Author's Note: This is a companion piece to Infamy's Daughter, though I think it can safely be read by itself.

Disclaimer: The Elder Scrolls series and the Bosmer all belong to Bethesda Game Studios; I only own Arty.

A Dance of Fire and Darkness

Aela remembered when she'd had her first hangover. It was in the summer of her fifteenth year and, despite the cold air coming in from the Jerall Mountains and the shade of the Great Pine Forest, it had been a very hot summer for the region. She remembered stumbling about the tavern, as graceful as a horker, and getting relatively drunk and obnoxious. The next morning hadn't proved to be any better when she had woken up under a table, feeling like a giant was stomping about inside her head.

Artanis Felagund sat across from Aela, her face squished against the table. The Huntress couldn't help but remember her own experience as the young elf groaned, stirring from her drunken nap.

"How are you feeling, Artanis?" Aela asked good-naturedly.

"D'eff," Artanis mumbled. Aela, experienced in deciphering drunken slurs from her many years in Jorrvaskr, figured that she probably meant "dead."

"Do you want some more water?"

Artanis lifted her head, revealing bloodshot eyes and a pale face. She gestured towards a large mug while wincing. "I've already had four mugs full," she hissed. "I feel bloated on top of everything else."

"Hmm," Aela hummed, nodding. She sat there a moment as Artanis buried her head back in the dark confines of her arms before the Nord stood up. She walked around the table, picking up a tomato, a knife, a flask of brandy, and some of the herbs that Tilma had left to dry near the fire. Returning to her previous place, Aela took Artanis' empty mug and mixed her ingredients. Once she was satisfied with her concoction, the Huntress prodded Artanis in the arm.

"What?" she growled.

"Sit up," Aela ordered. The wood elf did so reluctantly, eyeing the strange concoction in her water cup. "Drink this," she said, gently pushing the mug in Artanis' direction.

Artanis sniffed the concoction before grimacing. "What the ruddy Daedroth is that?"

Aela smirked slightly. "Hair of the dog that bit you," she said shortly.

Eyeing the redheaded Nord, Artanis slowly lifted the mug to her lips. A few moments later, there was a clatter and a hiss as the mug fell against the hearth, spilling the tomato and brandy into the flames. Aela blinked as the fire flared hotly before settling back down. She then turned to glare at the young elf, who had disappeared once more into her shirt sleeves. "And what, pray tell, was that for?" she demanded, crossing her arms. "I'm trying to help you, Felagund!"

"Eh nome," came the muffled reply.

Aela glared at her for a few more minutes before deciding that Artanis probably wasn't going to pay attention to rude looks and sneering faces. "What'd you even drink, anyway?" she asked after several tense and silent minutes. "You've never been this miserably hungover before."

In the confines of her arms, Artanis struggled to hold back tears. It was true; she'd never had a hangover as bad as this. Even the time she'd failed to drive a clutch of will-o'-the-wisps from a mine and decided to drink herself into a stupor afterward hadn't made her feel this wretched.

When she was a little girl, her parents had never been too concerned with keeping the pact with Y'ffre as some of the more zealous Bosmer were. They'd taught her to take whatever she needed from the forest, as well as how to use those resources. Now, though, after years of "peaceful" living, everything that she picked or ate seemed almost to attack her on the inside. It'd taken a talk with the Harbinger to figure out that the spirit of the wolf that Aela had shared with her was warring with her inner Bosmeri nature, but Artanis found she couldn't quite blame the Huntress. In all of her years as a Companion, she had taken her under her wing, guiding and polishing off her rougher edges and Artanis just couldn't find it in herself to blame her.

"Sujamma," she said at last, sounding hoarse. The brandy and herbs she'd swallowed had left her throat feeling drier than ever before. "Athis has a cousin, a fellow from Blacklight, who sent him a crate. He halved it with me last night."

Aela frowned and looked around. The dark elf was nowhere to be seen. "Why isn't he in here dying with you?"

Artanis sighed and gave a halfhearted shrug. "I don't know; I think he's off taking a nap somewhere. Sujamma kicks harder than a green horse."

