watched Kodlak’s body set aflame.

     She hadn’t been there when the Silver Hand attacked. She hadn't been there when the Companions embarked on the revenge mission to reclaim the fragments of Wuuthrad, which, now whole, had claimed a special place in Jorrvaskr’s mead hall.

     Nor had she been there when Torvar returned with the Glenmoril witch head and Farkas and Vilkas defeated Kodlak’s wolf spirit to set him free.

     Burning the Harbinger at the Skyforge would send him to Sovngarde, where he’d always wanted to spend his eternal rest.

     Except he wasn’t the Harbinger anymore.

     In his will, he’d named a new one—Aela the Huntress, who was tasked with reading it off as his spirit ascended for judgement—

     “My Companions,

     I had hoped to live a long life to best teach you all I have come to know. Whether or not the inner Circle retained you, I see each one of you as my children, and in turn, myself as a proud father. However, if you are reading this aloud, the bright flame of my life has since extinguished, and it is time the Companions carry on with Aela the Huntress as the new Harbinger. May the wind be always at her back in the field, and tavernfolk raise their drinks in her name. Since I had contracted Rot, I enlisted Eorlund to create special items for each and every one of you. They are unique weapons, all with their own names, and are suited to your skill sets. You may find them in my living quarters before Aela settles in. They are my way of thanking you for giving my life drive and purpose, and the hope that you will remember me as you carry on through your lives, each one full of potential and promise.”

     By the time she’d finished the letter, Kodlak’s body had almost completely turned to ash and Aela’s eyes brimmed with pained tears.

     It was difficult not to grieve for Kodlak even when the Companions preferred to celebrate life rather than mourn death.

     Everyone loved him for one reason or another.

     “All right, everybody, please pick up your gifts.” Eorlund fought his misery with the premise of joy. He hoped that each member would appreciate the unique weapon he and Kodlak built for them. “He hopes you will wield them proudly.”

     Aela nodded, and as the fire died, led her Companions down the staircase in a silent file.

     Several bundles covered with cloth leaned propped against his room’s inner wall, each with a note tied on a string around it. It was just as Kodlak promised.

     Meraxes watched as the twins found theirs. Vilkas read the strapped letter first while Farkas ripped aside the wrappings.

     She saw Aela reveal a bow as pale as the summer sun. Meraxes supposed it was made of ivory, bone, or something similar.

     Her own weapon—tall enough to nearly reach the ceiling—was the sole remainder after everyone else had opened theirs.

     Something about claiming it felt wrong, even though Kodlak had it made especially for her.

     She felt guilty about not being there.

     But when Meraxes turned around and saw Aela, still waiting for her at the doorway, she pulled the letter off the string to read:

     Meraxes,

     I hope your adventures are treating you well and that you are learning more about yourself and the world around you as you walk through life. Not everyone will accept you, or the path you choose to take, but I hope you understand I love you all the same. This greatsword is especially for you, and when you turn this letter over, you will see the unique name I have given it. Wield it proudly on behalf of all things good.

     Kodlak

     Meraxes set the note on the foot of Kodlak’s old bed. Her chest and throat tightened as she held back tears.

     He’d told her he loved her, but Meraxes wasn’t sure that was something she’d deserved.

     The letter she'd planned to send him never even reached a Courier's hand.

     She’d never told Kodlak how she saw him as her father.

     Her only hope was that he’d known, and that didn’t do its part in reassuring her.

     “Would you like me to leave you alone?” Aela asked from the entryway. She could smell Meraxes’ lingering sadness in the air. The huntress wouldn’t push anyone who didn’t want to be emotional, especially since the Companions were a stoic group.

     Many among them would request death in the place of others witnessing their moments of weakness.

     “Please,” Meraxes replied. She sat for what felt like hours before she finally felt compelled to discover Kodlak’s gift; hours of mentally battling herself over whether or not she deserved it.

     When she peeled the cloth aside, a greatsword forged from dark metal remained, the hilt shaped to form a bat in a Nordic design, and an ebony wolf on the pommel.

     The sword was balanced perfectly.

     After wielding it once, Meraxes determined it was the greatest item she had ever owned, and not only because it was a gift.

     The sword would serve her well in combat. Its strong metal would withstand the trials of time and use.

     It was as beautiful as an instrument of death could be.

     It was hers, a tribute from her mentor; the father she’d recognized as her own.

     Before she joined the others outside to speak Kodlak’s parting words, Meraxes read the backside of his letter where he’d written her weapon’s name in capital letters:

     KINDRED.

End of Chapter 12.

Next: Meraxes decides her next destination. Zira finds herself much closer to an Elder Scroll. Harkon’s lackeys arrive in Whiterun.

Chapter Text

     Meraxes returned to Breezehome in the late hours of the night.

     With Kindred fastened to her back, and having left her old greatsword with Eorlund so he could melt it down, the knight sat on a bench outside. She quietly surveyed the stars.

     ”You deserve this sword because Kodlak said you do. What you think about yourself doesn’t matter, Meraxes.”

     Aela’s words reverberated throughout her mind and Meraxes felt the sudden urge to drink.

     ”Neither Farkas nor Vilkas would lie. If there’s even the slightest possibility that you’re Dragonborn, your responsibility isn’t the Companions anymore. It’s to Nirn; to Skyrim.”

     Meraxes knew that she and Aela hadn’t always seen eye-to-eye.

     That wasn’t the huntress’s fault. Meraxes became a member of the Circle by accident—it’d been the only way to keep her alive—and she was sure Aela still resented her for it.

     But the way the new Harbinger spoke to her was unfamiliar and welcoming, like she no longer wished to rid of Meraxes, but her concern for the world was genuine enough to advise a Dragonborn.

     ”Every day, I’ll strive to be the best Harbinger I can to honor Kodlak’s life. I wouldn’t make him proud by telling you to piss off, Meraxes. But, if Jarl Balgruuf told you to go to Ivarstead, then go to Ivarstead.”

     Traveling would be difficult. Meraxes' pockets weren't deep enough for it.

     If only the Jarl bothered to offer a gold reward instead of a title and a literal human being, then Meraxes would have enough for new armor and supplies instead of another mouth to feed.

     “Go. Make Kodlak proud in your own way. This is your chance to clean yourself up and unlock the potential he saw in you.”

     But Meraxes didn’t have a choice, whether or not she was short on money, or whether she was entirely positive she was Dragonborn to begin with.

     She’d made up her mind.

     “How long have you been out here?”

     Meraxes turned her head to meet Serana’s burning gaze. She’d situated herself directly outside Breezehome's back entrance.

     Once upon a time, she would have told Serana that the time she spent outside was none of her business, or even to fuck off.

     But Serana had earned a welcome and the truth.

     “Not long. Kodlak’s funeral ended a half hour ago,” Meraxes said. Grief hid behind her jaded eyes.

     “You sound exhausted."

     Serana's expression slipped into a concerned frown as she settled on the right side of Meraxes’ bench. “It’s a good thing the Jarl gave you this house. You can sleep in it until it’s time to go somewhere else.”

     Shaking her head just slightly, Meraxes let her hands claim her face.

     She was tired; that much was true. Between Kodlak’s death, Aela’s advice, the incident at Castle Dour, and her possibly being the Dragonborn, Meraxes’ life had become an impressively insurmountable burden.

     “That’s not true. I’m leaving tomorrow; first thing.” She spoke through her fingers.

     Serana extended her own hand to touch Meraxes'. Meraxes lowered them to the bench in response.

     Serana was seldom sure what to say. At the very least, Meraxes would know she cared. She wouldn’t even bother asking where they were going.

     “Why not look at the stars for a while? It’s nice out here. We don’t have to leave at dawn. We can wait until you wake up.”

     Serana slipped her fingers between Meraxes’ own, surprised when she didn’t pull away.

     That was the first time she’d let Serana hold her hand.

     “Because I’m responsible for Kodlak’s legacy now. And I might be responsible for much more than that, if I’m actually the rumored Dragonborn.”

     “Do you think you are?”

     The inquiry caught Meraxes off-guard, even though she’d been asking herself the same thing since visiting Dragonsreach.

     Meraxes allowed herself to lean into the question and released a drawn-out sigh.

     “No. I think the people at the Watchtower saw powers they hoped looked like a Dragonborn’s and they were quick to blindly place their faith in me.”

     “I don’t know much about the subject. Only what I’ve read." Serana raised her chin, losing her focus in the stars. The night sky had been different the last time she’d remembered it outside Dimhollow Crypt. “But even if you’re not the Dragonborn, those people’s faith in you is not mistaken.”

     Meraxes fell silent.

     She wasn’t sure how to respond to Serana’s words, given she’d mistreated her for so long. She must have been used to being lonely to have persevered through the drunken anger and cursing.

     “Meraxes..." Serana looked down from the stars to meet Meraxes' eyes. “Where were you born?”

     Their gray was akin to the moon’s, splashed faintly with the shade of frosty, merciless blue they’d been before she became a werewolf.

     Serana liked them.

     “City Isle.”

     “Cyrodiil?”

     Nodding, Meraxes surveyed the Plain District street for onlookers or passerbys.

     “My mother was an ambassador from Skyrim, and my father a counsel of Titus Mede the Second. He was still the Emperor back then.”

     Serana had been surprised when she’d learned Cyrodiil was the seat of an Empire, but never had she imagined that Meraxes was once so involved with it. Or—rather—her parents were.

     “If you grew up there, then how did you end up in Skyrim?”

     Meraxes resigned her hand.

     “Something...happened." She didn't quite meet Serana's eyes. “I had to come here when I was nine.”

     Serana had no intentions of inadvertently pushing Meraxes’ buttons, and if talking about her family did that, she’d at least compromise.

     “You don’t have to answer my questions. If you’d like, I’ll tell you about my childhood, too.”

     “I don’t want to talk about this right now,” Meraxes replied.

     “All right." Serana was already satisfied with the amount Meraxes had opened up to her. “Let’s get you inside, then. Everyone’s awake, and Soren made you stew.”

     “You all waited for me?”

     Meraxes stood. For the first time, Serana noticed the new weapon strapped to her back.

     “We did."

     Serana reached out and Meraxes turned around to let her touch the greatsword’s handle. She examined the Nordic, bat-like shape Eorlund had molded it into.

     “What’s this?” Serana asked and traced her fingers along the grip and pommel. At seeing the wolf’s head there, a smile spread across her face.

     It reminded her of Soren’s song.

     “It’s Kindred," Meraxes said and opened the door to Breezehome. “A gift from Kodlak.”

     “He named it,” Serana observed, though her statement sounded more like a question. “I like it.”

     Meraxes offered her an affirmative nod and to speak with her a final time before rejoining the others.

     “Come to think of it, why do you travel around with an Elder Scroll?”

     Serana wished she’d known.

     It would have only been fair, after Meraxes told her about pieces of her childhood, that Serana could answer her only question. But the reason was lost on her.

     “I’m not quite sure, honestly. But my father definitely seems to want it.”

     Serana held her breath when she noticed Meraxes’ fists tightening at her side.

     “I don’t trust him." Meraxes' tone simmered with resentment. “Harkon.”

     “He’s not the most pleasant man in Tamriel, that’s for certain."

     Serana gently traced the outline of Meraxes’ fists with her fingers. They steadily opened like blooming flowers in the springtime. “But he’s still my father. He’s just...”

     Her expression sunk with disappointment so powerful Meraxes swore she could smell it.

     “He’s obsessed with power. It only worsened after my mother exiled herself. His family is the most important thing to him because he can’t see anyone but pure-blooded vampires as his equals.”

     “I gathered that from my first impression.”

     Serana pulled promptly away from Meraxes’ unfurled hands.

     She knew Meraxes must’ve been beyond upset but chose to disguise the feeling.

     Losing loved ones wasn’t easy.

     Serana had been there. She wasn’t sure that her mother was still alive, as it’d been centuries since her damnation in Dimhollow Crypt, and speaking about her father only resurfaced her doubts.

     She hoped only to ensure Meraxes coped with her loss in a healthy way.

     “Let’s feed you and get you to bed.”

     The world Soren knew had disappeared beneath him once again.

     Lydia, who’d shared the space with him, was nowhere to be found. A pitch-black, rotting tree root had taken her place. Beyond it stood starkly the only light in the entire room:

     The woman who’d brought him to Coldharbour.

     ”Hello again, dear nephew..."

     Soren noticed a faint glow surrounding the woman’s body as she approached him. It was a god-like halo which burned away Coldharbour’s deafening darkness in its wake.

     Who could she have been to leave such a devastating impact on the midnight world Soren was trapped in?

     Who was she to call him her nephew?

     “Your Secret Art is quite incredible...bringing you to this realm in the night...I quite wish one of my sisters had it.”

     Secret Art? Sisters?

     By the second, Soren’s confusion increased. His fear gradually melted away as the woman grew closer.

     “What do you mean by ‘Secret Art?'”

     He gained his footing steadily. His legs, though, shook when he noticed the ground beneath him was mostly pitch-black.

     Even the bedroll he’d fallen asleep in was gone.

     “Every first and second-generation vampire has a gift from Molag Bal called a Secret Art,” the woman explained and conjured a chair into the empty space to settle on.

     It looked as if it were made from the dark, dead trees that littered Coldharbour, specially twisted into the shape of a seat.

     ”Some have access to magics that are otherwise lost or forbidden; the Black Arcana. Most have even more enhanced senses or combat power. Some can transform into a colony of bats, use telekinesis, or telepathy....I used to be able to walk in the sunlight...”

     When the woman met Soren’s eyes, her expression melted into something soft, innocent, and mild. He wondered who she was to have wound up in Coldharbour despite her warmth and sweetness.

     Nostalgia swirled about her gaze. Soren recognized her eye color as the brimstone hue of a vampire's.

     Despite her human demeanor, she was just like him.

     ”...and you, my nephew, can enter this realm in your dreams. Through me, you have access to the past, and fragments of the untold future...”

     Soren didn’t understand.

     Of all the places—all the people—why Coldharbour, and why the woman in the white dress?

     ”You...you must have been the first vampire to be turned...after the last with this Secret Art went away...it is called Bloodcourier...you are the bridge...between Coldharbour and the mortal world...”

     Before Soren had the chance to ask another question, the stranger’s countenance dropped into a bleak sadness.

     ”My sister...Valerica...she was the last person with your ability...until I lost her to a different realm...the Soul Cairn...she has one of the Elder Scrolls you need...”

     “What is an Elder Scroll?”

     Soren practically vomited the question. He didn’t understand how he’d become so intrepid despite Coldharbour’s imposing nature.

     Then again, existing in that realm was a part of his Secret Art.

     He belonged there.

     ”It is a relic...ancient and powerful...which shows versions of the possible future...I have seen bits and pieces of such things. Horror awaits all of Tamriel...if you cannot stop my nephew, Harkon...”

     Soren went silent at her mention of Harkon.

     He certainly wasn’t pleasant, but Soren knew nothing of anything dangerous he’d been up to.

     “What do you mean? Stop him from what?”

     Soren's fear suddenly returned with his question.

     The stranger’s proclamations were ominous and he wasn’t sure whether or not to believe her.

     After all, Coldharbour was Molag Bal’s realm. The woman could certainly have been a Daedric Lord in a different form since they could take almost any.

     ”Stop him from...erasing the sun. He believes vampires will live without fear if the sun does not exist...but it would bring upon the end of the world....find the scrolls. Sun, Blood, and Dragon...they will show you the key to his defeat...”

     Who was the woman?

     How, if she could see parts of the future, did she not know the trick to defeating Harkon? And how could he ever hope to eliminate the sun?

     As the world began to twist around him, fading in shape the way it did before he shot across dimensions, Soren raised his voice to ask a final question.

     “Who are you?”

     He awoke in a bedroll beneath Breezehome, Lydia lying atop a pile of hay just across the room. He was sweating, gasping, and reaching for something unknown.

     Still, the voice reached his ears. It left behind a sensation that chilled him to the core.

     ”I... am Lamae Bal.”

     Zira never thought she’d track her magic amulet's pulse to a Dwemer Ruin.

     Then again, based on what Beleval had told her about the target, she was quite an explorer. Meraxes could probably be anywhere.

     The dead vampires near the ruin’s entrance served as additional confirmation that she might be in the right place. She figured they might be friends of Serana's.

     Notching an arrow onto her bow, Zira opened the main door.

     She’d have to go inside rather than waiting at the entry if she wanted to catch Meraxes.

     Trapped targets were much easier to kill.

     Upon entering the tower, a chill came over Zira.

     The walls within the first corridor were made entirely of ice, which wasn’t the most welcome element to a Dunmer. She wished that her armor had been made thicker.

     She soon located corpses belonging to two Khajiiti, their motionless forms still warm despite the freezing surroundings.

     They’d been freshly killed.

     Someone’s close, and they could be a threat...

     Zira heightened her guard. She lifted her bow to a readied position when she heard voices from around the next corner:

     ”If there’s really an Elder Scroll here, do you think Whitemane and that vampire are around? We could earn some serious points with Beleval if we bring back their heads.”

     The first was deep, belonging clearly to a man.

     ”RUUF!”

     A man and his dog. They seemed to be searching for the same people as Zira was.

     If she wasn’t careful, they could ruin her contract.

     ”Beleval only wants the scroll, remember? I’m don’t think we’ll run into anyone that dangerous here. After all, they only sent us.”

     The second voice belonged to a man’s, too. It was more youthful and high-pitched.

     If they engaged in anymore combat, they’d inevitably turn around. Besides, their dog had probably already picked up Zira's scent.

     She had no option but to reveal herself.

     “You’re looking for a vampire with an Elder Scroll?” Zira emerged from around the bend. Her mask was still up to protect her face. “You’re in luck. So am I.”

     “Who are you?” The man with the deeper voice—a heavyset Orc—aimed his crossbow level to her head.

     “Relax, man. I’m not about to put an arrow through your head."

     The dog bared its teeth, growling at the stranger with aggressive skepticism.

     Zira raised her hands as if to prove an innocence she’d never had.

     “I’m Maria, an Imperial recruit. I was sent here to search for the scroll the vampire keeps on her back. It’s ultimately for High Queen Elisif the Fair.”

     “Official business?” the Orc lowered his weapon slightly. “What’s with that strange outfit, then?”

     “This? This is top-of-the-line,” Zira replied and feigned defensiveness as if she’d been insulted. “I’m wearing a prototype uniform. It’s supposed to be better and lighter than the current ones and serve as spyware for those of us who work in the shadows.”

     “You’re going to be an Imperial spy?” The younger man, a light-haired and well-muscled Nord, grinned at her. “That’s so cool!”

     He turned around bearing a smile far too large for his thin, sculpted face.

     “Morgrul, can we take her with us? Maybe after the High Queen uses the scroll for her purposes, we can bring it to Beleval. Imagine meeting the High Queen of Skyrim! You have an extra one of Gunmar’s vampire-killing swords, right?”

     Morgrul sighed and the dog’s growl ceased. He approached Zira, who offered him a few pats on the head.

     “Fine,” Morgrul conceded, “But only because Bran likes her. If she kills you, Agmaer, it’s your fault.”

     “I won’t have to worry about blame if I’m dead,” Agmaer said as Morgrul unsheathed one of the silver-bladed swords from his back. He hesitantly offered it to Zira.

     “I suppose you’re not wrong. Come on, Agmaer. We might have a long road ahead of us before we reach that relic.”

     Zira didn’t know how to wield a sword, but wouldn’t care to admit it. It certainly couldn’t be different from an oversized dagger.

     It was light, too—the type he’d given her—it was like no kind of sword she’d ever seen.

     “Well, let’s find us a scroll.”

     Agmaer, who walked at Zira's side, offered her a meek smile.

     “Damn right, Maria.”

     Whiterun was set to panic mode when Orthjolf and Vingalmo arrived there. They could plainly see why.

     To the west, the watchtower was still set aflame. Volunteers from the city guard threw pails of water at it to prevent the fire from spreading onto the fields.

     Even the stablehand was shaken, and when the vampires had asked him whether or not he’d seen a woman traveling with an Elder Scroll, he could hardly form enough words to answer.”

     “D- dragon—" he merely replied when Vingalmo inquired about what had happened to the city. “There was....a d- dragon...”

     “I’ll ask you again. Did you see a woman traveling with an Elder Scroll?”

     The stablehand only scratched the back of his neck, his hand and arm shaking with overwhelming anxiety.

     “I don’t think so?”

     His tone was meek and inquisitive. It was the sort that Vingalmo associated with weakness, and thus thought to be highly irritating.

     “Answer me, mortal,” Vingalmo hissed and backed the man into a wooden post. His fangs unsheathed inches from his face. “You won’t like what happens if you hesitate any longer.”

     ”O- okay!”

     The stablehand began to squirm, and Orthjolf swore he could sense the warmth of his piss as he soiled his pants in fear.

    “There were three people out here earlier,” he replied. His words escaped so rapidly that Vingalmo had to focus to discern them from one another. “Two had things on their back. I think one was a weapon and the other was some kind of valuable map. All of them went into the city, but there was this really weird instance with one of them, and some of the guards were saying—"

     “Shut up,” Vingalmo demanded as his tone twisted into a sadistic growl.

     “That’s all we needed to know. Return to your insignificant purpose before I flay you for food.”

     ”N- no problem!”

     The stablehand returned to cowering as Vingalmo and Orthjolf departed toward the gate, the guards stopping them just outside.

     “You are allowed entry, just be aware that the city is currently facing something of a crisis. A dragon attacked the Western Watchtower. Be mindful."

     A female guard opened the gate for the vampires and let them pass into Whiterun’s Plain District.

     Vingalmo had been on the verge of insulting her, but as she worked the doors quickly, he restrained himself for long enough.

     Mortals were so stupid. He was growing tired of them.

     Speaking of mortals, there’s the lycanthrope who travels with Serana. I should see if we can find her...

     “Othjolf, you’re the one with the good sense of smell. Are you picking up any werewolf?”

     When Othjolf raised his chin to take in Whiterun’s mix of scents, he indeed sensed that there were werewolves nearby.

     A lot of them.

     “There’s something jamming my senses,” Orthjolf said. He was unable to discern Meraxes’ odor from the others. It was pointless to pursue the trail if he couldn’t tell the difference. “I think we should stake out and keep watch on the road. If they’re here, they’ll probably leave, right?”

     Vingalmo rarely agreed with Othjolf, but it was too late for anyone to be active outside. Surely, Meraxes was no exception. They’d have no way of knowing whether or not they were in the city by their current measure.

     “That sounds fine. And, if we don’t see them tomorrow, we can split up and ask some of the locals where the mortal lives.”

     “I’ll take first watch." Orthjolf started toward The Bannered Mare. Beds were no coffins, but they’d make for decent rest while they alternated shifts.

     “Fine. Just don’t try to kill me in my sleep. You know I’m smart enough to think you would do that.”

     “Relax, Thalmor scum." Releasing a guttural laugh, Orthjolf opened the inn’s door. “You already know my plan for murdering you.”

     Meraxes was far from used to kind awakenings. Usually, she’d discover her own injury, nudity, or displacement.

     But she felt different when she opened her eyes in Breezehome.

     For the first time in a while, Meraxes felt better after a night of rest rather than worse. She’d even taken her armor off so she could lie down in her long-sleeved tunic and worn pants.

     Everything felt normal. It was almost as if the insane journey she’d strung herself along on was nothing but a fever dream.

     Until she turned over.

     Lying beside her was a familiar woman with the cloak piece of her outfit and Elder Scroll removed. She was face-down in a pillow with her unbraided, dark, curly hair sprawled across her head and shoulders.

     ”Holy shit—"

     The sight sent Meraxes reeling until she made contact with something hard. For a moment, she lost her vision entirely.

     THUD!

     The sound disturbed Serana. She rose slowly from her peaceful position to see Meraxes upturned on the floor, her arms trapped between the thin space between the bed’s frame and the wall.

     “Meraxes, what’s gotten into you?” Serana asked and rubbed her eyes clear of the lingering exhaustion that came with waking up. She offered her friend a helping hand.

     “When did you come up here?”

     Meraxes accepted the assistance, though somewhat reluctantly.

     “You don’t remember?”

     Pulling her to safety, Serana crossed her legs to stretch them. “This house only has two beds, so Lydia shared the cellar room with Soren. I came up to this one with you. You were being an asshole to Lydia, so it was the least I could do to separate the two of you.”

     Meraxes’ cheeks still flushed a peachy hue.

     “Let’s not do this again,” she said and replaced the sheet corner she’d slept beneath. “Get your things. It’s time to go.”

     Before Meraxes strapped her armor back on, she descended the staircase to wake Lydia and Soren.

     She found them already at the hearth preparing eggs and meat.

     “Good morning, my Thane. I see you have slept well!”

     Grunting in response, Meraxes finished descending the stairs.

     “Soren, when you’re finished with the food, get ready. Serana and I are going to Ivarstead today.”

     Soren flipped an egg, then nodded to Meraxes. He was keen to go wherever Serana went. After all, he felt obligated to tell her about his interactions in Coldharbour.

     “Can I come, my Thane? I would like to employ my services so we can best protect you." Lydia seemed excited about the prospect of an adventure. After all the years she’d spent cooped up in Dragonsreach, she itched to walk on her warrior’s legs.

     Meraxes released an exasperated sigh. “If you can wash all the dishes before we leave, and you promise to shut up unless speaking is absolutely necessary, then fine.”

     “I can’t wait!” Lydia mused.

     Meraxes instantly regretted allowing her on the trip; Lydia's enthusiasm would certainly be a drag on her mood.

     As Meraxes climbed the stairs once more to prepare her belongings, Serana came down. She was fully-dressed and her regular hairstyle completed.

     It wasn’t long before Meraxes joined them. She wore her cheap set of iron armor and broke her fast with more of Soren’s home-cooked food.

     It’d been a while since Meraxes’ party settled to enjoy anything at all. Jokes and smiles were naturally exchanged. The journey to Ivarstead remained far from their minds, even though it was close to pass,

     just like the danger that lurked, unbeknownst to any of them, outside Breezehome’s fragile door.

End of Chapter 13.

Next: Another Elder Scroll is found. Meraxes and her band of misfits depart for a hell of a climb, and Harkon’s lackeys find themselves along for the ride.

Warning: Chapter 14 contains graphic depictions of violence and death. Reader discretion is advised.

Side Banter: Okay, admittedly, this chapter was a little bit shorter than usual, but I didn’t want to include more than I thought necessary.

What do we think about the fact that Zira is stuck on the search for the wrong Elder Scroll? When she realizes it, she’ll surely be pretty pissed. Oh, well. It turns out the Daedra are not the only ones who like to deceive mortals. Akatosh is apparently pretty mad at her for trying to kill his only living Dragonborn.

And you all finally know what Soren’s power is. Kind of crazy, right? Lamae knows Harkon’s up to something sinister, but even she has no idea what Akatosh put in the scrolls, which Meraxes and her party will need to stop him. I doubt Molag Bal will be happy about his wife’s interference through the new Bloodcourier.

Anyway, lot more humor and plot progression await in the next chapter! I hope to see you guys around for the quarantine binge-reads! Stay safe, wear a cloth mask if you have essential business, and don’t forget to stay tuned to Kindred!

Lydia’s evidently psyched about her opportunity to adventure! She definitely doesn’t know what the party has in store for her quite yet...

Chapter Text

     Zira had deduced along her journey in the Dwemer ruin that her target probably wasn’t nearby.

     At first, she’d been angry about the revelation. She couldn't back out of finding the scroll as the false identity she’d chosen needed it to complete her mission.

     After giving her situation more thought, Zira found the prospect of carrying the Elder Scroll beneficial. The more relics she could eliminate from the list of those that could connect to her target, the more likely it would be that her amulet would pick up the correct one.

     The College of Winterhold would also pay her handsomely for whichever one she and the Dawnguard members were approaching.

     “This has been...more dangerous than I thought,” Agmaer admitted suddenly.

     Agmaer was a usually positive thinker. Hearing his challenged diatribe was something Zira hadn’t quite expected. Then again, things changed for virtually anybody who spent the day traversing a dungeon with a wound on his leg that couldn’t quit bleeding.

     “I feel...light-headed.”

     “Sit down, Agmaer,” Morgrul ordered and tore another piece from the tunic beneath his armor to wrap tightly around his comrade’s thigh. “I know it hurts. Just hold still. That old man said this area is the last one we have to cross through before we reach the tower, so we’re almost there.”

     Zira usually carried an ensamble of potions and poisons on her person. She was reluctant to heal others with them, though.

     If the going got too tough, she'd need to revive herself. She wasn’t going to take any chances.

     “Would it be easier if you carried him? Orcs are stronger than most other races, right?”

     Agmaer groaned as Morgrul tightened his bandages. Bran whined.

     “You’ve got a point, Maria. He’s not going to be able to walk like this. Carrying him might not slow us down as much,” Morgrul replied and fitted his arms beneath Agmaer’s to pick him up.

     “Wait."

     Zira raised her hand slightly into the air. Her demeanor suggested she knew something about the situation that Morgrul very well did not. “I have a poison that can put him to sleep for a few hours. We should use that so he doesn’t feel any pain.”

     That knowledge which she had forbidden from Morgrul was that she intended to make off with the scroll. Doing so would be significantly simpler if only one combatant were aware at the time.

     And Zira was certain she could take Morgrul by surprise, anyway, since she still posed as an Imperial recruit.

     “I would like that, but since it’s up to Morgrul, he should decide,” Agmaer said and stifled his pain so the others would not worry about him. It was much too late for his display of mental fortitude.

     “Go ahead, Maria. I’ll take him the rest of the way.”

     Zira nodded, unscrewing the cap off a vial attached to her belt. She then removed it from the article altogether.

     She’d normally dip some on her arrow and shoot her victim. Surely, it would seem less belligerent an action to distribute it by mouth.

     Agmaer drank the poison when she tipped it into his mouth. He fell into a deep sleep before any of the party could count to ten. Then, Morgrul hoisted the Agmaer onto his back. The slick blood still pouring from the injury coated his fingers.

     “It should slow his heart rate, too,” Zira informed Morgrul and clipped the vial back onto her belt. “His bleeding might even stop.”

     “Thank you.” Morgul offered her a grateful dip of his head and Bran barked in agreement.

     “I like the husky, by the way.”

     “Bran? He’s a good dog,” Morgrul replied, the sentiment in his voice fading as he walked along the meandering path. He was still unsure where it led. The old man he’d seen prior to entering Alftand said it should finish at the Tower of Mzark. But it had already taken him a while, and the Centurion near the last door had nearly killed Agmaer.

     With Agmaer out of commission, Morgrul was concerned he might not make it out alive.

     On the other hand, Zira worried about Bran.

     He'd be a problem later since he was so loyal to his master. Zira despised killing animals.

     “You know, the Dawnguard warned us about the Falmer, but I didn’t think they’d be so disgusting,” Morgrul said. He pointed to a wandering creature in the distance. It was positioned atop a bridge that Zira and the Orc would traverse beneath. “Could you take care of him before he knows we’re here?”

     “Oh, please."

     Zira notched a poisonless arrow onto her bow and inhaled as she drew the string into her chin. When the target was right at her fingers, she released a breath and then the ammunition. “What else am I for?"

     The projectile struck the Falmer through the throat. She’d gotten lucky, since she’d been aiming for its head.

     “I’m glad you’re here, honestly. I don’t think I could fight those things with Agmaer on my back.”

     Zira shrugged. Wherever work took her, her job was an important means to an end. The training she’d already acquired through Skyrim’s Dark Brotherhood had helped her tremendously.

     Whatever money she made from her hits would enable her to bring mercenaries, so she wouldn’t have to fight alone. She hoped to eventually have enough to fill up a ship’s crew. That way, she could sail home prepared.

     “It’s just my job,” she replied and stopped short when she noticed a door across the narrow path. “And that might’ve been the last one, anyway. There’s another entrance up here.”

     “Thank Stendarr. I hope there aren’t more.”

     With Agmaer slumped against his shoulders, Morgrul watched Zira pull the lever. It didn’t take long for gears to start turning and for the elevator-like contraption they’d been enclosed within to inch its way into the proper compartment.

     Then, it opened.

     “Well, nothing attacked us outright. That’s a good sign,” Zira commented. She strode along a steep, spiraling ramp. The floor beneath her was transparent as glass.

     Objectively, it was a little terrifying.

     Morgrul followed close behind her. He turned his chin to the ceiling when he saw bright patches of light reflecting in his periphery.

     The result of his exploring was most impressive.

     “Maria, check out the rafters on this thing,” Morgrul mused, his voice nearly lost to awe.

     “Damn...”

     Damn. Initially, that was the only word Zira could form at the sight: a collection of mirrors tinted the slight blue of Winterhold ice, tethered together by soldered and forged Dwarven metals. Their reflections casted circular, glowing spots on the dome-like ceiling walls, illuminating the rest of the area. “This has got to be one of the craziest things I’ve seen at work. If I had kids, I’d tell them about this.”

     That made Morgrul laugh.

     “You know, I wish Agmaer was awake. He’d like your sense of humor.”

     Morgrul propped Agmaer up against the wall and sat him onto the floor when they reached a platform overlooking everything.

     Then, he reached into a sack on Agmaer’s belt. He pulled out two items: a cube and a sphere.

     “The old man said we need this little ball to get the scroll, and he wants the square returned to him as a favor,” Morgrul explained and offered Zira the sphere. He placed the Lexicon into its respective chamber.

     Zira was cautious, as putting items into random holes was usually the beginning of a puzzle or a trap.

     She hated both.

     She pressed the first button and one of the mirrors moved.

     “I hate these things, and this one looks like it was designed by a genius. A little help, please?”

     “If you say so, Maria,” Morgrul made his way to puzzle central, monitoring her button-pressing pattern with interest. “Just be aware I joined the Dawnguard because I couldn’t get a job anywhere else. Agmaer and I are dumb as rocks.”

     After a bit of experimenting, a second button appeared.

     Then a third.

     Eventually, a dark, crystal capsule descended from the ceiling and stopped just short of the floor. When the metal holding it together separated, it split apart to reveal the artifact they’d been searching for all along:

     The Elder Scroll.

     Zira’s amulet pulsed rapidly. She watched as Morgrul started his way down the ramp so he could take the item and Bran followed.

     “Well, go on and do the honors, then,” she feigned encouragement from the platform, all-the-while dipping her arrowhead into a vial of fatal poison.

     Morgrul would know she was responsible. He had to be eliminated.

     While Zira didn’t like collateral damage, murder was simple for an archer. There were only three steps, after all.

     1) Notch.

     The first was the easiest, provided the shooter already had the conviction to kill. The fletcher included a tiny divot for the operator’s ease at the end of each arrow. Zira had so much experience that she could find it with her eyes closed. Clipping the poisoned projectile into the bow, she lowered it gently to its resting mark.

     2) Draw.

     Drawing was more difficult than notching because it included the aiming portion of murder, which meant Zira was forced to look at her target. Through the crosshairs, as Zira pulled the string into her chin, she could see Morgrul extending his arms. He was ready to hold the scroll.

     It wouldn’t be long before he turned around.

     3) Loose.

     Zira exhaled and released the string. She sent the arrow flying on a course for the space between Morgrul’s shoulder blades.

     It struck in a fraction of a second, sending him crashing on its trajectory until he finally hit the ground.

     The Elder Scroll followed behind him.

     Bran pounced onto the foot of the Dwarven contraption, yipping and crying as soon as he noticed his master's trip toward death. He licked Morgrul's face. Zira could see from a distance that the Orc was still twitching.

     He’d stop in a matter of seconds, when the poison took affect. The death was virtually painless.

     Astrid had made it for her from Ninroot, Jarrin Root, and water. It was the perfect murder cocktail.

     Leaving a healing potion beside Agmaer for when he awoke, Zira descended the ramp. She placed her bow back on its rack over her shoulder. From her belt, she pulled off a leather strap she’d kept to fasten items for travel. She’d need it for the Elder Scroll.

     When she approached it closely, Bran’s deafening howl made her raise her hands to cover up her ears.

     She’d always liked dogs, but this one was damn loud.

     “I can’t blame you, mutt." Zira swallowed her qualms to employ her arms for a better purpose. She picked up the scroll and used the leather fastener to tie a sling over her shoulder. “I know what it’s like to lose people, and I suppose I’ve turned out quite alike to those who murdered my family, after all.”

     There were times in Zira’s career that made her tremendously sad, or when the guilt she’d acquired over years of killing piled up in the back of her throat. Collateral damage was the worst.

     “The only difference between them and I is that the people I kill would have died anyway, if not by my hand,” Zira said beneath her breath. She adjusted the strap until the Elder Scroll fit her back. When it touched her, the amulet’s pulse became fainter, as if it were picking up a different scroll entirely.

     Maybe that was the one her target had.

     Before she could leave, Bran rushed along behind her. He barked and releasing distressed cries of pain and confusion.

     He didn’t even seem to recognize Zira as his master’s killer.

     Swallowing her guilt at Bran’s situation, she offered him the last piece of dried meat from her food bag. He accepted it and whined.

     When she continued to leave the ruins, Bran trailed on behind her. His tail sank until it nearly touched the floor.

     Zira was glad she didn’t have to kill the dog, but barking was anything but stealthy. Bran could ruin her chances at completing her contract if he stuck around for too long. As much as she dreaded it, she’d have to leave Agmaer behind, too.

     Zira sighed, saying nothing.

     She’d accepted the mutt as her punishment and the Elder Scroll as her reward.

     I’m sorry for the collateral, Sithis.

     ”Orthjolf! Wake up, you buffoon!”

     When Orthjolf heard a familiar voice shout at him, he knew it meant one of two things. Vingalmo might've actually found Serana. That was their best-case scenario. Or, perhaps noon had come without her showing up at all. They'd probably have to enthrall an entire market to find out where her mortal friend lived.

     “What happened?”

     Groggy, Orthjolf pulled himself over the bedside by his legs and planted them on the ground. He'd always preferred coffins over beds.

     “It’s Harkon’s daughter with the scroll! She’s headed out the gates with three others. We’ll have to figure out how to capture all of them for the Master...”

     Even Vingalmo, being as intelligent as he was, couldn’t fathom a plan to take them all to Castle Volkihar. Especially since they were in Whiterun. The trip would take several days at minimum.

     “Who said we needed all of them?” Orthjolf shot back. He clipped his war axe into the sheathe on his belt. “We could return Lady Serana and tell the Master the others died. Even though he asked for them all, he told us a while ago he only needed his daughter, right?”

     Vingalmo seethed. This was one of those rare circumstances he hated under which his adversary was correct.

     “We could kidnap her while everyone’s sleeping, but in order to do that, we’d have to follow them until they do. And we have no idea where they’re going.”

     “Who cares where they’re going, Vingalmo?”

     Orthjolf opened the door to their room and the inkeeper who’d allowed them passage flashed him an anxious smile. It was fairly obvious now that he was a vampire, though it hadn’t been the night before. Orthjolf hardly noticed, continuing his bantering, "We’re only away from Castle Volkihar to bring Lady Serana back in the first place. I don’t care where this shit-show takes us, as long as it ends.”

     “Hold on, you moron,” Vingalmo growled and tightened his fingers around Orthjolf’s wrist. “We haven’t eaten in too long. We’ll scare the bloody hell out of the city-folk and we might get arrested.”

     Before Orthjolf could notice, Vingalmo pulled the pink curtain of enthrallment over the inkeeper’s eyes to prevent her from talking. They were lucky it was mid-day. Not a lot of folks were out seeking war stories, gossip, or drinks; the kinds of things they’d come to The Bannered Mare for.

     “Here."

     Vingalmo unveiled one of Castle Volkihar’s blood potions from his inner robes. He uncapped it and driank half. Then, he passed the rest to Orthjolf, watching as the brightness of his eyes faded into something more subtle.

     He then released the inkeeper from her spell and continued out the door.

     “Ugh,” Vingalmo cursed, pulling his hood up when he felt the daylight attack his face. “I forgot the sun was a problem out here.”

     “Not for long,” Orthjolf replied, his voice near sing-song as he approached the gates to the city. They were conveniently just outside The Bannered Mare.

     “That’s right. As soon as we get our hands on Serana and bring her back to the Master, he can read the Elder Scroll. I believe he sent Malkus and Fura to find the Moth Priest.”

     “Oh,” said Orthjolf as he continued outside Whiterun. He wondered whether or not the carriage would still be parked near the stable. If not, the vampires would probably need horses just to keep up with them. “Fura’s quite the tracker. There’s no way she could fail at that job.”

     “You know something, Orthjolf?”

     As Vingalmo kept walking, he couldn’t help but consider the prospect of getting along with his rival for the entire trip. Fighting again seemed inevitable. At the same time, they’d agreed on a method to accomplish their mission. At least Orthjolf was able to set aside being at Vingalmo’s throat to obey orders from his Master. Vingalmo would be lying if he claimed not to be impressed. “As far as Fura is concerned, I’d never known if you had a thing for her or if she just scares the undead sh—"

     Then, Orthjolf bursted out laughing. He pointed out some distance ahead of him.

     When Vingalmo looked, he saw four people traveling on foot. He could make out the faint shape of what they’d been looking for even from their distance:

     The Elder Scroll.

     No doubt Serana was attached to it.

     “They made it so easy,” Orthjolf said, his tone shaking with laughter until he came to a realization. “Wait, what if they turn around and see us? Aren’t we fucked then?”

     “Molag Bal should strip you of your powers for being so stupid." Vingalmo shook his head and sighed. “Invisibility, Orthjolf. All vampires can do it for a limited amount of time. We’re fine.”

     “So now we wait until they stop to sleep somewhere.”

     “That’s right,” Vingalmo said. He wondered how far Serana would go until she wanted to turn in for a night. Considering they were traveling even further South, Castle Volkihar would take a few days to reach after they’d completed the kidnapping.

     He didn’t care. A few days’ toil was a small price to pay for extra points from Harkon.

     “Then, we strike.”

     Serana had never seen the Throat of the World before, but she’d read about it.

     It was aparently the tallest mountain in Skyrim. Serana lifted her chin to attempt at finding the top, but soon discovered it was overwhelmed with an overcast or clouds. There certainly wasn’t any evidence to refute her knowledge.

     “I don’t want to go all the way up there,” Serana complained. She wondered how long climbing seven thousand steps could possibly take. “It always snows on mountains like that, and when it comes down too quickly, it’s disgusting.”

     ”That’s what you’re worried about? We have thousands of steps to climb, and it’s the weather?”

     “Why aren’t you?” Serena asked when Meraxes questioned her priorities. “It’s going to be cold up there, and since you’re not a vampire, you’ll probably freeze. After all, it’s not like that armor’s going to help.”

     ”Tch.”

     Meraxes had forgotten how annoying traveling in groups could be, particularly when they made points about her health she couldn’t refute. It wasn't like Meraxes could afford anything warm. She’d simply have to rough it.

     “We Nords are a proud people, and our blood offers us some immunity to the cold,” Lydia promptly added, enthusiasm still obvious in her voice even after hours of walking.

     Soren offered her a look of warning. Even though he’d been in the party for some time, he rarely dared to chime in about things.

     “What did I say about you coming along, Lydia?”

     Meraxes’ temper only shortened as they approached the town of Ivarstead. She was beginning to realize what a climb those seven thousand steps would be, and certainly wasn’t eager to begin. “Enough of your comments from the peanut gallery. If you don’t wipe that smile off your face, I’ll give you something to be sad about.”

     “Why can’t we all just be positive for once?”

     The entire party turned to face Soren at the sound of his voice. Nobody had expected him to speak up in such a situation. Even Meraxes stared in an awed silence.

     “Seriously,” Serana picked up the awkward quiet, turning everyone’s attention away from Soren. He'd begun to stutter quietly when he couldn’t shake the eyes away. “Meraxes, we’re approaching a public area again. You have to behave yourself today.”

     Meraxes refused to say a word after that.

     Evidently, word travelled fast. A couple of townsfolk had stopped what they were doing to stare at them.

     ”Rumor has it, one of them is the Dragonborn...”

     The warm breeze at the mountain base carried civilian whispers into the party’s ears.

     ”Do you think it’s that boy? His eyes are kind of suspicious...”

     ”It’s got to be the woman with the shield...she looks like she could handle a dragon...”

     Meraxes fixed her boot upon the first step and shook off the sidelined stares.

     Even if she didn’t want to make the climb, it was something she had to do.

     I will make Kodlak proud...

     When she reached the second, something in her heart rose to greet the sky. Dragonborn or not, she was on the path she needed. That was something she could feel.

     Not in her heart, or even her bones, but the very fabric of her soul.

     The tangibility of the sensation made her stop in her tracks.

     “What’s wrong, Meraxes?” Serana noticed her apprehension. She couldn’t help but inquire at the state of her friend’s mind. After all, she’d never seen such a look on Meraxes' face. It was an expression associated with a feeling Serana failed to place.

     Flashing the subtlest shadow of a smile, Meraxes turned her head and surveyed Serana with eyes as frigid as the ice.

     “This is the first time in my life I’ve felt sober.”

     Agmaer had travelled a long way alone and devastated. He hadn’t expected to discover Morgrul dead, and Maria and Bran missing. He feared the worst had happened to them, too.

     What was worse is he didn’t find the scroll Beleval wanted. No matter what horrible situation in which he found himself, he was consistently the only survivor.

     Even when he felt he didn’t deserve it, Agmaer was the only one who remained.

     He'd been fortunate enough to find a potent healing potion when he awoke. That was the only reason he could walk through Dayspring canyon, where he found he was not alone.

     ”Durak!” Agmaer shouted and picked up his pace until he’d begun a swift run in his companion’s direction. He couldn’t think of why Durak would want to go anywhere alone, but figured Beleval had probably sent him somewhere when he noticed the silver katana strapped behind his crossbow.

    “Agmaer? Where’d you come from, kid?” Durak inquired. His expression melted into one genuinely confused. He knew nothing of Beleval’s aspiration to acquire the Elder Scroll, so he was lost on the Nord’s return from Alftand.

     “From a mission near Winterhold. Where are you going?”

     Durak sighed, his exhale choppy and rugged. Agmaer noticed the area beneath his eyes was dark from a lack of sleep.

