A/N: So here it is, the final chapter and epilogue. Thanks to tafferling for betaing, and to you for reading. Seriously, I had a blast writing it, and am still a little astonished that I managed to write something as ridiculously long as this. At 300k words it's easily the longest thing I've ever written.
If you've enjoyed it, I would be thrilled if you left me a comment to let me know. I also welcome constructive criticism.
Please note that there are some references to rape in this chapter.
Chapter Thirty-Five
"I suppose there is no hiding it from you. No hiding. What a joke! My whole life is hiding. Everything in that document is true. My identity cannot be known. In fact I just told you my true name twice, but I bet you don't remember it. You and I have even met before, when I was not wearing the cowl. To your clouded memory he and I are two different people. My own family doesn't even know me. I would give much to be rid of the Gray Cowl and its curse."
– A stranger
Nine thousand people at best count died in Kvatch, despite its walls, despite its Watch, despite the Legion. There were far too few survivors. A small number managed to escape the city before things got really bad, along with a remnant of the guard. Led by Savlian Matius, they rallied when the gate to Oblivion was closed and retook the city, And there were others: the survivors in the chapel, and a handful of lucky souls who had managed to keep themselves hidden. Not many. Not nearly enough.
Very few of the survivors had seen more than glimpses of that vast insectile thing that had ripped through the walls as easily as if they were made of gingerbread. A siege engine, but like no siege engine that any mortal man could have envisaged, with a seeming life and mind of its own, fast and deadly and agile.
When I reached Anvil and confirmed it was unthreatened, and that my wife was safe, I made my report. I set down in detail everything I had seen, sealed it with the stamp of the Count and Countess of Anvil, and had the castle mage deliver it as a matter of urgency to the Elder Council. Whether they would believe it or not I had no idea, but once the letter was gone, my strength deserted me. I found the castle wine stores, began to drink and kept on drinking well into the morning of the next day, when a sudden commotion in the Great Hall told me that the news from Kvatch had finally hit. I had outrun it.
In the days that followed, rumours and whispers dominated. 'Why Kvatch?' people asked. 'Why there?' And gradually one rumour began to grow currency: that Uriel Septim VII had a bastard son, a potential heir, who had lived in Kvatch. People loved to cling to hope, and this rumour had a ring of truth to it. He had form, after all, our dirty old goat of an Emperor, and bastard children are a bit like ants: where there's one, there's fifty.
The rumours whispered that the bastard had been pulled from the jaws of death by an agent of the Blades, and was now kept safe and in seclusion, while the Blades marshalled their resources in hope of striking back against the forces that assailed us.
Millona might know for certain, but I had other concerns. Many of the survivors of Kvatch sought refuge in Anvil. All the orphans, that little Altmer girl among them, were taken in at the orphanage until family could be found to take them. Easy to spot the children from Kvatch when walking past the orphanage's yard when the children played outside – they were the silent ones.
They were a constant reminder of how vulnerable we were. No one had believed stable gates to Oblivion were possible. Could one open up overnight in the marketplace? Or on the docks? Or on the bridge that led to the castle, preventing the townsfolk from seeking refuge there? There were whispers too of that terrifying insectile creature, and since no one knew anything but rumour, many assumed it had been one of the dragons of old, which had taken refuge in Oblivion and so survived the Dragon War. I could have told them otherwise, but I doubt my correction would have brought any relief, so I kept silent. I do know that no sign of it was found in the ruins of the city, so it seemed logical to assume it had escaped back through the Oblivion gate once its task had been accomplished.
I dreamed about it. Every night. The sun would rise and it would be that vast burning eye. Or I was lost in Kvatch, and in the logic of dreams, I would take a turning and find myself in Anvil instead. I drank to keep the dreams away, but even when I was awake, there was no escape. I'd walk the streets and see the Harrowing brought to Anvil, the city I had come to love, those fine pale gray buildings reduced to black-charred rubble, while the lighthouse burned, and Millona– Gods, Millona. Some days it was all I could think about: the memory of that smouldering house, the Altmer woman, barely conscious, with the dremora bunching a fist in her hair and wrenching her head back while he raped her.
I'd close my eyes and it wasn't the Altmer I saw, but Millona, her hair matted with blood, her eyes unseeing.
Even the tales of hope didn't help. By now we'd heard all the stories of Savlian Matius, his bravery in the face of overwhelming odds and the talk of how he deserved a title. There was even talk even of making him the Count of Kvatch if a suitable heir amongst the Goldwine family could not be found, because he had stayed when many others had fled. He'd held the barricades and beat the daedra back until reinforcements arrived. With little more than a handful of men he had stormed the castle in the hopes of finding the count alive. A hopeless task as it turned out, and he must have already known in his heart that his lord was dead. And still he fought. For his city. For his lord. For Kvatch.
I tried to imagine Captain Langley marshalling the guards of Anvil in such a way, and failed miserably. Langley didn't even patrol when it was raining. He spent most of his day lazing around the barracks, idly chatting with the other guards, or strolling the gardens of the city on pleasant days. I couldn't see him holding a barricade against a couple of mudcrabs, let alone an army of dremora.
I suppose, utterly useless as he was, I should be grateful to him, because with his help, I 'd finally decided what to do about the problem of Lex.
~o~O~o~
Captain Langley was easy to get rid of. Almost embarrassingly so. I wasn't the only one listening to the stories coming out of Kvatch with unease. In the end, all I really had to do was get him talking in an inn, tell him my tales of what had happened in Kvatch – the devastation, the slaughter, and how I was certain he and his men would do a superlative job if the same thing happened in Anvil. I played the part of a loose-lipped government official (plenty of those around) and implied, fairly heavily, that it was highly likely Anvil might be the next target.
"Ah, never mind." I clapped him on the shoulder, taking note of how green his face had gone. "I'm sure you'll prove yourself every bit the soldier Savlian Matius did, eh?"
I barely even had to bribe him. One blink and he was gone, stumbling over himself in his haste to retire and seek a quiet life in the country. There's honour of a kind in that.
The rest of the matter was handled smoothly. I forged the letter of recommendation and seeded bribes throughout the Imperial City to ensure there wouldn't be too much resistance to Lex's transfer to Anvil, and that his replacement would prove to have a little more common sense where the Thieves' Guild was concerned.
Lex himself was unimpressed, but I had no doubts he would do his duty and protect Anvil and his new countess with his life if necessary. I wish I could say it eased some of my burden of fear, but I still saw Kvatch. Every time I closed my eyes.
~o~O~o~
They're a funny old thing, quests. All that hunting for myriad assorted objects for murky inexplicable reasons. It's almost as if the gods have a thing for scavenger hunts. And here I was setting one of my own with my very own Champion, a little sneak-thief who lied as naturally as breathing.
A book. A scrying stone. An arrow. A pair of enchanted boots.
