A/N: Well, here we are in Chapter 38. Just a quick note: the last chapter got 16 reviews, which is great! Thanks to all you people who wrote and offered me feedback! Now, let's get into the chapter. I've certainly been waiting to write the stuff that happens here for a very long time, so I hope that you find it exciting!

Varan stood his ground, holding his bokken at his hip, ready to bring it up in an underhand swing. Across from him stood Veezara, holding a wooden longsword in a guard stance that protected his torso — sword hilt below his waist, blade tip pointed forward and up towards Varan's face, held on the side of his back foot.

Veezara came forward, opening with a thrust to his stomach. Varan stepped back to parry the blow and then raised his weapon to parry the overhand cut that followed, before darting forth to ram his shoulder into his foe's chest. While Veezara was stunned, Varan took the opportunity to grab his weapon hand, lock his leg behind his opponent's, and throw him to the ground. He placed his weapon's tip against Veezara's throat, prompting the Shadowscale to tap the Sanctuary floor in surrender.

"A well fought victory, Brother," the older Shadowscale congratulated as Varan helped him to his feet. "Caught me by surprise with a takedown yet again."

Varan shot him back a smile. "You weren't so bad yourself."

"You've been incorporating more hand-to-hand in your fighting style lately," the other Argonian commented. "It's thrown me off each time we fight."

Varan shrugged. "Quite frankly, I'm still getting used to this new technique, as well. But I figured that it's always a good idea to try new things."

Veezara just gave him a small smile. "Perhaps I should try something new as well, to keep you on your toes. Or perhaps I've just been underestimating the skill of an Argonian Cyclops after all."

At that, Varan just shook his head with a soft laugh, more with relief than with humor. Ever since Han-Zo's coup, Varan had been left with few friendly faces around him in the Sanctuary anymore. Most of the assassins didn't really smile at him anymore, or greet him as their equal. He suspected that some of them might have even been afraid of him, and Varan had no idea why — perhaps they thought that Han-Zo favored him over everyone else, and were thus afraid to cross either of them, lest they meet the same fate that their Mistress and her husband had.

The new hierarchy should have given them all a sense of place and purpose, as it had during the days before the Oblivion Crisis. Instead, the arrangement felt less like the assassins were all Brothers and Sisters in Darkness, and more like they were underlings working for their bosses, despite the Speakers' best intentions. Except Han-Zo's, of course, Varan added mentally.

But he still had his best friends on his side. Ghamul and Veezara hadn't changed their views of him, and for that, he could never express enough gratitude. They didn't seem to scorn him for anything that had happened when Han-Zo tried to get Astrid to step down.

Neither did Cicero, of course, who was always the most fervent supporter of the Listener, by principle alone. But Varan still found the jester too irritating to truly call a friend.

Alarmed shouts began to echo down the hallway leading to the Sanctuary entrance. They both very clearly heard someone shout something along the lines of "Intruder in the Sanctuary". Varan and Veezara shared a surprised look, before rushing up the steps, dropping their practice weapons in favor of conjuring arming swords.

The shouts seemed to be coming from Astrid's old office chamber. When they entered the room, they found Han-Zo pinning someone against the nearest wall with a dagger pressed against his throat. He was an Altmer, clad in a worn and dirtied tunic with a faded light green color. By their feet sat a large rucksack, which looked as if it had been dropped in the struggle.

In spite of the dagger pressed against his throat, the Altmer tried his best to continue shouting. "Could you please… just unhand me? I mean you no harm!"

"Not a chance," Han-Zo hissed, making a show of baring his teeth. "Not until I know exactly who you are, and how you managed to enter this Sanctuary."

"I'm Inganar," the elf ground out lowly, "and if you do not unhand me in the next five seconds, I will make sure you regret it."

Nazir came rushing into the room, pushing past Varan and Veezara. "Han-Zo, let him go! That's Inganar, he's a client of ours!"

Han-Zo held the dagger to the elf's throat for another moment, looking as if he was seriously contemplating killing him anyways. Ever since the coup in the Sanctuary, Han-Zo had grown more easily irritable and ill tempered, so Varan wouldn't have put it past him to do so. Perhaps his injury from the coup made him so. He'd taken a healing potion for the wound, but he claimed it still stung at times.

Thankfully, he did eventually lower the blade at the mer's throat. Inganar rubbed at his throat once he was free, as if to see if any blood had been drawn. "You'd better have a good explanation for my warm welcome, assassins."

"I'm sorry, Inganar. Han-Zo is the Sanctuary's newest member," Nazir explained, stepping forth. Then, in a low mutter, he added, "A lot has changed since you last came by."

"Seems like it," the Altmer remarked, leveling his most baleful glare at the veteran Shadowscale.

Han-Zo didn't even flinch. "My apologies," the Argonian replied, in a tone that made it very clear he wasn't sorry at all. "I was not informed that we allowed our clients access into our Sanctuary."

"Inganar is a special exception," Nazir told him. "He's a Thalmor agent. Lives in Falkreath. You could consider him a mole."

"I prefer the term covert operative," Inganar remarked wryly, with a curious little smile. There was an unsettling gleam in his almond-shaped eyes.

Varan narrowed his eyes at the elf suspiciously. "We work with the Thalmor?"

"Not often," Veezara replied, also eyeing the Thalmor agent warily. "After all, they have their own assassins."

"Our assassins are every bit as good as you lot," Inganar countered with a haughty sneer.

"Then why have you come here? To gloat about it?" Han-Zo growled in a low, threatening voice. "Because I don't suffer that kind of talk very lightly…"

The Altmer's sneer faded quickly. "For all our assassins' skill… they are very costly to replace if they happen to be slain by their marks. And as it turns out, they have. Our target killed seven of the assassins allowed to my superiors in the Embassy, so I have been instructed to contact you instead."

Inganar scanned the faces before him. "By orders of Justiciar Rulintar of the Aldmeri Dominion, the Thalmor would like to formally hire the Dark Brotherhood's services. We want you to kill the Dragonborn."

Ice ran through Varan's veins, and his heart lurched in his chest. In that instant, the world seemed to stand still, forcing him to live in that moment of numb shock for what seemed like an eternity. He couldn't even bring himself to breathe.

Nazir was first to break the silence, sputtering in disbelief. "The Dragonborn? You want us to kill him?"

"Hold on, now," Han-Zo interjected suddenly, interposing himself between Inganar and the other assassins, looking around at everyone. "Who is this Dragonborn you keep mentioning? I've heard mention of him before, but I know little about him."

"He's said to be a warrior out of Nordic legend," Nazir explained. "They say he slays dragons and consumes their souls, using a nigh-unstoppable weapon called the Voice. On top of that, the Dragon Blood that flows through him is said to grant him vitality greater than that of any man or mer. He's said to be undefeatable in combat."

"And now he's crossed paths with the wrong people," Inganar cut in. "He must be killed, and the Thalmor want to see him dead — and we're willing to pay good coin, up front, to see it happen."

Han-Zo leveled a hard stare at the mer, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "How much?"