     “I’m going to Riften to legitimize some rumors. When I was at the Bee and the Barb yesterday, they said something about the Dragonborn being a female Companion.” Durak knew that if there was a sliver of a chance that individual was Whitemane, he’d have to find her. He owed her the death sentence she deserved for killing Isran and nearly destroying the Dawnguard as a whole. “I want to see if they know where she’s headed. Even if it’s not true, I have to try. You can come with me if you’d like.”

     Agmaer’s face twisted with concern. A solo revenge mission against a werewolf—especially one traveling with a powerful vampire—was dangerous. If Agmaer accompanied him, surely his chances wouldn’t be much better.

     “Durak, I have to report to Beleval. Morgrul and Bran...” he trailed off and shook his head in disapproval at himself for failing to finish the sentence. Then, he turned to Durak once more with tears in his eyes. ”They didn’t make it.”

     “You’re kidding,” Durak growled, “I just know Whitemane has something to do with this. That bastard...”

     When he saw Agmaer cry, his resolve hardened. He gripped Agmaer's arm and squeezed his wrist between his meaty fingers.

     “Let’s go get her!”

     Agmaer took a deep breath, hoping he wasn’t about to regret the decision that forced itself to the front of his mind.

     “All right. I’ll go with you.”

     To Zira’s chagrin, Bran had hardly been quiet during her traveling. She hadn’t stopped to sleep even once since acquiring the Elder Scroll.

     She was surprised to see that the amulet had taken her to Ivarstead. It was a tiny town without much action.

     At first, Zira didn’t notice anything strange about the strangers Bran began to growl at near the local inn. Their clothes were certainly unfamiliar. They looked like friends who might’ve been catcalling women outside the tavern, or other things that men their age would probably do.

     But when they couldn’t avert their eyes from the Elder Scroll on her back, she figured she’d found herself in deeper water than just that.

     “Where are you going with that?” One of the men finally asked her. He was an Altmer. Tall, intimidating, and ugly, in Zira’s well-informed opinion.

     ”RUUF!”

     Bran growled louder, barking threateningly at the strangers.

     There must’ve been something different about them that Zira was missing.

     “I’m on a job,” Zira said. Her eyes narrowed skeptically beneath her mask. “The objectives of which are none of your business.”

     “Ah,” the Altmer replied. Only then did Zira notice his companion sulking in a resentful silence. So they weren’t friends after all. “But what if we can speak your language?”

     “And that is?”

     Zira’s tone grew firm and demanding. She hated it when her job made her all serious, but some times called for it.

     “We’re looking for a vampire who’s traveling with a scroll, just like the one you’ve got,” the Nord beside him commented and leaned back against the building post. “If you can help us find her, we’ll let you come with us. Our Master will likely wish to present you with a tremendous gift.”

     Without thinking, Zira bursted into voracious laughter. She confused even Bran in the wake of the humor she’d discovered from a rather unfunny situation.

     The strangers exchanged glances, their expressions saying, Divines; she’s insane!

     Zira was all too used to those types of reactions from people. She wasn’t phased by their judgmental glares.

     “That’s a coincidence. I’m on a hunt from one of her little friends,” Zira replied. Her job had proven to be a long, exhausting one. The men before her were the first to evoke a truth. She’d had to hide behind a false motive every other time.

     Every time but this one.

     “Well, why don’t you help us, then? We can ensure you’re tremendously rewarded,” the Altmer said and offered her his snake-like grin.

     “Hah,” Zira chuckled. “I don’t need your reward. I don’t even want the vampire’s Elder Scroll. All I need is to finish my job,” she said. She quickly noticed how Bran refused to surrender his wariness of the men. “I don’t think this dog likes you, though.”

     “It doesn’t matter, as long as it won’t bite,” the Nord said smugly.

     “Well,” Zira tilted her chin up to examine the length of the steps. She’d planned to follow and isolate Meraxes, and given how foggy the mountaintop was, that’d probably be good weather for an assassination attempt. “The Elder Scroll’s up there, so if you’re coming, I’m not going to wait to start.”

     The strangers exchanged yet another glance. Zira couldn’t help but wonder if they planned on ascending the stairs, or if they figured the vampire they’d been searching for would simply come down the same way.

     Because anything was possible, Zira didn’t want to gamble.

     “You’re insane,” the Altmer cursed. The Nord shook his head.

     “What he means is ‘yes.’ We’re on our way up with you.”

     At that, she laughed once more.

End of Chapter 14.

Next: The Greybeards give Meraxes a strange gift. Zira second-guesses herself. A party member goes missing.

Chapter Text

     Orthjolf and Vingalmo quickly discovered that Serana and her associates suffered from a degree of insanity so bizarre it was only natural that Harkon awaited their return. The Master was fond of all sorts of abominations, after all.

     The troll they’d encountered on their way up the most absurdly long staircase they’d ever dared traverse only confirmed their theory. Its head fell upon the snow horse-lengths away from its body.

     No sane or regular people would ever attempt such a journey, nor roll their dice against a frost troll.

     “Has the Master lost his marbles?” Vingalmo cursed as he continued ascending the stairs, exhausted despite his vampiric strength. A recent feeding had certainly dulled his powers. That, and the air was thinning near the mountaintop.

     “No, he lost his Elder Scroll. That’s arguably worse,” replied Orthjolf. He wouldn't admit that he struggled as much as his rival.

     “Oh, stop whining, boys. It’s all a good day’s work,” Zira said. Vingalmo could see her chest heaving beneath her armor all the same. “At least our targets killed all the damn creatures. Finding them alive would make this even less bearable.”

     ”RUUF!”

     Bran was still shivering. He wasn’t fairing as well as Zira had thought he would against the freezing winds and snow.

     Nor was she. Cold climates weren’t good for the Dunmer, especially those clad in thin leather.

     “Why would they—"

     ”DDOOOVAAHHHKIIIIIIINN!!!”

     “Void drown that dreadful sound!” Zira cursed after the outcry interrupted Orthjolf’s bantering. She raised her hands to cover her ears, which she was surprised weren’t bleeding beneath her mask.

     Vingalmo and Orthjolf hadn’t liked it much, either.

     “That’d better not happen again, or I’ll skewer the source,” Vingalmo growled and continued until he spotted a stone building standing isolated in the distance.

     That must’ve been where Serana went. There was no way she’d climb a mountain not to shack up in its only indoors, although Vingalmo wasn’t sure he’d be able to tell if or when the party was sleeping.

     “Let’s find a good vantage point and wait, like last time,” he said. Orthjolf silently seethed as he followed his rival. Zira wordlessly accompanied the men, and so did Bran, even though he still didn’t look happy about it.

     Wordlessly, until she determined she could probably get away with sneaking around inside. There wasn’t a way in the Void she’d remain out in the freezing cold if she could warm herself and approach her target more closely.

     “Watch Bran for me, lads,” Zira said and climbed her way down a set of slippery, jagged rocks.

     Bran whined when he discovered the area was too steep for him to follow. He trailed down the longer route which he’d earlier used to ascend the Throat of the World.

     By the time he reached the bottom, however, his new master had already tumbled through one of the front windows.

     While Orthjolf and Vingalmo stared ahead through the incoming snowstorm, awed by the woman’s boldness, Zira found High Hrothgar was rather void of hiding spaces.

     There was one in a room across the corridor she’d sprung into behind a looming slab of stone acting as a pillar. There were several in the room, and they were thick, casting broad shadows across to cloak the frame.

     Finding ideal cover in such an open area surprised her, but not as much as the fact that she arrived in the nick of time.

     A flood of people went into the hall she'd just emerged from. They were led by elder men with long facial hair. They all wore the same robes, tailored to their sizes, but behind them was a band a lot less uniform.

     There were four of them. They were rag-tag, smelled dirty, and probably hadn’t slept in a while. Zira didn’t recognize them, but could see bags beneath one of the warriors’ eyes, and silver sheen glinting off the other.

     Ah. That must’ve been what Beleval told me about werewolves...

     She’d never seen one in person and certainly would not soon forget it.

     After all, that woman was her target.

     Ser Meraxes Whitemane, you’ve certainly buried yourself in some deep shit...

     Zira watched from the corner as her lips twisted upward in a devious grin. Her amulet pulsed rapidly as the vampire approached on account of her possessing the other Elder Scroll.

     Suddenly, the artifacts didn’t matter to her anymore.

     Not even her ambitious journey to Morrowind to dispel the attacks on Great Houses seemed imperative, though it usually lurked at the top of her mind.

     Beneath her mask, Zira’s cheeks felt warm, and not only because she was inside.

     Only Sithis remained when she locked onto her target.

     You will claim another soul today, Dreadlord.

     "So, it was you that did the yelling while we were on our way up?”

     “Yes,” one of the Greybeards nodded. He stored his hands in a straight formation within his robe sleeves. “I am Arngeir, and I speak for the monks of High Hrothgar. We felt the presence of a Thu’um in Skyrim. Now that you are here, I have a reason to believe you are the source of the Voice. Which means—if that is true—that you must learn the Way.”

     “Why don’t the others talk?” Serana asked. While she spoke, Meraxes felt something cold squeeze her hand. She could only suppose it was Serana's. Just how Meraxes failed to keep words to herself at Castle Volkihar, she was right to believe Serana couldn't swallow her curiosity.

     Still, why touch her? Was it possible Serana could sense her anxiousness even when she worked so hard to suppress it?

     “Their voices are too powerful,” replied Arngeir as he settled in a space near the wall. As if each Greybeard had a designated spot within the room, they all spread out, turning to face Meraxes and her party. “They would kill you with only a whisper. Not even the Dovahkiin would survive it.”

     Serana’s eyes burned skeptically into Arngeir’s. She wasn’t sure she could trust him—monk or not—as she didn’t know his entire set of intentions with Meraxes. While it was true a Jarl sent her to High Hrothgar, the vampire couldn’t help but wonder whether or not he wanted to use her to further his own agenda.

     When he stared back, she could tell she’d shaken him.

     Good. You’d better be careful with her.

     When Serana exited the circle of monks, Soren followed close behind. Lydia had to be dismissed with a stark gesture. Meraxes nearly hit the housecarl in the face with her gauntlet to get her to move, growling under her breath.

     Arngeir appeared even more unsettled following Meraxes' display of brutality. It was an understatement to say he’d have to get used it.

     “Before you learn about the Way of the Voice, we need to prove you are actually the Dovahkiin,” Arngeir said plainly. Nirn was indeed bound for an interesting future if Meraxes was its chosen hero. “To do that, we will need to hear your Thu’um.”

     “What the hell is a Thu’um?” Meraxes asked, her gaze prickly as she pulled Kindred off her back. She assumed it was some sort of combat move. The Greybeards scattered when she unsheathed her weapon.

     Perhaps she was wrong about that.

     From the corner of the room, Serana laughed softly. She couldn’t help it. Seeing Meraxes make such a fool of herself while the monks hadn’t a choice but to take her seriously was certainly fascinating.

     “It’s your Voice,” Arngeir said, “Do you know how to shout? Did you never absorb a dragon soul?”

     Finally, Meraxes put the sword away. The Greybeards certainly seemed more at ease after its sheathing and returned to their normal places.

     “I don’t know what shouting is. I soaked up some kind of warm light from a dragon in Whiterun, but I don’t know if it was anybody’s soul." Meraxes stared at the ground when Arngeir transferred a sort of odd energy there.

     When he finished, two words appeared on the floor before Meraxes, Serana, Soren, and Lydia’s eyes transfixed on them as well:

     Fus ro

     [Force, balance]

     “Your companions should see them as nothing more than chicken scratch. If you are a Dovahkiin, your soul will be able to transfer Dovahzul into shouts,” Arngeir said and revealed a third word beneath the first couple:

     Yol

     [Fire]

     “The first is part of your Thu’um. Every legendary dragon has a name, and so does every Dovahkiin. If you have the Thu’um we detected, then yours is Fusrodah. But if you have never learned the words, then ‘yol’ might be better to start with. We are certain you have seen it before.”

     Yol.

     It was familiar for several reasons—first, Meraxes was sure she’d seen it somewhere, and she’d definitely heard it from the dragon at the Watchtower when he breathed fire.

     “If it doesn’t work at first, try clenching your buttcheeks,” Arngeir said.

     “Gee, thanks,” Meraxes growled. Yol still danced about her head. She wasn’t quite sure how to phrase it, but something the Greybeard said resonated with her.

     Something about how it would look like chicken scratch to the others, but she could see it as words.

     Yol was more than just a word to her. The character itself looked like it was on fire—like it was burning—and the heat churned within her belly.

     Like the belly of a dragon.

     She felt the word rise to her throat. Sure enough, her butt clenched without her having to think about it, and—

     "Yol!”

     [Fire!]

     Flames and heat spilled from Meraxes’ mouth. She burned Arngeir’s eyebrows clean off, and, for a moment, illuminated the entire room.

     The shout itself hadn’t done enough to do any real damage. One of the Greybeard’s robes had caught fire, and out of the corner of her eye, Serana had sworn she’d noticed a figure moving in the shadows.

     She quickly pursued it without asking any permissions.

     Serana was both awed and afraid. Meraxes’ power was unlike anything she’d ever seen. Her friend was truly the Dragonborn, and something about that struck the vampire sideways. Still, there was something terrifying about Meraxes having so much responsibility.

     Were it up to her, Meraxes would have none at all. Then she wouldn’t be in danger every waking moment of the day. Then, Serena wouldn’t have to be paranoid about moving shadows or her megalomaniac father, or the Dawnguard menace, or enormous dragons named after their Thu’ums.

     But somebody somewhere decided that her Meraxes would be the Dragonborn.

     Her Meraxes.

     Her Dragonborn.

     The prospect of her companion dying at the feet of such horrid monsters terrified Serana more than her own feelings. Especially when, after she turned the corner, she couldn’t find anything or anyone.

     The shadows’ movement must have been a figment of her imaginative paranoia.

     How strange it was to climb a mountain when Skyrim’s hills had eyes.

     “Well, you have impressed me, Dovahkiin,” Arngeir said after shaking out his robe to dispel the flames from Meraxes’ shout. “Now try learning the other two, and this one." He wrote a final word beneath Yol:

     Wuld

     [Whirlwind]

     ”Wuld!”

     That time, Meraxes shot straight into the pillar behind the Greybeards’ spaces. Her body hit the stone with a resonating crack.

     “Are you all right, my Thane?” Lydia rushed to the scene before Serana could even move and pulled Meraxes away from the wall by her shoulders. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

     “Maybe we shouldn’t have done that one inside...” Arngeir trailed off, the other Greybeards shooting him searing looks of disapproval.

     “Let’s see, Lydia.” Meraxes spun around and flipped her housecarl off with a flourish. “How many am I holding up?”

     “One, my Thane.”

     “Meraxes, behave yourself,” Serana ordered, her brimstone gaze hardening.

     “It’s quite all right. She is the Dovahkiin, and no matter her nature, we are supposed to take her beneath our wing,” Arngeir replied. He was still visibly shaken by the chaos he’d witnessed. “However, we should probably continue our practice outside."

     “Thank you.”

     Arngeir and the Greybeards exited High Hrothgar, continuing into a courtyard.

     ”Lok vah koor!”

     [Sky, spring, summer!]

     Some of the weather dispersed when Arngeir shouted.

     “Perhaps we should save the sprinting for tomorrow. We wouldn’t want to have you smashing into the wall again, Dovahkiin. Although I suppose we can help you complete Unrelenting Force.” The monk turned around and closed the door behind him.

     Serana was secretly glad she’d reached High Hrothgar before the weather turned to shit, although she certainly wasn’t the only one who was thankful to be inside.

     “You all will spend the night here. A journey down the seven thousand steps could kill you in these conditions.” Arngeir chuckled, “Not even the legendary Greybeards can change the weather.”

     “Good to know,” Meraxes muttered under her breath, her tone rife with frustrated sarcasm. She followed Arngeir unhappily, as she’d wanted to leave High Hrothgar as soon as she could. The air was far too thin on the mountain.

     “Don’t fret, Dovahkiin.” Arngeir offered her a shadow of a smile. “Life is full of things which are out of our control, and your destiny is one of them. Did you think it was a coincidence that you exist at the same time the dragons are returning? Without your help, there is a possibility the very world as we know it may perish.”

     Meraxes did not grin back. There was still some doubt in her mind, even though she’d proven it, on whether or not she was the Dragonborn. How was it, that even though she’d mastered a Word of Power in mere seconds, that she still thought it wasn’t possible?

     She only hoped she wouldn’t have to save the world.

     Meraxes knew there were some who believed in her. Kodlak and Serana did. But would all of Nirn have to have faith in her one day?

     There was no way they would now. She was a recovering alcoholic at best, and a monster capable of tearing others to pieces at worst.

     Someone of her kind could not have been chosen. Paths like the seven thousand steps were for heroes of legend to walk, not disheveled veterans or greedy sell-swords, or werewolves who lived in mead halls.

     Though Meraxes had done her best to disguise her intense doubt, someone had noticed it. Of course, it wasn’t Lydia, who the Thane had come to see as emotionally inept, anyhow, nor was it Arngeir, who she’d only just met. Nor was it Serana, who Meraxes had thought would have been the first to reach out at her first moment of hesitation.

     When she looked up—returning her mind to the world that had so shocked her by naming her its potential savior—it was Soren who reflected her feelings like a mirror.

     For that moment when time stood still, Meraxes could not tell the difference between Soren's emotion-caging brimstone gaze and her own silver. They’d both locked severe fears of inadequacy beneath respective irises.

     “Come now, Dovahkiin,” Arngeir stole her attention and strode into the room where she’d learned the Words of Power earlier. “Let’s finish your Thu’um."

     Arngeir cast another word across the floor:

     dah

     [push]

     Then, light transferred from Arngeir’s body to Meraxes'. It shone nearly as brightly as it did on the Watchtower battlefield. With it, she soaked the Word of Power into her own soul, letting it seep beneath her skin and internalize.

     “Now, put the words together. Fus, roh, and dah. This is your Thu’um. It should come very naturally.”

     The disappointment and doubt still lingered as Meraxes’ dragon soul rose, releasing enough of the shout to send the Greybeards reeling into the walls:

     ”Fus ro!”

     “Again. This time, try using the final word. The dragon soul I gave you should allow it to escape.”

     Meraxes felt as though she didn’t have control of her shouting. When it rose from her stomach to her throat, it had essentially a mind of its own, deviating from her wish to release all three words.

     ”Fus ro!”

     She tried again.

     Meraxes hadn’t an idea why she couldn’t do it. Arngeir said earlier that she should have been able to see the words as a language; to use them almost instantly.

     How was she to be the Dragonborn of legend if she couldn’t shout properly?

     “Your human body must be resisting your dragon soul,” said Arngeir as he watched with fading interest. “You have to accept it to gain full control of your Voice. Otherwise, the two will have their own, separate intentions. It would be best to prepare for bed. I’ll show you where you will be staying and bring you dinner and fresh clothes. It’s been a while since we’ve had company, so we will appreciate washing your old ones while you sleep.”

     A human body fighting a dragon’s soul. Did something so fragile truly have the strength to do that? How could Meraxes’ mortal shell fight the beast within it and win?

     Leaving her questions unanswered, as she could not put them into her own words, Meraxes followed Arngeir to a secluded room near the center of the building. On the floor were rows of bedrolls, dusty due to a lack of guests the Greybeards had hoped for over the years.

     “Travelers rarely visit the monastery, so help yourself. We’ll teach you more about the Voice come morning,” Arngeir said and departed to his fellow monks’ dining hall. He figured Borri had made soup or roasted meat, which would surely benefit the Dovahkiin and her friends.

     Meanwhile, Meraxes’ party were left to their own devices. All were expected to sleep in the same room.

     It was clear that the Greybeards didn’t know how dysfunctional they could be sometimes.

     “Ser Meraxes, would you like to find Arngeir with me? I would like to pick up the clean laundry.” Soren's willingness to walk alone with Meraxes surprised Serana. He’d been afraid of her for as long as she could remember. But Serana supposed it would be best not to interfere, and knew Lydia would not, either. Being the knight’s housecarl meant obeying every last order. That at least allowed Serana a supply of mortal blood as long as she traveled with them. Still, she hoped Lydia would not be afraid to remain behind a closed door with her.

     Meraxes, on the other hand, saw through Soren. She’d known he’d wanted to speak with her since exchanging that glance in the shouting room.

     She decided to give him a chance.

     “Fine,” she grumbled and stood, still wearing her cheap, dirty set of iron armor. “I’ll go.”

     He trailed after her after she opened the door, leaving Lydia and Serana behind. Serana couldn’t help but wonder what Soren’s rationale for isolating Meraxes was.

     Outside, Meraxes didn’t waste a moment.

     “Out with it. What do you want to tell me?”

     Meraxes shot Soren a scraping glare which nearly sent him reeling. Her eyes were pale, and colder than the air on the Throat of the World. He’d grown less afraid of her, and had come to see her human emotions, but still couldn’t detect the empathy Serana saw in her.

     “I just wanted to say...” Soren trailed off. Meraxes didn't hear him stutter the way she expected to. “...I know what it’s like. To not feel like you can do anything right.”

     Meraxes often couldn’t help but wonder why he was still along for the ride. He’d wanted to attend the Bard’s College, after all. So why didn’t he go there when he had the chance? He had a natural talent for singing, song-writing, and playing the flute. He could easily learn the lute and drums if he wanted to.

     “Why didn’t you enroll at the Bard’s College?” Meraxes finally asked.

     On a bench below one of High Hrothgar’s many windowsills, Soren sat.

     “I guess...when I was younger, music was the only thing I could do right. And it was the only thing I ever thought I could do.” Soren’s head hung. His eyes examined the tile floor with a distant expression. “So I’d always wanted to be a bard. I still do, someday.”

     “So why stick around?” Meraxes settled beside him, having forgotten her mission to retrieve the clean laundry. “This is a risky place for you. You’ve all but gotten yourself killed.”

     She was right.

     Soren knew that, even though he was certain he’d saved her once. Yet that saving, even if it was a mere fluke in the universe, was the reason he stayed.

     “Because I want to be as brave as Lady Serana." Soren raised his head. He met Meraxes’ eyes for a rare instant. “One day, I want courage like hers. And then I will be ready to become a bard. I’ve spent my whole life...” He trailed off again and gripped the edge of the bench between his fingers.

     “...running away.”

     As much as Meraxes wished she hadn’t known what fleeing felt like, she was intimately familiar with it. She had to escape her homeland as a young girl.

     When the Imperial executioner nearly decapitated her, she ran away from that, too.

     “I know what that’s like.”

     “You do?” Soren met her gaze again and released the seat from his grip. “What do you mean? You and Lady Serana always charge at things head-on. You don’t seem to be afraid of anything.”

     “I was, once,” Meraxes said. Her fear was ever-present, to a degree. She’d mastered hiding it long ago as an officer during the Skyrim Civil War.

     Soren fell silent. He wouldn’t push her, as he knew what it was like to have questions held at his throat.

     He only wished he could help her. The way being the Dragonborn affected her reminded him of his once being the only hope of House Gray-Mane, even though he’d sullied the family name with his birth.

     Avulstein and Thorald had been war over him since his infant months. They argued about whether to bring him up as an heir-regent or kill him behind closed doors.

     He was a disgrace, but their only son.

     “Let’s get the laundry,” he finally said, “Lady Serana and Lady Lydia are probably wondering where we are.”

     It was certainly an understatement to say that Zira could not place her feelings towards Beleval’s contract.

     In a freakish accident, events had shifted between the favor of the Daedra and Aedra when she learned her target was actually the legendary Dragonborn.

     It was one thing to kill a common thief or deserter.

     But it was another thing entirely to murder the only person with the potential to save the world.

     So, as Zira trekked through the raging snowstorm, hauling herself up the barely-visible pile of rocks she’d earlier descended, she wondered what the hell she was supposed to do about her little situation.

     There certainly wouldn’t be any returning to Beleval if she decided to drop the contract. Sithis and the Dark Brotherhood would reject her, too. There was a heavy price to pay for abandoning a once-in-a-lifetime deal.

     But she could never achieve revenge if there was no world for her or her rivals to live in.

     House Redoran...I will honor you.

     The Dark Brotherhood had taken her in when everyone else seemed to have abandoned her. Once a famed warrior, Zira Redoran’s name reduced to ash when the men and children of her family were brutally murdered, and the women sold into covert slavery to Skyrim’s Nords.

     Those that roamed the nation free were shamed and rejected as members of a lower society. It was a form of discrimination The Dark Brotherhood couldn’t care less about.

     In the league of assassins, there were no superior and inferior people. There were only superior and inferior killers.

     “They’re asleep in there,” Zira confessed when she reached the top of the rock pile and settled beside Bran, who was still shivering. “Their guard is entirely down, but beware of the monks. Some of them are still awake.”

     She didn’t particularly care what happened to the men, but they’d agreed to honor a promise with her. Zira didn’t enjoy breaking oaths.

     She still felt guilt for killing Morgrul unnecessarily, especially since she was nearly pulling her hair out over Beleval’s contract to begin with.

     “Are you sure you don’t want to come with us?” asked Orthjolf as he begun to slide down the uneven boulders. “We have a great reward in store for you, if you choose to further assist.”

     “No,” Zira replied. She had to decide whether or not killing Meraxes was the best course of action. If not, she needed to know where she was supposed to go from there.

     For failing to complete a contract, she could never return to The Dark Brotherhood again.

     “Good luck with your mission, though. I know how they are.”

     Zira watched them leave, the cold nearly swallowing her. She’d have to find a place inside again, and soon.

     Sitting atop the hill, though, Zira realized one thing:

     she could never accomplish her life’s goal in a world that no one could save.

     ”Did you bring the chains?” Vingalmo whispered. He was careful not to wake Serana as he brought her to the corner of the room. It was a slow process, as the woman in the bedroll beside her was obviously a light sleeper. The way she tossed and turned scared the hell out of Vingalmo. She could realize what was taking place any second if they accidentally woke her.

     Orthjolf positioned his Master’s daughter in a pose that allowed him to administer the poison his rival had made, sliding the silver bindings around her arms, legs, and body.

     Where the skin was exposed, the chains would burn her. Orthjolf didn’t think the Master would mind so much. They were punishing Serana for him, so he would only have to lock her away upon their return.

     Orthjolf lifted her upper body and let Vingalmo claim her arms as they slid her through the window and dropped her outside. One by one, they climbed through as well, careful not to leave her body in the snow for too long.

     Carrying her down the mountain was going to require serious effort on their part. At least they would emerge triumphant in the eyes of the Master.

     That was all that mattered.

     “We did it,” Orthjolf said, satisfied even though they had a long way to go. “We got her and the scroll.”

     “Are you really so surprised?” Vingalmo snapped, “I’m as intelligent as the realm gets. There was no way my plain could fail.”

     “Okay, mister Justiciar,” Orthjolf snorted. He supported the brunt of Serana’s weight as they began their descent of the Throat of the World.

     A smile crept onto his face despite the long journey that remained ahead. He’d kidnapped the master’s daughter, a feat finding a Moth Priest certainly wouldn’t compare to.

     When they were close enough that Orthjolf could carry Serana the rest of the way, perhaps he would finally rid of his rival.

     In another rude awakening, Meraxes tumbled face-first onto a snow-covered ground, wearing only the fresh shirt and long pants the Greybeards had given her.

     She was more than concerned about her ambiguous situation without her armor on. She quickly sprung upwards onto her hands only to see an arrow focused directly at her throat.

     The person before her slowly came to view. She looked more like a shadow; like the outline of a woman wrapped in dark leather. Beside her was something familiar: a Dawnguard dog.

     “Are you a vampire hunter?” Meraxes growled as she gained her footing in the snow. The stranger grew closer while she steadily reached her feet, nearly placing the arrowtip on her skin.

     “No,” Zira replied calmly. Her legs braced in case her target decided to fight back. “In fact, I was assigned to hunt you. But there’s an issue with that, you see.” Zira's eyebrows furrowed beneath her mask. “Because if you really are the Dragonborn, then I can’t do that. So prove it.” The cold, metal weapon’s edge made contact with Meraxes’ neck. It made her shiver. “Prove you’re the Dragonborn and what I saw wasn’t some fluke.”

     “What do you mean, a fluke?” Meraxes shot back despite her own doubts. She was alarmed by the stranger’s partial knowledge of her situation.

     Was there a possibility the woman had been watching her somehow?

     “I said prove it, Dragonborn.” Zira drew her bowstring, her expression cold and unrelenting beneath her mask. “Or you die.”

     When threatened, Meraxes felt the dragon within her stir. It grew angrier by the passing second. That was hardly, however, at the premise of who the stranger was, but who she might be.

     If she was dangerous enough to track Meraxes and her party up the Throat of the World, then she wouldn’t take any chances.

     Meraxes would at least have to be able to protect her friends if she wanted to save Tamriel.

     ”Fus ro dah!”

     She was the Dragonborn of legend.

     The shout sent Zira reeling across the snow, sprawled against a rock against which she’d made harsh impact. The arrow she’d loaded launched itself into the air. It was lost to the stars, as far as Meraxes was concerned, since it didn’t embed itself in her throat.

     “Is that enough proof for you, you fiendish fuck?” Meraxes panted, awestruck by her own use of Unrelenting Force. She didn’t have time to dote on her own ability when an assassin who’d helped mark her death lay dazed against a hard slope. “Who hired you?”

     Meraxes had to know who the other hand was. Without that information, the source might as well send another assassin after her. And, given she travelled with a Dawnguard dog, she suspected someone filed a hit on her to avenge Isran.

     This stranger will either confirm my thoughts or spit on my question...

     Meraxes approached the stranger and shoved her foot mercilessly into her gut, unsheathing her daggers and tossing them nonchalantly into the snow. The more intimidated she is, the more I’ll learn.

     Meraxes growled and yanked Zira's collar roughly. She only stopped when, to her unnerved chagrin, Zira began to laugh beneath her mask. It was a visceral, guttural sound. The kind Meraxes made when her humor slipped into its darkest nature.

     No. She couldn’t falter. Not if she wanted the information.

     “Who hired you?” Meraxes barked and shoved Zira’s head against the rocks with a sickening force. Meraxes was certain the assassin would wish she had heavier armor when they were through. “You asked me to prove I’m the Dragonborn and I did. So you tell me who the fuck your employer is before I waterboard you with the snow.”

     Like she’d thought, the laughter ceased the second Meraxes bared her teeth. It wasn’t difficult to tell when she meant business.

     “Oh, Dragonborn, I’m under no obligation to tell you that much,” Zira replied. Her voice was light and charismatic despite her being literally between a rock and a hard place. “I actually brought you outside instead of murdering you on the spot because I wasn’t sure I wanted to kill you. What was it Arngeir said again?”

     Meraxes wasn’t sure what disturbed her more: the fact that the stranger knew Arngeir’s name, or that she would have succeeded in her assassination attempt had she truly wanted to. After all, she’d brought her outside with no armor or weapons...

     “Oh, right, that you might be the only person who can save Nirn. That it’s no coincidence, you being around at the same time the dragons are returning.” Zira’s laughter returned then. It grew more rugged with each passing second. ”If you want to hear more, you should consider picking up your foot.”

     “Not a chance in hell,” Meraxes cursed and put more weight behind her boot. Even if she hadn’t any armor on, she wasn’t going to mess around with a trained assassin. “Are you a mercenary?”

     ”What is the music of life?” Zira chuckled and rested a firm hand on Meraxes' clothed foot. ”Seriously, Dragonborn. Remove this or I’ll stab it.”

     “Not much will happen if you do,” Meraxes said and grinned. What she’d pinned Zira into the stone with was not her flesh, but the wooden wedge attached to her prosthetic. “So stop resisting unless you want to bleed.”

     ”You don’t understand...Dragonborn...” Zira's mirthful muses faded even though amusement still lingered beneath her mask. ”I want to come with you...on your little world-saving endeavor.”

     “Stop calling me Dragonborn,” Meraxes snarled and released some of the pressure from her boot. Her expression did not match the way she felt about her situation; about how much confusion, distrust, and doubt swirled about her mind. Zira's antics could have been a trick. There was suddenly too much present for Meraxes to analyze. “I’ve got a fucking name. Someone else tried something like that once, and she almost lost her head.”

     Meanwhile, Zira was sure about her plan. She would follow Meraxes around on her adventure, and when Nirn was safe, she’d complete her contract. Then, she could return to The Dark Brotherhood showered in fame for assassinating the last Dragonborn. Maybe she’d even be ready to sail to Solstheim by then to avenge her family. Or, perhaps, she’d set off to find her long-lost son, if he was still alive somewhere.

     “I’m serious,” Zira declared and removed her own mask. Beneath it lurked the amused face of an aging Dunmer, but she was beautiful in a way Meraxes couldn’t place. Her eyes were as black as the Void, like the others of her race, and her hair was tied back with several clips made from what looked like bones. There were designs on each which Meraxes could not make out amidst the snowfall. “Let me join your little band of rowdy misfits.”

     “Or what?” Meraxes snapped. Her teeth resurfaced beneath her lips. “Why should I trust you? Why would I want an extra mouth to feed?”

     Zira dropped her mask into the snow, the tip of her Elder Scroll uncomfortably poking up behind her neck. It was probably the only thing that protected her from dying when she’d hit the rock so hard.

     “I already told you my intentions. I don’t think someone you couldn’t trust would confess a plot to murder you, much less give you an extra day to breathe could she avoid it." Zira's expression and resolve hardened. “I am Zira Redoran of Solstheim. Cultists destroyed my House and family. Vengeance is more important to me than my contract, and I’ll never end their misguided existence if dragons drown Nirn in fire.”

     Zira was startled to see Meraxes’ growl return following her vehement discussion of sad truths, although the confession was terribly one-way. There was no sign of remorse in Meraxes' cold eyes.

     For the first time in decades, Zira was terrified.

     “Why the fuck do you have an Elder Scroll?”

    The thing looks just like Serana’s. There’s no way that’s a coincidence.

     “Because I took it from a Dwemer ruin,” Zira said. She enjoyed the sudden freshness of the freezing, bitter air when Meraxes removed her foot. Meraxes retreated steps backward and lifted both daggers from the snow. Zira had a feeling she would not soon get them back even though she still had her bow and arrows.

     “If you want to tag along with us, then give that shit to me. One slip-up and I won’t hesitate to cut off your head.”

     Truthfully, Meraxes felt the weight of Zira’s story. She wouldn’t admit it. She couldn’t help but wonder how old Zira was when she’d left Solstheim or what she’d been through in Skyrim. When Meraxes departed Cyrodiil, she’d been only nine.

     But she would never present herself that way—in a weak or relatable manner—before an evidently dangerous enemy. Meraxes was no fool, and she was not prepared to die.

     “All right,” Zira retorted and pulled the Elder Scroll’s sling over her head. Meraxes didn’t hesitate to rip it from her hands, posting it over her own shoulder.

     “Now, I don’t know about you, but I’m fucking freezing. So get your ass inside, and don’t even think about putting that mask back on. You’re not allowed to hide yourself from us,” Meraxes snarled and started behind her.

     She wouldn’t risk being shot in the back, a feeling she was intimately acquainted with.

     It still would have been worse for Meraxes to abandon Zira outside. She had access to a bow and set of arrows, so Meraxes assumed she knew how to use them. And, if Zira caught her at a vulnerable moment, she could die.

     There was a myriad wrong with her situation. It bothered her incessantly as she followed Zira through the door and back into High Hrothgar.

     As Meraxes traversed the hall, she moved slowly, ensuring the assassin stay ahead of her the entire time. She didn’t even bother lecturing her about where they’d slept. Zira clearly already knew.

     Meraxes went into their room and found Soren and Lydia quietly sleeping in their bedrolls.

     When she checked the room’s entire floor and the books and crannies in each corner, she couldn’t find Serana anywhere.

     “When you found me here and dragged me out into the snow, was there a woman in the bedroll closest to the window?” Meraxes asked Zira, her face so contorted with blind rage that even the assassin was tempted to turn tail.

     “No,” she replied and suddenly bore the weight of knowing exactly what had happened to the Serana. Those other men had taken her. Zira had enabled them to do so without qualms. “I didn’t think she was important to you.”

     Arngeir and his lessons were going to have to wait.

     Something about Zira’s final remark pissed Meraxes off to the point where Zira swore she could see steam rising from her face.

     “What do you mean, you didn’t think she was important to me?” Meraxes resumed control of her collar, sending Lydia retreating to the corner of the room. “What happened to her?”

     “She was—"

     Zira choked on her words when Meraxes apprehended her, struggling to keep her footing. Meraxes promptly sent her flying toward the wall.

     “These two men took her...” Zira regained ground, already partially regretting not completing her contract when she had the chance. “There was a High Elf and a Nord fellow. They were about as sketchy as I am, to tell you the truth. Said they were looking for a vampire with an Elder Scroll to bring her back to their Master.”

     ”RUUF!”

     Bran barked from where Lydia stood.

     Harkon. They’re taking her back to fucking Lord Harkon, and this idiot let them make off with her!

     “You stupid fool,” Meraxes snarled, her knuckles turning white around Zira’s weapon handles. “I’m holding onto your daggers, and if Serana turns up dead, I’ll kill you with them. Do you hear me?”

     Before the assassin could reply to the knight’s seething, regardless of whether her question had been rhetorical, she poked Soren’s sleeping form with the end of her boot.

     “Wake up, boy, and grab your shit,” she ordered and turned to her housecarl. “Lydia, get your armor from the Greybeards.”

     She didn’t have any business left in Ivarstead or High Hrothgar; not until she had Serana back.

     That woman was one of the only people who’d stuck with her no matter what. She’d saved Meraxes’ life in a number of instances.

     Though that was a debt Meraxes had repaid several times over, she wasn’t about to discredit someone who’d followed her through hell. Serana had seen her at her worst and still not abandoned her, though she’d grown appropriately annoyed at relevant times, and the two had threatened to murder each other on occasions.

     But their introduction and poor attempts to start over afterwards were not what Meraxes was concerned with.

     “I didn’t think she was important to you.”

     Meraxes seethed at the sheer amount of bullshit seeping from Zira’s statement. Her eyes threatened to cleave the assassin in half with Kindred once she’d retrieved it from the weapon rack near the door.

     Serana was the most important person Meraxes had left.

     That she would not soon forget.

     “Everyone, pack up. We’re going to pay Castle Volkihar a visit.”

End of Chapter 15.

Next: Will Meraxes and her party be able to find Serana before her father traps her in Castle Volkihar?

Since the latest chapters have been action-packed, sit back and enjoy looking at the best vampire hunter in Skyrim!

Chapter Text

     Malkus had counted on a hell of a battle at the Forebears’ Holdout, but the Dawnguard hadn’t even shown up.

     It would have been a complete waste to bring Fura along, save the fact the Moth Priest decided to fight back once they’d lowered his protective barrier with the weystone. She was the best person to handle him and had beaten him bloody in a couple of blows.

     “That old bastard sure put up a fight." A laugh emerged in Fura's speech as the Moth Priest’s eyes developed faded, pink cataracts. They'd enthralled him and surely would bring him back to the Master without a debate. “But we got him.”

     “And Orthjolf and Vingalmo should have the Master’s daughter soon, if their operation has succeeded,” Malkus remarked and traced back his trail of death to the entrance of Forebears’ Holdout.

     “Provided they didn’t kill each other.”

     “Yes, that’s certainly likely." Malkus strung the Moth Priest along beside him. “Either way, we’re not finished yet. We have to bring Dexion back to the Master without anymore bruises.”

     “I don’t know that he needs too much of our help. The old man looks like he’s been dragged through some mud before.”

     One look at Dexion Evicus was all it took to understand he had an extensive background in combat. He was evidently a mage, as he’d set aside any weapons. Any amount of experience hadn’t been enough for his protection, however. Not from Malkus or Fura.

     “Can you believe the Empire fell for those rumors? They walked right into the Master’s trap!”

     “They did,” Malkus agreed, “But I’m still wary of traps by Orthjolf or Vingalmo’s underlings. Castle Volkihar is relatively close to here, so we need to be wary of our politically-inclined family members.”

     “Hah! They’re probably too busy fighting amongst themselves to care,” said Fura, turning to Dexion with an amused expression. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to do some playing with our new toy before we have to hand him over.”

     Malkus sighed. Fura had known for the longest time that he was strictly business about everything; that the concept of ’fun’ was something he thought miles beneath him, and that he would not deign enough to use mortals as playthings. But Fura didn’t see mankind as much else.

     “No, Fura. We can’t risk anything happening to him. He’s the only man that can read Lady Serana’s scroll,” Malkus dissented and passed the crossroads that led north to Solitude. They were almost there. Malkus would only have to distract her for so much longer.

     “Come on, Malkus! Lady Serana isn’t even in the castle!”

     “No,” he replied, his voice firm.

     As they continued through the woods and to the Icewater Jetty, Fura asked him the same question about once every ten minutes, to the point where poor, unfortunate Malkus wanted to rip the centuries-old dreadlocks from his head.

     Malkus wasn’t even sure he was in the proper location when they arrived even though he could see Castle Volkihar looming in the distance.

     “The boat is gone,” Fura observed. Her body turned rigid at the discovery. “We’re going to have to Vampire Lord our way over the water, aren’t we?”

     “I wonder what idiots took it.” Malkus stepped near the shore where the sand was malleable enough to near consume his boot. When he pulled away, he could see dark, thick blood being consumed periodically by the changing tide. “Though this will probably serve as a hint. Maybe they were resupplying the human cattle.”

     “No." Fura knelt over some of the remaining liquid and dipped her fingers into it. When she tasted the blood, she could tell it’d been recently deposited, though it certainly wasn’t a human’s. “This is nasty. It’s vampire blood. Not a weak vampire, either.”

     “Whatever happened here, we still need to bring Dexion to the master. I can carry him as a Vampire Lord.”

     “If you insist,” Fura said and began her terrifying transformation into a creature of the night.

     Before turning himself, Malkus smiled. The stars and moon above them didn’t sear his skin or brand the way the sunlight did, and soon the world would fall into a cloak of shadow forever.

     Presenting a Moth Priest to his master was a small price to pay for his eternal salvation.

     ”You did well, Vingalmo."

     Lord Harkon examined the sights before him. He couldn’t admit he was totally pleased with what he saw.

     His daughter lay unconscious, bound with silver chains that he would promptly order removed to access the Elder Scroll on her back. The others he’d wanted brought to him were missing, and Orthjolf lay battered to a pulp on the ground. His eyes were sealed shut with vicious blows so he could not see.

     “But not well enough!” Harkon snarled at last. His form blazed into the intimidating Vampire Lord’s with frightening ease. It wasn’t hard to tell when the Master of the house wasn’t happy, and Vingalmo knew, as Harkon cornered him between two tables, that the situation at hand wasn’t going to end well for him.

     “What do you think I meant when I said I wanted all of them? Why is Orthjolf all bloodied on my wooden floor?”

     Harkon had lifted Vingalmo by the collar of his shirt. That caused him to choke at the raising of an arm. Naturally, the whole court had shuffled in to observe the disruption, since they did nothing short of prepare last-minute meals to enjoy with their Master’s fury as entertainment.

     The only circumstances under which it wasn’t fun to see Harkon angry was when the rage were directed at the crowd itself.

     “He tried to—"

     Before Vingalmo could squeeze any more words from his throat, Harkon threw him into the long table. The force from his firm toss snapped it in two. Human cattle fell from the platform and rolled helplessly onto the ground.

     Some of the court erupted into voracious laughter.

     "Shut up, vermin!” Harkon demanded, approaching a portion of his mob.

     The door to Castle Volkihar then opened once more.

     They’d certainly been saved by the bell.

     In strode Malkus and Fura, reverting steadily back to their humanoid forms as they entered. Harkon was evidently pleased to see Dexion among them. His temper calmed when he did.

     “Vingalmo, take notes. That is what a successful operation looks like,” the Master growled and pointed firmly to Serana. She was waking, groggy, to find her surroundings had drastically changed from those of High Hrothgar. “Now, get those chains off my daughter this instant, and then take Orthjolf to a coffin.”

     ”Yes, Master,” Vingalmo spoke quickly, his voice hardly above a terrified whisper as he rushed to undo Serana’s chains. Seeing her wake up from ingesting his homemade poison was certainly strange. He wasn’t sure the stuff was going to work to begin with. It seemed it had done its job, but Serana certainly wasn’t pleased to find herself in Castle Volkihar.

     “Why am I here, Vingalmo?” her voice was charged with hostility, which only grew when she identified her bindings as pure silver. “If I didn’t know better, I would say you intended to harm me.”

     “Don’t give him too much fuss, my daughter. He went through great lengths to bring you here."

     Harkon grinned like a serpent. When Serana was little, she remembered how different her father’s smile had looked; how genuine it was, though never peaceful. He was all twisted up now, like an uncovered, wet clay sculpture of a deity that’d been disfigured by a midnight rain. “Before you take Orthjolf, Vingalmo, give me the scroll.”

     Vingalmo pulled the artifact over her shoulders without warning and rushed to place it in his Master’s hands.

     “Good. Now get out of my sight.”

     Vingalmo lifted Orthjolf above his shoulders as fast as he possibly could and broke into a sweating run as he carried him beyond the onlookers. Whatever was going on in the main hall, he didn’t want to miss it.

     “Now that I’ve expelled the rats, Malkus and Fura, well done.” Harkon faced his remaining Court and presented them to the crowd. “And when I say that to the two of you, I mean it. Now that we have the scroll and the Moth Priest, your thrall is prepared to serve his purpose to the Volkihar family. What’s better is that my beloved daughter is here to hear the prophecy with her own ears.”

     Some of the castle’s servants had noticed Serana still lying on the ground, so they’d helped her brush off the remaining silver at the cost of the skin on their fingers. They quickly placed her in the seat closest to her father’s proclamation.

     She didn’t care for Harkon’s ambitions or how he wanted to shape the future. Rather, she was concerned with cornering Vingalmo the next time she saw him. She had to know what he did with Meraxes and if she, Soren, and Lydia were still alive.

