Skyrim's ambassador sat at the back of the ship on a bollard, his arms folded and eyes closed in concentration. Sounds of merriment drifted up from below deck as a door opened and closed midship, but he paid it no mind. The company of drunken sailors and travelers, or sober ones for that matter, were of no interest to him.

A hand on his shoulder caused his eyes to snap open and magicka to falter, making the powerful gale filling the sails die down to a quiet breeze.

"Master Farengar!" exclaimed an elderly voice with delight.

Farengar's glare of contempt at the interruption was transformed into a look of pleasant surprise as he recognized the old Nord beaming down at him.

"Professor Tolfdir!" he exclaimed with a friendly laugh, eagerly shaking the Master Wizard's hand.

"Ah, so you do remember me," Tolfdir said with a gentle smile. "I'm very pleased."

"I would not so easily forget my Alteration professor, nor the first fellow Nord practitioner of the higher art I ever had the pleasure of meeting," Farengar said, feeling a rush of excitement at seeing his old mentor. "Divines! How is it I have not seen you until now? We've been sailing for weeks!"

"I rarely come topside," Tolfdir replied, quietly smacked his lips in contemplation and leaning back against the handrail. "I've been searching below deck, as I seem to have misplaced my alembic…" he mumbled absently to himself.

Farengar waited patiently, used to the old professor's wandering mind.

After a moment his attention returned. "And you have been making yourself scarce, it would seem," Tolfdir said, looking meaningfully up at the ship's sails, slackened without Farengar's attention. "The assumption among the crew is that we've been making remarkable time due to a sighting of dolphins. Though others feel our good fortune is owed to the navigator's new lucky cricket," Tolfdir said with a soft chuckle, the skin around his eyes crinkling with mirth.

Farengar snorted.

"And what have they said about the strange wizard in blue robes lurking around at night?" he asked with a scowl.

"Ah, yes. There's been some talk of that. The sailors think you're a bad omen, of course," Tolfdir said wryly. "They believe it would be prudent to throw you overboard. One keen individual recommended they keelhaul you, suggesting it could cure you of your 'magic'. If they caught you casting spells out here, they just might try it you know."

Farengar folded his arms.

"Have I ever mentioned how grateful I am to you, for teaching me waterbreathing?" he asked, as if to say the crew were more than welcome to try.

The old wizard took a seat beside Farengar on the other steel bollard.

Farengar thought he saw a look of approval in the elderly Nord's eyes.

"You seem quite eager to return to the Summerset Isles, ambassador," Tolfdir said, stroking his beard.

Farengar watched curiously as Tolfdir leaned back, closing his eyes. Pale blue light gathered into the old wizard's hands, his bony fingers smoothly gesturing. The ambassador felt a cool breeze touch his cheek just before the wind rose into a howl, nearly whipping the hood from his head.

"How fortunate!" Tolfdir said over the loudly billowing sails. "I think I saw another group of dolphins along the starboard side. Perhaps we'll surprise everyone by reaching the Isles tonight."

Farengar sat back, mirroring his posture. Reaching out, he smiled beneath his hood as he drew upon his magicka, adding his strength to his old professor's and making the sails swell.

"You know the Isles well, ambassador," he heard Tolfdir say. "I am eager to find Archmage Therion Adamonest. Would you happen to know where he resides?"

Farengar frowned at the question.

Where Therion was concerned, no news was usually good news.

"Yes, I know it well," Farengar replied. "If it's not too forward, may I ask what your business is with Whiterun's thane?"

"College business," Tolfdir said dismissively, politely dodging his question. "I thought it best to discuss things in person, you see. And it gave me the opportunity to see the once forbidden continent with my own eyes. Although, while I'm here," the High Wizard added to himself in an apprehensive murmur. "I should also like to tell the Archmage something has been stolen…"


The ship docked just before dawn, with many praises given to dolphins and the navigator's lucky cricket, while Farengar discretely cast an invisibility spell and walked down the gangplank even as it was still being set-up.

