Chapter 10: Where the End Began

Yrith paced over the bridge, paced through the ancient ruins of Winterhold, paced past the remains of the last house, not changing her tempo, not straying or granting a single look to the scarce passersby. Her freshly cured leg kept sending warning signals to her, but she paid it no heed. She was furious and cared for nothing more than letting the rage out as soon as she could. Two faces flashed in turns before her eyes, a white-haired orc and a young Nord, both pointing an accusing finger at her. They didn't understand. No one understood.

Through the veil of clouds, sunlight caressed a snow-covered roof and broke into a myriad of glittering stars as it fell on the crystalline icicles sinking from its edges. She halted, eyes resting on a barred door, and let out a deep sigh. Why she had decided to come here, she did not understand. The place was full of memories, both distant and overwhelming. She looked over her shoulder, searching for the cliff that had once felt the first spark of her own magic. Her eyes found the trail of her first atronach, long buried in snow but still clear in her memory.

Her gaze returned to the house, standing there with its withering walls and shattered windows, abandoned and lost to the time. Cobwebs wreathed the doorframe, making it seem to have swallowed half of the door wing. She reached for them, then pulled back, not wanting to touch them. Instead, she released a tiny strand of magic through a shaky finger, inspecting it, testing its strength before using it to remove the webs. It worked, and she felt a tiny bit of self-satisfaction from it. The things she could do if Master Neloren was right. She would never have to listen to Singird Larkwing. She would never have to listen to anyone.

She grabbed the door handle and fought the frost that kept it in place, first by sheer force, then another strand of magicka. She turned it into fire, a tiny flame that would let her back home. There was no malice in it and it was satisfying. The door gave way and she entered, setting foot on the threshold of her old home after more than six months of absence.

The house had not changed. There were still the same depictions of various magical and alchemical experiments on the walls, there were shelves full of books lining the corridors, and drapes with simple flower patterns over the gaping windows, torn, filthy and heavy with frost. The floor was scorched and dust had settled in the corners. Back when Yrith's parents had been alive, there would not be a single speck of it, but now the house was barren and dreary, and the feeling of comfort it had once offered was long lost.

Yrith proceeded further inside, more because she did not want to stop than out of need or curiosity. The place reminded her of the pain in her heart. The past came to life once more and she walked in her own footsteps until she reached the laboratory. Only now the cinders were long cold and the bodies of her parents had been removed. There were still shards of vials and torn pieces of paper laying about, remnants of her childhood. She squatted, grabbing a handful of ashes and glass fragments. One of them cut the side of her hand and she watched thoughtfully as a drop of blood appeared in the wound. Then, suddenly, she heard footsteps in the house and froze.

They approached through the main corridor, light, womanly. She pressed herself to the wall in silence, hands stretched toward the entrance to strike if need be.

She let them sink back to her hips as the slender figure of Leyna Travi emerged from the doorway.

With brows knit tightly together, Yrith rose back to her feet. "What are you doing here?" she asked, trying not to sound too unfriendly or suspicious which was exactly how she was feeling.

The Altmeri girl raised her hands in a gesture of peace, lips curling in a hint of apology. "I was just…" her eyes wandered as though the right words were waiting for her somewhere on the floor, "wondering where you were going."

"Did you… follow me from the College?" She couldn't have overheard her conversation with Singird Larkwing, could she? Or worse, with Urag…

"Yes, but… don't take me wrong," the elf waved her hands all too fiercely, "I did not stalk you or anything! I was just curious where you were going. And… had nothing to do."

There was the strange undertone of uneasiness, something Leyna Travi had been expressing quite frequently the past few weeks, and perhaps subconsciously. Yrith wanted to ask about it, but failed to find the right words. She sighed, pondering what to say to her new elf friend at all. They spent a while staring at each other's feet, the awkwardness of the moment weighing on their shoulders until Leyna broke it at last.

"What is this place anyway?" she asked, switching to a light, conversational tone. She scanned the room, fair brows quirked up in something between curiosity and poorly concealed distaste. A corner of Yrith's mouth twitched.

"This," she said, "is… was my house. My parents' place."

Leyna drew in a quick breath and gave Yrith a look full of sympathy. "I… I'm sorry. I didn't know you'd actually lived here before." Her eyes roved around the room. Yrith could almost feel the struggle in her mind.

"Whatever you want to say, say it," she sighed. "I prefer people spitting in my face to not knowing where I stand."

Leyna laughed. For a brief moment, the worry left her face, leaving behind a soft smile, so uncharacteristic for her kind. "Your honesty is quite soothing in the vast sea of pretense we have to face up there," she waved her hand in the general direction of the College. "I did not want to… spit in your face. I was just wondering about what happened to your family."

Yrith's eyes slid over the ashes on the floor, the singed shelves and tables, broken alembics and dried-up potions. "My parents died in an explosion," she muttered evasively.

The elf gave her another sympathetic look, her golden eyes darkening once more. "Say, is it… difficult to live without parents?"

Yrith searched hard for contempt in Leyna's face but found none. There was genuine concern in her question, as well as something else. Was it fear? Or perhaps Yrith's mind was just playing tricks on her?

"Unimaginably so," she said grimly. "Worst thing is, no one really understands how you feel."

Leyna paled, eyes sliding down to the floor. She turned away, eyeing the curtain of icicles in the window. Yrith could swear she saw something glisten in the corner of her eye.

