Morndas, 8:48 AM, 22nd of Evening Star, 1E 173
Mzulft
The time had come. The final conflict would be decided today.
Emund had ridden across nearly all of Skyrim to come here. The silver-maned horse he had been gifted, Dragonfleet, had made a world of difference. Not only was the stallion faster than Emund could have ever moved on foot, he seemed not to need food, water or rest. No doubt, this was someone's way of doing him a great favor, but the question of who remained unsolved.
Still, as the days went by, he rode all the way to the far end of Eastmarch, through the forests and hills of the central hold. He followed his map carefully, along rivers and over hills, until he came upon the Velothi Mountains. Mzulft lay directly to his east, not far up the slope of grass and rock. Or at least, its lower entrance did. Even from the foot of the mountainside, he could see the stone arches dotting the path up to the front gates.
The time had come.
It was all down to him. He had received many gifts from many sources, some more desired than others: the mask from Nocturnal, the robe from the Blades of Men, the staff from Jarl Idrun, the horse from his unknown benefactor. He had received many gifts, but there would be no more. The time had come, and this would end today.
He left Dragonfleet untethered at the foot of the mountain. Either he would leave or he would stay. It made no difference now.
Even now, knowing that he faced the end of his mission, Emund was calm. The Place guided him. The deep, dark being inside, the one that knew the answers already. It filled him with its strength.
There were doubtless many sentries along the path to the city gates. Rather than fight his way through—he didn't care to try a one-man assault on the entire freehold—he avoided the path entirely. Instead, after dismounting, he walked along the base of the mountain, northward for about a quarter mile. Then he began climbing up a particularly steep stretch of rock, scaling what should have been a natural boundary. A natural defense for Mzulft.
It meant nothing to him. He scaled up twenty, thirty feet, then reached a shallower slope and began walking. Slowly, stealthily, letting the Gray Cowl hide him. In this way, he walked parallel to the path to the main entrance.
The entrance was hewn into the slope of the mountain, such that it formed an artificial cliffside. Emund went past it. On the way, he observed the Dwemer-made gates of the city. The thick columns of stone, the golden metal plating, the pipes and pistons whose purpose he could only guess at. He'd never seen a Dwemer city up close before. It was an awe-striking sight.
Or it would have been, if it didn't belong to the enemy. The city didn't really awe him, and it didn't intimidate him. He felt nothing about it at all.
Emund's understanding was that the oculory was at the top level of the city, and that it needed to be exposed to the sky in order to function. That meant that he could find the oculory simply by scaling the mountain and looking for Dwemer structures in the vicinity. No one knew he was here, let alone what he intended to do, so there was plenty of time in which to act.
And so he climbed, and climbed, and climbed. His leather gloves gripped the stone and grass—and eventually, snow and ice—with reliable surety, and the dragon priest robes warded off the cold easily. Moreover, his carry weight enchant made his own body easier to lift up, by virtue of making his gear seem lighter. It was an easy, if time-consuming trek upward. And every few minutes, he looked around himself, checking to see if the oculory was anywhere nearby.
He found it after what must have been a couple of hours' climb. It was right above him by a couple hundred feet. A tall, stout cylindrical structure of stone jutting out from the mountain, like a bastion, with a couple of smaller pointy-roofed towers to either side in front of it. The central structure had a little miniature tower stuck on its front, with a very visible open archway in its front. It was connected to the other two towers by a pair of stone bridges, right up there on the mountainside, exposed to the elements.
Four golden figures were standing on the bridges. At this distance, he couldn't tell if they were automatons or just living Dwemer in heavy armor. It didn't matter. With this cowl on, they weren't likely to see him—and if they did, what were they going to do? Shoot him?
Emund climbed onward. He zig-zagged here and there, finding rocky footholds amid the steep ice. His path took him sideways overall, letting him edge closer to the structures while remaining out of the sentries' line of sight. Before long, the left-side smaller tower was looming up right in front of him.