"Maybe you should follow his example and go have a lie down," Aela suggested, frowning. She needed to make sure that all that Sujamma was gone, because if the others got ahold of it, things wouldn't be pretty in the mead hall. "I could go to Arcadia's and see if she has anything to help you," she added as an afterthought. "She may have a few vials of tonic left over from the celebrations last week."

Artanis' smile looked forced and painful, but Aela knew the young wood elf well enough to know that she was grateful for the sentiment. Last week when the whole of Skyrim had celebrated the anniversary of the World-Eater's defeat, Arcadia had brewed several dozen batches of tonic meant to be taken the morning after most of Whiterun got drunk. With any luck, the alchemist would still have a few vials left over.

Aela gently patted the unkempt ginger hair atop Artanis' head. "Go take your nap Felagund. I'll leave the tonic on your nightstand."

"Thank you," Artanis said, having once again hidden within her shirt sleeves. When she heard the sound of the door closing behind the Huntress, she sighed before dragging herself to her feet. She might as well take a nap as Aela suggested; there wasn't much else she could do while feeling so utterly dreadful.

Her body ached with every move as she stumbled down the stairs and into the living quarters of Jorrvaskr. Stumbling into the corner where her stuff was kept, the Bosmer face planted her mattress, breathing out a contented sigh when the soft animal fur brushed against her aching body. Slowly, the calming lavender scent that covered everything she owned invaded her senses as her eyes fluttered closed. The soap bars she used to wash herself and the coverings of her bed, the oil she used on the leather grips of all her swords, the vase full of flowers she kept on her nightstand—all soothing lavender. And for the first time in weeks, it didn't agitate the pressure in her already pounding headache.

"Hey Arty!"

The Bosmer's amber eyes fluttered open before narrowing at the hulking shadow that crept toward her corner. Blinking rapidly, Artanis' scowl darkened when Farkas came into focus seconds later. The tall, burly Nord smiled innocently down at the irate wood elf, his flour-spattered apron catching the brunt of her glare.

"What?" she growled.

"Vilkas and I are making an apple pie and we need you to go get some apples from the market," the dark-haired Nord explained.

Artanis stared at him, wondering who in their right mind had taught the twins how to cook apple pie of all things before she shook her head. "Why me? Aela just left to go to the apothecary; why didn't you ask her?"

Farkas blinked at her. "Arty…"

Artanis glared at him before sighing. Her headache seemed to have lessened in the few minutes she'd rested; maybe all she'd really needed was a whiff of lavender, even if it had been aggravating her senses lately. However, she couldn't just simply give in like that. She glowered at the Nord until he began to twitch. "Arty…" he said again, drawing out the 'Arrr' and 'tee' in desperation and giving her a sappy pout.

"Fine," Artanis snapped, standing up so suddenly that Farkas had to step back. She grabbed the wool jacket draped over the chest at the end of her bed before looking back at Farkas. "I call first dibs on the pie," she told him, batting her eyelashes sweetly as she pulled the coat on. Farkas blinked rapidly before nodding, remaining quiet as the Bosmer passed him. "And…" she looked back at him once more, shifting from what foot to the other. "Stop with the puppy dog looks, you big ugly wolf."

"Thank you Artemis!" he called, smiling ridiculously as the elf disappeared through the door.

Artanis took her time walking to the market once she had left Jorrvaskr, stopping every now and then to watch a bird fly over the green rooftops, or to let a chicken cross her path, or to snicker at Heimskr's expense as the priest preached about Talos. It felt uncommonly warm for Rain's Hand, especially since the sun seemed to be hiding behind a thick blanket of grey clouds, but the Bosmer didn't mind too much. She was used to the warm stuffy weather in the Blackwood and the Niben, and the cold of Skyrim still got to her even after some ten years of living in the frosty northern province.

Presently, she found herself standing in the crowded market place; Nords, Bretons, Redguards, and men and women of other races were bustling about and giving credit to Whiterun's moniker as "The Trade Capital of Skyrim." Artanis herself seldom witnessed the hustle and bustle, usually keeping to the north-eastern part of the Wind District with the other Companions and only passing through there when it was too early or too late for the stalls to be open. But today she was there to get apples because the twins wanted a pie. Wondering why they of all people even wanted to make something like that, she made her way toward Carlotta Valentia's produce stand.