The Altmer smiled as he kneeled before the large rucksack he must've dropped in his struggle earlier. He reached into the bulging pack and produced, much to everyone's surprise, a medium-sized wooden chest. Surely, he must've required a strong featherweight spell, Varan thought. The sack must be enchanted as well.

"I think you'll find your reward to be more than adequate," Inganar commented. He opened the chest, revealing the glittering, golden hoard within. "Six thousand Septims for the death of the Dragonborn."

Varan shut his eyes tightly. He felt a low, dull, throbbing pain building up behind his eyeballs. He had to take in a deep, slow breath to maintain the self-control that threatened to slip, in spite of a lifetime of conditioning. Gods, they're offering a king's ransom… All for the death of my brother…

The other assassins stared in open shock at the massive bounty presented before them, and for a few moments there were no words spoken amongst them. After several seconds of awed silence, Han-Zo finally turned towards Nazir. "Gather the other Speakers. This is a matter to be discussed with them."

Han-Zo had personally chosen the other Speakers shortly after his coup against Astrid, based on who he believed to be most fit for a leadership role, due to experience — Nazir, Festus Krex, and, surprisingly enough, Gabriella. Varan supposed that he must've thought she'd have experience simply by virtue of her age, or perhaps it was her intelligence that had convinced him.

While the Speakers convened in Astrid's old office to discuss the contract with the Thalmor agent, Varan and the rest of the assassins stood about in the main chamber, waiting to hear their verdict. Left with his thoughts, Varan began to feel as if he were being torn apart from the inside. A maelstrom of emotion raged within him, spanning every feeling from shock to anger to guilt. There were so many emotions conflicting with each other at once that the only outer manifestation of the raging storm within him was a blank, distant expression.

When he finally reined in enough of his self control to sort out his feelings, he found that the ones that dominated were shock and, surprisingly enough, guilt. Why are you guilty? It isn't your fault that Archer angered the Thalmor. He brought this upon himself when he attacked Northwatch Keep. It isn't your fault…

"Something troubling you, Brother?"

Varan blinked once and looked up to meet Veezara's gaze. The Shadowscale's look betrayed none of his thoughts, except for some minor curiosity. At length, Varan shook his head. "Just wondering about the contract… If the stories they say about the Dragonborn are true, then it'll be risky to hunt him down."

Veezara simply nodded in agreement. "Agreed. I'll almost pity the one who the Speakers will send to kill him."

The fact that he hadn't suggested that one of the Speakers would do it themselves spoke volumes about the current state of the Sanctuary. Whereas Astrid used to allow anyone to take up contracts of their choosing, the Speakers now had a habit of assigning them to the assassins instead. The other assassins were still getting used to the idea, but so far they didn't seem too thrilled about it.

Footsteps echoing down the hallway brought all conversation to a halt. Everyone turned to see the Speakers marching down the steps to the main chamber, led by Han-Zo. Varan's heart dropped when he saw Nazir and Gabriella holding the chest of gold between them, despite having known very well that Han-Zo never would have allowed the other Speakers to refuse such a hefty sum.

"Brothers and Sisters in darkness! Excellent news!" Han-Zo proclaimed. "The Dark Brotherhood has accepted the Thalmor's proposal. One of our number shall have the tremendous honor of hunting down the Dragonborn for the glory of Sithis! With this kill, our reputation will grow beyond anything we've ever seen!"

"And who's gonna 'ave this tremendous honor?" Ghamul asked, folding his arms across his chest. His posture was confident, but Varan perceived the slightest hint of unease in the way he shifted his weight.

The predatory way which Han-Zo smiled made Varan's stomach twist into a knot. It was unsettling, even for Dark Brotherhood standards. "Well, to be honest, I was thinking that I should be the one to do the deed. I'm one of our best assassins, after all, and from what our Thalmor client told us, nothing short of a perfect assassination would see him dead, and his killer alive. I've had my fair share of traditional assassinations, so it won't prove too challenging for me."

Han-Zo scanned the crowd, slowly passing his gaze along the faces gathered, as if studying their reactions… until he came to a stop, and Varan suddenly found himself looking straight into his eyes. "But why take all the glory of the kill for myself, when I should give it to someone who truly deserves it?"

At last, the veteran Shadowscale leveled a finger at Varan. "The Black Hand has decided that our very own Listener will be the one to kill the Dragonborn and lead us into a new age of prosperity."

Varan's heart lurched, and it felt as if a heavy, black cloak had just been wrapped around his neck, threatening to suffocate him. Indeed, a sudden feeling of lightheadedness swept through his entire body, threatening to buckle his knees. His mouth opened, but his tongue had become a lead brick in his mouth, and he found himself unable to speak.

"Why him?" asked Ghamul, his eyes wide. "You would put our Listener at risk of death?"

"All of us risk death when we go out on our contracts, it's an occupational hazard," Han-Zo replied dismissively. He shot Varan another smile. "Besides, Varan was always my brightest, most skilled pupil — if I could count on anyone to be able to do this job as well as I, it would be him."

"But still, you have a point, Brother," the Argonian conceded. "That is why we've decided that Veezara should accompany him. Two Shadowscales are better than one."

Varan finally regained enough of his wits to look at his fellow Shadowscale, who merely shared with him a look of utter surprise.

Everyone was looking at him now. Varan could feel the weight of their gazes like burning, live coals pressed against his bare skin. They were waiting for his response.

Strangely enough, Varan felt fine. Well, perhaps fine wasn't the word for it. More precisely, he felt… well, nothing.

It was mystifying. One moment, he'd been on the verge of foundering in a quagmire of internal strife, feeling himself sinking deeper into his guilt, shock, and despair until they'd threatened to consume him entirely. Now, he'd been overcome by a strange, quiet calm, like the eye of a storm at sea. All his doubt and uncertainty had suddenly fled, leaving him in a perplexing state of ease.

Slowly and deliberately, Varan lifted his gaze to meet that of the veteran Shadowscale. His gaze never faltered, and his voice never shook, as he issued his reply without inflection, and without emotion. "Consider him dead."

Han-Zo nodded slowly, before raising his voice. "For the Glory of Sithis!"

"For the Glory of Sithis!" the other assassins echoed him.

"You're all dismissed," Han-Zo announced. He looked at Varan once more. "Don't fail us, Listener. You're too important to die."

Then the Speakers went their ways, leaving the rest of the assassins staring at the two Argonians who would undertake the contract. Ignoring their looks, Veezara approached Varan and told him, "I'm going to go get my things ready for travel. I'll see you outside."

When the other Shadowscale had left, Varan passed a quick glance at all the assassins looking at him, studying him with curious or surprised looks. Then he turned on his heel and strode out of the chamber without another word.

A strangely familiar sense of duty settled over Varan as he marched towards his room. No thoughts of his upcoming task ran through his mind as he went over to inspect the condition of his throwing knives. He felt no emotion, no stirring in his heart, as he sat on the edge of his bed to study the blade of his katana, the weapon he would likely use to kill his own brother. There was no indication, internal or otherwise, of any sort of strife within him as he went about his preparations.

"Varan."

The Shadowscale froze, and then turned his head. Ghamul stood at the threshold to their shared room. There was no visible emotion on his expression, aside from the permanent scowl that every Orc suffered from — but Varan thought he could detect a slight, concerned furrow to his brows. "Ye all right, Brother?"

