The Ones We Love

Martin pulled the Oghma Infinium from his bag, its whispers and secrets still calling to him even now. "There is nothing I wish to learn from you. You can offer me knowledge of the past and present and future, you can offer me power the likes of which I can only dream, but what you cannot offer me is freedom."

"Do not disappoint me, Dragonborn."

"I have too many others to worry about to leave them behind, and they need me more than I need you." Martin dropped the Oghma Infinium into the center well of Apocrypha's summit, letting it disappear beneath the murky water. "I will never serve you. Not of my own will."

"Then you are a fool." The writhing clouds began to dissipate as the eyes blinked out, one by one.

"I am a fool with mistakes in his past and light in his future. There is nothing you have that I want," Martin declared, watching the last eye vanish into the sky.

For a moment, Apocrypha was quiet. The faint whispers swirled around him still, dimmed but not quieted with the loss of the Infinium. He took a deep breath to calm his shaking nerves. A faint exhalation of breath came from behind him.

He heard the sparks go off in the split-second before they hit the back of his robes. "OW!" He turned, seeing Amelie, staff raised and seething. She was no longer transparent, flames burning in her hands.

"HOW COULD YOU—"

"Amelie—"

She threw again, his sleeve catching fire. "You didn't say anything, you, you insensitive—"

"Ami, I—"

"We gave up on you!" she hollered, throwing a ball of ice at his head while he was putting out his sleeve. "We thought the worst, they still do you, how could you just—"

"I'm sorry!" Martin put up a ward to block a blazing fireball from setting the rest of him on fire. On the other side of its glassy surface, he saw her drop her hands, out of breath. "I couldn't let you leave without seeing—"

"How could you?" she demanded. "I don't know whether to laugh or cry, how could you say nothing this whole time?"

Martin gave a sort of shrug. "You never let me, you didn't want to hear it."

She threw another ball of fire at him. "So it's MY fault?"

"No! No, it's my fault, I never should have—Ami, will you stop for a moment—!" A shard of ice flew past him, forcing him to duck.

"You let me believe I would lose you!"

"I never should have considered it!" Martin said. "And I'm sorry for that and for everything before it and everything I said, can we please—"

"Martin Septim." She marched straight up to him, scowling savagely and poking him in the chest with her sparking staff. He backed against the pillar, hands raised submissively. "Martin, if you ever do something like this again—"

"It won't happen—"

"If you ever," she started again, taking every word with a ferocious, slow deliberation, her voice shaking with such fury that she could barely speak, "do something like this again,I will sink you to the bottom of Lake Rumare."

Martin nodded, hands still raised, not about to disagree. "I'm sorry."

"Don't you dare just—just—!" She broke off, shouting incoherently for a moment, incensed and raving. "Make no mistake, I am serious,I, I will throw you off the Throat of the World, I will get Paarthurnax to help and we will—"

"I'm sorry!"

"Never again!" Amelie said fiercely. "Do you understand me?"

"I do, it will never happen again," he promised. "I swear."

"You swear?"

Martin gripped her shoulders, looking her dead in the eye. "I swear on my life and all that comes after it. I am a free man and I will not spend my freedom making any of you any more miserable."

She groaned. "Lucky thing I'm fond of you. But I cannot take you seriously wearing that."

"Wha...?"

Amelie reached up and pulled Miraak's mask off his face. "I would rather look at you while I still can."

Martin's mouth twitched into a smile. "Gods willing, this is far from the last you'll see of me."

The cold winds of Skaal Village greeted him outside of Waking Dreams. It was sunny for all the chill in the wind, the sun reflecting off the snow and momentarily blinding him.

"Martin?"

He turned, blinking rapidly. It was Frea, with an armful of firewood. She dropped it and ran to him, eyes wide.

"I can feel it," she said quickly, "The Tree Stone is free again, the oneness of the land is restored!"

"Good—"

"Does that mean..." Frea paused, tentative. "Is it over? Is Miraak defeated?"

"Miraak is dead," Martin confirmed. "But Hermaeus Mora is still out there."

"It was Miraak who threatened Solstheim," Frea reminded him. "With him gone, Herma-Mora has been foiled once again."

Martin closed Waking Dreams and put it back in his bag, smiling at her. "It certainly turned out better than I had expected it to."

"Tell me though." Frea started walking back to the shaman's hut—her hut now, Martin supposed—and motioned for him to follow. "My father's death. Was it necessary? Was there no other way to destroy Miraak?"

Martin's good mood evaporated. He plodded through the snow to enter the hut after Frea, carefully constructing a sentence that was both true and comforting.

"Hermaeus Mora wouldn't have helped me without Storn's sacrifice," he said.

"Yes. His help which did not require him to kill my father," Frea said bitterly, scowling.

"I'm sorry." Martin said. "I wish there had been another way—"

"Such is the way of Herma-Mora, the eternal enemy of the Skaal," Frea sighed, sitting down at the table. She was still tired and grieving, but now had a determination about her that told him she was ready to move forward. Martin sat across from her, accepting her offer of bread.

"Thank you."

"One more thing, Skaal-friend, if you will. I know it is not my place, but... may I offer a word of advice?" Frea said. "Of warning?"