"Why are you aski—"

"You know," Leyna interrupted, "it gets… lonely here. Can you feel it too? The strange veil of solitude that enshrouds us and fills us with the feeling of separation? You weren't here when we assembled. Most of us were… well, still highborn children, naïve, full of pride and derision toward the whole world. And also filled with bitterness. Those who were not outright deported did not understand why their parents had sent them here. But we could at least confide in each other. We talked and experienced things together. But things started changing around the time you joined."

Yrith clenched a fist. A cloud of dust sank from it onto the ground. "So you think I broke you apart?"

Her Altmer companion gave a bitter laugh. "Yes. And no. I think you reminded us of who we were. You accentuated the difference between yourself and us. We were of noble origins, meant to rule over your kind, and you were the prototype of, as we say it, filthy broken commoner. Your aloofness worked in our favor. Or at least we thought so."

She paused, a slender finger reaching for a pellucid thorn of ice. She touched it and a drop of water rolled down into the palm of her hand.

"I hated it," she continued, "how uncivilized this whole conflict had become. They thought you filth and acted on it. I was the same, and I despised myself for thinking that way. And then… you changed." She turned back to Yrith, golden eyes glistening with fascination. "Ever since the day you were forced to attend Conjuration for the first time, you've kept your head high. You stood up for your ideals like a true noble. And we… started doubting ourselves. That's when I thought that perhaps you're not so different after all."

Yrith frowned, studying Leyna's face. It was not the face of a close friend as she would imagine it, but there was no contempt. Then again, contempt was the only emotion she could feel certain of when it came to dealing with elves. When there was none, she could not penetrate their masks at all.

"So you only talk to me because you think I am one of you? Is that right?"

Leyna shook her head. "I talk to you because… I think I can identify with you. Because despite being the same as us, despite knowing the same pain, you can somehow see through the pretense. We all know there's something wrong with this place, but you are the only one who admits it."

"I don't understand what you're talking about."

"Well," the elven girl sighed as she drew a circle on the ash-covered window ledge, "none of us came to the College of our own free will. Not us, not you. Circumstances forced us. The only difference is that unlike you, we don't know what circumstances. But we all feel the same unbearable loneliness."

Yrith took a moment to gaze deeply into Leyna's eyes. She was surprised when the proud elf averted them.

"If there's anything you want to tell me…"

"There is. And I will. Just… not now."

"Why did you follow me then?"

"I just… didn't want to be alone."

Yrith nodded. That part she could understand. After all, loneliness had been her only companion for a long time. Before she met Singird Larkwing.

"Say, Yrith… why did you come here? Doesn't this place bring back painful memories?"

Good question. Why had she come here?

"It does. Lots of them. But it also carries good ones. Things from my childhood. Maman's smiles and stories I used to read."

"What was it like when your mother smiled at you?"

Yrith raised a brow. "What kind of question is that?

"Well, I was just… I mean… I don't think elven parents do that. Not in Alinor. We smile, but it's… different."

Yrith stared at her, pondering whether she was being ridiculed. Then again, she had never seen a happy Altmer. But Leyna knew enough to be able to convey her thoughts. Perhaps there was still hope for her. She took a breath. Was she being challenged here? Fine. Let them come.

"Different, huh? Say, have you ever wished for something really badly?"

"Like food or coin? My family always provided for me. So no, I don't suffer any shortages."

"No, I meant something that would make you feel good. Happy."

"Like… a fashionable gown?"

"Well… like a person that would appreciate how beautiful you look in it."

"Of course they would. They always do."

Yrith gave her a crooked smile. "I… guess they do. Come with me."

She beckoned for Leyna to follow her to the remote corner of the room. A small door led to a neighboring chamber, inconspicuously concealed behind a working bench and a broken laboratory apparatus. She blew the ashes off of the handle before entering a narrow corridor lined with semi-empty bookcases. The place looked like a whole new world, lit by sunlight from a small crevice between the house wall and the mountain side in which the library was hollowed.

"This is our family library," she announced solemnly. "I was forbidden from entering back in the day. I did it anyway." Yrith danced through the shelves with an impish smile and pulled out a few volumes. She did not have to look at the titles, knowing the place by heart. She remembered the fabric of every book she had ever held. These were her favorite stories, Chance's Folly, the tale of Eslaf Erol and the Legend of Princess Sayda. "Do you like to read?"

Leyna took a book from Yrith's hand and examined it. The title imprinted in the rough linen surface was weathered and covered in dust, but still readable. 'Thief,' it said. She raised a brow. "I do. Father always made sure to supply me with dictionaries, historical documents and arithmetic handbooks. But what are these?" She waved the book in her hand as though the answer would fall from its pages.

Yrith laughed. "Dictionaries and arithmetic handbooks? Your father really didn't want you to… stray from your path, eh?"

"Don't insult my…"

"I am not. Teach me to read your dictionaries and I will teach you to read the belles-lettres. Maybe they will help you find the true meaning of happiness."

"If you say so."

Yrith pressed the rest of the books in Leyna's hands and made her way through the aisle, one finger brushing the spines of the books she passed, leaving a trail in the dust. She stopped at the end, eyes resting on a book laying on an otherwise empty shelf. A thin, well-thumbed volume that seemed as though it would shatter upon the first touch. Nevertheless, Yrith took it carefully in her hands, blowing the dust from it. This one's title was scribbled in plain ink, smudged over the many years of its existence. 'A Man of Two Faces'.

"This one I stole one too many times," she said with a hint of pride in her voice. "It kept me company when my parents were mad at me or didn't have time. The story made me infinitely happy. Do you know the tale of Princess Astarie who fell in love with a daedra?"

