When they were young, Sanyon had been one hell of a storyteller. Kemmeron and the other children of their slum in Lillandril would listen, wide-eyed, as the older boy would weave tales of adventure and heroics and treasure. He'd whisper about monsters and haunts from around the world, from the Pale Lady of Skyrim to the possessed ash beasts of Morrowind. He'd excitedly play the parts of kings and queens and dragon slayers and vampire lords with all the enthusiasm of a professional actor, treating his back-alley performances like productions put on by the troupes of Shimmerene.

With creativity and drive like that, it wasn't a surprise that he eventually found his way to one of the artist salons in Alinor. He scraped and saved and struggled until he cut his niche in a prestigious circle, pursuing a predictable path as a writer. He penned essays of historic heroes, wrote novels and poetry about the deeds of the gods, and was the author of many plays that eventually were performed by the troupes of Shimmerene.

But something changed whenever he came home. His books were the same as his old tales of high adventure, but the stories he told were grim and dark. He spoke of purges in Valenwood, merkind being laid to waste for stupid reasons. The parts he played were now of poor Altmer, being dragged into prisons and never seen again. Thrill and excitement were replaced by sorrow and rage, and with every word Sanyon spoke, it seemed to intensify.

He spoke quietly of his friends at the salon, in hushed whispers of those he dubbed The Beautiful. A smile would pull at the corner of his lips with every mention of them, however. How they wished to help Summerset join the modern age by letting go of their past. Yes, the Altmer had done much in their long history on Nirn, but what good would come of dwelling on it?

The Altmeri culture had effectively stopped in time. They looked back at what they had done, smiled to themselves, and then fought tooth-and-nail to never progress past it. Was it out of fear of change? Fear of faring worse if they dared step out of the guidelines laid before them? Or was it ego?

Whatever the case, Sanyon had been adamant that it was causing the Isles to stagnate. Nobody did anything new. There was no great glory. To make matters worse, the Thalmor were effectively trying to reverse time to devastating results.

"The Aldmeri Dominion," he once said in the quietness of Kemmeron's dilapidated home, "is a prime example of why we have to turn loose of everything we knew about ourselves. They cling to past hatred, past accomplishments, past glory. They're trying to undo everything that brought us prosperity and progress to skip back to lost generations, and it's contagious. Valenwood and Elsweyr already know our pain."

The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. In due time, Kemmeron came to know The Beautiful. He came to understand their cause. He came to realize that they weren't just terrorists, like the Dominion touted, but mer driven to desperation out of fear for their own people. They were the ones not blinded by the Thalmor's lies, the ones who realized that things had actually worsened due to their archaic points of view.

Even in the robes of a justiciar, walking amongst the Thalmor as they marched across every province from Cyrodiil to Skyrim, he had felt immense pity for them. They were blind as bats and walking straight to their doom. Worst of all, he couldn't tell them, not even the men and women he had come to love as comrades.

He just watched and waited. There was too much danger in saying anything. They wouldn't understand. If they did, Sanyon would still be alive.

"Agent Kemmeron of Lillandril, you are hereby charged with treason against the Aldmeri Dominion and its supporters."

Rulindil's voice may as well have come from the mouth of Molag Bal. It shook Kemmeron to his core and, when he lifted his face, he found that those dark eyes of the inquisitor suddenly looked blacker than the depths of Oblivion. Shackled to the cell wall, there was little he could do to resist as the bearded man in black stepped forward and grabbed his head, yanking his chin up so sharply that his neck cracked. He was glad his head was shaved, otherwise Rulindil might have yanked him by the hair hard enough to scalp him.

He couldn't muster a look of rage, which he supposed Rulindil was expecting. There were no defiant spitting, threats, or cursing. More surprisingly, there was no look of fear, even as a soldier in glistening armor turned the corner with a flanged mace in his hands.

Kemmeron considered him apathetically, then shifted his gaze back to Rulindil. As best he could, he tilted his head to the side and let out an exasperated sigh.

"What did I do this time, Rulindil?"

A sharp pain shot through his temple as the inquisitor's fist collided with the side of his head with enough force to knock his hood off. He didn't cry out more than he hissed like a steam centurion, jaw clenching and muscles tightening involuntarily. Sanyon would have chided him for daring to mock a man who made his living torturing others, but Sanyon was busy decomposing somewhere beside Lake Ilinalta.

"You dare make light of your charges?" Rulindil snarled. "Caerdil, if you would."

