Chapter 14: Elder Knowledge, Part 1

18 Rain's Hand, 4E202

"What did you do?" I shout at her, riddled with shock and terror. "What did you put in me?"

"It was not me!" She holds up her hands; perhaps she does this to placate me, perhaps she does this in self-defense. "It was the goddess! She must have somehow—"

"The goddess! Do you think me so daft?" I struggle to rise, but the drug weakens my bones and I can do little else but snarl in furious frustration. "I know how to make a baby, and believe me, I would remember having attempted to do so. So, again, what did you do?"

"How could I have done it if you were feeling these things long before today? Kindly tell me." She crosses her arms, having grown impatient with me.

I close my eyes. This is the part where Lydia would be shouting something along the lines of: Holy shit! Or… perhaps, given the occasion, something more like: Holy fucking shit! The thought would make me smile if it did not first bring my tears. "I…" The room spins. "I do not know." By the gods, it hurts. "But… how…?"

"The goddess," Danica repeats, now with a little more gentleness in her voice.

"But how? What did she do, send some man to rape me as I slept? Shall I praise her now for my body's violation?"

"No! No, oh goodness. Definitely not." She pauses to think. "When did you commune with her last?"

"On The Throat of the World," I say with an embittered tone. My fingers pace over my abdomen, seeking another spark of that strange heartbeat-magic… or perhaps looking for a sign that Danica is instead playing some strange and cruel joke. "I blew the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller and received a blessing. Apparently I am also the next rightful Empress of all Tamriel, in addition to everything else." I laugh at the idea, but it is harsh and angry.

"But were you…" She tries to arrange her thoughts. "Was anyone else with you? You did not… connect with another person, somehow?"

My eyes, narrowed with bitter irony, shoot suddenly very wide open. "No, but…" That dream. "There was an incident… before…" She had felt a strange dream, too. "Lydia…" I gasp, and my fingers quit their desperate search in favor of shakily clutching my belly, tightly tensed in a mixture of protectiveness and pain.

"With Captain Lydia?" She rests her hands atop mine. "Tell me what happened."

I relay the dream from the Eldergleam Sanctuary, though haltingly, as I attempt to wrest control over my voice and the ragged sobs that fight their way to the surface. That was the last time that I saw her… the last that I saw her alive. "She… asked me if I dreamt the same thing… when I awoke."

"But why did she… leave you there? Kynareth's gifts are born of love. She must have loved—"

"No, don't." Fresh tears make hot tracks on my cheeks. "It is a more complex matter than I wish to explain. But… please do not say that." Danica squeezes my hand in silent acquiescence, and we both are silent for several long moments.

"So, then… you see it was not a dream. The goddess took a small spark of life from the Captain and placed it inside of you. It is her gift, and her lesson."

I stare intently at the flickering shadows on the ceiling. "This is absurd." My fingers go back to their bewildered searching. "You must see it. The absurdity. A goddess has impregnated me with seed made from another woman. From Lydia! Do you see it? What kind of ridiculous, cruel, outlandish lesson is that? And what am I to learn? How to sing lullabies and wipe noses?"

"I already said—"

"You have said the strangest, most uncanny thing I have ever heard. Does your goddess not realize that dragons are tearing up the land? And what am I to do, now? Lie about and learn to knit while all the world blames me for their suffering?

"You will learn the meaning of sacrifice," she cuts me off, before I can continue mocking her deity. "You will learn what it means to defend another living soul merely because they are alive, and not for reasons selfish to you. You will be given a responsibility that causes you as much love as it does pain, and you will defy the gods themselves to ensure its safe keeping. But first…" She rises, and looks down at me with an expression that I cannot decipher. "First, you will fight and purge yourself of your darkness. You chose to accept her when you accepted that small part of the Captain—you chose to be changed. It could not have happened, had the desire not burned in you already. And burn you will, from the inside out."

I can only gape, speechless, as she makes her way to the door and grasps the handle. She moves to pull it open, but then stops with a small sigh. She turns to me, and speaks again: "Yours is a hard fate. If you were not chosen to represent her, I think she would have left you to continue blackening your spirit in peace." She gives me a sad smile. "Don't look so surprised. Of course I know darkness when I see it… it is my job… But I also know the value of new growth… it is you, I believe, who first made that lesson clear to me."

I close my eyes again and listen to the sound of the door as it clicks shut behind her.

13 Second Seed, 4E202

A month. I expected to take a week or two at most… But instead my endeavor has stretched to a month of searching over a thousand tomes, and I have found next to nothing. I have grown pale from the lack of sunlight and haggard from the countless nights spent reading by magical candlelight. There is nothing… just nothing.

And of course there would be nothing: what mad fool would break his mind with an Elder Scroll just for the sake of writing about it? There is the so-called Septimus Signus, of course, but finding him has proven a task as simple as finding one of the Scrolls themselves. Not a trace, nary a clue; meanwhile the situation outside grows ever the more dire, I am sure. But I remain here and endure the long and tedious hours, all with the hopes of finding something I might have missed before. What else can I do?

