3 E 432, 22 Second Seed.

It was almost an hour past midnight, but the old man who sat in the top of the tower was still awake. His table was strewn with documents; some of them were encrypted, others bore enchantments and wax seals or other signs of authenticity. He carelessly shoved them about, sometimes leafing through a stack to only to put them down with a slightly disappointed sigh. Any fool could see that his sources were incomplete, but still he knew that there was a greater pattern to it—a way in which it all made sense. He just didn't have all the pieces yet.

He knew when he would get them, and he knew where they fit. Every time he received a report he would open it hastily, hoping it would perhaps differ in some way from the future his madness had showed him. But it was not to be, and the picture they revealed made him shudder.

He rose out of his chair and walked out onto the parapets of White Gold Tower. Outside, the air was chill but clear, and his old friends the stars winked calmly at him. The last time crisis came the stars had been there for him, telling him to send a prisoner on what seemed to be little more than a doomed quest. But the prisoner had prevailed against all odds and prevented the Empire from an end at the hands of a mad god and his vile construct.

He smiled briefly. Perhaps this time he should just pull another criminal out of the Imperial Prisons and hope for the best. He had thought of that many times, but each and every time he had decided that he would only do that when all else had failed. It meant that he had approximately one and a half year left to try everything else that could be tried. It was little time, but it was all he had to find a way around the horrible, twisted future his dreams had revealed to him.

The Emperor went back inside and slowly sat down into his chair. He pulled a piece of empty parchment towards him and dipped his quill into the ink pot, sighing as he did so. To do this was to give in to his desperation, but he had little choice.

It was time to recall the Blades' most illustrious agent to Cyrodiil City.

Several weeks before the Emperor of Tamriel finally succumbed to necessity, another old and powerful man had a crisis of faith—albeit a much more religious kind of faith.

In the past, Archcanon Tholer Saryoni had been the highest authority of the Tribunal Temple, save for the almsivi themselves. He had guarded the faith of his people against the Imperial Cult and the heresy of the so-called Nerevarines, and he had led the Ordinators to his best capabilities.

Now he was a broken man, a figurehead fixed firmly to a sinking ship.

It had gone wrong approximately four years ago. There had been no storm clouds or ominous music to warn him when the former prisoner had arrived in Seyda Neen. This former prisoner had only come to Saryoni's attention after the man had wiped out a Sixth House base completely on his own—a heroic deed—only to contract the incurable disease corprus. The Archcanon had even considered granting the guy a nice burial on Temple ground, only to discover that the man had actually recovered.

Things had gone rapidly gone downhill from there. A frantic search action led to the knowledge that the man was out of the Temple's reach, having ventured deep into the ashlands on his path to the Cavern of the Incarnate. The next thing the shaken priest had heard was that the man had recovered the Moon-and-Star and had been accepted as the Urshilaku Nerevarine.

At this time, Saryoni had come to the bitter realization that he was supposed to have stopped this disaster before it came this far. With gritted teeth, and a dull aching pain in his heart, he wrote the letter inviting the man to his office if he would actually succeed to become the Nerevarine and Hortator. After that, Saryoni's days were dark and filled with prayer. It would mean the downfall of everything he had ever believed in if this man would prevail.

The Archcanon watched as the Ashlanders surrendered to the Nerevarine like leaves surrendered to the autumn storms: they held on for a little while and were then completely overpowered. Then it was time for the Great Houses to fall.

The Archcanon watched as house Hlaalu gave in easily, even greedily; as House Telvanni succumbed thoughtlessly, never even stopping to mourn the murder of their Archmagister; and House Redoran fell last.

The Archcanon watched as Bolvyn Venim fought the Nerevarine in the dusty, deadly confines of the Arena, and he clung on to the life of the Archmaster of Redoran as if it was his own. Bolvyn was a superb fighter, but Saryoni saw from the beginning that he was doomed. The former prisoner was a far deadlier fighter than the nobleman; he was not dueling, he was simply moving in for the kill.

Bolvyn Venim died with his fingers clawing at the dry arena sand and his blood-filled mouth still spilling curses. The part of Saryoni that was Archcanon died with him.