     At the end of the day, Harkon had to force her back in order for her to have anything to do with him, while she willingly travelled with the friends she’d made. She still loved her father. It was difficult to trace her dissonance as he had raised her well before power blinded his true allegiances and caused him to murder innocents, turning his fair ladies into Molag Bal to deface.

     Harkon might have been her relative, but the ties that bound Serana to him had weakened so much they’d nearly broken.

     Meraxes and Soren were the family she chose.

     “All right, Dexion,” Malkus began his order and transferred the Elder Scroll from Harkon’s hands to the Moth Priests.’ “Read it.”

     “Oh, an Elder Scroll!” Dexion cried out in excitement, clinging passionately to the relic as soon as it touched his palms. “I’ve been waiting a long time for this, Master! I will read it now!”

     The Moth Priest unfurled the scroll without further hesitation. A blank, overwhelmed expression replaced his enthralled one when the sight overcame him:

    “I see a vision before me, an image of a great bow. I know this weapon! It is Auriel's Bow!
Now a voice whispers, saying ‘Among the night's children, a dread lord will rise.’
In an age of strife, when dragons return to the realm of men, darkness will mingle with light and the night and day will be as one.
The voice fades and the words begin to shimmer and distort. But wait, there is more here.
The secret of the bow's power is written elsewhere. I think there is more to the prophecy, recorded in other scrolls.
Yes, I see them now... One contains the ancient secrets of the dragons, and the other speaks of the potency of ancient blood.
My vision darkens, and I see no more.
To know the complete prophecy, we must have the other two scrolls."

     When finished reading, Dexion held the scroll an arm’s length away. Harkon reclaimed it. The Master of the house wore an angered expression, disturbed at his own lack of knowledge on what was to come.

     “We must scour Skyrim for these scrolls, but first, something more important is in order,” he barked. Members of his Court retreating a few steps in their fear.

     Serana had already seen enough. If she were to remain stranded in the castle, she at least wished to visit the courtyard. Her mother had spent so much time gardening there. She’d hardly been at home but still became exhausted with her father’s voice. Rising from the table, she stalked off, away from the main hall and its associated, delusional banter.

     “This is...not normal, Master."

     Malkus turned his head as Dexion interrupted Harkon, his breath becoming a pant. “I cannot see anything at all. I will need to rest my eyes if I am to read the other scrolls, provided you come upon them.”

     “Take him to a chamber, Malkus. We need him for the remainder of the prophecy, so can’t stay blind.” Harkon turned back to his masses. “After they rest and fill on human blood as a reward for their hard work, Fura and Malkus will depart Castle Volkihar once more in search of Auriel’s Bow. Salonia, Stalf, and CuSith will accompany them, for the sake of gaining experience with real combat. Those of you who have lived long enough know that nothing ancient and powerful come without a sacrifice.”

     The Court cheered and relished in the accomplishment of their power which accompanied the strain their Master had highlighted. They expected a feast in celebration of reading the first scroll, but Harkon’s face was still wrinkled with frustration, and such a festival depended entirely on his whims.

     “We must work collectively to discover the locations of the other two scrolls. That is our first priority. If you want to prove yourself to me, then find them.”

     Vingalmo had just begun his return when he heard Harkon’s words. He’d spent hours of time in the company of a woman who had another scroll, and he let her go without a second thought.

     Now, his master had decided he needed them.

     Oh, how horribly unfortunate and stupid!

     After a half-day off, he’d track down that Elder Scroll and make up for his mistakes. Perhaps Lord Harkon would finally admit to Vingalmo’s greatness upon his return with the artifact.

     Now that was a thought that filled him with satisfaction.

     Oh, Lady Serana, your days of being the Master’s favorite are numbered indeed...

     “Ser Meraxes, I want to come, too! Lady Serana doesn’t want to be there. I need to help,” Soren begged her. He all but tugged on a hanging piece of leather attached to her armor.

     To Meraxes' chagrin, even after she’d bothered to pay for rooms in The Winking Skeever, everyone wanted to come along.

     Soren’s face already carried a degree of persuasion in its pleading desperation. There was still no way she’d let him come. Whether or not he wished to develop his personal courage, Harkon’s den of vampires was far too dangerous for him to handle. That, and if she gave him permission to tag along, she’d piss the others off.

     “You’re all staying here while I go after Serana. Lydia is in charge, and that’s the end of it,” Meraxes snapped and distributed the room keys. Every hand that reached in to accept one was reluctant.

     “I insist you allow me to come along and advise you, my Thane,” Lydia dipped her head.

     “And I get stir-crazy—"

     “That’s enough,” barked Meraxes, interrupting Zira and enveloping the key forcefully inside her palm. “Lydia, you stay here and make sure nobody else leaves. As for you, Zira Redoran, you have yet to earn my fucking trust.”

     Zira crossed her arms resentfully at Meraxes’ sharp tone. She watched almost uncomfortably as she gave the Elder Scroll to her housecarl.

     How does this woman have so many people following her around with an attitude like that?

     Zira caught her mind running when Lydia accepted it. Hell, why did I agree to hang about her? I was supposed to kill her.

     Noticing her contempt, Meraxes shot her a stinging, silver gaze right back. She knew from their confrontation at the Throat of the World that Zira hated it. A stare like that was certainly practiced and well-designed to shake off all sorts of enemies because it had a terribly shaking effect on Zira that she could scarcely describe.

     “I’m going and nobody’s following. This conversation is over.”

     Since Meraxes wasn’t supposed to be in Solitude to begin with, she didn’t want to linger there longer than she needed to. That, and each second she wasted not only brought Serana closer to Castle Volkihar, but made it more likely that her travel companions were off engaging in some sort of mischief.

     Meraxes began her departure with her back turned to the others. Her resolve fixed inexorably on Serana’s safe and successful rescue.

     “Ser Meraxes."

     She heard Soren’s voice behind her, but it was not enough to turn her around.

     “Be safe in there!”

     “Forty-eight hours,” Meraxes said with a curt nod. “If I’m not here with Serana in two days’ time, return to Breezehome.”

     With that, the door to The Winking Skeever shut behind her, and she started toward the city gate.

     It was no wonder Lord Harkon despised the courtyard.

     When Serana stood there, inhaling the crisp air surrounding Castle Volkihar’s outdoors, she felt entirely at peace.

     Well, almost. She used to find something meditative about it, back when she and Valerica would tend to the garden there together. Now, it was nothing short of derelict, as all the plants had long since died.

     It had definitely lost any sort of feminine touch without her mother in the Castle. It didn’t take the fact that the bone hawks were brave enough to land on the courtyard grounds for Serana to realize that.

     The moondial was broken, too; the one Valerica commissioned an Elven artist to make and replace the previous owners’ sundial. Serana missed its beauty and how her mother took particular pride in how each of the phases were made of actual moonstone.

     I was standing right here, Serana thought and settled beside one of the dead blossom trees. Had her mother still tended the garden, lush, pink flowers would have erupted from every branch and stem. Right by this tree when she put the moondial in. And that was the first time I’d seen her smile since father took us on our family vacation to Coldharbour...

     When the gales picked up, sending a soft breeze through Serana’s braids, she allowed herself a trace of a grin. It disappeared when she realized she might be stuck in Castle Volkihar forever.

     Of course, she could always try escaping through the south dock if she wanted. Pathetic skeletons were its only guardians. But then, how would she find Meraxes and the others? Serana realized how worried she was about her friends when her thoughts caught up to her.

     If someone had abducted her, did that mean the others were dead?

     No. Surely, there is another way. None of my friends would be killed so easily.

     To appease herself, Serana paced laps about the courtyard. It still lacked the old charm it held when everything there was alive. The place simply couldn’t reassure her the way it used to, in part because her mother wasn’t around to tend to it. Had she not locked Serana away, perhaps she could have gardened in her place.

     I can understand why my mother left, but sometimes I wonder why she put me away, and why the only thing she gave me was that Elder Scroll...

     Even though Valerica had embarked on a sharp downward spiral after her husband lost his wits, Serana would be lying if she said she didn’t miss her. I hope she knows a letter would have really helped. Why didn’t she leave one?

     Serana spotted something glinting beneath her boot during one of her bouts about the garden.

     It looks like...

     She bent down to brush aside tendrils of dead plants, revealing a shimmering quarter phase.

     ...a piece of my mother’s moondial!

     When Meraxes discovered the boat at the Icewater Jetty was gone, her frustrations grew so much she was glad she didn’t bring anyone along. She was sure Soren would run away after seeing her that angry. Serana wouldn’t have been there to hold his hand.

     Worse, she couldn’t swim in her armor. She had no choice but to take it off.

     This is so fucking humiliating...

     Though there was no one around, Meraxes was still terribly flustered. She was left to strip down near a bush where she abandoned the pieces of her iron armor until only her tunic and pants remained. They were too short to cover her foot, so she’d have to walk with her prosthetic exposed. I ought to find whoever took the boat and kill them!

     The fact that she was able to swim with Kindred slung onto her back was the only thing stopping her from going on a rampage. At least she got to keep her weapon, though her clothes upon arrival to Castle Volkihar would be soaking wet.

     Who even knew whether or not she’d be able to get in through the back? Infiltrating a vampire-infested mansion was practically a suicide mission, especially since Meraxes was alone and without a plan.

     There’s got to be more than one way in... Meraxes thought as she waded into the freezing water. She shivered as it chilled every part of her it touched. With a long swim ahead of her, there was still no guarantee the trip would bear any fruit.

     Hell, she wasn’t even one hundred percent sure Serana was even there.

     Still, she strung herself through the cold with a steady sidestroke. She was careful to keep Kindred tight against her spine so it wouldn’t weigh her down. She didn’t know how deep it was and didn’t want to risk sinking.

     If it were warm and bore a reddish sheen, perhaps it would have reminded Meraxes of Lake Rumare. That was where she’d grown up. But it was frigid and a shade of blue that matched hell better than the ocean.

     Those docks look sufficiently broken. I wonder if they lead anywhere...

     Meraxes circled around the side of the castle. She climbed out of the water to let its remnants drip from her soaking garments and onto the dirt below. She’d discovered an unfortunate place to trek barefoot, though she’d forfeited her other options.

     That’s more like it!

     Alas, she discovered a secret entrance. It was guarded by noting more than skeletons. They never put up much of a fight and generally died with one blow, so she’d simply have to hope for a lack of archers since she had no armor to ward off arrows.

     Serana, hold on...

     Meraxes could feel in her bones that Serana was nearby. Even if she didn’t need rescuing, Meraxes was going to save her anyhow. It was the least she could do after all Serana had done for her.

     Charging like a flying bolt, as shedding her armor had made her much lighter, Meraxes brought her greatsword to the high ready. She blasted bones across the gravel before the skeletons even had a chance to strike back.

  ...I’m coming for you!

     As if a blaze of determined fire had possessed her—or perhaps it was her most visceral instinct screaming that Serana was close—she charged into the courtyard, sword in hands, only to stumble on her dumbfounded vampire friend, who was bent over her mother’s moondial.

     Serana’s expression shifted to one of affectionate bewilderment. Before Meraxes had the chance to say anything at all, Serana charged at her with widening arms.

     Meraxes was certainly unsure of whether to accept what was happening or change tack and run. The time she’d spent processing the incident left her at a standstill.

     ”Meraxes,” Serana murmured against her neck. She pulled Meraxes into an embrace tight enough to lift her off the ground. “You’re so...” despite her flattening tone, she didn’t frown over her friend’s shoulder. “Damp.”

     “What were you thinking, you dumb cunt?” Meraxes' tone was too soft to mean any ill by the accompanied cursing. “Running off and getting kidnapped like that...”

     “What were you thinking when you came to Castle Volkihar?”

     Serana released Meraxes from her hold and promptly gripped her hard by the shoulders to scold her. “You don’t even have any armor on...and you’re soaking wet! You’re mortal. You’ll catch a cold or something!”

     Rather than gratifying Serana with a response, Meraxes released a laugh charged with a horribly confusing cocktail of anxiety and relief.

     “Oh, Meraxes, why do you always find the worst of times amusing?”

     To Serana’s surprise, as the knight’s voracious cackling died, she leaned into the interaction. The vampire hadn’t ever expected to feel Meraxes’ head voluntarily against her collar, or her arms to squeeze the little gap between her shoulder blades.

     Still, she was there, warmer than a furnace despite the frigid wetness her clothes carried from the sea.

     And, even surrounded by her father’s corrupt lot—what would come to be the vampire menace Skyrim had so worried about—

     Serana felt safe.

     “I hope you know how scared Soren was when we noticed you were gone. He looked like he’d seen—“

     “You mean how worried you were,” Serana corrected her and wrapped herself so tightly around her friend’s body that she’d find it difficult to let go.

     Serana wasn’t adept with her feelings or at processing them. But something about the way Meraxes held her made her collapse into herself like a house of cards.

     For the first time in perhaps thousands of years, bent over her friend’s stoic but reliable shoulder, Serana shook as she softly cried.

     ”Serana?”

     Meraxes halted in her tracks. She wasn’t sure what she felt just then. Was it...empathy? Or perhaps dread at seeing someone she cared for so upset?

     “Don’t cry,” she pleaded, unsure what else to do but pull her tighter still. “You never cry.”

     ”I didn’t think—" Serana began, cutting herself off to grip damp clumps of Meraxes’ soaking tunic between her fingers. ”I just didn’t expect anyone to come for me. I was so worried about you.”

     Serana's voice was softer than Meraxes had ever heard it, and her emotions almost overwhelming to someone who seldom let herself feel.

     “Well,” Meraxes began matter-of-factly and pulled away enough so she could see Serana’s face. She’d never expected to see her soft features highlighted with the silvery glint of tears and couldn’t help but wipe them away with her fingers. “I did. I came to get you out of here.”

     Then, for the first time since she’d last been there, Serana smiled in her mother’s courtyard.

     “There’s actually something I want to do before I go, especially because you’re here now. I had an idea.” She wiped away the remaining tears herself, turning back to the moondial she’d nearly reassembled. “That I wanted to honor my mother by repairing one of her favorite things.”

     “What, this? It looks like a sundial, but...”

     Meraxes took in the sight only to realize that they were moons instead, and then refrained from saying the rest aloud.

     A moondial? Why are vampires so fucking tacky?

     “Yes. Now that I’ve found all the missing pieces, I just need you to push it back into place, since it’s a little askew.”

     “Hm,” Meraxes grunted in response. She didn't bother to ask about the story behind the object. She was sure Serana would mention it eventually, and besides, the fact that it was important to her mother was more than a sufficient reason to fix it.

     Without pausing to examine it, Meraxes bent over and pushed the wheel down. She waited for it to pop into place.

     “Don’t be so rough with it, Meraxes,” said Serana. She hoped her friend wasn’t capable of bending the moondial too far out of shape. “It goes counterclockwise.”

     “Which way’s that again?”

     The vampire sighed impatiently and offered Meraxes a pointed gesture in the proper direction.

     “Got it.”

     When Meraxes accelerated the wheel in the proper direction, she heard it click into place and descend partially into the ground.

     Then, the dial portion moved as if it had a mind of its own. The thing was so heavy that even a stonemason wouldn’t have been able to turn it, so Meraxes found it more than shocking when it stopped at the full phase marker.

     This reminds me of the braziers at Dimhollow Crypt...

     CLICK.

     The ground itself opened after the dial ceased. It unfurled a stone lid to reveal a descending, spiral staircase deep within the ground. The entire time, the moondial was merely a ruse; a guise to hide something—or someone—away.

     ...where I found Serana.

     “Well, there’s no doubt about it. This is—“

     “Your mother,” Meraxes said and met Serana’s eyes. She swore, if even for a fraction of a second, she saw anger reflecting within them brighter than the faint light from the shrouded day.

     Meraxes knew well what it was like to experience so much emotion in such little time, though she’d hardly come close to admitting it. Such were the vicissitudes of life and fate. Two things both women had come to know far too intimately.

     “How’d you know?” Serana held Meraxes’ gaze for just a moment too long before averting her own.

     “At Dimhollow Crypt, there were some puzzle pieces I had to push into place. A similar thing happened to the floor when your stone coffin came up.”

     “She was...very clever,” Serana admitted, unable to see beyond the depths of the spiral staircase. “And I think whatever’s down here is worth checking out. She wouldn’t go to such extreme measures to hide anything unimportant.”

     Meraxes scratched the back of her neck, skeptical of the operation’s premise. Would it be possible Valerica intended to trap someone instead? Perhaps exploring the area was a lethal idea.

     “Are you sure it’s not rigged? I’ve got no armor, and I’m not looking to die.”

     “It’s not." Serana set foot on the first stair. “Father would never come out here, and mother knew that. This was meant for me.”

     Meraxes followed. Serana’s instinct was good enough for her, although she would remain vigilant regardless.

     “I’m not familiar with this part of the castle, so be careful.”

     “Then why come down here?” Meraxes asked and lit a torch to illuminate the room. Occasionally, something would leap out at her: a guardian skeleton, or a gargoyle, but nothing she and Serana could not quickly put down. “I don’t mean to sound like a bitch, but your mother dropped you off in the middle of nowhere and left. It took more than a fucking while for somebody to find you.”

     Though she wasn’t one to deny her friend the truth, Serana fell silent for a moment.

     Even she, being so generally sure of herself, wasn’t positive on her own reasoning for following the path her mother so deliberately laid out for her years after she disappeared from Serana’s life. Valerica had not only been clever enough to design every piece of her own puzzle, but audacious enough to believe her daughter would brave the trail she’d left behind.

     Serana was falling right into her trap.

     That almost made her sick.

     “That’s just it, Meraxes." Serana progressed into what seemed like a dead end. “I came here for closure. My mother owes me an explanation as to why she left me, and I think I’ll find it here.”

     Knowing mother, she couldn’t have made this the end of the line. There’s got to be a secret entrance somewhere.

     “Look for a lever or something,” she said, scouring the right side of the decadent room.

     She located a dusty pile of clothing when she searched. Beneath them was a spare suit of light vampire armor. “And take off your clothes. I found dry ones.”

     “Take off my—"

     Meraxes had to double take. Her cheeks turned a flustered, rosy pink. They were in the middle of an unexplored dungeon and Serana wanted her to strip? "What?”

     “You heard me.” Serana tossed the old armor at Meraxes’ chest. “I’ve seen you before. It doesn’t matter.”

     Meraxes would have registered Serana’s reply as nonchalant had they been strangers, but it was charged with far too much amusement to be entirely innocent.

     Meraxes obeyed anyway. Being in wet clothes for an extended period of time often resulted in dry spots and chafing, which caused unwelcome pain beneath a suit of armor.

     When she slipped the tunic over her head, she caught Serana staring intently. Her brimstone eyes traced the muscular curves of her abdomen and the x-shaped scar carved into her shoulder. In the room’s dull light, Meraxes’ skin subtly glowed, her damaged tissue reflecting a pale sheen.

     “What are you looking at?” Meraxes surrendered her soaking shirt to the dusty floor. “Turn around.”

     “I’m sorry,” Serana said and showed Meraxes her back. Had she not been undead, Meraxes would have insisted she was blushing. “That’s probably the one thing I have in common with my parents, you know: we all enjoy pretty things.”

     Out of view, Serana grinned, testing the waters of her own candor. She couldn’t see her friend’s growing frustration, but she took an ineffable joy in smelling it.

     “You shut up,” Meraxes nearly barked. She strapped the breastplate in place. Luckily, it was men’s armor. At least she didn’t have to walk around in a dress.

     Truthfully, she didn’t see anything that ’pretty’ about it, although she had no reason to dislike her body, either. She was wholly indifferent, but didn’t understand what beauty Serana derived from such a rugged, war-torn vessel.

     Meraxes supposed it didn’t matter anyway. It wasn’t like Serana would see her naked on a regular basis.

     “That necklace of yours,” Serana began, having wondered why General Rikke bothered to rip it off. It was odd to see her friend without it after growing accustomed to the thing. “You said it kept track of your debts. What did you mean by that?”

     “You really do like asking the worst types of questions,” Meraxes’ voice dropped as she searched a bookshelf for anything out of the ordinary. She spent several minutes without offering a reply, rifling around to trigger the secret entrance Serana had implied might be nearby.

     “And you really like avoiding the answers,” Serana said. She finally tugged a handle that’d been installed into the wall beside an unlit fireplace.

     The room shifted and caused the bookcase Meraxes had checked to reveal a hidden corridor. Meraxes figured her companion was close to what she’d come to find.

     “I added a bead onto it whenever I killed someone,” Meraxes retorted nonchalantly and struck a torch. Wordlessly, she strode ahead of Serana, leading the way through the unexplored hall.

     ”Oh,” Serana said flatly. She paid no mind to the newly exposed passageway, though she felt herself close to her objective, whatever it was. “I’m sorry I asked. You didn’t have to answer.”

     They walked in silence after that as they navigated Valerica’s secret corridor until they finally approached the tower’s final room.

     Serana opened the door to reveal shelves host to countless books and ingredients, tables covered in piles of scrawled research, and stations designated for enchanting and alchemy. In the center of the room, there was a circular, stone basin on the floor, which Meraxes thought resembled a downsized version of the one in Dimhollow Crypt.

     The laboratory was impressive. It even had an upstairs with more of the same.

     All these years...

     Serana examined it with astonished eyes. She allowed herself to walk inside and peek at the assorted regents her mother had collected. And I never knew she had something like this. This is even more impressive than the College of Winterhold’s necromancy course rooms!

     Without stopping to think, Serana reached out and gripped a dark soul gem between her fingers.

     “You know, you’re never supposed to touch things in a dungeon.”

     When nothing happened, Serana filed through the books. They were covered in dust, which had robbed their spines gradually of any titles. That far from suppressed Serana's hungry curiosity.

     Eventually, she took hold of one that looked different from the others. It was smaller in dimension, and the pages were practically written in chicken scratch.

     “This is my mother’s handwriting,” Serana said and flipped gently through the pages.

     I would have thought that someone who’d lived for so long would learn to write, Meraxes thought. She was unable to make out the words from a distance.

     “Oh...it says here...”

     Serana trailed off, stopping when she saw the phrase she’d avoided mentions of for hundreds of years. “The Soul Cairn. My mother went into the Soul Cairn. And she left instructions on how to get there...for me.”

End of Chapter 16.

Next: Will Meraxes and Serana find what they’re looking for in the Soul Carin? While they’re away, what have Lydia, Soren, and Zira gotten into?

Warning: Chapter 17 contains themes of death. Reader discretion is advised.

Side Banter: Skyrim names are so hard to spell. Like, why, Bethesda? Why did you have to make the spelling so difficult?

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter! The Dawnguard DLC storyline isn’t the only thing that’s starting to pick up. I haven’t started to diverge too far from canon yet, although I want to warn anybody who’s still reading that this will eventually take a pretty hard split. Continue if you dare!

Remember to stay safe during the COVID-19 outbreak, and stay turned to Kindred! I should have another chapter out next week.

Chapter Text

     Forty-eight hours was a short time indeed to explore such a magnificent city.

     Since Lydia had allowed them to explore, so long as they remained within Solitude’s gates, stayed together, and returned to The Winking Skeever by nightfall, Zira and Soren felt like tourists in their own country.

     “I’ve heard things about Fletcher,” Lydia commented when she noticed Zira’s bow. She surmised the assassin had a taste for archery. “They supposedly make the best arrows. Good for that fancy weapon you’ve got.”

     Despite Lydia’s display of kindness, Zira remained silent. She still resented Lydia for the sole fact that she was Meraxes’ housecarl. She’d agreed to tag along with these folks not too long ago, but was still battling herself over whether or not completing her contract would have been better to begin with.

     “Or not,” Lydia said and touched her fingers together in a discouraged manner.

     “I can’t believe I’m finally going to see the Bard’s College!”

     While Zira sulked in her corner of contempt, Soren was over-the-moon about his upcoming visit. He was even happier that Lydia and Zira has agreed to take him there before going anywhere else. “I just hope Ser Meraxes is okay at the castle. There are a lot of vampires in there.”

     “Aren’t you a vampire?” Zira shattered her own silence with the inquiry, her arms still crossed in a display of resistance. “Up until this point, I was unaware of a castle full of them. But, if that’s the case, why don’t you live there?”

     “They’re not good people,” Soren said. His pace nearly picked up into a skip when he was sure he could see the Bard’s College up ahead. He recognized the Flames of Callisos, which kept the building standing when lit. “Except for Lady Serana. She’s showing me how to use my powers.”

     When Zira didn’t offer a response, Lydia stepped back, unnerved, as Soren took off jogging up the College’s steps.

     “Well, it looks as though we have some visitors,” a tall, Altmer man said and poked his head out from one of the buildings’ openings. He left the door ajar as he strode into the open. “It’s a little late in the day for visits, but as sundown is not yet upon us, I encourage you to come inside!”

     Strangers who enthusiastically welcomed vagabonds into their homes were suspicious. That’s what Zira thought, anyway, after her decade of assassin’s training. She examined the man through narrow, skeptical eyes, until she saw how unnerved he was when he looked back.

     Zira hated the Altmer. She’d always been suspicious that the Thalmor were somehow related to the cultists that killed her family, and she associated the entire race with the Aldmeri Dominion.

     “Thank you!” Soren chirped from beside her. He gleefully accepting the man’s offer to enter the College. She was surprised with his naivety, though she supposed such ignorance was part of the blessing that accompanied youth—well, if he was young, anyhow—Zira didn’t know how long he'd been a vampire. “I was wondering what I’d have to do to be admitted to the Bard’s College. I’d really like to go someday!”

     “Oh, well, that’s wonderful!” The man clasped his hands together and crossed into the main hall. Immediately inside was a long corridor, well-lit with goat horn sconces and lined with filled bookshelves. “We don’t accept many applicants, but we’re always open to take more talented students. Whenever you’re interested in admission, come back this way and I’ll administer your entrance exam.”

     Soren had never seen so many instruments before. Lutes, drums, and flutes littered tables in a single place before. There was a room full of them just to their left and a row of beds on the right. Many of the bards were already asleep, though some scrawled in their journals. Others weren’t there at all, and those, the boy assumed, were the ones out on jobs.

     “Oh, by the way, my name is Viarmo. I’m the Headmaster of the Bard’s College. Who are you all?”

     Surmising he’d been rude by neglecting to introduce himself, he offered his hand to Soren, who shook it. Lydia did as well, but when he reached Zira, she only scowled.

     He was quick to back up following her belligerent expression.

     “I’m Soren! I play the flute and I sing,” he said enthusiastically and stopped to look into the living quarters. He supposed the awake bards were writing songs, which he often did before bed.

     “I’m Lydia,” the housecarl replied and avoided eye-contract with Viarmo. She didn’t like looking right at people, and the Viarmo definitely noticed. He hesitated to return her handshake. “I’m here with these two on orders.”

     What a strange group of people, the Headmaster thought but maintained his happy facade. ...though we’ll take the boy one day, if he passes his exam. I do hope he returns.

     “Well, I would show you our dining hall, but as it’s still open for dinner, guests cannot have access,” Viarmo said, “So I’m afraid that concludes your tour. However, please come back when you’re willing to apply.”

     “Thank you so much!”

     Soren grinned and his eyes lit up, reflecting the light of the wall sconces in the hallway. He’d finally visited the place he dreamed of attending. “Would you let me play a song for you before I go?”

     “That’s quite all right.” Viarmo shook his head, but smiled still. “I would say yes, although it’s a tradition that your first performance should be during your exam. You can still work on the music until the time comes, though. And take this with you." Viarmo offered him a slender, nameless book. “It’s got one song in it: Beauty of Dawn. The other pages have lines you can write new tunes on.”

     “I will!” he chirped and accepted the gift.

     Waving goodbye, Soren gave the building a final, lingering examination with his eyes, then turned back to Lydia and Zira. “Thank you for taking me. I know you probably thought that was boring.”

     Behind them, Viarmo closed the door and returned to his duties as the Bard’s College’s Headmaster.

     “As long as I follow my Thane’s instructions, everything is okay,” Lydia said and carried on down the road. They could see the Blue Palace from where they were, though they were better off looking at than trying to explore. Lots of official business went on in that place. “Besides, I know what it’s like to have a dream. When I was a kid, my brothers and I always wanted to be mighty warriors.”

     “That’s really cool," Soren said. Zira snorted in contemptuous amusement behind him. “Did your brothers learn to fight, too?”

     “They did. They’re twins, so they wouldn’t do anything without each other, even though Farkas and I used to pick on Vilkas as kids. They’re in the Companions now.”

     “Just like Ser Meraxes!” Soren wore a smile which rarely faded anymore. Lydia didn’t know where such joy came from, since his travels had certainly been something gruesome. “What did you want to be when you grew up, Lady Zira?”

     ”RUUF!” Bran barked from behind them at the mention of his master’s name, wagging his fluffy tail.

     “A frost troll,” Zira joked, though no amusement danced across her eyes.

     She didn’t want to talk about it. She’d wanted to be the head of House Redoran, but there was no House Redoran anymore.

     “In that case, I hope you become a frost troll one day. My adoptive father used to say that no dream is impossible,” Lydia replied, her tone unwaveringly serious.

     Zira simply exchanged an awed glance with Soren. She would have laughed under regular circumstances, but she felt too bad for Lydia to condescend that far.

     “Do you have any siblings, Soren?”

     Soren shook his head as the sun set and the three made their way back to The Winking Skeever.

     “No. I was the only child, so my father put a lot of pressure on me to uphold the family name. But they didn’t like me very much. I’d rather not dwell on it,” he spoke slowly, lowering his head for a moment.

     “What about you, Zira?”

     “I don’t want to answer your questions, Lydia." Zira merely continued walking. Her siblings had all been killed or sold into slavery with her and she was in no state of mind to talk about them.

     That had silenced Lydia until they reached The Winking Skeever, just after the sun had completed its descent below the horizon.

     Immediately before he started back inside, Soren noticed all of the city folk staring at a group of guards slowly progressing toward the gate.

     “I hope Ser Meraxes is okay,” Soren said. He observed the Solitude watchmen as they marched beyond the tavern. He hoped they had nothing to do with Meraxes' predicament, but couldn’t help worrying about her and Serana.

     To his surprise, as Zira retreated indoors, disinterested in the commotion, a pale-haired woman in a prisoner’s tunic turned to him. That stopped the guards’ movement completely.

     “Did you say...” the woman began, her voice raspy as a smoker’s.

     “On with it, woman! The sooner this trip is over, the sooner we can enjoy mead and rest in the Rift." One of the guards poked her shoulder with the pommel of his sword and she jumped forward.

     ”Meraxes?”

     The prisoner took him aback, although she certainly wasn’t the only one familiar with Meraxes. She had a lot of stories surrounding her. The myth only built upon itself as Skyrim started to realize that she was its last Dragonborn.

     “Do you know her?”

     “Hey kid,” a female guard snapped, brows furrowing beneath her helmet. “Don’t talk to this woman. She’s a capital criminal.”

     “Tell her—"

     A watchman’s rough shove interrupted the prisoner. It instead sent her tumbling to the ground until another guard caught a fistful of her collar.

     “Tell her Bjorna is transferring to the Riften jail. She’ll know what it means.”

     “That’s enough,” one of them snapped and tightened the bindings around her wrists.

     Before Soren could muster a reply, the guards dragged her past the city gates and onto the road beyond.

     ”That didn’t work the last time you tried it, right? Is Valerica’s summoning circle any different from yours when you tried at the College?”

     Meraxes didn’t mean to mention anything sensitive, but she’d recalled the story Serana had told her about her necromancy exam. She didn’t know the consequences of messing up a spell of any caliber. She had no aptitude for magic whatsoever outside of shouts. Even then, she was a novice Dragonborn with hardly any training.

     Though that didn’t stop her from having qualms about it.

     “No, I’m sure I can open the Soul Cairn. According to my mother’s theory, a Daughter of Coldharbour’s blood should meet the liquid requirement. Both the undead or trapped souls can enter.” Serana mulled over her mother’s journal to identify the ingredients she’d need. “Which means...”

     It was then that, like a silver dart, the realization hit her.

     “Oh, Meraxes...” Serana trailed off. She already knew what would come to pass, whether she wanted it to or not. “If you want to come in with me, I’ll have to turn you into a vampire or trap your soul.”

     Serana’s expression grew softer the longer she stared at her friend. A poignant glint reflected in her crimson eyes. The last thing she preferred was to hurt Meraxes, but either option was sufficiently painful.

     “Why do you look so upset?” Meraxes asked. Her question was more rhetorical than anything. She’d survived treachery, war, and professional attempts on her life. There was nothing Serana could possibly put her through that’d be worse than something she’d already encountered. “I’ll be fine. What ingredients does Valerica say we need?”

     “You don’t have to come—"

     ”Bullshit,” Meraxes hissed. In defiance, one of her eyebrows turned up. “You think I came all the way to Castle Volkihar to let you descend into hell by yourself?”

     Serana couldn’t help herself.

     A smile tugged at the corner of her lips. Serana felt tears threatening at the ducts below her eyes, though they failed to debut in Valerica’s laboratory. There was something about the way Meraxes spoke to her sometimes that made her heart collapse into her stomach only to shoot back up into her throat seconds later.

     “She may be my mother, Meraxes.” Serana placed Valerica’s journal in Meraxes' hands and pointed to the page where she’d listed off the ingredients they’d need to open the portal. “But you’re the one who’s never abandoned me. I never want anything to happen to you.”

     At that, Meraxes laughed, trying to decipher Valerica’s scrawling. She probably wouldn’t be able to identify all of the ingredients, anyway. Things would go faster if they worked together.

     “What’s funny about this?”

     “I’m apparently Nirn’s only Dragonborn,” Meraxes said as she begun her search for the finely ground bone meal. She knew what that looked like well enough after traversing a handful of draugr-infested dungeons. “So I’m going to get hurt. There’s not much you or I can do about it.”

     “Oh, you want a bet?” Serana’s tone grew mocking as she lifted a bowl purified void salts from the balcony shelf. “Because I’m certain you could start by wearing armor when you go exploring.”

     “Serana, I was swimming in the ocean. I would’ve drowned,” Meraxes said. She found the bone meal between the tusks of a mammoth skull.

     “I figured, since I didn’t think you’d show up in soaking wet undergarments otherwise. That doesn’t mean I can’t tease you about it, though.”

     Serana found the black soul gem shards on her mother’s alchemy table. At last, she could complete the cocktail with the three ingredients and her blood.

     “I hope it works,” she said in a low voice, placing the bowls of ingredients along the bannister above a stone summoning bowl. “Go on. Pour the bone meal in.”

     Meraxes obeyed and watched as Serana added the void salts and soul gem fragments. Then, only one regent remained.

     “Messing up a spell of these proportions could do even more harm than killing us. You’re going to have to give this your best if we make it happen.”

     Neither of them had begun the day with the intention of entering the Soul Carin, but it seemed the lives of adventurers were something unpredictable at best. Meraxes nodded affirmatively, though she could still sense Serana’s dread.

     Serana took a dagger to her own hand. Her ancient and powerful blood spilled into the bowl.

     “I will. I don’t put my faith in many men, but I trust myself.” Meraxes retorted watched her stir the ingredients together. As she did, the slice on her palm mended back together. “And I trust you.”

     Serana smiled.

     “Well, Meraxes, I am not a man.”

     Beneath them, a dancing swirl of intermixing blue and violet magic moved about the floor. It sent a translucent, glowing mist wafting towards the ceiling. A set of stony stairs established themselves, emerging in the alarming formation of what Serana recognized as a summoning circle similar to the one she’d made at the College of Winterhold.

     “It worked." Serana's voice was hardly above a whisper at the discovery.

     “Are you sure?”

     The stairs certainly seemed to lead somewhere, although Meraxes couldn’t see beneath the pool of magic energy. It covered whatever was beneath like a shimmering veil. “I expected it to be more—I don’t know—portal-y.”

     Under regular circumstances, Serana would have teased Meraxes for her lack of knowledge about magic. She was still preoccupied, however, with how she’d bring her friend to the Soul Carin to begin with.

     “You have a choice to make,” Serana said softly, “I trust you enough to Turn you, and I can’t guarantee the soul trap will work.” Her eyes pleaded Meraxes to opt for the safer choice even though she already knew that was out of the question.

     “No."

     Meraxes shook her head. She already despised being a werewolf, even though she’d become used to it over the years, and the only thing worse than that was vampirism. The Companions would lose their love for her if she violated that sacred vow. “I chose to become a member of Kodlak’s family. I won’t forsake my allegiance to The Circle. Trap my soul.”

     Before Meraxes realized it, Serana had closed in on her. Serana's hands lingered just above her shoulder. Their faces were mere inches apart as a life drain spell beginning to swirl in Serana's palms.

     “You’re going to have to hold still,” she whispered and Meraxes felt Serana’s cool breath caress her face. “I don’t want to hurt you, but this is going to be painful.”

     The life drain spell wasn’t pleasant, as Serana had warned her, though Meraxes certainly remembered things that felt hundreds of times worse.

     Yet when she descended the staircase by Serana’s side, it was not her who followed, but a soulless body void of any warmth.

     “I’m glad it worked, but...”

     Serana spent a lingering moment staring, pained, at Meraxes’ corpse before they descended into the Soul Cairn. “I’m glad it’s only temporary. Let’s get this over with so we can return your soul to your body.”

     “Serana, I hope you know one day my soul won’t return."

     Meraxes fell silent when the vampire met her gaze, a bitter sadness pooling behind their usual, vibrant fire. She slipped her fingers between Meraxes'. Had she a spirit, it would have ascended to Meraxes’ cheeks to color them pink.

     “Not on my watch.”

     Hand-in-hand, they crossed the threshold of the mortal realm and entered the Soul Carin.

    “Our hero, our hero, claims a warrior's heart.
I tell you, I tell you, the Dragonborn comes!”

     The Bee and the Barb was as busy as usual with patrons frequently entering and exiting the premises. Durak figured the inkeeper probably made a lot from her business, as, even though Riften salaries remained at an all time low, her establishment was one of the most popular in Skyrim.

    “With a voice wielding power of the ancient Nord arts,”

     He and Agmaer hadn’t found many answers there. Not until a tall, lanky Nord settled in the barstool beside them.

    “Believe, believe, the Dragonborn comes!”

     “The Dragonborn, huh?” the man said and raised a tankard of honey mead to his lips. “I’d give anything to run into her again now that I know what she’s become. It’s incredible the people you meet across Skyrim.”

     Durak turned to him, teeth nearly penetrating his upper lip. So the Dragonborn was a female, according to recent rumors as well as old.

     “Oh, yes, I forgot to mention I used to work at the Frostfruit Inn in Rorikstead. My name is Erik the Slayer.”

     “Nice to—"

     “Well, I think you’ve had too much to drink, Erik,” Durak interrupted Agmaer before he could finish. He slammed his own tankard of strong ale on the counter. “Unless you can tell me who this Dragonborn is, I don’t believe you’ve met her.”

     “You don’t know the Wolf of Whiterun?” Erik spoke quickly, his shoulders instantly perking up. “She even has her own song! Have you been living in the Ratway or something?”

     When Durak sighed, steam nearly escaped his nose. Agmaer and Erik were the same kind of annoying. Durak wouldn’t be able to bear the both of them long.

     “Just give me her name, Erik,” Durak growled impatiently.

     Beside him, Agmaer let his legs hang off the high chair, regretting being as agreeable as he was. He’d forgotten what an awful temper Durak had. It scared him.

     “Hold on,” Erik said and stood. “Let me ask the bard to play the—“

     Before he could take a step towards the hearth, Durak tightened his fist around the back of Erik’s collar.

     “Her name. Is it Meraxes Whitemane?”

     In Durak's grasp, Erik shivered. He was still an amateur adventurer at best and was afraid of inescapable situations like these. Besides, he still wouldn’t be able to afford a full set of armor until returning the Dragonstone to Farengar Secret-Fire. He was shit out of luck from the second Durak seized his tunic.

     “Are you serious? Release my patron this instant!”

     The inkeeper, a gritty-voiced Argonian called Keerava, snapped at Durak. “Don’t make me get the broom! You think I’m joking, but if you continue to behave like a child in my establishment, I will beat you with it.”

     When Durak let Erik go, he nearly ran into one of the buildings’ pillars. He coughed in relief as his own collar had nearly choked him to the point of unconsciousness.

     “Good. I don’t like banning people from my tavern,” Keerava rasped beneath her breath as she washed a row of tankards. “Business is horrible enough in Riften as it is. Stupid men.”

     “The fact that he didn’t say anything when I asked him her name,” Durak began, the inn’s dim lighting casting contouring shadows over his masculine face. “And the look on him when I got his shirt. That’s enough for me to believe a trip to Whiterun might be worth it.”

     When Durak took his cloak from the coat rack, Agmaer stopped mid-drink to stand and join him.

     “I’m sorry,” he said to Erik and made his way across the bar to join his short-tempered companion.

     “Let’s go to the carriage station, Agmaer. Sleep can wait until after we’ve avenged Isran.”

     Everything in the Soul Cairn was blue.

     The color swallowed the entire realm from the swirling sky, mixed in with dastardly hues of dark violet and black, to the loose, sandy dirt littering the ground.

     It almost reminded Serana of Coldharbour.

     “Our clothes and my mother’s journal are still holding up in here, so it looks like the Soul Cairn can retain more than just soulless vessels,” Serana said. She passed an imposing, obsidian tower with a spire-like structure at the top. Something within each of the shrine-like sculptures glowed, casting beacons of visible light into the sky.

     “So you can enter without giving up your soul because you’re a vampire?”

     Meraxes was confused by the fact that Serana didn’t need hers trapped as well and further by the fact that she couldn’t see any enemies yet. Something about the Soul Cairn stabbed her with lingering dread, so she was glad to keep Kindred slung across her back.

     “I don’t have a soul,” Serana said flatly, “It belongs to Molag Bal, not to the Ideal Masters.”

     “The Ideal Masters. They sound pleasant,” Meraxes snorted sarcastically, her chin turning up toward the sky when she noticed a few rays of light that penetrated the clouds. Meraxes wondered why they were there. Everything else in the Soul Cairn was so dark.

     “They’re the keepers of every trapped soul. All enchanters are necromancers by default, you know. Their power comes from here, although my mother’s notes say no one in Tamriel knows about that.”

     Truthfully, Meraxes was probably one of the last people Serana wanted to discuss any type of magic with. No matter how she tried to explain it, Meraxes didn’t understand.

     “Either way, you made a deal with the Ideal Masters when you let me trap your soul. We might have to go through some lengths to get it back.”

     “You’re telling me this now?” Meraxes would have surrendered her face to her palm, except she still had Serana’s hand.

     “I never would have done any damage to you if I thought it’d be permanent,” Serana said and met Meraxes’ gaze. She was glad to see the Soul Cairn didn’t suck the beauty away from its silver sheen. “You know that.”

     “Hm,” Meraxes grumbled as she continued toward what looked like a massive castle in the distance. After Fort Dawnguard and Castle Volkihar, she’d had enough of imposing buildings and wasn’t looking forward to exploring it. “I have a feeling whatever we’re searching for is in there.”

     ”Wow, Meraxes, what tipped you off?” Serana retorted, her voice charged with sarcasm.

     “Honestly? The giant, purple dome around it is pretty suspicious.”

     That made Serana laugh.

     We’re in a realm where hundreds and thousands of souls have been trapped and we’re holding hands like summer children, Serana thought as the massive castle came further into view.

     They’d arrived unscathed, but when Meraxes tried to file through the gate, the violet-like barrier around the building blocked her way.

     Serana released her friend’s hand to flip through Valerica’s journal.

     “There’s nothing about a magical fence in my mother’s notes,” she decided as she turned pages filled with scrawling. “But—“

     “You two are very lost.”

     The voice came from behind them. While it didn’t strike Meraxes in any particular way, Serana recognized it even after centuries of silence. She pivoted, her fangs sliding belligerently into place. A millennia of sleep in a stone coffin had unfortunately done little for her grudges.

     ”Petra.”

     “Wait...”

     Petra was a short woman—even closer to the floor than Meraxes—and had a long, fiery mane of ginger hair. She didn’t look like a human, though, as she’d developed the hallow cheeks and thinning body of a lich or draugr. “I’ve had hundreds of years to think about what I did to you, Rana. I’m—"

     "Serana,” the vampire sharply corrected her, her tone suddenly biting. Meraxes had heard her friend anger before, though she’d missed her at her worst. She’d discovered another one of Serana's personalities that day. “And I don’t want your apology. I want what’s behind this barrier, so you can tell me you’re sorry by helping me take it down.”

     What surprised Petra wasn’t Serana’s hostility—she’d expected that—nor the fact that she’d run into her once more, as Valerica, her mother, had been there for quite some time. Rather, it was Meraxes, the mortal woman who accompanied her, and her nonchalant expression.

     “I have to warn you about what’s beyond it before I teach you how to dispel it. But there is a way,” Petra said. Her head was bowed in guilt. For a moment, her voice even broke, although Meraxes could sense her humanity had been chipping away in the Soul Cairn for some time. “I made a deal with the Ideal Masters when I came. In exchange for my staying here, I am Durnehviir’s Keeper. He’s a dragon. You must look out for him.”

     “That shouldn’t be a problem.” Serana raised her head in spiteful pride. For a flash of a second, Meraxes thought she faintly resembled Harkon. “My friend’s a dragon slayer.”

     ”Hey, I’ve only killed one—"

     “A Dragonborn, aren’t you?”

     Petra’s bright, green eyes met her silver and refused to look away. “Good. Nobody’s ever been able to defeat Durnehviir. Maybe you could be the first.”

     “What’s behind there, Petra?” Serana all but bared her teeth at the redhead.

     “That’s the thing,” said Petra. She passed effortlessly through the barrier and emerged on the other side. It was apparent, then, to Meraxes that she was nothing more of a shell of a woman, slowly chipping away.

     Pity churned her stomach.

     “It’s Valerica, Serana. Your mother’s in there...and to get to her, you need to kill the four Keepers.” She swallowed hard and finally raised her head to meet Serana's eyes. “I’m the fourth.”