He nodded, swallowing his bread. "Of course, what is it?"

"As shaman of the Skaal, I am changed with the spiritual wellbeing of my people. While you are not of the Skaal, you are Skaal-friend, and so I give you this warning." She looked him in the eye, very serious. "Herma-Mora forced you to serve him in order to defeat Miraak. Do not let him lure you further down the path. The All-Maker made you Dragonborn for a higher purpose. Do not forget that."

"I won't," Martin promised her.

Frea broke into a smile, offering him more bread. "I am glad."

"How is the village doing now?" he asked politely.

"No better or worse than before," she said. "We have lost Storn, but that encourages us to be more careful. There is danger everywhere, and we must not forget that."

"But you're safe here.

She shook her head. "You must understand that for the Skaal, life is a constant hardship. We take nothing for granted. We cannot afford to; between the wolves, the weather, and the threats from the south, even a simple task like gathering wood can turn deadly in an instant."

Martin fell silent for a moment. Skaal Village was in the harsh north of Solstheim—living here was not the same as living in a city like Raven Rock or Whiterun. "Sooner of later, death comes for us all." At least, it had better.

"We Skaal do not fear death," Frea reminded him. "We know we will return to the All-Maker and be born anew. Life never truly ends, death is just a passage from one form to the next. As you should well know."

Martin nodded, pensive but finally peaceful. "Thank you, Frea."

"Walk with the All-Maker, Skaal-friend," she told him.

Martin backed against the railing and nearly toppled over. "What—"

"Hold still. Let me get a good look at you."

Amelie stood to the side, looking uncertain about whether or not to intervene on Martin's behalf. Martin leaned back, trying to get away from Neloth. "What are you doing, what are you looking for?"

"Incipient madness," Neloth mumbled, squinting at Martin's eyes. "Loss of self-awareness. Black spots in the whites of the eyes. Any of the documented indications of Hermaeus Mora's permanent influence."

Martin cast a nervous glance towards Amelie, who shrugged. "Neloth, I am—"

"Hmm. No, you look fine," Neloth concluded independently, turning to return to his work. "Well, at least no different than I first saw you."

"You need not worry about me," Martin said.

Neloth waved his hand in a slightly random way. "I wasn't worried, just interested," he said. "I don't get to observe firsthand many people who've spoken to Hermaeus Mora."

Neloth returned to his work and fell silent. Martin came to Neloth's table, looking at whatever concoction he was brewing today. "Don't you want to know what happened with Miraak?" he asked.

"Who?"

"Miraak—"

"Oh, him." Neloth added a giant's toe to his brew. It puffed out a cloud of oddly sour-smelling smoke. "Well, I assume you killed him. Or Hermaeus Mora turned on him when you looked like a winning bet. Or a bit of both."

Out of the corner of his eye, Martin saw Amelie scurry off to reexamine Neloth's staff enchanter. He suppressed a smile. "Miraak is dead."

"Miraak's influence has vanished from Solstheim, so I assumed you had handled things," Neloth said. "Why, did something interesting happen?"

Martin shook his head. "No, I just killed him and saved Solstheim. Nothing interesting at all."

"Well, that is what you hero types do, isn't it?" Neloth asked, squinting at faded scribbles in a handwritten book splashed with various colors of potion. "I wasn't expecting anything less. Miraak was a formidable opponent, and defeating him was an impressive feat. I wonder if Hermaeus Mora will seek you out because of it."

"I think I made it very clear that Hermaeus Mora and I will never see eye to eye," Martin said.

"Now all that's left are those Black Books..."

"About those—"

"It's a shame I haven't located any more," Neloth said, focusing intently as he meted out some kind of powdered fungus to add to his potion.

Martin frowned. "What?"

"So much more to be learned."

"There are no more Black Books?"

"Not now. Maybe in the future, or the past, or somewhere farther than I can see," Neloth admitted. "Which doesn't leave very many places for them to hide, believe me."

"Do you want them?" Martin asked.

"Want them?" Neloth finally looked away from his potions to look at Martin, an expression of disdain on his face. "What would I do with them?"

Martin had started pulling the Black Books out of his bag, stacking them on Neloth's table. "I don't know. What do you normally do with them?"

"Well, I don't keep them, for starters, they're far too dangerous to have around." Neloth flipped open the cover of Winds of Change, mildly interested. "Just let me make a copy, and you can have them."

Martin ran a hand through his hair, thinking. "What am I supposed to do with them, then?"

"Oh, I'm sure you can handle yourself." Neloth brought up a basket full of loose rolls of paper, scribbling down whatever he needed from the books. "After all, you found them."

After several long minutes of Neloth working and muttering to himself, Martin abandoned the laboratory to seek out Amelie with the staff enchanter. She was sitting beneath it, examining its structure.

"Is Neloth going to take them?" she asked absently, tracing some sort of pattern with her finger.

"No, he just wants a copy."

She sighed, dropping her hand to her lap. "What are you going to do with them?"

"I have an idea."

