He got home with little trouble from the people. No one even considered him suspicious, but the people muttered and whispered to one another. Rumours spread quickly, Anthir thought as he dismounted and led his horse to the city stables. The only problem was his arm. It stung like seven hells, but he was in no shape to mend it himself. The pain made it impossible to concentrate spells, and asking a priest or any other healer for aid would make them ask questions.

And as soon as the people heard his arm was broken, they would mutter about the Gray Fox's fall.

The copy of the Black Horse Courier he had delivered to his doorstep spoke of a break-in to the Imperial Palace. Second this year, and second at all. No one dared before, but this time the Gray Fox has been seen. Blah blah blah. No mention about what went missing, though. Surely Ocato wants it kept secret.

That figures.

Time has come for him to return to a past he wanted forgotten. Answers to his questions and solutions to his problems laid in Morrowind, back where it all began. Hissing each time he moved or strained the broken arm, he started packing. Due to his injuries it took a lot longer than he hoped it would, but there was no helping it. He only hated the idea of having his bones mend wrongly because of no medical intervention. But he'd have to live with it. Maybe someone in Morrowind will help.

Weapons. Yes, he will need weapons. The ceremonial katana of the Blades can rest in his house; he will need something stronger than that. The sword he had by his side right now would be more than fine. And the dagger in his boot, too. His two most precious blades... Quiver, arrows, bow. Not the best quality, as he was a poor marksman, but they could come in handy. Right. Armour. The light robes of Sithis' Black Hand of course had to go in case he needed to be discrete. The heavier set, however, he would wear on the way to try and decrease the number of heavy bags he would have to drag along. Yes, that worked, or at least seemed like it will work.

There was also a long, lightly coloured robe - it was cream white, with a long yellow stripe to be placed around the shoulders and attached by the belt for sheer looks. No one in Cyrodiil knew about this robe, and Anthir was not keen on telling anyone. It had no meaning here. It had a huge meaning in Morrowind, though.

And of course the Cowl went, along with Savilla's Stone.

Right, on with it. He wrapped each of his delicate alchemy instruments in cloth and packed them up together, placing smaller satchels of herbs in between them, hoping not to damage anything as he goes. He could get new ones if need be, but he grew fond of this particular set. It was good quality. Along with raw ingredients, he packed a set of potions. Most of them were just healing ones, unfortunately not strong enough to mend bones as damaged as those in his arm, and a wide variety of poisons.

He might need them later on.

What more... Books? What good would books be? Food. Yes, food, of the type that will not rot. He will most likely need to restock on the way, but with his pouch as full as it was, he could manage. The skeleton key, his precious unbreakable lockpick, was safe in one of his deeper pockets close to his body so that he could always feel it was there. There was also the brass medal shaped like a star with many thin arms, a gift from Lord Azura whom he grew to consider his second mother. No one in Cyrodiil could possibly know, nor understand, why. But he was now heading for a land where everyone will know, and everyone will understand.

He had it all. All he needed now was a small, delicate ring. It was purely white, with a small star engulfed by a crescent moon. He put it on and stared at it for a long moment. In Cyrodiil, in the province he called his home, no one would even think about it.

In Morrowind, it was the symbol of a prophecy and a painful past of blood and betrayal.

Jolly.


Considering he packed everything he is going to need, Anthir sat down at his working desk. There was one more matter that needed his attention, and although he was not sure if his solution is the good one, he had little choice. With his plan at this stage, he could not stay in the province for much longer.

He took a piece of slightly ragged parchment, dipped a quill in the inkwell by his side and started to write.

Speaker,
I write this to inform you that I will be away. Pressing matters demand my attention, and I cannot tell when I will be able to return. Fear not for me, and carry out the will of Sithis. The Dread Father knows of my plans, and I am certain the Night Mother shall pass her whispers onto you nonetheless. I leave the family under your guidance and protection, and I trust you will not fail me.
Listener.

This sounded well enough, Anthir concluded as he reread the note. He then carefully dried the ink with a piece of cloth, managing not to blur any words. When that was done, he scrolled the parchment and picked up the closest candle that stood by his side. It was white, but had to do. He bound the scroll with white wax, without any seal.

As the only seal he had was of moon and star.


Morning greeted the people of Cheydinhal as they roamed the streets with smiles on their faces. No one noticed that the well behind an old, abandoned house creaked as someone opened its rusty bars and climbed out of the well. Even the quiet clashes of the plates of his armour did not attract attention as he headed for the gate.