     Meraxes’ gaze hardened, and Petra noticed, for she retreated a few steps the next time she met it.

     “Is there a way I could at least send you to Sovngarde?”

     Serana reached out to grab Meraxes, but it was too late. Meraxes was a mercenary by trade. Even though that selfish, coin-hoarding part of her was lost to history, two convictions from the career remained: that to consume ridiculous amounts of alcohol and that to take human lives. She’d found the former often came following the latter. “I wouldn’t wish Oblivion on anyone.”

     “She’s merciful, Serana,” Petra whispered and knelt on the soft, blue dirt. “You chose a good woman to spend your days with. I’m glad.”

     “No, it’s not like that—" Meraxes said quickly.

     “But, to answer your question, there’s not a way. My soul will belong to the Ideal Masters regardless of what happens. When you strike me down, my likeness will only emerge where I knelt.” Petra bowed her head once more, wispy tears emerging on the brim of her eyelids. “Just please get it over with. I’m so glad you came along, truly. In a few hundred years, I would hardly be a woman at all.”

     “Before I do this,” Meraxes began and unstrapped Kindred from its holster. “I need to know how to kill the other keepers. Otherwise, this sacrifice won’t mean anything.”

     “I wouldn’t call it a sacrifice."

     A faint smile emerged on Petra’s lips. Even after decades of killing, that smile bewildered Meraxes to her core. “But I’m sure you’ve seen those light beacons. You can even locate them from here. They’ll lead you to the other three Keepers, and when you kill them, the barrier will go away.”

     “I believe you,” Serana said. Her voice harbored contempt and disappointment. “My mother would do something like this. All those years I spent trapped...”

     ...she was here, and probably with no intention to return to Tamriel.

     “I don’t see why you wouldn’t,” Petra said, meeting Meraxes’ eyes again. “Because it doesn’t matter. The day I die has finally come.”

     “Are you ready for this?”

     Meraxes would not raise her sword until her fellow Nord agreed. She’d done executions before, and after almost being killed herself, knew the types of things to say to someone else on their deathbed.

     “Not until I know your name.”

     “I would tell you it’s Meraxes Whitemane,” she said and brought Kindred to her shoulders. “But I’ve always told those I’ve executed the whole truth,” her gaze hardened, and in turn, her grip tightened around the sword. “I am Lucielle Laxus Cornelius.”

     “Well...” Petra grinned. “I’ve been ready for centuries, Lucielle.”

     Meraxes exhaled.

     “Then I sentence you to die.”

     I know there’s no saving her, but when I find the means to craft a new necklace, there will be a space for her there...

     After praying silently—the only way Meraxes knew how—she brought down her greatsword with expert precision and sent Petra’s head rolling off.

     Serana couldn’t watch. She’d known the woman too long and too intimately to see her decapitated, although she certainly hadn’t looked the way she used to since the Soul Cairn had begun its toll.

     “Thank you for your help, Petra,” Meraxes said and sheathed a bloodied Kindred. She was unsure whether the woman’s soul would hear her gratitude.

     Serana observed Meraxes, dumbfounded. She’d hardly heard Meraxes thank anyone, and Petra was someone who’d hurt her in the past. Was Serana, perhaps, too harsh and petty over centuries-old drama?

     No. She was still angry. She didn’t even want to say goodbye to Petra and that was far from the only source of her frustration.

     “Your name isn’t Meraxes?”

     Serana scowled, although her tone carried more disappointment than seething rage. She simply couldn’t understand why her friend would bid her to use a pseudonym even after so much time together. “So I’ve been calling you the wrong thing since we met?”

     “No." Meraxes shook her head. “It’s not the name I was assigned at birth. But that doesn’t mean it’s not my name.”

     They paused as Petra’s bloody corpse disappeared beneath their feet, the Ideal Masters chewing away her remaining mortality. Had Meraxes failed to strike her down, that process would have taken years.

     The two turned their attention to the sky after she disappeared. The horizon in the Soul Cairn was purple like the brazier fires in Dimhollow Crypt.

     It’d been long since they’d met; long since Meraxes introduced herself. Long since the knight had given Serana her name.

     “Meraxes Whitemane is the name I chose,” she remarked and shattered the tense silence between them. “My mother suggested it as we ran away from Cyrodiil, and Kodlak gave me the other half. I’m never going to part with it.”

     Serana fell silent. Were there a sun in the Soul Cairn, she would have liked to watch it set.

     “Is there a story behind it?” She asked after a few minutes had passed.

     “Yes, although it’s long.”

     Serana interlaced their fingers once more after Meraxes put Kindred away. She found herself dreading letting go despite the lie she’d been told. If Meraxes had gone by a different name since she was nine, why was she to blame for using it?

     “Well, I’d like to know about it,” Serana said, her chin turned upward at the beacons in the distance.

     One down. three to go.

     Something about keeping Serana's fingers locked in her own made Meraxes feel more connected to her, although she didn’t see the point in it when operating a two-handed weapon.

     I hope she knows I’m going to have to let go of her in about ten minutes.

     “Will you tell me the story? I could use the distraction,” Serana said. Between her mother being in the Soul Cairn, Petra’s execution, and her friend’s true identity, Serana was left with a lot to process.

     Meraxes sighed. She supposed it was the least she could do.

     “Very well.”

End of Chapter 17.

Next: Harkon’s vampires begin the search for Auriel’s bow. Meraxes tells her origin tale.

Chapter Text

     Lucielle had always loved fishing. Even on the bad days, when they hardly bit at her bait, she enjoyed sitting by Lake Rumare. She basked in the silence until politicians would stop to speak with her. They all knew her father—Cassius Brutus Cornelius—counsel to the Emperor, Titus Mede II.

     There were some days of fishing that were unlike any other. Sometimes, that was because Lucielle would catch an especially enormous fish, or none at all, or perhaps one of her father’s more interesting friends would sit and have a long conversation with her.

     But on a crisp afternoon in year 175 of the Second Era, one of Lucielle’s fishing trips took a tremendous turn for the worse when her mother—a former ambassador from Skyrim to Cyrodiil—ran, scrambling, from their home wearing a pack jammed full of their belongings.

     ”Luci, get up!” Bjorna spoke quickly and tugged at her daughter’s hand as soon as she grew close enough.

     Because she fished near the forum when there were no meetings, a couple politicians’ wives would pass by. Except that day. They stopped to stare at Lucielle and Bjorna, each wearing a clueless and horrified expression.

     Bjorna nearly dragged her daughter over the bridge. They ran together to the ferryman and carriage station.

     ”Mom? Where are we going?” Luci asked, her voice quivering. Sometimes, her mother would take her on spontaneous trips around central Cyrodiil. But they always walked slowly and never brought so much supplies. This was different. It was frantic.

     And Lucielle was scared.

     “We’re going to visit a very nice man and his daughter,” Bjorna said. Her pace slowed to a trot when she realized she could hardly answer Luci’s questions sprinting. “They’re going to take us for a carriage ride.”

     “If we’re taking a carriage, then why are we running?”

     Bjorna left Lucielle’s question unanswered, knocking on the side of the carriage to get the diver’s attention. On his lap was also a girl, maybe a year older than Luci.

     “Octavian,” her mother said to the carriage driver. Her nails nearly dug into the wood on the side rail. “We need to get out of here.”

     “Right,” he replied and gazed at his occupants. “Hop in the back. North, I’m supposing?”

     “Yes.” Bjorna nodded, a sigh of relief escaping her. “North.”

     Until they were far enough from the Imperial City, Octavian had instructed them both to lie beneath the carriage benches so nobody could see them. He’d had cargo placed in the bed so it looked like he was traveling with that instead. Lucielle didn’t understand the point of being on her belly in a carriage.

     “Are we playing a game?” she asked. She wanted to poke her head up to see the surrounding terrain. As she’d never been on such a long ride, she was probably far enough from home that everything looked different.

     “Yes,” Bjorna muttered. She sat up when Octavian said something about the coast being clear. “It’s a hide-and-seek game. The most important part is that you listen to everything I tell you. But, first...” Bjorna pulled something from the top of her loaded pack—a straw doll in the shape of a dragon—and offered it to her daughter.

     “You brought Meraxes! I thought he was supposed to stay at home during our trips,” Lucielle said, already amused by her favorite toy. She’d named after the largest, most ferocious dragon in Cyrodiil’s recorded history. His true name was a Thu’um but the translation had been lost to time and the whims of Imperial historians.

     “Do you think Meraxes would like it if I gave you a makeover?” Bjorna forced a smile.

     “Aw, mom, I’ve never liked those.” Lucielle put Meraxes down anyway, finally able to observe what was going on around her. The carriage was in the middle of nowhere. Luci had never seen such a desolate place before. “Where are we?”

     “Well, we’re on our way to finishing the game,” Bjorna said, “And a makeover is part of the game. We both have to turn into someone else, and whoever can look the furthest from their usual wins! It will be very fun, like putting on a costume.”

     Changing in the back of a carriage was less than ideal, especially with a male driver, but they hadn’t any other choice. Bjorna passed Lucielle a commoner’s outfit Octavian had picked up for them and worked on changing into one herself. He was smart enough to buy used clothing so it would appear the girls had been wearing them for a while.

     Lucielle didn’t see anything wrong with her fishing clothes, but she wanted to win the game. She supposed the new ones smelled better, anyway. Less like fish.

     “Now, let me give you a haircut. You’ll surely win the game if yours is good enough.”

     “Okay, mom.” Lucielle turned around and sat on one of the cargo boxes while Bjorna settled on the carriage bench. It was difficult to cut hair in such an unstable location, but with patience, she did a decent job. “Wait, I can feel the wind on my neck! Is my hair gone?”

     “No, darling,” said Bjorna, “It’s just very short. I will tie mine up to match, so don’t you worry. But there is a final part to the game.”

     “What is it?” Lucielle leaned forward on her elbows only to discover they weren’t the best things to balance on in a carriage. The terrain they’d set across was rather rough, so sitting still was difficult to begin with. She retreated to the bench beside her mother. “Am I winning?”

     “Yes, you are beating me, but you have to finish. You are not Lucielle anymore. You must pick a different name.” Bjorna rescued the dragon doll from sliding about the carriage, setting it in her daughter’s lap. “What about Meraxes?”

     “But, mom, his name is Meraxes. I can’t steal his name.” Lucielle frowned. “Stealing is bad.”

     “Well, why don’t you rename him? He can play the game, too,” Bjorna suggested. They weren’t far from Riften at that point. She could see it in the distance. Alas, she and her daughter would be safe, but to do that, they could not live together.

     Tears formed in her eyes. To lose her husband and daughter in the same day was a tragedy she would be unable to forgive or forget.

     “Why do you look sad?” Lucille asked and offered her mother the dragon doll. “Here, you need Meraxes. He makes me feel better. And, well...I guess there can be two Meraxeses. So I can be one, too, to win the game.”

     Her mother sniffled and nodded. When Bjorna dropped her off, she had hoped to leave her with something from home. Selfishly, however, she wanted to keep the dragon. It reminded her of her daughter.

     “Here you go." Octavian stopped at the Riften carriage station. “And that’s free for you, Bjorna. Any classmate of mine doesn’t have to pay for rides. Just be careful out there.”

     “We will.”

     Bjorna held her daughter’s hand tightly as she progressed through the city. She stopped in front of what looked like a mead hall. The conditions in Riften were quite unlike that of Cyrodiil, but appeared good for fishing, so Lucielle was curious.

     “Here we are...” her mother trailed off, opening the door to a building called ‘Honorhall.’

     Inside, there were two kids, a boy and a girl. Both were very close to Lucielle’s age. She grew excited when she saw them. She hadn’t many opportunities to make friends in Cyrodiil, after all.

     But something was wrong with the situation.

     When Bjorna turned around to leave, she didn’t beckon her daughter to follow along.

     Instead, she closed the door to Honorhall Orphanage behind her, clutching Lucielle’s dragon doll close to her chest and fighting back tears.

     ”Mom? Mom! Where are you going?” Luci charged at the doors. An older woman’s elbow stopped her from running any further. ”Where is my mom going?” she spoke so quickly the lady could hardly understand her.

     “That’s none of my business,” the elder said. She continued to push back on Lucielle when she charged forward. “And it’s no longer yours, either.”

     ”What do you mean?”

     The other children stared onward at the scene. Both seemed to recognize a deep significance in it that Lucielle was missing.

     “Well, Meraxes, this is Honorhall Orphanage. Your mother’s not coming back for you.” The older woman pushed Lucielle toward her peers, who watched her with dread in their hearts. “But you’re not the only one. Maul and Talon have been here since they were babies, and nobody’s bothered to adopt the miscreants. Go on. Try talking to them.”

    Lucielle was left with far too much to process. She had a new name, a new home, and apparently, her mother would never return to her. What was more, her new guardian was interesting, having bouts of sudden kindness and then returning to a nonchalant, disappointed state, calling the children cruel names.

     She could fight no longer. Instead, she melted to the floor and began to weep.

     “I didn’t know the truth until years later,” Meraxes said. She stopped when she noticed all of the beacons were gone. After killing all of the Keepers, the magical barrier should have been eliminated. “My mother sent me a letter from the Blue Palace—where she’d been rotting in jail for years—explaining that my father had fought the Emperor over the singing of the White-Gold Concordat. He was executed for treason on the spot. She didn’t have much of a choice to do what she’d—”

     Serana trapped Meraxes in another one of her tight embraces, catching her severely off guard.

     “Thank you for telling me,” Serana murmured over her shoulder. “I remember when you told me the four ways to tell a story. Kodlak taught you them when you were young. That means a lot to me.”

     Serana couldn’t help but feel warm inside when she realized how honest Meraxes had become with her. After so long, she’d finally earned a large portion of the Dragonborn’s trust. Meraxes had even gone so far as to come back for her after Orthjolf and Vingalmo’s kidnapping. “What happened to Maul and Talon? How did you wind up in Whiterun?”

     “Well, those are stories of their own,” Meraxes said and pulled away from Serana. She didn’t have much against letting Serana touch her, but wanted to remain vigilant in an unfamiliar location. “Maul joined the Thieves’ Guild five years after I met him. I didn’t go with him because my conscience was still rather clear then, and my mother had taught me not to steal. Grelod, our supervisor, allowed us more freedom when we turned fifteen. Talon and I started fishing and selling our catches.” She trekked on toward the castle. The magical forcefeild no longer stood to protect it. “She stayed with me until she died. We were eighteen and she’d been sick. I ran away after that.”

     “It sounds like you were close.” Serana met Meraxes’ eyes, then stared at the ground. “I’m sorry.”

     “There’s no need to apologize. That was twenty-four years ago.” Meraxes shrugged as if the weight on her shoulders was nonexistent. “I was young and stupid. The smartest thing I did was use the fishing money to buy a set of armor and a sword. I got some training from bar fights and run-ins with Maul. My years of mercenary work brought me to Whiterun, where I met the Companions.”

     “What were you like back then?”

     “I was horrible. Imagine when you met me, but about twenty times worse,” Meraxes replied, her tone charged with amusement. “The day my mother left, after I had that fit, I vowed I’d never cry again. I was furious and didn’t think anyone was worth the tears. When Talon died, I refused to shed a single one. I hardly had any emotions at all.”

     “What changed?” Serana asked and stopped in front of the castle. Soon, she’d enter and find Valerica. She’d get the answers she was owed. Her overwhelming curiosity about Meraxes, however, dominated her mind for the time being.

     “Kodlak. He brought my feelings back, but I’d needed a chaser for life ever since. I couldn’t swallow it on my own.”

     Meraxes remembered the day Kodlak Whitemane finally returned her emotions. That was the day he offered her his surname and made her a member of his family. That day, everything she’d felt since her mother’s disappearance caught up with her, and she’d cried so much and so often that she turned to alcohol for help.

     Her problem was mild at Jorrvaskr. When she returned from service, the Companions found that the Civil War had worsened it significantly.

     “I don’t want to talk about this anymore. Maybe another time." Meraxes approached the castle’s main door. “Let’s go find Valerica and ask her why the hell she left you.”

     Serana hadn’t put the pieces together before, but now, she had them all: Meraxes was fundamentally grouchy and closed off to others. The reason she’d allowed her to come along in the first place was because she understood the feeling of being abandoned—

     —because her mother left her, too.

     I wonder if she’s visited Bjorna since then, Serana thought and reminded herself to ask Meraxes at a better time. If not, well...I might have to encourage her to get some closure, too.

     “What happened to the barrier? Is it possible someone has eliminated dear Petra and the Keepers?”

     Before they’d even set foot inside, a woman emerged from the doorway. She was incredibly tall with a regal posture and an expression more nonchalant than Meraxes', as if that were possible.

     This is Serana’s mother? I see where she got the height...

     “Or, before you answer...” Valerica’s expression suddenly twisted almost obscenely in practiced, bridled anger. “...How has it come to be that a werewolf is in my daughter’s company?”

     Wow. Talk about a resting bitch face.

     Valerica appeared in a liminal between two spaces—that of a human and a Vampire Lord—the very fact that Meraxes had accompanied Serana to the Soul Cairn had awakened her fury to a point near transformation.

     “She’s protecting me, mother.” Serana had no trouble finding her voice in the matter. She spoke up even louder than Valerica had. Since the barrier had shattered, there was nothing blocking each of their burning gazes. “And she rescued me from Dimhollow Crypt, where you locked me away for all the life I could have otherwise lived. I came here seeking answers and nothing more.”

     Then, something happened that neither Meraxes nor Serana had expected:

     Valerica began to laugh.

     “I see my daughter is not only as naive as usual, but that you’ve rubbed off on her in a way I never would have allowed, were I still at the Castle.” Her voice nearly shook with the amusement her cackling bore. “I’m supposing my husband is interested in the Elder Scrolls at this point. Correct me if I’m wrong: there are three he needs to decipher the prophecy.”

     “You’re not.” Serana confirmed her mother’s suspicion and raised a hand contemptuously to her hip. “But what does this have to do with why you locked me away?”

     “Serana,” sighed Valerica. “You poor fool. The Elder Scrolls are a ruse; a means to an end. The key to the Tyranny of the Sun is you.”

     While Serana fell silent, contemplating the meaning of Valerica’s words, Meraxes was much more up-front about her qualms.

     “What do you mean, she’s the key? What is the Tyranny of the Sun?”

     “It’s just as I feared: you are an even poorer fool than my daughter. The Tyranny of the Sun is the prophecy my husband wishes to complete. It is a horrendous proposition that would end Magnus’s relationship with Mundus forever. He wants to blot the sun out of the sky, and to do that, he needs a Daughter of Coldharbour’s blood. So, by setting my daughter free from her crypt, and by bringing her here, you’ve only put her in more danger.” Valerica seethed, her evident distaste for Meraxes growing by the second. “If you manage to get out of here, you should do yourself a favor and take a bath. You smell like a wet dog.”

     “I’m a wet wolf, you sick woman,” Meraxes snapped and stepped protectively—and belligerently—in front of Serana. “And if that’s the case, then I have to stop Harkon. If you have anything to tell me that might help me with that, now would be the time.”

     She’s willing to fight my father...

     Serana’s jaw nearly hit the floor at Meraxes’s proposition. She’d lived for so long that almost nothing surprised her, but taking down Harkon was such an ambitious desire that it likely ranked up near the completion of his prophecy.

     ...just to save me?

     “Not a lot gets through your skull, does it? You think I didn’t assess the probability of killing Harkon before executing my plan? I might be a Daughter of Coldharbour myself, but Molag Bal favors my husband.”

     “Playing keep-away isn’t going to solve anything!” Meraxes barked, her fuse melted down to the explosive beneath. Valerica had angered her. Serana could see that plain on her face. “That’s what you did. I’m going to kill him and end this for good, and if you can’t help me, then you’re in my way!”

     “My, my.” Valerica shook her head disdainfully. “That sounds almost like something my husband told me before he nearly killed me for my own blood. You and he certainly aren’t that different after all. So maybe you’re right. Maybe you can kill him. He’d see you as a threat eventually either way, given the way your mind works.”

     “Mother,” Serana interrupted Valerica before she had the chance to speak. “You have an Elder Scroll here in the Soul Cairn, don’t you?”

     “Well, would you look at that? As naive as she still is, my daughter is anything but stupid,” Valerica said. She acknowledged then that their meeting was a set-up for disaster. They were bound to disagree with one another on nearly every subject, and it was better for Serana to take shelter in Tamriel as soon as possible. “If you think you can find anything to stop Harkon in the scroll, then help yourself. If you want to take it, though, you’ll have to deal with Durnehviir.” She turned to Meraxes, her visage descending once more into one of suppressed rage. “You need to keep my daughter away from her father if you truly wish to protect her. You’ve undone my plan to guarantee her safety.”

     “Stop talking down to me." Meraxes voice teetered on the edge of a growl. Serana could tell she was making a valiant effort to put her anger away. “Petra warned me about the dragon. If I need to slay it for the scroll, then I’ll do my best. Are you going to help me fight?”

     “I will,” Serana said, her hand touching Meraxes’ arm. She was suddenly very thankful for the spare set of armor she’d found in Castle Volkihar.

     “I suppose it couldn’t hurt."

     Valerica started toward the boneyard. “Although, after I instruct you on how to reclaim your soul from here, I never want to see your face again. You are no good for my daughter.”

     The corner of Meraxes’ lips twisted into a snarl.

      "Fine.”

     “Very good. He’s out here,” said Valerica as she revealed an open boneyard in the center of the castle grounds.

     It was quiet there for the first few minutes they stood. Aside from the fact that they were in the Soul Cairn, nothing in particular seemed out of the ordinary. But, after only moments, Meraxes could hear the familiar flapping of a dragon’s wings and an earth-shaking roar in the distance.

     ”Another challenger is here!”

     The dragon spoke Common. His voice was a loud, deep rumble. Durnehviir was the first of the beasts that Meraxes could completely understand, and that shook her to her core.

     How many challengers were there before myself? I’m not going to bother guessing what happened to them.

     "Tin, tin, tin...”

     His chest boiled with laughter. Massive wings torn like storm-ravaged sails sent a torrent over Meraxes’ head. From the sky, he bowed his neck and shouted,

     ”Dur neh viir!”

     [Curse, never, dying!]

     Then, from the bones scattered across the ground, skeletons formed and charged at the vampires and their proud guardian.

     When Zira stopped outside following their arrival to Breezehome, Lydia stood guard with her. She watched the stars while the wind picked up.

     “I’m not interested in company, Lydia." Zira's tone was nearly void of emotions. “I despise Whiterun as it is. You’d best leave me alone.”

     “Why don’t you like it?”

     Lydia ignored Zira’s request, but not because it wasn’t important to her, or because she didn’t hear it. She ignored it because it was her task to care for Meraxes’ followers as if they were her own. She was a housecarl. It was what she did best. “Is it anything I could help you with?”

     Zira shook her head, chuckling remorsefully.

     “Unless you can find my son, then don’t bother,” she replied. Her voice had become so low that the Whiterun breeze had nearly blown it away. “I have memories of him...up in the Wind District. Carrying him about the marketplace...”

     Lydia stopped to think. She hadn’t known Zira had ever been a mother and couldn’t imagine losing a child. The closest comparison she could make was discovering Jurgen never returned from the War.

     “I didn’t know,” Lydia said, “Is he still alive?”

     Zira shrugged her shoulders. She removed the ebony bow which weighed on her back and placed it comfortably in her lap.

     “I have no idea. I would like to think so, but locating him must wait a while.”

     Lydia nodded, trying her best to understand what she could.

     “But you said you have good memories of him here. Maybe you can feel glad about those instead of upset that you lost him?” Lydia scratched the back of her head and leaned awkwardly against Breezehome’s outer wall. “I’m not good at these things. I’m sorry.”

     “You’re doing all you can.” Zira shook her head and stood, opening the back door. It had begun to rain outside. She’d missed the hearth. “Just like the rest of us.”

     Lydia followed her into the main room, where Soren was anxiously chopping carrots. His apprehension was so obvious it was nearly contagious. Neither of them wanted it.

     “I see you’re worried about my Thane as well." Lydia warmed her hands by the fire. “Don’t fear. She is a hero who can survive anything. I understand it’s been longer than forty-eight hours, but I bet she’s on the road right behind us.”

     “But Castle Volkihar isn’t that far from Solitude." Soren added the carrots to his chicken soup. “If Ser Meraxes rescued Lady Serana and came straight back to The Winking Skeever, it wouldn’t take that long. Something’s not right.”

     Soren hoped he could fall asleep soon. Perhaps he could use his Secret Art to visit Lamae again. Maybe she’d be able to tell him that Serana was alive, given her connections with the other Daughters of Coldharbour. But Coldharbour itself was a scary place, and Soren wasn’t fond of going there.

     “You shouldn’t worry. My Thane is very strong, and Serana learns quickly,” Lydia replied. She remembered how Serana was when asking her for blood. Clearly, she was quick to understand that Lydia was a servant to Meraxes, and she could ask her for anything she wanted without social or legal reprimand. She’d impressed the housecarl thoroughly with that knowledge. Lydia had yet to know that Serana was locked away for centuries for a portion of her lifetime. Her understandings of the world around her came almost purely from intelligence and awareness.

     “Maybe you’re right.” Zira sat on one of the hearth-side benches. She watched Soren stir the chicken soup about. “But I think his concern comes from the fact that we’re all sitting here unable to act.”

     “I couldn’t even do much if I could help,” Soren sighed. “I can’t fight. That used to be because I was always too afraid, but now it’s because I don’t have any training.”

     Lydia smiled.

     “Well, you’re talking to the right person. Housecarls don’t just become that way, you know. We have several years of tests and trials, and training in between.” She unsheathed her sword in the house, which caused Zira some alarm, until she casted it aside in favor of a wooden one on a nearby rack. “Grab one and we’ll go outside. It’s raining, but I’m sure you won’t mind too much. Housecarls train rain or shine.”

     ”Really? Right now?” Soren spoke quickly. He grasped the other sword and excitedly started towards the door. The exciting prospect of a training session replaced the anxiety that was clouding his mind.

     ”I guess I’ll go supervise,” Zira muttered beneath her breath. Given Lydia’s social ineptness, as hard as she tried to understand those around her, Zira didn’t want to leave her alone with a young boy and a pair of swords of any sort.

     She followed the two outside and stayed as close to the roof as possible to avoid the rain while Lydia taught him stances.

     Then, for the first time since she’d joined Meraxes’ rag-tag party, a genuine smile crept onto Zira’s face. Lydia was a better teacher than she’d expected. Her enthusiastic student was a bright spot shining through a dark, rainy, Whiterun night.

     Slicing through the skeletons was easy. Meraxes always enjoyed seeing them pop up, since they usually died within a strike or two. The light armor allowed her to move better than her usual, too, so the speed at which she could navigate the boneyard was a pleasant surprise.

     Valerica and Serana fought as a mage team behind her and blew skeletons away with blasts of ice magic.

     ”I see they are easy for you! Very good, though other challengers have made it this far...let’s see how you fair against me!”

     Durnehviir quickly approached his landing. He forced Meraxes to dive and take cover on the sidelines. She stood up as soon as she could only to stand face-to-face with the massive dragon.

     ”Fo krah diin!”

     [Frost, cold, freeze!]

     Sending a wave of icy breath straight for Meraxes, Durnehviir raised his head. He sought to take advantage of his situation with a bite. Then, he could kill this challenger, too, and end the game he so rarely got to play. But that was no fun. The challenger seemed to have an edge of her own.

     ”Yol!”

     [Fire!]

     Meraxes’ shout wasn’t strong enough to dispel Durnehviir’s frost breath, being only one word, but it planted a seed of deep shock in both Valerica and the dragon.

     “He’s weakened, mother!” Serana shouted above the sounds of battle. “Don’t stop the ice spikes!”

     While the younger vampire remained on the offensive, striking Durnehviir with her frozen bolts, Valerica observed Meraxes with a newfound surprise.

     I didn’t even sense it... she thought as Meraxes’ fire casted shadows on the boneyard ground. She’s...Dragonborn. I still doubt she could protect Serana from my husband, but this...this is only precedented by Emperors and gods...

     Meraxes then charged at Durnehviir with the weapon she used best: her greatsword. Her Voice was in only an initial stage of training, but she wouldn’t hesitate to cut him down with what she’d grown intimately familiar with.

     She landed a sickening slash to the side of his long neck as he attempted to turn around. Dragons were big and slow on the ground. That was a terrible disadvantage when fighting humans, so Meraxes aimed to exploit it as much as she could.

     When Durnehviir flapped his wings, aiming to take his place back in the sky, he and Meraxes discovered at the same time that his feet were stuck frozen to the ground.

     “Thank me later!” Serana said from behind her. She wore an exhilarated smile. It’d been long since she’d been in such an exciting fight, though her magicka had run out after trapping the dragon.

     “I’ll do it now!” Meraxes delivered more strikes to Durnehviir’s neck and head. She inspired Valerica to continue acting. Valerica sent mature ice spikes through the beasts’ throat, causing him to bleed from the mouth. “By killing this dragon!”

     Before long, he slumped over. His feet were still glued to the boneyard floor.

     Purple fire—like the kind Meraxes remembered from Dimhollow crypt—began to consume him from the tail, eating its way across his body.

     ”Qahn...aarin...”

     He spoke his final words as the flames swallowed his face. They left a bleak, soulless skeleton behind. Meraxes couldn’t understand them, and wondered why he chose to speak Dovahzul instead of Common. His decision eliminated the effectiveness of his last opportunity to speak.

     “Well." Meraxes sheathed Kindred and exhaled deeply. All the running around she’d done left her panting. “That’s that, then.” She inhaled, the rush of air filling her lungs. “I’ll take that scroll.”

     “You’ll be able to do more with it than I can,” Valerica said. Her voice remained low as she started back into the castle. Before long, she emerged with it and offered it nonchalantly to Meraxes. “Here. Now, I should probably explain how you should go about reclaiming your soul.”

     “Thank you, mother." Serana felt calmed after the battle with Durnehviir. “That would be most helpful.”

     Valerica stared at Meraxes momentarily before speaking. Meraxes could not tell if her examination was out of a fascination or a continued disapproval, as the look in her eyes indicated both.

     “There’s an offering altar dedicated to the Ideal Masters not too far from here. When your soul was trapped, it went into a soul gem, and I’m willing to bet it’s over there. All you need to do is touch it and the portion of your soul will return.”

     “Noted." Meraxes' tone was still stiff. “We’ll be off now. I’m sure you’ll see Serana again after this all blows over, although I won’t come back.”

     “About that... I know I spoke of never seeing your face again,” Valerica sighed. Admitting defeat or a change of heart was difficult for her. “But I suppose I can deal with you, and thus I would not mind.”

     Serana nearly laughed at that.

     “Thank you, mother. We’ll do our best. Be safe in here.”

     Knowing she could not persuade Valerica back to Tamriel until Harkon was no more, Serana took Meraxes’ hand and exited the castle. Her mother watched them from behind. She still wondered how in Mundus their relationship came to be.

     A Dragonborn and a Daughter of Coldharbour...

     Her thoughts continued as they melted away from her line of vision.

     When Meraxes emerged outside, she was surprised to see Durnehviir waiting for her on the ground. She seized her sword in an instant.

     ”Hold on, Qahnaarin." His voice was gritty and low. ”I have not come to fight. I dip my head to you, for you are a worthy adversary...a true Dovah in mortal flesh.”

     “How are you alive? We watched you burn." Meraxes lowered her weapon slightly.

     ”I am undead, not alive. I was merely defeated on the field of battle, which no one has done before you, Qahnaarin. That means ‘Vanquisher’ in your tongue.”

     “Why have you returned here?” Serana asked him, her shoulders raised in wariness.

     ”Ah...I would like to do the Qahnaarin a favor.” Durnehviir turned to Meraxes. ”I used to live on Tamriel like the Qahnaarin, but I had a desire to learn necromancy. The Ideal Masters made a deal with me, like many others. But they tricked me and sentenced me here forever. Now, I am free...but I have been in the Soul Cairn so long that my body could not survive in Tamriel for extended periods of time. So I wish that the Qahnaarin will call my name once in a while...and summon me home, where I used to be called something different. I cannot remember my old name. Durnehviir is all I have come to know...”

     “If you promise to help me, I don’t see any issue with summoning you,” Meraxes decided and finally sheathed her weapon. “But right now, Serana and I have to leave. We’ve been here too long.”

     ”I see, Qahnaarin. Each time you summon me, I shall teach you the words to a new shout to express my gratitude for your freeing me.” Durnehviir bowed his head, raised his weathered wings, and took off into the violet sky.

     Serana watched him as she left with a fascination. Like herself, the dragon was cursed to undeath, and like Meraxes, he had an identity in Tamriel that he’d forgotten.

     Perhaps dragons and people were more alike than she’d previously thought.

     “You froze his legs for me so I could finish him,” Meraxes said as they made their way to the nearby altar. “Thank you.”

     A smile crept onto Serana’s face. Not too long ago, Meraxes refused to express her gratitude for anything, and bitterness seemed to be all she could muster. Perhaps it was her sobriety that changed things, although Serana sensed it was more than just that.

     “The wings would’ve been too ambitious. They were too large to cover with ice." She relished in her next words more than she'd care to admit, “You’re welcome.”

     She noticed then that she’d released Meraxes’ hand some time ago, although she didn’t mind. Serana still felt close to her. It was probably better she didn’t touch her while she was sifting through soul gems. Necromancy was a fickle magic, after all.

     “Valerica was right. I feel stronger now,” Meraxes picked up her head after touching the central gem. “That one had my soul in it." Though she’d only expressed her concern once, she’d been worried about losing that part of her soul forever.

     “I’m ready to go home.”

     ”The enchanted map and the Moth Priest both pointed to Darkfall Cave.” Malkus lowered his map to reveal a snowy passageway. It was the proper location, although he wasn’t sure why someone would stash a powerful weapon like Auriel’s Bow in there. “But I think there’s more to this place than meets the eye. Be careful, everyone.”

     “Careful is my middle name,” Fura replied with a possessed chuckle. She led the way into the cave.

     “I thought it was Sonja,” Stalf said and rubbed the back of his head.

     CuSith barked in protest.

     “It was a joke, Stalf. You idiot,” Salonia seethed. “It’s no wonder you work for Orthjolf. Vingalmo is clearly the superior man.”

     “Well, I’ll tell you one thing." Malkus sighed as he approached what looked like a drawbridge. Nothing seemed to be attacking them quite yet, but with the attention his party drew to themselves, it was only a matter of time. “None of your middle names are ‘stealth.’”

     “Actually, mine is,” Stalf retorted flatly, “I’m Stalf Stealth Sturbin.”

     “Of course you are,” Salonia said and cursed indistinguishably beneath her breath.

     “Remember, we’re here for Auriel’s Bow. There’ll be no killing each other until we find it,” Malkus reminded them. He wore a frown plain on his face.

     “Right,” Fura laughed, “It’s pretty dark in here. I might stab one of you by accident.”

     Malkus only shook his head, using his vampire’s sight to navigate. While traversing the cave, they came across spiders, trolls, and other things that commonly dwelled underground. The vampires weren’t surprised that they were able to handle everything with ease. Their numbers granted them strength.

     The Master thought well to send a lot of us here, whether we get along well or not, Malkus thought as he watched a troll drop to its knees, Fura having sliced off its head.

     “All of you stop right there,” a man's voice said. All the vampires turned around.

     Before them stood a mortal like none they’d ever seen who wore a set of armor unfamiliar to them. They hadn’t recognized it—or him—as something rare and lost to time.

     “I am the Knight-Paladin Gelebor, guardian to the wayshrines of Auri-El. What is it you seek?”

     Malkus gawked, putting a hand in front of Fura’s arm as she readied her greatsword. If Gelebor knew how to reach the bow, he didn’t want his foolhardy companion to murder him.

     “We seek Auriel’s Bow.”

     “I see,” Gelebor said. He’d thought as much. “It can be yours, but only under two conditions.”

     It’s really...that simple? By Molag Bal! We’ll be back with the weapon in no time!

     “We will meet your conditions,” Malkus said, unable to hide his satisfied grin.

     “Very well. The first is that you must complete the trials of Auri-El. There are five wayshrines in total, and you must survive the trials while carrying the Initiate’s Ewer. You will fill the Ewer at all five wayshrines and continue along the path of enlightenment to Auri-El.” Gelebor lifted the Ewer and offered it to the group.

     “Salonia, you carry it,” Malkus ordered.

     “Good call,” she agreed and accepted the giant, ivory Ewer. “Stupid Stalf would drop it.”

     “Stupid Stalf. How original.”

     “The second condition,” Gelebor spoke over them, seemingly unfazed by the bickering. “Is that you kill my brother, Vyrthur. He betrayed Auri-El with his unworthiness, and thus must die.”

     “That is no problem for us,” Malkus said. If there was no other way to get the bow, he hadn’t an issue playing by someone else’s rules. “We’ll be on our way.”

     “Good luck, initiates,” Gelebor said before the vampires passed through their first wayshrine and lowered the Ewer to partially fill it.

     Harkon will be so ecstatic he might as well appoint me to his right-hand man when we return...

     Malkus thought, overwhelmed with satisfaction as he looked on in silence.

End of Chapter 18.

Credit: This Chapter’s title is a William Shakespeare reference.

Next: A conflict at Whiterun, a bath, a decision, and an intimate moment.

Warning: Chapter 19 contains graphic violence and sexual themes and/or references. Reader discretion is advised.

Chapter Text

     ”What happened to that Elder Scroll you had earlier, anyway?”

     Meraxes had gone through the Soul Cairn without noticing Serana’s scroll was missing until Valerica gave her the third. She’d been meaning to ask her on the trip back to Breezehome. Until they encountered the Whiterun city gate, however, they’d remained relatively silent. They slept in shifts to keep watch on carriage rides.

     “My father has it,” Serana replied as she made her way past the guards. They would have been unnerved were she an ordinary vampire, as it had been a while since she’d fed, except Daughters of Coldharbour were notoriously difficult to discern from mortals. “But he can’t do much with it. We have this one, and as long as my mother is in the Soul Cairn and I’m away from Castle Volkihar, his prophecy is as good as gone.”

     “You’re right." Meraxes halted briefly when a guard raised his hand to stop her.

     “Welcome home, Thane. You should know that two men went through the gates and they were looking for you. It seemed important.”

     “Noted." Meraxes passed through the gate. She was silent for a while, taking in the cool winds of the city, until she noticed the sun was beginning to rise in the East. Serana would need to head inside soon. “I was thinking I should rename Breezehome. I’ve never liked it.” she turned to Serana, who wore a puzzled look on her face.

     “How do you rename a house?”

     “You put a sign in front of it,” Meraxes said. She noticed how small the structure looked from a distance. It was bigger on the inside, especially with the cellar. “I want to call it ‘Kodlak’s Rest.’”

     “I’m sure he’d be honored.”

     “He would be." Meraxes approached her humble, city home, Serana following close behind.

     Something zipped over her arm when she reached for the door.

     “Meraxes, look out!”

     Meraxes turned to the source of the shot and lowered herself to the ground. Now certainly would have been an excellent time for Meraxes to wear her heavy armor, but she’d unfortunately abandoned it in a shrub near Castle Volkihar.

     “That was too short and quick to be a regular arrow." Meraxes' voice was rough from the second she hit the ground. “It’s a crossbow. The Dawnguard’s found us again!”

     “Certainly they’re not dumb enough to begin an open conflict in the city, especially with its Thane,” Serana said from behind the wall near the entryway. “They’re not going to come out from their concealment. We have to find a way around that.”

     ”Fus ro dah!”

     [Force, balance, push]

     The shout disrupted the next shot, which buried itself in Meraxes’ shoulder. She could plainly see and feel how deep the bolt had went without her armor to deflect it.

     Removing it wouldn’t be a pretty scene.

     ”Fuck! They got me.”

     Serana had made her decision. There wasn’t much she could do without being flashy. She was a mage, and the use of destruction magic anywhere was quite apparent. Meraxes had already drawn enough attention to them with her shout, and they still couldn’t identify where the Dawnguard snipers were hiding.

     ”Guards!”

     Serana shouted. Though calling the Whiterun guard wasn’t the noblest thing she’d ever done, the Dawnguard was acting against the law attacking citizens in the city. What was more, they decided to assault the Thane. The guards would certainly take notice of that.

     A squad of watchmen came running her way.

     “What’s the problem?” asked a female guard. Based on the way her tail protruded from a hole in her greaves, Serana guessed she was a Khajiit.

     While the guards stood by to ask about the situation, another bolt fired from behind them. It struck a watchman in his left chest. His armor would protect him from dying, although the bleeding wouldn’t be pleasant.

     “Someone’s got a bow! We must find them at once!”

     “Up there!” the Khajiit pointed to a section of shrubbery and tall grass by the gate-side just before another bolt flew, nailing her in the knee. “Nine Divines!”

     “That’s where they are, all right,” Meraxes’ voice dropped to a growl. Serana lost all inhibitions and sent a spike of ice flying violently into the bushes. “Did you really have to contact the city guard?” Meraxes whispered to Serana, who laughed softly.

     “Well, they’re helping, aren’t they? Being the Thane of a city certainly has its advantages.”

     “That it does,” Meraxes admitted as she watched the guards exchange arrows in return. After a short while, the shooting stopped.

     By the time the conflict had finished, two watchmen sat in the middle of the street with bolt-inflicted wounds, both receiving basic medical care from their kinsmen. Others hiked up the gate-side slope to recover the bodies of the shooters.

     Meraxes felt dread consume her heart when she discovered who they were.

     Durak had been shot to death, an arrow in his heart and right torso, and Agmaer with an ice spike straight through his stomach and lower chest.

     ”Fuck...”

     Meraxes didn’t know what to think about what had come to pass. After all, if Durak and Agmaer knew their location, they’d have to die anyway. It was probably better that Meraxes was not the one to kill them.

     “You knew them, didn’t you?” Serana said, her voice low as the magic faded from her palms. “...I’m sorry.”

     “There’s nothing you could have done,” Meraxes swallowed her guilt. “That was a suicide mission. They were stupid.”

     She felt particularly horrible about Agmaer’s death. He’d joined the Dawnguard with her as a humble farmer’s hand. He'd wanted nothing more than to feel useful and strong.

     “Excuse me, Thane,” one of the guards approached her mid-thought. “We are stationing a patrol outside your home until you depart the city. We hope you don’t mind.”

     “Do I have a choice?” Meraxes sighed. She was vexed, grieving, and exhausted.

     “I’m afraid not. You are this city’s beacon of hope. We cannot risk your death in such a wanton manner.”

     “Fine,” she replied bitterly, turning to open Breezehome’s door. She’d had enough of lingering outside while the guards cleaned up her former friends’ corpses.

     Serana followed, unsure how to feel about the event. All she knew was that she and Meraxes were safe at home. For that, she was thankful.

     “You’re back!” Soren smiled from nearby the lit hearth and stood. When he noticed the smell of blood, however, his grin faded. “Ser Meraxes, you’ve been shot.”

     “Wow,” Meraxes retorted sharply, “Thank you, Soren. I didn’t notice.”

     “Now’s not a good time,” Serana said. She was unable to stop herself from grinning slightly when she saw that Soren was safe. “But we’ll catch up with you later. I promise.”

     “Okay,” he replied, disappointed. He’d looked forward to speaking with Serana the moment she returned. “If you’re looking for Lady Lydia or Lady Zira, they’re asleep in the guest room.”

     Instead of acknowledging Soren or ascending the stairs to her own room, Meraxes opened the trap door to the cellar, climbing down the ladder.

     Serana followed. She wasn’t fond of leaving Meraxes alone when she was upset, for she feared the worst might happen. She’d managed to keep Meraxes away from alcohol for awhile. She didn’t want her to return to her addiction.

     “What are you doing down here?” Serana asked, her voice soft.

     Meraxes shoveled coals from a pile near her anvil and scooped them beneath a metal plate that sat below a basin of well water.

     “Valerica was right. I smell like a wet dog.”

     “You’re taking a bath? What about the arrow in your shoulder?”

     Serana knew it was best to leave Meraxes alone in that case. Baths weren’t necessarily a public affair, but at the same time, Serana wanted to stay with her friend. Asking would sound strange, though, especially after the staring ordeal in Castle Volkihar.

     “Why do you sound surprised about that? I clean myself." Meraxes felt the water temperature with her hands. “And I planned on taking it out down here. The bath will clean it and I have some healing potions in a safe.”

     Settling into a chair, Serana gazed curiously into an endtable drawer, which contained basic toiletries: some wisteria soap, a fine-toothed, wooden comb, and a large, spare cloth which Skyrim natives often used as towels.

     “Can I stay? I can help you with the arrow.”

     Serana met Meraxes’ eyes from across the bath as she held the soap. She sliced a bit off the end with her dagger, dropping it into the water, a trick she used in her own baths to purify the tub so she wouldn’t have to sit in her own filth.

     “If you stop defiling my soap and promise not to stare at my body, then I don’t care.” Meraxes sighed. She hesitated to undo her armor until Serana made her promise. “And let me take the arrow out.”

     “Of course,” Serana said, still sitting patiently in the chair.

     Meraxes struggled to untie the tunic with one hand. She knew the instant it loosened around her body that she wouldn’t miss it. Vampire armor was uncomfortable. She couldn’t help but wonder how Serana could live in it.

     “Here.” Serana rose from her seat. “Let me help. Undressing will be painful with your shoulder like that.”

     When Meraxes didn’t protest, Serana cut through the fabric around the arrow with her dagger so her tunic didn’t rub up against it. She then put both of her hands to work untying the laces.

     “You really need to stop getting shot,” Serana said and carefully pulled the shirt over Meraxes’ head. She swore she had something else to say, but caught her own tongue when, after a dip of her head, Meraxes' tight abdomen crossed her field of vision. Scars littered the sectors of muscle ther. There were so many that Serana wondered if Meraxes knew what caused each.

     “Hey, you promised me you wouldn’t stare.”

     “I apologize." Serana swallowed awkwardly as she realized Meraxes would have to hold her arms up to remove her brassiere. That would hurt with her injury. “Do you have more, of, um...” Serana touched the strap with her finger, her face hardly reddening. “...These?”