"I'm fine." Varan was aware of how stiff and flat his voice sounded, as if he were straining to speak with a blade at his throat. It was strange, considering how little he was feeling inside.

"I don't think so," Ghamul rumbled in his deep baritone as he came to stand just a few feet away. "Ye can play the stoic Argonian all ye want, Varan. But I ain't gonna be fooled that easy."

Varan didn't move an inch when the Orc sat next to him on the bed. The two assassins studied each other, and for several long seconds neither of them exchanged a word.

The Shadowscale broke the silence first, his features smooth and unrevealing as he spoke in just above a whisper. "This is… an onerous task set before me."

Ghamul's expression was cast in stone. "Ye have to do it. The contract demands that he be killed. Sithis calls for the Dragonborn's blood."

"And I am in no position to refuse a direct command of the Speakers, under the Tenets." Varan's gaze became downcast as he absently ran his thumb along the flat of his katana. "I know what the Dark Brotherhood demands of me. I know what my duty is, as a Servant of Sithis, but…"

Varan looked up at the Orc, his eyes hollow and empty. "Ghamul… they're asking me to kill my own brother."

Now he was certain he saw the Orsimer look on him with pity. "Do you think you'll be able to do you duty?"

Varan stared down at the katana in his hands, studying his reflection on the surface of the blade. The Argonian that stared back at him looked awfully familiar, with his face bereft of expression, and his eyes bereft of emotion — it was the look of a cold-blooded killer. This was not the look of a man who had just been told he was to slay his own brother.

He tried to feel something, anything. Almost desperately, he tried to feel anger, or pain, or sadness — but he couldn't. He felt nothing. That was nothing new, in retrospect. After all, his heart had long since hardened into a gnarled callous of emotional scar tissue after so many assassinations.

"I'll have to," Varan finally answered. "It is my duty, and I must bear the burden of my duty however I can."

He paused, before adding, "I suppose that this is the outcome that Fate has decided for us…"

Ghamul laid a large hand on his shoulder. "You can do this, Brother. For the Family. For the Dark Brotherhood."

The Shadowscale took in a deep breath, and let it out in a long, drawn-out sigh. "For the Dark Brotherhood," he agreed quietly.

I have to do this, Varan thought as he prepared the last of his equipment, if only to prove that I'm willing to do anything for my Family — if not because the hand of Fate itself preordained this outcome.

Veezara was already waiting for him outside the Sanctuary when Varan exited, carrying his traveling supplies. "So where do you think we should head first, Listener?" he asked as they began making for Falkreath.

"Whiterun," Varan replied automatically, settling into a familiar state of professional, single-minded pursuit that he tended to call business mode. "The Dragonborn is a Thane of the city, and a Companion of Jorrvaskr as well. Odds are, if he's not there, then we should be able to latch onto his trail and track him down."

The two of them picked up their horses from the Falkreath stables and rode hard to the northeast, passing Riverwood by the afternoon of their second day of travel. When they broke past the tree line of the nearby woods, the pair of assassins brought their mounts to a halt on the crest of the hill that the northbound road climbed over, sitting between Riverwood and Whiterun.

Immediately, Varan could tell that there had been a large conflict here. Columns of smoke rose into the sky from everywhere in the city. Multiple segments of the city walls had been sheared off or cracked. The tiny figures of thousands of bodies littered the plains surrounding Whiterun, while thousands more moved about like busy little ants.

"Looks like there was a battle here," Veezara commented, his keen eyes studying the scene. "Whiterun was attacked. Who do you think won?"

"We'll find out soon enough," Varan replied, urging his horse forward.

The sheer scale of the carnage became more evident up close as the pair of them rode towards Whiterun's entrance. It seemed like there were dead bodies everywhere. The stench of death hung heavily in the air. Blood-soaked mud sucked at their horses' hooves as they skirted around particularly large pile of dead bodies that spilled onto the main road. Many of the corpses wore blue sashes — the attackers were Stormcloaks, then.

When they reached the entrance, they found that the gates had already been open. Or rather, they'd been thrown open; the wooden gates had been splintered, cracked, and burned beyond use. A number of blue-sashed soldiers and what seemed like a gathering of engineers and builders were inspecting the gates, likely measuring the dimensions to build a replacement set. Two of the soldiers noticed the Argonians' approach and broke away to stand before them. "Halt, travelers!"

The pair of assassins came to a stop. "We seek entrance into Whiterun," Varan told the man.

"You're not getting in here," the same man replied, shaking his head. His helmet was open-faced, so they could clearly see his suspicious stare. "You could be Imperial spies, for all we know."

"We don't want your kind dirtying the city streets, neither," said the other soldier. "So why don't you filthy beasts just turn tail and scamper off, eh?"

"My companion and I won't be inside long. I just want to speak with one of the Companions," Varan responded in his most equable tone. "We'll be out quickly. We promise."

The first soldier raised a skeptical brow at him. Before he could speak, another, gruffer voice cut him off. "What seems to be the problem here?"

Varan turned to see a gray-haired Nord standing a few yards behind him, his strong arms folded across his broad chest. It took the Shadowscale a few moments to remember his face, and then his name. He hadn't grown very close to Eorlund Gray-Mane during his time in Jorrvaskr, but the smith had been one of Archer's friends, so he'd respected Varan, too.

Upon noticing him, the two Stormcloaks barring their passage inclined their heads with respect at the man. "Hail, Eorlund Gray-Mane. I was just telling these lizards why they're not allowed inside Whiterun."

"And what reason might that be?" asked the smith, cocking a brow at him.

"They might cause trouble in the city."

Eorlund studied Varan and Veezara for a few seconds. Thankfully, his gaze didn't seem to linger on their Dark Brotherhood leathers for very long, but he did seem curious about the eye patch Varan now wore.

"I know this Argonian," Eorlund claimed, pointing a finger at Varan. "He's a friend of the Companions. I can assure you that he won't cause any trouble. I'm willing to vouch for him."

Varan was caught off-guard by the Nord's sudden act of kindness. Apparently, so were the Stormcloaks, by the way they stared at the smith. The soldiers studied the two Argonians again, before looking at each other. At last, the first guard addressed Eorlund again. "Well, in that case… I suppose we can allow your… friend… into the city, under escort. But the other one stays. Since we can't leave our posts—"

"Then I'll escort him," Eorlund sighed with exasperation. "Now will you let us through? I'm not getting any younger here."

As the Stormcloaks stepped aside and Eorlund began to walk past, Varan dismounted and quickly told Veezara, "Just wait for me here. I'll be back out before long."

The aftermath from whatever battle had taken place here was just as evident within the city walls. Craters pockmarked the city street everywhere. Demolished or damaged buildings became a regular sight. High upon the roof of Dragonsreach, he fancied he could spot a blue banner fluttering in the breeze.

But the atmosphere of the place was the biggest change Varan could perceive. Everywhere he looked, he saw civilians shuffling along with bleak looks as they tried to rebuild their city, and their lives with it. Stormcloaks standing sentinel at street corners or patrolling the city prompted any non-Nords in their sight to stand just a bit straighter, and walk past just a bit faster.