Farengar tried to put the ominous encounter with his old master out of his mind and focus instead on the final leg of his journey. Drawing his blue hood low and hiding his hands in his pockets, he ducked down a small, dark road, avoiding the brightly illuminated Main Street. There were always at least a few stragglers roaming there, even at ungodly hours like these that fell somewhere between late and early.

Alinor city, he considered, while keeping to the shadows as much as possible, was a stunningly clean, safe place to live, and its crime rate almost non-existent.

For High Elves.

For humans, beast races, or even other races of elves, the statistic was drastically different.

The Summerset Isles were undergoing a rapid transformation- one that its inhabitants were still coming to grips with.

Six months ago the sudden death of Radac, the tyrannical leader of the Summerset Isles and the "Ascendant" head of the Thalmor, set off a chain reaction of events, including foreigners and exiles popping up throughout the land. With their Ascendant dead, the last of the radical elven supremacists, the Thalmor, were left licking their wounds somewhere in the shadows. Making traveling alone as a foreigner in the current climate, to put it lightly, ill-advised.

A fact which did not escape Skyrim's ambassador as he cut through an enchanting park filled with glowing vines, heading toward the west end of town, with his pale complexion hidden from view.

Wandering the streets of Alinor without a High Elven escort was something he would never recommend to other foreigners. Although it was hypocritical, he would think anyone else trying it extremely foolish. Perhaps it was his pride, he mused, but he was completely confident he could avoid trouble.

Farengar had perfected moving around the city to an artform. He knew which routes to take and which to avoid, what times to go, and if he was very careful about hiding his skin, he could convince others he was a very short native through a bit of cunning and clever use of the high elven language, Altmeris.

Therion, it turned out, was a far better tutor in his native tongue than in Dovahzul, the language of dragons. And although the elf would be appalled to know of Farengar's secret walks through town, Farengar himself considered it practical research.

Though if he was being perfectly honest with himself, more than anything he found the idea of being escorted loathsome.

He had grown up in Skyrim. Well-known for harsh cold, producing the hardiest warriors on Nirn, and a distrust of magic so profound it bordered on the fanatical. No one had provided an escort for him there.

The twin moons were fading from view and the sun was slowly cresting the horizon when he finally laid eyes on the large estate surrounded by Molagleyes trees. Burning red leaves, fueled by magicka, wreathed the house in a beautiful hearth-like glow.

There was an indefinable quality to Therion's house which brought him tranquility. From the moment he had laid eyes on it, he understood the painful, homesick look Therion had worn in Skyrim.

The house was spacious and grand, but felt comfortable and inviting; not extravagant and garish like other High Elven estates. The selection of tomes, scrolls, and books throughout the rooms ranged from every subject, all of them tenderly cared for and lovingly organized. Farengar couldn't help but feel a tinge of envy every time he buried himself in a new book; it was the type of collection he could imagine amassing, if he were likewise 134 years old. He had never thought of a human's lifespan as being limited, until he had looked upon the accomplishments of Altmer. The country was filled with majestic art, stunning magical research, and detailed craftsmanship perfected over several hundred years. There were times he felt envious, like when he visited the country's massive libraries that he would never live long enough to read through, but more than anything, he had never imagined there was so much knowledge to be gained, and Farengar reveled in the wonder of it all.

Slipping in the back gate, he let out a sigh of contentment, relieved to finally be home.

Home.

The thought caught him off guard.

It was the first time he had referred to it as such, the word coming to his mind of its own accord.

Reflecting on it, he absently ran a hand across the familiar texture of the smooth, crystal trees as he walked through the gate and up the path to the house. A wave of serenity began to wash over him, growing stronger the closer he came.

In opposition to the warm and pleasant glow of his thoughts, an agitated grumble rose from the back of his throat. Despite his best efforts, pleasant nights like these filled him with unease. Everything was too good, too perfect. And if there had been one constant in his life, it was that his happiness was short-lived.

The kitchen was the closest entrance when coming from the docks, which suited him just fine. He could use a little breakfast before slipping into bed. The ship's cook had seemed a relative of Orgnar from Riverwood, or at least from the same culinary background. Which was to say, he enjoyed putting the ship's skeever population to imaginative uses.