And the bastion wasn't far behind. It was practically a stone's throw away from him. That building had to contain the oculory. It simply had to. Or else there was an unrelated Dwemer outbuilding sitting on the mountainside above Mzulft—and in that case, he didn't mind entering it anyway, just to see what was inside.
He circled around the uphill side of the small tower, surveying the bridges from much closer up. Those four figures were definitely automatons. They were standing completely motionless on the stone platforms, facing out over the sprawling view of Eastmarch below them. They had two legs and two arms in the manner of a person, but their bodies were skeletal and angular, made of gears and pistons and armor plating. Instead of hands, their arms ended with built-in weapons—a sword blade and a crossbow, for right and left. And their heads were unnaturally thin and tall, more masks than helmets.
It would be interesting to see how close Emund could get before they realized he was there.
As he crept around the tower, he unslung the elderwood staff from his back. It wasn't even nicked after the confrontation at the Tower of Mzark. He was fully confident that it would work on these metal targets.
The automatons were facing away from him, away from the central tower. He could've tried sneaking past them entirely, finding some way to get inside without alerting them. But that didn't suit him. They'd be too much of a risk later.
He put himself directly behind the nearest of the automatons. They still hadn't noticed him.
Then he launched himself into a full-speed sprint down the mountain slope, and leapt up onto the stone bridge.
His shoulder slammed into cold, hard metal. The automaton staggered forward one step, then tipped over and fell right off the bridge, bouncing and crashing down the mountainside.
By that point, Emund had moved on to the second one. They still had barely reacted to him—not even three seconds had passed since he began sprinting. He brought his staff down diagonally on the automaton's knee joint, cracking the metal, crippling it, forcing it to kneel. Then he parried its blade and shoved it off the bridge too.
The other two automatons were far away—at least twenty feet. They had crossbows, and Emund lacked a shield. He jumped back off the bridge onto the upper slope, then ran beneath it, keeping his head down. The bridge's underside was just above his path took him straight past the central tower without bringing him inside.
A crossbow bolt bounced off the ice over him. That was a miss.
He turned and grabbed the edge of the bridge in one hand, vaulting up just enough to put his foot on as well. He'd managed to put himself directly between both automatons. They closed in on him as he climbed up to his feet.
This would've been easier if they'd both been on one side of him. Emund let the Place handle it.
When the automatons reached melee ranged, he was ready. He lunged out and smashed the left-side one's sword arm with his staff, then turned and whipped his staff into the right-side one's knee, like the one he'd hit before. He immediately turned back and repeated the process, striking one then the other, again and again, tremors from the rigid metal impacts shooting through his hands every time. They never managed to get even a single strike on him. When they were sufficiently damaged, he pushed each of them off the bridge, one at a time.
Emund was alone up here. He looked around.
The purpose of the two smaller side towers eluded him, because there were no doors or even windows on them—not even where the bridges connected to them. It didn't matter. The central doorway awaited.
He stepped into the alcove of the smaller tower. There was a large Dwemer metal double door in front of him, it surface decorated with strange angled ridges. It appeared to have handles recessed in a central lock.
Sure enough, when he went to open them, the door itself was locked. The entire city of Mzulft was on the other side. The enemy city. Of course they wouldn't leave this free for him to open.
It didn't matter. The Place was good for more than fighting. What use would such a sneaky mask as the Gray Cowl be if its wearer couldn't even pick a lock?
His tools were thin steel wires and strips. He didn't even know how they all worked, or how they would interact with a Dwemer lock. He simply let his mind go blank, and let the Place take care of everything. His hands moved and turned, sliding metal pieces around inside the door. Seconds passed. Then more seconds passed. The Place gave him a twitch of annoyance.
Then the lock clicked, and the doors began to swing open. He quickly pocketed the lockpicks inside his robes again. There might have been more locked doors up ahead. He needed to focus.
Beyond the doors was a stone corridor, lit brightly by white lights on the walls. A draft of warm air washed over Emund's face. The corridor led a short distance to an intersection branching left and right. According to the arrangement outside, he would need to go left.
