Chapter 38: Ghosts and Portents

The light was dying over Morthal. Blue skies gave way to red as the sun set, and the first of the stars began to pierce the veil of day.

Morthal was unlike many of the other hold Capitals. Whilst Whiterun, Solitude and Windhelm could all boast great natural and man-made defences, Morthal had no such comforts. The town stood alone amongst the marshes, and in the evening all the patrolling guards, clad in their green cuirasses and archaic horned helms could do was stare out into the darkening wilderness, creeping towards them like a shroud, and hope it wouldn't consume them.

But the war had not reached Morthal – at least, not yet.

Jon knew little about Hjaalmarch. The only time he had the fortune to travel to Solitude in the past, along with his father and Alfhild, he had taken the road west to Rorikstead, before taking the Northern road via Dragon Bridge. To the eyes of a boy staring in wonder from a swaying carriage, the great marshes had still seemed impossibly far away. But this time, Jon felt the need to find his own route. Make no mistake, travelling through the pass of Labyrinthian was no safe bet – but luckily Jon had learned enough about the habits of trolls - even their dreaded snowback cousins - from Gunmar to pass through without too much trouble.

He had left his horse behind at the farm with Alfhild. Whilst the advantages of faster travel and a great deal of additional carry-space were not inconsiderable, it was a horse paid for and looked after with Battle-Born gold. Gold he no longer had any interest in. He had sent a letter to Isran before leaving, informing him that it would be some time before his return to Fort Dawnguard. He had little doubt Isran wouldn't be pleased, or rather even less pleased than usual, but it was as he had told Agmaer on the day of their arrival: He hadn't joined the army. He had the right to strike out on his own.

He still wore his brown Dawnguard armour, though now the tuning pins of his lute could be seen sticking out of the rough hide rucksack he wore on his back. Between them, a green, non-descript cloak formed a barrier against the chill.

Alongside the town road, sparse purple flowers still struggled to rise out of the frozen ground, alongside the petrified skeletons of bushes. On the left, snow coated pines were dotted evenly around what Jon assumed to be the Jarl's hall, since it clearly dwarfed any of the surrounding buildings. To the right, a long, wooden walkway stretched out along the bank of the marsh-water, leading to what appeared to be the majority of the town's residences.

Soon enough, Jon caught sight of the hanging sign which universally signalled the presence of an inn. The sign swayed gently in the Frostfall breeze, creaking as the half-moon it depicted scowled in agreement.

As Jon turned left onto another raised wooden street, his eye was immediately drawn towards the far end. The ruins of a house faced him, its wooden walls charred and snapped. In the absence of a door, Jon could see snow piled up on the floor, even choking the exposed fireplace. That sight in particular struck a chord of melancholy in his heart.

Intrigued, Jon turned up the small flight of stairs leading up to the tavern and pushed open the door. A small bell chimed as it swung open, and in response the Redguard woman who appeared to be tending the bar lifted her head from her hand and opened her eyes in honest surprise. Apart from her, and an Orc who appeared to be irregularly thumping a small drum in the opposite corner, the tavern appeared completely empty.

"Welcome to the Moorside Inn!" The barkeep called out warmly. "Glad to finally have a customer..."

Jon smiled at that, removing his rucksack and walking over to lean it against the bar, before occupying the nearest stool. "Business slow today, eh?"

"Slow? No, it just ain't there at all. Few enough reasons to pass through Morthal before the war started. Now... Well, let's just say the front door doesn't get much use."

She quickly poured a foaming tankard from a nearby keg, before sliding it across the bar towards Jon. "Tell you what, you buy a room for the night, and this one's on the house"

"You've got a deal there."

Jon lifted the tankard to his lips, and took a deep swig, washing the road from his dry throat before bringing it back down with a satisfied thump.

"Not bad. Not bad at all" Jon congratulated.

"Glad you think so. So, got a name?"

"Jon. How about you?"

The bartender smirked. "You mean do I have a name?"

Jon shook his head good-naturedly. "I'd assumed that much."

"Jonna."

Jon raised his mug in greeting, a smirk of recognition on his face. "A fine name – pleasure to make your acquaintance. You own the place, I assume?"

"Yeah… though I admit, runnin' an inn weren't my plan. But Falion decided to move here, so I joined him."

"Falion? Your husband?" Jon inquired.