Turning his key in the lock, Farengar opened the kitchen door and nearly tripped over something. Instead of looking down, his gaze was drawn straight ahead, transfixed by an intricate web of glowing, blue lines spread between crystals, twinkling and sparkling like stars. Farengar might have found it beautiful, had he not recognized the web of light as Therion's soul, being ripped from his body and torn in countless directions. The elf was lying deathly still in a pool of blood, sprawled on his side with an arrow buried deep in his shoulder.

Farengar leapt over what he recognized was a dead Thalmor agent, and grabbed an open box from the floor. He hadn't seen the ancient weapon in months, but could recognize it anywhere. Moving quickly, he began sweeping the glowing, crystal fragments of Silgarot, the Soul Stealer, into the container.

It was difficult not to cast a restoration spell instead, looking at Therion's blood on the floor, but he had to get the fractured artifact away from the Dragonborn as fast as possible or there would be nothing left for him to heal. And casting a spell could be unwise. Broken artifacts were dangerously unpredictable-

Before he could finish his thought, Farengar's ears were deafened by a booming crash of thunder as his eyes were blinded by light. When his senses returned, he found himself sliding down a wall 10 feet from where he had been. Thrown across the room by the volatile, pent up energies of the broken Silgarot.

Stunned and unable to move, Farengar landed on the floor and sat watching the blue lines crackle and spark violently. Heart pounding, he wondered what effect the sudden outburst was having on Therion. The Dragonborn continued to lay motionless below the turbulent storm, his figure blasted by erratic surges as Silgarot hungrily searched for his soul. Farengar watched with surprise as the glowing shards pulsed, but to his relief they grew no brighter. It appeared Silgarot was unable to wrench the soul out of Therion; possibly due to being so badly damaged. Which meant there was still a chance some or all of Therion's soul was still inside of him.

A small part of his mind told him it was a futile hope.

If Therion's soul had been torn in any way, no matter how small, there would be no mending it. Watching the fractured shards flash erratically, he couldn't imagine that it hadn't damaged him in some way.

With grim determination, Farengar shrugged off the numbness of his limbs, and rose to his feet.

Clearing his mind, he willed himself to focus. He had known the taste of the crystal's power while it was still whole. He had felt it draw across his flesh in searing flames just before shattering it into what it was now.

Lowering one knee to the ground, he closed his eyes and gently reached out for the pent up energy within the fragmented artifact. Familiar heat pricked across his skin in pins and needles as he let in a tiny amount of its power.

Channeling a broken artifact was a perilous endeavor.

And even when it was intact, Silgarot was meant to be sustained by a group of mages, not one. The last time he had dared wield it alone had been the moment before his death, when he had nothing left to lose.

Reclaiming the empty wooden box, he looked down at Therion lying unconscious on his side, pooled in blood. Silgarot was still trying to devour his soul, so he was alive. Blood loss could be healed. It looked severe, but he could recover within a week.

Damage to one's soul, however…

He forced it out of his mind, trying not to wonder how long Therion had been this way before he arrived.

Closing his eyes, he squeezed the box tight, knuckles turning white as he slowly opened himself to the power of Silgarot. The blistering power of a soul began to burn across his skin in hot, blue flames. Farengar hoped it was the soul of a dragon and not Therion's, that he was channeling.

There was no delicate way to remove Silgarot.

All he could do was be quick, and pray what he had in mind did not cause the broken relic to explode.

Opening himself completely to Silgarot, Farengar threw his head back as he was surrounded with burning, blue, incandescent flames. When his eyes snapped open, his irises were completely obscured with the brilliant glow of magicka.

With one hand he slammed the box to the ground, the contact creating a powerful crack! fueled by magic.

All at once, every piece of Silgarot shot across the floor, gathering itself into the box. As he snapped the lid shut, the pieces were beginning to rumble. With a powerful throw, he flung the package at the door while casting a spell in his other hand. From a bright explosion of white magicka, a ghostly wolf leapt up, catching the package in its mouth mid-air, before agilely landing on the floor and sprinting out the door, bounding over the dead body of the Thalmor.