She'd come through, my little liar. I had to give her that. All the items I needed she had merrily delivered into my possession and been well-rewarded for her trouble. With Savilla's Stone I had scried ahead, seen the obstacles that lay between me and the Elder Scroll, and I swear – I swear – I had every intention of retrieving the Scroll for myself. At least at first, before I came to realise the impossibility of the task. Even when I saw the shot I would have to take with the Arrow of Extrication, I clung to the hope that I might be able to fortify my archery skills through magical means – a potion, perhaps, or an enchanted helm.
Then the Stone showed me the first of the dead and I knew I could never do it.
I am at heart still a coward. I do not claim otherwise.
The Stone too I might have been able to take for myself. I'd been there myself, after all, and knew the corridors and what challenges I might have faced. And I knew too how unlikely I was that I would be able to escape without the Moth Priests being alerted to the theft of the Stone.
Shed no innocent blood, I'd told my thief, and she had stared at me with the mocking smile of a liar recognising a fellow liar. "However, there is no bloodprice for slaying the Stone's guardians, human or inhuman," I said, and only now did something flicker in her eyes. It might just have been the light of the fire.
I tried not to think of the prelate and his kindness, of Brother Michel and Brother Primus with his cackling laugh. And of Jirav and the others, all of them good men, whom I'd very nearly called friends, and each of them would rally to defend the Stone if they needed to.
No innocent blood to be shed. As if the Stone's guardians, the living ones, weren't themselves innocent men.
A book. A scrying stone. An arrow. A pair of enchanted boots. And very soon, perhaps, an Elder Scroll.
But when is anything ever that simple?
~o~O~o~
The gate to Oblivion outside Anvil opened just over two weeks after Kvatch was destroyed. It could be seen from the city walls at twilight, staining the sky red as spilled blood. A chill wind swept in from the north-west, carrying with it the stench of Oblivion. It stained spit and snot black, and it made me dream.
I was so close to freedom I should have been able to taste it, but instead all I could taste was the acrid ash, all I could smell sulphur and the stink of burning meat and rendered fat. The wind in the cold chimney rattled out like the screams of the dead. A fire might have chased those ghosts away, but I couldn't bear to light one.
I left the shack and took myself up to the castle instead. The streets were deserted, unusual on such a pleasant evening when people wanted to enjoy every last scrap of the summertide evenings before the warm weather slipped away. A few souls hurried through the streets towards their homes, barely stopping to greet each other, let alone a nameless stranger. Only one lingered, and I know who it was before I saw his face illuminated by the watchlight: Velwyn Benirus, turfed from the Count's Arms and taking one of his long walks rather than go home. He looked older than his years, his eyes reddened and sleepless. He had the same haunted look as his late older brother.
At the castle I was torn for a moment, already drunk and unable to recall what had brought me there. Finally, I climbed the battlements, and stared out over the city towards the Oblivion Gate. It seemed alive somehow, an evil thing with a mind of its own. It mocked us, a constant reminder of what could happen.
The daedra trickled through in dribs and drabs, sometimes only a handful, at other times a few hundred. Rather than head for the city they'd spread out across the countryside, targeting farmers and travellers, burning smaller settlements and isolated estates. They slaughtered indiscriminately, and unlike bandits they didn't bother robbing the people they murdered for their valuables. And in their wake, like carrion birds picking at the bodies of corpses on a battlefield, came the looters. What the daedra didn't destroy, the looters did, butchering any souls who might have been lucky enough to survive the initial attack to stop them from reporting back.
Millona spared what guards she could to guard the gate, but their numbers were threadbare. They were brave men, loyal to their countess and to their city, even though they knew, to a man, that this was a hopeless task, that any daedra they killed would return to the wastes of Oblivion and survive to fight again. The army of Mehrunes Dagon numbered in the infinite and ours did not. There was no stopping this, no more than there was the possibility of stopping the tide. The men were like a bulwark preventing the floodwaters from rising too far, but one day would come a storm surge so savage that the rising floodwaters would come crashing over the barriers and flood us all.
And then... Oh Gods, and then...
Millona, unlike Count Goldwine, had an escape route. She could run. If it came to it she might well lead her people through it to safety, but if she felt running meant abandoning her people still left in Anvil then she might very well choose to stay...
And I found I could not put myself in my wife's head. I was too tired, too weary, and too starved of human contact, with my focus so fixated on my quest to free myself from the curse. I looked at her and saw not the woman I loved more than the world, more than my own life, but a stranger I barely knew.
Tell me something, boy. If it came to a straight choice between Millona's life and protecting the people of Anvil, which would you choose?
Millona, I had said. Every time.
At the time I'd meant it. I'd made him a promise, that devious old bastard. That lying fucker, who had gambled away his daughter's happiness, and lost. I'd sworn to make her happy, no matter what, to protect her, no matter what. And instead, I'll let another woman lead me away, not by the cock, but it might as well have been. I had abandoned my wife when she was grieving and in pain. I had wasted a year wallowing in self-pity and drunkenness. I had broken almost every vow that mattered to me, but not this one.
Not this one.
I would protect her. No matter what.
~o~O~o~
The stories of our lives are written on our faces. Joy, sorrow, anger, hatred, love. All emotions leave their tales scrawled behind, and Millona's spoke too much of sorrow, instead of the tale it should by rights have been: one of laughter and joy and love.
Something else I'd stolen from her. Just another entry on the end of a very long list. It came as easily to me as breaking my vows.
I had once sworn I would never return to Millona's chambers unless she brought me there, but what was one more broken vow under the circumstances?
A room filled with the soft sweet perfume of a woman's life, with no hint of a man's sweat or sex or seed to spoil the air. A bottle of wine, and beside it a single glass of perfect fragile crystal. And a potion bottle so small it fit neatly into the hollow of my palm.
I hunkered down, and let two drops of the viscous liquid from the potion bottle drip into the bottom of the glass. In moments, the liquid would evaporate, leaving a trace of fine colourless powder behind. It had no smell, no flavour, and would dissolve the moment liquid hit it to create a potion of unusual strength and potency, which would make the drinker unusually receptive to the instructions of another.
I had enough of the potion to last three days, and after that...
Well, I'd figure that bit out when it came to it.
It seems like a kind of madness to me now, this plan of mine to steal her away, but after all it was only what I had promised her father I would do. It made sense at the time. Sort of.
It eats away at you, the cowl. It chips away at your humanity, as a chisel shears off flakes of stone from a marble statue. What is a man without the warmth of human contact and friendship and love?
Ten years of imprisonment had left me a broken thing, a moth stripped of its wings, crushed and crumpled in a clenched fist. I was half-mad and all-despairing, and I had promised. I could see no other way forwards.
Especially not now.
The Oblivion gate had burst open again, scorching the land around it black. This time it hadn't been a handful of daedra, but a small army. They'd overwhelmed the guard, all save a badly burned runner, who crumpled to his knees inside the city walls. They were dead, he'd babbled. Some twenty-six guards, slaughtered where they stood, while the daedra surged outwards like a tide.