"Merda," I grumble, and toss the book onto a nearby table. I pull another, skim it, find it to be useless, and toss it in a burst of rage. "Shit!"

"You kiss your mother with that mouth?" Urag gro-Shub's face and voice radiate disapproval while he holds up the very same book I have just tossed, having caught it in mid-air.

"My mother is dead." I open another book on the table and lean over it, angrily flipping its pages.

"Then go talk to Colette about it and stop abusing my inventory." He snatches the book from under me with a glare. "It's the same damn thing with you every day now for a month. You're hiding here in the dust while there are dragons out there burning down whole villages. And do you even know what Leon and Tolfdir just brought back from Saarthal, or have you really not left this room in a week?" He snatches my wrist before I can turn back to the shelf and ignore him. "You're running from your fears."

"Is that so?" I ask without looking at him.

"You're burying yourself alive in books you've already scoured, telling yourself you can forget that you're with child and that your woman's dead. Meanwhile my library's falling to shambles and I'm not sure if it's from a moody pregnant woman or a poltergeist." He releases my wrist. "Go outside and do something useful. In fact, don't come back here until you're glowing with a shiny new goddamn dragon soul. And don't use the child as an excuse—Orc females fight until the baby is practically dangling from between their legs."

"That is disgusting," I snap, though I turn on my heel and storm out of the Arcanaeum for the first time in several days. The first thing I do is go to my room in the Hall of Attainment, where I take a long bath and will my fingers not to trace the dark, vertical line that has formed on my abdomen. I try to ignore my swollen breasts and the ache in my legs… And then, once again, I am forced to tell myself that this is really happening.

This is… really happening. It is a strong and holy magic that I feel pulsating from deep inside myself, and though the supposed cleansing of my spirit has left me with certain physical pains, it is in my dreams that the real fires burn. My nightmares cause me to awaken, sweating and screaming, nearly every morning.

I dry off and dress myself in quick and efficient silence. My clothes still fit, at least.

I finally notice the neat stack of correspondence lying in wait on the table next to my door. I flip through the various letters: updates and tersely-described logistics from Nazir, news of completed contracts from the newly-promoted Gulitte, reports from Babette's still-inconclusive search for the rampaging werewolf… a small note from Arniel Gane, who has not stopped pestering me since learning that I am exceptionally familiar with Dwemeris. I toss all of these to the side, where they land in a disorganized pile overtop of last month's official Imperial Legion casualty report and a letter of condolences from the court of the Jarl of Whiterun. She had no will; indeed, she had little, if anything, to her name.

"Ungolim," I say to the shadows in the far corner, which gradually reveal themselves to be a mer, "I hope you were not seeking to indulge in voyeurism."

He gives me a slow smile. "If Domina will allow me to say so: While you are indeed one of the few females I consider strikingly beautiful, I'm afraid my appreciation is of a more aesthetic sort than a carnal one. Though…" he gives me a playful bow, "of course, you know that I am ever at your service."

Though it is small and brief, I laugh, and his smile grows a little wider. He has been so attentive and considerate in this way, as has Leon. I could not dare to think what state I might be in now were the two of them not at my side. Truthfully, and after a sense, I find this particularly empathetic side of my Silencer a rather strange and unexpectedly pleasant surprise; then again, he has proven to be quite full of surprises, the more that I learn of him.

"Mm, yes," I reply, "I relish the thought that a male will find it necessary to pretend I am another male. A charming idea." I regard him for a moment, and allow myself to take a small amount of pleasure in the good humor that he and I share. I have always found him a rather handsome elf, with his lean and athletic frame and honeyed complexion. I say my thoughts aloud, and with a playful edge: "Females would positively drown you in attention were you to suffer a sudden change of preference."

"As would males, I think, were the same to occur with you, Domina." He removes his shoes and sits on my bed with his legs folded before him, as one would sit for meditation. "But my service to one female is enough. It forms the limit of just how deeply I'm able to feel affection for the fairer sex, which in turn satisfies me against further attention, of any sort, from others."

I furrow my brow. "I found that a little vague. You mean your service to The Night Mother?"

He gives me a long, searching look. "It was not The Night Mother, Domina, who saved me from myself."

I dip my head, touched. "Thank you."

"Honesty doesn't necessitate thanks." We sit in silence for a few moments more. It is comfortable, and I am glad for it. When he speaks again, it is with a soft and careful tone. "Though I do have a request, Domina."

"What is it?"

"I have no desire to be made a Speaker, as I believe you have been planning. This would force me to relinquish my place as your Silencer, and truthfully I don't like the idea. I'm quite content like this. That and…" he shakes his head, though with a small smile, "I'm afraid I can't trust Leon alone with your protection. He is rather easily… distracted."

