The visions crowded before his sleeping mind, surfacing from the waters of oblivion one after the other, bumping together like bulky floes of ice - snatches of recent memories, vivid, life-like, haunting.

He is sitting with his back propped up against the wall of a small cavern, gaping at his hands, stunned, uncomprehending. 'These can't be my hands, holding a steaming bowl of strange, foul-smelling liquid,' he thinks in mute, blank terror. 'These can't be my eyes, seeing the snow swirling outside, and the northern lights blazing in the sky. This can't be my body, weary, and aching, and numb with cold. This... This can't be me!'

Then, there is the sound of snow creaking softly beneath someone's feet, very light, as though dancing, and a ruffle-haired head peers inside, and he is almost blinded by a flashing smile. Kiara. 'What have you done with me?' he asks hoarsely, wincing in helpless anger.

'I have just cured you of Brainrot!' she declares proudly. 'Do you have any idea how hard mudcrabs are to come by in these parts?'

'Which... parts?' he asks weakly, his mind barely able to process her words.

'The Pale, of course! I asked you to help me out with another quest of mine, the one about the Dawnstar museum, in exchange for my services, so to speak, because Barbas suspected you wouldn't be giving us any money, because your horse had ran off and all - and guess what, you agreed! I was so surprised... I mean, one moment, you are all indignant, and stiff, and haughty and whatnot, and the next you are meek and obedient and even a bit depressed-like. Well, soon enough it turned out that poor old Drascua - the Hagraven at Dead Crone Rock - had infected you with Brainrot; you were really sleepy, and distracted, then you started forgetting things, and a couple of times you collapsed! So, we had to keep you seated on Spidey's back all the time, and to put up with your delirium... I mean, Barbas had to put up with your delirium; me, I was completely okay with that...'

He allows her voice to trail off; nothing, not even the horror of realizing that he has yet again displayed weakness in front of a human, can make him tear his gaze away from her face, from the shimmering blueness of her eyes, which gradually fills his entire being, like the northern lights filling the entire sky...

They are standing side by side on a broad icy ledge, looking out into the boundless expanse of dazzling gold and tender pink spreading out before their eyes. The sun is rising over the Sea of Ghosts.

'Gods, how I love, love, love sunrises!' Kiara exclaims, taking a deep breath of air and spreading out her arms, as if about to soar into the air, free, bird-like. 'Doesn't it make you wanna sing?'

'No,' he replies dryly.

She turns away from the sky and peers intently into his face. 'You are still mad about this whole travel-to-the-Pale-with-me thing, aren't you? Relax! I know where we can find Sanyon, I promise you! I have a plan... almost. We've stuck together this far (or was it sticked together? Ah, whatever!). You've got to trust me! Do you trust me?'

He hesitates to make a reply. He does not recall trusting anyone in his life. Ever. Not completely. Not even the other members of the Thalmor. Much less a human. A meddlesome, exasperating, almost unbelievably unintelligent human. A human that was supposed to keep him out of trouble and has successfully managed to do the exact opposite. But somehow, he can't stop himself from saying, 'I trust you'.

She smiles at him, 'Great!'

Still smiling, she bends down, scoops up a handful of snow, shapes it into a snowball with her nimble fingers - and without any warning whatsoever, flings the snowball into his face...

She emerges out of a Nordic barrow, breathless, laughing. On her back, she is carrying a large round shield, which she promptly sets down on the ground, right on the edge of a steep descend down into a snow-shrouded valley, and gives her hound a very meaningful, sly wink. The four-legged abomination climbs onto the shield, tail wagging in anticipation of something that simply cannot be good. 'Come on,' she urges, with one of those amicable claps on the back that he detests (and secretly cherishes) so much. 'It's loads of fun, and much faster than going all the way down on foot!'

'You have a horse,' he snaps, trying to back away from her. She blocks his way, giggling, 'Oh, Spidey will be sliding down too, on another shield. He is totally sliding-trained. I have a way with horses, you know. Many Redguards do, actually. Take my friend Shadr in Riften, for instance...

She talks on and on; her voice throbs inside him, resonating through his veins like silver bells ringing in an empty hallway; before he realizes what has just happened, he finds himself seated on the shield, crouching awkwardly beside the hound; she climbs on as well and puts her arms round his shoulders from behind; he starts violently at her touch and attempts to jerk himself free; but it is already too late - she kicks off, and they swoosh down through the scorchingly cold whiteness. For while, he is blinded, deafened, stupefied; there is nothing left in the universe but the shrill ringing in his ears, the scraping of wind's claws inside his lungs, and Kiara's fast, excited heartbeat somewhere at his side, penetrating his skin, drumming through his body, mingling with the frenzied pulsing of his own blood.