"That sounds like something the Dominion would have burned to ashes."

"Well… I…"

Leyna extended her hand. Yrith hesitated. She wouldn't burn it, would she?

"I wouldn't," she said as though she was answering her question. "Can I have it?"

Yrith handed her the book with uncertainty. As Leyna opened it, she read out loud:

"'To our beautiful daughter with love. May all the dark places lead you to the light.' Well, your parents certainly seem to be quite forgiving, given they wrote this in a book you liked to steal."

"They were… wait, what did you just say?"

"That your parents must have been…"

"No. The thing in the book. Show it to me!" Yrith yanked the book out of Leyna's hand, ignoring the shocked look on her face, and stared at its first page. How was this possible? "'May all the dark places lead you to the light.' I don't remember this to be there."

"Well, it is certainly there now."

Yrith flipped a few pages. This was definitely the same old book she loved to steal. The first part of the inscription was the one her mother had written when she finally decided to give the book to Yrith. It was her handwriting, and she recognized the strangely curly T at the beginning. She had asked her mother why she had written it this way. "Because it reminds me of your smile," she had said, wearing a gentle smile herself. It could not have been another book. But…

"What is this?!" Her eyes widened at the page she had just opened. Countless ink blots covered the letters, making it seem sprinkled with cinders. She felt Leyna's breath on her neck as the elven girl leaned to peek over her shoulder.

"Someone ought to change their quill here," she commented.

"But this wasn't there before! I swear this book is as old as Nirn itself, but one year ago it was clear as the summer skies."

"Hmm. May I see it?"

Reluctantly, Yrith let go. Leyna frowned in concentration as she took the book, her face touching the crumpled pages. Then, her fingers slid over their surface, studying their fabric. Moments passed. Yrith shuffled around and back again, waiting, impatience swelling in her chest. In the quiet that prevailed, she could hear Leyna's every breath and every speck of dust that fell on the old planked floor.

At last, Leyna handed it back. Yrith grabbed it, cradling the book like her own child.

"The good thing about dictionaries is that they teach you many useful things," Leyna said. "Like decrypting ciphers."

"Ciphers?"

"Look closely. The stains are much newer than the writing. Their edges are still sharp and the ink is darker. And notice how they only cover the characters and nothing else. Each blot covers one, and only one character. Each covers it entirely and the gaps between them are fairly regular. There are no blots in the white spaces around. And then there's the initial message. 'May all the dark places lead you to the light.' I think I know what 'the dark places' are referring to."

"That's… you mean it was done on purpose? But why would my parents leave a cipher?"

"I wouldn't know. But it's worth a try, no?"

"I guess it can't hurt. How about we sit down in the kitchen? Or, what's left of it anyway."

Leyna nodded. The two of them made their way across the whole house, settling in the corner of the small, but well-equipped kitchen. The ladles hanging from the pegs on one of the walls were filled with dust and cobwebs, and the flowery patterns on the dishcloths spread over the cabinets were faded by the tooth of time. Faint light came through the only unharmed window in the house, dimmed by the glazed frost that lined its edges. Leyna and Yrith took two of the four chairs surrounding a dusty lacquered table, putting the book on top of it. From the depths of her robes, Leyna withdrew a quill, a paper and a tiny flask of ink.

"I always carry these with me," she answered to Yrith's raised brows. "My father is, among other things, a scribe. He always emphasized how important it is to keep your writing tools at your side."

Yrith nodded. "Handy. Shall we start then?"

"Yes. Let's see… first, we need to write down the characters the blots are hiding. The first one is this. I'm assuming the word is Pirate, so the letter is P. This one though…"

"Q. It's a name, Quallia. And the next one is u from you."

Leyna scribbled the characters down. They went through the text, marking down every blotted character, discussing and double checking, careful to maintain their order without missing any. As they worked their way through the whole story, a sequence of letters formed before them, occasionally interrupted by a comma.

PQUCMQ . OH . CRQ . BCMZHQ . HZND . CRQ . MCD . BCKQ . OH . CZMQ . URCC . RCRRQNQD . ZB . NOC . NOXM . HCXLC

While Leyna watched it with pride in her eyes, Yrith pulled her hair. "It's just a bunch of nonsense!" she groaned.

"Patience. Simply hiding the words like that would be too easy, don't you think? No, we just uncovered the cipher itself. Now we do what I learned as a child."

"You're still a child though."

"Well… that's not the point. Do you know how ciphers work?"

"No?"

"There's always a key. You start by taking the shortest words and guessing what the characters in them represent. Let's wager on this message being in our common tongue. The shortest words would be OH, CRQ, MCD, ZB and NOC, out of which only OH and CRQ appear more than once. So, which are the most common two- and three-character words you know that could appear in a sentence more than once?"

Yrith scratched her head. "Is… no, not that one," she thought aloud. "Of… on… in… at… it… for… and…"

"Correct. Let's not forget about the articles."

"An and the," Yrith nodded. "But it's strange. Even if I limit myself to the words that are most likely to appear more than twice in one sentence, I end up with 'an', 'of' or 'it' for OH and 'the' or 'and' for CRQ. Then look at the word RCRRQNQD. I can't imagine so many N's or H's in one place. Not even if CRQ meant 'for'. And the word before that, URCC, makes no sense either. Are you sure the letters only correspond to one character?"

"I see your point, but if it was as you say, it would be an almost unbreakable cipher. That's not how… wait!"