The soldier stepped into the cell just as Rulindil stepped out. Holding his mace like a bat, he reared back and slammed it into Kemmeron's gut. Something cracked and blood exploded out of his mouth, red dribbling through his stubble as tears welled in his eyes. Still, he couldn't say he felt fear.

It was as though he had turned everything off. He felt nothing.

"You are aware of the fact your brother is dead, are you not?" Rulindil asked, taking a seat at a table beside his cell. Through the bars, he could see that he was pouring himself a glass of wine. He looked like a bored noble watching a drab play, and sounded much the same.

"I am," Kemmeron croaked.

"Do you know why?"

"I was told he was killed by Talos worshipers near Riverwood."

It wasn't the whole truth and, judging from the look on Rulindil's face, he knew it. With a flick of his wrist to his armored associate, he silently ordered another blow. This one was lighter yet hurt worse than the one before. A gust of air shot out of Kemmeron in a high-pitched whine of agony.

"And who told you that?"

"The mer who arrested me."

"What else did he tell you?"

"That I was under arrest."

The mace was raised again, but dismissed by a firm shake of Rulindil's head. The inquisitor took a sip of wine and opened a book sitting on his table, thumbing through the pages as though looking for something in particular. The pages were yellowed and Kemmeron could smell the mountain flower ink. It was bound in red leather and singed on one side.

It was a journal. More importantly, it was Sanyon's journal. Kemmeron's heart sank into his stomach.

"I have made the appropriate reports to Saririil and Estalenya in Shimmerene," he began to recite, "concerning the affairs of the Dominion in the Skyrim civil war. The return of the dragons has hindered them and I can only hope the blasted lizards hold their attention long enough for me to assemble my brothers."

With that, he closed the book and tossed it on the table. Kemmeron knew he was reveling in the look of abject horror on his face. His smug grin was enough to elicit a pang of hatred deep within him although, out of necessity, the numbness consumed it once more.

"His brothers, hmm?" Rulindil pondered. "I know he has one brother, and I know said brother is now staring at me like he has something he wishes to say."

Kemmeron was silent. His tormentor felt it necessary to club him in the ribs to encourage him. Rulindil snorted a laugh.

"If you don't know where to start, allow me to ask questions to help you along. Tell me, Kemmeron, who are Saririil and Estalenya?"

Sanyon's superiors within The Beautiful, of course. Saririil was a painter from Firsthold, the son of a former Beautiful "general" who had deemed himself a ruling figure after his mother's death. He had engineered a handful of attacks on the Crystal Tower and was damn determined to bring it down before he died. Estalenya was a performance artist and acrobat from Dusk who had orchestrated several raids of museums across Summerset. Given her mastery of stealth, she had taken out more than a couple of influential figures in Shimmerene.

Of course, these were things Kemmeron couldn't admit to knowing. Heaving and wheezing with a mouth dripping with gore, he shook his head weakly. The mace was drawn back and, suddenly, his leg was broken.

"Who are his brothers?" Rulindil continued.

"I am?" he answered feebly. The mace wasn't even necessary this time. All the soldier needed to do was budge his injured leg and a surge of pain shot through his body. Kemmeron let out a bloodcurdling scream and nearly choked on his own blood, hacking and gagging and finally throwing up on the floor of his cell.

"I will ask you again, Kemmeron. Who are…?"

Something in Kemmeron snapped, and with newfound strength he furiously howled, "For the love of Julianos, I do not know! I don't recognize Cedril and Narylcarya, or whoever you said they were! The only brother I know Sanyon had was me! Born of the same blood, same parentage, grew up in the same house! Literal brothers!"

Another blast of agony let him know that Rulindil wasn't pleased with his response. The inquisitor was now in front of him, seemingly by magic, with sparks dancing across his fingers and a look of absolute hatred plastered on his face. Even the soldier seemed more than a little disturbed and had backed out of the cell without a word, his eyes fixed on the corner of the room instead of the twitching, bloody, singed mess of a mer shackled to the wall.

"What if I told you he wrote of you in this book? What if I said that I know you're with The Beautiful and you are only digging your grave deeper?"

"I'd call you a liar," Kemmeron growled. The rage in Rulindil's expression was replaced with contempt and, as suddenly as he entered the cage, he was gone. His mace discarded and replaced with a handful of pins, the torturer dragged his feet back into the cell.

"Caerdil, let's continue. I will start the questions again."

Kemmeron swallowed hard. Wherever Sanyon was, he hoped the bastard was proud of his little brother.