With baited breath Farengar watched the web of light hovering over Therion crackle violently once before fading into small particles of light, and vanishing completely. Farengar wasted no time wrenching the arrow from the elf's shoulder, before pouring all the healing magic he could muster into him.

Sweat forming on his brow, Farengar toiled, feeling sick dread building in his gut as Therion's expression remained blank.


Groaning, Talamagne rolled over, drifting between sleep and consciousness. Blearily, he looked around his room, slowly waking up. The howling wolf from his dream lingered as his furniture came into focus.

Placing a hand over his face to block out the twin moons, he wondered what time it was. A low, mournful howl punctuated with an insistent bark made him sit up. When the sound began again, he tossed back his covers, racing to the window and throwing it open.

At the sight of the tall Altmer, the glowing familiar standing on his doorstep stopped mid-howl to stare up at him. Plopping down on its ethereal haunches behind a package, the wolf waited, watching him with an expectant gaze.

Sighing, Talamagne pressed his palms against his forehead, trying to force himself to wake up completely. He had been scrying almost nonstop for two days, leaving him exhausted and his mind sluggish.

Wolf.

The word drifted around his thoughts, searching for something to connect with while he threw on a pair of slacks.

Nord, his brain finally offered back.

Sleepily turning the idea over in his mind, he donned a set of silver, embroidered robes, working mostly on instinct.

Farengar's familiar, he decided, while quickly descending the stairs.

It was a common spell, mostly used by Nords and Bretons, but he doubted he knew anyone else in Alinor who would use it, least of all anyone that would have cause to wake him at this hour. He felt a momentary flood of excitement that his long absent friend was back from Skyrim. Talamagne's enthusiasm was instantly crushed by his suspicion that if Farengar was waking him up with sorcery near dawn, it wasn't for anything less than life and death. And the mysterious package at his door was not likely to be souveniers.

The conjured wolf looked stoically up at him as he opened the front door and bent down, curiously picking up the box in front of its ghostly paws. When Talamagne lifted the lid, the familiar disappeared, finding its task complete.

Going by the position of the moons, Talamagne was running on roughly two hours of sleep. Despite this, the sight of the blue crystal fragments sliced through any remaining fog surrounding Talamagne's mind. Eyes wide, he quickly shut the box, stowed it safely beneath a false floor board, and began sprinting toward the west end of town.

By the time he found himself standing in front of the open door of Therion's kitchen, he was puffing and out of breath. The sun was rising behind him, casting a long rectangle of light and a silhouette of his figure across the floor.

Before entering, he cast a detect life spell, ensuring that the two dead Thalmor lying in front of him were in fact dead, and that no unpleasant or invisible surprises awaited him within.

There were only two sources of life in the house, both glowing a lightblue.

Walking with silent, lithe grace, he crossed the room, finding Farengar seated on the floor. His blue robes were stained red, and his forehead was pressed tenderly against Therion's brow. The short elf was clutched in his arms, blood-soaked and unconscious.

As Talamagne crouched down beside them, Farengar lifted his head and spoke.

"He will not wake."

The emptiness in his voice pierced Talamagne's heart, causing the tall elf's shoulders to slump.

"When I arrived, the Thalmor were already dead," Farengar explained in the same hollow tone.

Leave it to Therion to be surrounded by the dead bodies of his enemies, Talamagne thought wryly, proud but also saddened at any chance for vengeance evaporating. At least they didn't get away. Assuming there were only two of them.

"I don't know how much damage Silgarot did to his soul- how long he was like this before I got here," Farengar continued in a matter-of-fact tone. Talamagne imagined he had been considering every possibility in detail for some time. "The most likely scenario is that at least some of the pieces each absorbed part of his soul. In which case, there is nothing we can do. The crystal is too volatile to use. Reversing the process would be disastrous, the probability of permanent damage too high.

"There is the slim chance that the crystal malfunctioned and his soul still resides within him, though torn and damaged. However."

"He will not wake," Talamagne finished, echoing him. What Farengar was omitting, was that even if he did wake up, he might wish he hadn't, if his soul was tattered. "Here," he said, holding out his arms. "Give him to me."