I had no choice. All knew the story of Count Goldwine, how he'd led the charge against the daedra before his men had been overcome and they'd been forced to retreat to the castle. Millona was no warrior, but she was Colovian through and through. She wouldn't run. I knew she wouldn't run.
I had no choice. No option other than two drops of poison in a crystal glass, another vow broken. Or so I told myself, although I knew, as I retreated from her chamber with my head down and bitterness flooding my heart, that I lied.
I watched her with Lex, and thought how weary she looked. There was more gray in her hair too, silvery strands that clustered at her temples. Even here I could smell the ash on the air, a fine layer of soot that clung to the clothes and hair and skin. It made it impossible to forget Kvatch, even if I wanted to.
I cradled the potion bottle in my palm, rolled it between my fingers. You're doing this to protect her, I thought. You have no choice.
"If I could spare the men, I would," she was saying. "What of the gate itself?"
"There's talk from the Fighters' Guild of sending in a contingent of men to destroy it, My Lady."
She lifted her head at that, a momentary flash of hope. "Do you think they can?" And when he hesitated, she reached out and touched the back of his hand. A faint flush darkened his cheeks, and his shoulders tensed. "Please, Captain Lex, the truth."
"I think they're fools." He spoke in a sudden burst, then looked away, his flush darkening. She murmured something I didn't catch, and his gaze flicked up. When he spoke, his urgent voice started low but rose steadily. "With all due respect to the Fighters' Guild most of them are rabble. The Anvil Chapter is better than most, but even so... When people enter those wretched gates they don't emerge in glory. They come out broken or bleeding, or they don't come out at all." He broke off, flinching at the harshness of his tone. "I beg your pardon, My Lady."
She shook her head wearily. "I appreciate your candour, Captain. After all, we can't all be the Hero of Kvatch."
"No indeed."
"And I think you may well be right. I've heard Farwil Indarys led the Knights of the Thorn into a gate several days ago and not a one of them has been heard of since."
Lex snorted. "Ah yes, the Knights of the Thorn."
"I've often thought my brother might have formed a similar brotherhood had he lived," Millona said.
"And a very fine and noble endeavour it would have been, I'm sure," he said quickly. His flush deepened to a dull scarlet when Millona cast a wry glance at him. He cleared his throat. "And the, uh, the guild, My Lady?"
"We have no jurisdiction over how the Fighters' Guild chooses to deploy its men. If they want to attempt to close the gate..." She pinched at the bridge of her nose, then threw up her hands. "My father would be all for taking the fight to Oblivion. My mother, on the other hand, would advise caution."
"And what," Lex murmured, his gaze fixedly on his feet, "would Countess Millona Umbranox do?"
She considered. "Countess Millona Umbranox would attempt to take the middling road, but she is at heart her father's daughter. And you're wrong about the Anvil Fighters' Guild. They may not count the Hero of Kvatch amongst their number, but I know Huurwen fought bravely for Valenwood in the Five Years War, and many of their members are former legionnaires."
Lex grunted.
She paused for a moment, then came to a decision. "Have one of the messengers take word to Azzan. Tell him Castle Anvil will cover the cost of their contract, as well as a full widow's pension for all volunteers, and a most generous bonus should they succeed in closing the gate."
"Understood, My Lady."
"And recall our men from their duty guarding the gate. All of them. We cannot afford to spare a single body, and no matter what we need to keep the bridge clear between the city and the castle. My people must be able to seek refuge here if necessary." And with this last there was a flash of darkness in her eyes, a momentary stab of pain, no doubt at the thought she might be abandoning the people in the countryside, the ones who hadn't yet fled their homes for the dubious safety of the city walls. "Gods damn the middling path," she murmured.
He rose from the table. "If that's all, My Lady..."
"No, there's one more thing," she said, as he turned to go, "Tell me something, Captain Lex, when did you last rest?"
"I can assure you–"
"Because I cannot seem to recall one moment when you have not been on duty since that infernal gate opened. I value your indefatigability, and there's no doubt that the Imperial City's loss has been Anvil's gain, but Anvil is not best served by you working either yourself or your men to the point of collapse. At the moment, all is quiet. That may not be true for long. Make certain you get some rest, and be sure your men sleep in shifts as well."
He inclined his head, and turned to go. He took only a few steps towards the door, then hesitated, and glanced back, still flushing. "May I... may I say something, My Lady?"
She gestured with a wave of her hand for him to continue.
"Could... could the same not be said to you? When did you last rest?" The moment the words were out of his mouth, he grimaced as if he instantly regretted them, and stumbled over his tongue in an attempt to take them back. "I only meant... I beg your forgiveness, Your Grace. I didn't mean to presume..."
"Not at all, Captain." She offered him a weary sad smile which quickly faded. "You're absolutely right, of course. You know, there are times when it feels as if I haven't had a decent night's sleep in... well, almost a decade."
I'm not sure she realised when she had said, but Lex had. There was a weight of meaning in the look he gave her, a veritable storm in his eyes, as much as he tried to hide it from her by quickly looking away.
I knew what sort of man he was. I'd seen the Breton romances he kept by his bedside, stylised tales of honourable impoverished knights yearning for fair damsels in distress, of cruel husbands and love tokens, of heartache endured by star-crossed lovers, and of honour above all.
(There's a certain irony that these stories of honourable men come from Daggerfall of all places. We Imperials might have a reputation for treachery and cloak-and-dagger machinations, but the truth is the national character of the average Imperial owes more to the cheerfully lazy corruption of Decumus Scotti than to the Wolf Queen. Even the most elaborate act of treachery, which in Cyrodiil would inevitably become the stuff of history, in the petty kingdoms of Daggerfall would merely be the events of a particularly dull wet Tirdas afternoon.)
Lex was nothing if not predictable. And even if she was a decade older than him, my wife was still lovely, abandoned by her disreputable rake of her husband, but nobly struggling on regardless, inexplicably loyal to him despite how he had betrayed her. No fucking wonder he would fall in love with her.
I'd expected that.
What I hadn't expected, however, was the lingering, speculative look Millona gave him when he turned away, and the smile that touched her lips for a moment before she brought her hand up to her mouth to conceal it.
Now that I hadn't seen coming.
Oh, I thought, dazed. And then, because that didn't seem quite enough: Bugger.
What the fuck am I doing here?
I dropped my gaze to the bottle in my palm. The bottle that had taken me a small fortune in bribes to procure from the sort of man I would have beaten to a pulp not so very long before. Most men who purchased potions such as this bought them for even less honourable reasons than I had done.
I glanced up at her, and saw she'd returned to her papers. She had to be terrified, but in that moment she looked calm and composed. Almost happy.
"Godsdamn you," I murmured softly, and it was to Lucar Umbranox that I spoke, that fucking bastard who'd gambled away her happiness, and for no other reason than he'd thought me easy to manipulate (Armande had been right about that). And I'd been lazy enough to let him, so long as it fit with my own selfish reasons.