There was also a Dwemer standing in the intersection. A young adult male, with an elaborately ornamented beard, and black robes adorned with a large golden belt buckle. He stood there for a moment, staring at Emund, then screamed, "INTRUDER!"
So much for surprise, then. Emund burst into a sprint down the corridor. Perhaps unsurprisingly, the Dwemer also began sprinting away—off to the left, towards the oculory.
Emund was faster. He caught up within a few seconds. To the right of the intersection was a long, straight passage with a staircase heading downward. To the left was a much shorter passage ending in another pair of metal doors. The Dwemer was heading straight for the metal doors, pulling them open, starting to head inside.
The Place wanted to intervene. But Emund reminded himself that this wasn't his real enemy. As far as he knew, this Dwemer had nothing at all to do with the crimes that had taken place across Skyrim. So he couldn't solve this by killing the mer. And he wouldn't.
He hefted his staff like a spear, and threw it at the Dwemer's back. It struck him in the back of the head, causing him to collapse and land limply on his front in the doorway. A knockout, but not a kill.
The moment it was done, Emund raced forward and picked up his staff again. Then he looked through the doorway—and paused.
What he was looking at was unlike anything he'd ever seen. The corridor continued ahead until it expanded into a larger room. But the larger room was totally occupied by a massive, golden wall. It was a convex surface, from floor to ceiling, and dotted with greenish lenses ranging in size from 'dinner platter' to 'wagon wheel.' He'd never seen anything like it before.
And as he watched, the wall began to move. Somewhere, there was a hiss of steam-powered machinery coming to life, and the entire thing rolled upwards, making the lenses retreat out of sight, replaced with new ones from below. This wasn't a wall. It was the front of a sphere.
The oculory. The lens-viewing machine. The thing that had let them find the Elder Scrolls. It was already operational. Somewhere in this room ahead, the Dwemer were already working on it.
Emund began to step in over the young Dwemer's unconscious body, picking up his staff on the way. This wouldn't take long.
The Place was the only reason he survived. One moment, he was walking, and the next, his body was whirling back, bringing the staff up into a guard position. It happened too quickly for him to even understand. But as he turned around, he saw a dark shape descending on him, faster than anything he'd ever seen before.
His staff came into the direct path of the incoming blade. He knocked it aside with the middle of his haft, swiping the far end through the air, but his target had already jumped back.
The mystery agent was standing right in front of him. Tall and thin and covered head-to-toe in that strange seamless armor. He was bringing his sword back into a charged stance, preparing for another strike.
Yngva's killer was in front of him.
Emund sank into a ready stance of his own. All feelings, all distractions fell away. Even the swell of rage burning in his heart was a distant thought.
The agent was upon him like a bolt of lightning, striking again and again. And each time, Emund parried the golden blade with the end of his staff. As their exchange went on, he gladly retreated through the oculory doors into the short corridor beyond, stepping back over the unconscious Dwemer on the way. He had to go this way already. It was two tasks in one.
There was a deep, rumbling hiss of steam-powered machinery. Glancing behind him for a split second, out the corner of his eye, Emund saw the curved golden wall begin to roll upwards. The lenses were rotating out of view, being replaced by new ones at different orientations.
He felt a terrible sinking feeling in his chest. The Dwemer were already activating their machine. They were going to finish their mission before he could stop them.
The agent took advantage of his distraction, bringing his sword straight down on Emund's head—but that was predictable. He parried and returned a swing in the same motion, aiming for the agent's legs. Yet he hit nothing but air. As his staff swung out, the agent leapt sideways into the wall, kicking off the stone surface and landing behind Emund's back. An elbow slammed painfully into his spine, knocking him off balance, sending the corridor tilting uneasily around him.
Now came the agent's attempt at a killing blow. An armored left arm wrapped around Emund's trunk, squeezing painfully tight. And at the same time, that golden sword came rising up towards his throat, aiming to slice it open.
He brought the butt end of his staff up just in time to block the blade, stopping it flatly in its tracks. Then with a wrenching twist, he ducked out under the agent's sword arm, shoving him forward with one hand, then following it with a stomping kick to the back.
