When Ysorya closed her eyes, she could see the ancient Dunmer sitting in the shadows above her, long strands of tangled white hair half covering a wrinkled face in shadows, as if he was watching her with his sightless eyes. One day you were nothing, he told her. One day you will be nothing. Until then, you survive.

A bump in the road and her brother shifted, muttering in his sleep. He seems like a child again, she thought, though she could barely see his face in the dim light. It had only been two days since they had left their home in Evermore towards the passes along the Druadach Mountains to Morkarth, in Skyrim, and beyond. Two days of noticing the Nord mercenary's occasional glances at her. Two days of Acilius, the caravan owner, and his bitter wit. They should have been well on their way over the mountains hadn't they heard news of Reachmen barring the passes. Instead they skirted north on less-travelled roads towards a few more treacherous passes.

In the morning her brother had scouted ahead on the extra horse, now he fell into exhaustion. She listened to the two men in front bicker endlessly.

"This damned civil war is cutting into my profits," Acilius muttered. "And now dragons. If the Empire knew what it was doing, it'd keep the passes open. They beat the Reachmen before."

"They say there's a Dragonborn, yah? In Skyrim, the first in centuries!" The young Nord rumbled. He had a deep and melodious voice for a Nord of his age. And she had to admit with his long blonde hair, sturdy frame and strong cheekbones he cut a pleasant figure, if only he didn't have the personality of a potato.

Even from the back of the cart, she could feel Acilius glare at the mercenary. "They always say there's some magic hero who will somehow save the day. You live long enough, you'll meet fifty of them or more."

"But still, a Dragonb-"

Acilius cut him off. "Will be worrying about keeping the passes open? If he exists he's probably too busy hunting for some mystic staff sent by the gods or the Daedra or something. He's not going to go kill Stormcloaks or hunt down these 'forswarn' or whatever the Reachmen are calling themselves these days. The only thing you can trust in this world is the blade at your side, and only then if you trust its steel."

"You are a cynical man, Acilius." The Nord pronounced it 'Aseel-yoos'."

"I recommend it highly," he replied. After that Ysorya fell into a fitful, light sleep.

#

She awoke in the morning, bone cold, with vague memories of her brother stealing the blankets. The sun looked like it wanted to rise over the Druadach peaks, who looked like massive shadowy slate giants against a sky full of warm colors. She stretched, self-conscious when she yet again noticed the young Nord glancing at her when he thought she wasn't looking. When they broke their fast, her brother and the Nord said a benediction to the Eight, then went silent and whispered to their own forbidden gods: Tiber Septim for the Nord, obviously, but for her and her brother, any Daedric Prince that would listen, Boethiah first of all, their masters' old favored god, but also Hircine to hunt their enemies, Malakath to protect them now that they had no home, Mephala so their plot would stay hidden until it was too late for the Wizards to know, and Clavicus Vile… just in case.

But they pretended to be honoring the Ninth. And Acilius didn't honor a single one, just waited patiently, with a tired, you-will-know-when-you-get-older look on his face. Two hours later she was still thinking on the Daedra when the cart got stuck in a muddy rut, moments crept upon moments, and the three men put their shoulders into the cart and spent some time arguing about unloading the cart, while Acilus' mare, whom he named Wretched Aia for reasons only known to himself, watched with increasing impatience. She wondered: did the horses have their own set of Daedric Princes, and horsy realms they sat in. Was their a Daedric Prince of this field has too many thistles, a Daedric Prince who sent annoying dogs to horses he disliked, and drove them off based on whatever whim the Prince had for horses he favored? Certainly the mare looked like she would be praying to one if she could. She kept turning her head back, as if to say, this cart ain't goin nowhere. Just unhitch me and let me go graze. Those pretty looking blue mountain flowers look tasty.

By late afternoon they made progress up the mountain, Acilius angry and possibly frightened. "We're going to push through the night. The old nag had a good enough rest. These passes are no good to stop. With any luck we'll see Morkarth with the growing light. Like I said, I know a trader there, and I have connections to the Silverbloods. We just need to get there and we can live quite comfortably for a little while." We, Ysorya thought, meaning him, but she didn't interrupt to say so.

"We're pushing ourselves," her brother said. "And the nights will get cold. We stop now, a fire will keep the animals away, and we can make it over in the early dawn light. We don't need to race the night."