His faithful steed waited in the stables, Anthir's bags already attached to the saddle. He took her reins and, giving Cheydinhal one last glance, climbed into the saddle and sped eastward.


Morrowind felt alien.

Anthir hardly noticed when he crossed the border. He rode through hills and wild forests, accompanied by somewhat chilly winds and singing birds. But the calm and joyful atmosphere soon changed. The woodland flora became more swampy, with its giant mushrooms, moss and weeds. Even the air felt heavier. The Nord could not recall ever hearing any birds in these areas. Now, around him there were only grumbles and grunts of wild guars and the distant screeching of cliff racers somewhere above. He felt oddly isolated, endangered, unwelcome.

Morrowind was no longer his home.

He pulled the reins and directed his horse off the beaten tracks. For some odd reason, unsure even to him, he would like to remain unseen as long as was possible. Somehow the thought of citizens - be they Dunmer, Imperial or other - noticing him was far from appealing. Hard branches of the trees hit him as he stormed through, hooves of his horse splashing the shallow marsh water. He only stopped to allow his steed to rest, carefully choosing her food as the grasses of Morrowind often proved deadly, and only then did he eat, hardly ever sleeping. If he did sleep, it was mostly in the saddle, as he trusted the horse to find her own way east. Once in a while he had to turn rather abruptly when the stars told him he was going the wrong way, and his tiredness weakened him as much as his growing hunger. But no matter, he told himself, he will rest when he reaches the coast.

With his journey as intense as it was, he reached the shores quite quickly. As soon as he reached the huge wooden gates of a port city he could not even name, the Dunmer guards eyed him carefully. With the special robe deep in a bag and the white ring covered by a plate glove, they could not know whom he was. They only nodded, letting him pass. Most of the other dark elven citizens acted similarly, either only giving him polite nods, angered growls or ignoring him completely. The Imperial guards seemed to watch him closer, clearly alert. Must be because there is no Emperor and nearly all provinces think of withdrawing from the Empire... Of course. Things are never this easy.

As much as he wanted to rest, with his eyes and all limbs refusing to cooperate, he decided he will do so on board a ship to the island. Time was precious. In the docks, he managed to find one small boat - a ferry, actually - crewed entirely by Imperials, therefore citizens of the Empire. And since the Morrowind elves considered nearly everyone an outsider, these people would be one of those outsiders, therefore more keen on helping him. And indeed, he did not need to explain too much. For a small fee the sailors agreed to transport both him and his horse to the island, and Anthir could finally rest in a hammock that felt as good as the softest bed.

Ebonheart was just as he remembered it. And, what seemed very odd, less unwelcoming than the rest of Morrowind. It must have been because it was the only city on Vvardenfell under full control of the Empire. With all the Imperial soldiers roaming the streets, buildings of white Cyrodilic stone it felt almost like home.

There was only one thing that seemed completely out of place, of both Dunmeri and Imperial architecture. A statue, considered the symbol of Ebonheart, stood in the middle of its main square. An ebony dragon with its wings outstretched, long neck straight and head held high. It was indeed a creature proud and majestic in its obvious strength and power. But, what never occurred to Anthir before, it really idid/i look like pure ebony. That metal is extremely heavy and also hard. It would have been a horrendously difficult task to carve anything out of it. What would force a man, or a mer, to carve something as sinister as a dragon out of something as hard as ebony? Why would anyone strain themselves so much?

And only then did Anthir notice how much this statue resembles the stone avatar of Akatosh that now stands in the Temple of the One, back in Cyrodiil. How much it resembles Martin.

But the avatar has been there for a few months only, and the ebony dragon stands in Ebonheart ever since he can remember. A link between these would surely be pure coincidence...

... would it not?

Clenching a fist, he felt the white ring hidden under a glove hit his skin. It felt warm and calmingly familiar, like something he has always had and something he reclaimed. Staring at the dragon, nearly mesmerized, Anthir recalled how much his life has been led by prophecies and divine intervention. One thing led to another, there were links and connections between almost everything. Things he has done in the far past, in his youth, returned to him here, on Vvardenfell, revealing themselves as parts of a prophecy.

He was not so sure this ebony dragon had nothing to do with Akatosh.

Sighing, he removed his right glove very slowly as his arm stung badly. The white ring gleamed when it finally saw sunlight, after years of being kept secret, hidden. It seemed to smile.

Anthir smiled, too, at his precious Moon-and-Star.