"Oh, I do know that," I agree. "If that is your wish, then of course you may keep your place. I would never force you."

"Thank you." Another pause, then: "I received Fafnir's report this morning. He, Pheletes, and I have not quit our search, but we still have found little to no trace of Septimus Signus. I'm beginning to wonder if it would be better simply to send someone to the Imperial City to steal a Scroll from the Moth Priests. That, at least, might prove more fruitful."

I pinch the skin between my eyes. "And the Arcanaeum has enlightened me only very little. I found only one other relevant book, and that was nearly as incomprehensible as the Ruminations." I drum my fingers against the arm of my chair and think on my altercation with Urag. "Maybe a change of direction is in order."

"Of what kind?"

"Dragons have been attacking several villages at random… and they have even been seen flying over larger cities, though there have been no significant encounters yet. I think my time might be better spent out there, bringing them down. Pheletes and Fafnir can continue the search while we do this."

He raises a brow and his eyes move, as I would have expected, to my abdomen. "But… your condition…"

"I am pregnant, Ungolim, not an invalid. I have not even begun to show." I press my palm there, where I feel the white magic that grows more pronounced with each passing day. I have a feeling that this child will possess a formidable affinity for magic, should the tingling in my hand prove any indication. "Moreover, I must take their souls to grow stronger. I think I will need that strength when the time comes."

He folds his hands in his lap. "And there is still the matter of that rampant werewolf. Except for a scattering of small-scale massacres, it seems to have disappeared entirely. I worry that we might cross its path, should we leave the College."

I scowl. Yes, the creature that so quickly and conveniently managed to slaughter Lydia beyond recognition. Naturally it will have disappeared. "I would like to share a thought with you, Ungolim, of which you may never breathe a word to any other."

"On my life, Domina."

"I have started to wonder…" I lean forward and try to control my anger. "Do you remember what Nazir and I spoke of when last we were in the Sanctuary?"

"Yes, of course." Realization dawns over his features. "You think…?"

"I wonder," I correct him. "It was rather convenient, after all, that she died so quickly after that little disagreement. And so mysteriously. Think of it, Ungolim: an overpowered werewolf on a bloody rampage, and yet not even a Brotherhood spy can locate it? No. I have begun to think that our encounter with that werewolf was a chance misfortune… one that just so happened to prove a convenient scapegoat for an otherwise fatal betrayal of the Listener's orders. A speculation, of course." Still, my anger boils in my chest at the idea.

He is silent for a moment, lost to thought. "That is… I hadn't considered that. Yes, put that way, it does seem too convenient." He blinks. "But how many of our number would be involved in such a thing?"

"I cannot say. Perhaps one, perhaps several. There is no way for me to know, short of receiving an open confession."

He looks up at the ceiling. "I must share a private thought with you as well, Domina."

"You may share it."

"I worship Hircine," he says when, after a brief pause, his eyes move back to me. "Though I have found my respect for Sithis, it is Hircine who has always been my lord. I entreated him for your protection in the past, and because of this, the matter of the werewolf troubles me." He takes a breath. "That a werewolf might have killed your housecarl… that troubles me."

"Hircine… I have sometimes wondered. Well, what of it troubles you? I hope you are not about to tell me that her death was borne of your good intentions."

"No," he says quickly. "Definitely not. I mean to say that your protection includes your well-being. If she affects it, then she should have been spared. To me, this indicates a few possible explanations: either he ignored my request, some other creature caused the massacre, or, yes, there has been some other kind of treachery."

I narrow my eyes. "And yet, you would have killed her on that day, had you the chance."

"Yes," he admits, "and then you would have killed me."

"Would you now, if she were to appear before us?"

He searches my face. "No, so long as she wouldn't try to kill you first, Domina. But that… if you will forgive me… I think that is a moot point, now."

I find Leon standing next to Tolfdir in the Hall of the Elements. I shiver upon entering the building, though this proves unsurprising: the whole center of the hall is dominated by some sort of… orb.

It is the strangest sensation that I have ever felt. It is as if I am simultaneously hot and cold and the air all around me is charged as if I were standing at the center of a lightning storm. From head to toe my skin erupts into gooseflesh as wave after wave of incomprehensible magic washes past and through me. The thought strikes me that this might negatively affect the child, though I hope not.

The two other mages begin to walk around the thing, all in a slow and thoughtful gait. I overhear Tolfdir as I make my cautious approach: "I'm sure you've already noticed the markings. They're quite unlike anything we've seen before… Ayleid, Dwemer, Daedric… not even Falmer! None of them are a match. Quite curious indeed."

"And can you feel that?" My brother's voice is full of eager wonder. "Magnifica. The magicka radiates, flows. I have never felt such a thing." He notices me when I halt next to them, equally as drawn by the thing… whatever it might be. "This is the thing we found, Mara mea. It is beautiful, no?"

The orb rotates on some invisible axis, and indeed I cannot fathom the origins of its markings. "What is it? Some sort of… Dawn magic?"