While the agent recovered from the impact, Emund turned and ran into the oculory room. Sure enough, the golden wall belonged to a giant metal sphere that took up nearly all of the space in front of him. There was only enough room around the perimeter for a narrow, spiraling stone ramp around the left wall. It led to an upper platform around the top of the sphere, made of a whole ring of crystalline panes in a metal wagon-wheel frame. Something on the other side of them was glowing brightly.
And the sphere was continuing to move. It was shifting from position to position, bringing new lenses into alignment with whatever was up above.
Emund sprinted up the ramp as quickly as his legs could respond to him. No audible footsteps followed him, but he didn't dare to look back. That would be a fatal mistake.
He made his way seemingly all around the chamber's circumference before reaching the top. Then, suddenly, he was in front of a machine like he'd never seen before. The giant sphere protruded slightly up through a big hole in the center of the floor, bridged by a tall metal arch laden with lenses and joints. Four giant plates of green crystal—almost like clamshells, they were so thick—were arrayed around the arch like the petals of a flower. The entire assembly was interconnected with bright white beams of light, extending up to even more lenses around the domed ceiling. It was ringing with audibly powerful Aetherial energy, filling the room with an eerie, reverberating hum.
And at the far wall from him stood a single high platform, standing at the top of curved ramps on the left and right. Three figures in black robes were standing on the platform, their lower halves hidden by a long, solid golden tabletop. A single beam of light shone from the center of the lens array onto a corresponding lens on the front wall of the table.
The entire upper platform was encompassed by a swirling sphere of glowing cyan streaks. Emund didn't have to know much about Dwemer magic to know he couldn't get through that.
But he was here. This was the machine he'd come here to destroy. Now all he had to do was find a way to shut it down.
And to survive long enough to do it.
The mystery agent came lunging up at him with the sword outstretched. Emund deflected it with his staff, only to take the agent's body full force in his chest. He fell back on the glass platform, with the agent's faceless mask right in front of his own, their limbs locked together. Before the grapple could continue, Emund drew in both legs and kicked the agent off of him—more of a shove than a real strike, but it put them far apart.
Something felt wrong, as he was standing back up. Something about his enemy. He'd seen it just now, in that brief moment when their faces had been so close together. Not with his eyes, but with his mind.
The agent was readying himself for another attack. Bringing his Dwemer-made sword up into a fighting stance.
It hit Emund out of nowhere. It tore at him deeper than any sword could cut. The realization. The one he should have already known.
He'd tried to warn himself about Yngva's death. The blood, dripping down again and again in his dreams. He'd even tried to let himself know Yngva would one day be his ally—the son and daughter reaching out to him had been one and the same person. Through the reading of the Elder Scroll, he'd seen pieces of his path through Time, and tried his best to recognize what mattered the most.
But the thing that had mattered the most had also eluded him the longest. He'd never understood the meaning of those visions he'd had. Never known why they kept following him, why they were intertwined with so much pain and loss. Only now, in this very moment, did the two pieces come together in his mind.
This mystery agent wasn't a Dwemer at all. She wasn't even male.
She was a Falmer. And her name was Ceyrel.
The girl stood still in her field, by her tree. She didn't understand what she was seeing.
One of the grown-ups was running. One of the men, the strangers her parents had told her about. He was running towards her, up the hill. He had black and red all over his body. His clothes were covered in it.
It was scary. The girl wanted to run away. She needed to find her dog and find her parents and leave. Whatever this was, she didn't like it.
She heard herself ask, "What's happening?"
The man shouted three words to her. At the top of his lungs, he shouted.
"IT'S THE NORDS!"
Emund raised his staff once again. And for the first time since leaving Snowhawk, he spoke. "I know who you are, Ceyrel. I know your name."
The agent hesitated briefly in place. It was all the confirmation Emund needed. Yes, this was the girl he'd seen in his dreams. This was the Falmer girl from that quiet little valley village.
But then she charged in again, and the fight resumed.