Martin picked up Hidden Twilight from the stack of Black Books, looking down at it for a moment. The only book he hadn't needed, but the only one whose power he had really used. If he never saw it again, it would be too soon. With a determined nod, he pitched it off the summit, listening to its whispering secrets blow away in the winds of Apocrypha.

He heard her laughing as the whispers began to recede. "This is brilliant, Martin!"

"No one will find them here," he said, turning back to the pile of books. She was beaming, joyful, happy again. "Not unless they find their way into Waking Dreams."

"Then what are you going to do with Waking Dreams?" she asked.

He thought for a moment. "I don't think I want to bring it back into Skyrim... it doesn't have a place with the rest," he said.

"All the rest of your trunk of whispering artifacts?"

"I buried them." Martin picked up Winds of Change from the stack, cracking a smile. "In Septimus's lockbox. There's nothing left in the house, but I don't want to bring Waking Dreams back to Skyrim at all if I can avoid it. Neloth is right, it's too dangerous to keep around."

"What, then?"

"I could always bury it back in Miraak's temple," he tried. "A fitting end for it."

"That could work."

He offered her Winds of Change. "Toss it."

"Could I really?"

"Sure."

She bounced excitedly on the balls of her feet and took it from him. Martin watched her walk to the very edge of the summit and fling the book off with all her might, following it with a ball of fire. He laughed, watching it explode on impact. For all the flames, it had absolutely no effect: the Black Book was unharmed and still fell in one piece.

"We cannot destroy them."

"That doesn't mean we cannot try," she said. "Try it, it's very cathartic."

He shrugged, picking up Epistolary Acumen and sent it spinning off into the air, throwing a fireball of his own after it. The whispers scorched and fell silent as the book fell out of sight. Behind him, he heard Amelie clapping.

"Do you think they would come back?" he asked, offering her Sallow Regent.

"The books?"

"Jean and Anna."

"Oh. I've spoken to them a bit." Amelie threw it off the edge and pitched a lightning bolt after it. The air rang with magical thunder as it cracked against the book's spine. "If you asked them to, I think they would."

"How would I ask them?"

"The same way you ask me."

"But things are different with you—"

"And now things are different with them," she said. "...Even if you do have some explaining to do."

"And so I worry," he said, taking up Filament and Filigree. "What if—well, do they not hate me now? I mean—"

"Probably about as much as I did."

Martin's aim faltered, and his stream of sparks flew far to the left of where he'd thrown the book. "You hated me? But—"

"For a while, I was afraid that I had to." She sat down on the edge of the summit, watching Filament and Filigree plummet out of sight. "And then I was afraid I would lose you."

He came to sit with her, Untold Legends in hand. She watched him, waiting for him to speak. The book whispered and asked, demanding to be kept. Martin shook his head.

"So... that was meant to be goodbye, then."

"I suppose." Amelie leaned back on her hands. "No one should go alone into death."

They were silent for a time, listening to the wind and the rustling of pages.

I can teach you—

"For what it may be worth," she said suddenly, "I am very glad you didn't. Die, I mean."

Martin chuckled, drumming his fingers against the book's cover. "It's worth a lot." He held it out to Amelie beside him. "Shall we?"

She laughed, taking hold. "Absolutely."

"One. Two. Three!"

Together, they sent the book sailing out into the void, quieting the whispers. The sound of silence filled the air, his mind clearer and quieter than it had been in a long time. Beside him, Amelie let out a long sigh.

Martin looked down off the summit into the swirling green clouds. Untold Legends fell through the canopy of clouds, out of reach and out of mind. "I read The Oblivion Crisis."

She looked up at him, beaming. "You did?"

"You threw it at me."

Amelie's smile faded. "...Oh. That's right, I did." She looked back out at the clouds, embarrassed. "I'm sorry."

"No, it's fine. I read it, it's very thorough."

"It's not done," she said quickly. "I mean, it's as much your story as it is ours."

"And Desmond's now, too," he added.

Amelie nodded. "Right. We should have him read it."

"Not until it's done." Martin turned to look at her, watching the breeze gently push back her hair. "Could I help?"

"I'd love that." Amelie pushed herself up off the ground, still looking out at the clouds. She put her hands on his shoulders, sliding her arms around his neck and hugging him tightly. "Do not ever bring me here again."

"This is the last time, I promise."

"Shall we go?"

"May as well," he conceded. Amelie let him go, he got to his feet and stretched. Apocrypha was comfortingly silent, almost peaceful in the absence of the books.

Her stare no longer felt judgmental or invasive, merely watching him. She smiled. "This is really it, then, isn't it."

"Don't say that." Martin returned her smile, a weight lifted from his mind and soul. He offered her his arm, walking back towards the center well. "I have won my freedom from Hermaeus Mora. Perhaps I have earned my way into Aetherius as well."

"If the Divines will take me, they will surely take you," she assured him, matching his stride. "Only the cruelest of gods would throw you through so much and refuse to reward you somehow."

"You're still staring."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her head quickly turn to face front. "I don't want to forget."

"I never want you to." Martin released her arm, moving in front of her and offering her a bow. "Shall we?" he asked, extending his hands.

Amelie bowed her head, beaming too brightly for the dim world of Apocrypha. She curtsied, and took his hands for a last dance. "Why miss a chance like this when chances are so few?"