Using her elbows, Artanis pushed herself through the crowd. On the few occasions she'd had to go to the market, she never recalled it being this overrun. Maybe if she was lucky, the guards would call the other Companions in for crowd control and she'd get to have the apple pie all to herself, even if it would make her sick. Maybe Arcadia's potion could help with that, too.

Finally, with thoughts of apple pie and the tonic she didn't have, Artanis popped up in front of the produce stand, startling the Imperial woman who ran the stall.

"Oh Artemis!" Carlotta exclaimed, putting her hand over her heart. "You scared the ever living—"

"Has your hair always been that shade of yellow?" the Bosmer asked bluntly.

The Imperial nodded mutely. Artanis stared at her for a few moments before nodding in return. "Well, I've been sent for a sack of apples," she said shortly. "Do you have any?"

"Oh yes!" Carlotta nodded. She turned and began to rummage in the crates and barrels behind her stand before pulling out a small sack of red apples. "That'd be ten septims."

Artanis hissed before pulling her coin purse from her coat pocket. At this rate, Farkas and Vilkas would owe her two pieces of pie and a health potion to keep it down. She pulled out the right amount of coins, ignoring the fact that they'd lost their engravings (gold was gold, right?) and handed them over to the produce vendor. Carlotta glanced at them before dropping them into the open pouch at her belt; she then handed Artanis the sack of apples.

"Have a nice day!" she called as the wood elf began pushing her way through the crowd once more.

Stopping at the well, Artanis glowered at the noise and movement and overall stink of the crowds of people. A part of her wanted to run straight up the stairs and into the boughs of the Gildergreen, though something told her that the priestesses of Kynareth wouldn't be too happy with her if she did that. And another part, deeper than the Bosmeri nature, urged her to leap into the throng of humans and…

Artanis shook her head, trying to banish the destructive path her thoughts had taken. She opened the sack of apples and pulled one out before sinking her sharp teeth into the red skin. Vilkas and Farkas wouldn't miss one juicy, ripe, red-skinned—

"Bleh!"

Bits of apple sprayed the stones of the well and Artanis wiped her mouth on her sleeve, disgusted. She held the apple nearer for a closer look, only to fling it away the next moment when the wriggling head of a worm stuck its head out of a small hole in the fleshy insides of the fruit. Artanis rubbed her tongue on her sleeve, hoping she hadn't swallowed any part of the disease-ridden grub.

"I work with my mother to sell fruits and vegetables. It's fun most days, but hard work."

Artanis looked up, blinking rapidly. Mila Valentia stood before her, smiling. In her hands she held Artanis' discarded apple, almost reverently, and the wide grin on her face seemed unnatural on a child with such soft, faery-like features. "Did you know," she continued, tilting her head to the side but never blinking, "there are some fruits that actually grow better in the cold weather?"

"Um, yeah, kid, I actually—"

Mila's smile only stretched further, making Artanis feel highly uncomfortable. "You'd be surprised how much work it is selling things at a stall, Artemis," she then said, holding up the apple. She tugged the worm–bright green and at least five inches in length–out of the inside of the fruit. "It's not all standing around…no, hold on a moment, it really is." She then raised her arm and flung the apple at Artanis before the Companion could blink. The rotten fruit smacked her in the forehead and Artanis stumbled back against the side of the well, throwing her arms behind her for support.

The headache she'd been suffering from all day came back in full force as the edge of her vision began to darken. Artanis gingerly rubbed her forehead and brushed the bits of apple out of her hair. On second thought, it'd probably be best if she forgot the apple pie, she mused dryly as she straightened up, ready to give Mila Valentia what for.

"Okay, kid, that kind of behavior—"

Artanis cut herself off when she finally took in the market place. The buzzing swarm of people was gone, the annoying child was gone, even the stupid green worm was gone!

She was utterly alone.

"Hello?" she called, spinning around in a circle. The market, in the sudden stillness, looked wrecked. Produce and trash left over from the great crowds of people was everywhere, trampled into the dusty stones. Shop signs swayed and buildings creaked; the noise was loud and unnerving now that the bustling crowds that acted as a buffer were gone. Places like the market place in Whiterun were never meant to be this empty.