If I did this, if I came between Millona and her duty to Anvil, it would be as irrevocable and irreversible as if I'd crawled into her bed in those early terrible years of the curse and raped her in all but name. She might forgive me many things, but not this.
And I couldn't do it. I couldn't.
Well, I thought, that's that. I might have preferred someone other than Lex, of all the godsdamned people, but he was a good man, an honourable man. No doubt it would take him some persuading to get him into bed with her, but he'd succumb eventually, I had no doubt of that. I'd learned to have faith in the wickedness of my wife.
I spoke before I realised I was going to, my voice cracked and hoarse. "He's a good man."
Whether she heard me I don't know. She didn't react, but that faint smile remained and her eyes brighter than I'd seen them in a long time.
"Handsome, too." I dropped the bottle on the floor and crushed it like a beetle beneath my boot. "Certainly more handsome than I am now. I'll wager if you ever did see me again, you'd be sorely disappointed." I sighed. "Funny how things work out, eh?"
Back to her room I went to toss the glass out of the window, and when the Fighters' Guild sent seven of their best mercenaries into the Oblivion Gate, I went with them.
Our late Emperor spent ten years of his life imprisoned in Mehrunes Dagon's desert of rust and wounds. He claimed he has no memory of those years, that he remembered it only as a series of waking dreams.
I have seen the Deadlands. Kvatch was a harbinger only, an echo of what might be.
I have seen those desolate wastes, where the frozen air is thick with ash, and the land torn apart with jagged struts of decaying metal. Tidal oceans of lava lap against beaches formed by flakes of rust and shards of glittering glass, watched over by pods of meat, flesh and skin and bones reshaped like the Ayleid flesh-sculptures of old. They tremble and pulse with the beat of a still-living heart.
Of the six men and two women who entered hell through that portal of freezing fire, only two emerged. Gasping at the clean air, I clung to the Bosmer woman, who gripped in her hand the sigil stone that had kept the gate open. Both of us were broken almost beyond repair.
No man could forget that corner of Oblivion, although he might well wish to. A liar knows a liar.
Waking dreams, my arse.
~o~O~o~
In a modest house in the Elven Gardens District, I held an Elder Scroll for the first time, rather like an expectant father finally delivered of the newborn baby he'd never expected to actually see. My thief waited restlessly, battered and irritable and impatient, but against all the odds alive.
"I haven't forgotten you," I told her. "You'll receive your reward, all in good time. But first–"
"Fuck me, what now?" She rolled her eyes upwards. "I'm pissing knackered. Sir."
Damn, I liked her. I threw her a purse of coin – near a full thousand Septims – which she caught and glowered at. "Get some sleep. Celebrate your success, because you've certainly earned it. I need a little time to decipher the scroll in any case. There's no hurry, and I think you'll find your reward worth waiting for."
"I'd better fucking do."
"Here." I worked my wedding ring off my finger, grimacing at how long it took to wiggle it past the swollen knuckle. "Deliver this ring to Countess Umbranox in Anvil. Say nothing about me or about..." I paused, my hand resting on the scroll. The casing felt faintly warm to the touch, as if it had soaked up the heat of the day, "...or about our work here. If she asks, tell her a stranger wanted her to have it."
"Anvil? You want me to go to fucking Anvil?" She scowled at me in outrage, and if she hadn't been so completely avaricious and greedy, I think she might have thrown the bag of coin back in my face. "Are you not even going to tell me what my fucking reward is? I've done everything you asked. Pissing creepy blind priests, and ghosts, and zombies. I'm supposed to be a fucking thief, not the Eternal cunting Champion. There was a vampire guarding those useless bloody boots, you didn't pissing tell me that! Fucker bit me. And if it's not you, then it's the fucking Blades ordering me about here and there like a blue-arsed fly. I'm pissing sick of the whole bloody lot of you! Anvil! Fucking Anvil!"
"Finished?" I said, when she'd trailed off.
"Fucksake." She pushed her hand back through her greasy hair. "Yeah, I'm finished." She lifted one trembling finger at me. "Fine. I'll go to Anvil. But it had better be worth it."
"It'll be worth it," I promised, although of that I was by no means certain. "And this is the last thing I will ever ask of you, I promise you that."
"It had better be."
~o~O~o~
And so, over ten years since I'd first donned the cowl, I found myself moving through the Great Hall, unseen and unnoticed, despite the four-foot-long Elder Scroll strapped to my back. Millona was holding court, and the hall was thronged with people, waiting their turn to petition the countess or merely there to flirt or gossip. As my thief approached the throne, holding out my wedding ring, I stood, drawing the Scroll from my back.
It is a strange thing to read a Scroll, particularly a Scroll like Shadow, which had only been partially fulfilled. Only a fraction of the prophecies contained within are fixed upon the indestructible parchment.
It sears the past into my mind. I see every detail, clear as day, of the moment when two thieves steal from a daedric prince: how the colour is leached from the world, the sound of the worshippers' chanting, the rustle of the feathers of the flock of crows and ravens gathered in the trees. The screams of the master's apprentice when the witches tear her apart and left her for the carrion birds.
This happened. This is what is.
But then there are also glimpses of a future that might or might not be: of a man smiling while he buries his knife in the heart of the man he calls brother. The sound of dripping water in the darkness, and a ripe sewer stink. The scuttle of rats and the dead alike. An arrow tipped with poison that will not kill.
These echoes of the past and of the future wring out my mind like a wet dishcloth. It is like trying to read the words of a book reflected in a broken mirror while the mirror tries to read you back. I read about myself reading about myself reading about myself reading about... Well, I think you get the picture.
When I hear the voice speaking I do not at first realise that it is my own. I am so buried in the myriad infinite possibilities contained in the Scroll I have lost myself.
"By the power of the Elder Scrolls, I name Emer Dareloth as the true thief of Nocturnal's Cowl."
The world breaks apart and is remade anew.
~o~O~o~
Afterwards there was the longest silence, empty and aching, as if all around me had turned to stone. I weaved on my feet, shaking, my thoughts in turmoil. My eyes ached as if I hadn't blinked for hours, but I felt no different. Surely I should have felt different.
It hasn't worked, I thought, despairing. It hasn't worked.
Millona was the first to move, rising to her feet. She'd gone white, her fist clenched tight around the ring my thief had given her, and she stared at me. Saw me as if for the first time. It felt unreal, a mummery, as if we both were wearing masks.
"The Gray Fox," she said, and her voice shook. "I have been betrayed."
"No, that's–" I broke off, realising belatedly I was still wearing the cowl. I seized hold of it and dragged it from my head. "I am the Gray Fox, but you have not been betrayed."
There was no reaction in her face, only the frozen emotion of shock. Oh gods, I thought, and wanted to sob in job. It's worked. It's worked.
My hand clenched around the cowl. "I am the Fox, it's true. I'm also your husband." Out of the corner of my eye I could see the guards, confused and unsure whether they should intervene. I doubted they would stay that way for long. "It's me, Millona," I said, taking a step towards her, and then another. "It's Corvus. I've come home."