"You don't know this place, kid. Look at the clouds behind you." Both of them turned, but it was dark. No sign of stars to the sky at their backs, but it didn't mean much to Ysorya. Acilius hardened his features. "That's a storm we're racing. Not the night. Now you scout out ahead. Make sure we're not walking into any ambushes. Tolfbjorn, you can rest in the back. When we get over the pass I'll need you well-rested to take over as coachman. Ysorya, sit with me. Your eyes are better than mine in this damned night. Now stop gawping, let's go." He turned behind the coach seat while the Nord dropped down to hop in the back.

"Oh, but my shoulder aches from pulling that wheel," the Nord rumbled miserably. "Stephan," he called to her brother. "Maybe yer sister can rub it for me, so's I can get some sleep?"

She turned to her brother, shaking her head just slightly. But her brother just smirked. "Tolfbjorn, if your shoulder hurts so, my sister will be happy to cut it out. Until then, maybe don't bother her." He turned, pulling the dark cloak over him, and with a wave to her, ran ahead down the track, to where the path hugged the edge of the cliffside down the valley.

They wrapped themselves in the blankets they used to sleep. The two moons, Masser and Secunda, rose in the east over the mountains, bathing the pathway ahead of them in red and white light. Here the snows hadn't yet melted despite the warm days of the past week. Tracks made by horses and men were the only signs anyone traveled across this land. To the north, and up, a wolf howled. No one answered.

#

"Wake up, girl," the old Dunmer whispered. Her eyes blinked awake. How long had she been sleeping? The cold seemed settled somewhere deep into her bones, the cart making its way across rough terrain. "Where are we?" she asked.

"Not far," said Acilius. "But Stefan should be back by now." She looked down the roadway, which hugged the side of a cliff face. Snow flurries moved in chaotic dances across the way, the little lantern on the corner of the cart giving off only enough light to make the snow look like tiny faeries come to dance.

She pushed up, pulling the thin blanket around her. "S'cold."

"Yeah," Acilius replied. "The storm is coming faster than I predicted." His tone of voice had a leaden quality. Eyes looked hard, mouth tight. The crossbow had moved from behind him to his lap, one bolt at ready. She felt for the blade just at her back. It felt warm to the touch. She hoped not to pull it out into the cold.

"What does that mean?" she asked.

"If the storm hits where we are, it could kill us. We have no cover against the wind or the cold. And if the cold doesn't kill us, one slip of a wheel will do the trick." She must have gasped, because the older man turned to glance at her, faint concern gracing where a cold expression once had set. "There, er, there might be a place we can pack in for the night, around the bend. The track should go up to the plateau. It's the perfect place for a – well, the wind won't be so bad there, at least."

The perfect place for an ambush, she thought. She nodded. Despite the cold, or perhaps because of the cold, weariness was fast taking over. Best she sleep for now, nothing else of use to do. "Well," she murmured, "wake me when we get there."

Acilius grunted an assent, and she closed her eyes. The blanket seemed to pull her down across the cold bench, like sleep was the only thing in the world that could welcome her, as if her dreams was the only place she would ever call home.

"Ysorya, Tolfbjorn!" Acilius hissed, and she blinked, awake. Hadn't she just closed her eyes? Now the rocks rose up dark and shadowy on both sides of cart, the road up a steeper climb. The nag had stopped, and Acilius was rising to a standing position, crossbow in one hand, the other shining a lantern ahead.

Figures, like ghosts in the heavy snow. She counted three, maybe four. Orcs, no. An orc, keeping a man propped up, his eyes almost glowing in the darkness while his companion faced the ground. The lantern shone up against the rocks, and illuminated others. A woman, the shortbow pulled back almost to her chin, aimed at the man with the lantern. She holds her bow like she's had training, Ysorya noted. The woman's arm twitched, keeping the bow at full pull. A young Nord whose blonde hair fell in his (or her) face kept a longer bow at pull as well, and she noticed the child's hand was already shaking.

"You want to turn around the way you came," Acilius shouted at the figures. "There ain't nothing good coming this way after us." Where was Stephan? She asked. She heard Tolfbjorn moving in the back of the cart, glanced back to see him rubbing his shoulder and picking up that ridiculously large warhammer of his.

"You want to give us your horse," the Orc replied, the echo of his voice dulled by the cold winds.

"I do that and none of us have the better of it," replied Acilius. "Behind me is winter itself. The storm that's coming will close the pass, with you in it, horse or no. Think this through: you don't look like a common bandit."

"Behind us is death," the Orc replied. "We're going with winter. And we need your horse."