"Hello? Is anybody out there?" she tried again, wrapping her arms around herself and slowly creeping closer to the steps of the Wind District.

The wind howled mournfully through the rickety rooftops, causing her to start badly. Artanis turned around again, glancing around wildly for something, anything to tell her that she wasn't abandoned in the midst of an empty city.

But she was, and that truly scared her.

With a cry of dismay, the Bosmer fled up into the Wind District, back toward the safety of Jorrvaskr and her bed.

The world was too quiet. There were no guards with weird masks and odd words; no people talking about the latest gossip or the Dragonborn or the weather; no children running around; not even Heimskr was there to babble on about Talos. The dead stillness was sudden and far too much for her sensitive ears. Even the howling winds seemed to be dying down, giving way to an oppressive silence broken only by her heartbeat and footsteps on the cobblestones.

With a shaking hand, Artanis reached out toward the familiar doors of the mead hall. Her fingers trembled, whether from anxiety or fear she did not know, as she ran them over the old worn wood of the twin doors. Steeling her nerves, the wood elf shoved open the door and barged into the mead hall, expecting at least the cheery sound of the fire that seemed always to burn in the hearth.

Instead, she was met with blazing sunlight.

Artanis started, and stared, and almost began to sob. Instead of the mead hall with its copious amounts of alcohol and roaring hearth, she was met with a long stone corridor. Tree limbs and dead leaves were scattered about everywhere and the stone walls towered high over her head: dusty, worn, and ancient, as if they'd been there since Jeek the River had first settled Jorrvaskr next to the Skyforge. Beyond the crumbling rock at the top of the walls was the sky, as clear as a midsummer's morning; quite contrary to the thick blanket of dark grey clouds she had been under just moments before.

"What. In. Oblivion…" Artanis murmured as the door behind her slammed shut. She spun around to face it, only to be met with a solid wall, identical to the ones that extended without end down the corridor. "What in the name of Azura…" she went on, turning to face the corridor at large. Carefully, a teary-eyed Artanis began to pick her way across the floor. At length, she began to pick up speed to run; her heart raced, whether from panic, exhilaration, or both she did not know. It didn't end…the tunnel went on and on and on…

She wasn't sure how long she ran; the sun didn't seem to move from where it hung at its noontime position. At one point, she wondered why she was even running, but she cast that thought aside almost immediately as she seemed to increase in speed. She went faster and faster the further she went, deftly leaping over the dead tree limbs and avoiding hazardous piles of leaves like a deer. Artanis let out a heartfelt laugh as her momentum made wind rustled through her hair and tore at her simple cotton clothes and woolen jacket. She'd never gone so fast!

Except the time you first turned into a werewolf, her treacherous mind told her, giving her pause.

With that thought, Artanis lost her concentration. She stumbled over a pile of leaves, fell face first, and barely caught herself with her arms before she became permanently acquainted with the floor.

Artanis groaned as she rolled over on to her back and examined the sleeves of her jacket. The light brown wool had ripped, revealing scraped and agitated skin underneath. She just had to fall, she thought in aggravation as tears pricked the back of her eyes again, of course she did.

"This is not my day," she sighed once more as she stood up. She wiped furiously at her face, turning her skin an angry red.

And then she caught sight of an old fashioned chest.

Right in the way of where she'd been running.

"Okay…" Artanis quirked an eyebrow before stepping closer to the sudden addition to the otherwise near-empty stone corridor. She stepped carefully to the side before kneeling down behind it. She'd been in enough crypts, caves, and bandit hideouts to know not to be fooled by a chest simply being there. Opening it from the front could cause any number of things to happen–flames from the walls, darts with poison, and hidden spikes, just to name a few. Artanis grabbed a thin white branch from a few feet away and used it to push the latch up on the front of the chest.

She held her breath.

When nothing jumped out to say "boo," she used the stick to open the chest all the way. Slowly, she went around the side and peered under the lid. In the depths of the chest, amongst a pile of preserved Graht-oak leaves, was the armor of a Bosmer Elder and two short swords made of gleaming white bone. Artanis' breath caught in her throat. She remembered the stories and her own memories were still clear; she had been nine when the Great War had broken out and the Bosmeri people had been called to aid the Dominion. Her father had been one of them; he wore his father's armor the day he'd left her and her mother in Leyawiin, saying he'd return ere long. But the years passed and he'd never come back. And then they had killed her mother and she'd ran away.