She stared up at me, trembling, her eyes searching my face. In their depths I saw the recognition I had been longing to see for ten long years. Her lips parted and she whispered my name again, breathless, tasting a word she hadn't spoken in all that time. "Corvus..."
"Yes."
Her voice was barely above a breath, but she remembered me. She remembered me. "Where have you been?"
"Lost in the shadows. Ten years ago I became the Gray Fox and was cursed. 'Whoever wears Nocturnal's cowl shall have his name stricken from history'. I became a stranger, Millona, even to you."
She stared at me, unable, I think, to take it all in.
"I've stood right next to you, and you didn't even know it. I'd try to speak to you, begged you to see me, but you only looked at me, confused. It's taken ten years to find a way to–"
The sound of her hand cracking across my cheek rang out across the Great Hall. My thief sucked in air through her teeth, amused and shocked. Across the room, Lex started forwards, and Millona held up her hand to stop him in his tracks.
"You have broken my heart for a second time," she said, her voice low and fierce. "As if I could allow an infamous criminal like the Gray Fox to become the Count of Anvil. If you try to announce yourself as Corvus, I will deny you. I will deny you before the Elder Council if I have to."
"I don't blame you. Not for one moment. But I'm done with thievery, Millona. Forever. And I really mean it this time." I swung around towards my eavesdropping thief and thrust the cowl into her hands. She stared down at it, then up at me.
"That's my fucking reward?" she hissed. "This hideous cursed bloody thing?"
"The curse has been broken. It's safe to wear, and I think you'll find it useful. It's yours, if you want it, along with the guild. You're guildmaster now–"
"Oh brilliant! More work and pissing responsibility! Hooray!"
"The art of a guildmaster is delegation. Delegation and figuring out how to look busy while other people do all the work." I frowned, and rubbed at my forehead. The world had imperceptibly shifted around me. The realisations of all the things that were different came first in a dripping trickle. Over the days that passed this would grow to be a flood, until it slowed and gradually stopped altogether. "History," I said slowly, "has been altered tonight. Such is the power of Nocturnal's curse that lifting it can alter time itself."
"What do you mean by that?"
"If Emer Dareloth had not stolen the cowl, the guild would never have fallen on such hard times. The Fox could only ever act as the guild's figurehead." A commotion across the hall distracted me. I glanced up and saw Lex pushing his way through the gathered crowd. "Go to the Imperial City," I said quickly. "Go to the Garden. I'll think you'll find it's changed a bit. And now if I were you I'd run like bloody fuck."
She ran, with Lex in pursuit, but she was quick. If she let him catch her I'd be sorely disappointed.
Millona had sunk down onto her throne and was staring up at me. None of the tears that had filled her eyes had yet spilled, but I had an awful feeling they would do so later. "Do you think that makes a difference?" she asked, her voice hollow and so low that only I could hear,
I shook my head. It's done, I thought, and so am I. "All I know," I said, suddenly struck by a wave of exhaustion so overwhelming and absolute that I wanted to sink down to my knees on the ground, "is that I am free."
~o~O~o~
If you are expecting my wife and I to be suddenly reconciled, dear reader, then I am afraid you will be disappointed, although I rather suspect after reading this tale that you will feel it serves me right.
In many ways I was still a ghost. I would walk into a room, her shoulders would stiffen, her back would straighten, and it wouldn't be long before she'd finish whatever she was doing and leave, stalking past me without so much as a word or a glance. If I spoke to her – and it didn't matter what I said, whether it was a greeting, or a polite request for her to pass the salt at breakfast – her expression would go still. If a direct request, she would capitulate after a few moments of icy silence, but she never said a word. She didn't deny me, didn't go so far as to cast me off. Instead she seemed determined to pretend that I did not exist.
The servants, thrown into baffled chaos by my sudden arrival, followed her lead, although they at least spoke to me.
I mean I deserved it. Of course, I did, but gods, it hurt.
Three days after my return and I'd about had my fill of being a ghost. When I walked into the library and found Millona there, she rose, closed the book she was reading, and moved at once towards the door. I stepped aside and held it open, ready to let her go with nothing more than a greeting that she would return with a cold unspeaking nod.
Instead, I heard myself speak."Millona, wait. Please."
In the doorway she stopped, her posture rigid, her hands smoothing over the skirt of her dress.
"If you want me to go, I'll go," I told her back. "Only say the word and you'll never see me again, I swear it."
There was no response from her for the longest time, only her hands curving into fists. Then she turned around so abruptly I took an involuntary step back. Her face was white with fury. "You place the weight of that decision on me?"
"Millona–"
"You expect me to..." Her rage was too hot for her to withstand for long. She was already trembling, starting to blink rapidly as the tears threatened to spill down her cheeks. She rolled her lips inwards and pressed them tight. At the sound of a servant's approaching footsteps she moved past me back into the library. "You say you want an answer?"
Gods yes. More than anything. I'm tired of waiting, of being a ghost suspended between worlds. That was what I wanted to say. Instead I lied. "No," I said, closing the door behind me. "I can wait if that's what you need. It's just... you don't seem to want me around."
"Would you really go, Corvus? If I asked you to. Would you really leave Anvil and never come back or would you stay and spy on me from a distance?" Her voice was numb and hollow. I couldn't read her meaning: I'd long since lost the knack, but this at least was a question I could answer.
"I'd go, and I'd never come back."
She studied me, fingers plucking restlessly at a loose thread on the embroidery of her skirt. "For once that's actually the truth, isn't it?"
"Nothing but." I took a step towards her and she stiffened. I stopped and held up my hands. "I'll wait for your answer as long as I need to, Millona. I owe you nothing less, but–"
"Let me guess," she said bitterly. "You're going to tell me how much you love me. How I'm the other half of your heart, and you can't live without me."
"Would it make any difference if I did?"
"Not really. No."
"Then..." I lifted my hands in a helpless shrug. "I will. If you want me to. The gods know it's only the truth, but I don't think it would help."
"You're right. It wouldn't help. Because you've told me that before, and you still left. You still walked out and vanished and left me waiting for you to come home."
"I know."
"Ten years, Corvus."
"I know."
"Ten years of never knowing if you were dead, or if the gossip was more than just spiteful slander and you really had walked out on me and found yourself a mistress, because I couldn't give you a child–" Her voice broke, her face contorting as the tears she'd been fighting finally overwhelmed her. I couldn't stop myself from taking her in my arms. She flinched, then when I hesitated, pressed closer, and buried her face in my shirt. I wrapped my arms around her, feeling how her body shook. We had both changed so much in the interceding years: me, solid and paunchy and gone to seed, her thinner and slighter, and both of us diminished by everything we'd lost. I closed my eyes and dared to think that this might be my reprieve.
"It had nothing to do with you," I told her quietly.