     “I don’t know why you’re asking." Meraxes' eyes narrowed even though Serana had brought her guard significantly down. Something about the situation at hand tightened Meraxes' chest and stomach to the point of peaking her curiosity, and she wasn’t familiar enough with that instinct to know whether it was dangerous. “But I have at least three of them upstairs.”

     Serana nodded wordlessly and drew her dagger carefully across the strap. When the defiled brassiere fell off in her hand, she placed it on the end table.

     “You know, you really didn’t have to do that.” Meraxes’ voice was painfully nonchalant, as she was making an effort not to hold onto her chest and run away. What was it about Serana’s undressing her made her fight-or-flight reaction come out to bite?

     Whatever it was, it made all the blood in her body rush up to her cheeks, heating them with the same intensity as the hot bath would.

     When Serana begun untying her pants, the feeling only worsened so much that Meraxes held her breath without realizing it.

     “Your heart rate is really high, Meraxes." Serana she pulled Meraxes' trousers down to her ankles. “Step out of these and try sitting down. I’m worried you might pass out.”

     “I’m fine,” Meraxes insisted, sitting in the bath-side chair in her underwear.

     “You’re not going to let me take those off?” Serana asked and gestured to the undergarment. “The sooner we remove that arrow, the better.”

     Meraxes sighed and raised her hand to her face in embarrassment. She couldn’t stop herself from turning bright red, and she didn’t even know why.

     “I’ll take them off myself. Go to the room next door and you’ll find a bunch of potions in the safe.”

     Serana nodded and walked off.

     Meraxes breathed a sigh of relief in her wake. She waited until the vampire rounded the corner to slip out of her underwear and descend into the bathtub. With Serana gone, her pulse calmed a few beats, and the warm water felt sufficiently relaxing.

     Her shoulder was starting to hurt terribly, however, as her expiring adrenaline slowly revealed the pain the arrow had caused.

     “I found them." Serana returned to the bath. She placed the potion beside the discarded bra and popped the cork open. “Let’s get this over with.”

     ”Fine,” Meraxes grumbled, flustered again. The process of removing arrows was one she deeply loathed, but unfortunately was rather familiar with.

     She gritted her teeth and held the edge of the arrow as she broke it off. She left only the tip inside. “Give me your dagger.”

     Serana obeyed and handed the weapon to Meraxes, who used it to carefully dislodge the bolt’s head.

     ”Hrnn...” she released a pained groan when the tip of the dagger reached a parallel to the other weapon. It was in deep.

     “Are you all right?” Serana asked, feeling pain just by watching her friend.

     Meraxes didn’t reply as she forced the arrowhead out of her shoulder. It fell in the water below, her blood mixing into the bath.

     Serana’s eyes brightened at the smell of her friend’s appealing blood, shattering whatever darkness the room’s candles didn’t deflect. She poured the potion into Meraxes’ wound. Each healing fiber slowly detracted her hunger.

     “You haven’t eaten in a while, have you?” Meraxes raised her head. She was grateful the arrow removal was over. Hopefully, the Dawnguard wouldn’t have any run-ins with her again. She’d be more than content slaughtering them all over the number of times they’d shot her alone.

     “No, Serana said, selecting the fine-toothed comb from Meraxes’ drawer. She wondered if Meraxes would let her untangle her hair.

     “Hm."

     Meraxes removed the arrowhead from the bath and flicked it unceremoniously into the mess of hot coals. When she met Serana's eyes again, Serana could hear her heart begin to race. “Then you can have my blood.”

     ”Are you sure?” Serana spoke quickly. She wondered whether or not she was hearing things. She’d thought long ago that Meraxes would never let her feed, so she’d stopped asking her around then. Serana had never expected her to be willing, whether they were friends or not.

     “I don’t say things I don’t mean. As long as you’ll heal my hand, it’s fine. Pass me the dagger again.”

     “That won’t be necessary,” Serana said and pulled the chair up behind the bath. Serana had to sit on it cross-legged to get enough height. Carefully, she ran her fingers up Meraxes’ wet neck, feeling her pulse accelerate. “You’re clean.”

     Meraxes’ jaw tightened. In that moment, she wasn’t sure what to say, and certainly couldn’t move. Serana’s touch made her shiver and kept her completely still.

     “I just don’t want to hurt you. Make sure you hold still.”

     “No problem,” Meraxes nearly croaked. She stifled a surprised gasp when Serana placed her mouth on the crook of her neck. Her voice had been so sultry that Meraxes was glad she’d stopped talking.

     “Hm.” Serana released without biting down, humming. “Turn around. I want to see your face.”

     “You want to...what?”

     Meraxes felt her heart stop, but Serana only heard it beat faster.

     “You heard me.” Serana turned Meraxes around so she could observe her. Then, without much of a warning, she returned to the space where Meraxes’ throat met her jawline. Her fangs slid out to greet a cluster of veins just beneath it.

     Her blood was slightly bitter, but an aftertaste of sweetness followed. It was a sweetness that accompanied a rush of testosterone and pure desire, which led Serana to believe her dear friend was feeling much more than she let onto.

     It was an acquired taste, just like its source, ultimately anything but bland. It was overall not what Serana had expected.

     No. It was so much better.

     ”Mmm...” Serana hummed against Meraxes’ throat. She sucked slowly as not to hurt her, though she’d raised her head without realizing it and nearly lifted her out of the bath. Eventually, both were standing—Meraxes’ breasts well above the water—until she was exposed to the air from the waist up.

     Meraxes didn’t have words to explain how the feeding felt. She had to hold her breath and words to avoid letting anything escape her lungs. When Serana tugged harder, she bit her lip in an extra effort. Meraxes had her hands wrapped tightly around Serana's waist, all but pulling her into the bath when she was almost finished.

     Serana released her carefully. She caught her breath as she pressed her fingers to Meraxes’ throat. The wound healed slowly, leaving no trace of the fang punctures.

     “You pleasantly surprised me." Serana purred with satisfaction when Meraxes wiped a smear of blood away from her lips with a finger. “Thank you for letting me do that.”

     “Don’t go thinking I’m your blood bank.” Meraxes retreated back into the bath. She let the red wash off her hand and into the water. “But I’ll allow this from time to time, so long as you don’t ask.”

     “Oh, hush,” Serana spoke gently and turned Meraxes around once more. She lifted the comb from the end table, crossing her legs and lowering herself into the chair. “You don’t have to pretend like you didn’t enjoy it, too.”

     The ghost of Meraxes’ touch on her waist still felt as though it was there. That made Serana smile. She could hear Meraxes stammering without even speaking, so she silenced her by scooping water into her hands and dumping it over the sides of her head.

     Deciding to give the poor woman a break, Serana combed through Meraxes’ fine, short hair. She untangled whatever dirt and dust she’d accrued since her last bath.

     “By the way,” she said, placing the comb down when she finished. “I think Kodlak’s Rest sounds nice. We should put up the sign before we leave again.” Serana paused to think as she opened Meraxes’ basement wardrobe. It contained a few changes of simple clothing. “Where are we going this time?”

     “I haven’t decided." Meraxes sank further into her bath.

     “Well, at some point, we need to figure out how to find the other Elder Scroll to see if there’s some key to stopping my father.”

     “We already have the third.”

     “How?” Serana wore a perplexed expression as she returned to her seat beside the bath, holding the spare cloth and fresh clothing.

     “I was sure you heard Soren mention Zira. She’s an assassin who decided to come with us, and as far as I’m concerned, she won’t do anything rash. She already had the third Elder Scrolls when I met her.”

     “That’s...eerily convenient." Serana couldn’t take her eyes off the crook of Meraxes’ neck. Even though she’d had her fill of blood, she somehow wanted more. It would be all she thought about for at least the next few days. “In that case, we should go back to High Hrothgar. Arngeir wasn’t done teaching you how to shout, and my father can’t complete his prophecy with myself and the scrolls gone. Your saving the world is more pressing than anything else at the moment.”

     “I agree. Hopefully, your father’s lackeys won’t interrupt me with another kidnapping.” Meraxes climbed out of the bath. In the same instant, she grabbed the spare cloth, wrapping it around her waist as not to show Serana any more than she needed to see.

     “Well." Serana smiled. Her thumb traced over Meraxes’ healed arrow wound. She was glad the removal had gone smoothly, although a little disappointed Meraxes could dress herself this time. “If they did, at least I’m certain you would come back for me.”

     Meraxes dried herself off and donned the clean pants beneath the towel. She only removed it when her bottom was covered, then proceeded to pull the shirt over her head. Nobody could tell she wasn’t wearing a brassiere. Serana figured she’d be fine to walk through the house without anyone taking notice.

     “I don’t know about that." she shrugged and wore a mocking grin. “One of these days, I might go on deciding you’re annoying again and say ‘fuck it.’”

      Serana laughed and lead Meraxes up the ladder and back into the main room. She’d had a comeback in mind, but could hear Soren trying his hand at the lute that’d come with Breezehome. She didn’t want to distract him too much.

      For a beginner, he certainly wasn’t bad, and, without even noticing Serana and Meraxes there, he reached the triumphant point where he could add words to the music:

“A serpent lights the ancient sky;
A threat of tainted stars!
Evil stirs, and in its wake,
The souls of mortals sway!”

      Serana felt proud of his progress. She wasn’t sure she’d ever heard Soren play the lute before. The boy taught himself well, although the song he played was darker than what she was used to.

“Sorrow reigns
Over fields of red!
Spirits pace
Through the shadows cast by their graves!”

      Reaching for Meraxes’ hand, Serana led her upstairs. The party had all occupied themselves with something, and who knew when Lydia and Zira would wake up? Then, Serana would meet the assassin for the first time.

“These are days and nights of venom and blood!
Heroes will rise as the anchors fall!
Brave the strife; reclaim every soul
That belongs to the Beauty of Dawn!”

      “We don’t have to leave this instant, do we?” Serana asked. She was grateful for Soren’s playing silently enough so she didn’t have to yell over him.

      “I suppose not, although the others have been here for a few days already. We should leave before the sun rises again,” Meraxes said, then realized where she stood. Bewilderment crossed her face. “Why are you taking me upstairs?”

      “Because you had the last shift.” Serana smiled to herself as she continued up the steps. “And you just donated blood. You need sleep and then something sweet for breakfast.”

      Meraxes paused on the stairway. She’d been distracted, but still felt guilty about Durak and Agmaer. She’d snuffed their lives out without thought, as if they were insignificant worms; nothing more than long spokes in the murderous Dawnguard wheel.

      She didn’t want to be alone with her own thoughts, much less sleep with them. But Serana was right. She was more exhausted than anything else, and the bath had worsened that.

      When Meraxes silently entered the master bedroom, sitting with her legs over the side of the bed, she was surprised when Serana stealthily wrapped herself around her. Her cool hands met at Meraxes' abdomen.

      “I’m here,” Serana said over her shoulder. “I won’t go anywhere if you don’t want me to.”

      “I don’t need you,” Meraxes said. She was still shocked by Serana’s nerve to touch her the way she did. Her tone had become sour and nearly hostile, but, in truth, she didn’t want Serana to leave.

      “I know."

      Instead of backing off the way anyone else would, Serana squeezed her tighter, her head melting into Meraxes' shoulder. “Sleep for me.”

      When night fell upon Skyrim, the whole party was awake. Their sleep schedules had been sufficiently fucked up by their adventures thus far.

      Meraxes had sent Lydia on two missions: one, to empty the bath water and clean up the suspicious articles of defiled clothing in the basement, and two, to run to Belethor’s General Goods before it closed to pick up enough wood to build a sign, nails, and paint. She’d decided to rename Breezehome before departing for Ivarstead. The citizenry were bound to notice the change while she was gone.

      While Meraxes assumed a seat by the hearth, roasting a piece of meat she’d preserved on a shelf, Serana pulled Soren aside into the storage room. She’d notice he hadn’t slept since she’d been there.

      “Are you all right?” she asked him. The glow of the alchemy laboratory casted a green sheen on her face.

      “I was worried about you and Ser Meraxes when you didn’t come back,” Soren admitted. His head lowered for only a moment. “But I’m glad you’re both alive. Lady Lydia gave me a lesson in swords the other night, and I’ve been practicing the lute with the song the Bard’s College gave me.”

      “How long has it been since you slept?”

      “A week or so,” confessed Soren. He sat on a stack of storage trunks in the corner.

      “And why is that?” Serana’s expression grew simultaneously worried and disappointed. Everyone in her dear friend’s party had such problems of their own that Serana had begun to wonder if she could truly juggle them all. “You know that’s not good for you. You still need rest.”

      “Can you...” Soren sighed, the truth weighing on his heart. He didn’t know if Coldharbour was some secret he was supposed to keep from Serana, or if she’d want to know about Bjorna from Solitude. “Can you keep a secret?”

      His resolve hardened when he remembered it was Serana he was talking to. She was brave and trustworthy, and as far from a loose cannon as anyone he knew.

      “Of course I can,” Serana said, “What’s the matter?”

      Soren stared at the floor. His eyes grew distant.

      “When I try to sleep, one of two things happens." His voice grew milder with every word. “Either I have a nightmare about that Dawnguard man from Rorikstead, or I wake up in this place called Coldharbour...”

      Serana’s brimstone eyes widened to a point of not only genuine surprise, but fear. She’d never heard of anyone being able to do that before and she certainly wouldn’t want to meet the same fate.

      “Have you seen...” she stammered, having to pause to regain her voice. “Him? Molag Bal?”

      “No,” Soren reassured her, “But I can speak to Lamae.”

      ”The first vampire...” Serana whispered, trailing off. “You must be the Bloodcourier...legend has it there’s only one in each generation of vampires. It’s a rare power.” Her lips slipped into a concerned frown. “And a dangerous one. Molag Bal can’t catch you in his realm. The worst might happen if he does.”

      “He hasn’t yet." Soren hoped to provide Serana with at least a bit of comfort now that she knew his darkest secret. “And I don’t think he will.”

      “I just wish I could help you with this. There’s nothing I believe I can do, although if any research is possible, you can bet I’ll read on it.”

      When Soren stood up, Serana assumed he didn’t want to speak about his power anymore, and understandably so.

      She hadn’t expected him to reach around her waist and pull her into an embrace. He did just as much.

      “Thank you, Lady Serana.” Soren pulled away as not to linger there too long. “There was one more thing. A prisoner in Solitude called Bjorna wanted me to pass along to Ser Meraxes that she’s being transferred to the Riften jail. I didn’t tell Ser Meraxes herself because you said it was a bad time.”

      Serana only nodded, having fallen silent at the amount of news she’d received. It was a lot to process, and in that moment, she felt guilty for not being able to do much for him. That, and there was something she should have told him long ago.

      “There’s actually something I have to tell you, too." Serana sat across the room so Soren wouldn’t have to look so far up at her. “You should know that back at The Bannered Mare, when we took you with us, Kodlak got into a fight with Thorald and Avulstein.”

      “Oh,” Soren replied meekly, “Well, that makes sense. They were trying to kill Meraxes.”

      “They and many others." Serana's voice lowered as she sighed. “But the point of my telling you this is that Kodlak killed Avulstein. I just wanted you to know that.”

      Soren’s heart dropped. His uncle might have abused him at times, but he’d treated him much better than Thorald, and was ultimately the reason he lived past infancy. Avulstein had been the one to convince Thorald to raise him as House Gray-Mane’s heir rather than discard him as a bastard, even if a lifetime of toil accompanied his controversial birth.

      “Thank you...for telling me." Soren's voice grew softer while he contemplated how he felt about Avulstein’s death. On one hand, he was upset, as his uncle had helped him to an extent, but on the other, the man’s end brought him satisfaction in light of his mistreatment.

      Why am I...glad?

      It wasn’t Avulstein’s death itself that made Soren sniffle. Rather, it was the fear his own thoughts brought upon him.

      “If you’d like, I can stay here until you feel better.”

      Soren nodded wordlessly. He tried to refrain from shedding any tears.

      Lady Serana is brave, and brave people don’t cry...

      Between the visits to Coldharbour and his painful reminiscing of the incidents at Rorikstead, Soren’s life was beginning to transform into a different type of hell. Whether Avulstein and Thorald were dead or alive had little to do with that fact anymore. ...not as much as I do.

      But, for the first time in his life, he looked at someone and saw in his mind’s eye the person he wanted to be. Serana gave him the hope he needed to carry on no matter how dark things became.

      ”I think it looks wonderful,” Lydia said as she examined the sign that hung outside Meraxes’ home.

      Surprisingly, the housecarl had some artistic ability. She’d painted the lettering black and in all capitals, even lending the time and effort to mark the wood with a wolf sigil. Even the guards watching Meraxes’ home liked it. One stopped to read the words aloud.

      “Kodlak’s rest. Huh.”

      Serana smiled at hearing the watchman speak and continued along to the city gate. They had a long way to go until reaching Ivarstead. The weather would only remain nice for so long.

      “Do you think it’s safe to walk in the open after the Dawnguard incident?” Meraxes whispered to her as they walked.

      “I think that was an isolated attack, given there were only two of them,” Serana replied, her face so close that her words skimmed the Meraxes' cheeks. “We’ll be just fine.”

      Beside her, the assassin Meraxes mentioned walked with Soren and Lydia.

      “Zira,” Serana said quietly.

      Turning to her, Zira frowned. Her expression was nonchalant and cold.

      “So, you’re the Lady Serana I’ve heard so much about.”

      “That’s correct." Serana tried not to let Zira’s visage faze her. “I heard you brought an Elder Scroll, and I just wanted to let you know that you saved us a lot of trouble. Thank you.”

      Zira chuckled at Serana’s expression of gratitude, neglecting a response.

      I can’t tell whether I like this one yet, but she’s interesting, Zira thought as a grin crept onto her face.

      Serana supposed the time for introductions was later. Whether Meraxes’ new follower unnerved her or not, every one of them was in her journey together.

      They walked, united by ties none of them could explain, to the carriage station. The seven thousand steps awaited them once more.

End of Chapter 19.

Next: The Greybeards send Meraxes on a quest, where several surprises await. While they work, Clan Volkihar plots in the shadows...

SB: Our protagonists certainly needed a break from all of that adventuring! Man, there’s a lot to dissect here, and I suppose you could say Kindred’s act two finale came a little early.

Never fear, for there is much more of this fic left! Depending on how many chapters and words Kindred turns out to be, it might even get a sequel. You might have noticed why I turned this into a series, and that is why!

Anyway, what did we think about Chapter 19? Bonus points to anyone who guesses the title reference!

Chapter Text

     “Wuld nah kest!”

     [Whirlwind, fury, tempest!]

     At last, Meraxes shot through the iron gate and emerged on the other side. She moved with a flash so quick even Serana could hardly see her. Whirlwind Sprint granted Meraxes speed so impressive it was nearly vampiric, so it would surely serve her well in combat against the undead.

     “Someone remind me why I’m up here,” Zira muttered under her breath. She shivered in her thin, leather armor. Bran still looked freezing, too.

     “Because my Thane is the Dragonborn, and the Greybeards are worried the dragons returned because they want to destroy Nirn.”

     “Sithis damn you, Lydia,” Zira scoffed, cold and vexed by the way the housecarl took everything too seriously. “You need a lesson in relaxing.”

     “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with Lady Lydia,” Soren said. He raised his chin to meet Zira’s eyes.

     Zira only grumbled and turned her head away from Soren as the Greybeards convened in the center of the High Hrothgar courtyard.

     “Come, Dovahkiin."

     Arngeir gestured for Meraxes to join the congregation with a hand tucked deeply into the sleeve of his oversized robe. He stood idly with his kinsman. “We have a final task for you before we formally recognize you as the last Dragonborn, and will teach you another Word of Power if you complete it.”

     I wonder how much these old men are going to put us through before I know for sure whether or not the world’s in danger...

     Meraxes descended the hill to join the monks. Everyone but Zira followed close behind her.

     “Being a Dovahkiin, you are the dragon slayer of a generation. It is important that you hone your Voice to a fine point,” Arngeir said, "However, before we can teach you more, we need you to bring the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller back to us. We believe it’s in an ancient ruin known as Ustengrav.”

     “Why do you want a horn?” Meraxes’ eyes narrowed. She’d returned for more training, but was sick of the trials and tribulations she’d encountered in her journey thus far. Besides, she wanted nothing to do with any more draugr.

     “The horn belonged to the Greybeards’ founder. It can be traced back to the First Era, and is an important relic to all of High Hrothgar.”

     Meraxes unfolded her map of Skyrim and offered it to Arngeir so he could mark Ustengrav. She wasn’t sure if she’d set off for the Horn immediately, but knew Serana would insist since she still didn’t know whether or not the dragons were an immediate threat to Nirn.

     Of course it’s in the same fucking direction we came from, Meraxes scowled at the map marker. She forced herself to lighten up when the Greybeards exchanged puzzled glances with one another. Why can’t anything be easy?

     “We wish you good luck, Dovahkiin, and will await your safe return,” Arngeir dipped his head in reverence. He clearly held no ill will towards Meraxes from her disappearance during the last training session.

     Then again, they had no choice but to be forgiving. Meraxes was the only Dragonborn they’d ever speak with.

     “Are we going?” Serana asked as soon as Meraxes rejoined her party, the map in hand.

     “It’s not like you’d give me a choice.”

     ”Oh, goodie,” Zira muttered, “Where are we headed now?” She genuinely hoped it wasn’t another Dwemer ruin after the fiasco she encountered in Alftand. Zira hated alcohol, but found herself tempted for a bottle of Alto wine after putting an arrow through Morgrul.

     Meraxes sighed. She offered Zira the map in case she fancied a look. Truthfully, she didn’t understand why Zira still travelled with them; she’d expected her to quit after a few days.

     “On a field trip,” Meraxes said flatly. She hated the draugr, and the prospect of playing fetch with an ancient artifact made her feel like a sellsword again. “To Ustengrav.”

     Harkon paced along the bannister—still furious over his daughter’s escape—as Feran completed his line of curing potions. One, the castle alchemist hoped, would cure Dexion’s blindness.

     “Master." Feran lowered his head and prostrated himself to his Lord. “I cannot guarantee this will work. There is no recorded cure for blindness anywhere and I am not aware of the entire circumstance by which it took place.”

     “You’ve done your best, Feran. You have served this castle for many years." Harkon bridled his anger until solutions to Dexion’s setback had run out.

     “Actually, there is another way to read an Elder Scroll, even without a Moth Priest.”

    Feran turned to Dexion as he spoke and set a potion he had in hand idle on the table.

     “Master, do you wish to hear him out?”

     Harkon nodded briskly, lingering frustration at Dexion’s inadequacy bristling every hair on his undead body. Nevertheless, he allowed the man to carry on. “Continue, Moth Priest.”

     “Ah, excellent,” Dexion smiled. His expression was soft and innocent despite his evident experience. “We are called Moth Priests because we perform the Ritual of the Ancestor Moth. It takes place in the Ancestor Glade, and is proper preparation for reading Elder Scrolls. Because I hadn’t performed this ritual, reading the Blood Scroll has rendered me blind.”

     “Is there any way to cure your blindness?” Feran asked. He organized his different potions by the dominant ingredient.

     “No. Unfortunately, nothing in Tamriel will heal this ailment. I will be blind forever.” Dexion sat up on the modified torture rack Harkon had placed him on to rest. “However, you can still read the scrolls. You must take the draw knife in the Ancestor Glade and carefully peel the bark away from a canticle tree. When you place the bark in your pockets, it will attract Ancestor Moths. Then, you must bring the Ancestor Moths into the light, and you can decipher the scrolls without suffering from blindness.”

     “Interesting,” Feran hummed, “Where is the nearest Ancestor Glade?”

     “East of Falkreath.”

     “Write it all down, Feran,” Harkon demanded. He was satisfied that he hadn’t yet exhausted all of his options. In fact, he already had someone in mind to journey to the Ancestor Glade once they could locate all three scrolls.

     “Yes, Master,” Feran replied obediently, scrawling Dexion’s instructions on a piece of parchment.

     When he finished, Harkon took it. He turned the corner into the coffin room.

     “Vingalmo, wake up. Your Master calls,” Harkon snapped, his anger toward Vingalmo for his earlier failures rushing to the forefront of his mind.

     One of the coffin’s lids popped off to reveal a groggy, vexed Vingalmo.

     “Take this,” Harkon forced a rude awakening upon him by violently thrusting Feran’s sheet of instructions into his chest. “Don’t you dare lose it. You will follow these steps and return to Castle Volkihar with the complete prophecy when we have access to the set of scrolls. You will not fail,” he growled and emerged into the form of a Vampire Lord. The oldest intimidation tactic in his book. “Or, so help me, I will banish you from this castle!”

     Vingalmo reared, but had nowhere to go. Harkon had cornered him by catching him asleep.

     ”Yes, Master,” he said quickly and swallowed his fear.

     “And, when the time comes, you will take Orthjolf with you,” Harkon growled, spinning and turning away. ”Ungrateful miscreant,” he cursed harshly beneath his breath as he departed.

     Vingalmo wanted to kick himself. That woman who’d set out to kill Meraxes had the other scroll, and he’d thought then that it was completely useless!

     At least he knew where to find it. if it was still connected to Serana, that meant she’d visit the Ancestor Glade on her own.

     That means I don’t even have to find one of the scrolls...

     Emerging from the coffin, Vingalmo stretched his ancient joints, his fangs slipping out in anticipation. ...they’ll bring it right to me and read it before my eyes! So long as I’m undetected, I can bring the news back to Harkon and he’ll wonder how in Mundus I got it before anyone else...

     The vampire balanced on his Master’s last straw, but he’d discovered a way to redeem himself.

     He wouldn’t even need Orthjolf’s help.

     Prepare yourself, Harkon, to bask in my glory...

     ”They never stood a chance, given how many of us there are,” Serana remarked. An army of dead draugr lay in her wake. She was correct in every sense. Meraxes’ party sure had a way of making dead things deader.

     “You might be right, but there’s a problem,” Zira said from the room next door, where three pillars stood before a locked gate. Zira despised puzzles more than almost anything else and she certainly wasn’t in the mood to attempt one.

     “Oh, look.” Lydia frowned. “A puzzle.”

     Soren waved his hand in front of one of the pillars. He was ready to jump out of the way in case he triggered a trap. Ustengrav was his first experience with an ancient ruin, and it was safe to say he hoped it wouldn’t be his last.

     “You two figure it out while I get a chair for Lady Obvious.” Zira turned to Serana and Meraxes and gestured rudely at Lydia.

     Across the corridor, Soren waved his hands before two of the pillars. The one behind him stopped glowing nearly as soon as the next began to shine.

     “I see what’s going on here." Soren returned cheerfully to the others. “We have to activate all three of these at the same time! It should open when we do.”

     Meraxes’ brow furrowed. She knew Soren was the uppity type, but found it beyond strange to see someone grinning in a dungeon.

     “So, let’s go. We’ll have someone stand in front of each,” Serana replied and eagerly stepped toward the pillars.

     When they took their respective places, however, the gate didn’t open. Only one of the three pillars glowed even though each space was occupied.

     “I don’t understand. I thought motion would active them,” Soren said. He wondered if it would work if he chucked his dagger across the path, but wasn’t willing to try with Meraxes and Serana standing in his way.

     “Maybe it has to be the same person,” Serana suggested and stepped away from her pillar. “I’m fast enough to make it work, or perhaps Bran could do it.”

     “No,” Meraxes shook her head and motioned for Serana and Soren to clear the way. “I know why this is down here. The Greybeards wanted me to use that fancy, new shout they taught me. That means I should be able to get through this thing.”

     “That’s right! My Thane is the strongest,” Lydia mused from the corner in a cheerleader-like fashion, causing Zira to release a vexed sigh from the other side of the room.

     Meraxes took her mark and the vampires backing away on her signal. She didn’t know if Whirlwind Sprint had any sort of backblast and frankly didn’t want to blow Serana or Soren away.

     “Wuld nah kest!”

     With a flourish, Meraxes flew once more through a gate. It remained open when she sat on the other side. The shout’s recoil had planted her on her ass.

     Oh, well. She’d perfect it eventually.

     “Nice landing,” Zira muttered and emerged from the shadows to return to followership. “Hotshot.”

     I hope she makes me glad I didn’t kill her one day, Zira said as Lydia emerged behind her.

     “What are you thinking about, Zira? It looks like there’s something on your mind,” Lydia said as they progressed to the next part of the dungeon, which was merely an extended bridge over water. There didn’t appear to be any enemies there. The housecarl was still wary.

     Zira refused to answer. She grew more irked with each passing second. She hadn’t minded Lydia at first, but Lydia simply didn’t know when to shut up.

     “Wait a minute, Meraxes.” Serana stopped her when she noticed something was askew. “I don’t think what the Greybeards sent you for is here.”

     “She’s right. That looks like a letter of sorts." Soren hoped it wasn’t a ransom. He was certain Meraxes couldn’t afford to pay anyone for an artifact, given she’d traveled to both High Hrothgar and Ustengrav in civilian clothes, boots, and a light overcoat.

     ”You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Meraxes cursed under her breath. She snatched the letter away from the posts meant to hold the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller. “And it’s addressed to the Dragonborn. Of course it fucking is.” She unfolded it without any further hesitation.

Dragonborn,

I must speak with you urgently. In fact, all of Nirn may depend on your presence. Rent the attic room in the Sleeping Giant Inn and I will explain everything.

- A friend

P.S. I have the Horn.

     “What is it?” Lydia was the first to speak up, but Meraxes’ entire party wore expressions containing varying degrees of confusion, Serana’s in combination with concern.

     “This fucker took the Horn,” Meraxes seethed and offered Lydia the letter. Frankly, Meraxes didn’t want to hold it any longer. “And they want to meet me in Riverwood.”

     “What a wild goose chase,” Zira sighed and strode ahead to search for an exit. Instead, she met a tall, intimidating wall covered in an ancient scrawl. “I don’t know if this means anything, but it looks suspicious. Maybe it’s enchanted.”

     At the sound of ‘enchanted,’ Serana took off toward the artifact and strung Meraxes along with her.

     Then, something strange happened. The room went dark, the only light emerging from one of the characters etched into the stone.

     ”Feim...”

     [Fade...]

     Meraxes heard it whisper as if it had a voice of its own, but the moment she saw the word in her mind’s eye, everything returned to the way it was before she’d gotten there.

     “Well, that was weird,” Zira said. She finally located a lever to the right of the wall. When she pulled it, a monolith lowered gradually to the floor, revealing a hidden exit. Bran barked happily, heeling at his master’s feet.

     Meraxes quietly led the way out of Ustengrav. She was pissed to her core at the anonymous adventurer who’d ripped the Horn from her grasp.

     Evidently, making Kodlak proud was going to take more time and effort than she’d thought.

     The Forgotten Vale was an incredible place.

     Malkus realized he was no longer in Skyrim, but had transgressed into High Rock. The creatures had such magnificent patterns that Stalf had stopped to skin a sabre cat.

     “Welcome to the wayshrine of Sight, initiates.”

     When Salonia and Fura turned around, they spotted an ethereal being standing guard by the second landmark.

     “Come and receive Auri-El’s gift. It will guide you safely to the Inner Sanctum,” the translucent Elf said and stepped aside to let Salonia through with the Initiate’s Ewer. After adding the liquid at the wayshrine, the vampires only had three to go.

     “Well done, everyone,” Malkus chimed.

     After a while of walking, the vampires encountered a frozen lake. Malkus had instructed them to be careful on it. He didn’t know how thick the ice was and hoped no one would fall through.

     CuSith had a sixth sense for those sorts of things. He led the way across the water without any qualms.

     “How do I look?” Stalf asked, wrapping his violet and pale, green sabre cat fur over his shoulders.

     “Stupid, just like always,” Salonia replied as she hauled the Ewer.

     “You know, you could pretend to get along on this trip.”

     Malkus was the first after CuSith to set foot in the snow, the others following close behind him. Fura chuckled in relief when she reached land.

     “And, Fura, you’d do well in faking sanity.”

     CuSith barked and wagged his stub of a tail in agreement.

     Their respective quirks aside, the group was efficient at making its way through The Forgotten Vale. They reached the remaining wayshrines and blazed along the Inner Sanctum without incident.

     Harkon had picked quite the suitable lot indeed.

     At last, the vampires reached a pedestal, and, without hesitating to wonder what belonged there, Salonia placed the Ewer on its flat top.

     “I don’t know if that’s—“

     The ice split, revealing a corridor no one would have otherwise seen.

     “You were saying, Stalf?” Salonia spat and continued down the hall. She noticed then that the entire way was made of ice, as if whoever lived inside could count on an eternal winter.

     It was certainly a good thing that vampires didn’t get cold easily.

     “All of you, stop.”

     Malkus halted when he heard a faintly accented voice reverberate from around the corner.

     “Careful,” he whispered to Fura and the lackeys. “This could be a trap.”

     “Oh, re—"

     “Surely, you’ve come this far for the Bow,” the voice said boldly. Soon, Malkus could see a shadow approaching in its wake. “Tell me why you want it.”

     Malkus froze in his tracks. Gelebor had instructed him to kill his brother for the weapon, and Malkus was almost positive Vyrthur was the source of the sound.

     “We want to complete the prophecy,” he said and approached the shadow with his weapon drawn. If the speaking man was indeed Vyrthur, he’d have to remain vigilant. “The Tyranny of the Sun.”

     ”Ah.”

     Though the vampires still could not see the man, if hearing someone grin was possible, then that was what took place in the heart of the Inner Sanctum.

     “It’s yours, then. Come along so I may see your faces.”

     There’s no way it’s this simple, Malkus thought and advanced carefully. He didn’t stray far from the wall when entering the main hall, where Vyrthur sat on a throne-like chair in the distance.

     Fura followed, her greatsword drawn. Something didn’t smell right to her.

     “Ah,” Vyrthur eccentrically threw up his hands and then retrieved an ornate weapon from beside his elevated seat. “My dear champions. You hope to use the Bow exactly as I’ve intended. Of course, you are free to take it without consequence.”

     Vyrthur was glad to see more vampires in his wake. They certainly sought what he, too, was after, but there was no Daughter of Coldharbour among them.

     The Snow Elf was careful not to frown when he realized his revenge on Auri-El would not be achieved instantaneously.

     “You must look me in the eye, however." Vyrthur met Malkus halfway across his throne room. “And promise me you will complete the prophecy.”

     Malkus titled his head to gaze up at the Snow Elf, amazed by his great height and rare features. He noticed, in that moment, that Vyrthur was one of his kinsmen: a vampire.

     “I will, even if it’s the last thing I do,” Malkus said. His tone was low and reverent as his lips curled into a grin.

     The vampires nearly cheered in their excitement when Vyrthur placed Auriel’s Bow in Malkus’ hand, as they were that much closer to completing the Tyranny of the Sun.

     “Lord Harkon will be most pleased,” Salonia mused. She was glad to be rid of the Ewer for good.

     “Indeed." Malkus held the Bow close to his chest.

     He vowed then that he would die before parting with it unless the next hands to touch it were his Master’s.

     “Let us return to the Castle.”

     Meraxes had to buy out Sleeping Giant Inn just for everyone in her party to have a bed that night. The rent drained all the profits she’d plundered in Ustengrav.

     This stupid Horn-pilferer is really getting on my fucking nerves, Meraxes thought and gritted her teeth.

     Delphine already annoyed her enough. The last time she’d come to the Sleeping Giant Inn, she’d found the innkeeper nothing but vexing, especially after borrowing Soren for her bard.

     “I’ll take...” Meraxes spoke through a growl as she unfolded the note from Ustengrav. She’d forgotten what to say.

     “Stop. You’re scaring her,” Serana whispered in Meraxes’ ear. Delphine did well with her appearance, but Serana could smell her unease.

     “It’s fine, really.” Delphine forced a smile and reverted her attention to Meraxes. “Would you like the drink menu? I remember you being fond of those.”

     ”Shut up,” she snarled and nearly sent the innkeeper back into a pillar. “I want your attic room.”

     “There is no attic room."

     Delphine popped the cork off a bottle of mead and poured it into a tankard as Meraxes frustratedly passed the letter from Ustengrav back to Lydia. “But you can have the one on the left. It’s got a double bed and the room and the drink are on the house.”

     “You’d better not be expecting anything in return,” Meraxes nearly barked. The fact that Delphine had given her an extra room for free helped her exhibit some restraint. “And I’ll pass on the alcohol.”

     When Meraxes distributed the keys, Zira was the first to take one. She hadn’t slept since she was in Whiterun, and, being mortals, she, Lydia, and Meraxes needed more sleep than the vampires.

     “I’ll take the mead." Zira seized the tankard Delphine had offered Meraxes before departing to her room. Bran followed enthusiastically, excited to sprawl out on a throw rug.

     Lydia took her and Soren’s key. The Sleeping Giant Inn had one room with two beds and both were comfortable sleeping across the room from one another.

     Serana supposed that meant Meraxes was allowing her to share a bed again, a realization that would've accelerated her heartbeat had she one.

     “Don’t try anything this time,” Meraxes muttered under her breath. She entered their sparse room with a scowl still plain on her face.

     “Oh, I won’t." Serana tapped her gently on the forearm. “Not as long as we’re being followed, anyway.”

     Behind them, Delphine shut the door. She clicked their room locked with a twist of the pin beneath the knob.

     “Excuse me.” Meraxes instantly reached for her greatsword until the innkeeper threw up her hands. She held the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller plainly in one of them.

     “What...” Meraxes advanced sharply toward Delphine to snatch the Horn. ”Pray tell, the fuck? Explain yourself!”

     “You’re not very polite, are you, Dragonborn?” Delphine surrendered the Horn and placed her hands defiantly on her hips. “What if I told you that I know the exact bounty the Thalmor has on your head? Would you listen then?”

     “That sounds like a threat,” Meraxes snapped, squeezing the Horn so tightly her knuckles turned white.

     “You misunderstand."

     Delphine opened a wardrobe across from the double bed. She slidd a false, wooden panel aside to reveal a descending stairway. “They’re after me, too. It’s like I said on the note I left in Ustengrav: I’m a friend.”

     ”Prove it.”

     Serana swore she could see steam rising from Meraxes’ nostrils. She gripped the Meraxes' free hand and held it reassuringly as she hesitated atop the stairs.

     “I think I already have." Delphine stared up at the two from the entryway of her secret room. “By not turning you in, that is. Twenty thousand septims is quite the sum.”

     That’s how much they want for me? Then how have I not been captured a second time? Meraxes swallowed her pride. If she wanted answers, she’d have to follow that annoying bitch down the staircase.

     “We’ll be careful,” Serana reassured her and squeezed her hand. “I won’t let anything happen to you. You know that.”

     “I didn’t know you had a wife, Dragonborn. Congratulations.”

     “You shut up,” Meraxes sneered. She finally found it within her to join Delphine down the steps. It wasn’t curiosity that moved her, but spite, as she hadn’t the conviction to stop growling during her descent. “She’s not my wife.”

     “Either way, come look at this." Delphine gestured flatly to a sign nailed to a post. “In case you’re wondering why nobody’s turned you in, it’s because my people have been taking them down.”

     Sure enough, when Meraxes reached the bottom of the stairway, what she saw made her shoulders arch back in apprehensive anger.

     ”Fuck.”

     “It’s a pretty good likeness, isn’t it?” Delphine strode past the poster to stand over a desk in the center of the room. The whole place looked like a bunker dedicated to tracking conspiracy theories, with sketches of people fastened to the walls and strings connecting them to bits and pieces of maps and copies of letters.

     “You’re crazy.” Meraxes stood, bewildered, across from Delphine’s table. On it was a flat, runed stone of some sort and a thoroughly marked map.

     “Am I?”

     Delphine pulled a dagger from her belt and embedded it into a northern point on the map with a terrifying ferocity. “Or was I simply too talented at pretending to be a harmless inkeeper? Unless you want trouble, you’ll help me figure out why the dragons are back in Skyrim. I have probable cause to believe the Thalmor are behind it. And, if they’re somehow not, being the Dragonborn might just erase every penny they’ve got on your head.”

     Serana frowned. Meraxes would hate to admit that Delphine made sense, but, unfortunately, the inkeeper was right. If Serana had learned anything on her adventures with Meraxes, it was that nothing was impossible.

     “I think you should hear her out.”

     Meraxes sighed loudly. She hoped, when everything blew over, that she’d never have to hear from Delphine again.

     ”Fine,” she bitterly agreed.

     “This...” Delphine held up the runed rock for Meraxes to examine. “Is a Dragonstone. It’s a secret map to dragon burial sites translated by my organization, and it indicates the next dragon should be resurrected at Kynesgrove.”

     “Your point?”

     “It wouldn’t kill you to be polite, Dragonborn. But it might kill you not to serve your purpose to the world when it needs you." Delphine's voice sharpened as she set the Dragonstone down. “So you’re going to come with me to Kynesgrove and we’re going to see how the sausage is made. Seeing a dragon come back to life might help us assess how exactly it’s happening and will give me a chance to see whether or not you’re actually Dragonborn, after all.”

     “I don’t want to go anywhere with you,” Meraxes seethed, her free hand tightening into a fist. “And I’ve proven to enough people that I’m Dragonborn. I don’t want to do it again.”

     “Meraxes,” Serana said softly. Her gaze boiled when she stared once more at her dear friend’s bounty poster. “You have nothing to lose. I’ll come with you, too.”

     “If things go wrong, and we don’t learn anything, I promise we will continue erasing evidence of your bounty. You just have to comply with me for a few weeks. And—trust me—you’ll want to for longer."

     Delphine extended her hand for Meraxes to shake. Her marked and weathered map was folded up in the other.

     “I won’t touch you,” Meraxes said. The rage she wore slowly melted off her face. “But I’ll kill the dragon. This is the last time I prove anything to anyone.”

     “Good.” Delphine nodded. Her own demeanor softened when Meraxes dropped some of her guard. “The resurrection happens in thirty-three hours. Be at Kynesgrove by then and I’ll give your little group as long as they need at this inn for free.”

     Meraxes’ jaw tightened. She was more than suspicious of Delphine, especially after her display with the Horn. If she was able to single-handedly clear Ustengrav, she was certainly more than she seemed.

     “At least we can agree on something." Her fists loosened when Delphine ascended the steps.

     She’d left her things up there, but wouldn’t have to unpack them.

     “Come on, Meraxes." Serana urged her dear friend along and met her atop the stairs. “We can sleep at Kynesgrove.”

End of Chapter 20.

Next: A nearly-satisfied Vampire Lord and a forged invitation to a Thalmor party mark the beginnings of some terrible business.

Chapter Text

     When Soren rose from his goat-pelt blanket, placing his feet upon the blackness, he was no longer terrified of melting into the Void beneath. He’d learned from his last endeavors in Coldharbour that the darkness spread across the floor was actually the ground there. It was not some dastardly black hole.

     “Molag Bal can’t catch you in his realm...the worst might happen if he does.”

     He was less than ecstatic to be there following Serana’s warning of the Daedric Lord which ruled the province. He’d planned on asking Lamae about him the next time he visited, hoping that sort of question didn’t bear any associated risks.

     ”Hello...nephew...”

     Soren heard her voice again.

     “Lamae,” he whispered, his voice soft. He unclipped Meraxes’ canteen from his belt, which he’d had filled with rabbit blood. He extended his arm and harmlessly offered it to her. “I want to ask you a question.”

     ”Yes...after I speak with you...”

     When she reached for the blood, her hand was ethereal. It was wispy but somehow still solid, covered in flesh after the centuries she’d spent in Coldharbour. ”My nephew...Harkon. He grows...more dangerous by the hour...Molag Bal has taken...an interest in him once more.”

     “What do you mean?”

     Soren watched as she slowly unscrewed the cap and inhaled the scent of the substance he’d gifted her.

     To his surprise, she drank it.

     ”He is...dangerous. The Tyranny of the Sun...if nothing is done...will come true. And the Plane Meld...will come to fruition...when the Dragonfire dies.”

     Lamae smiled down at Soren. Her face was smeared with rabbit’s blood. She knew not every detail of Vyrthur’s prophecy—only that he was a faithful servant to her husband, so the Tyranny of the Sun was fundamentally a perilous undertaking—and what her own visions as the first vampire revealed to her from Coldharbour.

     Like Molag Bal, she watched the mortal realm with fascination. She sometimes took a liking to specific beings on Tamriel’s plane. However, something stirred in Lamae’s chest that was still human. She was a vampire, not a daedra, sentenced to live in her husband’s special plane of Oblivion. She was forced dwell in Heart’s Grief until her own manifested into something cold as stone.

     “I...don’t understand."

     Soren struggled with the meaning behind her words. What was it she said about Dragonfire dying? He tried to memorize everything so he could write it down when he awoke in Tamriel, but a type of fear he’d never felt before threatened to run him through. That stopped his mind from retaining anything. “W- what do you mean?”

     ”All...will be revealed...in time.”

     Lamae’s smile faded. With a steady hand, she returned Soren’s canteen to his unextended arm.

     “What about Molag Bal?” Soren asked quickly. “Does he know...I come to Coldharbour?”

     ”No...I return you in time...to Tamriel. Where I used to live...” Lamae’s feet drifted above the sludge that littered the ground. She remained there, floating like a swan over a murky lake. ”It is time...for you to go home.”

     Then, Lamae’s white dress and red bodice ties disappeared and melted into the paleness of the blankets he’d slept on.

     Being too sweaty and startled to sleep again after his run-in with Lamae, he quietly opened the door. He was careful not to wake Lydia. When he moved to close it, he noticed something stuck onto the wood: a note.

     Soren pulled the letter down and unfolded it.

Lydia,

I’ve gone to Kynesgrove with Serana. Something about a bounty on a dragon. You’re in charge of making sure everyone stays in Riverwood, so don’t fuck it up.

- Meraxes

     Soren sighed after reading the note. He noticed then the nail Meraxes had put into the inn’s door had left noticeable damage. What surprised him, too, was that the innkeeper had left her post to a male Nord. He figured she was sleeping and would assume her shift again when she’d gotten enough rest.