Even now, she was still running. But despite nearly thirty years and her still being so desperately young by the count of her people, Artanis Felagund still recalled the personal engravings, the ritualistic markings, and the delicate patterns that blossomed over the leathers of the old armor that had been in her family since the time of the Camoran Usurper in Valenwood. With slow, halting movements, she lifted one of the bare swords, absently wondering why it was separated from its sheath, and examined the old white bone of the blade. Her father had explained to her once how the names of the first born of some Bosmer clans were carved into a family heirloom such as a sword or dagger. Artanis held her breath as she tried to read the twig-like alphabet used by the Bosmer tribes.

Cullassion—Belegnes—Lhosson—Nerthedir—Helegel—Covion—Tinuben—Gwedhanar—Artanis

The young wood elf bit her lip before lowering the sword. This was her father's–hers! But how did it—?

A sudden gust of wind swept through the corridor, ruffling Artanis' hair and sending the tree limbs and leaves scattering. She stood up, sword still in hand, and frowned. Far down the corridor, a few hundred yards away and only just visible, hovered several cold, yellow balls of light, close together and still.

Artanis turned pale, recognizing the lights for what they were.

A clutch of will-o'-the-wisps.

She stilled, not sure what to do. If she turned back, she'd only hit the door-turned-dead-end where she had come in, and the walls were too tall and too smooth for even the nimblest of Bosmer to climb. Her only choice was forward, and that way was guarded by wisps. More wisps, it seemed (at first glance) than she'd ever encountered before. And all she had to protect herself with was some leather armor and old bone swords, but...

And then she was running, almost flying, down the corridor again. Her body was swathed in the leather tribal armor and a sword was clasped in each hand. She came upon the wisps so suddenly that they didn't even respond to her initial attack.

There were far more than Artanis had at first thought; they were hovering in a large open space, similar to the plains outside of Whiterun, where the high stone walls had let out. But the ginger-haired elf didn't stop to examine them. Wisp after wisp evaporated at the touch of her sword, vanishing with a ghostly moan and leaving only a few scant pieces of cloth to prove that they'd ever even existed. Artanis lost count rather quickly of how many she felled as her hair whipped around her like a dancer's ribbon and her swords flew in cadence with her body.

She spun and twirled and wound her way through the glowing lights as if they were stalks of grass and not strange spirits until, at long last, she turned again to find that there were no more. The will-o'-the-wisps were gone and the ground was covered in their wraps and essence. Artanis' arms dropped to her sides. They felt strangely like jelly and it took her several long moments to compose herself before she was able to flip them into their sheaths upon her back.

Artanis stepped forward, taking in the sight that was, on further inspection, the Plains of Whiterun. She knew she stood just north of the road heading west to Rorikstead before forking south and north to Markarth and Solitude. Except, when she looked beyond the surrounding grass and rocks, she could see none of the nearby mountains or the towering roof of Dragonsreach at the top of the hill Whiterun was built upon, or even the city itself beyond the high crumbling bulwark that extended around the ancient passageway. The grasslands seemed to go on forever, rising and falling like the gentle waves of Topal Bay back…

She shook her head and turned back to the mouth of the corridor. Artanis didn't know what was happening or why she seemed to be thinking more and more of Leyawiin and Valenwood, but it needed to stop, she had to…had to…

In the entrance of the passage, Aela the Huntress and Kodlak Whitemane stood, staring at her.

"Aela…Kodlak…?" Artanis froze and stared wide-eyed at the two. "What—"

Without a word, the two elder Companions stepped forward, shifting into large wolves. Artanis took a step back as the large werewolf with snow-touched black fur prowled toward her while the slimmer, but no less deadly, red wolf stalked off to her side.

"Kodlak," Artanis whispered, eyes widening. She tried, desperately she tried to shift into the scrawny orange mutt that Farkas had dubbed her the night she'd joined the Circle. But she couldn't. She never had by herself. "Aela…" She turned to face the red wolf, taking her eyes off of the larger one in front of her.