Yrith winced, watching as Leyna opened the book again, sifting through its pages.

"Let's do it again," she said. "This time we'll distinguish between the capital and small letters."

"Right!"

Letter by letter, a new cipher appeared on the paper. When Leyna finally put the quill down, the two of them stared at it, smiles slowly disappearing from their faces.

pQucMQ . oh . CRQ . bCMzhQ . hzNd . CRQ . mcd . bckQ . oh . CzmQ . uRcC . RcrrQNQd . zb . NoC . noxM . hcxLC

"Don't you think," Yrith uttered into the silence, "that all these words are way too short to take any guesses?"

Leyna nodded, letting out a sigh. "I wish I had one of father's dictionaries here."

"The Arcanaeum is quite well supplied."

"If only the librarian wasn't an orc," Leyna shuddered. "It's getting late. I think we should work on it sometime later."

Yrith threw a glance at the window. The light outside was fading as the sun descended to the western horizon. Soon it would reach the Winterhold ridge and the humps of snow covering the land would darken in the stretching shadows of the mountains and the great statue of Azura. Yrith was silent, unwilling to remind her companion that they had just missed the Illusion class. Master Neloren will be furious. In the back of her mind, she was already devising what she would tell him.

They left the house. Yrith threw one last look at its run-down walls and windows gaping like wild beasts with teeth of broken glass and sharpened ice.

"Can I keep the paper?" she said. "I'll let you have the book."

Leyna nodded. "I think we are missing a hint though. Perhaps it's in the book somewhere."

"Perhaps," Yrith supposed.

"By the way, didn't we just miss Illusion?"

"You noticed."

"Who do you take me for?"

Yrith laughed. "So how does it feel to skip a class?"

Leyna took a while to answer, eyes gazing absently in the distance as she pondered the answer. "Unbelievable," she said at last.

"Does it make you happy?"

"Is happiness defined by tight chest and frantic thoughts on 'how in Auriel's name am I going to justify my absence'?"

"Erm… I suppose not."

"But I guess there's also the feeling of doing something I've never done before. It is…"

"Exciting?"

"Perhaps."

"Exhilarating?"

"If that's the word for it."

"Thrilling?"

"Maybe. But you keep saying the same thing!"

"So do you!"

The two of them laughed. Yrith glanced at Leyna's face, noticing a strange, crooked smile that was both happy and sad. So were her eyes. The Altmeri girl definitely craved happiness. And definitely feared something. Questions arose in Yrith's mind, but she was too afraid to ask. They fell silent, passing the houses with smoking chimneys.

On the remote side of the city of Winterhold, just by the base of the College bridge, Yrith could spot a few guards, the visors of their helmets up as they sipped from the tankards they were holding in the hands numb with cold. Only one of them wore no helmet, letting his wheat hair fall on his shoulders in wild locks stuck together by sweat. On the back of his monumental frame loomed a mighty battle axe attached by thick buckled straps. As the two of them approached, he turned to them with a gleam in his eyes, revealing the Stormcloak bear on his chest and wrists and the amulet of Talos around his neck. Yrith's eyes brightened with surprise.

"Toddvar!" she exclaimed as she ran to greet the friend she had not seen a long time. "So good to see you!" The other guards watched her in amusement, then laughed and went back to their previous conversation.

"Look at you, the fine lil' lass!" the man beamed as he crushed her in a bear hug. "How you've grown o'er the last year." He let go, taking a long look at her as he stepped back. His face darkened, and it wasn't just the shadow of the nearby tree extending over his person. "I heard what happened to your parents. Sorry for not coming to you sooner. Been busy down here."

"But you're here now. Are you going to stay for a while?"

"Afraid not. Been bouncing back and forth between Windhelm and Winterhold. There's stuff to do. We're preparing for war and the elves ain't making it no easier. Speaking of which, who's that?" Toddvar pointed a finger thick as the handle of his axe at Leyna.

"Oh, this is my new friend, Leyna Travi. Leyna, this is Toddvar."

"Travi?" he repeated, rolling the name on his tongue with strange distaste. "Are you by any chance related to Selas Inarion Travi?"

"He's my father," Leyna said, pride fighting apprehension.

"Yrith."

"Yes?"

"Are you hobnobbing with a Thalmor spy?"

"What?! She's not a spy, Toddvar!"

"Indeed," he breathed, his face stone-hard and voice cold as ice. Yrith stepped back, hands clenching into fists. She took a breath.

"I'll… meet you at the College," she said quietly as she turned to Leyna, nodding to the bridge. Her friend caught the hint.

"See you around then." She scuttled away. Yrith's eyes followed her silhouette to the first focal point. Then she turned back to Toddvar, brows knit in agitation.

"That was uncalled for," she grumbled.

"No, Yrith. Be careful who you associate with. Ever heard of Selas Travi? He works for an authority that interrogates 'continentals', as they call them there. For them, it's an equivalent for savage. For us, it means Nords and all the other honest people living in the mainland. Do you know how many folks he's tortured? Can you imagine how many folks died 'cause of him?"

"But Leyna is not her father!"

"She is his blood. And elf blood is always rotten. Be on your guard, Yrith. The world is not safe these days."

"Fine." He did not have to tell her. Over the last month alone, she had faced an ice wraith, an avalanche and a body of more than unfriendly students. But Leyna? No. She did not believe it. She did not want to believe it.

"I'll have to go. Stay safe, m'lass. Seven months back, the world lost two fine folks. We don't wanna lose another one. And… be good to our little Singird, will ya?"