That evening, a soft clicking at his door told Saryoni of the arrival of the Nerevarine. The priest had momentarily considered trying to kill the man himself, in spite of Vivec's orders to give the man all the aid that could be spared. But in the back of his mind Saryoni rebelled. After all, the Dissident Priests had been right—the almsivi were false Gods, made divine by the same vile technology that powered Dagoth Ur. Vivec was a false god, and Saryoni did not have to obey him.

However, Saryoni was also a man who had lived a priest's life of self-restraint; and even now he stood face to face with the man who had destroyed his life, he kept himself under control. This man who stood before him was on his way to destroy Dagoth Ur. He needed to live, and to cast the false god down.

They did not need much time to exchange the necessary information. Then the Nerevarine, whom Saryoni now knew had been born as Dorvaim, proceeded on to the palace of Vivec and left him in a cold and empty office. At least, Saryoni thought, Morrowind would be saved. He was fairly sure of that now. There had been a kind of eagerness in the young man's eyes that a less experienced man might have interpreted as youthful enthusiasm, but Saryoni had noted with a dreadful certainty that it was hunger. This man literarily hungered to slaughter his way towards Dagoth Ur.

Azura had chosen the right man for this task. If this Dorvaim can't do it, Saryoni thought bitterly, then no-one will. He just wished that the Incarnate would have been someone who was more like the noble lord Indoril Nerevar of legend, and not this... tool of destruction.

It was the last thought he wasted on the subject of the Nerevarine himself. Saryoni, who had found himself unable to cast aside his old Gods and face the void that lay beyond, set himself to keeping the Temple upright through this test of faith. He succeeded reasonably well. The Temple swayed, but did not fall; and when the Nerevarine actually succeeded in destroying Dagoth Ur and the Heart of Lorkhan he even allowed himself to feel hopeful about the whole matter.

Unfortunately for the old priest, Dagoth Ur wouldn't be the only god the Nerevarine destroyed.

It was on a chill, overcast winter's day that a messenger brought word of the death of both Almalexia and Sotha Sil to the High Fane. The man, who was completely stunned by the news as well, could only watch on as the Archcanon broke down and cried.

Saryoni had never truly recovered from the horrifying moment in which Venim had died and his Gods had become mere lying mortals, but he had not been destroyed. This time, he was; and when the Dissident Priests came to visit him a week after Almalexia's death, he had changed into a bitter, brittle old man.

There were only two of them—he knew Mehra Milo, and the man next to her must be the Priests' leader, Gilvas Barelo. Their faces were grave, though Saryoni could not fathom why, and Milo actually seemed nervous.

Barelo was much more composed. 'We offer our condolences to you, Archcanon,' he said when they were seated. 'You might not believe us, but we grieve for her as much as you do.'

Saryoni just sighed and looked at Mehra. 'I thought better of you, Milo,' he said softly. 'Gloating over a broken old man is not like you. Did he drag you along?'

She coughed, looking embarrassed. 'We did not come to gloat, father,' she said respectfully. 'We were sent here to help.'

'I have decided to see you because you were right,' Saryoni said, still speaking to Mehra. He felt his voice grow thick. 'You were right; I was wrong. This moment is yours. But ask no more of me.' He rose behind his desk, feeling his joints protest as he forced to stand up completely straight. 'Now it is time for you to go. Leave me, and tell the world that you were right.'

Saryoni had feared that they would think they had some message for him, and his fear was proven right when they made no move to stand up. 'Leave me,' he said again, feeling his composure crumble. 'Please let me grieve alone. Leave this…old man… with the shreds of his dignity intact.'

'What if we could give this old man some of his dignity back?' Gilvas Barelo asked.

'So you did come to play with me,' Saryoni mumbled. They had come to pester him, like little children poking a caged animal with sharp sticks. It came naturally to all those who played the game of power... but he was still a mighty man and not some glazy-eyed and broken dancing bear. He slowly lowered his hand and knocked three times on his table. 'I am not a marble you can push around,' he told Gilvas with a voice that quavered only slightly. 'You will go now. I still have that power.'

There were heavy footsteps outside. Gilvas Barelo looked too surprised to say anything, but Mehra Milo bit the inside of her cheek and looked thoughtful. Saryoni closed his eyes and prayed to a God he knew to be a dying mortal. Keep your mouth shut, he pleaded. I am so brittle I could break at any moment... don't talk, now.

But Mehra Milo did talk, apparently casting aside whatever restraints she'd had. 'He went to Vivec,' she said, just as the Ordinators threw open the door and marched in. 'The Nerevarine went into the palace.'