They land in the very middle of a snow drift, plunging into it head first; the sticky wet snow gets into his eyes, and nose, and mouth; he coughs it out with the desperate force of a drowning man, and emerges. Staggering to his feet, he brushes the snow off his robe, his lips curled in disgust - and suddenly, freezes right as he is, bending down slightly, stunned by the realization that there is a strange, utterly unfamiliar sound coming out of his mouth, strong, loud, intoxicating - laughter. He laughs till he is too weary to take another breath, mentally screaming for someone to rescue him, to wake him from this insane feverdream. But salvation never comes. Instead, Kiara makes a loud, overjoyed squeal and leaps at him, arms stretched out for a hug. He dodges her grasp, making her lose her balance and drop back into the snow. She turns over so she can see his face, but does not get up; she remains lying there, on her back, her teeth glistening whiter than the surrounding snow, large soft flakes melting away on her eyelashes till they turn into sparkling, crystal-like droplets of water. He gazes down at her, brooding, silent, internally torn between the two usual impulses - to send her pathetic little soul to Oblivion with a single well-aimed lightning bolt and to take her in his arms and kiss her till they both start choking...

They are walking in single file, their steps slow and cautious, along a narrow strip of dry land between two deep, steaming, almost unnaturally turquoise lakes. The air is humid and stiflingly hot, and on both sides of their path steam comes gushing out towards the pale blue sky in thick sluggish white jets every now and again, with an ear-splitting whistle. Kiara is glancing around with eager, child-like interest, taking in the barren landscape of the volcanic tundra with the greed of a blind person whose sight has been miraculously restored. He has already become more or less familiar with this manner of hers - to gape at everything around her, even at what she has seen countless times before, as if it were something completely new; he has always found it exceedingly annoying... and at the same time, oddly touching.

Suddenly, abruptly, she stops, wheels around and, grinning from ear to ear, speaks three words in a tongue he has never heard before, 'Fus Ro Dah!'

As the invisible wave rushing from her triumphant little self pushes him in the chest, he sways, waving his arms in the air in a most ridiculous, un-Thalmor-esque manner, and falls into the hot water with a tremendous, dramatic splash.

'That was kinda random,' the hound remarks.

'I know!' Kiara says brightly. 'I just figured Lemmie here needed to unwind a bit'.

He glares at her, struggling to keep afloat. She pulls her armour off over her head, flings it carelessly onto a nearby rock, kicks off her boots and leaps in herself.

'Go on and swim around a bit,' she says, bobbing up and down on the hot green waves, her eyes half-closed like those of a drowsily purring kitten. 'It's awesomely relaxing! I bet you never ever relaxed before; too busy being a stiff old meanie, am I right?'

He squints his eyes in suspicion, pondering over how she managed to land him in the water. But before the mismatched puzzle pieces scattered across his mind (most of them featuring the Stormcloaks in one way or the other) can slide together to form a coherent picture, Kiara clasp her hands against the lake surface, showering him with water; he splashes back at her, rapidly, irrevocably infected by her silvery laughter...

He is sitting, huddled uncomfortably, among the gnarled, twisting roots of a gigantic tree. The evening fog is creeping in, so dense that he can barely see his own fingertips. Somewhere beyond its milky white veil, the forest is living its nocturnal life, sighing, groaning, rustling.

He shivers and shifts uneasily, pulling up his robe collar and frowning at his own thoughts. He has just been through yet another quarrel with Kiara, which started with him mustering all his reserves of venomous sarcasm to launch a verbal attack on her and ended with him storming off, head thrown back proudly, intending to finally rid himself from his insufferable human companion and head back to Markarth on his own. It all looked perfect in theory - arriving at the Understone Keep, issuing an arrest warrant for Kiara and making her pay for all these days of constant humiliation... But in reality, though it has hardly been a few hours since the start of his solitary wanderings, he is already missing her. Missing her terribly, desperately, with every tiniest fibre of his being. He does not dare look around him, for every blurred, shapeless shadow seems to him to be her shadow, approaching him through the fog; he does not dare listen in to the whispers of the night, for every sound seems to him to be the echo of her voice, calling out that degrading, shortened version of his name. He longs to return, to see her again, to hear her ringing laughter, to suffer at her hands when she thinks up some ridiculous game or other; the longing builds up within him, heart-wringing, suffocating... Finally, he cannot bear it any longer; he gets up and strides off into the fog, with an impossible, insane notion of retracing his steps to their campsite.

She will find him, some hours later, cornered by three Spriggans, whose slumber he will have inadvertently disturbed. Without a word, she will help him tackle his adversaries, and after the matron and her two daughters finally retreat back into the murky depths of their grove, she will grip his arm, a little above the elbow, in a silent, reassuring gesture, and together, they will set up a new camp for the night, never ceasing to bicker...