"Singird Larkwing? You know him?" Yrith snorted, trying to shake off the memories she had almost managed to discard. "Not a chance."

Toddvar laughed, patting her on the head like a father would pat his favorite daughter. "He has… a complicated past. But he's an ally you can trust."

"All right then. I'll… try."

"I have to leave for a few weeks, but let's keep in touch. The Stormcloaks have a courier in the city. If you catch him before he runs off to Windhelm, you can send me a note. Or leave it at Haran's and she'll give it to him once he stops by. Take care of yourself."

"You too, Toddvar."

Yrith waved at him as she entered the bridge, glancing over her shoulder at his receding frame. She left the narrow path behind her all too soon, facing the gates to the College where a scolding awaited her. Reluctantly, she entered to see Colette Marence pace across the courtyard. Just as she was about to slip into the Hall of Attainment, the Restoration master called to her, irk apparent in her voice.

"If it isn't Yrith Ravencroft sneaking about! Hold it right there, you mischief!"

Yrith froze, turning to face the fuming teacher. She stopped inches before her, sizing her up like a criminal.

"To my room. Let's go."

Yrith bit on her lip, shuffling over to the Hall of Countenance and Master Marence's chamber.

"Well well," the teacher said when they stopped, not bothering to close the door. She took a flask from a drawer just opposite her bed and pressed it into Yrith's hands. "Look at you, wandering around as you like. Master Larkwing gets worried sick about you, even changing your detention to avoid putting you in danger again. You don't even stop by my room to get your healing potion," she pointed at Yrith's recently mended leg, "and now Master Neloren is asking for you because you did not attend Illusion. All the while you stray outside, disregarding all those who are concerned about you! Do you have any words to justify your actions?"

"No, Master Marence," Yrith peeped, eyes pinned to the ground.

"Then perhaps you'd like to say something else?"

"I am sorry, Master Marence."

"Now listen to me, young lady. I will not see you do this again, or you can count on me to give you a detention that will make Master Larkwing seem like a saint in comparison. Are we clear on that?"

"Yes, Master Marence."

"Good. Now off you go. And drink that potion."

Yrith scurried to the door, but then she stopped, glancing over her shoulder. She hesitated before turning back. "Erm… Master Marence?"

"Yes?"

"You said Master Larkwing changed my detention?"

"That he did. Has he not told you? I suppose he'll do that soon. Mister Aldaryn has been assigned the kitchen duty. He has been… trying to prepare our meals. You will have some other task. Now if you'll excuse me. There's a meeting I cannot afford to miss."

She stormed away, leaving the door open behind her. Yrith spotted several other teachers hurrying outside. She wondered what the commotion was about but did not dare follow. No sooner than the door snapped shut behind the last person did she leave Master Marence's chamber. She drank the potion on the way to her room, blinking in surprise at its sweet taste. These things were known for their insufferably bitter flavor. It seemed Master Marence had adopted the habit of putting snowberries in her potions. That was a good habit.

As she entered the Hall of Attainment, her eyes drifted upwards, to where the kitchen was. Cain as a chef. She could hardly find a more entertaining image to think of. With a short stop to her room to drop off the cipher, she made for the stairs. After all, it was not every day she could find something she was better at.

A knock on the door tore Singird out of his own thoughts. He raised his head to check the hourglass on his shelf. The crystalline sand emanated soft, almost invisible glow in the darkening room. It was getting late. The hours he had spent reading in his room left his back stiff and sore.

"Come in," he called as he rose to meet the guest. A split moment later, the door flew open, revealing a panting Nirya. Her expression was even surlier than usual. Nirya had a reputation for letting everyone around know exactly how 'happy' she was to see them. The feeling was generally mutual.

"Miss Ervine would like to let you know that all the Collegium is to report to the Arch-Mage's quarters at once," she said without greeting. "She was stressing she does not like to be kept waiting."

Without another word, the Altmeri woman turned on her heel and left. Singird rolled his eyes. Nirya was exactly the kind of patron you would love to spend your time with.

He cleaned his desk and searched for a suitable place to hide the book he had received from Urag. When he put it in the wardrobe amidst his carefully folded robes and shirts, his heart ached, but it was, after all, the one place Singird Larkwing would never use to store a book. Or so people seemed to think. He enchanted it with a simple dithering spell that would hide it from prying eyes. A well-seen mage would not be fooled, but it would at least stall them. With a nod to himself, Singird left the room.

It was the third time in his life he visited the Arch-Mage's quarters, but this time, it was not Arch-Mage Savos Aren who had made them his own. A crooked bare tree with lights floating about dominated the spacious octagonal room, surrounded by plants of all kinds. Bookcases lined the walls, accompanied by an enchanting device and an alchemy lab. That was all that had stayed.

Current Arch-Mage seemed to have a passion for flowers, having decorated almost every shelf and desk with them. They were overgrown, taking the strangest of shapes, and Singird had a feeling it wasn't mother Nature who had gifted them with such forms and vibrancy. The bright dragon tongue flowers took all colors of the rainbow instead of just the usual blue, similar in shape to an actual dragon head sticking out its tongue. There were pitch black death bells, dangling like chimes in the wind. When Singird approached them, the even gave the same clinking sound. Then there were mushrooms, growing out of the stone walls as though they were full of unexpected life. Some of them belched white smoke, rising to the ceiling in fluffy puffs. The air was damp and warmer than the rest of the College. The place was breathing with life. It had certainly changed since he had last been here.