He had no idea how long Farengar had been sitting there, but it had been long enough. Reaching forward, he carefully took Therion from him, suspecting he wouldn't willingly surrender him if he waited for permission. Talamagne looked down at the pale face of the younger elf, as he carried him upstairs to his room, trying to keep a handle on his feelings. He had seen Therion scrape his knee and twist his ankle as a child. Even over a hundred years later, no matter how old Therion got, he still thought of him as a young mer- staring up at him with reverent, loving amber eyes.

It was hard not to keep his mind blank, but his lack of sleep helped conceal his emotions. Out of himself, Farengar, and Ondolemar, one of them needed to be strong for the other two.

That position defaulted to him.

If Ondolemar were like this, he had no doubt in his mind that Farengar would be the one keeping him and Therion sane.

Setting Therion down, Talamagne first went to a dresser and handed Farengar clean robes which the wizard wordlessly accepted, changing into them and out of his blood-soaked clothing, before pulling a chair up beside the bed.

Meanwhile, Talamagne removed Therion's armor and cleaned away the dried blood from his pallid, gold skin using a damp cloth. Despite his efforts to stay alert, he felt his head bob several times as he nearly fell asleep.

"I'm going to see Ondolemar," he said as soon as he had tucked Therion into bed. "I'll be back soon."

Farengar snorted, not bothering to conceal his dislike for Talamagne's husband.

"You're exhausted and he's undercover," Farengar said.

"Both true," Talamagne confirmed, popping the cork on a green stamina potion from his pocket before draining it in one eager gulp. "However, his cousin's soul being forcibly ripped from his body and possibly torn in a hundred or so separate directions is the sort of thing he likes to be woken up and extracted for."

Talamagne let out a deep sigh, thinking of how Ondolemar would take the news.

"Even if Therion does wake up from this," Talamagne began solemnly. "It won't be without consequences. If he were anyone other than the 'Dragonborn', I'd say it was hopeless. No one normal could wake up from that. But his soul doesn't seem to play by the same rules. I'm putting my hopes on that."

It wasn't a huge comfort, but then, he knew that Farengar preferred honesty to empty promises.

Squeezing Therion's hand before he left, Talamagne gripped his friend's shoulder before he turned and quickly departed.


Time moved slowly for Farengar. Every second dragging by like it was the longest in his life. He was incredibly alert, which was part of the problem, his mind was sharp and quick, searching for a solution to help Therion. He had long ago replayed everything he knew about soul related injury from his impeccable memory. After finding nothing which inspired hope, he had tried putting his mind to some kind of useful task instead to distract himself. He needed to keep thinking. Because he knew the moment he stopped, he was going to lose the tenuous grasp he had over himself and he wanted to prolong that moment as long as he could.

He considered going to the laboratory, where he usually spent the vast majority of his time, but it felt pointless.

So he sat beside Therion, quietly passing time, his mind working tirelessly, theorizing endless scenarios and solutions to Therion's condition.

Talamagne returned sometime later with Ondolemar, his friend quickly excusing himself to 'take care of' their dead Thalmor visitors downstairs.

The former Head Justicar proceeded to crouch on the other side of the bed, clasping Therion's hand and cupping a hand behind the dark gold curls on his head. After a few minutes, he too silently sank into an armchair.

As much as Farengar disliked and distrusted the man, he was grateful he didn't try to make small talk, and left him alone to his thoughts.

Talamagne returned later, and doing his best to break up the grim mood surrounding them, he forced both men down stairs to eat a late breakfast.

It was a somber gathering at the dining room table.

Talamagne discussed setting up various arrangements for Therion, as Farengar felt his grasp on the conversation slip away. Everything became completely surreal. He wasn't listening to the conversation; he was watching it, like one watched a dream.

Farengar looked at Ondolemar. The former Thalmor looked and sounded very much like he always did. He said little, staring at nothing in particular with a neutral look upon his face. It was off-putting to Farengar, how emotionless Therion's cousin could be.

Finally, Ondolemar drummed his fingers once on the table before pushing his chair back and standing up.

"Where are you going?" Talamagne asked from where he was leaning against the window, though from his tone he seemed to already know the answer.

"To kill someone," Ondolemar replied dispassionately.