She stirred against me, "Was there a mistress?" she asked, her voice still numb, "Not that I care, really. I'm just curious."
"Do I really need to answer that?"
Well, of course I fucking did.
I pressed down my cold rage at the gossips and answered her. "There's never been anyone but you, Millona. Not for a long time. No mistress, no lovers, no whores." None that I'd fucked anyway.
"Not that it matters," she said finally. "Not that it makes a difference." She pulled away from me and looked up. "Because you still left."
"I regret it every day that passes."
"And then," she continued, as if she hadn't heard me, "you walk into the Great Hall with an Elder Scroll and that evil cowl and announce yourself as my long-lost husband. In front of everyone. How could you, Corvus?"
I closed my eyes. "I needed to be sure it would work. I wasn't at all sure it would."
"You know what they'd say," she said. "If you left again."
"I know exactly what they'd say, and probably better than you. They'd blame me. You've always been blameless in this–"
"The innocent victim," she said, "who was too naïve to realised what a scoundrel she married."
"Exactly! They don't blame you–"
"This isn't about blame, Corvus. Don't you see how it makes me look? You turned me into a fool. They laugh at me behind my back, even if they're pretending to sympathise. Poor Millona Umbranox, what a victim she is. How fine and good and noble, such a pity she cannot keep a husband. Or anything else for that matter."
Oh shit.
She set her hand against my chest and pushed. I fought the urge to cling on tighter and dropped my arms reluctantly, letting her go. She took a shaky breath. "You wanted my answer, and here it is: I don't know. And I'm truly sorry if you feel you've had to wait too long before you know whether or not I'll let you crawl back into my bed–"
"That's not why I–"
She shot me a look of fury and I fell silent, clenching my jaw. "It must be frustrating," she said. "I realise how hard it must be for a man like you, but I'm afraid you'll have to wait a little while longer, Corvus, my dear, because I don't know."
~o~O~o~
Weary and drained, I nodded to a passing gaggle of servants, who averted their looks of curiosity, and then burst into a chorus of nervous stifled giggles in the corridor behind me.
He was in the Great Hall, embroiled in a heated argument with Dairihill. He looked as weary as I did, shabby and dishevelled from the long ride, and his dark skin was ingrained with dust and grime. As I came down the stairs, his gaze snapped up to meet mine and he froze for an instant, his mouth dropping open. The steward threw up her hands in frustration when he barged past her to meet me at the foot of the stairs.
"Son of a bitch." Armande clenched his hands into fists, and the thought that he might actually punch me flashed through my mind. "You–"
"Well met, my friend."
"Where the fuck have you been?"
"Closer than you'd think," I said, and gave him what felt like my first real smile in years. "I was–"
Before I could finish he hugged me. A tight breath-choking hug, that would have crushed the air from me if I'd been a smaller man. He smelled of his long ride, of warm leather and the sandalwood scented oil he'd used to slick back his hair. "You bastard," he muttered in my ear, his voice thick with tears. "You fucking bastard. I've missed you."
"Are you crying?"
"So what if I fucking am?" He pulled away, wiping his eyes. The steward still hovered, quivering in outrage. I waved her away. "Damn," he said, "I'd heard you were back, the Count of Anvil returning suddenly and without warning. I mean I heard the rumours, but they didn't register, not until one day I sat up and thought, 'Huh, I wonder how Jack's doing?' And then I swore so loudly, Methredhel almost wet herself." He gave me another look, shaking his head. "You bastard. What the fuck– Things have been weird, Jack. I mean, weirder than usual. These past few years..."
"Ten years," I said, quietly. "And believe me, I know exactly how weird things have been. Come on, let's get a drink and I'll explain everything."
It was a wearying prospect, telling the whole damned story again (and yet here I am, writing it all down in excruciating detail. Funny how things work out). I'd longed to escape from this for so long, and yet it seems my destiny to relive it over and over again. Still, I owed him that much.
"I was there," I told him. "All the time, I was there."
He listened, taking it in and drinking his wine. For myself, I was drinking water and trying not to feel proud as I described the theft of the Scroll and my subsequent release from the curse. "How much do you remember?" I asked.
"Bits and pieces. Not all of it makes much sense, but more's coming back to me every day. For a long time I didn't remember you at all, or I did, but it left me numb. Like something was missing. Only... it didn't matter that it was missing, you know? It wasn't like I cared."
He didn't mean it the way he sounded; I knew that, and still I winced. "Yeah, I know."
"I had a lot to distract me."
"You mean, like a fifty-foot tall Daedric Prince manifesting in the middle of the city and having a knock-down fight with a dragon?"
"Oh, you heard about that, did you?"
I made a face. "The Black Horse Courier'll print any boring old waffle these days."
He grinned. "Slow news day. Oh, and we have a new guild-master now. I don't know if you've met her..."
"Yeah, I've met her. Serve her well, Armande. She's a fine thief and I owe her everything, including my life."
"They say she was involved with all that Oblivion business, too. Mind you I don't know if I believe her. Methredhel reckons she's mostly full of shit."
"So you and Methredhel..."
His lips twisted. "She's... Y'know. I like her. She's a good thief." He sounded cautious, but I could see a glint of happiness in his eyes, something I hadn't thought I'd ever see again after what had happened to Miaran.
Him and his damn elves. But I was happy for him; he deserved some happiness in his life. I asked after Jobasha, who was doing well, considering the mess in Morrowind, and Min, who had returned to visit his family in the Summerset Isles and got caught up in the chaos there. Alinor had suffered greatly during the Oblivion Crisis, the Crystal Tower left in ruins. I'd received a letter from him a week or so back, and while it had been sparse in information, I knew Min well enough to read between the lines.
His writing was short and to the point, cold and clinical and stripped of any sign of the Min I'd once knew, the Min who had one dragged me halfway across Cyrodiil to crash a drunken orgy, who had sat at the side of a grave of a man he loved and tipped out several hundred Septims worth of fine brandy onto the soil.
They have a way of dragging you back. They're good at that.
"And you're back with your wife. How'd you swing that one, you jammy fucker?" Armande said. He was smiling, but that faded quickly when he saw my expression. "Or not?"
"Still hanging in the balance on that one." My voice was weary, the pain as well-hidden as I could manage. "I'm waiting for her to make up her mind whether she'll take me back." Easy, Corvus. You're sounding bitter. "I don't blame her. I deserve it of course, and no wonder she cannot decide, but–"
"It hurts."
I stared at the surface of the water, and wished suddenly, desperately for a stronger drink instead. "Just a little."
"Well, you're welcome to come to the Imperial City if she decides... y'know. To stay with me."
"Thank you. It won't be necessary." I drew a breath. "I already know what I'll do if she decides against."
"Oh, you've got it all mapped out already? I should've known." He was smiling again. Not gently. Armande Christophe never did do gentle. "You going to share your plans, or..."
I lifted my gaze from my glass and studied him. "I'll go to Skingrad."
"Why Skingrad?"