In the center of the room, around the central tree and its garden, several tables formed another octagon. Chairs were lined along them, several occupied by members of the Collegium. Some were gazing stiffly at the tree, others exchanging quiet conversation. Mirabelle Ervine, the Master Wizard of the College, stood at the far end, watching the assembly with a hawk's eye. Singird frowned. He knew that look. It meant something was very, very wrong.

He sat down beside Lady Faralda. Tolfdir, the old Alteration master, joined him from the other side. Despite his age, he kept his head up, eyes bright and sharp. Tolfdir was known for his vitality and passion for venturing out to discover old secrets, even if he rarely expressed it openly.

"Good evening," he nodded as he seated himself. "Quite a gathering we have here. What do you suppose is going to happen?"

"I haven't the slightest idea," Singird shook his head. "What about you, Lady Faralda?"

"Who knows. The only thing I'm sure of is that Mirabelle never calls anyone without a reason."

"True. I just hope it's not another Eye of Magnus."

"The Eye of Magnus? I only heard about it. Was it that terrible?" When the mysterious orb of magic, the Eye of Magnus was found in Saarthal and almost destroyed the College, Singird had freshly left the to help his parents with the family farm. It was then when the old Arch-Mage, Savos Aren, gave his life to save the Academia. Singird had only heard rumors about it, but it was the first and the last time he had ever admired Aren. The old Dunmer had a way of ridiculing everyone around. It took him years to acknowledge a person, and even then he would never fully respect them. As for Singird Larkwing, he enjoyed mocking him at every occasion. Singird shuddered at the memory.

"To have to watch Mirabelle struggle for her life after she almost followed Arch-Mage Aren to the grave? To watch the anomalies devour the citizens of Winterhold, and to reap Ancano's harvest afterwards? To resuscitate the Dragonborn and his sister when they came back from Labyrinthian, almost torn to pieces? Yes, it was terrible. I may be the only one who approves of the Psijics' choice though. The Eye of Magnus has no place in Winterhold." Tolfdir rapped his fingers on the empty table before him, watching more members come and take their seats. "They could have at least brought us some water," he added quietly.

"You certainly aren't," Faralda said. "As much as I love the arcane studies…"

She was interrupted by a clap, strangely suffocated in the heavy air. The door snapped shut under the spell of Mirabelle Ervine, watching the small sea of heads that had gathered around the table. She cleared her throat and waited for all the guests to quieten.

"It seems we are complete," she nodded as she scanned her audience. Singird's eyes met Urag gro-Shub's. The orc was sitting on the opposite side, obviously in an even worse mood than before. Singird could imagine. He had witnessed several times how the overzealous librarian dealt with people who tried to drag him out of the Arcanaeum. For Mirabelle to be able to convince him, things must have really been serious.

"How are we complete?" Colette Marence asked, straightening in her seat to watch Mirabelle firmly in the eye. "The Arch-Mage is not here."

"The Arch-Mage has a very important business to attend to. Which is why I will be hosting this meeting."

The Master Wizard waited for comments to arise. When there were none, she continued.

"I have grave news for all of you, and a matter I want to discuss. We have been contacted by several Thalmor representatives." There was a quiet murmur at the word Thalmor. Everyone in the room feared it. Even in the white-blue glow of the floating lights, Tolfdir paled visibly.

"Thalmor?" the word rose from the crowd like poison. "What do they…"

"Please, let me continue. The Aldmeri Dominion is demanding we hand them Leyna Travi immediately. Selas Inarion Travi, her father, is… was, the secretary in the Office of Provincial Studies in Alinor. He was very influential. And now he has deserted."

"He deserted the Thalmor? In their own territory?! What a fool!" Arniel Gane, the local Dwemer researcher, slapped his own forehead.

"Fool?! Ha! The bravest soul on Nirn!" someone countered.

Mirabelle clapped her hands again. "Enough! We are not here to debate on the thin line between bravery and foolishness. We need to decide how we will handle this matter. If the Thalmor take Miss Travi, we will be sending her to her death at best, but more likely torture. If we keep her…"

Phinis Gestor rose from his seat, a disgruntled vein popping out on his temple. "Surely you can't be serious! You keep her and you'll be sending all of us to death! We can't possibly defend ourselves against a Thalmor army!"

"I wouldn't be so sure about that," Drevis Neloren opposed. The Dunmer seemed to be the only one who was calm, leaning comfortably to the backrest of his chair.

"Well," Lady Faralda said matter-of-factly, "it depends on how badly they want her. Indeed, Selas Travi was an influential man from a long dynasty of leaders, but I'm quite positive that the Thalmor won't want to waste their resources on his little daughter who is hiding in a fortress on some godsforsaken cliff in the far north."

"I dare disagree," Singird finally joined the discussion. "They went as far as contacting us just to get their hands on her. The Thalmor never waste their energy on empty threats."

"What does that even matter?!" Tolfdir jumped up on his feet, skeletal hands digging into the table. "What is the point of this whole discussion? We are civilized people here. We take care of our own!"

"Tolfdir, you of all people–"

"Yes, I of all people! I am no trauma-stricken old geezer who can't stand a challenge, as many of you seem to think. I just want the best for us!"

"Best for us? I thought we weren't dealing in politics, and for a damn good reason! Let's just hand her over and be done with it!"

"I concur! We can't antagonize the Aldmeri Dominion!"