"Varan, was it?" Eorlund asked as he slowed his pace to walk alongside him. "So what brings you to Whiterun again?"

"Looking for Archer," the Shadowscale replied. "I don't suppose you know where he is?"

As he'd expected, Eorlund shook his head. "No. He helped repel the first Stormcloak attack on the city when they came, but when it was clear that they wouldn't be able to defend it again, the Jarl and your brother fled. I don't know where he or his comrades have gone."

"Hm. Do you think that one of the Companions might know?"

"It's possible. Perhaps someone in the Circle knows. I think he met with some of them before leaving."

Varan looked around again at the captured city. Everything appeared calm on the surface, but he'd heard that the Stormcloaks had little love for non-Nords. For a city as cosmopolitan as Whiterun, that had some severe implications on how life would now be for many of its inhabitants. "I know that your clan supports the Stormcloaks. I suppose that you're happy that they've taken control of Whiterun."

He looked sidelong at Eorlund. To his surprise, the smith had a severe look on his weathered features. He sighed, and replied in a low voice, "I should be happy. This is what my clan have wanted since the war began. The Imperials have become a puppet of the Thalmor, and we didn't want that for Whiterun. But now that it's happened… I've learned that it's a two-edged sword, and I fear that it might yet cut someone I care about."

Eorlund looked around at the city. "A lot of these Stormcloaks don't like Argonians and Khajiit. Perhaps a few months ago, the thought might not have bothered me — the city barely sees either, after all, and I counted no Argonians or Khajiit amongst my friends. But now… I've come to count Archer as a friend of mine. And the thought of him being harassed by the Stormcloaks, in the city that he thinks of as home enough to make him try and defend it with such fervor… it doesn't please me."

Jorrvaskr came into view as they reached the Wind District. When the two of them had made it up to the top steps leading to the mead hall, Eorlund turned to Varan and said, "Well, it's been good speaking with you. I hope you find your brother."

Varan simply inclined his head as the smith went his own way, before making for the doors of Jorrvaskr. He was immediately greeted with the familiar scent of smoke and cooked meat upon entering. A few Companions were eating and conversing, and his entrance drew their attention. He returned the nods he received as he made his way towards the training yard, where he hoped to find at least one of the Circle members.

Whatever luck was on his side today seemed to favor him yet again. He found Vilkas practicing with a sword and shield against a combat dummy, too immersed in his exercise to realize his appearance.

A strange knot formed in his stomach when he saw the Nord. It gave him a sort of sick feeling inside him. His heart started to beat just a bit faster, too. As Varan approached him, he found the need to take deep breaths to relax enough before he felt comfortable enough to speak. "Vilkas."

The man paused, mid-swing, and shot him a look over his shoulder. Vilkas stared at him for a moment, before his brows rose. He slowly turned around to openly stare at him. "Varan? Is that you? Shor's bones, what happened to your eye?"

"Trouble with bandits on the road," Varan replied, once again in his dispassionate monotone. "But don't worry. They took my eye, so I took their lives. A fair enough trade, I suppose."

Vilkas just smiled and sheathed his weapon to grab his shoulder and shake it in Nordic fashion. "Sounds like you showed them, the Companions way. Good to see you still in one piece, friend."

A part of Varan wanted to smile back at him. Then the knot in his stomach twisted unexpectedly, and he found himself feeling too sick to manage it. He did his best not to let it show, even though Vilkas probably wouldn't have even noticed any changes in his reptilian features.

"Vilkas, listen," Varan began in a low voice. "Do you know where Archer is, or where he went? I need to find him."

The Nord quirked an eyebrow upwards. "Why? Is something wrong?"

After a moment of indecision, Varan gave him a slow nod. "Yes. Archer is in trouble. He's being hunted down. I need to get to him as fast as possible."

Vilkas' eyes flew wide open. "Truly? Gods above… Are they Stormcloaks?"

"I can't say. But I need to reach him quickly. Do you know where my brother went?"

Vilkas seemed a little overwhelmed at first, unable to do more than stare back at Varan with wide, incredulous eyes. Then his gaze hardened unexpectedly, and he nodded. "Aye. Archer told us he and his party were bound for Markarth. Last I heard, they took the road directly west. If you leave now, they'll only be a day or two ahead of you."

Varan nodded in understanding. "Got it. Thank you, Vilkas. You've been of great help. I'll be on my way."

The Argonian had only taken a few steps when he heard Vilkas call out to him again. "Varan!"

Varan stopped, and then turned halfway around. Then Vilkas said, in a serious tone, "Please take care of Archer. He may not know it, but the Companions all care greatly about him, and the Circle even more so. I'm trusting you to keep our Shield-Brother safe."

I'm trusting you…

Those words brought back memory of Kodlak Whitemane's warning to him. He could still remember them as clearly as the day he'd first heard them: Remember this, mercenary. The Companions is an organization of honorable warriors. We trust each other with our lives every day. Trust and loyalty is what we Companions hold dearest to our hearts… We will extend to you our trust, as we would to any other member of this family of ours — but please, do not abuse this trust.

Do not abuse this trust…

The sick feeling in Varan's stomach intensified. He had to fight back a grimace and force himself to nod back to Vilkas. "I will do my best."

He had no doubt that Vilkas noticed his distress this time. His features solemn, the Nord pounded a fist against his breast once. "Don't lose heart. I'm sure you'll reach Archer in time. Farewell."

Veezara was waiting for him at the city gates when he finally made it back outside. "Did you find out where our target is?"

He nodded as he mounted up. "The Dragonborn rides for Markarth. We should only be about one or two days behind, according to what one of his fellow Companions told me."

Veezara nodded back. "I see. Looks like tracking down this legendary warrior will not prove to be so difficult as I'd thought after all. Excellent work, Brother."

Varan couldn't suppress his wince upon hearing Veezara call him that. "Why do you call me Brother?"

Veezara cocked his head slightly. "I call the other assassins Brother or Sister. They are my Dark Family, after all. Would you rather I called you Listener instead?"

"No, I mean… why don't you ever call me by my name? Why always call me Brother?"

The other Argonian's features became smooth. His green eyes turned distant. "My blood family… they're all dead. Killed by An-Xileel agents before they'd been able to flee Black Marsh. The Dark Brotherhood is all I have left in my life. I've come see you, and all the other assassins, as my family. You're all my brothers and sisters to me. Perhaps I haven't grown up with the Brotherhood all my life as I did with my blood family, but I would throw myself on a blade for any one of you all the same."

Veezara shrugged, still not looking at him. "Well, you know what they say: the blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb. I suppose it makes sense after all."

He glanced up to meet Varan's gaze for a moment, before quickly looking away. "I, ah… I hope you understand. I didn't mean to cause you any discomfort, Bro… Varan."

Varan studied Veezara carefully, a small frown playing across his features. I hadn't grown up all my life with Archer, either… and I would have gladly given up my life for him during our time together, if necessary. Perhaps our situations are not as different as I'd thought… But after knowing Archer, could I ever truly call Veezara my brother, as if he were my true family?

