Obligatory Disclaimer: I do not own The Elder Scrolls, Skyrim, Dawnguard, nor do I own any of the characters within those games. Those worlds, stories, and copyrights are all owned by Bethesda Softworks. None of the characters involved in this story are original; the framing device of the Dragonborn attempting to meet with Isran, however, is my idea. Any resemblance to other works on FanFiction dot net or any other website is entirely coincidental; I came up with the idea long before I read a word of fanfiction.

Author's Note: For most of this fanfic, I'll be writing in the first person. If any of you are like me, that alone would cause you to hit the "Back" button on your browser. I'm telling you this now for two reasons. One: To warn people that this first chapter isn't exactly like what the rest will be. Two: There's a good reason for shifting to the first person later: The story is a narrative, similar to The Name of the Wind by Patrick Rothfuss in terms of a framing device. Now, that's enough boring stuff; on to the exposition!

Isran,

I know I must be the last person you wish to hear from. You want nothing to do with me, aside from perhaps killing me. Nevertheless, I believe you will want to hear what I have to say.

Most men have layered desires. Their actions are driven by their current goal, which constantly changes. We are not like them; a single desire, a single cause drives us both, spurs our every action. Every step we take and word we say is in service to that one goal. The only difference between us is what that goal is.

I want to explain myself to you. Not to seek forgiveness, but understanding. I told the truth when I said I wanted to join the Dawnguard on that day before you sent me to Dimhollow Crypt, though I know you don't believe me. What I found within changed my mind. If you wish to hear what I have to say, douse the brazier in front of the entrance to Dayspring Canyon on Morndas, the 23rd of Evening Star. I shall come alone, unarmed and unarmored, at noon to show my good faith. If the fire remains lit, you will never hear from me again.

A friend

Fort Dawnguard, Fredas, 12th of Evening Star, 4E 201

Isran grimaced at the letter, as if disgusted by holding something written by a vampire. "Celann," he said, "What do you think of this?"

"I say we do nothing. It's too dangerous to allow one of them into the fort, and we can't afford to let anyone see us conversing with the enemy."

"Hmm… I think we might be able to trust it. I'll go on patrol on the twenty-second; if it is who it claims to be, I'll recognize it. If it's a trap, we kill it."

"As you say, Isran," Celann said, against his better judgment. Isran was the head of the Dawnguard; while Celann was an advisor, and an old friend, it was not his place to question his decisions. All he could do was trust that Isran wasn't taking any more chances than necessary, and prepare for an attack, the same way he and everyone in the Dawnguard did every day.

Castle Volkihar, Middas, 2nd of Evening Star, 4E 201

"Why do you insist on this?" Serana asked. She was sitting on the edge of the bed in Castle Volkihar, looking on at the Dragonborn as he rifled through the desk for paper, a quill, and an inkpot that hadn't dried up and rotted away over centuries of neglect. Eventually, he gave up, and simply set a stack of paper on fire with a spell, catching the ash in a glazed bowl that until recently held flowers for alchemy.

"Honestly? I don't know," the lord of the castle replied. He never understood fully why he was granted Harkon's old title when Serana had more right to it. She was, after all, Harkon's daughter, and far more powerful than he could ever hope to be. For that matter, Valerica would be a fine choice, as well. He supposed that the title fell to him simply because he had struck the final blow against the man, while Serana held the gargoyles and skeletons at bay. "Part of it is that I understand him, his motivations. Respect them, not particularly. For all his talk of helping Skyrim, he's only concerned with revenge. But I understand him, so perhaps he can understand me."

"You know he'll probably try to kill you, you'll have to fight the entire Dawnguard at once, possibly die, and then that lot will be wiped out anyway. And either I or my mother will have to take up the slack." Serana's voice was a mixture of fatigue at the idea of being the head of the clan of vampires, of dealing with the politics. Not that there was much political maneuvering to be done; the Dragonborn had made it clear that vampires ought to remain in hiding for the most part, or they would be wiped out by the sheer number of mortal men and women willing to fight them. Just in case something were to happen, though, Orthjolf and Vingalmo were continuing to manipulate the Dragonborn as best they could.

"I know, but I won't go completely without protection. I'll leave on the nineteenth; if I'm not back within two weeks, I've told Orthjolf to attack the Dawnguard in force after five days. I also told Vingalmo that Valerica will be in charge if I were to die. Finally, I'm fairly certain that I won't. I'm the Dragonborn; until I slay Alduin, I'm confident that the gods won't let me die." He wasn't boasting. He had inexplicably survived numerous wounds that should have been fatal; there were rumors that an arrow to the heart hurt him only as much as the same arrow to the hand.

"You don't know that. Some say that many people can fulfill a prophecy; you become the prophesied hero by your actions, not by the gods scripting out your life. But, fine. I know enough about wanting adventure to know that I can't convince you to pick something safe like clearing a troll's nest. Just take me with you on the next one; I'm getting sick of this place. Nothing ever happens here, and it's not like I can just leave whenever I want to. Even if I could, companions are nice; there's no one else here I can really talk to."

"Don't worry," the Dragonborn said, folding the letter and sealing it with a blob of wax from a nearby candle. "Next time, we'll go to Solstheim. I don't know why anyone there would want to kill me, but I'd sure as hell like to find out." He left the room, his boots leaving clouds of dust in his wake as he moved to the coffins in the basement. Daylight was fast approaching, and he did not desire to use Harkon's coffin-or anything belonging to the man-any time soon.