"My brother" she corrected with a scoff. "Surprised you haven't already heard the town gossipin' away. Not a day goes by there isn't some omen that's got them convinced the end times were coming…"

"You'd be surprised how much there is of that about…" Jon added, resignation hanging in his voice. "But why do they blame your brother?"

Jonna's eyes hardened for a moment, but then she shrugged. "He's a mage. Tends not to be too popular 'round these parts."

"Ah."

Jon understood immediately. Whilst many of the oldest songs told of the heroism of Skyrim's magic wielders – indeed 'The Voice' itself was perhaps the greatest example, most folk still viewed magic users with caution – if not outright hostility. Add a crisis, and all but the most rational folk will start reaching for their pitchforks. In Whiterun, few folk seemed to have issue with the few mages who walked its streets. Balgruuf trusted Farengar – and that was enough for his people. As for that Elf – Eldawyn… well, Nords appreciated boldness. Not to mention, few could believe one who drank so much could be all that bad.

"Is there a story behind that burned down house down the street?" Jon asked suddenly.

"Hroggar's house?" She asked tentatively. "It burned down not too long ago…" She sighed. "It's a real shame about his wife and kid. The screams woke half the town."

"By Shor, you mean…"

Jonna nodded grimly. " 'fraid so. Most folk won't go near it now for fear it's cursed."

"Does anyone know how it started?" Jon asked.

"Hroggar said it was a hearth fire..." Jonna responded, clearly unconvinced. She looked over Jon's shoulder, seemingly to see if anyone could overhear. "But some folk?" She continued, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Some say Hroggar started it himself."

Jon leaned back on his stool in shock. "You can't be suggesting… his own wife and child?" He asked incredulously.

Jonna just shrugged. "That's what they say. See – he's living with Alva now. That started the day after the fire. It ain't right, movin' in with a new love the day after your kin die like that."

"Can't say I disagree with you. But is there any proof? You can't judge a man's guilt on hearsay. Just ask your brother…" Jon reminded her solemnly.

"Aye…" Jonna agreed reluctantly. "But the Jarl would sure like to know if he did though. Might even pay to find out..." She added suggestively.

"A Nord shouldn't need promise of payment to want to see justice done… Even in these dark times." Jon informed her coldly, dropping ten of the gold pieces he had earned from the Dawnguard. "If you don't mind, I'll take the room for the night. But first, I'd better go and see the jarl."

Jon closed the door behind him as he stepped into Highmoon Hall, denying the frigid breeze which dogged his steps. Jon was immediately struck by its sheer size. From outside it was clear the Jarl's hall was the largest building in the town, but even so it was deceptive. The wooden beams of the ceiling hung far above him, and Jon was immediately taken aback by the horker heads mounted on each side of the hall, the height of three men from the ground. On the far side of the hall, Jon could see two of the green-brown flags of Morthal hanging almost camouflaged against the wall, below the darkened panel windows. Adjacent to the throne on either side hung the mounted shells of mudcrabs, a strange display the likes of which Jon had never seen. Above, on a balcony, a young woman watched him, twiddling the end of her dark hair around one finger thoughtfully. She cocked her head slightly as Jon caught sight of her, before turning and walking out of sight.

The throne itself was perfectly in line with the hearth, and the smoke rising from the flames meant his first glance of the infamous Jarl Idgrod Ravencrone was made all the more ominous. Even in Whiterun, there were many whispers about the neighbouring Jarl's supposed abilities. Some claimed she had visions; foresight from the gods. Others claimed she was simply mad, or age and grief had robbed her of her senses. Which was true, Jon could not say, though in such strange times he couldn't rule anything out.

After receiving a wave forward from the agéd, brown-haired Nord to her right, Jon approached the throne slowly. The Jarl lived up to her epithet. Though her face bore the scars of time, her hair remained black as night. Her face was neutral as she turned to him, betraying nothing. She appeared neither curious nor troubled by his approach.

"So Jon Battle-Born," She began in a coarse, honest voice. "Life has brought you to Morthal, and to me. What purpose this serves, we will no doubt see. Welcome."

"My thanks." Jon uttered, after pausing in a moment of shock. "You know me, Jarl Idgrod?"

The jarl's expression remained as expressionless as stone. "Who you were. Who you are now remains to be seen."

"I see. I had heard you had certain… visions."