He answered his own question moments later. No. My time with Archer and the Companions taught me what family truly means. It is more than acceptance of and respect for the cold-blooded killer I truly am inside, as the Dark Brotherhood does — family entails harmony, communion, and love… and I cannot say I feel those things with the Dark Brotherhood. Veezara may have my friendship and my respect as an assassin, but he is not a brother to me the way Archer is.

"You haven't. And I understand," Varan finally replied in a soft voice, meaning every word. "Come on. Let's get moving."

All was quiet in the camp they'd set up for the night in a small grove off to the side of the road. Silence had quickly become the norm for their company, even during their evening gatherings around the campfire, ever since Whiterun's capture. It hung heavily in the air, lending their solemn assembly an oppressive atmosphere, the likes of which reminded Balamus far too much of the aftermath of Rorikstead's destruction.

The Dunmer looked around at the faces of his friends as they scraped up the last of the potato-and-rabbit stew from their bowls. Their eyes were hollow and empty. Their features were drawn and gaunt. Nobody looked at each other for long. Even Erik, who had gained a reputation of cheer and merriness in their company, could offer no more than a wan, forced smile occasionally. Now, though, he looked just as disconsolate as the rest of them, hunched over, shoulders slumped as he stared into the campfire with vacant eyes that usually radiated with energy and good cheer.

He caught Lydia staring off towards the darkening skies of the east with a brooding look. They'd long since ridden out of view of Whiterun, but it seemed as if she thought she'd somehow be able to catch a glimpse of her city. Whiterun was her home. Its capture must've hurt her most of all. Poor gal.

Archer seemed to notice her staring as well. Sitting next to her on the ground, the Argonian placed a hand on her shoulder. "I'm sorry about what happened, Lydia. I wish we could've done more."

She shut her eyes and turned away from the east, shaking her head. "I'd thought… that we had a chance."

"So did I," Archer sighed sadly. Balamus didn't miss the way the reptile shifted in his scaled mail as if missing the feel of his old malachite armor, or the way he rubbed at the raw spots of flesh around his neck where he'd gotten burned. "I feel like we could've won. I feel like I could've done more…"

"What are you talking about?" Erik asked, cocking a brow at him. "Your Voice was what allowed us to hold out for as long as we did! How could you — or any of us, for that matter — have done any more than we did?"

Balamus spoke up next. "Yeah. I nearly bloody died in that battle. Gave myself a Mage's Migraine from so much magic use. Nearly killed myself by potion overdose, too — some potions have a small toxicity rating due to the ingredients, and it's especially true for the stronger elixirs. It's why they tell you not to drink too many potions at once, but I damn near poisoned myself drinking everything I had, trying to stay in the fight."

"Same here on the Migrane," Solona grunted, rubbing her temples at the memory. "We're only six people, Archer, and we had to fight six thousand men. We're not the equivalent of an army."

Archer stared back into the fire for a few more moments, before he slowly nodded, bobbing his head just marginally. "I know. But I still wish things could have gone better…"

Balamus studied his brooding friend with a small frown. After a long, pensive silence, he stood purposefully. "Come on, Archer. How about we squeeze in a bit of magic practice before it gets too dark? That always cheers you up. What do you say?"

The Argonian gave him a flat, weary look, before replying with a shrug. "Why not? It'll be a welcome distraction."

As they left the camp to seek a good, out-of-the-way practice ground, Solona called out to them, "Don't stay out for too long, you two!"

"We won't, mother!" Balamus called back. He smiled in relief when he saw Archer's lips twitch upward in a small, mirthful smile. There's the smile that we've been missing. I know you too well, my friend.

They found a small clearing surrounded by trees after a few minutes of walking through the rugged lands that lay west of Whiterun. With the woods and a small hill keeping their camp out of their line of sight, they'd be able to practice their magic with minimal risk of collateral damage. Archer hadn't accidentally cast any more lightning bolts during their practice sessions like the first time, but it was better to be safe than sorry, and Balamus admittedly enjoyed the sense of privacy.

The two of them began their session with a short breathing exercise, taking meditative breaths to sharpen their focus on their magicka and to concentrate. When they were ready, Balamus led Archer through a simple exercise that consisted of him charging a spell in one hand and then projecting the magicka through his body to discharge it from the other. In theory, it would allow him to grow more used to the act of channeling his magicka throughout his entire body, which would in turn make it easier for him to also use his fortification spells and target specific parts of his anatomy.

"You feelin' alright, Archer?" Balamus asked a few minutes into their exercise.

Archer waited until he'd transferred a surge of lightning from his left hand to his right and discharged it in a small, controlled burst before answering in a solemn tone. "I've been better. A bit shaken after what happened at Whiterun, to be honest. Lot of people died hoping to defend their home. I don't doubt many of them expected me to deliver them the victory."

"It wasn't your fault we lost. Don't take all the blame for yourself. You could never have delivered them a victory against such stacked odds."

The Argonian sighed. "I know. I'm very much aware of my mortality," he grunted, rubbing at his burned neck. "But I still can't help but feel that… I failed Lydia. I promised her I'd protect Whiterun…"

"She's not blaming you for anything, mate. Nobody is. I don't doubt you gave it your all back there."

Archer remained silent, and instead attempting to channel more lightning through his body. Balamus took advantage of the silence to speak again. "Perhaps we couldn't successfully defend Whiterun — but you can be certain the Stormcloaks are feeling the toll that the battle took on them. It had to have been a pyrrhic victory on their side. You killed so many men; your Shouts practically tore through their regiments like a scythe through wheat. Quite the spectacle to see, if I do say so myself."

At last, the once-disconsolate Argonian gave him a small, embarrassed smile, with just the slightest hint of pride beneath its surface. "I suppose so… But doing that was not so casual as you might believe. Using my most powerful Shouts drains me, and that's on top of my normal fatigue. By the time we'd pushed the Stormcloaks out the front gates, my heart felt like it was trying to burst out of my chest. I was worried that my next Shout would be my last. Clearly, I'm still no master of the Voice."

The Dunmer's brows rose in concern. "Truly? I'd have never suspected…"

Archer's golden eyes flitted to look at something behind Balamus, and he bristled unexpectedly. "We've got company."

Balamus whipped around, Hellsting in hand. A dark figure was approaching them from the shadow of the nearby woods, his gait slow and deliberate. The Dunmer squinted at the figure, before his eyes widened in surprise once it had drawn close enough. No… it can't be…

Beside him, he heard Archer sharply draw in breath. "Varan? Is that you?"

From behind the cover of some dense foliage, Varan silently observed the gathering of warriors — his supposed friends — seated around the campfire, with Veezara beside him. Just as he always did, he staked out the surroundings to see what would be the best way to kill his mark, cataloguing everything of note that he might be able to use to his advantage, or that might pose a threat to him. Everything almost felt just as if this were one of his many usual contracts.

But for once, he was not calm as he carried out his pre-assassination stakeout. No, he felt far from calm or at ease.

The knot in his stomach ever since his visit to Whiterun had not gone away. The truth was quite the opposite, in fact. It had gotten worse, to the point that it had become a constant, dull, throbbing pain inside him that seemed to extend past the dimensions of his body, and seep right into his very soul. Like a vampire feeding on a bewitched thrall, it felt like something was sucking the life right out of Varan, leaving nothing where his heart was.