"Are you people listening to yourselves? Since when are we so…"

"Enough!" Mirabelle thundered over the heads of the Collegium. Many members were on their feet, eyes shooting daggers at whoever dared to oppose them. Four people were still in their seats. Urag gro-Shub who had not uttered a single word during the entire meeting, Drevis Neloren, relaxed and listening to the others with unconcealed interest, Faralda whose unsettled frown spoke its own about what she thought of the whole situation, and Singird whose face mirrored Faralda's. "Everybody please sit down. We are not here to argue. As much as I want to respect each of you and your opinions, we need to find a common ground. I will now call your names one by one. I want you to share your opinion and your reasons. Colette. Keep or give?"

"Keep," Colette Marence said resolutely. "Miss Travi is one of our students, after all. By giving her away, we won't be any better than those Dominion butchers."

Mirabelle nodded. "Nirya."

"Obviously give. Why would we risk our necks over a child of some runaway who doesn't even belong here?"

Singird clenched his fists. Talk about despicable superficial hypocrisy. He struggled not to snort out loud to let the sleazy Altmer know exactly how he felt about her.

"Phinis."

There was a lull. Everyone held their breaths, waiting for the old Conjuration master's answer.

"Give," he said at last. "While I would love to agree with Colette here, this is not just about Miss Travi, not even the College. By keeping her, we put in danger every single member and a student, as well as the whole City of Winterhold and everyone who will stand in the Dominion's way as they approach."

Half expecting his old master's words, Singird only let out an inaudible sigh. He loved his old master dearly, but some things he simply could not agree on. He wished for him to reconsider. He wanted to believe in him. But at least his reason seemed to make sense.

"Faralda."

Another moment of silence. Singird could almost feel her struggle. Lady Faralda had been born in Cloudrest and raised by members of the Thalmor. This certainly did not classify as one of her favorite topics.

"Keep," she uttered quietly. "Miss Travi is a talented student and a fine addition to the College. Even if there's a battle, she could still contribute. I do not wish to see her go."

Singird stared at her. And here he was convinced that the Altmer were good at lying. Faralda's lips trembled. She was more than bothered by the sudden turn of events.

"Master Larkwing."

"Singird is fine," he said thoughtfully. "Keep. I do like my family's neutrality, but when it comes to the Dominion, I don't want to let them have their way. The more we do that, the more power they have and the more death they sow."

"Tolfdir."

"Keep. I already said we take care of our own and I stand firm on this one. When you stood up to Ancano, Mirabelle, I thought you the bravest person I've ever met. I expect others to follow your example."

"Thank you. I… appreciate your kind words," Mirabelle nodded. Singird could swear he saw a hint of flush dying her cheeks. "Arniel."

"Give. This is too much of a risk. Our research could be in danger. Our lives could be in danger. I will not put my life on the line like that."

"Drevis."

Master Neloren too took his time to ponder the question and prepare the answer, but when he spoke, his voice was firm and his face determined. "Give. I don't like it and I think we would have a solid chance to win if we decided to hold our ground against the Dominion. But the truth is, we are few and if any of us decided to leave, the tables could turn in favor of the Thalmor. I don't think it's worth the risk."

"Sergius."

Sergius Turrianus was the local master of enchanting, a man who liked to seclude himself almost as much as he liked to order people around when they dared approach him. He was the one and only member who was entirely opposed to the idea of accepting young students. When he spoke, Singird felt little surprise.

"We are involved in a political conflict here. It's a situation we were never supposed to find ourselves in. The College was always neutral. Either choice is bad for business and our reputation. I am saying give, just so we can eliminate the problem once and for all. I don't think the holds would thank us if we antagonized the elves."

Faralda shot him a look. Singird felt her rage as she dug her nails into the table. Calling the Thalmor "elves" was not the best word choice he could think of.

"Well then, it is five to four in favor of give," Mirabelle said, letting out a sigh of disconcert. She turned to Urag, the last member. "Urag?"

The librarian bared his teeth and scanned every face in the room. They were motionless, waiting, assessing their chances. He let them do so for a long while. It was a crude way of showing what exactly he thought of every member in the room. And it was very effective. Singird heard knuckles crack as the attendants clenched their fists. Yet again, he, Faralda and Drevis Neloren were the only ones who stayed calm.

"Humbug," the orc spoke at last as he stood up. "People in the cities are in danger, our research could be lost, blah, blah, blah. How many of you actually think that? How many of you care for more than saving your own pathetic hide? I've said it from the beginning. Magic is not for everyone and accepting coin for teaching rich whelps who were cast out of their own families only served to impair us. Yet… it was agreed upon. And now that little outcast to whom we provided shelter, whom we nurtured and cultivated, doesn't even have a semblance of a family. And we are still so eager to get her out of our way.

"We all joined the College, pledging our lives to this institution. We are also all free to leave at any time. But all of you are sitting here, squabbling like brats who don't know any better. Are your beds warm enough? Does the local wine suit your delicate tastes? Is the view you get from your windows pleasing? You don't want to give that up, do you? But responsibility… that you would abandon at any time. I hope you are proud of yourselves."

He paused to take a breath. His glare alone would be enough to send a frost troll running with its tail between its legs, but his words rendered everyone absolutely speechless.

Singird tried to guess their thoughts. If the five people who had said "give" were now silently cursing the old orc, or whether they were rethinking their life choices.

Urag let himself sink back on his chair. "Keep," he said. And then he fell silent.

Five to five, and that was it. All the members were stealing glances of each other, waiting for someone to utter a sound. Mirabelle Ervine waited too. Obviously, she did not want to make the final choice herself. A moment passed and she let out a sigh. And just as she was about to speak, the silence was broken.

