The dress is blue. Blue as her eyes once were, so long ago she can't even remember it. The blue has faded so long ago, replaced by silver, deadly for her and for others.
Blue. She forms the word with untrembling lips, feels its taste linger on her tongue like blood. Once, blue would have been the colour of anger, of bad mood. Now it's just a colour.
Blue. Betrayal, that is its meaning today. She shouldn't ... it's wrong. He is one of hers, she shouldn't try to trick him. Maybe he would understand. But that has always been their rule: the Thalmor before her, the Family before him.
Blue. The woman had been wearing blue when she approached her.
Blue is the colour of death, she remembers. How fitting. Her death? Her friend's?
The world's?
Blue. The colour of the sky, they say. But everything in Skyrim grey and white and pale, just like her name. The blue of the dress is shining like a sapphire. Sapphires! She surely has some in the shack still filled with the scent of death. Maybe she should wear them. Burning blue on burning silver on burning blue.
Her father hated the colour, but her father is dead. Her mother wore the dress but she is dead too.
She has never seen such an intense colour - even blood loses its brilliance after some time but the dress still holds it. It seems too real, a truth between the shadows and ghosts and twisted mirror images. It's not blue as coldness, it's not blue as a storm. It's the essence of blue, of life.
Yes. She will wear it. And then ...
Then ...