She nodded. "The Divines reveal things to me at times, yes. I do not hide this. It is a gift. Anyone who believes otherwise does not and cannot understand it."

"I… I see. Jonna mentioned the recent house fire. Heard you were the one to see about looking into it Jarl Idgrod."

"Hroggar's house fire? He lost his wife and daughter in the blaze…"

"I heard," Jon confirmed sadly.

"My people believe it to be cursed now. Who am I to gainsay them?"

"Perhaps the truth can allay their fears" Jon suggested gravely. "If I may ask – what does Hroggar say happened?"

The Jarl's expression still did not change, though her eyes watched him hawkishly. Jon felt the hairs begin to stand up on the back of his neck.

"Hroggar blames his wife for spilling bear fat in the fire. Many folk think he set the fire himself..."

"But what could drive any man to such an act?" Jon asked, unable to get his mind around such wanton evil.

"Lust can make a man do the unthinkable..." The jarl intimated coldly, staring unblinkingly into Jon's eyes. Jon felt as though she were boring into his soul itself. "And the ashes were still warm when he pledged himself to Alva. I won't arrest a man on gossip alone – but you… Yes. A stranger might find the truth for us."

She leaned forward slowly on her throne, her grip tightening on its wooden arm. "Sift through the ashes others are fearful to touch. See what they tell you."

Jon felt like an intruder as he walked through the empty doorway, the scorched floorboards below his feet groaning as he disturbed their rest. Any furniture that had once stood had been reduced to shattered cinders, save the blackened metal pot and the metal frame that had once held it above the fire.

As the jarl had instructed, he bent down in the centre of the room, and began to sift his hand through the inches of snow and ash which coated the floor. After a few minutes, his hand caught on something small and hard. Jon yanked his rucksack in front of him, pulling a torch free and striking a light with his flint and steel. Holding the flame in front of his face, he saw that in his hand was what appeared to be a small, stone pendant – carved delicately in the shape of a little bird. Jon rubbed his thumb gently to clear the last of the ashes, as if he were stroking its folded wings.

Who's there? Is it you father?

Jon jumped. Struggling to rise and turn rapidly enough to face whatever had snuck up on him, the torch dropped from his grasp – extinguishing the moment it hit the ground, leaving Jon in darkness. Jon fumbled to grasp the handle of his silver sword. His eyes widened as a cloud of blue light coiled over the broken walls. It seemed diffused somehow, inconsistent, as if it were made of leaves slowly falling from a tree rather than a single entity.

As Jon backed away slowly, he stared in disbelief as the shards of light began to spin themselves into the shape of a little girl, filling the collapsed house with the same blue radiance.

"Who…. Who are you?" Jon asked, his voice little more than an awed whisper.

Helgi. But father says I'm not supposed to talk to strangers. Are you a stranger?

Jon was starting to put it all together. Though tales of ghosts roaming Skyrim's ruins were fairly commonplace, it could not have prepared him for seeing such an apparition for himself.

"Well… my name is Jon. So, you see – I'm not a stranger anymore, do you agree?"

The ghost smiled a sweet little smile.

"Do you know what happened to your home child?"

The smoke woke me up. It was hot and I was scared, so I hid. Then it got cold and dark. I'm not scared anymore.

The fear in the child's voice as she recounted her final moments brought tears to Jon's eyes. He was unable to imagine the horror of what she must have been through.

But I'm lonely. Will you play with me?

Jon wiped his eyes, smiling back at the ethereal child. "I don't see why not. But if I do, can you tell me who set the fire?"

Okay! Let's play hide and seek. You find me and I'll tell you! But you'll need to find me before the other one. She comes out at night too.

Jon frowned. "I'm afraid I don't follow girl. Who is this 'other one'?"

I can't tell you. She might hear me. She's so close…

With that, Helgi's form began to discorporate, dissolving slowly into the air before vanishing entirely.

"Talos…" Jon swore softly, watching the light fade into darkness.

"Mother's always said the spirit world was strong in the marshes," A different voice uttered.

Jon struggled to re-light his torch, trying to cast light on the slender silhouette who appeared to be leaning against the door frame.

To his surprise, it appeared to be the young woman from the jarl's hall. Now they were on the same level, it became clear she was of fairly average height and build, wrapped in a non-descript maroon dress, with long white sleeves covering her arms. It struck him for the first time that she bore a rather striking resemblance to the Jarl. Her hair was the same shade of midnight, and whilst her expression seemed more vulnerable and uncertain, there was something that reflected in her eyes – that same penetrating stare.