But in spite of it, he somehow continued with his stakeout as he always did. He noticed how Archer no longer wore his malachite armor, but rather scaled mail that would not provide as much protection. He noticed the spots of raw flesh on his neck and the stiffness of his movements — he was injured, and tired.

Veezara noticed all of those things as well, obviously; the other Shadowscale was every bit as perceptive as Varan. "Our mark does not seem to be in prime condition. If it comes down to a fight, he will be slow."

"Perhaps," Varan responded absently, and left it at that. He was feeling too sick to give him any more of an articulate response.

"I can still hardly believe that the Dragonborn is Saxhleel, like us. One would think that the hero of Nord legends would at least be one of the races of Man."

Veezara slowly turned to regard Varan with a curious look. "You know, you've not shown the least amount of surprise at that fact, Brother."

Varan was silent at first. "Because I knew that the Dragonborn was an Argonian all along. I know the Dragonborn personally."

"You do? How?"

"The Dragonborn is my brother."

Veezara subjected Varan to the same flat, calculating look he'd given their target. "He is your kin?"

Varan nodded silently. Veezara turned back to study the gathering of warriors, who had begun to speak with each other. "You knew him personally, so you knew his habits and everything relevant about him, correct? Then in a way, I suppose you were the perfect choice to hunt this man down…"

"That's one way to look at it," Varan murmured.

His stomach suddenly did a flip when Archer and Balamus rose from the campsite and began walking away from the others. The two Argonians wordlessly moved to follow, stalking them from just under one hundred feet's distance. Varan noticed how Archer limped slightly, favoring his left leg.

It was yet another weakness he could exploit.

Without bothering to look at him, Veezara spoke. "I see now why you've been looking so stressed lately, Brother."

Has it truly been showing that much? Varan wondered. That's never happened before.

"I know that Speaker Han-Zo wanted you to be the one to kill him," the other assassin continued, "but if you want, I could do it for you. Make it easier on you."

Varan considered it for a moment, his gaze bouncing between Archer and Balamus as they found a small clearing surrounded by trees and began doing some sort of magical exercises. At last, Varan shook his head at his fellow assassin's question. It was a useless gesture, since neither of them was looking at each other. "No. I have to do this."

The way he said it, to Veezara's ears it would have sounded like, I have to do this, because I must prove myself loyal to the Brotherhood. But that wasn't why Varan wanted to be the one to kill him. He wanted to be the one to drive his blade into his brother's throat, so that he would be able to die having accomplished his duty.

His plan was simple. End his brother's life with a fatal stroke of his blade. Balamus would then slay him in his rage, before Veezara could do anything to help. Then Veezara would return to the Sanctuary, and report the success of their mission. This way, Varan would loyally fulfill his duty, and then die before he could suffer from the guilt that would come after.

He didn't want to live with the knowledge that he had destroyed the final piece of him that remained untouched by the Shadowscale's indoctrination.

They finally crept up towards their marks, staying a couple of meters behind the edge of the clearing, in the cover of the surrounding dark forest. Varan tried one final time to feel something. But there was no anger in him, or sadness, or even fear. There was nothing in him.

A heartless killer right until the end. Han-Zo would be proud. Even that last thought wasn't enough to rouse his anger, as it usually would have.

"So what's the plan, Listener?" Veezara asked lowly.

"Stay back here," he commanded Veezara. "And don't interfere unless I tell you to. Trust me."

He waited for Veezara's uncertain nod, before casting a Muffling spell in an area large enough to encompass the clearing, to not allow the others at the campsite to hear any of the struggle that might ensue — he didn't want to put Veezara at risk. Then he rose from his hiding spot, drew his dagger, and took in a deep breath, before walking out into the open.

Archer and Balamus spotted him almost instantly, and Varan quickly found the two of them pointing their blades at him. Whatever accident had taken Archer's armor had not taken his malachite blade as well, it seemed. When he'd fully stepped out of the shadows and into the meager light still present at this hour, however, the two of them lowered their blades and stared at him with wide eyes.

"Varan?" he heard Archer gasp in a voice just above a whisper. "Is that you?"

He nodded. "It is."

Archer shook his head in disbelief, but his lips curled up into a sort of half-smile. "I wasn't sure I'd ever see you again… Where have you been all this time?" he asked, slowly walking towards him.

"That's not important. Right now, I have grievous news for you."

His brother suddenly halted. Seeing this, Varan slowly began to walk towards Archer. The dagger in his hand felt unusually heavy as he hefted its weight behind his back.

"What is it? What's wrong?" Archer asked, suddenly concerned.

Varan had to brace himself to say the next part. "You are being hunted, brother. The Dark Brotherhood has been called to end your life."

Both Archer and Balamus bristled suddenly. Balamus' arms went limp at his sides in shock, while Archer's eyes simply flew wide open. The Argonian sputtered, "W-what? The Dark Brotherhood… they're after me?"

Varan nodded. He was so close now. Just a few feet away until he'd be close enough to shake Archer's hand if he wanted to. "They are. You have a bounty on your head, and now they've sent someone to kill you."

Archer suddenly took a step back, almost if by instinct. "Varan… how do you know this?"

He swore he could see his own reflection in those wide, golden eyes, so close was he. Varan answered him in a taut, harsh whisper. "Because I'm the one they sent to kill you."

Varan brought the dagger up in an ice-pick grip and aimed his thrust at Archer's throat. He moved as fast as he ever did. His brother had no time to react.

But Balamus did.

A small, hastily launched fireball flew into the assassin's chest. Varan grunted as the impact sent him staggering backwards several feet, before patting out the lingering flames. Archer finally jumped back in shock, but had time for little else before he found Balamus shoving him out of the way so he could charge at Varan with a slash. The Shadowscale instinctively threw himself backwards into an evasive roll, avoiding Hellsting's blade by inches. Balamus followed him through his charge and was already slashing at him when Varan rolled back onto his feet, his blade already rising to meet his foe's. Katana and longsword met with a ringing clang, but beyond the borders of the Muffling spell there would be no sound.

"You lying, murdering bastard!" Balamus snarled, thoughtless rage giving strength and speed to his attack as he swung again. Varan sidestepped the blow and counterattacked, only for his katana to meet thin air as the elf nimbly leapt out of the way. "I knew I should have killed you back in Jorrvaskr!"

From the side, Varan could hear Archer shouting. "Balamus! Varan! Stop! What are you doing?!"

Neither of them bothered answering. The Dunmer continued hammering at Varan's defense with furious strength and speed, but each of his swings was parried or turned aside by the katana, as if an iron cage surrounded Varan. Another assassin would've found considerable difficulty in beating back his furious assault — but Balamus had allowed muscle memory to take over in his anger, and now Varan found himself back in the old Kvatch Sanctuary, sparring with a younger Balamus in the training room, as they used to do so often. The Dunmer had taught him all his tricks during their time as friends, and Varan had learned a few of his own over the years.