Emund's staff whipped upward and clashed off Ceyrel's blade just as it began to pick up speed. Instantly, he went on the offensive. Before Ceyrel could recover, he slammed the butt of his staff into her sword hand, then cracked into her exposed side with the other end, right where the floating ribs would be. There was a flash of blue light across her black-and-gold skin, just like outside the Tower of Mzark—but she staggered back from the blow all the same, recoiling and turning that side away. To protect it from further injury.
It was like a dam broke in Emund's mind.
You think a staff is any less lethal than your weapon of choice, girl? It was made to kill people like you. Your fancy armor means nothing against a solid blow to the head.
He pressed forward, striking again and again, forcing the Falmer to step back and defend, forcing her to parry blow after blow, deflecting every single counter. His staff was like a blinding storm in his hands. Ceyrel was defending herself so far—but only barely.
And all the while, the oculory machine continued to ring out with its bone-chilling otherworldly sound. From this close by, it was reverberating in Emund's ears, sending aches through his head. The sphere beneath it had stopped moving. Now it was gathering power.
They were wasting time. Emund had to stop this. He had to finish his fight.
But how was he winning? What was happening? In the back of his mind, even as he rained a ceaseless tempest of furious strikes on his opponent, he questioned what he was doing. This had never happened before.
Then the tempo broke. Ceyrel jumped in and grabbed Emund's staff in one hand, stopping it before it could begin its next swing. She plunged her sword down at Emund's neck—there was no time to react. He ducked his head down just enough for the blade to slide down his back instead. It cut cleanly through his robes, but stopped against the steel mail shirt beneath.
An elbow cracked into Emund's jaw. He went staggering back, only barely holding onto his staff. Ceyrel was still holding it too. Even before he'd regained his bearings, before he knew what was going on, he twisted the staff out of Ceyrel's grip, parrying her sword once more. Then as he stepped past the Falmer, he swung his staff down, hard, into the side of her knee.
Another blue flash rippled out over the smooth black armor. Ceyrel staggered away from the blow. To an unarmored opponent, that strike would have easily broken bones. But she was still standing, still moving. Still dangerous.
Emund began to turn back around, righting his staff for another attack.
It was too late. Ceyrel had already recovered. She spun and slashed outward with her blade, scraping again over Emund's back—and biting into his unprotected right arm, below the elbow, where the mail didn't cover. The pain was instant. The warm feeling of blood followed right after.
He gasped in shock. The blood was spreading quickly. But his arm was still working, his fingers all still answered. Emund brought his staff straight down on Ceyrel's sword hand while it was extended, then leapt forward and kicked her in the same knee he'd hit before. Two blue flashes, one after another. But it still made her stagger back.
He used the opportunity to retreat himself, and hold onto his arm with his free hand while the bleeding slowed and stopped. It took only a few seconds.
The oculory machine was still running. Whatever insidious process it was carrying out, it wasn't going to stop unless he made it. But Ceyrel would never let him shut the machine down. For whatever reason, she simply refused to give up. Her loyalty to her Dwemer masters seemed to have no limits.
Emund knew what he'd have to do. How he'd have to end this.
She murdered Yngva. She murdered so many others. She's no longer that little girl now—she's a monster.
He retreated to put the oculory machine mostly between them. Ceyrel was holding onto her knee with one hand, keeping it steady. Perhaps it really had been injured. It was something to feel good about, not bad. It meant he was closer to victory, and to saving Skyrim from the Dwemer in this room.
But it still gave Emund an unpleasant twinge to see.
He wondered if he could smash up the machine enough to disable it before Ceyrel got to him. Probably not. He'd be lucky to get even one hit in.
She's gathering her strength. Your bleeding has stopped. End this now, or she will end you.
The dam had broken. Emund could hear the Place inside his waking mind. That cold, unyielding voice in his head. It was all that stood between him and certain death at Ceyrel's hands. She was stronger than him, faster than him, better at killing than him.
But he'd warned himself about this, hadn't he? He'd seen it all in his dreams.
He didn't want to talk. He wanted to beat Ceyrel senseless and then crack her skull open. But that wasn't what happened. Instead, he began talking.