"Especially if you and I are—"

"What are you and I, now?" she asked quietly.

They fell silent, waltzing slowly to a forgotten tune around dragon bones and discarded pages. There were no whispers to suggest answers, and no disasters to outrun. In the peace of Apocrypha, there were more questions than answers, it seemed. For all the lost time he wanted to make up, for every lost day they had spent apart, there seemed to be another year's worth of questions and uncertainties. Time slowed or sped up around them in unintelligible variables, minutes stretching to years and shrinking to seconds and back again, all feeling as if it went by too fast.

"I don't know," he admitted at last, ending the dance. "A few things are different now. I'm not sure what happens."

She held tightly to his hand. "Whatever the future holds, I will stay with you until the end."

"Because you have to, or because you want to?"

"Because I will," Amelie told him. "For as long as you'll have me. I certainly cannot be sad with you."

Martin drew her into a tight embrace, contented and peaceful. "Thank you." He felt her fingers ruffle his hair, and laughed. "Let's go home."

He watched her smile vanish in a puff of blue smoke, the scent of flowers still in the air as he reread Waking Dreams. At least for now, he had peace in his heart.

Heljarchen Hall was waiting for them. No matter how kindly the citizens of Raven Rock addressed him, no matter what arrangement he put the furniture in, no matter how many or few ash storms there were, and no matter what the Councilors and citizens said, Raven Rock would never feel like home to him. Severin Manor was not his home, and it never would be.

"HUN KAAL ZOOR!"

Three ghosts, two reluctant and one patient, lined the dock before him.

"We finally getting out of here?" Jean asked curtly, arms tightly crossed. "About time."

Martin held a box full to bursting with books periodically "borrowed" from Neloth over the months spent in Solstheim, traded with the Skaal and the scholar who lived with them, and found around Solstheim. On his shoulders hung an overfull bag of even more books. A pair of other boxes sat on the docks, full of words waiting to be put on the Northern Maiden and brought back to Skyrim. "Let's see if we can get the house back in shape."

"Back in shape? It was never in shape," Amelie prodded.

Martin rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "Would you please help me with these?"

Anna Marie held out her hands for the box, though she did not smile. Jean, on the other hand, simply vanished again. Martin looked to a frowning Amelie, who only shook her head.

"Give him some time," she said, taking one of the other boxes and hopping onto the ship. "We're going home."

"I've sent a letter to the Temple of Mara to see if they have work for me," Martin said, adding his bag to the pile of boxes and producing a bag of gold with which to pay the crew. "If the priesthood will have me back, perhaps I can return to the life I started out in."

The Northern Maiden shoved off from Solstheim, leaving behind a prosperous Raven Rock and a faintly whispering Temple. His life and the ones he loved were now firmly rooted in the north.

Heljarchen Hall was warm and smelled of spices as Amelie worked in the kitchen. Building a larger hall (and building it well) had taken the better part of the year, but had been well worth it. There was now a formal dining hall, and ever since Martin and Jean finished work on the kitchen, Desmond, Stenvar, and Serana had taken to dropping by every so often between adventures.

"How's he doing?"

Martin shook his head, looking out the window. Desmond was still sitting outside on the snowy hill, staring out into the night. Serana intended to meet them in Riften, as did the rest of the guests. Stenvar was rounding up whoever he wanted to invite, and they weren't expecting anyone else at the house. Rather, Desmond had abruptly gotten up and left during the middle of their conversation—Amelie had said something about her own marriage, her own family and heritage, and Desmond had abandoned the room in favor of the cold.

"It's hard to tell," Martin said.

Amelie flopped her ball of dough out of its bowl and onto the kitchen counter. Amelie usually oversaw most of what went on within the kitchen, and ever since Martin scorched a tart and ruined a stew, she had refused his cooking help whenever anyone came to visit. "What if he wants to back out again and isn't telling us? Do you think he's ready this time?"

"I hardly think he has the time for a two hundred year courtship," Martin pointed out. Amelie tossed a spoon at the back of his head. "I just mean to say—"

"You and I both know Maramal is running out of patience," she said. "If Desmond backs out again—"

"He won't."

"Not to mention Stenvar—"

"It's going to go well," Martin assured her. "I am in charge of officiating, everything is going to be fine this time. I think this is about something else, I have never seen him react to anything like that."

Amelie's face fell into a guilty frown. "I didn't meant to upset him."

"I know. And I think he knows, too."

'Will you go talk to him?" She slid a pan into the stone oven and started work on a broth. "Please?"

Martin nodded, and pulled open the door. It was one of the coldest nights of the winter, a new year dawning tomorrow. And, he supposed, a new life for those two, if all went well. He walked across the snow to where Desmond sat, watching the skies.

"Amelie told me once you died tonight." Desmond looked back, watching Martin approach. "That true?"

Martin sat down on the hill beside Desmond, thinking back. "Yes, the last day of Third Era. It was warmer than this, though."

Desmond did not respond. Martin sat with him in silence for a while, naming constellations in his head. There was the Thief and the Warrior, the Lord and the Lady.

"Are you ready for tomorrow?" Martin asked finally.