"I have absolutely no idea," Tolfdir chimes, as if this fact pleases him. "Of course I could speculate that this is Ehlnofex, but no one actually knows what the language looks like. But it's amazing! I mean…" He reaches his hand out as if to touch the thing, but then retracts it out of caution. "Imagine what we could learn from this if we crack its code. Just imagine…"

Oh, I can imagine. I can see some mad genius gaining knowledge unfit for mortals and using it to enslave all of creation. "Leon," I tug his sleeve. "May I have a word?"

He nods and follows me out of the room and back into the courtyard, where the pull of the thing is not so potent. The relief of this washes over me almost instantly. "You have found something?" He seems distracted.

"No, I have… come to a decision. I think it is time to leave this place."

"But…!" Now he glances in the direction of the Hall of the Elements and the orb that has so captured his attention. "The construct… Amara this is a discovery to define an Era. You saw it for yourself…" He trails off when I dip my head. "Ah—ah, now, Mara. Not with such sadness. Forgive me. I know what is more important, believe me, I do."

He envelops me in an apologetic hug. "If you wish to stay here," I say against his shoulder, quietly, "I will not stop you."

"Oh you know I could never leave you at such a dangerous time. No, I was hoping that the construct could help us in some way. How, I cannot say… but," he smiles down at me, "all knowledge is worth having. Especially now."

"How can you quote the Patriarch without souring your face?" I bury my own face deeper into his shoulder.

"I still find it a good saying, unfortunately." He pauses for a moment. "Give me some time to study the orb… a week, perhaps. If I feel that it will not help us, then we will leave."

"…Fine."

"And ah… what are we going to do if we leave? You did not say."

I smile wickedly. "Why, we will be killing dragons, of course."

He just sighs, exhausted already.

16 Second Seed, 4E202

It is a damnable thing. I know this as well as I know the many dangers of magic.

It mocks me from where it floats, glowing with knowledge that no one has been able to tap. It predates anything previously seen by mortal eyes, of this I am certain, and it is composed of a substance that cannot be described from within the current limits of human language.

This is the third time that I have come to brood over the thing in the dead of night. Something about it disturbs me just as much as it entices me, though I would speculate that many of the other mages here are having a similar experience. I dislike it. I dislike this thing immensely, though I cannot be certain if this dislike comes out of opinion or out of instinct. Regardless of the source, I know without question that this thing does not belong in mortal hands. I want to remove it and bury it even deeper than Saarthal, but I could not even begin to know how.

I am equally as tempted to utilize it for my own needs… and it is this temptation, above all else, that alerts me to the incredible danger inherent in this object.

I walk in a slow circle around it to follow and to more easily read its inscriptions. It is not the language of the dragons. It is no language that I have ever seen before, and indeed I have seen many. This thing… it must be a leftover from the last birth-pains of creation. In a way it reminds me of a dream I had, once, when I was a very young girl. In the dream I travelled through the sun and entered the realm of Aetherius, where I was allowed to take a glance at one of Magnus's many diagrams for the substance of reality.

Now, staring at this orb, that same sensation of wordless knowing tugs at the vague edges of my consciousness, as if I were looking at the world through some indescribable diagram. "Some things…" I say to the orb, "I suppose some things cannot be made into language." I have considered reaching out and attempting to touch it, but I have no way of knowing if something might happen to me as a result. But if I could make contact with it somehow…

Oh, I could damn Leon for making me stay here long enough to become interested in the thing. And he knew this would happen—he knew!

Yes, of course I would come back to stare at this damnable construct. I still rather dislike the sensations I feel from the air around it, but this one small discomfort is not enough to stop my inevitable curiosity: as soon as I felt that vague reminder of my childhood dream, I was compelled to come back here and study it.

I hold up my hand. "Can you tell me without speaking, then?"

The orb, of course, remains silent. I keep my hand raised, however. It would be so very foolish to touch this thing, though I do wonder if magicka could be siphoned from it. If so, then perhaps I could at least feel some of the object's purpose or substance. I concentrate, and by only just a small amount, I open myself up to it.

My vision flashes white, but when it fades I notice that I am still on my feet. Curious. But… I feel as if I could fly, should I truly desire the ability. I take a deep breath. It is a different sort of magicka… in a word: unreal. It is…

"Aetherius," I whisper to the thing as I sit down on the floor to stare. It is magic of the purest sort, never before touched by the fabric of reality. It is different from the tendrils of Aetherius that manifest in this world as magic or ghosts… that is trapped magic, endlessly re-used generation after generation… no, this is some finer ichor; it is the birthplace of Magnus himself. It could be nothing else. "But what are you, then, if you are not some mere unique concentration of worldly magic? Some kind of… star?"

Though of course I receive no answer.