Talamagne set his spoon down in his seashell mug, a customary Summerset Isle dish called a 'teashell', before closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose.

"I'll go with you," he groaned, standing up. His tone was supportive. From the way he spoke, he only sounded annoyed at being tired rather than anything else. "There might be some Thalmor over in- AURIEL, MAGNUS, STENDARR, MARA!" he yelled abruptly, shouting half of the Aldmeri pantheon of Divines as he looked down the hall. His teashell fell from his hand, shattering loudly on the ground as he grabbed his chest and sank back down to sit on the window sill.

"Talamagne, are you alright?!" Therion exclaimed with concern, before rushing into the dining room and into view for everyone else.

Farengar wordlessly stared up at him in shock.

"Just a heart attack, thanks," Talamagne stammered in disbelief. "Nothing serious. Don't mind me."

Therion gave Talamagne a curious look before his eyes came to rest on Farengar.

"YOU'RE BACK!" he exclaimed at the top of his lungs, before joyfully closing the gap between them in a rush, Therion pulled the stunned mage from his seat.

Farengar felt himself gathered into a bone-crushing embrace, numbly wondering if he was having a psychotic break. Then Therion kissed him deeply, and he decided if he had gone mad, it seemed like a better place than he had been the moment before.

After a minute Therion broke the kiss and beamed at him with pure happiness, his amber eyes shimmering.

"Ondolemar?" he asked abruptly in surprise, spying his cousin. "What are you doing here?"

Glancing around the room from one stunned expression to the next, Therion raised his eyebrows. "I'm pleased to see each of you, but could someone tell me what I'm missing?" he finally asked, after a long and awkward silence.

A strangled sound escaped his throat as, quick as lightning, Ondolemar grabbed him in a tight embrace.

"Cousin," Therion grunted. "Are you hugging me or trying to kill me?"

"I haven't decided yet," Ondolemar snapped at him, pressing his face against the top of his head.

Perplexed, Therion hugged him back, while looking around for answers.

Farengar merely stood still, staring at him in a daze.

Talamagne quirked his brow, a small frown at the corner of his lips.

"Therion, your soul was ground into a fine powder with a mortar and pestle last night and I just finished scrubbing a distressing amount of your blood off of the kitchen floor," Talamagne explained in confusion. "Not to sound ungrateful, but how are you alright?"

Therion looked slightly taken aback.

"Hm, that does ring a bell, now that you mention it. However, it's..." Therion trailed off, sighing and ruffling his brow in deep concentration. "Dark. Like trying to remember a drunken night of Redwater Skooma the next morning. I remember the two Thalmor waiting for me, getting shot in the shoulder, Silgarot, and then… it's a complete blackout."

Ondolemar released him and took a step back.

"Redwater Skooma," he said flatly, in a tone suggesting he was trying to fathom a reason why anyone would imbibe the substance.

"Fun fact," Therion offered, "it's difficult to detect the abhorrent taste when you're already drunk and someone has disguised the taste with juniper berries. A little revenge by my friend J'zargo for accidently turning him into a vampire."

Ondolemar cocked his brow at how someone could 'accidentally' turn someone into a vampire, but Therion only sighed with a fond smile.

"Gods, I miss J'zargo," Therion said.

"I think we're getting off topic," Talamagne ventured. "Can you remember anything else about last night?"

Therion ran a hand back through his disheveled hair.

"I think I may have heard an ominous, disembodied voice talking to me at one point, if that helps. Although, I might have been delirious from blood loss," he said with a shrug.

"You say that so casually," Talamagne said, a small laugh escaping him at the absurdity of it all.

Therion began ticking off a list on his fingers.

"I've met a talking dog, been to the Nord afterlife, read an Elder Scroll, and ridden dragons," he said nonchalantly. "To name a few of my exploits. Hearing a disembodied voice may be the least unusual thing to happen to me this year. And it wouldn't be the first time. I wouldn't be surprised if it was one of the Aedra or Daedra. They can be rather needy. No offense," he added, glancing up and then down.