"That's where the Shrine of Sanguine is."
His expression froze. It took him a moment to take it in, to run my words through his head and determine that I had in fact meant exactly what he thought I'd meant. When he spoke, his voice was little more than a breath. "Jack..."
"I'm going to swear myself to Sanguine, body and soul."
"Jack, no–"
"I'm done, Armande. I'm old and fat and exhausted and there's nowhere left for me to go. If Millona doesn't want me anymore, and the gods know I won't blame her if she doesn't, then I'm done. If nothing else, at least I'll have a little fun before I drink myself to death. There's been precious little of that this last decade." And there were other, darker, considerations, ones that terrified me.
"So you're going to sell your soul?"
"What's left of it, yes. It's not worth much, I'll concede, but I think Sanguine will accept my offer."
Come back when you've leavened, kid. Well, I'd leavened now, all right. I'd bloated out like over-risen dough.
I'd expected Armande to be angry, but I hadn't expected the heartbreak in his eyes. "You can come to us. You know you'd be welcome."
"And do what, Armande? You're thieves, remember? It won't be long before I end up getting sucked back in to that life, and I can't. I will not be a thief again. As if I fucking could be anyway. Look at me. I'd end up a pathetic old man knocking around your house and you'd both be sick of the sight of me before the month was up."
"Have you told Millona? Does she know this is what you'll do if she–"
"No. And she's not going to. Nor will she ever find out."
"If she knew, it might affect her choice."
"Perhaps it might. And then she'll resent me for the rest of whatever passes for a marriage. And I'll never know whether she made her choice because it was what she wanted or if she felt obligated to save me from myself. We both deserve better." My voice hardened; it held the sharp edge of a threat. "I don't want her to know, Armande."
He looked at me, the rapport between us a little stiffer as old dark memories rose up like a wall between us. "Understood, sir."
I flinched. "Don't be like that."
"Then don't use your fucking guildmaster voice on me."
"I won't, I'm sorry. I won't do it again. But she can't know. She can never know." There was another fear gnawing at me: that Millona might know of my plans, and hate me enough to cast me off anyway. That was a heartache I knew I wouldn't be able to bear.
"I planted a man here, you know? The blacksmith. Asked him to keep an eye on her."
"I know," I said, and when he darted a questioning look at me I added, "I was here."
"Right." His lips tightened. "Spying."
I shrugged. "All I had left. Without that connection to the world..."
"What, you would have killed yourself?"
My gaze flicked away. A flash of a memory from that first awful year rose up, me hauling myself up from the floor where I'd fallen, and burying my face in my hands. I'd been past crying by that point, past anything but the empty howling void that had become my heart. Gods, how pathetic I'd been. And how much time I'd wasted in misery and self-reproach.
Armande was thrown by my silence. "Jack..."
"Let's just say," I said quietly, "that I have a lot more scars than I used to and leave it at that."
He stared at me a few moments longer, then swallowed. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be. And thank you. For keeping an eye on her."
He grunted and shook his head. "An Elder Scroll. A fucking Elder Scroll. Only you. And now you're going to throw all that away, for what? Because it hurts. I mean, I get it. I know what it's like to lose someone love. Gods, do I know, but there's got to be a better option than selling off your soul."
"It's not just because it hurts. If that was all it was, I'd go on suffering. I'm used to it by now, and I'm not stupid enough to think an eternity in servitude to Sanguine is going to be all orgasms and rose petals. It's not just that. It's her."
"The countess?"
"I mean Nocturnal. If Sanguine owns me, body and soul, then she can't touch me. And I'm damned if that bitch will ever use me ever again."
"So you'll let Sanguine use you instead?"
"Better the devil you know than the devil who's fucked you over from the shadows all your life. At least Sanguine had the good graces to tell me he was going to fuck me first." I grimaced. "I'd sooner sell myself to Molag fucking Bal than spend one more moment shrouded in her shadows. And given the choice I'd choose debauchery over rape every time." I took a breath and glanced at the door, wondered where Millona was at that moment, whether she was thinking about me and working her way to a decision. "But maybe it won't come to that."
"Let's hope." He seemed weary, defeated. I picked up the decanter, offered him a glass of wine.
"How's Sam?"
Armande flashed a grin and pressed his thumb against the table, grinding it in like a drill bit. Under the thumb. "And he's enjoying every minute of it. Rochelle Bantien's terrifying. She's exactly what he needed. She'll keep him on the straight and narrow. You ask me they should have employed her to replace Lex. If they had, the Thieves' Guild would already have been wiped out. And speaking of Lex, how can you bear to have that pompous buffoon around?"
"I've actually become quite fond of him. He's a likeable sort, once you get past the pompous exterior."
"If you say so."
"And he took care of Millona when I couldn't." My voice was a little too brittle. I looked away, and sensed rather than saw the sharp look Armande shot me. "I'm predisposed to like him for that alone."
~o~O~o~
I made my way to my rooms, every part of me knotted with pain and aching for a drink. At the doorway my vision wavered in and out of focus, and I stopped to rub at my eyes until the a haze of white that clouded my vision had cleared.
Inside there was movement, Millona rising to her feet.
I hesitated, assailed by the feeling that I had stepped sideways into a dream. Not a nightmare for once, but one of my most cherished memories – the night of my wedding. And then I blinked, and my vision sharpened a little further. It wasn't Millona as she'd been when I married her, but Millona now. A little older, but still lovely and very nearly as nervous as she'd been that night, smoothing her hands down over her skirt. From the expression on her face, I suspected that memory was playing in her mind as clearly as it was in mine.
"My Lady." I closed the door behind me. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"
Her gaze roamed around the room, lingered on the unopened bottle of wine gathering a thin layer of dust. I'd never been able to bring myself to dispose of it because I had a feeling that one night I'd wake up screaming with an all-consuming need to blunt my terror and pain. I'd woken up screaming quite a few times, but so far that bottle had remained untouched.
"I feel as though I should offer you a drink, Corvus," she said, "but it seems a little inappropriate given this is your chamber."
"Would you care for a drink, My Lady?"
She hesitated, her gaze flitting to the doorway. I moved out of her way, and crossed to the sideboard, heat in my cheeks. I was certain this was it, that she'd come to tell me it was over. That she had thought things through and decided it would be for the best if I left and never came back. Why else would she have come here, to the only space in the castle that was mine and mine alone?
Her barely audible footsteps whispered on the floorboards as I wiped the bottle of dust and uncapped it. She'd moved closer, and accepted the glass I handed her. "Aren't you going to join me?"
I shook my head. "I've drunk enough." As if that was true. As if that could ever be true.
"You know, you've said that to me before."
"I know."
She took a sip. Drew a breath. "I'm remembering, Corvus."
"You mean... our wedding or..."
"I mean everything. The past ten years."
My mouth went dry. I flicked my gaze towards the wine, but poured myself a glass of water from the ewer instead. "And what exactly are you remembering?"