"A star…" I muse aloud. "A path to the realm of magic… But how?" I sit on the floor, gazing up at it, with my legs drawn up to my chest and my chin resting on my knees. I briefly think of how my mother would have disapproved of such bad posture, which results in a sad smile. I close my eyes for just a moment. "Yes, you would tell me to get up and find a chair, I think."

"I certainly would."

I startle and jump to my feet. It takes a few seconds for me to recognize what now sits before me, perched and posed like some elegant, ghostly statue on the stone lip of the magicka well. I am too shocked, I think, even to weep: "Mother?"

"Close your mouth, Amara. I find it unseemly." My lips snap shut immediately; it is without thought. "To answer your immediate question: it is indeed a star, or more like a star-in-a-box. As it leads to the realm of magic, of course, it must by default lead to the realm of the dead. You absorbed some part of that place and then you thought of me, so I chose to come and speak with you. Does this satisfy your initial bewilderment?"

"Ah…" I intone, but I seem to have lost my powers of speech. Where do I even begin?

"I would appreciate full sentences, dear. Has this barbaric province really made you forget how to act like a lady?" She fills in, again, when I still cannot bring myself to speak: "I should also warn you that I have little intention of remaining here all night, so do resolve your shock. Puzzle and brood over this conversation in the morning, and not now."

"Yes, I…" I take a steadying breath. "Forgive me, Mother, this was… quite unexpected."

"As was your hot-headed flight from Cyrodiil, but," she looks down at my belly with a small smile, "our line seems to have an affinity for the… unusual."

"Ah," I feel my face grow hot, "that is…"

"I know what that is. I know everything about it. I have been watching you, you see." She gives me a long look. "In truth I always thought that Leon would be the one of my children to join the Dark Brotherhood, and yet you have even risen to the office of Listener. Ah, but I have not come to admonish you. I imagine you have suffered enough for that, have you not?"

I can only nod, mute, as my throat swells with emotion and the tears finally prick my eyes. I have so much that I want to say—so much—but no words come. I want to say a million things all at once.

"Cry when you lay down to sleep later, so that you might speak now. There is something that I have come here to tell you, but I would prefer that you remain calm… Oh, Amara…" She watches me struggle with myself as I try to choke down my shuddering sobs. "I know there is much that must be left unsaid. I know. When you die, I promise you, we will have an eternity to bicker over it. But now you must calm yourself." I continue my struggle. "Amara Leone," oh, that voice; the voice that causes all my insides to freeze, "I said to pull yourself together. Do it, now."

I straighten my spine and fix my posture. I try to swallow my pain, though I do continue to shiver. It is rather humorous, in a way, how her orders cause such a quick response in me… even now. "Y-yes, Mother."

"Thank you," she says in a warmer tone. "As I said, I have been watching you. A mother knows no greater sorrow than her children's pain, as you will learn soon enough." She nods toward my growing child. "And yours has been immense. More than one god has placed his expectations on your shoulders, and one even in your womb. And now they say you must be purified as well?" She shakes her head. "I find that absurd, and that is what I have come to tell you."

"Ab… surd?" I repeat, unsure of what to do, or what else to say.

"You said so yourself, dear. Yes." She eyes me. "The gods chose you, Amara, and not you them. What their mortal representatives seem to forget is the importance of balance. The world really can never be rightly understood in terms so black and white. That is foolishness, and that foolishness is a sickness that too many of our fellow mortals share in."

"Between good and evil, you mean?" I ask, though with uncertainty. "Yes, many of my trials have been for the sake of altering my spirit… to… reach into me and rip out all my evils. I am… unfit, otherwise."

"No," says the ghost of my mother. "No. That cannot be done. The parts of you that are evil, as they say, cannot be taken away. Who would live in your skin, were such a thing even possible? She would not be you."

"But then…" I grasp at my robes, my fist just over my abdomen. "Then… this… why all this interference? Why… why a child?"

"Balance, Amara. There can be no such thing as true good or true evil; no black or white. No, this world of ours knows so very many shades of gray. Evil and good are intertwined. Bound. You embody both, and you must accept this." She gives me a long look. "The child is a sign and a reminder of that; not a lesson, and not some sort of catalyst for change. She is a gift; a product of your capacity to love. Do you understand?"

"I…" I close my eyes and loosen my grip, so that my hand now rests gently over my belly. "She?"

"Oh, forgive me," my mother says, completely devoid of any real remorse. "That was a slip of the tongue."

"She," I repeat, "is to balance me?"

"She is to be loved and nurtured by you. She is to be protected by you. What that might entail… well, you would know better than most, Dragonborn."

A small, rueful smile. "She is to keep me on that path."

"She is to remind you of your own wish to keep walking it. Know yourself, Amara. You know that no one can be free of evil. The same great leaders who send their soldiers after your Brotherhood are also the ones who most frequently call upon your services. We are all of us shades of gray, and now you have even physical proof. So…" she says, more quietly, "stop dreaming of fires. Stop fearing your own body, and stop torturing yourself with painful memories and guilt. You are what you are, Amara, and…" almost in a whisper: "… it is enough."