     With nothing else to do, Soren opened his journal. He rested a hand pensively beneath his chin and began to write.

     Dragonfire...Plane Meld...Tyranny of the Sun...

     He recorded everything he didn’t understand on the page, sitting still to re-examine each word after he’d written it. He hoped he’d learn a thing or two by hitting the books.

     But he'd start by asking the closest person to an encyclopedia he knew:

     Serana.

     ”I can see Delphine from here." Serana stopped just short of Braidwood Inn, the only stand-out building in the tiny, sleepy town of Kynesgrove.

     Meraxes wondered how it got any business. Certainly, she was one to think about things like that, considering the Silver Hand burnt her own tavern to the ground. She still couldn't see anyone climbing the hill that led to Braidwood Inn’s wooden steps.

     “Why are you stopping?” Meraxes turned to meet Serana’s eyes. “There’s half an hour until this dragon returns, if Delphine was right about this whole 'resurrection’ deal.”

     “That’s just it,” Serana said. Meraxes noticed then how alight her eyes became with curiosity. “Delphine said the dragons were being resurrected. What if Durnehviir wasn’t the only dragon who could practice necromancy?”

     Meraxes’ brow furrowed. She didn’t know much about necromancy; not nearly as much as Serana. But bringing something as large and powerful as a dragon back to life seemed like an undertaking far too massive for one being or beast.

     “I’m starting to see why Delphine thinks the Thalmor are involved, but I’m still not sure I believe the dragons are returning because someone’s bringing them back to life. That’s such a fucked up notion, anyway.”

     “Let me explain something to you.” Serana sat upon the stairway to Braidwood Inn. Meraxes eventually deigned to join her. A centuries-old vampire’s legs still cramped up after too much standing around, after all. “Necromancy works in scales. Humans can learn to resurrect other humans if they practice enough, and that’s a reasonably above-average threshold for a mage. Necromancers like my mother can reanimate even larger corpses, but I don’t believe it’s feasible for one human to bring back a dragon. So, if you’re thinking a person is responsible for it, that can’t be right. I was thinking more along the lines of an organization...or another dragon.”

     “You think a dragon is bringing back its own species?”

     Meraxes thought hard about Serana’s proposition harder than her warrior’s brain could handle. There were aspects of it that still didn’t make sense to her, like how the first dragon would have come about, although it answered the question of why in Nirn anyone would want to return the beasts to begin with.

     “Well, it makes sense, doesn’t it? Either that, or some dragon cult is somehow returning them. I wouldn’t put it past this place, especially after seeing what kind of trouble my father’s cooking up.”

     “Great.” Meraxes extended her arms and cracked her knuckles in false anticipation. “So, either I get to fight a dragon with a knack for putting the skin back on its dead brothers, or I’m going to have to deal with yet another fucking cult. I don’t think I like being the Dragonborn.”

     Before Serana could comment, Delphine had tracked them down. She approached the inn’s foot where Serana and Meraxes sat and exchanged words. She was dressed in a sort of armor Meraxes didn’t recognize, wearing a type of sword on her back she’d never seen.

     ”There she is,” Serana whispered in her dear friend’s ear as a smirk crept onto her face. "The leader of the dragon cult.”

     “I think I’ve had enough of conspiracy theories for the rest of my life,” Meraxes retorted. However, amusement bubbled in her chest when she returned her focus to Delphine.

     “Then you’re not going to like spending time with me,” Delphine said. She folded her arms nonchalantly.

     Meraxes didn’t like Delphine and something in the back of her mind told her she’d never come close to appreciating her one day. But she did admire the inkeeper’s straightforwardness in the times it counted. Her blunt nature coaxed Meraxes into silence, a feat so difficult to accomplish that it even surprised Serana.

     The quiet only lasted so long, however, before the rumble of a dragon’s flight shattered it. It sent a citizen running from the Braidwood inn the instant its silhouette drowned out the light from one of Tamriel’s moons.

     ”Go!” shouted the fleeing Nord woman, waving her hands as she sprinted. ”Get out of here!”

     “We have to hide,” Delphine hissed and took cover behind a small hill. When Serana followed, Meraxes took off after her, unsure why, exactly, they needed to cower from the dragon.

     “I’m supposed to kill that, aren’t I?” asked Meraxes. In response, Delphine pulled her into the dirt by her tunic’s collar.

     ”Hey—"

     Mulch fell from Meraxes’ mouth when she lifted her head. She knew she’d agreed to go through with Delphine’s operation, but how dare the she shove her into the mud so recklessly?

     “Shut up and watch.”

     Meraxes’ observed the dragon through narrowed eyes, a growl churning in her throat. He was darker than most of its kin, and larger...Meraxes recognized him. She’d seen him before after the Thalmor apprehended her and the Empire attempted her execution and again outside the gates of Riften when Serana accompanied her to Fort Dawnguard.

     ”Slen tiid vo!”

     [Flesh, time, restore!]

     After the leviathan bent his head and shouted, light danced in tendrils about the bones of his fallen kin below, restoring the skin and scales to the beast.

     Meraxes’ mouth dropped open, more dirt spilling from it. She was astounded by the fact that Serana had guessed such an arbitrary thing: that a dragon was, in fact, bringing back its brothers.

     ”Sahloknir, ziil gro dovah ulse, slen tiid vo!“

     [Sahloknir, eternal dragon spirit, let your flesh be restored!]

     At the sound of his massive kin’s voice, Sahloknir shook out his great head. His reattached skin pale and reflected the moons’ sheen. He looked as if he’d never died to begin with, wearing the aura of insurmountable power which accompanied all the dragons Meraxes had seen thus far.

     ”Alduin, thuri! Boaan tiid vokriiha suleyksejun kruziik?”

     [Alduin, my king! Has the time come to restore the ancient realm?]

     Meraxes looked on with shaken interest. She wondered what the dragons were saying to one another. She could only understand Common, even being the Dragonborn, so their conversation was lost on her.

     ”Geh, Sahloknir, kaali mir.”

     [Yes, Sahloknir, my trusted friend.]

     Steam rose from the larger dragon’s nostrils as he averted his gaze, staring straight at the three who took cover beneath the small hill just outside Braidwood Inn. His eyes glowed a deep amber—brighter than even a vampire’s—and pierced Meraxes’ silver with an expression of abject hatred.

     ”Ful, losei Dovahkiin...zu'u koraav nid nol dov do hi.”

     [Ah...the false Dragonborn. I do not recognize you as a dragon.]

     Meraxes remained silent. She was unable to understand Alduin’s musings. She did not break eye-contact with him, however, fearing what might happen if she did. Serana looked on in horror, and Delphine in a flaming cocktail of satisfaction and suspense. She was happy to be correct about the Kynesgrove resurrection. It meant the Dragonstone could adequately map them...but the fact that a dragon could be so immensely powerful shook her to her core. Perhaps the Thalmor were pulling his strings after all.

     What happened next shocked everyone.

     ”You do not even know our tongue, do you? Such arrogance, to dare take for yourself the name of Dovah.”

     Alduin spoke Common.

     Then, as if it never happened—as if Alduin wanted Meraxes and her allies to feel insane for even imagining what came to pass was truly possible—he turned back to Sahloknir and fixed his piercing eyes on the horizon.

     “Sahloknir, krii daar joorre.”

     [Sahloknir, kill these mortals.]

     After speaking indiscernibly, Alduin flapped his great wings and rose above the level of the moon. He flew promptly away. Only his resurrected brother remained, charging toward Meraxes before taking flight. His roar shattered whatever silence lingered after Alduin’s departure.

     Sahloknir changed his tack, bowing his head as he passed the three by.

     ”Yol toor!”

     [Fire, inferno!]

     Delphine, who’d raised her bow to fire at Sahloknir, ducked her head beneath the slope of the hill. Her reflexes sharper, as soon as the dragon had opened his mouth to shout, Meraxes pinned Serana against the soft dirt. She hoped silently that Sahloknir was an ice-breather.

     She cursed beneath her breath when flames illuminated the hillside.

     ”Meraxes,” Serana breathed, “Don’t worry about me. Go slay that dragon. I’m right behind you.”

     “You’re the one who said you’re not fireproof.”

     Meraxes backed away to find solid footing in the dirt beside their cover. She unsheathed Kindred. Despite her irises’ icy coldness, Meraxes' gaze burned as vengefully as Sahloknir’s flames.

     The way she deadpanned almost scared Serana; how staring into her eyes was like looking through a mirror, the fire and night reflected.

     They were the eyes of a dragon.

     When Saloknir made his second round, frustrated with the failure of his previous breath attack, he opened his mouth to shout again.

     ”Yol!”

     Instead, he was met with Meraxes’ fire, which he was forced to swallow as he continued through the sky.

     ”Yol hin los maar, losei Dovahkiin...”

     [False Dragonborn...your fire tastes like shit.]

     Saloknir shook out his head. His toothy maw still hung open in disgust. He arched his long talons for a landing atop the slope Delphine fired her arrows from. Delphine leapt into the dirt when he came crashing from the air, destroying the entire mound in one fell swoop. She rolled, recovering, but not before Meraxes charged Saloknir with her greatsword drawn. A growl boiled beneath her sternum.

     “Die, you fire-breathing cunt!”

     Saloknir reared his ugly head, snarling.

     ”Koraav ko fiik, losei Dovahkiin!”

     [You should look in the mirror, false Dragonborn!]

     When he charged forward to bite her—his claws tearing apart the earth in his wake—she slashed Kindred along his jaw. A burst of blood to flew upward and cascaded along her tunic and pants.

     She was so utterly soaked in it that she could hardly see, forced to position herself defensively, though she could still hear Serana’s ice spikes and Delphine’s arrows firing in the background.

     Though she’d been blinded, a voice in her mind’s eye whispered,

     Feim.

     [Fade.]

     Meraxes searched for it as she held her greatsword ready to block whatever force sought fit to cut her down—the speaker of the mysterious Word of Power she’d seen on the wall in Ustengrav.

     Meraxes couldn’t find its source, nor could she see Saloknir arching forward to deliver a bite that would cleave her in half.

     FEIM!

     Then, she felt someone grab her shoulder and pull hard, and flashbulb images danced in Meraxes’ mind rapidly enough to make her sick.

     Dimhollow Crypt.

     Alduin.

     Fort Dawnguard.

     Castle Volkihar.

     Serana.

     The Voice passed through her churning stomach, fighting its way up through her belly, until in Meraxes’ eyes, an unparalleled beast emerged. And, this time, Saloknir’s fire was met with nothing.

     ”Feim!”

     ”Yol toor shul!”

     Before Saloknir’s eyes, the mortal—no, a dragon—and a vampire, clutched in her talons, faded into etherealness, his flames passing through them as if they were nothing at all.

     I don’t believe it... Delphine thought as she looked on and gaped in an awed silence. She’d even stopped firing her bow, the string lying lazily idle without a notched arrow to send skyward. Dragonforce... unheard of since the time of Dragonborn Emperors...

     ”DOVAH!”

     Saloknir bellowed as Meraxes and Serana rematerialized in the dirt. The Dragonborn’s body broke her fall with a resounding crack!

     ...it’s real.

     As soon as they’d landed, Serana climbed away from her dear friend. She wiped the blood from her eyes with the black handkerchief she always kept.

     Meraxes coughed, the impact to her back having given her whiplash, as she hadn’t intended to hit the ground so damn hard. She soon found she couldn't stand on her own.

     ”Meraxes,” Serana whispered softly as Saloknir took flight once more. She worriedly gripped Meraxes' shoulders. "Get up!”

     ”Get out—"

     Meraxes truncated her sentence with a cough. She knew exactly what she had to do. Serana was at risk without her protection, since Saloknir was a fire-breather, and Meraxes could feel that something in her back was broken. There would be no getting up, but no one said anything about calling on a friend to aid in a battle she didn’t want to lose. She had to defend Serana, no matter the cost to her pride. “Get out of the way."

      Meraxes gritted her teeth determinedly.

     “Don’t you dare get yourself killed." Serana obeyed her command with caution. Ice formed in her palms, ready to strike Saloknir down when he made his third round.

     Serana swore she’d make that one his last.

     ”Funny,” Meraxes smiled. Blood spilled steadily from her nose. ”I was going to say the same thing to you.”

     While Delphine and Serana employed their ranged attacks, forcing a bloodied Saloknir to the ground, a final shout charged itself in Meraxes lungs.

     ”Dur neh viir!”

     After releasing the words, Meraxes tasted salty, metallic hemoglobin rising up in her throat, threatening to make a mess of the patch of dirt she’d fallen into.

     She did not let it come. Rather, she welcomed the blackness that closed in from the corners of her eyes and shut her away from the sights and sounds of battle.

     The last thing she remembered before succumbing to sleep was the roar of another dragon.

     “Qahnaarin...zu’u los het!”

     [Vanquisher...I am here!]

     The grayed watchman lowered the gate to Castle Volkihar at Malkus’ return. He was indifferent at the sight of Auriel’s Bow.

     Without warning, as soon as the drawbridge came trailing down, Fura shot across the corridor to the main hall. CuSith chased her and Malkus, Stalf, and Salonia followed close behind.

     ”Master!” she enthusiastically shouted. Stalf’s saber cat pelt dangled like a cape as he came to a dead halt.

     From the foot of his throne—a smaller one to his right reserved for his estranged wife remaining pitifully empty—Harkon whipped around, eyes blazing.

     “WHAT DO YOU—“

     Harkon stopped in his tracks when he saw Malkus with what he thought was Auriel’s Bow. He swore internally that his mind must be playing tricks on him, as the weapon had been out of his reach for so terribly long.

     Malkus went equally still when he realized he’d interrupted one of his Master’s furious rages. He hoped he wouldn’t invoke his wrath upon the Court again.

     “Is that what I think it is?” His voice surprisingly quiet, Harkon advanced. His anger seemed to dissolve into thin air.

     “Yes, Master.” Malkus lowered his head, the others bowing in his wake. He extended his arms and offered Harkon the Bow.

     “You...” Harkon began. He paused as he held the Bow in his own two hands. It was like something out of a his darkest fantasies—like his murder of one thousand innocents in the name of Molag Bal, or his abandoning Serana and Valerica in a frigid plane of Oblivion—was finally worth it. “...have done beyond well.”

     The Master rested his hand atop Malkus’ head. It alarmed the inferior vampire when he felt Harkon’s touch disturb his hair.

     “We shall have a feast in honor of this accomplishment. I shall summon the court and show them the Bow. Go on.” Harkon released Malkus unceremoniously. “Do whatever you want. Take whichever chattel you fancy.”

     Then, the Lord of the Castle turned his back on them. He advanced to the box which overlooked the main hall.

     Above him, Malkus watched his Master turn the bow about in his hands, processing its reality before he moved to say anything at all. A smile crossed his face when he saw Harkon grin. His dear lord hadn’t looked so happy since his mirthful days of yore.

     ”So you’re telling me that not only have Agmaer and Morgrul failed to return, but Durak is also missing?”

     Beleval leaned over her war map as Gunmar sat idly in a chair beside her. After hard weeks of smithing silver-bladed swords, his hands were torn to pieces. He was no longer suited to any menial work.

     He was still more than willing to beat any vampire to a pulp, though.

     “Yes,” Gunmar said. He watched as she erased charcoal points on the map. “The assassin sent to kill Whitemane is also still at large.”

     ”Nothing is going the way I planned it."

     Beleval paced about the War Room as she did when irked or stressed. She stopped only to watch the Dawnguard’s training progress out her window. She’d had those proficient at swordplay teach those who were lacking, so by the time she launched a full-scale attack, everyone would be prepared to wield Gunmar’s special weapons. “What do you recommend I do? We need to turn the tides. There are three Elder Scrolls out there. We have none. Whitemane is traveling with an incredibly powerful vampire, with whom she slaughtered Isran. She’s still alive. If Agmaer, Morgrul, and Durak don’t return by Mondas, we’ll have to declare them dead!”

     “We need more intelligence,” Gunmar replied and stood to examine Beleval’s map. It looked like she had areas near Solitude pinpointed, and some near Rorikstead, too. “What is it you’re creating here?”

     “I’m marking all the locations where our people reported Meraxes Whitemane was seen.” Beleval skimmed the map with her eyes, releasing a tormented sigh. “Every time their word reaches us, she’s already gone somewhere else. She is everywhere, so the only way to find her is to search for a pattern. It’s no wonder that assassin is struggling.”

     “You shouldn’t try to do an assassin’s work yourself.”

     Sceolang, one of the Dawnguard’s loyal dogs, rushed up to Beleval when he sensed her anxiety. He jumped, placing his paws on her abdomen as his drool dripped gradually towards the floor.

     “Down, Sceolang,” Beleval said gently and held the husky’s paws during his descent. Then, she stood upright and returned her attention to Gunmar. “Why should I not play fate when fate isn’t going my way?”

     Something in the Beleval's eyes simmered as she spoke.

     “You were always very convincing, Beleval. This is why you make a great leader.”

     Gunmar dipped his head. He knew he could not sway her opinion, and he would not try any further.

     “I’m preparing a full-scale attack on Whitemane and her little, vampire friend. We’re going to end this once and for all.” Beleval raised her gaze from the map once more, meeting Gunmar’s eyes.

     “Very well. Let me know what you want me to do.”

     Delphine hadn’t intended to take a carriage back to Riverwood. Luxuries like those were not meant for those who made an inkeeper’s salary to enjoy. However, she hadn’t a choice since the Dragonborn couldn’t so much as walk. Delphine was at least decent enough not to ask Serana to help carry her that far.

     “You don’t need to worry,” Delphine said, making a face when she saw the way Serana had Meraxes strewn along the bench with her head in her lap. “I have people that will take good care of her.”

     “So, who are you.” Serana tilted her head. ”Really?”

     Delphine chuckled.

     “You’re a smart one. I knew that from the second I met you, and I wondered then what you saw in someone like our Dragonborn.” The inkeeper smiled slyly. “I’ll tell you who I am when you promise me not to let your relationship with that woman to interfere with her work. I saw the way you looked at her at Kynesgrove, and, quite frankly, it worries me.”

     “Meraxes doesn’t belong to anyone,” Serana snapped and lowered her chin to monitor the sleeping knight. Instinctively, she combed Meraxes’ short, wheat-like hair with her fingers, which would have been soft were it not matted with dragon’s blood.

     My Dragonborn... her mind whispered in a clashing contradiction to her words. My dear Meraxes, you are so capable, but that will never be enough to chase my worries away...

     “Serana.” Delphine raised her voice. “You’re doing it again. That’s exactly the look I was talking about.”

     Serana shook her head, meeting Delphine’s eyes.

     “I won’t stop Meraxes from saving the world. There’s nothing between us that would change the fact that Nirn needs her.”

     “Good,” Delphine said firmly and settled her hands in her lap. “Have you ever heard of the Blades?”

     “Just that they used to protect the Emperors, back when they were Dragonborn. Apparently, Titus Mede the Second isn’t one.”

     “Hm. I’m impressed. You know more than most,” Delphine decided, “I take it you’re a reader. But, if you would like to know who I really am, I am the leader of the reformed Blades. There are not many of us left, and the Thalmor, who wish to maintain a state of war in Skyrim and wherever else they can, do not want us to rise because they’re afraid a Dragonborn would help end the conflict they want rather than create more.”

     “So you think the Thalmor are behind the dragon resurrections, then?” Serana’s eyes brightened.

     “You are...alarmingly sharp. I do, especially since the Skyrim Civil War has been over for some time. You have your friend there to thank for that, but Ulfric was a target of the Thalmor’s as well. She was furthering their agenda without even knowing it.”

     “With Meraxes in this state, there’s no way she’ll be able to do anything else for you.” Serana ceased stroking Meraxes' hair to hold her steady, still focused on Delphine across the bench. “I’m afraid I won’t be willing to send her off investigating, in case you had that in mind.”

     “I didn’t,” Delphine said as the carriage came to a stop. “She can’t, anyway. The Thalmor would arrest her on the spot, just as they would me. I was hoping someone she trusts could go instead.” Delphine grinned. “Perhaps you.”

     Serana considered Delphine’s proposition as they lifted Meraxes from the back of the carriage, careful to keep her level while they ascended the stairs into the Sleeping Giant Inn. They walked slowly in an effort to safely arrive at a bed, so they wouldn’t have to worry about doing any further damage to her back.

     “Be careful,” Delphine said as they placed her gently on the double bed, where she had plenty of room to sprawl out.

     Before Serana could voice her thoughts about the Aldmeri conspiracy theory, Soren, Lydia, and Zira all came flooding into Meraxes’ room, where she still lay unconscious.

     “Is my Thane alive?” Lydia panted and instinctively leaned down to check Meraxes’ pulse. Serana had pulled up a chair by her bedside and nearly swatted Lydia’s hand away at her paranoia regarding Meraxes' injury. She knew Lydia had good intentions, however, and did her no harm.

     “She is. She’ll be just fine,” Delphine said from against the wardrobe, which she’d closed and latched.

     “Who are you?” Zira asked and skeptically crossed her arms. “And why are you all decked out in that armor? Aren’t you supposed to be the innkeeper?”

     Delphine paused to rake Zira over with her eyes.

     “You...” she whispered, keeping her voice low. She moved to shut the door to the room and closed it firmly behind her. “You killed a Thalmor Ambassador years ago, didn’t you? On a contract?”

     In a fraction of a second, Zira notched an arrow in her ebony bow. She aimed the drawn weapon squarely between Delphine’s eyes.

     “Don’t worry.” Delphine raised her hands and refused to reach for her own blade or bow. “I’m a friend. The Thalmor have plenty on me, too.”

     “Zira, we don’t have an option but to trust her. She thinks the Thalmor are responsible for bringing the dragons back to Tamriel, and she’s looking to prove it,” Serana added calmly.

     Hesitantly, Zira lowered the bow. She didn’t trust Delphine by any means, but was convinced the Thalmor were also behind the cultist attacks on the Solstheim Great Houses; that they were the ones who really killed her family.

     They reached a partial understanding at exchanging glances. Zira sheathed her arrow.

     “So, you think they’re behind the dragons, eh? I wouldn’t put it past them.”

     “Exactly.” Delphine lowered her hands and faced Serana. “Does the Dragonborn trust everyone in this room?”

     Soren looked on from the corner, where he’d moved after Zira nearly shot the innkeeper. He was confused by the situation, to say the least.

     “Yes.” Serana took a risk and nodded.

     “Then I need one of you to help me figure out whether or not the Thalmor are truly behind the return of the dragons.” Delphine eyed the group and fallen Dragonborn with desperation. Those people truly were her last hope of achieving anything as a Blade, as much as it pained Delphine to admit it. “I have a forged invitation to a party for elites, which will be held at Skyrim’s Thalmor Embassy. One of you must infiltrate the headquarters to search for information on the dragon resurrections. Are any of you willing to go?”

     Serana sat idly in her chair by Meraxes’ bedside. Her eyes caressed the crook of her neck, where her dear friend had let her feed not too long ago; her chest, where she’d removed the arrow at Dead Man’s Drink; the end of her leg, which was fitted with a wooden mechanism in lieu of a flesh-and-blood limb. She hoped her Dragonborn would awaken soon, but wanted to be there when she did. She'd rather not be at some Thalmor Embassy trying to rub elbows with elitist Altmer folks and their rich friends.

     But, if no one else would go, then Serana would volunteer. She’d do it for her.

     “I’ll do it."

     Zira strapped her bow back into its holster and faced Delphine. If she went to the Thalmor Embassy, she might finally discover whether or not the Aldmeri Dominion were behind the cult that killed her family. She could solve the mystery once and for all. Besides, Zira was clever: wanted by the Thalmor or not, she could disguise herself in a million different ways. She’d wash her war paint off, make herself look older with makeup, forge her identity, and redo her hair if she had to.

     “Good.” Delphine all but sighed in relief. “I’ll give you the details, then. Come with me.”

     “I refuse to leave this room with a stranger who knows something about my background." Zira cracked a smile. “But I will tell you one thing: those Thalmor bastards won’t know what hit them by the time I’m finished at their little party.”

End of Chapter 21.

Next: While Zira attends the Thalmor party with an unexpected second guest, Soren and Serana must travel to the College of Winterhold for answers.

Warning: Chapter 21 contains references to sexual assault, slavery, and torture. Reader discretion is advised. Also, I rewrote Malborn because I think he's boring in-game. Enjoy the glow-up.

SB: Things get a little weird when the Dragonborn is in a coma, don’t they? It turns out even our mighty protagonist sadly isn’t invincible. One word of the Become Ethereal shout isn’t enough to keep one from a rough landing, even with the Dragonforce!

The twists and turns in Skyrim’s lore are going to grow a little more apparent as the story progresses, and I hope you also enjoyed seeing a little more human side of Harkon and Beleval. Stay turned! I’ll see you all next time!

Chapter Text

     Vampire parties were quite the feat, and being caught in the middle of one after the Master had chewed him out, Vingalmo didn’t feel quite as welcome as his brethren. What was more, Orthjolf had already recovered from the beating Vingalmo had given him after the Nord developed the audacity to make an attempt on his life.

     He had to begin his travel to the Ancestor Glade. That meant sneaking past Malkus’ crew, who ravenously fed on mortal chattel—Molag Bal knew whether or not they would survive their hunger—and his kinsmen who drank in the main hall, which likely included Harkon himself.

     Vingalmo didn’t quite understand why his Master made such a deal out of acquiring Auriel’s Bow, anyway. He didn’t even know what to do with it to complete the Tyranny of the Sun, and that rendered it entirely useless in their hands. The longer they held onto it without acting, the more the Altmer realized Clan Volkihar was at risk of failing.

     If he was what kept Harkon from failure, surely he’d be appropriately rewarded. That thought made his lips curl into a grin as he became invisible. He remained close to the walls on his way to the gate. Sure enough, his Master stood at the foot of his throne-like chair, downing a glass of specially brewed bloodwine. He always saved that for the greatest celebrations.

     Soon, Malkus will be an insignificant worm again, and Harkon will be praising me, Vingalmo thought when he reached the bridge. The watchman dutifully closed the gate behind him.

     Luckily, travel wasn’t difficult for vampires who kept out of the sun. Falkreath was quite the distance from Castle Volkihar. That meant if he arrived to the Ancestor Glade before anyone else, he’d have quite the leg up over his kinsmen. His only potential problem was that he relied on Serana to be there so he could hear her read the scrolls. There was no guarantee that she was going, or that she hadn’t already gone.

     The Master’s daughter was a clever, little shit. Vingalmo knew that and not to mess with her on account of her pure-bloodedness.

     Soon, Harkon will drink bloodwine to my name, when I am the reason the Tyranny of the Sun comes to fruition...

     If anyone followed him, Vingalmo was determined to arrive first, and to kill any rival who stood in his way. Completing the prophecy was his shot at redemption. It was his destiny and he would not compromise on that.

     ...I will drown the world in darkness, even if the dying sun is the last sight to touch my eyes.

     Sure enough, Delphine had decided that since Zira was also a Thalmor target, she’d need to score two invites so the assassin could travel with backup.

     It wasn’t hard to convince Lydia. She was awfully spry about it and was willing to do anything it took to serve her Thane. And had no knowledge of how to unfuck a broken back. That left her on the field, which Zira was less than pleased about, but she didn’t give herself a choice. She had to learn the truth of House Redoran’s demise.

     “This Malborn fellow,” Zira muttered contemptuously as Delphine approached The Winking Skeever, where she and Lydia had been told to meet some Valenwood man. “Who is he, exactly?”

     Delphine chuffed. She was already frustrated with Zira's curiosity, and checked her surroundings before daring open her mouth. When she spotted some of the Emperor’s guard nearby, she decided not to answer Zira and instead opened the door to the inn.

     If I die, I hope history blames Meraxes, Zira thought as Delphine led her to the tavern’s corner. Zira swiftly turnred around the counter before the innkeeper could so much as utter a word.

     “He’ll answer whatever questions you have himself,” Delphine said quietly over her shoulder. Her remark made Zira’s shoulders relax. She’d been worried about walking into a trap. “Malborn,” she turned to the Elf with a forced smile. “These are the ones I’ve brought for the errand.”

    Lydia looked him up and down, an uneven frown emerging on her lips.

     “You’re shorter than I expected.”

     ”Really, Delphine?” Malborn all but threw up his hands. On the table, Zira could see he’d been working on some sketches. She was impressed with the detail and how accurate his fleshed-out floor plan looked on paper. “You had to choose this woman? She’ll get in trouble for saying Elenwen’s too tall.”

     “I exhausted my options. She’s the backup, anyway,” Delphine explained, embarrassed.

     Lydia was standing right there but seem unfazed by the conversation. In truth, she was unfortunately used to being dragged on. All housecarls were and didn’t derive much pride from compliments to begin with.

     Zira cleared her throat, seizing Delphine and Malborn’s attention with the sound. She didn’t want to waste the time she could have been spending planning the infiltration standing around. She was an expert assassin. That was what she did, and she seldom looked forward to it as she did then. The Thalmor might’ve had the answers she sought for so many years. She’d finally find them if things went right.

     “Tell me what I’ve got to do, then get me into that Embassy,” Zira demanded, her fingers on Malborn’s drawings before he could snatch them away. Truthfully, he didn’t mind her interest in them. It’d been a long time since anyone but Delphine had much to do with his schemes.

     “Right. You’ll give Malborn any equipment you want to sneak into the Embassy before sundown. He can’t take too much, but he will brief you on where to find it according to the floor plan." She examined Lydia decisively. “No heavy armor. He can’t carry that.”

     ”Excuse me, I am strong, dark, and handsome. If she needs her armor, then I’ll do my best.”

     ”Right."

     “I can get you everything right now if you can give me different clothes to change into. Everything I use is on my person.”

     “I can, too,” Lydia added. Anticipation lingered in her voice. She was excited to finally feel useful and hadn’t been many places out of Whiterun. Solitude looked enormous to her and she couldn’t wait to explore more. A Thalmor Embassy was certainly a unique place to start.

     “All right,” Malborn said and looked to Delphine. “She’ll get you the errand clothes. For now, I’ll take whatever you want to bring that doesn’t leave you nude in public.”

     “I’ve never had an issue with flaunting what I’ve got.” Zira pulled her bow over her shoulder and placed it on the table along with her apothecary belt, lending him one sheathed dagger, but keeping the other for herself. She still didn’t trust Malborn or Delphine completely. Defenselessness wasn’t an adequate option for her. “But, if you insist, I’ll keep my clothes on.”

     “I like this one, Delphine.”

     “I thought you might.”

     Lydia only supplied her sword. She abruptly set it by Zira’s bow. She wouldn’t ask him to carry her shield on top of everything else.

     “That’s it?” Malborn’s brow furrowed as, much to Zira’s chagrin, he started rifling through her belt pouches. “Your friend’s got assorted potions and poisons, a bag of lockpicks, and a folding knife, but you only want to bring a sword?”

     “You won’t look through that if you know what’s good for you.” Zira scowled.

     Lydia nodded curtly. She knew the sword well and it was all she needed to walk through life. She might’ve had her flaws, being socially unconscious and not the most generally brilliant housecarl available, but she had skin thicker than a horker’s and could cut through anything. Moreover, nothing would stop her from protecting her Thane, as she so swore.

     Lydia could keep a promise, a secret, and a code. Nothing else mattered to her.

     “All right, then. If you insist. I’ll meet you at the sawmill by sundown, and we’ll send you off in style.” Malborn confiscated his drawings and piled them back onto the table. “After Delphine briefs you on the plan, of course.”

     “And where will you be during all of this?” Zira demanded.

     “Oh.” Malborn grinned, quirking an eyebrow. “I’ll already be there.”

     Serana had stopped knowing what to think long ago.

     In part, that was because she’d stopped thinking at all sometimes. She’d caught herself drowning in something ineffable and unfathomable and she couldn’t claw her own way to shore—not that she wanted to, necessarily—but that was the only place she had any business if she wanted to help Meraxes.

     Serana’s state of mind had dipped into a churning pool of confusion. It was a confusion that pulled another wave over her head just as she begun to figure things out. Everything was in the air, Meraxes being a broken-backed Dragonborn just as they discovered a monstrous dragon was behind the resurrections. What was more, Serana was always so goddamn worried about her.

     She remembered distinctly how Meraxes told her that she was going to get hurt—that she was the last Dragonborn—that it was inevitable. And, when she did, she looked apologetic, like she lamented for concerning Serana so much. That had to have meant she’d recognized her worry. She'd acknowledged it in the form of sorrow.

     In that case, why does she run around sacrificing herself for me? I could live until the end of time, and she could die tomorrow...

     Not thinking had undone her. Now, she was in an exhausting state of overthinking and she couldn’t begin to put her finger on what to sort out first.

     Then again, Meraxes’ waking up would be a start. She was still unconscious and it’d been two days. She hadn’t eaten in that time or had anything to drink. Serana found herself missing someone who laid right in front of her.

     Words formed on Serana's lips, but she couldn’t say them. She wasn’t sure how, given an apology probably wouldn’t get through to Meraxes to begin with.

     So, she was stuck with herself. She shared the burden of saving Nirn with the incapacitated Dragonborn until she heard rapping at the door.

     Rather than expose Meraxes, as she’d locked the door for her safety, she decided to open it herself. When she unlocked it and turned the knob, she was relieved to see Soren on the other side.

     That revelation didn’t do much for her all-consuming paranoia.

     “Lady Serana?” He poked his head into the room. His expression fell when he noticed Meraxes was still out. “Did the medic come yet?”

     “Several did,” Serana sighed and let Soren in before turning the lock again. “They said it could be a week at least. They set her back, but they’ll need her to drink a few potions when she wakes up.”

     When Delphine’s fleet of doctors had shown up, they nearly cowered at Serana’s insistence on their being very careful with Meraxes, especially after Delphine had incessantly emphasized the same point. They all knew the only thing worse than being ostracized by one terrifying woman was taking shit from two.

     “I know you’re worried about her. I am, too."

     Soren made a face. He wasn’t sure how to break any more news to Serana, or how to present her with such an incredible mystery while there was so much on her mind. He knew what it was like. His was busy earlier when Serana had to explain Delphine’s Thalmor conspiracy to him so he understood where Lydia and Zira had gone. “There are just some things I was wondering if you could tell me about.”

     Serana took the hint.

     “Is this about—"

     “Coldharbour.” Soren’s frown deepened. “I wish it wasn’t, but Lamae’s been terrifying me lately. She’s been saying all of these things, and I don’t know what they mean. I thought I’d ask you.”

     As a Daughter of Coldharbour, Serana couldn’t say she much liked the place. She did know a thing or two about it. Despite her qualms, she nodded, expertly burying her fear beneath an almost motherly facade.

     “I’ll answer what I can.”

     Soren sprung for his journal. He flipped it open to the page with the notes he’d taken following finding Meraxes’ letter about Kynesgrove. He oriented it to meet Serana’s eyes, and she slowly read the words.

Dragonfire (dying?)

Plane Meld

Tyranny of the Sun

     “I only know about two of these things, and, even then, my knowledge is limited.” Serana’s eyes narrowed as she speculated. “The Dragonfires used to be lit by Dragonborn Emperors, if my interpretation is correct, although I’m not sure what they have to do with anything. There’s almost no way they’re alight today, since Meraxes is apparently the first Dragonborn anyone’s seen in a while. Some believe she is the last.”

     Soren scribbled notes beneath the section he’d created in his diary. He hoped Lamae might tell him more if he had enough information to ask a logical question. He wasn’t particularly sure how the Emperor could be of Molag Bal’s interest if he weren’t a Dragonborn, after all, given his severely limited understanding of the Daedra.

     “And the Tyranny of the Sun is something my father has mentioned before,” Serana continued as her mask broke to display some of her concern.

     If Lamae Bal knows about the Tyranny of the Sun, does that mean... Serana slowed her breathing as she thought. Soren probably wasn’t in the mood to see her excited, after all. ...is there a chance Molag Bal is invested in my father once again?

     “It’s the prophecy he wants to complete so that vampires can live in eternal darkness. Apparently, when it’s completed, the sun disappears from the sky.”

     Something about Soren’s disturbed expression relieved Serana. His crimson eyes, as he scribbled more in the journal, were clouded with hypothetical thoughts. She hoped he knew that Lamae’s whisperings should not be taken lightly—after all—the last time Molag Bal took an interest in Lord Harkon, horrendous things came to pass.

     Although they’d hardly passed at all, and that was the heart of Serana’s dilemma.

     “If Lamae warned you about this, we need to read the scrolls we have. Deciphering the rest of the prophecy might reveal a way to stop my father before any of this can happen.”

     Soren’s eyes trailed to Meraxes, where she laid unconscious in the double bed. He wondered if Serana had been sleeping there or if she’d stayed up in the evenings instead to watch her.

     “How can we do that? We don’t know where to start, and we’d have to leave her here.”

     “We don’t have a choice. We have to travel to the College of Winterhold.” Serana's resolve hardened. Any of the matronly qualities her expression bore solidified into determination. “And that means we must find a way to take Meraxes with us.”

     The Embassy was enormous and far more elegant than Lydia had expected. She wondered if the shadowy shroud of nighttime was playing a trick on her mind that amplified everything’s impressiveness. After all, the lighting outside was dim, which matched her tastes quite perfectly.

     Zira wasn’t as flattered. Malborn himself had given them both makeovers, and the assassin, who’d only cut her hair once since birth, wore braids for the first time in her life. The length hardly passed beneath her shoulders and she had to leave her scarab clips with Delphine. Her makeup was subtle. It’d been so long since Zira wore any that she could feel it on her face, and the stripes of red war paint she always maintained were erased.

     She looked like a completely different woman and she didn’t like it a bit.

     Lydia, on the other hand, relished in wearing fine clothes. They reminded her of the nobles she lived with in Whiterun. She was secretly ecstatic about an opportunity to look like them. Malborn had added some special touches to her face, too, which complemented her features perfectly.

     The glamor associated with arriving in a carriage made her feel tingly.

     ”BBERRRR!”

     The housecarl’s trance ended when the Redguard who greeted them just outside the coach released a lingering belch.

     “Invitations, please,” he slurred. Zira could tell he was drunk already as walking in a straight line appeared to be quite the dilemma for him.

     Just how late are we to this party? Zira thought as she pulled the forged invite from the inside of her coat. I hope it’s almost over. I can’t stand this elitist apparel around my shoulders.

     “Here.” Lydia abruptly handed the Redguard hers and waited until he escorted them inside to move—well—if she could call zig-zagging about the courtyard until stumbling upon the door escorting. She wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, but was still somehow sure that didn’t count.

     ”At least he wasn’t the carriage driver,” Zira muttered under her breath when they’d finally entered the Embassy.

     It seemed bigger on the inside—at least in the main hall—and Zira quickly noticed its uncanny resemblance to Malborn’s floor plan. From there, she could see the corridors that led to the bathroom and kitchen, where she was eventually supposed to make her escape.

     Just as she’d gotten the gist of the layout, an imposingly tall woman dressed in decorative, black robes projected her shadow over her and Lydia. Lydia's jaw almost dropped at how insanely enormous she was.

     Zira hoped she could hold her tongue. She was doing just fine so far.

     “I am Elenwen,” the Altmer said and straightened her posture when she noticed the tiniest flaw in the curve of her shoulder. “The Thalmor Ambassador to Skyrim. I’ve never seen your faces around here.” Her tone dropped to a borderline sneer as she deigned to look at them. “So who are you?”

     Zira was a natural at the game she knew Elenwen wanted to play with her and had prepared a false identity just in case anyone bothered to ask questions. She tightened her shoulders, lending Elenwen her best snotty, entitled facade.

     “I’m surprised you haven’t heard of me,” she scoffed pointedly, “I’m Amuta Serio of Ashfire Mead.”

     “Hm.” Elenwen looked her skeptically up and down. “Popular with the Dunmer, isn’t it? I’ve never been fond of juniper.”

     “You should give it another try.”

     The Ambassador effortlessly brushed Zira off, folding her arms contemplatively.

     “And who might you be?” she asked the Nordess.

     “I’m Lydia,” the housecarl said and extended her hand to shake. That was how Nords did things, and, being confined to Whiterun until meeting Meraxes, Lydia wasn’t the most culturally aware.

     “Just Lydia?” Elenwen raised a brow. “And what are you doing here?”

     Zira wanted to kick herself and then kick Lydia even harder. She hoped Lydia would prove her wrong about Delphine’s operation, but, boy, was she blowing it! At least there was a silver lining: Zira saw Malborn lurking just behind Elenwen’s shoulder, waiting for an opportunity to swoop in and save them.

     ”How...”

     As if it couldn’t get any worse, Lydia was thinking now. “How are you so tall? What did your parents feed you?”

     Her self-control faltered to the point of failure. Whatever human growth hormone Lydia thought Elenwen had taken, she wanted some, as she wasn’t aware Elenwen had a natural advantage in the vertical department.

     ”By the Eight,” Zira breathed, which hurt her even more to say. Her religion was entirely different from most Skyrim natives. She’d always loathed the politics of it all. “Forgive my bodyguard. She’s a bit dimwitted.”

     ”Excuse me?” Elenwen made a face and turned up her nose in apparent disgust. “Just...go. Try to enjoy the party, Amuta, and keep your dog from offending my guests.”

     Over Elenwen’s shoulder, Malborn looked like he was about to spiral into a hysterical breakdown. His olive skin had developed a pink sheen from blushing and tears formed in his eyes as he swallowed voracious laughter.

     “Will do, Elenwen.”

     Elenwen turned and stalked off after the assassin spoke. She shot Lydia a skeptical glare in her wake.

     Zira elbowed Lydia hard after that and then melted into the party without a word. It was imperative that she mingle with the guests to avoid more suspicion, but at the same time, she’d have to cause a distraction so she could escape through the kitchen.

     Her mind was certainly on learning the truth about the cultist attacks. If the Thalmor weren’t behind them, Zira didn’t know who was.

     “That hurt.” Lydia spun around to follow Zira and wound around the congregations of guests that had formed within the hall.

     Zira ignored Lydia, her mind fixed firmly on her distraction. When she scanned the guests, however, she couldn’t find anyone she knew, save Lydia and Malborn. She was supposed to bring Lydia along the rest of the way.

     Unless...

     Changing her tack, Zira gripped Lydia’s shoulder. She pulled her aside near a table adorned with grapes and cheese.

     “What are you doing?” Lydia asked and lifted one of the cheese wedges. Zira was horrified when, to her chagrin, Lydia took a clean bite out of it.

     “Change of plans. You’re the distraction.”

     Now, I can get rid of her before I have to drag her all over the place, and that’s certainly for the better. This woman wouldn’t know stealth if a snake bit her from behind, Zira thought and escorted Lydia by the hearth.

     “I want you to sing the best song you know, loudly and badly.”

     “Right here?” Lydia’s cheeks reddened.

     Oh, so she’s not embarrassed about insulting Elenwen, but she doesn’t want to sing in public! Zira’s palm met her face at last. I should never be armed near this woman.

     “Yes, right here. Do it for your Thane.”

     Lydia swallowed. She didn’t need her dignity if that meant her Thane was safe and well. She was sworn to carry Meraxes’ burdens, even if that meant making a massive ass out of herself in front of Skyrim’s elite.

     When she recognized Jarl Balgruuf in the crowd, her apprehension only worsened.

     But she clenched her buttcheeks, deigned, and embraced the desperation that caused Zira to ask for a ravaged version of her favorite song.

“O my sweet love, she waits for me
Through storm and shine,
cross land or sea!
I run to her and together we
Sway as we kiss!
Sway as we kiss!”

     When Lydia sang as promised—badly—there wasn’t a soul who didn’t turn around to watch. Even better, her cheeks were hot with embarrassment. Others probably believed she’d had too much wine. That was the perfect motive for such a display.

     Her favorite song is ‘Stagger and Sway?’ I’m convinced she needs professional help.

“Her graceful shape I heave up high,
And in one hand I hold her nigh!
Her waiting lips are never dry!
Sway as we kiss!
Sway as we kiss!”

     Lydia continued, growing redder with each verse. The crowd was not bored of her yet. Zira seized that opportunity by its balls, turning the corner into the kitchen that Malborn’s well-illustrated blueprint depicted. As his pages had promised, it was there, although the Khajiiti cook didn’t seem very happy to see her.

     “There are no guests allowed in the kitchen!” she hissed. Her voice was rife with an Elsweyran accent.

     ”Really, Tsavani?”

     When someone spoke, Zira spun around to ensure no one damning had followed her. She was relieved to discover Malborn there instead. “Would you like your employers to learn mysteriously about your skooma problem?”

     Tsavani’s ears lowered.

     “No,” she muttered and turned her back frustratedly to the Elves.

     “You gave me the floor plan,” Zira whispered as Malborn opened a door. She recognized it as the one her gear should have been behind. “So why are you following me?”

     “You lost your backup to Stagger and Sway.” Malborn winked and quietly popped the lid from the chest he’d stuffed her supplies into. Lydia’s sword hadn’t fit in there, anyway, so it sat on a shelf above it. Surprisingly, Malborn himself chose to wield it.

     “And you don’t strike me as the fighting type,” Zira decided.

     “I’m not,” he quirked an eyebrow when she decided to strip right there. She pulled away her noble’s clothing without a care in the world. After seeing so many naked women, it was difficult for Malborn to derive surprise from them anymore, but watching Zira throw her fine robe against the wall with reckless abandon was different. “I’m more of a lover.”

     “Very funny.”

     Malborn wanted to tell her that she was blessed with an excellent ass, but he was sure she already knew. He instead kept quiet while a blush crept onto his cheeks. It only worsened when Zira pulled her braids out. He could tell by the ferocity with which she undid them that she hadn’t liked the hairdo much.

     “What, you didn’t like my makeover?” Malborn grinned mockingly.

     “When this is over,” Zira began and pulled her Dark Brotherhood clothes on. “I’m either going to kiss you or slap you.”

     ”Hah! I’ll be elated with either.” Malborn kept his laughter quiet, and Zira rolled her blackened eyes.

     They continued after she buckled all her gear, her bow carefully drawn in case any guards decided to rear their ugly, elitist heads. There seemed to be none at all on duty. Zira found that odd, considering the Embassy had just welcomed well over fifteen strangers in through its doors.