Desmond nodded resolutely. "Yeah."

"No matter what we say, don't rush into something you aren't ready for," Martin reminded him. "If you really don't feel ready—"

"I'm ready." Desmond nodded again, still staring at a star. "I feel like... how you look at her." He met Martin's eyes, a small smile on his face. "And if that's not enough, then nothing is."

Martin nudged Desmond with his elbow. "Then I think you two will be very happy together. As long as that's true, no one can say a word against you."

Desmond sighed deeply, a cloud of fog forming in his breath. "It's just..." He doubled forward, his head sinking into his hands. "I don't know, I've always been so..."

"What?"

"Alone." Desmond's fingers mussed his hair, frustrated. "I mean, I came from nothing. I don't have a big family or, or a long history. Everyone knows where they come from, you and the ghosts and Sten and Sera and... I don't know any of that."

"A border-crossing adventurer in search of happiness, born in Windhelm raised in Riften?" Martin pointed out. "I think I knew all of that before I knew your name."

"Well—!" Desmond scowled. "No, no... yeah, but no, that's different."

"So...?"

He sighed again, staring down at the snow. Martin watched him cobble his thoughts together into words. "Remember when Sera and I went to the Soul Cairn?"

"I... remember you talking about it once or twice," said Martin, straining his memory to remember anything substantial. "Why?"

"There was a dragon. Durnehviir," Desmond told him. "And he called me qahnaarin."

Martin frowned, trying to parse Desmond's botched pronunciation and searching for a proper translation. "Vanquisher?"

Desmond nodded. "Because we had to defeat him to get the Elder Scroll. After we killed Harkon, we talked to him and he said I could call him."

"Call... to summon him? He taught you a Shout?" Martin asked, floored. Desmond still stared at the snow, bothered.

"He said that I could."

"And can you?"

"No!" Desmond kicked out at the ground, a pile of snow tumbling down the hill. "I don't know why he did, I can't do any of that stuff. And he's just been sitting in the Soul Cairn in silence all these years because I don't know how, because I can't. And I don't know why he thinks I could be... like you. Because I'm not." He looked helplessly to Martin, an inscrutable, vulnerable, almost youthful fear in his eyes. "Am I?"

Martin bit his tongue, thinking back, way back. "...Maybe?" he guessed, a smile creeping onto his face.

"What's that supposed to mean, maybe? I mean, unless you had kids or—"

Martin interrupted him by laughing.

"What?"

Martin could not reply, struggling to control himself.

"What?" Desmond demanded again. "It's not funny!"

Martin took a deep, quavering breath as his laughter began to subside. "I know. I, I'm sorry, it's not funny—"

"Then what—"

"Just listen, I think I understand." Martin scooted to the side, turning to face Desmond more directly. "Aleius had a theory," he said. "About how I could be Dragonborn as Jean—I always wondered if he was right—and this theory says that the people we spend our time with start to share parts of our souls. So our family, our friends, the ones we love, we all carry bits of them within ourselves. It doesn't matter if—"

"It does matter!" Desmond snapped.

Martin put his hands together, trying to think of what to say that would both calm Desmond down and be true. "It doesn't matter," he repeated, "if you are my long lost great-great-great-grandson, or if Durnehviir sensed a bit of my Dragonborn soul in you. Whatever the case, he is right. You have power within you, no matter where it comes from. You should know better than anyone that our past does not define who we are."

Desmond scoffed, crossing his arms childishly over his chest. "But I'm not—I'm just some orphan kid."

"You're not a child anymore," Martin told him. "Though I suppose you'll always be a kid to me. I have seen you slay giants and dragons from this hilltop. I have listened to Serana and Stenvar talk about all the amazing, foolhardy—" Martin caught him smiling here. "—heroic things you have done. Desmond, you read three Elder Scrolls after swearing to me that you would do no such thing."

"That was stupid."

"I read one and would not have made it out alive if I hadn't had Paarthurnax and Alenvar with me," Martin went on. "I did not choose greatness. I did not choose power or adventure, I'm not very good at it! The gods could have done a lot better than me!"

Desmond's frustration finally broke as he snickered, then full-on laughed.

"I did not choose this life," Martin told him, "but you did. You chose this hectic, dangerous, unpredictable life of adventure and peril, and I truly think that makes you greater than me. You seek it out and tackle it head-on, for some reason you want this, you enjoy it, and that's phenomenal."

"...Right. All right," Desmond said at last. "So you did have kids, then?"

"Wha—I didn't mean—well, I mean—!" Martin pursed his lips, constructing a response. "It's... possible, I suppose."

"Possible?"

Martin pushed himself to his feet, clapping Desmond on the back. "No matter what, you can always come here. Even if we're not related. How's that?"

"Good to know." Desmond stood up as well, following him back to the house that smelled of soup and fresh bread.

Amelie was still in the kitchen, and looked worriedly at the door as the two of them reentered. Martin gave an inconspicuous nod, closing the door behind Desmond.

"Here. Taste," Amelie directed, holding out a spoon of the soup. "Not you."

Martin backed away, perturbed. "It's my kitchen!"