"Mirabelle?" Phinis Gestor whispered, shifting uneasily in his seat.

"Yes?"

"May I change my vote?"

Singird smiled. Good old Master Gestor. Despite his general confusion and fears, he always made the right choice in the end.

"You may," Mirabelle gave an approving smile. A few people chuckled. Singird let out the breath he had not even known he was holding.

"Urag, dear Urag," Drevis said as he shook his head. "You can't just throw around words like 'responsibility' like that. I mean… oh, blast it to Oblivion. I am changing my vote too."

There were chuckles here and there, until they turned into the merry chimes of laughter. People shook their heads, incredulous of the worries they'd had just moments before. Only three of them, Nirya, Arniel and Sergius, did not join the rest in their mirth. Their faces were sour, their frames stiff. No one paid them any heed. Mirabelle took a few moments to scan the room before she clapped her hands once more, demanding quiet.

"It seems most of us have come to an agreement," she said. "We should now—"

"A fine agreement it is," Sergius grumbled, rising from his seat. "So it was decided to keep Leyna Travi. But what do you do once the elves," Faralda winced again, this time ready to jump up if not for Phinis Gestor who extended his hand to stop her, "march into Winterhold and attack us?"

"We will deal with the threat when it comes. For now, we need to decide what exactly we are going to tell the Thalmor."

Singird raised a hand. "May I suggest something?"

"Yes, Master Larkwing?"

"Singird is fine," he repeated. As the youngest in the Collegium, it felt strange to be the only one called by his title. He could almost swear Mirabelle did it just to mock him. Perhaps just to walk in the footsteps of Savos Aren whom she had loved dearly. "How about we stall for time? We don't need to give the Thalmor a direct answer, do we?"

"I am surprised you of all people should come up with something like this, but it seems like a sound idea indeed."

"No, it doesn't! Won't that just incite the elves?"

"Enough with the elves! I am an elf! And I am incited right now!"

"Lady Faralda…"

"Faralda is fine… Singird. Don't stop me, I've had enough of his…"

"But he's right, isn't he?"

"I beg your pardon?!"

Singird took a breath. He had to tread carefully on this battleground where every word could mean antagonizing the entire Collegium. His parents had prided themselves to be impartial, unmoved by any events that did not concern them directly, yet they had somehow managed to stay on everyone's good side. Until the day they were killed. What was that thing his father used to tell him?

The only person you can trust is yourself. That doesn't mean you cannot make others trust you.

He disagreed. Trust must be mutual. But it must also be true.

"I mean… not literally. He is right that you are an elf. And they are elves. You grew up among them and know how they think. Am I correct? Can we not use it to our advantage?"

"You dare… I am different!"

"Of which I have no doubt, and it is exactly what gives us the advantage. You understand us. You also understand them. I know you have a way with words, La… Faralda. I am convinced you'd find the right ones to resolve this situation."

"Master Larkwing, that is highly inappropriate…"

"No. He is correct. I have the knowledge and experience necessary to deal with the Thalmor. After all, I did convince them to let me leave Alinor with no blood spilled. But… the risk is great. The only way to make an orthodox Thalmor listen is to convince them they'd profit from it. What could we possibly offer them?"

Drevis Neloren snorted. "Power," he said.

"No!" half of the Collegium yelled in unison.

"Absolutely not," Tolfdir joined, voice firm and so was his face. "That would make the whole Eye of Magnus incident pointless. Savos Aren would have died in vain."

"Knowledge?"

"Out of the question!" Urag growled. "The library will stay pristine."

"We can offer them both. As long as it serves to our advantage in the end."

"And do you know how?"

Through the veil of apprehension, a smile flickered on Faralda's face. "Let me explain."

When the meeting was finally over, everyone's stomachs were growling with hunger. Singird felt tired, ready to retreat in his bed after the dinner. The sun had long vanished under the western horizon and the moons were hiding behind a thick blanket of clouds. The blue fountain in the courtyard seemed to be stifled by the surrounding darkness. Everyone was silent, with no strength left to discuss the recent events. But then, as they passed the focal point, the door to the Hall of Attainment flew open, revealing a panting Cain Aldaryn.

The Dunmer's face was frantic, lined with horror. He was shaking, clenched fists pressed to his thighs, and when he spoke, his trembling voice was hoarse.

"M-midget… Yrith Ravencroft!" he cried. "Please, help! She's… not gonna make it!"

Singird paled, jumping to his side before anyone else could react. "Where is she? What happened?!"

"Up there," Cain pointed a shaky finger at the top of the Hall of Attainment. "Please…"

Singird did not wait for him to finish. Without a second thought, he darted inside.

Sooo… the last part was a real challenge. Having eleven people in one room, all talking, each expressing different opinion… I hope you didn't get lost and kept track of who said what. I tried my best to make it apparent without slowing the dialogue down with too many speech tags. So… yeah. Hopefully you enjoyed it.

I was thinking of splitting this chapter in two but then I decided not to. It has two scenes, yeah, but they share the theme of Leyna's father and it slowly rises to a climax… or at least that was my intention. I hope I did a decent job.

Oblivious Ninja: So happy to read your comment! What anime are you watching?
Well, the Dovakhiin… patience, my friend, patience. :D

Thanks to everyone who reviewed, favorited or followed my story!

Thanks to Tildemancer for proofreading and some very valuable feedback!

See you next time!

Mirwen