I dip my head, too overwhelmed to speak, my hand still rested over the growing child. Enough? That is such a novel concept. Rarely in my life has there ever been a moment free of the pressure to prove myself, or to exceed expectations: not with my teachers of magic, not with my kin, not with the peerage of the Empire, nor with my colleagues in the Synod. Only the Dark Brotherhood was kinder, and even for this I first had to be named the Listener. "I would not have expected to… hear this from you, Mother."

"I wish I would have told you long ago, Amara." She clasps her hands. "Had I been kinder, perhaps you would not have left."

"Ah—no, you… have no need to speak that way—"

"But I do." Her ghostly form leans forward, ever so minutely, as if to communicate a wish to approach and embrace me. "I was falling to the madness, and instead of asking for the comfort of my daughter's presence, I tried to clip her wings. But it is…" a small, sad smile, "rather hard, I think, to clip the wings of a dragon. I see it in you, my dear: it is indeed the shape of your soul."

She begins to fade. "You must leave?" I say in what is nearly a whisper, as the tears come again to well up in my eyes.

"Yes," she says with equal emotion. "Remember what I told you. Shades of gray, my Amara. It is enough." Just as her form disappears completely, her voice rings softly throughout the chamber: "I will be watching."

Then all is quiet, and I sink back down to the floor. Tears fall, but I think I am too shocked and too rattled to weep in earnest. Enough. I want to call to her and I want to beg her not to go. Of course I know the uselessness of such a thing, but still there is a part of me that is screaming, thrashing, railing against all those things over which I have no control. But the scream is silent; contained. I merely watch my hands, bathed in blue from the orb, as they dig into the stones that pave the floor. Mother.

"So… a conduit to the dead," I say to the orb, even as my whole body shakes. And how could it not shake? I can only react, for I know not what else to do. There is, all at once, too much emotion to swallow down. Mother. "That was not fair," I say to her through my tears, even though she is gone. "You know I dislike surprises."

I am met with silence, but perhaps she can hear me, at the very least. Her voice still rings in my thoughts. I am enough. I breathe deeply, shakily, and tell myself to believe it. "I should tell you I am not wholly good," I say to the child. But then I pause, and realize that this is the first that I have ever spoken to it… her. I give a shaky, sad, tearful laugh, and then continue: "But I am not… wholly evil, either. I… I am… trying."

Silence. I sit still for a few moments, and simply allow my torrent of emotions to run their course. "And you…?" I finally say into the magically-charged air. I thrum with apprehension, but continue speaking: "Would you come here, and let me say my peace? Would you grant me that…" I almost choke on the name, "… Lydia?"

I look up. All the chamber is still. All is empty.

Silent.

17 Midyear, 4E202

I can never prepare myself adequately for this feeling.

Every dragon soul brings with it new shreds of memory and new knowledge. Every time, I feel their last thoughts, their sadness. For hours afterward, I think dragon thoughts.

This was an old dragon, well respected among his kind and very powerful. His flesh burns away until naught but a towering skeleton remains, and his soul, I claim for my own. For a few moments, I mourn along with him over the loss of his wings, and then alone as his consciousness fades. I let it pass on its own, and tell myself that this had to be done: now, the old dragon will no longer terrorize Karthwasten, nor cripple the trade routes to Markarth. These mountains have long since not belonged to him, despite his insistence that they do.

"By the gods…"

I notice, finally, the crowd that surrounds us. I turn and push my way out from the center of the throng, though my trek is made ever the more difficult by the many hands that reach out to touch my robes, or the odd blade that attempts to slice off some small bit of my hair. They ogle and tug, wide-eyed and afraid.

I push through and say nothing. I neither make threats nor act with civility: I merely do what must be done. My companions follow, in equally efficient silence.

We regain our horses toward the edge of the little village and trot away, again, without a word. How many now? I try to count, but the number escapes me. Too many. But the more I kill, the more powerful I become. In a way it grows easier, every time: indeed my Thu'um is formidable, even as the whole rest of my body seems to grow ever the more soft and sore. I can see it, now: a roundness low in my belly.

We stop to make camp a little off the side of the road when the sun begins to sink over the horizon. Fafnir finds and joins us just as we begin our evening meal, and sits to eat after passing me a small bundle of letters. These I stow away in my own satchel, as I have very little desire to read them at present.

"May I speak, Listener?" Fafnir finally breaks the silence of our small group.

"You may."

"This is really fresh news. I just heard it from our Sister over in Morthal two days ago." He lowers his voice. "She found Cicero."

I pause, mid-chew, to stare at him. "What?"

"Yes, Listener, in an abandoned shack in the middle of the marshes. She found… well…" He pauses for a moment. "She found was what left of him, I mean."

I swallow, and I cannot stop my heart from pounding with a combination of anger and anxiety. "He has been killed?"