Artanis felt something heavy slam into her side, along with a wave of strong lavender, and she knew no more.

Artanis opened her eyes, blinking several times before she adjusted to the dim lighting. Finally, she was able to look around, but that didn't help her beyond the fact that she was now inside a richly decorated study, faintly lit, and obviously belonging to a man and most definitely to a Nord at that. A Nord man with money. She shook her head, dispelling the fog and the flowery scent that seemed to clog her nose.

She sat up and quickly realized that she had been propped up in the desk chair. Surprisingly, the desk was empty, except for a single piece of neatly folded paper, worn and yellowed with age and held together with a crimson glob of wax. Carefully, she pried away the wax and unfolded it. A dried sprig of lavender tumbled unnoticed into her lap as she frowned at the unintelligible scrawl on the paper under the slender handprint made of black ink.

Casting the paper aside, Artanis stood up—and instantly found both Aela and Kodlak on either side of her, both back in their human forms.

"Uh," Artanis said, looking quickly between the two. Wordlessly, they each grabbed one of her arms and began to drag her from the room. "I suppose you two—"

"Silence, Artemis," Aela snapped, sounding harsher than the wood elf could recall in all their years of acquaintance.

"But—"

"I advised you against it," Kodlak sighed, displaying the first real emotion besides rage that she'd seen since she encountered the two on the plains.

"Against wha–oh."

"I said there was no shame in denying the Beast Blood to be a member of the Circle. You sought my council and I gave it, yet you did not heed my words. The call of chaos inherent in every Bosmer—to return to the formless, shifting monsters they once were—is too strong in you, Artemis. You took the Blood and broke the Pact, and now your body is trying to destroy itself." While he spoke, Aela and Kodlak brought the short elf down several stairs, through a war room, and to the edge of a balcony where a raging fire churned underneath. "You are a disgrace."

And with the resounding echo of "disgrace," Aela and Kodlak sent Artanis tumbling and screeching over the edge of the balcony and into the fires below.

Artanis knew she was going to die. After the day she'd had, it was probably the best escape from the wrongness of everything. But a death by fire…a hot, uncontrolled, raging fire... A picture of magic made flames licking at the star crusted night skies flashed before her eyes. She was going to die.

And yet…

Artanis did not find herself engulfed in flames, nor did she find herself in whatever afterlife there was for failed Bosmer werewolves, nor even did she find herself in bed, waking to find that the whole ordeal was only an alcohol-induced nightmare. Instead, she found herself lying on the wooden floor of…Dragonsreach. Frowning again, she shakily pushed herself up and looked around.

"You're awake," said a horribly familiar voice.

Artanis gaze darted toward Jarl Balgruuf's throne.

"You're…"

"You, yes." The Artanis doppelganger stood up and made her way down the steps to stand before the still sitting original. But on closer inspection, she wasn't Artanis. They had the same ginger hair, lean body, and short stature, but she sported a few scars Artanis didn't have, and her eyes were cold like the frozen waters of the Sea of Ghosts. "Or rather, I will be. I am Artemis Nightwalker."

Something clicked in Artanis' mind. All day, ever since she'd left to get Farkas' thrice cursed apples, people had called her Artemis and never Artanis. The elf got inelegantly to her feet. "What do you want?" she asked, squaring her shoulders and looking down her nose at the darker version of herself with a scowl.

Artemis didn't seem to be put off, however. In fact, she smiled sweetly at the original's look. "I'm here to offer you a choice."

"Okay…" she trailed off, not expecting the conversation to take that turn.

"Shift into the wolf, kill me, and live forever as a servant of Hircine," the doppelganger said, spreading her arms out as if she wanted to hug her.

Artanis stared at her. If this Artemis Nightwalker was really her and not some freaky illusion created by some even freakier mage, than she must know that she wouldn't do that. Her body wouldn't bow to the will to change. "Or?" she ventured on, feeling uneasy.

"Pick up your father's sword, kill the werewolves—" Here Artanis noticed that Aela and Kodlak, once more in Beast form, were curled up like dogs at base of the Jarl's throne, "—as you would any enemy of the forest, and devour them. You will be welcomed back into the tribes and clans of Valenwood."