"Fair enough," Talamagne said slowly with a nod, sounding curious but too tired to ask further. "I am very glad you're alright," he added, embracing Therion before cleaning up his destroyed teashell. "I for one, need to sleep. I'd like to stay here, if you don't mind. In case something else happens."

"You're more than welcome," Therion said. "Thank you, for looking after me. All of you," he added, sounding deeply sincere as he looked at them each in turn.

"You know," Talamagne said, his brow furrowed. "I would have thought you'd be fatigued from all of that blood loss at the very least."

Therion tilted his head in consideration.

"No, I can't say that I am. I feel perfectly fine. Which, I'll be the first to admit is very strange."

Talamagne murmured something about various tests he wanted to run once he was more awake. After kissing Ondolemar goodbye, the tall wizard finally waved them all 'good night', before dragging himself upstairs.

Ondolemar embraced his cousin farewell, sternly telling him to send word if anything happened.

As they were left alone together in silence Farengar remembered himself for the first time. It felt like he had been out of his mind for a while, witnessing events as an outside observer. Even now, he didn't feel completely real.

"Farengar?" Therion asked, touching his cheek.

He stared down at the gold hand, at a complete loss because his mind was dead silent.

"Did I break you?" Therion teased with a tender smile.

Farengar felt like he was supposed to say something in response, but nothing came to mind.

Therion chuckled softly.

"I'll take that as a 'yes'," he said, lightly combing his fingers through Farengar's unkempt hair. "Come here."

Therion drew him close, showering him with reassuring touches. Gold hands ghosted across his face and massaged his scalp. Tightly embracing him, he gently kissed his face, running his calloused thumbs across his cheeks. There was a content patience in every touch, as though Therion would gladly stand there all day.

Farengar cleared his throat, gathering his wits together. And then a thought occurred to him that sent chills down his spine.

"Shout," Farengar said abruptly.

Therion tilted his head uncertainly.

"What?"

"Shout," Farengar repeated, looking deadly serious. "Use your thu'um."

Therion didn't bother demanding an explanation, quickly doing as Farengar asked.

"STRUN BAH QO!"

Therion's words erupted like thunder, making a loud crack!, reverberating around the room. The sunlight in the windows dimmed and Farengar heard a small patter of raindrops hit the roof, quickly escalating into a heavy downpour.

Farengar gently touched Therion's cheek, sea green eyes clouded with concern.

He let Therion hold him close, the elf wrapping his arms comfortably around his waist and kissing his neck.

"See? I'm alright," Therion said in a reassuring tone. "The crystal didn't steal my thu'um."

Therion couldn't see Farengar's deep frown. KeepIng his suspicions to himself, Farengar said nothing, wrapping his arms around Therion.


Nerien sat on the large, warm, gray stones, watching his friend meditating above the pool of lilies. Quaranir floated cross legged above the surface, a serene look on the Psijic's face.

There were rooms for each season at the monastery, but Quaranir seemed to find it most peaceful in the spring room, Aldriel. Dragonflies buzzed between the flowers, petals fell from the trees, and a soft breeze drifted through the space, despite the room being enclosed.

Nerien sat up in fascination as he watched his friend's eyes snap open, revealing golden orbs of light. Quaranir was one of the few monks capable of looking through the pattern of time and seeing into the future.

Nerien jumped back in surprise as waves erupted from the pool, turning to solid ice before they could land on the ground. He shivered as a layer of frost fell around them, covering the ground as the pond froze. Quaranir continued to stare into things unknown to him, apparently unaware of what was happening. He looked around uncertainly as snow began to fall and the warm, gentle breeze turned into a frigid gale of howling wind.

He teleported to Quaranir and put a shield spell around them both just before there was a loud explosion. The pond shattered, raining shards of ice in a dangerous hail that bounced off of his ward.

All at once the wind ceased, and Nerien saw Quaranir's eyes had lost their glow, returning to their normal golden color.

"I must find the Dragonborn," Quaranir said with determination, paying no mind to the frozen room. He disappeared and reappeared at the shore, and Nerien dropped his ward and teleported after him.

"What did you see?" Nerien asked, shivering in the cold.

"The end of Nirn," Quaranir replied calmly.