"That's what it looks like. She was checking the place to see if it would be useful to lure her target there. She found him spattered all over the walls, like he had been ripped apart. But she recognized his hair and clothes. It was him."

I meet eyes with Ungolim, who sits to my left. "Ripped apart," I repeat. I feel no pity for Cicero, I must admit. In truth I can only admit that I regret not killing him long ago.

"Yes, as if by claws, Listener."

I scowl. "I see." The mysterious rampant creature, again. Of course. "I assume the trail has gone cold again."

"Yes and no. There were some tracks going south. She pointed them out to Pheletes, who was there before me. She told me he left to follow them, but I don't know anything besides that."

"I see." I resume eating. The creature usually leaves a messy path of tracks in some form or another, so this news holds little interest for me. I work merely to sit and take my meal with patience.

"The lost cousin," Leon muses aloud, though he speaks the common language out of politeness to Fafnir. "I have thought on this, after that day. I remember no… ah… flagitia?"

"No scandals," I fill in for him. "Nor do I. I have not the faintest clue."

"I, too. He can only be the scel—the bastard son of someone. It is sad, no?" My brother shakes his head. "The madness took him alone."

"He was loathsome," I spit.

"He was like us," is Leon's gentle reply. "I wonder: who was he, when the madness stopped?"

I am chided back into silence.

29 Midyear, 4E202

"I smell like dead dragon," Leon quips as he slumps down on a nearby boulder. "Surely there must be a limit to how many dragons a mortal can kill in his lifetime?"

The soul shimmers just under the surface of my skin, all aglow from exercise and my physical condition. Fafnir falls to the ground just beside him, panting heavily. "You both make a sorry sight," I quip right back. To Fafnir: "I assume this was your first encounter with a dragon?"

"Yes, Listener," he wheezes. "If… if you'll allow: I think I pissed my pants, but it was worth it to watch you fight that monster. By Sithis." He takes a few moments more to catch his breath while Ungolim approaches Leon with a vial of health potion, which he takes gratefully. Fafnir speaks up again: "I have news, Listener. Urgent."

I, too, finally seat myself on a fallen tree trunk. Even with the ability to Shout dragons out of the sky, I still cannot seem to avoid the heaviness of my body. My hand rises to my belly immediately, where it has grown obviously, although not yet massively, round. "What news?"

He sits up and wipes sweat from his brow, and grows quite suddenly somber. "Pheletes is dead."

I shoot right back up to my feet, as does Ungolim. "Now Pheletes?" I roar, and the ground shakes with my Voice. Rage floods me, as does a hate-fueled sorrow. "Where?"

"A-A ways north of Falkreath, Listener," Fafnir says shakily, filled with trepidation at my otherworldly timbre. "He must have followed the trail there from Morthal. Falcar lead a search party when he never came back to report. They… found his body… impaled and hanging on a tree branch. The torso was ripped open and there were teeth marks where his heart should have been."

"I have had enough of this," I nearly growl. "Enough. Pheletes was one of mine." Furious, I begin to pace. "There were no tracks leading away from the scene?"

"There were, Listener." Fafnir rises to his feet, still cautious. "Going still south, toward Falkreath."

I look up at the sky, where the sun is still at its peak. We have been heading west out of the Reach for a few days already, and Falkreath certainly would make for a reasonable choice of destination, should we continue on this road. "Then we go there next. Fafnir," I pull a slip of paper from my satchel and give it to him, "those are new contacts. And on your way to Dawnstar, I will need you to seek out a skilled tailor."

He pockets my note. "A tailor, Listener?"

"Yes," I say angrily as I smooth out my robes. "For when I have the wolfskin for my new cloak."

2 Sun's Height, 4E202

"…Sweet Mother, Sweet Mother, send your child unto me… For the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear…"

I halt upon hearing the faint, but familiar, chant. I motion to Leon that he should be silent, and together, we wait and listen.

"…Sweet Mother, Sweet Mother, send your child unto me… For the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear…"

The chanting is close. All of Falkreath is otherwise still and silent as death. It has been like this since my companions and I first arrived this morning, and I cannot remember ever seeing the town so particularly somber as this. Our service at the inn was efficient and wordless, and no one would hear my questions about sightings of wolves. Only one person, an old hunter named Valdr, provided any clue as to why the whole town is in such a state: there had been a murder.

Why that would phase a town such as this one, I could never claim to know.

Even so, I have decided to take an evening stroll—for leisure, of course—and certainly not to make a light search for what might be so special about this particular murder.

"…Sweet Mother, Sweet Mother, send your child unto me… For the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear…"

… And it seems I shall not be disappointed.

I pull an amulet from under my robe and, with a small amount of fire magic, heat it up between my palms. It is one of Leon's odd little inventions: it shares some sort of magical link with a twin amulet, and the activation of one causes the activation of the other, which in turn alerts the receiver that his presence is needed by the sender. It even gives the sender's general location, though by what means Leon managed to include this, I have no idea. In any case, it is a rather clever little thing.