But Balamus didn't have enough presence of mind to realize it, so thoroughly taken by his rage was he. He kept snarling and cursing at him with all the vehemence he could muster to accompany each hewing slash. "To think I used to believe you were my friend! I trusted you, Varan! I… thought… you'd… changed!"

He sent an overhand slash at Varan's face. The Argonian stepped into Balamus' side, using his katana to lead the weapon safely away from his body, allowing him to send his elbow into his foe's solar plexus. Balamus let out a hoarse cry of pain as the wind was knocked out of him. Varan followed up by priming a spell and pressing his hand to the elf's chest before casting it.

A green light swept through Balamus' body, and he suddenly went rigid, unmoving. With a light push, Varan had sent his statue-like body to the ground onto his back. The spell wasn't very impressive — it had required him to be touching his target, he hadn't used it in a very long time, and its effects would not last for long. But at least it would last long enough for him to finish his business here.

"Varan!" he heard Archer cry.

His head snapped up to regard him. The Argonian's eyes were wide, his mouth open in abject shock as he stared at Balamus' body. "What did you do to him?"

"Paralysis spell, nothing more."

Archer stared at him, his eyes full of shock and confusion. "The things he said… He'd thought you changed? You used to be his friend? What did he mean by that?"

Varan looked back at the Dunmer's body. He wouldn't want Archer to know about his past — but Archer was going to die, so it would make no difference. He might as well learn the truth.

"Balamus was once a Dark Brotherhood assassin like me," the Shadowscale told Archer. "We trained together, fought together… killed together. But one day, he left us. Fate took him along a path away from the Brotherhood, so I let him leave. And now, it seems that Fate has brought me before you one last time." He moved his katana to his side, preparing for an underhand swing.

Archer stared incredulously at Balamus' body, before lifting his gaze to stare at Varan. "Why, Varan?" he asked desperately, his voice full of pain and despair. "Why are you doing this? For the Hist's sake, I'm your brother! You would kill your own kin?"

Those words stung him like a lash. Varan had to force his next words out of his mouth. "The blood of the covenant… is thicker than the water of the womb, brother. The Dark Brotherhood has been a part of my life. It cared for me and gave me a home when I had nothing… and now I must fulfill my obligations to it. For I am just another Servant of Sithis."

Archer took those words in without visibly reacting. For several long seconds, neither of them moved. Brother and brother stared each other down, as if in a silent contest of wills.

He suddenly noticed Archer's free hand slowly curling up into a tight fist at his side, while his other hand gripped the hilt of his malachite blade tighter. His hands shook with the force of his grip. Behind him, his tail had begun to twitch — an Argonian body language sign of incandescent rage. But what unnerved the Shadowscale most of all was the look of utter betrayal in his brother's intense golden eyes. Varan slowly reached for a throwing dagger, even though he knew that it would only take Archer a single Shout to kill him if he wanted to.

Just when his hand found the hilt of a throwing knife, he heard Archer reply in a hoarse whisper. "If you would choose some company of assassins over the life of your own brother… then you are no brother of mine."

Varan whipped his hand forth and launched the throwing dagger. Archer knocked the weapon out of midair with his sword and darted forward with a speed that utterly belied his stature, his earlier limp entirely gone. The Shadowscale's eyes widened in surprise, but he brought his katana up to parry just in time. Sparks flew as the swords came together, illuminating his brother's enraged features in the darkness of evening. It felt to Varan as if he had just parried a battle-axe. He shoved his foe roughly and then leapt backwards to gain some separation, settling into another combat stance.

Something was wrong, he immediately realized. His brother struck harder and moved faster than a man of his size should have been able to. Had he cast a spell of Fortification on himself without him noticing? No. It's the Dragon Blood, it must be.

He had little time to dwell on the thought. Archer was back, slashing again. Varan checked a high blow and then a low one, before driving his elbow into Archer's chest. Archer moved with the impact and allowed himself to fall backwards into a roll, evading Varan's follow-up swing. The Shadowscale was immediately upon him again. He delivered two slashes, which Archer parried, before sending his foot into his foe's stomach. His brother staggered backwards, but before Varan could take advantage Archer regained his footing and settled back into a combat stance.

"I can't believe that my own brother would agree to kill me," Archer hissed. His voice dripped with disgust and betrayal, and explosive, tightly leashed rage simmered just beneath the surface. "I cannot believe that all this time, I thought that I had finally befriended my brother… instead, I'd befriended a crazed murderer."

"I'm not a crazed murderer," Varan replied in a surprisingly calm voice that belied the maelstrom in his heart. "I'm an assassin. I do not have a mental sickness."

Archer charged forward, blade whirling. Varan dodged his powerful overhead cut and counterattacked with one of his own. He found his katana suddenly being parried and a fist flying at his face. The Shadowscale ducked underneath it and sent a fist into his brother's stomach, making him grunt and stagger backwards several feet.

"How could you possibly claim that you're sane after agreeing to murder your own brother?!" Archer snapped as he regained his footing and guard. "Especially after everything that we've been through!"

Varan had no answer to that. Instead, he darted forwards with a high feint, then a low slash. Archer managed to step away from the low strike and block Varan's follow-up overhand, before grabbing the Shadowscale's weapon arm and throwing him over his shoulder. The assassin slammed into the ground with a pained grunt, and before he could recover he found Archer's hand wrapping around his throat. He found himself being lifted and roughly pushed back against a tree, forced to meet Archer's burning gaze with his feet dangling a couple of inches off the ground.

"I have done so much for you," Archer growled sharply. He seemed to grow angrier at each word he spoke, raising his voice until it became a thunderous roar that hurt the Shadowscale's ears. "I gave you friendship in the Companions! I fought alongside you! I shared my home and my food and my drink with you! I loved you as a brother, and I treated you as nothing less than such! And after all that, you still agreed to kill me? Why, Varan? Tell me why!"

"Because I was commanded to," Varan just managed to croak, "and I was in no position to refuse. Besides, if I'd refused, the Dark Brotherhood would have sent someone else. Not only that… but the fact that we're here right now at all means that this was what Fate intended for us all along; and the hand that controls Fate is beyond your reach or mine, brother. Either way, I had no power to change this outcome."

Archer had leaned in to better hear his croaking whisper. Now that he was close, Varan went for his dagger and slashed at Archer's throat. The Argonian saw it coming and was fast enough to let go and back away. Varan regained his footing, adjusted the grip on his dagger and darted forth, throwing the weapon at Archer. He knocked his dagger out of midair with his sword again in an impressive display of reflexes, but in doing so he left himself open to an attack. He was too slow to avoid the powerful snap-kick aimed at his kneecap.

There was a sickeningly wet crunch as the joint disintegrated under the intense force of the impact. Archer's roar of agony was deafening in Varan's ears. The Dragonborn sunk to his knee, allowing Varan to follow up with another kick to Archer's chest that threw him onto his back, and then suddenly he was standing over him, katana pressed against his throat. He didn't even remember picking it up again.

Archer bristled when the cold steel of the katana pressed against the smooth scales of his throat, but he said nothing. The glade where they'd had their duel was now eerily quiet. There was no sound save for their tired panting.

"This is really how it's going to end, then?" Archer asked quietly. "You're just going to kill your own brother, because you think that control of your situation is out of your hands?"

