The Lady
The ground you sprawl upon is rock-hard, but you feel no discomfort, and if you tremble, it's not because of the frost. You stay there a long time, and the sun's slow arc in the sky brings it around so that shafts of golden light illuminate the tombstones - the ones you'd rather ignore - picking out every chiselled letter. Solemn and accusing and final, they stand for everything that went wrong.
(Lucien, of course, won't get a tombstone, or a tomb, not even an unmarked pit. They'll let him hang there until his raw, remaining flesh molders and falls away; they'll probably take the new recruits up there to look at him, a warning to any would-be traitors.)
Look at the central grave: the old lady. The memory of her weathered, bright-eyed face swims into your mind, confiding how much she misses her sons and daughters. She asked you to bring them gifts and instead you brought them death, a cold arrow, a poison-drenched blade. Well, it's a gift of a sort. At least they're together now. That makes them better off than you and him.
Lachance's fool Silencer will never question the dead drops, Bellamont wrote - and you didn't. Not once.
An entire family wiped out, and why? Because he ordered it. And you did it without question, as you'd have done any other unconscionable thing he asked. And Bellamont knew this too; he counted on it. See? Your devotion is what brought you to this. It's the bitterest irony of all.
Back out east, they used to call you saviour, Nerevar reborn. You were never sure you believed that - but you played the role anyway; you saved their land, and they loved you for it. What would they say if they knew how far you've fallen?
It hardly matters. Still, for his sake alone you deserve punishment - but then so do a few other people. And now the sun is sinking, the gravestones are casting lengthening shadows like five fingers of an encroaching black hand, and you've got an appointment to keep, back in Bravil.
* * *
The crypt yawns open like the mouth of midnight, and one by one the Black Hand disappears inside. And having no other choice, you follow them. All the performers are in place; the stage is set for the final, bloody act.
The dark Lady is displeased at being woken from her slumber. They call her mother, yet how different she is from that other one, how little regard she has for her children.
There are many revelations on this blackest of nights: all of them come too late. The first is Lucien's innocence. The second follows immediately after, and from there things happen in a blur, unfolding almost too fast to follow. This ancient tomb doesn't really need any more corpses, but several are about to be added anyway.
As quick as Bellamont is, you're quicker. If he reaches Arius and Alor first, it's only because you don't trouble to intercept him.
When the bloodshed is over, it's time for the hardest reveal of all: the Night Mother, with her far-reaching gaze, had known everything and done nothing. She saw into the festering depths of Bellamont's heart, watched his plans come to fruition, watched him murder and deceive. Watched as Lucien paid the price.
She recounts all this with defiance and an utter lack of remorse. And you hear her with a sensation like falling, your hand opening and closing vaguely on the hilt of your sword.
Behind you, Bellamont spasms once more, gurgles and is still. Your blade is satisfied, dripping scarlet from where it opened up his throat from ear to ear, but as you listen to her you could almost sympathise with him. So much for mother-love.
Then, as if nothing had happened in between times, it's back to Cheydinhal. Unlike damp, wretched Bravil, Arkay's city is beautiful, but its elegant black-and-white timbers conceal a similar dark secret. Arquen, now your humble servant, goes ahead of you.
As you stand irresolute at the lip of the well, it suddenly occurs to you that you haven't seen your horse since Applewatch. But there's no need to scour Cyrodiil. You know where she'll be.