Ungolim materializes out of the gloom after a minute or so. I hold my finger to my lips and motion that he listen:

"…Sweet Mother, Sweet Mother, send your child unto me… For the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear…"

My Silencer's eyes widen. All together now, we follow the sound of the chanting. I remind myself to be grateful, once again, for having enchanted Leon's shoes to be silent; though he is not so poor a sneak that Lydia was, he still is of a rather meager skill level. We follow the chanting to a nearby cellar, of which one of the wooden, near-horizontal doors is propped ever so slightly open.

I scoff. How careless.

"…Sweet Mother, Sweet Mother, send your child unto me… For the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear… !"

I make to pull the door open, my shadowy cloak already pulled from my satchel and over my shoulders, but Leon stops me. I give him a pointed look, and he just gestures down to my obvious belly. I blush. Merda. I had not even thought of that. Agitated, I pull my cloak back off and look to Ungolim, who nods once in understanding, takes and fastens the cloak, and enters the cellar.

The chanting voice grows louder when he opens the door: "Sweet Mother, Sweet Mother, send your child unto me… For the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear… !"

I grow suddenly uncomfortable with Leon's presence here, in this situation… But he says nothing. He merely wraps an arm about my shoulders and, with a bit of Illusion magic, cloaks us both in shadow. In our darkened silence, we listen to the chanter's plea:

"Oh, thank the gods you came! You're them, right? You're the… the Dark Brotherhood?"

"Yes," comes Ungolim's ominous reply. He does indeed make such a fine Speaker…

"Good, I…" The man fumbles over his words. "I need justice. That monster, it… it killed my little girl! Ripped her to pieces right in front of me. There wasn't…. there wasn't even anything left to bury. The murder's in the jail now, just rotting away while the jarl figures out what to do. But… but that isn't right! They'll probably just behead the damn killer, quick and painless. No. I want it to suffer. I want you to torture it until its last breath." By the end of his speech, the man is nearly roaring in anger.

Ungolim's voice remains cold and even. "Slow torture will cost more. What you ask is time-consuming and inefficient."

"I don't care. I'll pay anything. Do anything it takes. But you gotta kill it slow and painful. You gotta."

"Very well." A brief pause. "You will sign this contract. Make your payment, and we will send word when the target has been eliminated."

"One more thing," the man says after another pause. "I want its head. Do that, and I'll give you extra."

"As you wish." Another pause. "Our business is complete. A courier will notify you of the contract's completion."

Ungolim reappears a few moments later, and the three of us quickly leave the area. Upon entering my room in the inn, I lock the door behind us and he immediately hands me the contract. "Imagine that," I say, as I unfold the paper and skim it. "A mysterious, body-tearing murderer, and I have only just arrived in town."

"Are you to go to the jail tonight, Domina?" Ungolim asks with an obvious concern on his face. "If so, please let me accompany you."

"And I, Mara mea," Leon gestures to my belly, and shakes his head when I give him a pointed look. "I would feel much better. Do not look at me with that expression. I know it is Brotherhood business, but I think we must let that go for now. Please?"

I acquiesce with a sigh. "Fine. But stay quiet and keep your hood up." I fold the contract back up and place it in my satchel. "And yes," I say with a growing fury as I lift up my own hood, "we finish this tonight."

Author's Note:

Well! What can I say? How many of you think you know what'll happen next?

Commentary:

1. The whole pregnancy thing has been this weird idea in the back of my mind ever since I started this story. I was never 100% sure, up until I actually wrote it in and posted it, if I actually wanted to do it. I mean, yeah, it's a liiiittle out of left field… so that's why I made sure to include plenty of ranting and confusion over it. I want it to take a long time before Amara can really come to terms with it, and I want it to be a beautiful moment when she does. I know it's weird. I know. :P But it's kind of different, and I wanted to see what would happen if I went with it. What do you guys think?

2. The questline for the College of Winterhold won't factor in much, here. I just thought it would be neat to share my speculations on the Eye of Magnus with you all. ;) Also, when I was writing the scene between Amara and her mother, I couldn't help thinking of The Lion King. Then all of a sudden Amara's mother was giving the "Remember… WHO YOU ARE" speech in my brain and it looked like I was laughing for no reason. SIMBAAAAA! xD

3. I spent a lot of time in previous chapters describing dragon battles. I skipped over all that in this chapter because, honestly… it's getting kind of redundant for me. Same as in the game: you're walking around and it's like OH LOOK. ANOTHER DRAGON. WOW. So… I mean it's all the same yadda yadda awesome kill-cam move, but I'll let you all picture a pregnant woman Shouting dragons out of the sky for yourselves.

4. Eheheh… and now, the werewolf. Its list of victims is growing. Are we all ready to meet it?

Stay tuned,

AE