"You, mainly." She said it softly, her voice quiet and sad. I glanced at her and found her watching me across the vast gulf of the space between us. For the first time since our argument in the library, I felt the first spark of hope. "You were there. So often, throughout my memories, and I didn't even... I didn't even realise."
"Not as often as I would have liked. I had other business..."
A flash of the old anger flickered in her eyes, but she was almost as tired as I was, and it was impossible to sustain. "With the Thieves' Guild."
I nodded. There didn't seem much point in lying about it. "That and training with the Moth Priests, but mainly the guild, I must admit. I broke my vow to you, Millona, and I'm truly sorry for that. It seemed the lesser evil." There'd been a great deal of that throughout my life. "But every other minute I could I was here."
"It must have..." Her voice caught. I glanced at her. She was turned away, so I couldn't see her eyes. "It must have been very hard for you."
It had broken my heart. Every day. And every day I'd piece it back together overnight only for it to be shattered again the next morning. My heart had been so thoroughly broken, I could still feel the cracks threading through me.
"Not nearly so hard as it was for you. At least I knew what was going on." I took the empty glass from her. "I'll never forgive myself for doing that to you as long as I live."
"Corvus..."
"And I need you to know that whatever your decision, I understand." I was talking to fill the silence, to stop her from breaking it herself and shattering me one last time, a break from which I'd never recover.
"Why did you leave?" she asked.
"I was tricked. Not that that's any excuse, I know, but–" I broke off. She'd rested her hand on my arm, at the edge of my sleeve, and I could feel her fingers warm against my wrist. I felt the urge to turn my hand, to grip hold of hers and never ever let go.
"Just tell me, Corvus. Please."
"It was my predecessor. He–" I closed my eyes and concentrated. "She came to me with a matter I couldn't ignore." I looked at her. "She'd found my mother."
Her eyes widened with excitement. "By the Nine. You found your family, but–"
I shook my head in a sudden hard ugly flare of panic. Because this wasn't something I could face. Not now. I'd have to deal with it sometime or other, but I was damned if that time was going to be now. "Please, don't, Millona. I can't..."
Her excitement was already vanishing, in her eyes something that verged on sorrow. "It wasn't what you were hoping for?"
I gave a choked humourless laugh. "No. Not even remotely. It was... well, it was bad, let's put it like that, but I didn't realise quite how massively fucked up it was until it was too late. My predecessor was... injured, and as a result..."
"The curse transferred to you."
I nodded. "I think it was inevitable, in a way. I've always had an affinity for shadows, and apparently shadows have always had an affinity for me. If I hadn't gone with her, it would have happened another way. Nocturnal would have found another way to make it work."
"Why? And why you?"
"I don't know. Not for certain. But I think she wanted the curse broken, and there was only one person wild and fuck-stupid enough to do something as borderline insane as..." I trailed off, glancing at her. "...as arranging for the theft of an Elder Scroll." I fought to modulate my voice, but didn't quite succeed.
She gave me a sharp little glance. "You're actually proud of it, aren't you?" she said.
I hesitated, but there seemed little point in denying it. "It's the theft of the Era. No one's ever pulled anything like that off before."
"Can I see it?"
I hesitated, then nodded, and pushed myself up. She hovered as I drew out the case holding the Elder Scroll and unlatched it. An aching pressure built up behind my eyes and burst with a piercing stab of pain and a shivering echo of the void the damned thing had opened up inside me. Millona drew in a sharp breath at the sight of it and reached out to touch the carved scroll frame. I caught hold of her wrist gently. "It's dangerous, Millona."
"What are you going to do with it?"
"Armande's going to take it to the Temple of the Ancestor Moths for me, along with the scrying stone. They'll both be safe there until the Scroll can be transferred back to the White-Gold Tower."
"Hardly the heist of the era if you're only going to give it back."
My grip softened around her wrist, my thumb pressing into the hollow of her palm. "I was only ever borrowing it," I said, and her gaze lifted to mine.
"Corvus, I'm sorry."
"You have nothing to be sorry for."
"No, I do. I blamed you and it was unfair of me. How you must have suffered this past decade, and all I could think of was my own pain and anger. I knew what sort of man you were when I married you." She drew a breath. "And I've made my decision."
I couldn't look at her. Fear coiled through me like smoke. My lips tightened in an expression that was closer to a bitter grimace than a smile. About all I could manage these days. "About bloody time."
"I want you to stay."
A breath sharp gusting out. It felt like she'd just punched me in the solar plexus. A stark and terrifying hope surged through me, almost uncontrollably. I forced it down, my blood rushing in my ears, as I froze, waiting for the inevitable "–but you can't," to be tacked on. It never came. I opened my mouth, and nothing came out for a long few moments.
"Millona..." I pressed a hand to my mouth, and a sound escaped, a choked-up sob. "Are you certain?"
"I'm tired of being lonely. I'm tired of an empty bed. I want my husband back."
"I..." I was crying now, certain that I was hallucinating, hearing only what I wanted to hear. "Are you sure? Are you sure this is what you want? Because if it isn't, if you..."
She wasn't smiling; her face was grave. "I'm not saying it'll be easy. I'm not even sure if we can, Corvus, after everything that's happened. I don't even know where to start, but I do know that I want to at least try."
And slowly, realising I was still holding her hand, I drew it to my mouth and pressed my lips first to the back of her knuckles and then into the hollow of her palm. "We start by taking it slowly," I said, my voice as shaky as hers. "One step at a time."
She reached up and unbound her hair, letting it tumble over her shoulders. I combed my fingers through it, smoothing it out. The candlelight burnished it, and in that moment I saw more clearly than I had in weeks. Every detail was fresh and crisp: the determined press of her lips, the threads of silver that threaded her hair at the temples.
She pressed my palm to her cheek, and tilted her head up. I bent towards her. And there I hesitated, because to kiss her seemed a step too far. Something I didn't deserve.
Had Armande spoken to her after all? Had he told her what I planned to do if she rejected me? Had she forced herself to come here out of obligation rather than genuine desire?
But her eyes lingered on mine and the kiss was sweet and careful, and it felt like returning home after too long away. I could taste the wine on her lips, and underneath the taste of her. And despite my vow that we'd take it slow, the kiss deepened quickly, because both of us were hungry; both of us had been alone for too long.
She broke off the kiss. My heart beat a little too hard, enough to make me feel light-headed. I whispered her name and it felt like a prayer.
"One step at a time," she said, her voice a little strained.
"Exactly." I swallowed and forced my breathing a little slower, trying not to think about how badly I wanted to press her down into the bed and reacquaint myself with every inch of her body. "We'll take as much time as you want. As much time as you need. It's probably for the best, taking it slowly, I mean..." I stroked her hair, the ache deep in the joints of my fingers long forgotten. "Gods, you're lovely. You're the loveliest woman I've ever seen. You always were."
"Corvus?"
"Mmm?"
She took a breath and cupped my cheeks. "I think I'm ready for the second step now."