But that couldn't be it… Artanis studied the smirking Artemis. Artemis, with her dark, twisted nature. Artemis, with her black leather armor the seemed to drain all the warmth and color from the room. Artemis, with her strange title Nightwalker. There was no way in Oblivion that this woman who professed that they were one and the same person could be a Companion or a tribeswoman of Valenwood. "…and my third choice?"

"There is none," she replied coolly, dropping her arms.

"Why can't I go on living as I once did?" Artanis demanded, crossing hers over her chest in defiance.

"There is no going back, Oathbreaker," Artemis sniffed. "You've broken too many rules."

"Don't call yourself names; it's bad for your self-esteem," Artanis quipped.

"I was talking about you," the other elf's eyes narrowed.

"Then where do you come from?" she inquired, raising an eyebrow.

Artemis stared at her, finally thrown off. "What do you mean?"

"Well, if you're me if I stay with the Companions, why would I change my name?" Artanis asked, feeling rather proud of her reasoning. "And if you're me if I go to Valenwood, why would you be wearing armor darker than midnight instead of tribal armor like this?" Artanis gestured at the Bosmer Elder armor that still covered her body. "Thus there's a third option."

"Perceptive," the other elf said begrudgingly, eyeing Artanis. "What will you do?"

Artanis looked Artemis–herself full in the eye, an easy feat as they were the same height. The same size, really. Had she always been so tiny?

"I think," she said, flashing herself a pointy-toothed grin. "I'll kill you my way."

Artanis pulled the bone swords from their shared sheath on her back and held them in front of her body; her stance seemed almost predatory. She and Artemis regarded each other in silence, all bared teeth and snarling faces, for several long minutes before the former raised her blades and lunged at the darker elf.

But before Artanis could even reach her, Artemis raised a gloved hand, halting her in midair. The doppelganger stepped forward, then, and tapped the original between the eyes. Artanis' head began to swim as the smell of lavender wafted over from the fire pit. The assassin tutted, "I never change…" as the warrior lost consciousness and crumpled to the floor.

Artanis sat up abruptly before looking around frantically. Why, she didn't know, but something felt off. Something…she couldn't quite place her finger on.

Her headache was gone, she reeked of the lavender oils and soaps that covered all of her belongings, and Arcadia's hangover tonic sat innocently on her side table. Slowly, the Bosmer took out the stopper, threw back her head, and downed the tonic. She gagged afterward before standing up and looking around again. Underneath where the tonic had been was a neatly folded piece of paper, closed with a crimson wax seal. She frowned; there was no symbol or coat of arms pressed into the wax, just a flat, smooth surface. She picked it up and pursed her lips; something about it gave her a weird sense of déjà vu.

Before she could open it, however, Farkas burst into the room. "Arty?"

"What?" she snapped, stuffing the letter into her trouser pocket.

The dark-haired Nord gave her a goofy grin. "Do you want to go to the tavern with some of us?"

The wood elf shrugged. "What the Oblivion?" she said, grabbing her wool coat and leading the way toward the door. "Let's go!"

:::

Several Years Later

:::

The ginger haired elf rolled off of the wolf pelts piled on her bed. She'd just woken up from another Night Mother induced dream, rampant with wisps and werewolves. Moaning, the Listener stumbled over to the silver lined mirror that hung in her room and examined herself. Her hair had fallen out of its braid and her amber eyes looked red and watery. She sighed and rubbed at her face. She hated when the Night Mother made her relive that dream, reminding her over and over again how her mind had already belonged to the Brotherhood long before she'd been dragged into the realm of murder and madness.

Tiredly, and almost mournfully, the Listener tugged her black armor on, instantly feeling the darkness claw at her insides once more.

There was a knock on the door. "Listener Nightwalker?" sounded the voice of one of the lower ranking members of the Brotherhood. "I'm sorry for disturbing you, but Nazir wanted me to remind you that you need to set out for Whiterun soon."

Artanis Felagund growled, sounding almost like the wolf caged within her breast. There was a sharp intake of breath on the other side of the door before the murderer turned tail and ran. "Yes," she snarled, grabbing her belt of daggers and pulling on her boots. What Mother willed, she would obey, and if that meant that the hunters became the prey, then so be it.