     “They’re all drunk, pretending to guard their posts while they piss over the fence,” Malborn explained as if he’d read her mind. He then began to descend the stairs only for Zira to shoot her arm out and block his path.

     Shsk shsk shsk!

     After she stopped him, he froze in his tracks and listened to the sound she’d heard. It was like metal clashing against itself; something he wouldn’t expect to hear in an Embassy’s basement.

     “Careful,” Zira ordered and took muffled steps as she continued into the next room. Like in the previous one, there were no guards around, but the noise grew louder.

     SHSK SHSK!

     Malborn crept steadily towards the sound. He had no training in stealth, despite being a spy, and was forced to ride Zira’s tailcoat when it came to investigating.

     ”Hello?”

      Zira paused when a voice croaked from across the room. Neither Elf could find its source. That’s when Zira noticed they were in a prison, barred cells decorating either side of the basement.

     “I didn’t like the Thalmor before, but I like them less, now,” Malborn whispered. The mysterious noise sent a shiver through his spine.

     Zira investigated each cell from the outside, peering into find any evidence of confidential information. She hoped with her whole heart that she’d find the truth about what happened to House Redoran in the Embassy.

     Aha! A safe!

     “You check out that sound and I’ll go break into the safe." Zira crept away before Malborn had the chance to complain. Evidently, Malborn was uncomfortable with his task, but Zira wouldn’t compromise.

     She had to see what was in it.

     Rolling stealthily across the sconce-lit corridor, Zira made her way to the corner of the room and unclipped her knife and lockpicks. After a couple of adjustments, she cracked the strongbox open, finding a thick stack of papers inside.

     She quickly selected four documents that interested her the most.

Dossier: Delphine
Dossier: Esbern
Dossier: Meraxes Whitemane
Dossier: Zira Redoran

     Unsurprisingly, she didn’t find her own very interesting. Rather, it only returned memories of her life’s greatest hardships. The Thalmor knew more about her than she would have guessed.

Status: Capture Only
Clearance: Justiciar Level of Approval
Description: Female/Dunmer/Late 40s

We cannot afford to eliminate Redoran. She is the only refugee to Skyrim we know who has lost family to the mysterious cultists attacks in Solstheim, which we must investigate to preserve civil unrest across Tamriel...

     At least they didn’t want her dead, but Zira still found the dossier’s contents disturbing. They were proof the Thalmor weren’t the cause of House Redoran’s demise. That only meant something else was.

     The rest of the document, though, was what really made Zira feel anger and fear stab at her chest:

...sold into the Black Market trade after capture attempting to escape Solstheim...bought by an illustrious family from Whiterun...served as a slave for several years...had a single child whose status is unknown...fled south to hunt her previous owner...entered the Dark Brotherhood following his death...murdered, in cold blood, the previous Thalmor Ambassador to Skyrim...

     If she’d known any destruction magic, Zira would have lit the dossier on fire. She instead settled for feeding it to a torch attached to the wall.

     Delphine’s was relatively impressive. She’d dodged a lot of assassination attempts—something Zira respected a motherload, since she knew what it took to evade those—and had a Capture or Kill status with the highest possible approval level.

     Only one sentence in Esbern’s, however, stuck out to Zira.

As we are still in the dark as to the cause and meaning of the return of the dragons, I have made capturing Esbern our top priority, as he is known to be one of the experts in the dragonlore of the Blades....

     If Esbern’s dossier was accurate, it was proof the Thalmor weren’t behind the dragon resurrections, nor were they responsible for the cultist attack on House Redoran.

     Zira only had one left to read.

Status: Capture Only
Clearance: Emissary Level of Approval
Description: Female/Mixed Race/Early 40s

     It seemed, based on her clearance level, Meraxes had found herself in almost as much shit as Delphine. When Zira discovered how that happened, however, she couldn’t say she blamed the Dragonborn:

...fled Cyrodiil before her 10th year...father was Cassius Brutus Cornelius, a traitor to Titus Mede II who vehemently disagreed with the signing of the White-Gold Concordat...faced execution for his crimes...mother found in Skyrim and imprisoned in the Blue Palace...target lives under a pseudonym of unknown origin, but her legitimate name is Lucielle Laxus Cornelius...associated with the Whiterun Companions...known for mercenary work and fishing prior to joining...enlisted in the Imperial Army to erase her record of fugitive crimes following our first capture on Civil War lines...evaded execution at Helgen...discharged from the Legion when she lost her left leg below the knee...contract holder was then-Legate Rikke...exchanged correspondence with our Emissary regarding sexual torture designed to maintain her silence...copies of notes attached...

     Zira had officially learned far more than she wanted to. In her fury, she decided to steal the three unburnt dossiers and every letter regarding Meraxes, She closed the safe after she tucked them away. Someone would find the lock broken eventually, but that hardly mattered to Zira at all.

     Someone did terrible things to Meraxes, just as they did to Zira, and Zira could never forgive transgressions like those. She wanted to cut Elenwen’s throat along with her other miscreant Thalmor fiends, whether or not they were responsible for murdering her family.

     “Zira?”

     In the nick of time, just after folding the dossiers, she heard Malborn’s voice reverberate from the corridor. She made her way there silently and stopped in her tracks when she saw the horrid mound of flesh he’d discovered.

     The man was older—probably in his seventies—and someone had beaten him to a little more than a pulp, leaving him bloodied and scratched to the point of near death. He leaned on Malborn’s shoulder, unable to stand himself up without assistance.

     ”Damn,” Zira cursed. Her hatred for the Thalmor only multiplied by the second. “Do you know who this is?”

     Malborn nodded, careful to mitigate his movement as not to harm the old man any further.

     “He’s Esbern.”

End of Chapter 22.

Next: As the Dawnguard solidify their plans, Vingalmo and Serana both learn the terrible truth of the Tyranny of the Sun.

Chapter Text

     "I’m sorry,” Serana whispered, leaning apprehensively over Meraxes’ bedside. “About Celann. About all of them.”

     Disgruntled and drunk to the point of severe disorientation, Meraxes responded with a loose, near-meaningless shake of her head. What hair she had was a tangled mess—Serana didn’t know how long it’d been since she’d bathed—and bet she could hardly feel the arrow protruding from her right chest anymore on account of how much mead she'd had.

     “I have to remove this. Do you understand me?”

     Serana watched Meraxes lie idly on the bed for what felt like minutes, wondering how much of her journey home she’d spend babysitting the drunken knight. Still, something stirred in her when Meraxes met her eyes; when she stared into a silver so metallic and reflective that the moon seemed to stare back.

     Meraxes raised her arm just slightly. She swatted slowly and aimlessly at the air before reaching her target: the only solid of the many Seranas she saw over the blinding veil of far too much honey mead.

     “I promise I’ll get you to stop drinking someday,” she vowed, dreading the unfamiliar process of removing an arrow from mortal flesh. “But, for now, you have to let go of me if I’m going to do this.”

     “Did you know...” Meraxes abruptly leaned back and nearly pulled Serana into bed with her as she cackled drunkenly. Even in such an unaware state, she was a force of nature unmatched by the limits of any mortal Serana had met, with the audacity to tug hard on a pure-blooded vampire’s arm. “Someone burned my business down? Can you believe that?”

     Serana’s lips tightened. “You have enemies. It doesn’t take a scholar to understand that. I just want you to know that I’m not one of them.”

     “You’re funny, vampire,” Meraxes chortled, snorting intermittently.

     That would have been hilarious, or at least embarrassing, but Serana was fed up enough with her that she didn't find her laughter amusing at all. Instead, she shrugged the sound off, put her fingers to work unstrapping the leather on Meraxes’ armor, and separating the halves of her breastplate so the arrow would come out more easily.

     “Why are you taking my clothes off? Not that I’m complaining...”

     “Hold still,” Serana demanded and applied pressure to Meraxes’ shoulder so she wouldn't move. Then—abandoning any further hesitation—the vampire snapped the bolt into pieces, rendering its bottom side free of the steel armor it'd been buried in.

     Meraxes certainly didn’t feel better, though. That was something Serana promptly realized when she let out a strained groan despite all the influence she was under. Nevertheless, Serana continued, peeling the breastplate away from her chest entirely. Meraxes' tunic was matted with blood beneath it.

     While she worked, Meraxes fell completely silent, though Serana could hear faint, pained gasps whenever she fidgeted with the arrowtip embedded beneath her skin. Serana’s lips sank into a stark frown as she watched the warrior attempt to disguise her pain. She was certainly in more of it then she let on.

     “There.” Serana finally dislodged the bloody arrowhead. “Now, let me heal the entry wound.”

     Meraxes raised her free hand to her chest, and when she pulled it off, a smear of wet, warm blood coated her palm. Were she not excruciatingly intoxicated, she'd notice the way Serana's eyes burned after just a look at it. 

     "Be careful where you put that hand next. I'm fairly certain you can't afford to replace that blanket."

     Lying there, Meraxes hid her pain as adeptly as Serana her hunger, each shoving vehemently aside the sensations they viewed as signs of weakness.

     "Okay," the drunken adventurer murmured. Her tone was softer than Serana had ever remembered it. Then, to her surprised chagrin, Meraxes raised her bloodied hand to cup Serana's cheek. She left a wet handprint in its wake.

     Serana's aflame eyes widened as she pulled Meraxes' arm gently away by the wrist. She hadn't expected her companion to touch her—much less in such a harmless manner—and she'd expected even less for the contact to make her feel something. The rush of their skirmish at Fort Dawnguard left a similar sensation in her intercostal spaces; like the air trapped inside her lungs rushed out all at once, forcing her to exhale for the first time after centuries of holding her breath.

     She caught herself meeting Meraxes' gaze again. That rare silver she'd only seen swirling about Isran's, Kodlak's, and Aela's, and was unable to bridle her curiosity about their gorgeous majesty any further. 

     "What color were your eyes before you became a werewolf?" Serana asked. She pressed her fingers to Meraxes' wound, her frown returning as soon as she began to squirm in her discomfort.

     As she writhed in pain, Serana carefully brushed her heavy necklace to across her chest so it wouldn't intervene with the healing process. The ornate, axe-shaped pendant piqued Serana's curiosity. She figured she'd already asked a question too many.

     "Blue." Meraxes made a face as she strained beneath Serana's healing fingers. They sealed her skin into the shape of a fresh scar.

     "I would have liked to have seen them."

     When the vampire finally finished, she pulled Meraxes' tunic back over the newly-healed wound and reached for her black handkerchief. She'd certainly tip someone off if she went sauntering about Dead Man's Drink with a bloody handprint on her face.

     "Your eyes..."

     Meraxes trailed off as Serana stood to leave, considering her work was since complete. She was sure Meraxes didn't want to talk about what happened at Fort Dawnguard; she knew she wouldn't have were it her who'd lost a friend. "I like them."

     "Oh?" Serana's brow raised. Someone complimenting her gaze...that was new. A vampire's eyes were piercing at their prettiest, containing Molag Bal's own evil within them when they brightened at the smell of blood.

     Without asking any of the many questions swirling about her mind, as Meraxes had bewildered her far past the point of thought, Serana left her to her own devices and returned to the bookshelf in her own room.

5 Months Later

     Meraxes roused met with unfamiliar surroundings, her room drastically unlike the one she'd dreamt of. She wasn't sure where she was, as it didn't look like anywhere else she'd been. Not with an alchemy lab in the corner or a statue of Azura on the endtable beside her bed. Her blanket, too, was that different, green variety, not the goat pelts she was so accustomed to.

     "You're awake. I was starting to worry."

     At the sound of a strange voice, Meraxes would have rushed to her feet, except a searing pain in her spine stopped her from moving at all.

     "Who are you?" she demanded. Her tone was charged with a challenging hostility. "What did you do with my greatsword?"

     "You have a lot of fight for someone who isn't going anywhere. Please relax. I am Savos Aren, the Archmage of the College of Winterhold."

     When Savos came into view, Meraxes recognized an aging, Dunmer face, hidden partially by an ornate hood. He popped the cork from a bright, red potion and lowered himself to her bedside. "You'll need to drink this and wait a few minutes before standing up. Your friends will want to know you've finally awoken."

     "Are you going to tell me what's in it?" Meraxes asked skeptically. She tried in vain to prop herself up on her arms.

     "I'm not an alchemist." The Archmage forced a smile. "Drink up so I can take you to the library. One of your friends said she was an alumna and she's been waiting to see you."

     Bran slept on a rug by Meraxes' bedside.

     Strange. If he's here, then where's Zira? 

     "How many people came with me?" Meraxes asked. She finally made herself swallow the disgusting healing cocktail as she awaited an answer. If she's here, that means she hasn't tried to kill me in my sleep. That's a good sign.

     "Two. You three make an interesting group. Neither of your friends register under Detect Life." Savos's brow furrowed. "And you have no magical energy at all. Never in my life have I met anyone who can't use magic, but I think you might fall into that category."

     Meraxes sneered. "Well, that's always nice to know." 

     "Mirabelle said you have a strong aura, though. She would know."

     "I think you're forgetting that I don't know any of you people." Meraxes finally rose to her feet. She was satisfied to stand, but her legs were terribly sore and a sharp sensation still pinpricked the small of her back.

     "That will change. Come with me, if you would," Savos said. He struggled momentarily to lift Kindred from its place beside a wardrobe before setting foot outside the room. "I take it you want this back as well."

     Meraxes followed, her stride uneasy after days of unconsciousness. When Savos told her only two of her friends had come to the College of Winterhold, she wondered where the others were. Surely, no one had died while she was out...had they?

     Bran kept Meraxes' unsteady pace as they traversed the hall and entered the home of the most massive book collection she'd ever seen.

     "Make yourself at home. You'll find your friends at the table just in front of the clerk."

     Without a word, Meraxes extended her hands. Relief crossed Savos' face when he returned her heavy greatsword.

     Serana turned her head before Meraxes had the opportunity to announce her presence, rising mid-read to cross the open library. She would've hugged her, but was uncertain of remaining damage to her back. She settled for squeezing her dear friend's hand instead and didn't bother to suppress her smile.

     "You're awake." Her face relaxed. I missed you.

     Soren stood, closing his journal abundant with incessant scribbling. "Ser Meraxes, you're alive!"

     "Where are Zira and Lydia?" Meraxes' brow furrowed. Despite the vampires' warmth towards her, she was still uneasy about where the others had gone. Noticing Delphine at their table hadn't done her any favors, either.

     "On a mission. They went to the Thalmor Embassy since Delphine wants to know whether or not they're behind the dragon resurrections. She couldn't send you, so I almost went, but Zira volunteered."

     Meraxes frowned. "I don't trust those two together. They'll fucking kill each other."

     "See." Serana grinned mockingly. "That's what I thought, but then I remembered you won't be with them. They should be fine. We're just doing a little research up here."

     Meraxes wasn't an academic. The word 'research' sounded more dangerous to her than the word 'dragon.' She couldn't stomach it for the life of her. It all came naturally to Soren, Serana, and Delphine, though.

     "On what, exactly?"

     "Dragonfires." Soren piped up, his nose already buried in The Book of the Dragonborn. "And the Plane Meld, and the Tyranny of the Sun."

     "Why?" Meraxes made a face when Serana and Soren exchanged glances.

     "Have you heard of Coldharbour? It's Molag Bal's plane of Oblivion."

     Meraxes shook her head. Of course, she knew all the Daedric Princes and what they stood for, but couldn't name their respective slices of hell off the top of her head.

     "I go there in my sleep sometimes," Soren said, "I had this dream, so we're looking into it."

     Meraxes' fists tightened. "You dragged my ass all the way up to Winterhold to read a bunch of books about a dream?"

     "Don't think of it that way." Serana sat back in her chair, the aged book before her barely holding together by its binding. Meraxes checked the title: Effects of the Elder Scrolls. "Think of it as interpreting a Daedric Prophecy. First and foremost, we're trying to find a way to read the other two Elder Scrolls without going blind so we can find a way to stop my father. We have to head south after we're finished taking notes."

     "You three are nerds." Meraxes's nose wrinkled.

     "And don't you forget it."

     "This is where she lives." Beleval declared. Her palm descended to fiercely slap Whiterun's map icon. "The guards who sent us notifications of Agmaer and Durak's deaths inadvertently revealed that. I take it you all are just as finished with standing idly by while Whitemane and her vampire friend run free as I am."

     Gunmar stood beside her, his arms tucked firmly into his chest. While Beleval remained Dawnguard's leader, her methods increased in brutality and haste. Being an honorable Nord, he couldn't say he agreed with all of her methods. He'd still stand with her until the end.

     "She killed Morgrul and Bran. She killed Celann, and Tolan, and Agmaer, and Durak. She killed Isran." Beleval raised her chin contemptuously. "When is it going to stop?"

     "When we stop it!" Ingjard shouted. Jolf cheered voraciously at the proclamation.

     "That's right." Beleval unsheathed her silver-bladed sword. "And that's why we're planning a full-scale attack outside the Whiterun gates. There's a copy of a map for each of you with your stakeout site and forms for rations so we can maintain the food and water stations. And then, when Whitemane and her foolish friends think they're going home, we'll kill them all!"

     The remaining Dawnguard raised their swords, crossbows outfitted to each of them slung over their uniformed shoulders. Without knowing of the vampire crisis, they were ill-suited to pursue anything but revenge. Beleval was more than content with leading them to it.

     "There's a reason we developed these weapons, and a reason we trained you so hard with them," Gunmar added. He unfolded his arms in favor of his sword's pommel. "And that is because we, as the Dawnguard, are dedicated to eradicating the evil in this world. We may begin again in Skyrim, but when people begin to see what we're made of, we'll stretch across Tamriel."

     "Hear, hear!" 

     The Dawnguard sheathed their swords on Beleval's lead and retreated into the main hall for a final night of drinking and debauchery. 

     Tomorrow, they'd depart on a mission that would free them from the grasp of a ferocious murderer; the one responsible for the death of their former leader and countless others.

     Tomorrow, they'd reinforce their deserving of a legacy, crossbows and swords alike raised and ready.

     Tomorrow, they'd begin again.

     "I could have sworn you said all of the guards were pissing." Zira scoffed, patting the incapacitated Thalmor down to check for anything useful. "At least we can don their robes. Then, escaping might be easier."

     "I thought they were." Malborn's expression straightened as he began undressing one of the Altmer. "I'd pay good money to see these fascists wake up in their underpants."

     Zira frowned when she only found a list of party guests. 

     "Aren't you a little short to be a Thalmor agent, Amuta Serio?" Malborn quirked a brow, pulling the robes over his shoulder.

     "I could say the same thing about you, you damn fool." Zira's sinking expression shifted into a smirk. She was both annoyed and enraptured by Malborn and his antics.

     After dressing himself, Malborn offered Esbern a Thalmor outfit to upgrade his tattered tunic and pants.

     "Thank you." The old man winced as he donned them, the fabric skating over his cuts and bruises. "I'm no use to anyone trapped in here. What are you two doing in the Embassy?"

     Zira looked both ways before proceeding through the corridor, checking to ensure Malborn and Esbern were close behind her. She didn't want to risk running into more guards.

     "It's a long story." Zira kept her voice low. "About a woman named Delphine, a conspiracy theory, and this idiot right here." She pointed to Malborn.

     "So, what are you doing, captured by the—"

     "Delphine sent you? That explains quite a bit," Esbern mused, reaching a level of enthusiasm unrealistic of a tortured man. It seemed to Malborn as if he'd just woken up after a few minutes of sleepwalking. "The Thalmor caught me because I didn't believe her. Now, I know I was wrong."

     "Never a good way to find out." Malborn grinned. "But we'll get you back to her. Just a few more steps."

     Zira led the way through the remainder of the hall, sticking close to the wall so her shadow wouldn't bounce across the floor. Her companions weren't particularly gifted with stealth, and Zira was still unsure why Malborn bothered taking Lydia's sword, considering he didn't know how to use it. 

     THUMP!

     When she heard a blunt sound—like a knock on a door—she lowered herself, throwing out an arm to keep Malborn and Esbern against the wall.

     THWACK! THUMP!

     "This is starting to disturb me." Malborn cursed under his breath, pressing close against the side of the corridor.

     Zira all but rolled her eyes, especially when she saw how Esbern's feet quivered. What did the two of them expect from a Thalmor dungeon, a continuation of the party upstairs?

     She moved quietly and remained low to the ground as she approached the room the sound echoed from.

     THUD!

     Esbern felt heavy dread rise in the pit of his stomach as he tried to muffle his steps. Putting one foot in front of the other had never been so hard, but between the tiny cuts covering his body and the intense fear catching further up to him with every movement, walking was a challenge indeed.

     Malborn was a bit braver, but far worse at sneaking, lugging around a piece of metal that was as good as scrap to him.

     When Zira finally reached the mysterious room, what she saw made her guard—and heart—drop.

     "Lydia?" she breathed. She was torn between defensively reaching for her daggers or delivering a swift punch to the housecarl's jaw for doing something so preposterously dangerous as wandering into a Thalmor dungeon alone and unarmed.

     Lydia's fists dripped with blood, and all about the torture chamber, she'd scattered a horrid scene: two Thalmor agents lying—their bones bloody and broken—in odd positions on opposite corners of the room, their faces beaten raggedly askew.

     "I couldn't find my sword after they kicked me out of the party." Lydia's countenance sank into a stark frown. "So I had to use my fists."

     Malborn's jaw dropped when he followed Zira into the torture chamber, Lydia's eyes immediately turning to find her sword in his grip.

     "Oh, good." The housecarl barely smiled. "You brought it for me!"

     "Try not to be so loud, Lydia," Zira said, her voice still low. "We don't know how many more Thalmor agents are here."

     Lydia, suddenly excited, approached Malborn in the least-stealthy manner Zira could possibly think of and seized her sword without an ounce of hesitation. Zira became convinced then that there was just as much of an art to how horrendously loud Lydia stepped as how quietly she'd learned to move during her time in the Dark Brotherhood.

     "It doesn't matter how many are left." Lydia lowered her sword to her waist, her brow furrowing. "If my Thane wishes, then I will skewer them."

     "Holy shit," Malborn muttered and elbowed Zira gently. "You didn't tell me she was so scary."

     "I didn't really know until now," Zira decided. Her eyes were already fixed on a staircase on the opposite side of the torture chamber. "Is that the way out?"

     When Esbern overheard her, he really hoped it was the way out. His magic wasn't particularly useful in combat. Defending himself would be a feat if the situation came to that.

     "It should be, but there's a courtyard just outside. How are you planning to return to Delphine, anyway?"

     Zira fell silent, staying low as she made her way to the stairs. It was not Delphine she sought—the amulet Urag had fashioned for her pulsed lightly on her chest—it would lead her to Meraxes's Elder Scrolls when she wanted to follow.

     "I have a long-term contract to complete. I'm not concerned with that odd innkeeper right now."

     Malborn, for once, did not reply. His humming cracked the silence as they stopped before ascending to the exit, Zira forcing Lydia to throw on one of the Thalmor robes so they'd blend in to some effect. They hardly knew what they'd do next, as Malborn, Esbern, an Lydia alike were all unsure of Zira's plan to double back to Delphine. 

     "By the way, Esbern." Zira's voice dropped to a whisper as they started up the stairs. "I have your dossier, if you'd like to read it."

     Delphine wasn't particularly keen on traveling to the Ancestor Glade with the crass Dragonborn, her vampire friends, and a barking animal, but she didn't have much of a choice if she wanted to know whether or not the Thalmor were causing the dragon resurrections. She had it in her mind to agree on a meeting place next time so she wouldn't feel so uselessly dragged around.

     She didn't know how Soren and Serana did it.

     Meraxes, however, was even less keen on having Delphine there. She'd sent nothing but resentment her way since Savos brought her to the library.

     "You're sure I won't go blind if we follow through with the ritual?" Meraxes asked, grateful to be without armor for once. A searing pain sometimes shot up her back; one that more weight would only amplify.

     "I triple-checked it." Serana halted in her tracks when they reached the mouth of the cave and squeezed Meraxes's hand. "You need your vision. I wouldn't put you in danger like that."

     "She'd better not go blind." Delphine crossed her arms. "Not until we figure out the dragon crisis, anyway. She might be the only one who can stop it.

     Serana felt like she shouldn't blame Delphine for caring about the world more than Meraxes, but her hesitation didn't change the fact that she did. Meraxes was a person—not a tool to be used—even in her worst moments. Even if, when Serana first met her, she saw her only as a ticket home.

     "I think you're underestimating her."

     "I'll be the judge of that," Delphine said and set foot into the cave.

     Meraxes's jaw tightened. "You know, I'm right here."

     "And you broke your back using a shout. You clearly need more training before you're even close to useful, Dragonborn or not."

     Meraxes growled as she entered the Ancestor Glade behind Delphine, Soren assuming a place by Serana's side just behind her.

     "It's like a change of seasons in here!" Soren exclaimed as soon as his eyes drank in his surroundings: an eternal Autumn. Daylight illuminated the entire cavern, reflecting on the water, which swirled about a spring below. Lush flowers grew everywhere, and the trees bore elegant, pink blossoms. Floating above the Glade's gorgeous nature were little, dun moths, gathering in clusters.

     "I'll say," Serana breathed and suddenly paid no mind to the scathing sunlight. "It's beautiful. Those must be the Ancestor Moths."

     Bran barked, rushing down the stone walkway to sniff everything that moved.

     "We can admire everything later." Delphine's expression flattened. "Let's do what we set out to do and read these Elder Scrolls. You don't want that dog to scare off all the moths, do you?"

     "Shut up, Delphine." Meraxes assumed the lead. She steadily descended, beyond annoyed at the way Delphine treated her and her followers. She couldn't see—nor did she want to—that Delphine's priorities were rather justified. Between keeping Meraxes at bay and saving the world, Nirn clearly came first.

     When they made their way to the cluster of trees at the Glade's floor, there were draw knives already stationed at several of them.

     "Those must be the canticle trees." Serana tilted her head. "You need to put the bark in your pockets."

     "In my pockets?"

     Meraxes' lips curled. She wasn't fond of putting anything crumbly in her tunic, given the way a suit of armor always managed to force it against her skin and cause a rash. She hardly had a choice, though, and gripped the draw knife anyway, peeling shavings of bark away from the canticle tree.

     "Let's do this quickly so I can get rid of this nasty shit." Meraxes made a face, her discomfort at harboring the scratchy bark evident.

     Serana paused to open the book that the College had so generously given her. She turned the page to where she'd written most of her notes. "Now, you need to gain the favor of the Ancestor Moths. Approach the clusters of moths wearing the canticle bark, and they should be attracted to you."

     On her departure, Meraxes muttered something about bugs. Serana didn't quite hear it. Rather, Delphine pulled her aside, speaking in a low voice.

     "So, you said this Elder Scroll reading is an attempt to stop an ancient Vampire Lord from blocking the sun. I'm not quite following what this has to do with the Dragonborn."

     Serana's hands drifted to her hips. She wasn't sure if the scrolls would tell her anything about foiling Lord Harkon's plans, but she wasn't much of a gambler. "She found me some time ago, before either of us knew she was Dragonborn. She's choosing to do this for Tamriel, and it's frankly not much of your business."

     While Delphine and Serana spoke, Soren watched Meraxes navigate the Glade. She picked up moths as she went. He couldn't help but laugh when he saw just how many there were. She was covered in them from head to toe!

     "Look, Lady Serana!" Soren chirped, pointing at the adventurer who stood surrounded by moths and light. If Serana had known he'd interrupted another one of Delphine's lectures about feelings, she'd surely be grateful to him.

     Serana was unable to suppress a chuckle when she shared Soren's sight.

     "It looks like they like you, Meraxes!"

     "Oh." Meraxes frowned stoically beneath the crowd of circling insects. "Fuck off."

     Knowing well what Meraxes had to do next, Serana still felt apprehensive. The Ritual of the Ancestor Moth was the level of preparation Moth Priests did, and Meraxes was—well—most unpriestly. She didn't know if she'd be able to forgive herself if anything happened to her vision, given Serana wasn't even sure she deserved the Dragonborn's help or concern to begin with. She was still hung up on the fact that Meraxes came back for her at Castle Volkihar; that she was the first person who refused to abandon her or exchange her for power.

     Serana didn't want to mess that up. In fact, that was the last thing she wanted.

     "If you're sure you have enough moths, you'll have to stand beneath the light before you read the scrolls."

     "Serana, I beg your pardon, but I'm not sure our Dragonborn could be any mothier." Delphine's lips tightened inquisitively. So this is how Elder Scrolls are read. Huh.

     That made Soren laugh.

     "You should make jokes more often, Lady Delphine."

     Delphine crossed her arms again, refusing to respond as Meraxes descended the stone walkway to approach the ray of light. She hadn't intended that statement to hold any humor, but at least someone was happy about having to travel to the Ancestor Glade. His joy made the affair a little less dull.

     "Right here?" Meraxes asked when she set foot on an illuminated slab, hoping to be rid of the moths and the canticle bark as soon as she could. She wasn't particularly fond of the substance's itchiness, nor of the insects in her face.

     "That should do it."

     Meraxes exhaled, nodding as Serana offered her scrolls. She undid the first and unfurled it to read.

     The sun assaulted her as soon as she looked upon the page, powerful rays of light bursting in every nook...until it didn't. Standing beneath the extinguished brightness was Lord Harkon himself, triumphantly raising a pale bow matched with striped, Elven arrows. When Meraxes looked closer, she saw residue lingering on the arrowtip: blood. 

     "The blood of a Daughter of Coldharbour shall blind the eye of the dragon!" a distorted voice screamed as the scroll's image melted away. It left not even the sun behind.

     Though she was almost too disturbed to read the next scroll, something strange forced her hand, gripping her with fear as she unraveled the next.

     Time bent and warped before her eyes, transporting her to a mountaintop. Two men she did not recognize stood there, their weapons ready, as a dragon descended to bend his mighty head over them. Once more, Meraxes recognized that dragon: it was Alduin. What in Nirn was Alduin doing in a prophecy that was supposed to be about Lord Harkon?

"When misrule takes its place at the eight corners of the world
When the Brass Tower walks and Time is reshaped,
When the thrice-blessed fail and the Red Tower trembles,
When the Dragonborn ruler loses his throne and the White Tower falls,
When the Snow Tower lies sundered, kingless, bleeding,
The World-Eater wakes, and the Wheel turns upon the Last Dragonborn!"

     Once more, the voice screamed aloud, all the while the strange men somehow forced Alduin to the ground with a powerful projection of their Voices. Then, time distorted once again, and Meraxes returned to the present.

     She stumbled back, sweating, fearful, and unable to see anything at all.

     "Ser Meraxes! Are you all right?" Soren rushed to her aid. Apprehension forced his heart to rise as he watched her nearly collapse onto the ground. "You were saying all of these strange things!"

     For the first time in ages, Serana was compelled to use her vampiric speed, the rush from her burst landing her behind Meraxes just in time to catch her.

     "They..." Serana frowned and trailed off as she helped Meraxes to the ground. The Dragonborn had just been healed, and something had gone amiss yet again. What was more, Serana felt like that was her fault. '"They weren't strange. Not the first ones, anyway. My father needs a pure vampire's blood to activate the prophecy...a Daughter of Coldharbour's."

     Lying Meraxes carefully on the ground, Serana waved a hand in front of her eyes. Fear stabbed at the pit of her stomach as she worried Meraxes could not see; that she wasn't reacting to the test.

     "That reading better not have done any permanent damage." Delphine watched the vampires scramble from a distance. She'd need to speak with Esbern about that second prophecy when she found him; he was bound to know a thing or two about it. 

     "I...can't see," Meraxes whispered as she slowly returned to her feet. "Help me out of here. And take this stupid bark out of my pockets."

     Serana's brow furrowed. Meraxes seemed so willing to disregard her lack of sight that it scared her, and, in that moment, she became unsure of what to do. Surely, Meraxes's vision would return with time...right?

     "She's right," Delphine said nonchalantly, "The best thing we can do is get her—and the scrolls—out of here. We have to discuss this somewhere safe."

     Soren gathered the scrolls, concern reflecting in his eyes as Serana and Delphine worked to carry a blinded Meraxes up the stone walkway. They all had a lot to think about, between the two prophecies and having potentially ruined the Dragonborn's eyesight for good. 

     As they ascended to reconvene elsewhere, Vingalmo finally emerged from the bushes. His gaze transfixed on them until they finally set foot outside the Glade.

     "A Daughter of Coldharbour's blood," he muttered to himself and stretched his tired limbs. Soon, he would rest, for his meddling had finally paid off. "Who would've thought? Lord Harkon will be ecstatic."

End of Chapter 23.

Next: Esbern and Delphine finally reconvene. Harkon hatches a dastardly plan.

Chapter Text

     All vampires lost their enthusiasm eventually, but Vingalmo wasn't counting on that. He knew the truth of the Tyranny of the Sun and the way to coax Lord Harkon to his side.

     At last. At last his Master would finally see him for what he was and not for the miscreant he'd called him. At last, he would raise a toast to the name 'Vingalmo!'

     Vingalmo's incessant meddling—the centuries he'd spent serving an ungrateful Lord—were finally worth it, although there was still a single hitch: a Daughter of Coldharbour's blood was hard to come by.

     Even being a vampire, Vingalmo wasn't immune to death. He was intelligent enough to know that. Rather than stupidly charge at Serana—who was pure-blooded—and her armed friends, he was sure he'd live longer if he brought the matter to his Master instead.

     Lord Harkon would leap to take everything into his own hands. Through him, Clan Volkihar would soon dominate the world. 

     And I'll inherit it! Vingalmo grinned. His fangs pricked his lower lip in anticipation, drawing blood.

     As he approached the jetty—Castle Volkihar looming imposingly in the distance—Vingalmo smelled something different in the air.

     WHOOSH!

     Vingalmo hit the dirt in the nick of time. He hardly caught the fleeting sight of a war axe soaring just above where his head had been.

     "Orthjolf!" Vingalmo brushed the filth away from his robes. "This is unacceptable!"

     "You're unacceptable." Orthjolf rose from the bushes, covered head-to-toe in foliage. "You stupid elf!"

     "Oh, don't you try to lecture me about stupid!"

     The Nord hunched over, losing his words in a fit of laughter. "You're...never going to die, are you?"

     "Not at your hands, you dolt."

     He decided then that taking the rowboat was a poor idea. Instead, he resorted to assume the form of a Vampire Lord so he could float over the sea. That way, if Orthjolf had something else up his sleeve—even if Vingalmo was certain he was too dimwitted to try that—he'd be less vulnerable.

     Surely, Orthjolf would give up eventually. He'd tried to kill Vingalmo so many times that the assassination attempts had become nothing more than practical jokes.

     "I hope you don't mind if I join you." Orthjolf floated on beside Vingalmo as a Vampire Lord. "You have that murderous look in your eye. I want to know what you're thinking."

     "Ah." Vingalmo proudly raised his chin. "You'll hear it when I share it with the Master. It's about time we finally end this game we call prophecy."

     Orthjolf's muscles tensed. Were they on land, he'd seize Vingalmo's shoulders and shake him violently until the truth came out. "Do you mean you found the other scrolls?"

     Vingalmo shook his head. "I found something better."

     "Hmph. I didn't think the Master wanted anything else."

     Vingalmo fell silent until he reached the Castle, passing by the watchman on his way in. Orthjolf—for once—behaved himself, walking at Vingalmo's side as he searched for Lord Harkon.

     It didn't take him long to find the Master, who marched toward him, unparalleled anger plain on his countenance. That wasn't a good look on him.

     "Where have you been, Vingalmo?" Harkon would have raised his voice, except Orthjolf was with him, just as he'd instructed. At least Vingalmo was trying to follow orders this time.

     "My Lord, I did it." Vingalmo dipped his head, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "I know how to fulfill the Tyranny of the Sun."

     Dead Man's Drink was closer, but Delphine insisted on returning to The Sleeping Giant Inn instead.

     Fortunately, Meraxes's eyesight had returned on their careful trip to Riverwood, though, from time to time, she faced an occasional hallucination. Soren recorded the prophecies in his notebook—Delphine requesting a copy of it for personal examination—and Serana had her nose buried a copy of Flaccus Terentius's journal she'd acquired at the College.

     "We need to find Esbern," Delphine decided, pouring herself a tankard of wine. "He'll be able to tell us about the prophecy."

     Meraxes's brow furrowed. "Great. Where is he, then?"

     Delphine would have answered immediately. She hesitated, though, when she noticed the stains on Soren and Serana's lips as they drank their animal blood. "I'm not sure." She blinked the sight away, her discomfort returning when she looked down at her own deep, red beverage. "That's the problem."

     Meraxes huffed. "So, you want me to go head-hunting. You know, if you're going to continue giving me these little assignments without paying me anything, you won't get much out of me."

     "I am paying you. Where are all of your friends sleeping right now?"

     Serana raised her head from the journal, her expression darkening as Meraxes and Delphine bickered. "This really isn't an excellent time for infighting. You two aren't going to get anywhere with each other."

     Soren made a face at the table's rising tension, the clashing voices distracting him from his notes. "Lady Serana, I'm going to excuse myself."

     "You don't have to ask me, Soren," Serana said, turning to Delphine. "I'm going to borrow Meraxes for a moment. Since you were so insistent on doing your job, I recommend you get back to that for a while."

     Delphine's eyes narrowed skeptically. "All right. I ask that you three don't go anywhere, though. Not until see what's going on with the Dragonborn prophecy."

     "It's none of your business, Delphine." Meraxes seethed as Serana gripped her by the wrist, practically forcing her into their room.

     Without hesitating, she closed and locked the door behind them.

     "Meraxes," Serana sighed. "It is her business. I don't like the way she talks to you, either, but you have to admit that you do it, too."

     Meraxes crossed her arms. "I do what? She bothers me, Serana. I don't like her meddling in my life. She went out of her way to steal that fucking Horn to get my attention, and then, after I throw my back out killing some dragon, she wants me to find some guy she has zero leads on." She scowled. "Does that sound okay to you?"

     Serana settled on the foot of the double bed, her legs hanging over the edge. "She wants what's best for the world, Meraxes. She's just not great at expressing that." She folded her hands into her lap. "You two don't get along because you're similar."

     "I don't like that bitch." Meraxes's lips tightened further than her fists.

     "I know." Serana's expression sank. She understood where Meraxes's dislike for Delphine came from, but Meraxes couldn't convince her that it was completely justified. "That's not what I pulled you aside to talk about, though."

     "Hm. What is it, then?"

     "Sit down," Serana ordered.

     Since Serana had already claimed the bed, Meraxes settled on a storage trunk against the wall. "You really like telling me what to do, don't you?"

     "Well..." Serana crossed the room to stand before her dear friend. "You listen, don't you?"

     Meraxes grumbled, falling silent. She supposed that Serana would always be a smartass, no matter how much either of them changed.

     "You need to stop running into danger, especially to protect me. I'm thousands of years old, and I can defend myself." To Meraxes's surprise, Serana sank to the floor, settling on her knees. Something about looking down at Serana stirred up feelings of discomfort in Meraxes...and something else. "You are not expendable, Meraxes. I don't care what you think about that. It's the truth."

     Meraxes squeezed Serana's shoulders hard, her lips and heart sinking. "Does that mean you think that you are?"

     Serana opened her mouth to speak, but said nothing. Meraxes interpreted her silence as confirmation.

     "Don't you dare fucking think that," Meraxes muttered, her gaze softening. "Without you, I never would have done any of this shit. Hell, I probably would have drank myself to death."

     Without warning, Serana tugged Meraxes off the lid of the trunk and onto the floor, squeezing her as tightly as she could without snapping any ribs. "You're alive," she whispered, refusing to let go. That was the source of her fear, after all: that she'd have to let go one day. “Stay alive."

     Meanwhile, Meraxes gasped for air as Serana unintentionally suffocated her. "Too tight. Can't. Breathe."

     "Oh." Serana loosened her grip. "Better?" she asked, propping her forehead against Meraxes's collarbone.

      "Better," Meraxes agreed.

     "So, do you promise not to die?"

     A grin threatened to cross Meraxes's lips. "No promises, but I can try. I've outrun death a couple of times, and that's with one leg."

     Serana cocked her head. "Don't sell yourself short. I'd say you have one and a half."

     "Wow. Very funny." Meraxes chuffed.

     "I happen to think I'm hilarious." Serana hummed, burying her fingers into her dear friend's hair. There she was—her Meraxes—as close as she could possibly be. Serana savored the moment, combing through the fine, golden strands.

     "My mother used to do this when I was really young.”

     "Bjorna?" Serana's fingers gently trailed over the nape of Meraxes's neck. "The way you described her, she sounded like a good mother."

     Meraxes nodded curtly, as much as she could without disturbing the woman who pressed against her. "She was. It took me years to forgive her for leaving me at Honorhall, but I've learned closure isn't something someone else can give you."

     "No." Serana lowered her head as she thought of her own parents. "No, it's not. But you..." the vampire trailed off, deep in thought. Meraxes provided her the silence she needed to find her words. "You're a beautiful woman in your own way. She'd be really proud of you."

     Beautiful? Meraxes had her good qualities, but no one had called her that before. She'd been in many a scrape, and had the scars to prove it. She couldn't speak to Serana's claim at all.

     "By the way, I know you liked dancing with me at Four Shields. I noticed you were trying to hide it, but you're actually a terrible liar."

     Meraxes snorted, covertly amused. "How about we don't speak of that?"

     "If you don't die, I'd be happy to keep it a secret for you," Serana said with a smile. She'd fully anticipated a snarky reply, but her dear friend had since fallen silent. Rather than tell Meraxes about Bjorna then, she'd find a better time to mention her. Meraxes seemed at such peace with herself, after all. Those moments were scarce at best.

     Serana's arms, though, as she held Meraxes into the night, were uncertain. There was little Meraxes could say that would make Serana feel less expendable, especially considering all the things she'd done that her dear friend didn't know about. That, and she still felt desecrated after thousands of years of life. There was hardly a way she could explain her feelings, much less justify them.

     Still, she saw Meraxes as an odd beacon of hope. She was living proof that it was possible for two, broken people to find solace in one another. Serana found it in her the way she never had anywhere—or with anyone—else.

     Meraxes was her home.

     In the early hours of the morning, Zira finally tracked her amulet's pulse to Riverwood.

     "Do you think Delphine is here? She was an inkeeper in this town, last I knew." Esbern, who was too exhausted to walk any longer, rode on Lydia's back. While she didn't provide the smoothest travel, he had to admit she was strong.

    Zira stopped upon the stairs, waiting for Lydia to catch up. "Oh, I'm nearly certain she is."

    "Regardless, she makes a rather noble steed, don't you think?" Malborn gestured to Lydia. "I think Esbern will miss hitching a ride."

    Zira snorted. "Maybe. I'm just glad I can finally get some sleep."

    Looking the assassin up and down a final time, Malborn hummed. "I might just let you do that. I'm afraid this is where we part ways, Amuta Serio."

    "Try not to get into too much trouble, Wood Elf." Zira quirked a brow, her hands drifting to her hips. "I won't be there to save you next time."

     "Like I'll need you. I believe you owe me."

     Zira dipped her head. "That I do. Come here."

     As Malborn and Zira spoke, Lydia set Esbern down atop the staircase. She was glad to bring him into town, where he'd have access to a healer.

     Just behind them, Zira planted a kiss on Malborn's cheek, bidding him farewell as she'd promised. Fortunate not to have received a punch instead, Malborn descended the steps, and, with his hands in his pockets, started towards the town gate.

     "What was that?" Lydia spun around.

     "Nothing, really. He's headed off to do—well—whatever city boys do when they're finished spying on the Thalmor." Zira opened the door, relieved to turn the corner without spotting any absurdly tall guards.

     Delphine lifted her head from her ledger at the counter, all but dropping the pen when she saw Esbern.

     "Delphine." Esbern smiled innocently. "It's been a long time."

     "Indeed it has." Leaving the bar to her assistant, the Bretoness crossed the room to greet him. "We should catch up. I have a place where we can talk, although we'll have to free it up." She turned to Zira, her eyes alight. "What did you learn at the Embassy?"

     Zira gestured to Esbern. "I gave him his dossier. It's proof that the Thalmor aren't responsible for the return of the dragons."

     "That's..." Delphine's shoulders dropped. "Disappointing."

     You have no idea, Zira thought before returning to her toom to sleep—if she could—that was, after reading the Thalmor's alarmingly specific data on herself and Meraxes.

     "Delphine, you mean you don't know about the prophecy?" Esbern's eyes widened. "It explains everything."

     "That's what I mean to speak with you about." Delphine knocked on Meraxes's and Serana's door, hoping she wasn't interrupting their sleep. She could certainly have done without seeing the Dragonborn cranky. 

     "Who the fuck is it?"

     Delphine's expression dropped when she heard the click! of the lock, the door opening to reveal a disgruntled—and pissed—Meraxes.

     "Oh. It's you." Meraxes's lips curled. "Bother me some other time."

     When the Dragonborn moved to shut the door, Delphine held it open, her eyes narrowing. "You need to hear us out. Esbern has valuable information on the prophecy."

     Serana sauntered up behind Meraxes, barely poking her head through the crook Delphine created. "Let's let them speak, Meraxes. We'll sleep again when they're finished."

     Meraxes grumbled, retreating a step. Serana caught her at the shoulders. "Fine."

     Delphine had it her way. She pulled the false panel aside, allowing Esbern to lead everyone into the secret basement. Serana descended last, closing the wardrobe before she set foot on the steps.

     "Since none of you know about the prophecy, I'll make it easy for you to understand." Esbern stood beside Delphine's table with the map of dragon sites. "The only part that's relevant to the Dragonborn, who is..." His eyes shifted from Serana to Meraxes. "Which one of you?"

     "That would be me," Meraxes said.

     "Oh," Esbern clasped his hands together, forcing a smile. "That's...lovely. What you need to know is that Alduin, the World-Eater, is responsible for the dragon resurrections. Dragons are harbingers of the End Times, which means that you, Dragonborn, must somehow defeat him."