Varan shook his head slowly. "It is out of my hands. Fate controls our lives. I have no more power to change it than you do."

Fat, wet tears rolled down the sides of Archer's face. He shut his eyes tightly. "Fine. Do it, then. Kill me."

Varan gave Archer a final look-over. Then he tightened the grip on his weapon and braced himself for the killing blow to end his brother's life. He'd need only to press his weight upon the pommel, and the tip of his blade would go through Archer's throat, stapling him against the ground. It would be a painfully trivial matter, really.

But the killing blow never came.

Varan remained standing over him, his katana's tip pressed against his brother's throat, but he found himself unable to act. His body refused to obey his commands. It seemed as if his arms had gone numb.

Impotent rage filled him. He had to tell his hands to deliver the killing blow, cursing himself as they refused to obey him. He thought his teeth might shatter, so hard was he biting down from the effort. He even prayed to Sithis to help him find the strength he needed to thrust the damned sword into Archer's throat, but no help ever came. Come on, Varan! Finish this! You've passed the point of no return, so why do you hesitate?

"Brother?"

He snapped his head around to look at Veezara, standing a few yards behind him. The other Shadowscale had a look of confusion on his face. "What's the matter? Why aren't you finishing him off?"

Varan was silent for several long, ponderous seconds, feeling the weight of the sword in his hands as if it were the heaviest thing in the world. At last, he allowed his arms go slack at his side in defeat. "I cannot do it."

Veezara cocked his head. "What was that, Brother?"

"I said, I cannot do it!"

Veezara started when Varan suddenly rounded on him, clenching his katana with such force that it shook in his hands. Before Veezara could articulate a response, the angry Shadowscale spoke again in a severe voice, walking towards him until they were barely two feet away from each other. "I have had everything taken from me by the Shadowscales: my real family, my true home, my childhood… And now the Dark Brotherhood is asking me to end the very last piece of my old life that I have left in this world, my own brother."

Varan shook his head solemnly. "I'm sorry Marsh-Friend, but I cannot kill my own brother… Not for the Dark Brotherhood. Not for anyone."

Veezara took that in and fixed him with a long, hard stare, before looking over at Archer, who had healed himself and was slowly rising to his feet, using his sword to help stand. "I'm sorry to hear that, Listener. I had thought that you would've had the discipline to do it, but it seems I was wrong. If you cannot kill the Dragonborn, then I will..."

He paused, before adding, "I promise I won't let him suffer if I can help it."

Varan watched passively as Veezara charged at Archer, shortsword in hand. Archer, having only just recuperated, saw him coming and Shouted. "YOL TOOR!"

A bright, white blast of flame shot forth. Both assassins had to leap out of the way to avoid being incinerated. Varan landed safely out of the way, and turned his head to see Veezara land next to Archer and engage him in close combat. The Shadowscale turned aside the Dragonborn's opening strike, before his shortsword darted towards his throat. Archer moved out of the way of the strike and leapt back to avoid his follow-up swing, before lunging with a desperate slash. Veezara blocked the strike and then sent a heel kick into Archer's stomach to knock him back, following up with a roundhouse kick to his head.

Archer staggered sideways and fell to his knees, dropping his sword in the process. Veezara darted towards him, changing to an ice-pick grip on his shortsword for a stab. Archer turned and raised his hands just in time to catch Veezara's arms, but the force of the Shadowscale's charge threw him onto his back, leaving the assassin on top, pressing his blade down with all of his strength and weight in a final contest of life and death between Dragonborn and Shadowscale.

Varan knew Archer was certainly stronger than Veezara, if he'd been able to lift him off his feet earlier, but in his weakened and tired state, would he be able to push the shortsword away enough to fight back? Would he be able to just Shout and send Veezara's broken body flying into the sky? He would never learn those answers.

He suddenly heard the wet sound of a blade cleaving through skin, muscle and bone. Veezara suddenly went slack. His head slowly rolled forward, and the thin piece of skin on his throat keeping it attached to his neck ripped. Two jets of dark red blood fountained out from the stump of ragged muscle and bone splinters. Finally, his limp and twitching corpse slumped sideways, revealing the sight of Archer's blood drenched face staring back at him, his eyes widened in horror.

Varan stared back with horror to match. His heart was pounding like a gloved fist against his ribcage. He looked down at the katana in his shaking hands, blood coating its blade. He watched a fat, red pearl drop from the tip, before looking back up at Archer with wide eyes. His mouth opened, but he only managed to choke out, "I... I'm sorry."

Archer stared at him in shock for a few more seconds, before his eyes suddenly narrowed again in fury. "Leave."

Varan couldn't seem to understand. "I… I don't… Archer—"

"I said leave!" the Argonian roared, and this time Varan could hear the sound of it echo throughout the forest. His Muffle spell had worn off. "Murderer! Get away from me, assassin!"

Alarmed shouts began coming in from the site of Archer's camp. His friends were coming their way now. Varan took a few hesitant steps backward, staring back at Archer with shocked eyes one last time. He only finally turned to run into the forest when he saw the rest of the company charging towards them. Varan broke through the tree line, blindly charging through the underbrush for several minutes until he could no longer see the glade he'd just escaped. At last, the Shadowscale came to a stop and looked back at where he had just come running from, panting heavily.

It took him a few moments to go over everything that had just happened to him, and a few more to finally realize the gravity of what he'd done. When that happened, he staggered against the nearest tree with a groan and sank to his knees in shock. I've murdered a fellow Shadowscale… and I've directly refused the will of the Speakers…

There would be no way to atone for these sins. He would surely face the Wrath of Sithis in time. When the Speakers heard, they would ensure it. His life was now forfeit. Even Ghamul would be obliged to hunt him down when they found out.

Varan found himself wondering if refusing to kill his brother and saving him from death had truly been worth it after all. He had just betrayed the very organization that had essentially saved his life so many years ago. Not only that, but when the other assassins found out about what he did and killed him for it, they would just send another to finish the job and kill Archer.

It was worth it, he finally decided, even if it means betraying the Brotherhood, if only because I could spit in the face of the Shadowscales this one time. As long as he lives, and my memory of him remains, then I've beaten the Shadowscales…

He thought back to their fight at the glade. Perhaps he should have been happy that Archer was alive… but he wasn't, because his brother now hated him. He would never be able to see him again. He might as well have been disowned.

Yet, despite everything Archer had said, Varan couldn't bring himself to hate him. He still loved his brother, enough to have forced him to kill a fellow Shadowscale and betray those he once saw as family. The thought of Archer dying filled him with unimaginable pain. So I must now do everything I can to prolong his life. I might as well. After all... I've already passed the point of no return, and committed an unspeakable sin for his sake.

With a weary sigh, Varan shakily rose to his feet and then set off towards his horse. He knew what he was going to do: return to the Sanctuary, and tell the Speakers that the Dragonborn was dead, and that Veezara had been killed. He would live out his lie for as long as he could. Perhaps by the time they found out and killed him, Archer and his friends would have grown cautious enough to fend off another attack.

Varan knew that was as much as he would be able to hope for.

End A/N: Review, please!