"You don't know who I am, Ceyrel. But I know you." Emund's voice was breathless, ragged from exertion. He continued anyway. "I've seen you before. I've read one of the very Elder Scrolls you stole. And it told me your story. Where you're from, who you were."
Across the machine, Ceyrel began advancing towards him. He responded by sidestepping back, keeping the distance carefully between them.
What is this? What plan are you executing?
"You were a nice one. You had parents you cared about. You even had a dog. It was a good life. Until the Nords finally found your village, and you could've died that day. But the Dwemer saved you, didn't they? Somehow, so conveniently, they stepped in to save you right as the Nords attacked. Of course you'd feel like you owed them. Of course you'd do anything they say."
Ceyrel broke into a full-speed charge. She bounded past the metal arch, leapt over the nearest crystal shell, and came at Emund with her sword held aloft.
He was ready. He jumped in at the last second and parried the blade with his center haft, bringing the butt up and striking Ceyrel in the chin. She reeled back, and Emund pressed the advantage, striking again and again, at her sides, at her legs. Many of the blows bounced off her sword. Some hit nothing but air as she nimbly evaded him. But a few struck true, and despite every flash of blue, they were dealing real damage beneath the skin. He knew it.
Then Ceyrel finally raised her free hand. Emund had just enough time to watch it clench into a fist. Then it came slamming into the side of his face.
It hit him in the cheekbone. His skin split. Everything went blurry and fuzzy. His guard faltered.
Searing pain tore through his side. Warm blood leaked through his robes once more. He looked down, and through his wavering hurting vision, saw Ceyrel's blade tugging out of his flesh. She'd stabbed the point straight through his mail shirt.
Emund didn't think. He lunged with an outstretched hand and grabbed onto the hilt of Ceyrel's sword. Then he trapped the blade against his staff, locked under his own free wrist, and wrenched down hard. The handle tore right out of Ceyrel's grasp.
Another fist came at his face, but he saw it coming. He leaned his head back, but the knuckles still scraped over his mouth. It stung horribly. More blood began to leak out. It was welling up underneath his tongue.
He growled and lunged forward again. This time, he brought his staff down atop Ceyrel's head. She blocked it with crossed forearms—and Emund used the opening to kick her square in the gut. Ceyrel staggered back again.
Then he planted his foot on the sword on the floor, and kicked it away behind himself.
Ceyrel was standing there before him, unarmed. But her fists were raised in a new fighting stance. She was still lethal, still ready to kill.
The rage was back in Emund's veins. White-hot murderous rage. This was a killer. He had to stop her. He wanted to.
"You murdered people," he spat through the blood in his mouth. "People I cared about. Better people than me. You killed them."
Yes.
What was going on in his mind? He couldn't keep track of himself. He couldn't follow his thoughts.
It was the Place's doing. It was confusing him. Filling him with thoughts and feelings to replace his own. Emund knew that this was his greatest hour. Whatever choices he made in this room would dictate the rest of his entire life. But the Place was in charge. It wanted him to fight, to kill, to take what was his.
And he didn't disagree.
He entered with a high, vertical swing, like he was aiming at Ceyrel's head again. But as Ceyrel raised her arms, he twisted at the last second, slamming his staff into her left ribs. His next strike was to her left knee—in both cases, the side he hadn't hit before. Then he stepped forwards, past Ceyrel's side, and jammed the wooden haft up against her throat. He twisted his trunk, pushed the Falmer back over his leg, and watched her collapse to the floor.
Ceyrel was still fighting. She lashed out with her legs, trying to trap Emund's and bring him down too. He jumped back out of reach, then brought his staff smashing down on her armored feet. They fell out of the way, and then he moved up to target her knees, then her hips—stepping to the side, attacking from a better angle. Ceyrel's defense began to falter.
There was no grace to it. Not anymore. Emund swung down again and again, beating Ceyrel's body through her armor, blue light flashing every time his staff impacted. She twisted and writhed beneath him, trying to defend herself, to put her arms and legs in the way. Emund aimed where they weren't. He struck the armored form in the belly, in the chest, in the head. He realized he was screaming. With effort, with rage, with triumph.