"Not since you ruined my tart!" she snapped at him, holding the spoon out to Desmond.

Martin scoffed dramatically and sat down at one of the only balanced chairs at the table, the one at the head of the table in front of the fireplace. He and Anna Marie had been working on fixing more of them, but always seemed to be one or two behind for all the people Desmond and Serana kept bringing through on assignments from the Dawnguard. The Elder Scroll that Desmond had returned to him after the fight with Harkon hung on the wall over the fire; for some reason Urag had refused to buy it back. Whatever the case, Martin supposed he'd need more chairs for whenever the next great band of adventurers turned up to claim it.

Desmond took an eager sip of whatever Amelie had been cooking. "...Tastes fine," he said.

She shook her head. "Don't tell me that, tell me what it needs. You'll be eating it, after all."

Desmond shrugged, looking around the kitchen for ideas. "Salt?"

"Is that a suggestion or a guess?"

"Yes."

Amelie scowled again, but obliged him and salted the soup before setting out a pair of bowls. "Eat up, then we probably ought to leave if we want to reach Riften by morning."

"Wouldn't want to be late to this one," Martin added, standing up to help serve up the soup.

Desmond nodded, beaming. "Thanks. You're the best."

Heljarchen Hall was oppressively dark. He was alone, and that was a bad idea. The silence sometimes gave way to rustles that sounded close to whispers, the shadows in the corner flickering just enough to look like pages fluttering by, or roots crawling up the walls, or—

Martin stumbled to the door in the middle of the night, his breath coming in short, harrowed bursts. "KAAL!

Jean immediately dropped his bow and seized Martin's arms, supporting him on the way back into the house. "What happened?" he asked, kicking a chair out from the table. Martin fell back into it, rubbing the butts of his palms into his eyes, nearly hyperventilating. "Talk to me, what's going on?"

He couldn't say. Jean took a knee beside the chair and scanned Martin's face.

"You're safe," he said. "You're with me, ok? Nothing's gonna get to you while I'm around."

"You cannot stop a Prince!" Martin choked out between strained breaths.

"You did."

"That's different!"

Jean put a steadying hand on Martin's shoulder. "Ok. You're right, but listen. Look around." The room, the house, the hill around it, all was wild and silent and still. "The house isn't burning down," Jean said, his voice composed and calming. "We were just outside, there's no dragons. No giants, no Princes. Just you and me."

Martin held his breath for a moment, trying to slow the tremors in his hands and chest. "Right."

"Have you eaten today?" Jean asked.

Martin shook his head. "Amelie doesn't like me to go in the kitchen."

It was definitely one of his flimsiest excuses, and he could almost hear Jean bite back a curse and a scowl. "Well, Amelie Rose isn't here," he pointed out. "Besides, I'm sure she'd rather you go in the kitchen than starve, eat something."

Martin didn't move. Jean got up instead, the room flooding with light as he relit the fireplace. There was a noise in the kitchen as Jean rummaged through a cabinet.

Jean put a green apple on the table by Martin, taking a seat across from him. "Here. Eat, please. You can't starve this away," he told Martin, frowning with concern at him from the other side of the table. "Don't try to."

"I, I'm not," Martin insisted weakly. The apple was tart and just slightly overripe, but refreshing nonetheless.

"Then what—"

"It cannot stay here," he said, consciously focusing on his breathing. "It's going to destroy me to keep it here."

"Ok." Jean was studying him carefully, watching the panic and paranoia subside. Martin always wondered—but never asked—what it was like for him, watching himself age but always being outside of it. "What do you want to do?"

The trunk in the corner of the entryway was empty save for the Masque of Clavicus Vile. As far as Martin was concerned, it was useless—but keeping it around made him anxious. The Masque of Clavicus Vile could make him loved and popular and adored, but what for? What was the point? No one knew his real face anyway, the mask would only conceal a lie. All this mess for Falkreath's want of a dog...

"I want to take it to Winterhold." Martin took another bite of the apple, feeling his temperament even out. "Bury it with the rest."

A flicker of uncertainty—perhaps even fear—flew across Jean's face. "Are you ready for that kind of trip?" he asked delicately. "That's a rough place to get to, and let's be honest—it's getting tougher, too."

Martin briefly considered throwing the apple core at him. "I can handle it."

Jean nodded. "Ok. Fine, we'll go with you."

"Do you think it will work?" Martin twisted the apple's stem, trying to pull it off for no other reason than to give his hands something to do.

"Work...?" Jean nodded. "Yeah. I mean, it's not your fault. You didn't do anything wrong—"

"How am I to die an honorable death as an Oblivion walker?" Martin asked, his fears resurfacing in full force. "I can bury the artifacts and lock them away, but what if—"

"Hey." Jean rapped his knuckles on the table to shut him up. "You didn't do anything wrong. You could have killed that dog, you could have kept the axe, you could have used that Masque for something horrible. But you didn't."

"I don't want to," Martin said.

"Exactly. The gods could do a lot worse than you."

Martin considered this for a moment. He supposed it was technically true—and it was all he could do to hope and pray that it was enough.

"When do you want to go?" Jean asked.