He is making his way up a winding forest path, his face impenetrably expressionless (or so he thinks), his fingers tightly intertwined behind his back; Kiara is racing, colt-like, by his side; the horse and the hound are walking somewhere in their wake. It is high noon, and the undergrowth it dappled with spots of golden light, like drops of spilled honey... He shudders at having made this mental comparison; it seems that Kiara's irritating affinity for excited, wordy descriptions has began to affect him, as have so many of her other habits.

They have been arguing on history and theology, along the usual lines, Kiara shocking him with her utterly heretical way of thinking - and then, completely out of the blue, she decides to change the subject.

'Say...' she begins, reaching down to pick a flower from the side of the path. 'There is one absolutely cute little Nord superstition, has to do with flowers. You pick a flower, and pass it across your chin, and if there's some - What's that stuff called? I keep forgetting - ah, yes, pollen... Yeah, if there's some pollen left on your face, it means you're in love with someone. I've tried it a few times, and I always turn out in love... Which is totally true; I certainly feel in love... I just can't ever figure out whom with... Or is it with whom? With who? Whowith?'

'Keep that disgusting little plant away from me!' he cries out, shielding his face. But she is too quick for him; in one brisk, swipe-like movement, she manages to brush the flower against the tip of his once neat goatee, which he has most shamefully neglected for several days. In blank horror, he lifts his gloved hand to feel his chin; when he dares to look at his fingers, he discovers distinct traces of thick, bright yellow pollen...

Ondolemar woke up with a start, his hand still groping his face. The moons were shining in the sky, sailing slowly towards the horizon, and the insolent waterfall that had kept him awake half the night with its rumbling noise was still pouring down on the left side of the rocky ledge where they had made camp. He glanced around, probing the darkness for any signs of what the others were doing. Soon enough, his eyes, aching with the effort, registered the silhouette of Spidey, chewing drowsily at some dry grass, and those of Kiara and Barbas, sitting a little way off, heads close together. Plotting something. Against him, most likely. He shifted a little closer, straining his keen elven hearing to its full extent. And soon enough, he began to discern what sounded like a very heated, though whispered, debate.

'Kiara girl', Barbas said firmly, 'You can't frolic around like this forever! We have better stuff to do, he has better stuff to do - well, better from his obviously bad point of view...'

'Well, what else is there to do but frolic?' Kiara replied defensively. 'Such a funny word, by the way... I can't just lead him to Reachcliff Cave!'

'And why not?' Barbas asked with a small snort. 'Good riddance, if you ask me'.

'Don't be so mean!' Kiara sounded as if she was on the verge of bursting into tears. 'We must keep him from finding Sanyon! Ever! If he finds him and his gang, he is dead!'

'Oh please', Barbas objected impatiently. 'He is not a child! He can handle himself. And if he can't - well, he's only a Thalmor. No big loss here'.

'He is not just any Thalmor...' Kiara's voice was now so quiet that Ondolemar could barely hear what she was saying.

'Huh? What makes him special all of a sudden?' Barbas sneered.

'I...' Kiara swallowed, faltering. 'I lo...'

'You filthy little liar!' Ondolemar had no patience left for any more eavesdropping. He sprang to his feet and, emerging suddenly out the darkness behind Kiara's back, grabbed her by the collar of her armour, lifting her slightly into the air and almost strangling her. 'You knew where Sanyon was all along - and yet you had the audacity to drag me halfway across this hole of a province and back again without saying anything definite! I have a hunch where he might be', he sang shrilly, mimicking Kiara's manner of speaking. 'Trust me, and we will find him someday! Well, it seems that my trust was misplaced!'

'Please,' Kiara whimpered, gasping for breath. 'I can explain...'

Ondolemar's lips parted in a malicious leer, 'Do you have any idea how many times I heard that line before? Spare me your pathetic nonsense!'

With force fed by boiling rage, he flung Kiara down on the ground and cast a paralyzing spell on her, 'I am done with you. This time, I will not be coming back'.

'Hey!' Barbas barked indignantly, dashing after Ondolemar, who, after giving Kiara a farewell kick, had promptly mounted Spidey and was about to ride off into the wilderness. 'That's our horse, you... you criminal scum! Fancy that, I still remember running gags from two hundred years ago...'

Without deigning as much as to turn his head to see what was that bouncing about at his mount's hooves, Ondolemar spurred Spidey with his boots, making the poor steed reel to his hind legs and gallop down the mountain path, raising a cloud of dust.

'All right then, go on and leave,' Barbas growled in resignation. 'I hope you get caught by those two bandits again!'

The moons sank into the torrent of melted gold that was spreading across the sky from the east. The first warm rays of the rising caressed the small campsite on the side of a mountain, and glided across the face of the small figure of a young Redguard woman that lay prostrate in its middle, reflected in the shimmering tears streaming silently down her cheeks.