Ysorya looked up, the woman with the shortbow still held the bowstring to her cheek, bur her companion's hand was shaking, and maybe not entirely with the cold. Tolfbjorn had moved up, unarmored, but holding on to the top part of his warhammer, the weave design glinting in the light of the lantern. He flashed her a look: as if to say, 'are you ready? I am not ready.'

She looked back at him. She tried to convey: we are both as ready as we can be. She didn't know if he got that, but the Nord nodded and set his jaw, trying to gather his courage.

One misplaced arrow and she was dead. One tiny place her training fails and she would be on the ground or worse. She felt her heart in her throat, and with a hooded gaze, matched eyes with the woman with the shortbow. There was little to the archer's expression but purpose. Ysorya tried to swallow and failed.

"We can come to an understanding," Acilius called out. "We can all find a place to camp for the night, and in the morning. I know people in Markarth, you can find work, and a place to sleep where some Reachmen won't put a dagger in you."

One of the others, a Nord, spat. "I won't be no miner."

"The Silverbloods need more than miners," Acilius replied, with the edge to his throat.

The Orc snarled a tired kind of snarl. "You Imperials, always wanting to talk your way out of things."

"There's a time and a place for everything," Acilius said. Ysorya watched the young Nord up on the rock. Hand shaking as it kept the bow drawn. "And this is a bad time or place for a fight."

"Then give us your horse," the Orc said. "If you don't want a fight, imperial."

"I don't think you want a fight, either," Acilius shouted back. "You have wounded, and look at your-" he raised the crossbow up to point, and an arrow whistled past him. She watched him turn in slow motion to face the young Nord, she saw a momentary look of horror on the boy's face, then back at Acilius to see an arrow from the other set of rocks, let loose by the woman with the shortbow, enter into his chest. Acilius turned back, fired a shot at the orc with the crossbow as another arrow slammed into his body.

She and Tolfbjorn both vaulted off the cart at the same time, while the nag screamed. Her instincts and training took over. She could almost hear the old Dunmer whispering in her ear. Your life could be over in a minute, she heard as she moved across the frozen earth, one blade already out, hand ready to focus magic. So act like you are already dead.

"Victory!" Tolfbjorn screamed, swinging the warhammer in a wide arc to hit the Orc, the one he carried, and another. "Or Sovngarde!"

She was whispering under her breath, "Boethiah, I offer these to you to sate your hunger" She moved down and in, as she was trained, to get underneath the reach of her opponent. The woman swung her sword as Ysorya ducked, and she looked up to catch a moment of her face, wracked in fear, dried woad cracked against her skin. She plunged the dagger into the woman's gut, putting her shoulder in it, and the two of them tumbled to the ground.

She staggered up as a crossbow bolt flew past her, missing the man coming after her as well. She looked up at the rocks. She couldn't see the woman with the shortbow, but the young Nord was grabbed from behind, and she recognized her brother's dagger in the assailant's hand. No! She wanted to shout. Target the other! But a quick look saw two large men coming down on her. One had a Nord axe and some ill-fitting iron armor on. The other a quick and low blade, longer than her daggers, maybe not as sharp.

"Drop the knife, girl," the Nord in iron said. "We don't wanna hurt you."

The other smiled. "Yet."

Be what they want you to be, the old Dunmer whispered in her ear, and they will never look for what you really are. "P-please," she forced herself to cry out. "Don't hurt me. I'll do whatever you want." She dropped the knife in her hand so it clattered in front of her.

The two approached gingerly, the scene an island of calm inside chaos. Somewhere, that fucking Nord was screaming his fool head off. Behind him Acilius sat on the cart, unmoving. She caught a glint of light, her brother had arrows sticking out of him. Bile and tears rose into her throat. Calm, calm, the Dunmer seemed to whisper. You are already dead.

"That's it, girl," one of the two said. "Nice and easy." They moved to flank her, as she heard metal crack against the reinforced wood of the Nord's hammer.

Blade in front of him, one of the two men lowered to recover her dagger. "Boethiah," she whispered. "Hear my plea."

"What was that, girl?" asked the one in plate.

And Boethiah answered with a crack of lightning from the darkened sky and immediate, deafening thunder. She twisted, the second blade in her left hand, and moved without conscious purpose. To bring death to them, or her, or all of them. In that moment, she was lost to the action. One day she was nothing. The next moment she may be nothing.

In her mind, the dead Dunmer smiled, and opened his sightless eyes.