It reminded him of chopping wood. The constant exertion, the destructive rhythm. He wanted to chop skulls then too. Now he was crushing it all.
Ceyrel began to go limp. Her struggles were weakening. She couldn't defend herself. Emund was going to win. He was going to have his vengeance. All he had to do was keep hitting her until she couldn't get back up.
Emund raised his staff for one more blow to her head. A knockout. If the first strike didn't do it, he'd follow it up with as many as it took.
The oculory machine was still running. It was next to him. Still making its eerie noise, still shining its beams of light. He looked aside at it briefly. The Dwemer were standing on the balcony just where they'd been. Whatever they were doing, it was still taking place.
He could deal with them as soon as he'd dealt with Ceyrel.
Then Emund looked back down at her. She'd curled into a ball on her side, arms over her head. She was trembling. Not fighting back. Waiting for him to end her.
Don't forget about Yngva.
He spared himself a fleeting, quiet moment to think about that. His staff was still in his hands, raised to attack.
What would Yngva have wanted him to do right now? She would have wanted something. Vengeance, justice, everything else. All of that was a muddled memory now.
It was the wrong question.
What did Emund want to do right now? Not what the Place wanted. What did the real him want to do?
He thought about it for a moment. Looked down at the helpless girl on the floor in front of him.
No. He couldn't do this.
Emund lowered his staff slowly, letting it rest in front of him. His body ached and stung and burned from a dozen wounds. He was dizzy from all the lost blood. But he took a deep breath in, let a deep breath out, and focused his thoughts.
Then he began talking.
"You don't know me, Ceyrel. You don't know who I am, what I am, where I'm from. But I'm like you."
Ceyrel barely responded. She was still on the ground, still trembling. But she lowered one of her arms, turning her faceless glassy visor up to look at him.
"I never chose any of this. I had a simple little life once, but that's gone. I've been obeying the will of one person after another. And I've never really had the chance to choose anything for myself. I haven't even known who I am anymore."
Inside him, the Place was about to revolt. He ignored its voice. He ignored every voice except his own.
Either this would work, or it wouldn't. Either he would survive, or he would be killed here and now. The thought no longer frightened him. Either way, there was only one choice he could live with.
"I want to be a good person. And I'm not going to follow what's being laid out for me. I know you're a good person too, somewhere in there. The Dwemer tortured you. They made you into a living weapon. But you can be more than that. Please, Ceyrel."
Emund let his staff fall to the floor beside him. It clattered on the glassy panes, then went still.
"Let me help you."
Then he reached down and extended a gloved hand towards the Falmer girl. Slowly, shakily, she reached up with her own, and grabbed on.
He'd made his choice. This was Ceyrel's.
He helped Ceyrel up onto her knees, but she refused to move farther. She was slumped halfway over, gripping her waist with one arm. It felt bad seeing her like this, but Emund had no room in his mind for extra guilt. The oculory machine was still running.
"Come on," he urged. "We need to do something about this machine. I'm guessing you won't have a lot of qualms stopping it."
Ceyrel didn't respond. She was just kneeling there on the floor.
Emund squeezed her hand. "Hey. Ceyrel. Look at me."
In response, she reached her free left hand up to her chin, and pulled upwards. Her helmet split open into many-layered segments, folding down and away like a hood.
Underneath was a young, girlish Falmer. Her skin was as pale as snow, her head completely shaven. Dark red blood was streaked down from her nose and mouth, and from a gash above her eyebrow. She stared up at Emund with round, icy blue eyes. They were welling up with tears.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
This was the first time Emund had ever seen a Falmer in his life. He doubted he ever would again. But he didn't know how anyone could want to hurt this person.
He shook his head. "It's alright. But we need to focus on this. On the machine. We have to shut it down before—"
Then something happened. Something was missing.
The ringing sound had stopped. The beams of light were still shining between all the crystal lenses, but there was no noise. And the sphere of energy up on the balcony was gone.
Emund turned to look up at it.
"Wait."