"In the morning, I think." Martin got up, retrieving a piece of bread from the cabinet as well. It was a few days old, a little tough and stale, but still edible. "We'll leave when it gets light."

"Sure." Jean had gotten up as well, opening the door into the opposite wing of the house. It was still more or less under construction, the shelves inside only half-finished. He pulled the worn, yellowing book off the only finished table in the room, careful to keep it closed so the loose pages did not fly out. "Should re-bind this at some point. Where are you now?"

Martin swallowed his bite of bread, carefully opening the book once Jean brought it back to the table. "I'm up to the Great Gate."

Jean whistled. "Can I help?"

"It wouldn't be complete without you."

Heljarchen Hall was finished at last. The library was fully furnished, and the plants in the garden just outside the door were finally beginning to sprout with the springtime sun. Out on the grass behind the house, running around the hill, were two little adventurers and two veteran ghosts.

"GET HIM!" Anna Marie shouted. Bjanca swung her wooden sword, connecting with Jean's elbow. Jean tumbled to the ground, feigning grievous injury as Bjanca whacked him on the shoulder.

"Ach—no, I'm—OW, hey—"

"You're dead, I killed you," Bjanca informed him, poking him in the chest with her sword as she stood over him.

"Nuh-uh, I'm gonna save him!" Vilmar waved his hands theatrically, a long stick serving as his mage's staff, then stared expectantly at the ghost on the ground. Jean sprung back to his feet, stretching.

"Thanks for the rescue," Jean said, bowing to the little boy. "Now what am I?"

Vilmar thought for a moment. "A daedra!"

"Daedra. Ok, er..." Jean cast a glance at Martin for help. After all, it had been his story about the battle for the Imperial City that had sent them off on this pretend war. Martin shrugged, all smiles.

Jean and Vilmar set off in pursuit of Anna Marie and Bjanca, giggles and shouts carrying across the hill. Boys versus girls had become the favorite game at Heljarchen Hall, although Martin no longer played (which severely unbalanced the game whenever Serana was around to play as well).

"The house looks great," Stenvar said. He and Martin sat together on the last log in the lumber pile.

Martin sighed contentedly, looking back at the house. "It should last a long time now. It's nice to be done with it, finally," he admitted.

"I'll bet." Stenvar grinned, keeping an eye on the children at play. Anna Marie was howling with mock pain as Vilmar pretended to cast a spell on her. "Well, if you ever want to add another wing or need some repairs or anything, let us know. We'd be glad to help."

Martin nodded, slowly getting to his feet. "I'm going to see if Desmond and Amelie need any help," he said.

Vilmar and Bjanca had begged for sweetrolls (Desmond had said no), and Amelie had been in the kitchen for the past half-hour making dinner. Once Martin had started in on his story of the Imperial City, Desmond had scowled and left to help her. Martin picked a handful of grapes off the vines in the outside garden, pushing open the door to the house.

"He's the WORST!"

Martin froze in the hall, listening to Desmond rant and rave from inside the kitchen. He crept up to the wall, the better to hear. The door was ever so slightly ajar, letting him see a thin slice of the kitchen.

"It was bad enough telling stories about actual Oblivion, Vilmar had nightmares for a week—"

"Desmond..." There was a clank of pottery on wood, then sounds of mixing. Amelie must have put down her bowl on the table.

"But now he's probably out there going on about Princes and the Divines and—"

"They're children, they're bound to learn from someone."

"What kind of father do you think I am?" Desmond demanded. "Of course we teach them that stuff! But I don't teach them by preaching all the gory details about—"

"Desmond—"

"—about Mehrunes Dagon and, and then something about Sanguine and—"

"He's not preaching—"

"He's a priest, it's what he does!"

Amelie poured some steaming hot liquid into her mixing bowl. "It's not preaching, that's different."

"It's not that different!" Elbows on the table, accompanied by a frustrated grumble. "And—I mean—just, he always changes the story, and it's all the time with him now, every time we're here, and—"

"I get it."

"Do you? Do you really?" Desmond asked bitterly.

"I live with him." More pouring sounds. "Sort of," she added quickly. "Would you taste that for me?"

A pause. "Too much salt," Desmond told her. "How do you do it? Live with him, all the time?I'd go mad!"

"It's not like that. Pass me that—" Desmond slid a bowl of something across the table, she began stirring it in. "Thanks. And, after all, I did choose him. In the end."

"Why?" Desmond asked.

The stirring stopped. "Because I did," she said. "And I'm glad I did. How's this?"

Another pause. "Add some leeks."

"Oh, very smart. Would you mind—"

"Yeah, I got it." Chair legs scraped across the floor, Desmond had gotten up to cut the leeks for her.

"You chose him too, you know."

Chopping noises joined the sounds in the kitchen. Martin could just barely see a deeply frowning half of Desmond's face. "I know," Desmond sighed. "I know, I know. I know. I'm just... so frustrated with him right now."

"I get it. And it's fine to be frustrated, just please don't take it out on him or—"

"I know, that's why I'm in here yelling at you instead," Desmond said.

A flop of dough onto the counter. "He's bored," Amelie said. "He doesn't have much else to do out here. Try this?"