She would have been too late to convince him, if not for the Ordinators freezing in place when they heard what she said.

Saryoni slowly turned his head to look at the captain of the Ordinators. 'That's a lie,' he said, hoping very hard that it was.

The hardened warrior actually shrank back from the Archcanon's pleading eyes. 'I heard the patrols say they saw a shadow slip out two days ago,' he stammered. 'But it was nonsense. We checked for traces of intruders and there weren't any.'

'The damn man has a key,' Saryoni said tiredly, more to himself then to the captain. The Nerevarine had always made him run after the facts, and he hated that.

Then he felt an icy load drop into his stomach. The Nerevarine had come here after killing two gods of the Temple... what if he had been after the whole pantheon?

They all must have seen the sudden change in his expression, because the room went very quiet. It seemed like nobody even dared to breathe.

'I—I am going to the Temple,' he announced, his voice suddenly shaking with emotion. A moment ago he'd held himself in check, but now fear threatened to flood him. 'Keep—them—keep them here. If I do not return…'

He turned around and took a deep breath. 'If that happens, do whatever you will.'

Saryoni forced himself to calmly step out of the back door, closing it firmly shut behind him. He then stood there for a moment, shivering, contemplating the future. The ornate dagger on his belt suddenly felt very heavy, but in an oddly comforting way. My way out is right there, he thought, slowly lowering his hand to rest it upon the hilt.

Behind the door, in his office, he heard the captain say: 'We wait.'

'And if he doesn't come?' another voice said.

'Then we do what whatever we will,' the captain snapped.

The room grew silent once more. No way to go but forward, the Archcanon thought, and he turned around on wobbly knees. He gripped the knife with a shaking hand slowly made his way down the stairs. There was no-one in the hall, and then suddenly he stood outside, facing the splendor of Vivec's palace all on his own. The high stairs towards the single door had never seemed as short as they did now, even with the weight of his many years on his shaking knees.

Too soon, he stood before the door. It took him a couple of tries to get the key into the lock and turned it with much scraping. But then, suddenly, the door noiselessly opened inward and Saryoni stumbled forward into the great domed hall of Vivec.

'You have little faith in Azura,' a familiar voice said.

Saryoni dropped to his knees on the dusty floor. 'I have no faith in Daedra,' he said, staring up at the gracefully floating form his God. 'You have always been my God.'

'That will have to change,' Vivec said. 'Come now, my son, don't cry. Did you really expect me to find me dead by the hand of the incarnation of Nerevar?'

It would have been the most natural of things, Saryoni wanted to yell, it would have been Nerevar's final revenge on those he once trusted above all… but as he sat there on the floor with his tears flowing freely down his face and dropping into the dust, feeling shaken, old and deliriously happy, he could only stammer: 'No, my God. In the depth of my heart, I did not.'

Vivec nodded, apparently pleased. They were both silent then. Saryoni took the time to wipe his eyes and stare at the gold-and-grey form of his God—a form he'd expected to find crumpled in the dust with a dagger in its back.

Finally Vivec spoke again. 'Morrowind is but a wreckage of its former self, much like you are now,' the androgynous god said. 'The Nerevarine and I have spoken long, and we have decided to use our joint influences to make Morrowind strong again, so that the Dunmer can face future challenges without our help. Even now the friends and allies of the Nerevarine are gathering to do what must be done. Some things must be changed; other things must be salvaged.' He looked down sternly at the old Archcanon. 'The faith of the Dunmer is one of the things that must be salvaged. That task will be yours. Return to the High Fane and listen to the Dissident Priests, my son. Work with them to restore the religion of our ancestors.'

'I will, my God,' Saryoni said, pressing his head to the floor.

'Perhaps you will have faith in the Daedra when you are done,' Vivec mused. He then slowly started to float up towards the dusky shadows near the ceiling of his dome; a clear cue to his most faithful subject to leave.

Saryoni struggled with his groaning joints in order to stand up. He felt completely calm now, oddly enough. Perhaps it was the soothing presence of his God—or perhaps he was just too tired to be upset anymore. The priest absently wiped the dust from his forehead as he turned around and stepped outside, closing the door behind him. Salvaging, he thought, slowly inhaling a the fresh winter air.

He turned the word over in his head, not sure if he liked it or not. I am going to be a Salvager.