     Serana's ignited eyes narrowed. "Do you have anywhere we could start with that?" Folding her arms, the vampire turned her chin up. She'd just spoken with Meraxes about rushing into danger, and here, someone else wanted to put her in even more. "What happens if there's no way to put him down?"

     "As a matter of fact, I do have a place to start. There's a place called Sky Haven Temple, constructed around one of the main Akaviri military camps in the Reach, during their conquest of Skyrim. Alduin's Wall is there, and it might clue us in on a way to defeat him."

     "Good work, Esbern." Delphine smiled, a rare feat. "I knew you'd have something for us."

     "Wall?" Meraxes parked her hands on the table, leaning into them. "Why do I need to see some dumb hunk of stone?"

     Delphine made a face, the corner of her lips twitching. "Meraxes, did you happen to encounter a place near where the Horn was supposed to be where something strange happened?"

     Meraxes's eyebrows knit together as she thought. "Come to think of it, yeah." She remembered hearing a strange voice whisper a word to her. At Kynesgrove, it spoke again, inspiring a shout she hadn't known before.

     "That's why the walls are important. Esbern can tell you more."

     Esbern nodded. "They're called Word Walls, and they're written entirely in Dovahzul."

     "There you have it." Delphine's lips tightened. "Dovahzul. By the way, this is Esbern, the Blades' loremaster."

     Esbern dipped his head. "At your service, Dragonborn. We've anxiously awaited someone like you."

     At his prostration, Meraxes almost lurched in disgust. "Don't...do that. It's weird."

     "What, Dragonborn?"

     "That worshipping thing." Meraxes frowned. "And I have a name. Don't call me 'Dragonborn.' It's gross."

     "So," Delphine interjected, unamused. "When are we leaving for Sky Haven Temple?"

     Esbern settled on a stool. "Well, I want to take these putrid Thalmor clothes off, and I'll need healing potions and sleep. We'll have to wait a day, perhaps."

     "A day." Delphine shrugged pointedly. "Well, Meraxes, Serana, it's your lucky one. You can go back to bed."

     Meraxes ascended the stairs without another word, but Serana made the mistake of meeting Delphine's eyes. Remember what we talked about, they said, planting thoughts in the vampire's mind that she carried with her into bed.

     She had to admit that she wasn't too fond of her, either.

     "You only need a Daughter of Coldharbour's blood." Vingalmo grinned proudly, the Master appraising his face for seriousness. "That's the secret ingredient, in combination with Auriel's bow."

     "You're certain?" Harkon paced back and forth, his chin raised to the ceiling.

     "Certain as the sun." 

     Harkon narrowed his eyes. No one in the castle had a sense of humor, save he, as he'd purchased a line of silver goblets for parties and coffins for sleep to spite those who made a mockery of vampires. When the shit hit the windmill and the ghosts went sliding down the bannisters, Harkon didn't care about having a laugh. He'd asked Molag Bal only for world domination.

     "Now is not the time for humor, Vingalmo. What is the status on my daughter?"

     Vingalmo sucked in air through his teeth. "Not good, Master. She was accompanied by two, armed companions and one of our kind. They would have skewered me."

     "Had you learned nothing, I would have wished they had." Harkon's tone dropped, his severity augmented. "But, at last, you managed to pull something off. Just know that if this doesn't work, it will be your head on a spike."

     "Instead of Lady Serana's?" Orthjolf dared ask from the sidelines.

     Harkon's fists tightened. "No. In lieu of Valerica's."

     Sputtering, Vingalmo doubled back. "Lady Valerica? Hasn't she been gone for centuries?"

     "Indeed she has." Harkon spun around, his cloak turning behind him. "It's high time that changed."

     Being in the dark was certainly customary for vampires, but Vingalmo didn't like it one bit. He and Orthjolf exchanged bewildered looks, possibly agreeing on something for the first time in their history together: that they knew nothing about what was to come.

     "My good court," Lord Harkon spoke from the raised box above the main hall, seizing Clan Volkihar's attention. "Now, more than ever, is the time to prove your loyalty. We must be prepared for the opportunity of the millennia, but such will not take place unless you all are willing to assume certain duties."

     Malkus and Fura claimed front seats to observe the affair from below. Through narrowed eyes, Vingalmo observed their conversation: he knew who his true rival was in all of this.

     "The vampire who returns to me my estranged wife, Valerica, will earn a place by my side as my second hand and heir, to be recognized officially by the Volkihar Clan." Harkon's lips twisted into a smile. "I would speak longer, but I'm sure you all would like to begin your hunt immediately. Go on. Do me proud."

     Vingalmo was in dire need of a blood potion before he went anywhere, as he'd spent too long starving at the Ancestor Glade. He wasn't sure if the hunger was what blinded him, or whether it was his desperation for power, but something made him turn to Orthjolf and extend his hand. "A truce," he offered. "Let's find Lady Valerica together. We've been fighting for too long to let Malkus take this."

     Orthjolf forgot to breathe. A peace offering from Vingalmo was quite possibly the last thing he expected to hear, even before Harkon's desire to hunt for Valerica. The truce wasn't a bad idea. Vingalmo had so much of the intelligence that he lacked, after all. "You've got it, but only until she's at the Master's knees." He gripped Vingalmo's hand, shaking it hard.

     A grin crept onto Orthjolf's lips when Vingalmo shook back. Perhaps the assassination attempts would have to stop, if only for a little while.

     Serana turned to Meraxes, who'd already closed her eyes. When she touched her shoulder, though, they fluttered open. She'd forgotten what light sleepers werewolves were.

     "Serana?" Meraxes said groggily, still overcome with the fog of weariness. "What do you want?"

     Her face softening, Serana pulled the blanket up to cover Meraxes's shoulders. "You must have been cold."

     "Why would you wake me up over a draft?" Meraxes frowned. She knew Serana better than that. "What is it?"

     Serana's avoided Meraxes's eyes. "I'm worried."

     "Serana, you're always worried. You're going to have to be more specific."

     The vampire sighed. "You said the prophecy didn't reveal a way to stop my father. Does that mean there isn't one?"

     "No." Meraxes shook her head. Being her crass self, she didn't offer optimal comfort, but she managed to reach across the bed and grip Serana's shoulder. "He needs a Daughter of Coldharbour's blood. Valerica's in the Soul Cairn, and you're with me."

     "Prophecies..." Serana trailed off, placing her hand over Meraxes's. It was so warm, like a hearth in the middle of winter. "They have a way of prevailing, you know."

     "I don't know. Your mom's pretty tough. I thought she was about to take me out," Meraxes chuffed.

     That made Serana laugh. "You're ridiculous."

     "And you're safe, too." Meraxes gave Serana's shoulder a gentle squeeze. "I won't let anything happen to you. You know that."

      Smiling almost sheepishly, Serana tightened her grip on Meraxes' hand. "I do. Your back looks like a tanning rack. You know, learning to use a shield wouldn't have hurt."

     "Nah. I've always had a thing for greatswords." Amusement reflected with the night in Meraxes's eyes. "I'm a bit of a size queen."

     "We're bringing Lydia with us everywhere from now on. No more getting shot for you."

     Meraxes snorted. "Come on, Serana. I already have a mom for these talks, you know."

     Serana's heart sank. She'd almost entirely forgotten about Bjorna. Meraxes had a lot on her plate, but she'd have even more when it came time to defeat Alduin. Was there a time like the present to tell her?

     Meraxes saw the conflict wrought in her expression. "What's wrong this time?" She retracted her hand, sitting up over her pillow.

     "There's something I should let you know about," Serana said, returning to Meraxes's gaze. "In Solitude, while you were on your way to Castle Volkihar, Soren saw someone."

     "Hm. Did Hadvar have something for me again?"

     Serana's frown deepened as she shook her head. "He saw your mother. The guards are transferring to the Riften jail. I just thought..." she hesitated, uncomfortable with the fact that she'd kept her knowledge from Meraxes in the first place. "I just thought you'd like to know."

     Meraxes nodded. "She's been in the Blue Palace a long time. A change of scenery will be good for her."

     "That's all you think of it?"

     "Well, there's not much to think about. I probably owe her a visit when I have the time." Meraxes cocked her head. "You know, after all the saving-the-world stuff."

     "Hm." Sitting up, Serana propped herself up on her arms. "I hope you won't have to save the world, Meraxes. It's dangerous work."

     "I don't think I have much of a choice."

     "Sure, you do." Serana arched forward, her head pressed affectionately against Meraxes's shoulder. "You've just chosen to do what's right. Once upon a time, I would have found that surprising." 

     "I still do." Meraxes's face scrunched almost playfully. "I'm not even sure this is the right thing. We'll find out eventually, I guess."

     "We will. History writes itself, whether we want it to or not." Serana wrapped her arms around Meraxes's middle, pulling her into an embrace. If the vampire were to have been completely honest, she never wanted to go to Sky Haven Temple. In fact, she sometimes wished Meraxes wasn't the Dragonborn at all so she'd stop risking her ass. "But even world-saving heroes need sleep. It's time for bed, Meraxes."

     Meraxes snorted, still amused. "Hey, now. You're the one who woke me up."

     "Not before you woke me."

     "I can't disagree with you there." Meraxes slunk back onto her pillow, Serana floating down with her. "Are you seriously planning on staying like this? I sweat a lot."

     Serana nudged her mockingly. "You drool, too. It's actually kind of gross."

     "Damn, I feel exposed." Meraxes slowly closed her eyes, her lips straightening even though something inside her smiled. "Shut up and sleep already."

     Then, Serana laughed, her humor lighter and more carefree than Meraxes had ever remembered.

     Without a worry in the world, she drifted off to sleep.

End of Chapter 24.

Next: A battle between rivals, nightmares, and stones unturned.

SB: This part has 3 more Chapters, mad lads. Bear with me.

Chapter Text

     Snow drifted gracefully about the Rorikstead woodlands, dancing around the trees before settling as fresh powder over the autumn leaves.

     Soren knew he wasn't in Coldharbour this time. The black, evil roots he sometimes tripped over weren't around, after all. Perhaps he wouldn't have to watch his step for once.

     Not until the darkness settled in, anyway.

     Behind him, the sun drowned quickly beneath the horizon, the night making itself at home in Tamriel. A swift gale sent the new snow flying up like sand, launching a flurry to splash his cloak.

     He couldn't remember the last time he felt cold since Serana turned him. He wondered if he'd ever freeze again.

     "It will always be like this."

     When he heard a familiar voice, Soren spun around.

     No one was there.

     "I can't stop him. I'm only another one of his horrible creations at the end of the Era, sweet nephew."

     Soren circled, but no matter which way he turned, Lamae was nowhere in sight. "Lamae?" he called, but the wind carried the word away with his courage. "Why did you bring me here?"

     Soren's confusion overwhelmed everything. He was certain his nightmare would force him to relive again his murder of a Dawnguard soldier, but Isran and his forces hadn't shown up. Serana and Meraxes weren't around, either.

     He was all alone.

     "The last one with your power...my sister...she is in peril. You earned her secret art...when I lost touch with her...because you share her blood. I can bring you...anywhere I want, nephew."

     Soren ducked behind a tree. Barraged by the blizzard and darkness, he couldn't see anything, not even Lamae's red bodice ties. "What do you mean? Do you know something about my family?"

     Lamae chuckled, her tone alarmingly shrill. Soren wasn't sure how he expected her laughter to sound, but certainly not like that. 

      "My sister, Serana...she is your maker...and my sister, Valerica...she is her mother...you have Valerica's blood in you...so the Bloodcourier is reborn...the bridge between Coldharbour and Tamriel...but you must not look at the Necromancer's Moon when the Serpent rises..."

     Soren's fists tightened. He thought, for a moment, that Lamae might've known who his mother was. "What Necromancer Moon? Why not?"

     Until then, Soren didn't know he was capable of such impatience. Lamae was driving his nerves, tempting him with information and then telling him something entirely unrelated.

      "The Bloodcourier...is the perfect Vestige...the Tournament of Treachery begins soon...heed my warning..."

     Before he could ask anything else, Lamae's echoes ceased entirely. The wind died. The snow no longer fell.

     A golden flash blazed before his eyes, sending a torrent of warm blood to splash the trees.

     A Dawnguard soldier collapsed to the ground and went eerily still.

     Then, he jolted awake, holding his startled breath.

     Zira wasn't quite sure where she was.

     Blinking her eyes open was a slow process, and by the time she'd finished, she realized she certainly wasn't in bed.     

     "You went a little far from Falkreath, didn't you, darling? I was hoping your little group would stop there. That would have made this so much easier for me."

     When she heard a familiar voice, Zira looked down to discover she'd been completely stripped and tied to a post. Of course. "We've talked about this, Astrid. Where are my clothes?"

     "Not in the marsh, this time. We can't afford to keep making new ones anymore." An unmasked Astrid leapt from the rafters, landing just before Zira. "Not right now, anyway. We've got a rather massive contract underway that'll fix that little issue."

     Zira's eyes narrowed. "Give them back, Astrid. I'm in no mood for games when there are people wondering where I am."

     "Oh." Astrid clutched her chest, losing herself in laughter. "You mean your contract?"

     "You didn't—"

     "No. You're awfully lucky I respect you too much to complete it. Although, this brings me to the subject I'd like to discuss." Astrid crossed her arms, turning up her chin. "Why haven't you killed her yet? You're a talented assassin. You don't have a malfunction." Her expression hardened more than Zira had ever thought possible. "What the hell is going on?"

     "You don't know, do you?" Zira's lips sank. "You should probably let me go before I tell you. Of all people, you should know I don't like being tied up."

     "What don't I know, Zira?" Astrid tugged at the slack of a rope, sending a jolt of pain through Zira's ankle. "Educate me."

     Zira grit her teeth. "Now really isn't the time, Astrid. If you wanted to play with ropes, you should have just asked Arnbjorn."

     Astrid only laughed again, loosening her wrists. "Ah, that's better." She inspected her masterpiece. Every time Zira moved, she'd cut off more circulation to her arms. "Now, what don't I know?"

     "You know, I would have told you even if you hadn't done this." Zira strained, trying not to let Astrid onto her pain. Her wrists already hurt, and her boss hadn't even started. "It's not a secret. You were going to find out, anyway."

     "So, spit it out, will you?"

     Zira raised her head, her jaw taut. "My target is the Dragonborn. She's supposed to save the world, so I'm going to kill her when she's finished. Contract complete. Everyone saved. Does that sound like a win-win to you?"

     "So, you're following the Dragonborn around like a little, lost puppy because the world is somehow in danger?" Astrid quirked a brow. "Oh, for fuck's sake. Give me a break."

     "When have I ever lied to you, Astrid?"

     Astrid fell silent, spinning an ebony dagger between her fingers.

     "That's right. Never. Even when you probably deserved it, I didn't. I could have easily avoided killing Alvind the Slaver when I discovered he had a contract, but I didn't because I wanted to kill him myself. I told you that the first time you brought me here."

     "That you did," Astrid agreed.

     Evidently calmer, she sliced Zira's bindings away. "Your clothes are in the trunk. So are your weapons and that little belt of poisons you love so much."

     Zira rubbed her wrists after Astrid set her free. They burned, but she knew the feeling would fade. "You really have to stop doing this."

     "I'd listen to you, were you in charge." Astrid unlocked the shack door. She remembered the first time she took Zira there. She'd asked her to kill someone—one of the three, anonymous victims with a contract—but Zira had been so furious she struck down every one.

     Ah. Those were the days.

     While Zira pulled on her armor, Astrid leaned against the wall, turning her head. "One thing before you leave."

     "There are always extra things with you." Zira holstered her bow. "What, now?"

     "Well, two," Astrid hummed. "First of all, your companions should be asleep when you return. You're not that far away, so they shouldn't know you're missing at all."

     "You couldn't have told me that before you tried to interrogate me?"

     Astrid snorted, her words slipping into a low chuckle. "Where's the fun in that? I'm in a good mood today, which saved you some trouble. That enormous contract is something I've found exciting lately."

     "Do I even want to know who you're killing?"

     When Zira finished dressing, Astrid opened the door for her. "No. Odds are, he'll be dead before your little Dragonborn, anyway. By the way..." Astrid's brow furrowed as Zira set foot into the pale moonlight. "We're family. I mean that in every sense of the word. But, if you fail to assassinate the Dragonborn after she's done her duty, you know what I'll have to do to you."

     "I trust there'll be ropes involved?"

     Astrid only smiled. "Regardless, I should see you again. Hail Sithis."

     "Hail Sithis," Zira echoed, starting through the marshlands.

     She wasn't sure whether or not she meant it.

     "She could be anywhere in the world by now, Vingalmo. Fuck, she might even be dead. How are we supposed to find her?"

     "Since Daughters of Coldharbour are notoriously difficult to kill, I seriously doubt that. We need to start somewhere."

     Orthjolf's fists tightened. He'd resorted to using his brain, which physically hurt him after so many sedentary centuries. Thinking, for him, had never come as easily as it had for Vingalmo. "I have an idea, but I think it's way too obvious."

     "Speak, you idiot." Vingalmo forced a sigh. "We could use anything right now, even if it comes from you."

     Orthjolf's face crinkled as he fell silent.

     "What are you doing, Orthjolf?" Huffing condescendingly, Vingalmo crossed his arms. "You're wasting my time. Spit it out!"

     "What if she never left?" Orthjolf spoke quickly, shooting Vingalmo a fleeting glance. That was all he could come up with, and he was sure his rival would be disappointed with his lack of creativity.

     "That's..." 

     Vingalmo trailed off, gripping his chin. "Actually not bad." He raised a brow at his partner in crime, a grin crawling across his lips. "Orthjolf, you beautiful moron, I think you're onto something!"

     "Wait, really?" Orthjolf's mouth hung open. He hadn't expected praise from anyone, much less Vingalmo.

     "Oh, don't feel too proud of yourself. If you don't pick up your jaw, you'll swallow a fly."

     Wordlessly, the Nord clenched his teeth.

     Vingalmo wandered off after Orthjolf fixed himself. Orthjolf had never descended the stairs to the courtyard before, but tagged along regardless. He hated Vingalmo, and those words would always ring true.

     Oddly, though, Orthjolf found himself wishing Vingalmo liked him.

     "Why here?" he asked, his eyebrows knitting together. "I thought only Serana was allowed down here."

     Opening the doors to reveal the long-dead grass and trees, Vingalmo narrowed his eyes. Orthjolf had chosen the worst time to act like he hadn't broken any of Harkon's rules before.

     "She was, but that was before the Master's orders. If Valerica is in the castle, like you say, why would she not be out here?"

     Instead of answering him, Orthjolf took in the sight of the courtyard. "Damn," he muttered under his breath. "Everything's so...dead."

     "No shit, you fool."

     Vingalmo raised his head, watching as the clouds slowly parted to reveal a full moon. "This certainly isn't a testament to Valerica's livelihood. I'll give you that."

     Feeling as though he'd reached a dead end, Vingalmo's countenance sank. Earning Harkon's favor was an endless fight: centuries passed, and it still wasn't over. He secretly worried that Malkus and Fura had already found Valerica.

     What would he do, then?

     He wasn't sure he could get away with killing Malkus—or even Orthjolf—after the dust settled.

     "There's a hole," Orthjolf said, interrupting Vingalmo's thoughts.

     "Orthjolf," Vingalmo snapped, not far from the point of ripping his own hair out. "The whole world is holes to you! Your skull is a hole, Molag Bal damn it!"

     "You might want to look at this."

     Vingalmo stalked to where Orthjolf stood, his face contorting with provoked frustration. If the hole was deep enough, maybe he'd shove Orthjolf into it and rid of him before the disposal hurt.

     Instead, his eyes widened the second he realized what he was looking at.

     "Where do you think it goes?" Orthjolf asked. Neither he nor Vingalmo had ever seen the spiral staircase before, or had even known it was there.

     "Somewhere likely littered with traps." Vingalmo crossed his arms, determined. "We're going down there."

     Orthjolf swallowed hard. He knew in his heart that he'd be all right—he was a brute—hacking through dungeons was what he did. Still, a part of him wondered if Vingalmo had other plans.

     What if he never came back out of there?

     "Why are you hesitating, oaf?" Vingalmo stared up from the middle steps, where he'd already set foot. "Are we going to search for Valerica, or not?"

     Orthjolf drew his axe. He supposed he hadn't much of a choice, torn between his strange fear of death—something Lord Harkon had promised him he'd never feel once he became a vampire—and his stranger-yet feelings toward Vingalmo.

     He forced his pride away with a nonchalant shrug. "I'm coming."

     It was dark at the bottom of the staircase. The entire dungeon resembled catacombs, which surprised Vingalmo and Orthjolf alike. Why would Clan Volkihar need a place to bury their dead if vampires were supposed to be immortal?

     Why, when their fallen kin usually turned to ash without a body for burial?

     "I don't know if you were right about the traps, but this place gives me the creeps. Let's do what we need to do and get out." Orthjolf held his axe at the ready. He didn't want to risk being hacked apart by whatever lived down there, if anything at all.

     "I thought you were supposed to be brave, Orthjolf." Vingalmo continued down the corridor, stopping when he heard a low gasp around the corner.

     "If the gargoyles are coming to life, that means someone must have animated them. Do you think it could have been Lady Valerica?"

     Exchanging a suspicious glance, Orthjolf and Vingalmo advanced quietly towards the sound, both becoming invisible as they eavesdropped.

     "It just as easily could have been the Master's daughter. Apparently, they both dabbled in weird shit like this."

     Vingalmo distinguished the second voice as Fura's. Her speech was high-pitched, annoying, and hard to miss. The problem with Fura's presence, however, was not only in her irksome tone: it was that she went wherever Malkus did.

     Where there was smoke, there was fire. Orthjolf and Vingalmo were at risk if they failed to put it out.

     Behind the cloak of invisibility, Vingalmo's eyes narrowed. He charged a frost spell in his palms, sending the blast at Malkus just as he turned the corner.

     "You! What do you think you're doing here?" growled Vingalmo as he reappeared.

     Malkus spun around as Orthjolf raised his axe, seizing his kin by the throat. "What does it look like we're doing, Vingalmo?"

     Vingalmo grit his teeth as Fura erupted into laughter. "Let him go."

     "Why?" Malkus's fist tightened, slowly cracking Orthjolf's spine as he squeezed. "So you can kill him later? I don't think so."

     Snarling, Vingalmo braced himself, blasting Malkus and Fura with as much ice he could muster in a single shot. He'd frozen the pillars and wall behind them with his magic, but was far from finished. He'd hated Orthjolf for centuries. In fact, he still hated him. But, even if Vingalmo was only using him—even if he wasn't sure why Orthjolf listened to him at all—they were in this fight together.

     "You want to see a trick I learned in the Thalmor? I'd be happy to show you," Vingalmo spat, his nails extending into claws.

     Fura swept her greatsword across Vingalmo's stomach, missing as he doubled back. He pressed against the wall, breathing hard.

     It had been a while since a fight challenged him, but he would do whatever it took to survive.

     "Wait..."

     From the next room, a woman barged into the corridor, her jaw dropping when she saw her boss with his back to the stone. "Vingalmo? You're working with Orthjolf?"

     Fura's face contorted in her fury. "Salonia, you best help us kill this man if you know what's good for you. Go on. Finish him off."

     The fighting ceased as Salonia scanned the makeshift battlefield, her eyes softening as she watched Vingalmo struggle to catch his breath. She'd worked for him before anyone else. He was the man who turned her, and she owed him her life. At the same time, Malkus had proven a better servant to Lord Harkon than Vingalmo by retrieving both the Moth Priest and Auriel's Bow.

     She found the choice impossible to make.

     Orthjolf gasped for air in Malkus's grip, thrashing his legs. Vampires, though they could not die from strangling, still suffered as much as mortals deprived of air. "Where...is..." he struggled, Malkus squeezing him harder the second he tried to form a word.

     Suddenly, Vingalmo swallowed hard, his eyes brightening. "Fuck you, you overgrown goblin!" he shouted, blasting a focused ball of fire at Malkus's head.

     "No!" 

     Malkus screamed when the flames met his face. They melted it away, spreading until his chest and arms turned to ash.

     Orthjolf fell to the ground, gasping for air.

     "What the fucking fuck?" Spit flew from Fura's mouth as she spun around. She retreated to the opposing wall when she saw Vingalmo's fingers crumbling away, the dust they became floating into the damp, dungeon air. "You're supposed to be rivals! Rivals! You just lost your fucking hand, you psycho!"

     Salonia turned to Vingalmo, her eyes wide. Using a fire spell was one of the last things she'd ever expected from him, given their consequences to the undead. Was her boss seriously willing to risk his own body to find Valerica?

     If he was, then she'd taken the wrong side.

     Her expression darkened. It wasn't too late to make things right.

     A battlecry escaping her throat, Salonia charged at Fura with her club drawn, Fura blocking the strike with her greatsword just in time.

     "You think I'm crazy, you soprano bitch?" Vingalmo shook the remaining dust away. He grit his teeth as the fire spell burned him down to the elbow, leaving him deprived of half an arm. "I'd tell you to look in a mirror, but you wouldn’t be able to see your reflection!"

     Vingalmo provided Salonia with backup. He focused his ice on Fura's arms to slow down her swing. "Good work, Salonia! No more working with these idiots."

     "I missed you, boss!" Salonia grinned, laughing when she finally landed a strike to Fura's face. It felt good to beat her up, though she'd miss Malkus.

     Orthjolf finally brushed himself off after catching his breath. Setting his neck straight had been an ordeal, but he was quick to pick his axe and body off the ground.

     When Salonia cornered Fura against a pullar, Orthjolf swung his weapon, separating her head from her body.

     Fura collapsed, choking, and turned to ash without any last words.

     With fearful eyes, Salonia spun around, staring at Orthjolf. She'd worked for Vingalmo ever since he turned her. Orthjolf knew of some of the moves she made against him, and she feared the Nord would end her life for them.

     She raised her hands as he scrutinized her, letting her spiked club fall to the ground.

     Orthjolf's lips tightened. He didn't harbor any ill will towards Salonia for her work with Vingalmo, considering he had a lackey of his own. However, the fact that he couldn't find his anywhere concerned him. "Where is Stalf?"

     Salonia clasped her own arm apprehensively. "There was a feral," she breathed, her eyes guilty. "It got CuSith, too."

     Orthjolf didn't say anything. Salonia could smell his sadness, but wouldn't bother emasculating him by bringing it to light.

     "He saved me, even though we hated each other."

     There were not many noble ways for vampires to die, but she couldn't discredit Stalf for his rescue. Salonia only hoped her words would bring Orthjolf peace.

     Turning to Vingalmo, Orthjolf's eyes softened. "Pick up your weapon, Salonia. You'll need it."

     Though he did not look at her when he spoke, Salonia nodded, retrieving her club from the floor. "Boss, are you all right?"

     Vingalmo scoffed. Raising his burnt elbow, he quirked a brow. "I'd prefer having both hands, but finding Valerica means more to me. I didn't let Malkus win, and that means I still have a chance."

     "You mean we," Orthjolf shot back.

     "I just saved your pathetic ass." Continuing down the corridor, Vingalmo didn't so much as look back at Orthjolf. "I'll say whether or not there's a 'we.' In case you're curious, there's not."

     Salonia rolled her eyes. Their rivaling immaturity wasn't too many leagues behind the one she'd shared with Stalf.

     Before starting into the next room, she turned to Vingalmo, offering her hand. "It's good to work for you again." She met Orthjolf's eyes. "And you aren't so bad, I suppose, though you could use a bath."

     "This isn't the time for formalities, Salonia." Vingalmo cleared his throat, shooting his missing arm a nonchalant look. "And you chose the wrong hand."

     Embarrassed, Salonia retracted her right arm. She settled for giving Vingalmo a left-handed shake before progressing through the hall. "Let's go find that traitor."

     Vingalmo relished in his rare success. "Let's."

     Sky Haven Temple wasn't a straight shot from Riverwood. 

     Instead, everyone earned another night of rest before stepping off, since Rorikstead was dangerously close to where Delphine and Esbern would meet them.

     Meraxes sat on the stairs outside Frostfruit Inn while the others slept. Bran had come out to join her, soaking up the partly-clouded sun near her feet. She hoped to clear her head, but that wasn't easy when everything seemed to crash down on her at once. She hadn't known she was the Dragonborn at all until months ago. Now, everyone expected her to slay Alduin and save Nirn.

     She wondered if perhaps Tamriel had invested far too much faith in her. Regardless, she didn't have a choice, nor did she have much to spare for anyone else. Not between wanting to make Kodlak proud and bearing the literal weight of the world on her shoulders.

     Her thoughts ended where they began. The time she'd spent in silence proved futile.

     When the door creaked ajar behind her, Meraxes diverted her attention, having been sufficiently interrupted.

     "There you are," Serana said, pulling up her hood. "I thought you ran off somewhere, since you tend not to sleep very well."

     "No." Meraxes shook her head as Serana settled beside her. "I don't."

     The vampire was quiet until she noticed the clouds begin to darken. The wind blew in light rain from the west, causing a frown to cross her lips. "I could have come at a better time."

     "But you didn't." Meraxes let the raindrops soak her hair. 

     After that, she fell silent, staring at her hands which clasped over her knees. Serana reached for one, squeezing it tightly.

     She still had a million questions for Meraxes. She wanted to know how she lost her leg, what happened between her and General Rikke, why the Thalmor still wanted her after her service to the Legion, and even how she became a werewolf. But she didn't ask. She didn't ask because she knew what it was like to have to answer; to strip herself naked and subjugate herself the way she did for Molag Bal. 

     She didn't ask because she knew what it was like to bear unnecessary weight on her shoulders, and she knew what it was like to hate herself for things that weren't her fault.

     "You don't have to save the world alone, Meraxes."

     Serana didn't say much, but it was enough to make Meraxes look at her and see something she hadn't before.

     "I know." Meraxes titled up her chin. As it fell harder, the rain slid down her cheeks.

     "I wanted to let you know I'm here for you," Serana said. "Even if anything happens to me. My father wouldn't even stop at killing his own family if it meant he could control a fraction more of the world."

     Turning to meet Serana's gaze, Meraxes's eyes softened. "We've been over this."

     "I feel safe with you." Serana felt awkward letting the rain tickle her, but knew she'd have time to dry off before departing. Besides, if she wanted to speak with Meraxes, nasty weather was a small price to pay. "That's why I left Castle Volkihar to stay by your side. Because you're the family I chose, even if we still aren't well acquainted with each other's demons quite yet."

     Meraxes made a face. The way Serana's words froze the air around her made her burn inside rather than run colder. "Didn't Valerica and Harkon understand some of those things?"

     Serana nodded. "They did. At least, until I saw how vampirism affected my family. Then, they stopped getting it. But I don't feel like a pawn in your game the way I do in theirs." Serana swept her cloak over Meraxes's shoulders, offering her partial shelter from the storm. "Even if I worry sometimes about what might happen, not a day goes by that I don't want to spend with you. You understand more than you know."

     Before Meraxes could think about what she'd said, thunder cracked in the distance, shattering the silence between them.

     "Come on, Meraxes." Serana tucked her into a warm, damp embrace. "Let's dry off inside."

     When the Dawnguard recon squad arrived to Kodlak's Rest, they were utterly disappointed.

     "No one's here." Gunmar turned the corner to find the alchemy lab unused. "And it seems none of them fancy potions, either."

     "All this planning, and Whitemane couldn't even bother to come home." Beleval crossed her arms, her eyes freezing over like a lake in the winter. "It doesn't matter. We'll track her down if we have to."

     Gunmar quirked a brow, traversing the house. He didn't find it impressive. There wasn't any evidence, either, that Whitemane and her crew had been there recently.

     "How are you going do that? She's a traveler, lass, and that means all of her followers are, too." Gunmar lowered his head. "We could try the upstairs and the cellar, but I think it's time to let go of this revenge mission and focus on putting stakes through vampires."

     When Beleval joined him, Gunmar swore he saw smoke coming out of her ears.

     "We'll find her clothing, then, and use the dogs. It'll be just like a fox hunt."

     "Beleval," Gunmar sighed. "Whatever your orders are, I'll follow them. I just want you to know that I don't think what you're doing is the right thing."

     Opening the trap door to the cellar, Beleval sternly met Gunmar's eyes. "Is or is there not a vampire accompanying Whitemane?"

     "There is."

     "See?" Beleval's eyes narrowed. "So we're going to kill them both."

End of Chapter 25.

Next: See Chapter 26 title.

Warning: Chapter 26 contains graphic depictions of violence and death. Reader discretion is advised.

Chapter Text

     "You need a new suit of armor." Serana distanced herself from the hearth after her clothes had dried, as vampires didn't much like the heat. "Before you fight another dragon, anyway. I asked at the College of Winterhold, but they only sell overpriced robes.”

     Meraxes let the fire warm her. The seats beside her were all full, and she could hardly hear Serana over the bard and chatter. That day, the tavern was unusually busy, though its crowded nature had little to do with the rain outside.

     “I’ll be fine,” she promised, leaning into the hearth. “I doubt Sky Haven Temple has any wild surprises for me, unless we run into some inbred bastards on the way there.”

     Unsatisfied with Meraxes’ response, Serana quirked a brow. “Can you afford any armor? If not, I won’t mind harassing Delphine until we can get you some.”

     Meraxes chuffed, crossing her arms. “I’m not borrowing from that woman.”

     Serana couldn’t help but wonder how Meraxes was so immature as to deny her own protection for the sake of preserving her pride. She rolled her eyes, sinking back in her chair. “I’ll force you to if you can’t procure your own before we leave.”

     Meraxes made a face. “You realize we only have six hours, right?”

     “Great.” Serana grinned mockingly. “I have six, whole hours to talk you into taking care of yourself.”

     “Excuse me,” an armored man said from a neighboring bench. “We met earlier, didn’t we? I came to visit my father for Sun’s Rest, but I never thought I’d find you here again!”

     “Erik,” Serana greeted him, her eyes alight the second she recognized his face. “It’s nice to see you. The change of clothing suits you.”

     Awkwardly clearing her throat, Meraxes caught on. She’d forgotten the poor man’s name until Serana had said it. “Have you skewered any miserable fuckers yet, Erik? You look like you have.”

     Serana elbowed her for that.

     Erik slumped over, laughing. “I have. This is all the good fun I hoped for, but it’s smellier and more difficult than I’d thought.” His chuckling ceased, leaving behind a smile. “I went to Dawnstar to become a knight, just like you did. Now, I’m Ser Erik the Slayer. It’s no Whitemane the Wolf, but I’m proud of myself.”

     From the adjacent chair, Meraxes struck his plated shoulder with a punch. “Good lad. Did the old Jarl stick you with a squire?”

     Erik shook his head. “Actually, I was wondering if you’d let me help purchase your armor. I overheard your...” his eyebrows knit pensively together. "Wife? And, well, I think a good knight should protect his heart, don’t you?”

     “We’re not—“

     “She’d be incredibly grateful for your help, Erik.”

     Erik clasped his hands together, turning to Meraxes. “It’s really the least I can do. You’re my elder knight and the one who inspired me to adventure. I wish I could have been your squire.” He rifled through his knapsack, laying a few gold pouches out on the bench. “Please, take them.”

     Meraxes wordlessly reached for the money. Before Serana could scold her into thanking Erik for it, the bard drowned out the tavern’s chattering with an announcement:

     “How are we doing tonight, everybody?”

     The innfolk met her question with laughter and cheers, most of them already drunk on something.

     “I’m glad to see you’re enjoying our Sun’s Rest special! Before we distribute a round of drinks on the house as a reward for your hard work and contributions to Skyrim, I’m going to slow it down.” The bard smiled, readying her lute. “So grab someone you like swaying close with for the first dance of the evening!”

     Erik waved a brief goodbye to Meraxes, collecting his things. She noticed a Bosmer woman on the other side of the room had caught his eye.

     “Go get her, kid. For fuck’s sake,” she called after him, but wasn’t sure he heard until he spun around and winked.

     Erik left her with a laugh.

     Before Serana could tease her, the bard commenced her steady song:

“High in the halls of the kings who are gone,
Jenny would dance with her ghosts:
The ones she had lost, and the ones she had found,
And the ones who had loved her the most.”

     Serana watched as boys knelt to request dances from girls and men gleefully reached for their wives. She watched as the tavern lights dimmed and the fire receded, and as the bard’s voice seemed to grow in volume with an odd, warm feeling that rose within her chest.

“The ones who'd been gone for so very long,
She couldn't remember their names;
They spun her around on the damp, old stones,
Spun away all her sorrow and pain.”

     Meraxes settled in her chair as the innkeeper distributed bottles of mead and iced tankards. She left hers on the table, an approving grin threatening to spread across her face when she saw Erik swaying with the Bosmer in the corner.

     Serana swallowed hard as her lungs drowned out whatever words she’d prepared. Meraxes hadn’t so much as touched her alcohol; the thing that she once couldn’t live without. She looked so peaceful there. So satisfied with herself and the world around her. So beautiful.

     Serana loved her.

     She knew, though, that she wasn't deserving of a lover's dance. In turn, she was much too afraid to ask for one. All she could do was watch the others, amazed at how terribly unlike her parents each couple seemed.

     She supposed living forever had quite the impact on a marriage. Unlike death, those were things mortals seldom had to fear.

     Serana did not fear death, but she feared Coldharbour. She feared Molag Bal. She feared intimacy; the things that lovers did besides dancing in taverns during Sun's Rest.

     She feared losing Meraxes, but also holding onto her too tightly.   

     Worse, she wasn't sure which scared her more.

“And she never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave,
Never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave.”

     As Serana stood to depart, refusing the innkeeper's mead, she felt something tighten around her wrist.

     "You tried to teach me how to dance, remember?" Meraxes spun her around with a surprising gentleness, her icy eyes meeting Serana's fire. "You started this."

     Serana's eyes widened. Did Meraxes really want to dance with her, after all they'd been through? After all they had ahead of them? After pretending like she absolutely dreaded it at Four Shields?

     Serana couldn't look at her. 

     She'd experimented with her own mercy and had tested Meraxes's care for her without ever meaning to. Deep down, she knew Meraxes had some feelings for her, but dared not ask about them.

     It wasn't right for Serana to feel the way she did. Not when she didn’t even deserve to have a whole family.

     "Finish it," Meraxes demanded, stopping the vampire in her tracks.

     Serana was speechless.

     While she talked herself down, swearing there wasn't a way in the world she could ever hold onto love, Meraxes told a completely different story.

     Meraxes was that beacon of light. She was home.

     Still, even though Serana found it easy to touch her at times, it was difficult to bring herself too close unless Meraxes asked for it. They hadn't spoken even once about the feeding.

     Serana couldn't so much as think about it without her heart rising into her throat.

     Gaining enough courage to muster a caress, or an intertwining of fingers, or even an embrace wasn't difficult. What complicated things so much were those instances when Meraxes touched her.

     Those things that scared Serana could never compare to her fear of being loved when she wasn't worthy.

     "Look at me, Serana." Meraxes extended a hand. "Don't make me get on my knee like a fucking sixteen-year-old."

     You're such a moron, Meraxes, Serana finally met her eyes, losing herself in laughter. I think too much, and you don't think at all...

     When she felt Meraxes's hand close around her own, Serana's humor melted into an emotion she didn't recognize.

     Hot tears streamed down her cheeks. She couldn't fight them any longer.

     "I'm not a gentleman. I don't have a fancy handkerchief for the waterworks." Meraxes slipped her arm around Serana's waist. With the other, she wiped the tears away. "I hope your eyes aren't leaking because I smell like shit. I know I don't do well after a while without a bath."

     Meraxes' jests were the only thing preventing Serana from breaking under her touch once she found her hand again.

“They danced through the day
And into the night, through the snow that swept through the hall.
From winter to summer, then winter again,
'Til the walls did crumble and fall.”

     “Hm,” Serana hummed, distracting herself from the fact that her chest felt like it was going to explode. She wasn't even supposed to have a functional heart in there. “I bet you’re glad you didn’t behead me now.”

      Meraxes spun her carefully, battling a grin. In case Serana was paying attention, she didn’t want to revel in the dancing too much.

     “Someone once told me I didn’t have to save the world alone. That’s a person I’d protect with my own life." Meraxes gave her fingers a squeeze.

     "I think you actually answered me this time," Serana said, though her thoughts still raced.

     She was inches away from Meraxes' face, but couldn't bring herself to do what she'd dreamed of doing over and over and over again. Her breathing stopped as soon as she noticed their lack of physical distance.

     They'd been close before. Why did it suffocate her so much now?

     Was it because she could finally put a name to her feelings?

     Was it because she was in love?

     "Lucky." Meraxes surrendered to her smile. "I've never been good at that."

     Orthjolf wasn't sure what to think. In truth, he wasn't adept at thinking to begin with.

     Vingalmo, who'd been his rival for centuries, had lost his arm defending him. That was the hardest thing Orthjolf ever had to think about.

     Since when did Vingalmo have the right to be so terribly stupid? Idiocy was Orthjolf's job, and his alone.

     Orthjolf couldn't begin to comprehend why he was so furious. When he closed his eyes—even to blink—all he saw was that dumb fireball, burning half of Vingalmo's arm to ash.

     He wanted to finish the job. He wanted to kill Vingalmo for sacrificing himself.

     "You think magic is stronger than my war axe," Orthjolf muttered under his breath, causing Vinglamo to halt in his tracks. Salonia stopped beside him.

     "Yes." Vingalmo turned to him, perplexed. He usually found Orthjolf rather predictable, but couldn't tell what he was getting at. "Your point?"

     Orthjolf's voice dropped into a growl. "You sacrificed one of your arms to kill Malkus. Don't you need two hands to use effective magic?"

     "Not necessarily..." Vingalmo trailed off, hesitating. His eyes narrowed as he thought, unsure what to say next.

     Did having one hand change his power? Surely, his Magicka would stay the same.

     Orthjolf had never heard him pause like that before. His claws extended, Orthjolf lunged for Vingalmo with a savage snarl, tightening his fists around the Altmer's throat. 

     "You thought I couldn't defend myself, so you halved your own abilities?" he seethed, squeezing harder.

     The way Vingalmo's eyes grew starved as Orthjolf strangled him only made him angrier.

     Vingalmo was a stupid Elf who'd done an atrociously stupid thing, and, because he let himself weaken, they'd never be true rivals again! A one-armed vampire would never be on par with his kinsmen!

     "I'll kill you right here for what you did, you bastard!"

     Salonia lunged to stop him until she noticed black tendrils curling around his muscles.

     No. Transforming out of anger was incredibly dangerous for vampires.

     "STOP IT!" Salonia pulled on Orthjolf's arm. She didn't want to resort to beating him with her club. "You'll kill him!"

     Orthjolf had truly chosen the worst time for infighting.

     They'd found Valerica's journal, which Serana and Meraxes had carelessly abandoned on the bannister of her laboratory, and had already descended into a portal to Oblivion. 

     They were in the Soul Cairn. That's what her notes had said, anyway.

     They knew they were close, but couldn't call of their rivalry as effectively as they'd thought.

     Salonia had the terrible feeling that one of them was going to die.

     "How is magic going to help you now?" Spit flew from the Vampire Lord's mouth as he spoke, his knuckles paling around Vingalmo's throat. "You dumbass!"

     Vingalmo wildly thrashed his legs, struggling against Orthjolf's brutish strength.

     "ORTHJOLF!" Salonia unholstered her club. "Let him go! If we're right, Valerica is in here! We've come so far!"

     Orthjolf spun around, his snarling not quite subsiding.

     She was right. They weren't far from Valerica; Orthjolf could feel that.

     His rage, however, blew those thoughts mindlessly away.

     He couldn't comprehend why he was so angry. 

     Did something about Vingalmo's actions emasculate him? Was he disappointed with the way his rival relationship had so rapidly changed?

     He couldn't tell. He didn't want that ability.

     "I..."

     Orthjolf stopped. He what?

     He couldn't say anything that would justify what he'd just done.

     "That's it," Salonia encouraged him. "Come to your senses. Let's go get Valerica."

     Exhaling, Orthjolf discarded Vingalmo into the deep, blue sand.

     The Altmer dropped to his knees, breathing hard.

     "There," Salonia's shoulders relaxed. Perhaps they'd survive to bring Valerica back to Harkon, after all. "Now, let's go."

     Vingalmo rubbed his throat as he continued through the Soul Carin. Why did Orthjolf's strangling hurt more than it should've? Why didn't he fight back?

     He swallowed hard, his eyes narrowing into vengeful slits.

     Avoiding killing Orthjolf was going to be more difficult than he'd thought.

     Something about dancing with Meraxes changed the way Serana saw her.

     She didn't think Meraxes shifting her point of view was very possible anymore, since she was decidedly in love with her.

     Meraxes, though, had a way of proving her wrong whenever she'd set something in stone.

     "Do you want more of my blood before we leave? I think Delphine will pass out if she sees you drink an animal again," Meraxes said from the corner, strapping on her new boots.

     They were made of cheap iron, but Serana still thought they were better than nothing.

     "No," Serana replied, forcing a smile. "The animal blood will do."

     The truth was complicated. 

     Being a vampire for a few millennia meant she'd heard a couple of tales. There were warnings for vampires with mortal lovers; that they might devour them when passion took over. When she'd fed last, she was unaware of her feelings for Meraxes.

     If she were to do it again, it wouldn't be the same.

     Besides, Serana was afraid of her love to begin with. Her history with Molag Bal complicated anything more emotionally taxing than sharing a bed.

     The way she felt about Meraxes terrified her in ways she couldn't explain.

     She was sure, though, that Meraxes would at least understand her qualms with the feeding. Neither of them had spoken a word about it since it'd happened.

     Still, Meraxes was a werewolf. They were both carnivores, through and through.

     Perhaps something wouldn't have to give for her to understand.

     "Are you sure?" Meraxes met her eyes from across the room, fastening the straps on her knee plates. "I'm strong even without a little blood. Besides, I have this armor you forced me to buy." She grinned, tapping pointedly on her gauntlet.

     "We talked about this," Serana started. "About the fact that you don't need to protect—"

     THUMP! THUMP!

     A rapping at the door saved Serana from providing an explanation.