The chopping stopped for a moment. "Nice. That for apples or jazbay or something?"

"Apples."

"Bored?" Desmond demanded. "Are you sure you live here? Have you seen everything in this house? Library, greenhouse, storage, workbench, how can he possibly be bored?"

"Think about it." Soft sounds of apple slices joining the dough on the counter. "He's getting older. Going out on adventures or even down to Whiterun is harder than it used to be."

An angry chopping sound. "Fair."

They fell into silence for a moment, chopping and stirring. A ceramic pan slid into the oven.

"It really is nice to have you visit," Amelie said quietly.

"I know. And it's good to visit," Desmond admitted. "Truth be told, I do kind of miss having him around."

"The kids seem to love him," she said.

"And the rest of you. Which kind of worries me." Desmond stopped chopping whatever he was working on.

"Why's that?"

"I dunno. I mean, what if...?" Chair legs again. Amelie took over the cooking as Desmond sat back down. "What if they don't get any good influences?"

"Are you saying we're bad influences?"

"I—wha, no, but—"

"You're a good influence," Amelie pointed out. "Stenvar's a good influence."

"I know, but what if they grow up wrong?" Anxious tapping of feet on the floor. "What if I screw them up? I mean, two kids! Gods, what were we thinking?"

"You gave two children a loving home." A gentle splashing as Amelie added something to broth. "That's admirable. Desmond, you haven't even had them for a year, relax."

"What if they hate us?" Desmond asked. "What if they want to go back to the orphanage?"

"Look me in the eye and say that again," Amelie dared. The ensuing pause told Martin that Desmond could not. "I doubt it would ever come to that. They are wonderful kids, and you and Stenvar are wonderful parents, everything will be fine. It just takes some getting used to."

"What if we do it wrong?" Desmond persisted. "I didn't have parents, I don't know how to parent!"

"Neither did I. Taste."

A pause. "Tastes fine."

"Good."

"What if they grow up and get in trouble?" Desmond was staunchly refusing to let the issue go, spiraling into a loop of fear and worry. "What if they end up in jail, or what if they go out and fight dragons and get eaten, or—"

"There hasn't been a dragon here since—"

"Since Martin called for Odahviing because he thought it'd be fun—"

"That was decidedly unwise."

"Unwise, are you kidding me—"

"Desmond—"

A thunk on wood as Desmond dropped his head to rest on the table. "I don't know what I'm doing," he confessed. "I don't, I don't know what I'm doing or how I got here. I can still close my eyes and see that blasted dragon about to scream Martin's head off on the chopping block and then suddenly I'm married, I have a house, I have kids—"

"And they're all wonderful," Amelie reminded him.

Desmond looked up, his hair mussed and tousled. "What do I do now?"

Martin saw Amelie smile kindly. "I can tell you, one hundred percent for certain, that no one knows what they're doing," she told him. "I didn't. Jean and Anna didn't, Martin still doesn't, and it's fine. All you can do is your best. As long as you do, Bjanca and Vilmar will do you proud. Both of them will turn out just fine, I know they will. You certainly did, after all."

Desmond blew his bangs out of his face, a familiar tired look in his eye. "Can you at least tell Martin to ease up on the horror stories?"

Martin's heart nearly stopped as Amelie made eye contact with him through the cracked door. "I will mention it him," she said. "Come on. Let's get dinner on the table."

Heljarchen Hall was quiet and still. The house had more or less become his entire world, people coming and going and coming back again, older and wiser and (in some cases) taller. From this house on the hill, he could see Dragonsreach and the Throat of the World, reliving adventures both good and bad. With a map on his lap, he could trace almost his entire journey through Cyrodiil and Skyrim.

He had long since sewn the map in to the book—he had no real use for it now. The pages were worn, some rewritten several times over, each one filled with memories, joy, sorrow, fear, enough to share with those who came after him.

Martin lay in bed, warm and content in the peace of the night.

Desmond—

I hope this letter finds you well. I am sorry you had to find out this way.

Along with this letter, you should receive the deed and the key to Heljarchen Hall (and if it is missing, track down the courier and demand it, I will have it go to no one else). I hope you, Stenvar, and the children enjoy it, if only when city life gets to be too much. Don't worry—the ghosts and I have cleared the worst of it out.

Thank you for including us in your lives and giving us a chance to belong to a family. If there is only one thing in this life I can be proud of, it's knowing that you and yours are happy, safe, and warm. You are my pride and joy, and nothing could make me happier than seeing you be as accomplished as you have become. I wish you all the happiness in the world, and I hope every adventure you take on is as exciting (and as successful!) as our time together was. The journey may not always be smooth, but if I know you, you will never lose sight of your goal. You are more than your past or your deeds—you are a talented, determined man and I am proud to have known you. You remind me of who I could have been, if I had been stronger and braver back in my day. And most importantly, you are without a doubt the greatest man I ever knew.

Keep to the path of the righteous and good. If ever you stray, remember that forgiveness is not found, it is earned. Live your journey out and come home to the ones you love. Cherish them for as long as you have them in your life—you never know how short that time will be.

I hope one day, Desmond, I will be able to see you again.

All my love,

—Martin