"You startled me," Jon sighed in relief, lowering the torch to his side.

"You thought I was another ghost?" The woman asked, more curiosity than amusement in her voice.

Jon made a show of rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "That depends. Are you?"

She chuckled warmly, briefly casting her eyes to the floor. "Not at the moment."

"Well then… that's… Good to hear."

It was swiftly becoming clear to Jon that Morthal had no short supply of queer-seeming folk. Jon was surprised Jonna's brother was apparently under suspicion for 'odd' behaviour.

"In that case miss, may I ask what you're doing following me to an abandoned house after dark? The night ain't as safe as it used to be."

The woman's expression remained unconcerned by Jon's warning. "Mother's taken an interest in you," she said without missing a beat. "I wanted to know why"

Well, she was direct at least. Jon could appreciate honesty – even put so bluntly. "Your mother… the jarl I presume?"

She nodded. "I'm Idgrod – they call me 'the younger'. Guess I really don't have to explain why."

"Apologies my lady – I was unaware of your station."

She smiled a little awkwardly, as if she was unused to such formality. "You don't have to worry about it. No-one around town calls me 'Lady Idgrod'. In a place like this, you've all got to work together to survive. Not much time for airs and graces."

Her words could not be further from what Jon was used to. In Whiterun, clan, station and status were everything. Of course, Balgruuf had always treated all of his people with respect, but the very city itself reflected a physical reflection of hierarchy, dividing the districts. In Whiterun, to forget one's name or title was a grave error, and to be stripped of one was usually an even greater shame.

"I'll… certainly try to keep that in mind," Jon promised.

Idgrod strode nonchalantly through the doorway, her hands linked behind her back.

"What did it tell you?" She asked, running a hand along the wall near where the spectre had first appeared.

"It was Hroggar's daughter, Helgi," Jon informed her, following her path with the torch. "She'll tell me who set the fire – if she really knows that is – but only if I find her before someone else."

"Then you should." Idgrod replied, as if it were obvious.

Jon wiped the back of his gauntlet across his brow. "I'm afraid it's not as simple as that my lady," he pointed out diplomatically. "I'm hardly an expert on these things, but if a ghost isn't haunting her home – well… I wouldn't know where to start looking"

Idgrod cast her eyes up towards the hill looming behind the house. "Why not the cemetery?"

Jon was slightly taken aback. "I wasn't aware Morthal even had a hall of the dead…"

"We don't. Some like to have the rites performed elsewhere… plenty end up on carts to Falkreath or Solitude."

"And what about the rest Idgrod?" Jon asked cautiously.

She smiled, though Jon was unsure whether it was him using her first name, or whether she was being coy about the answer.

"Well traditionally – most Hjaalmarch dead are given to the marshes. Our bodies sink below the waters, and re-join with the earth."

Jon couldn't hide his surprise. It was becoming clear that assuming the whole of Skyrim shared the same precise customs, the same values was rather naïve in the least. Who knows what lost lore and secrets could be waiting in every village, in every stranger even. He was finally starting to appreciate the reasoning behind the wandering bard – beyond simply sight-seeing, or fleeing a particularly persecuting crowd.

"Does that have something to do with the spirit world being closer here?"

Idgrod just shrugged. "I don't like to think too much about it. Takes some of the wonder out, don't you think?"

Jon grinned, his fingers almost unconsciously twitching towards his lute. "We're of the same mind there Lady Idgrod."

She nodded contently. "Come on. I'll show you where you need to go."

As they followed the path around the inn, Jon and Idgrod continued to speak, as they gazed upwards at Masser and Secunda dominating the starfield above them.

"So," Jon began, unsure of how to approach the subject that had been nagging at him since her sudden arrival. "Do you have visions too? Like the jarl I mean."

"I don't... I haven't mother's gift, not quite, but I've seen things." Idgrod explained a little shyly.

"What sort of things?"

Idgrod turned to Jon, her dark eyes filled with worry. "I'm sorry – I don't think I can talk about it."

"I understand. Think nothing of it," Jon assured her.

"It's… difficult sometimes. To know whether what I see is real or not."

As they passed the inn, Jon saw a small earthen path begin to emerge to the left, twisting its way up the hill. Idgrod stopped.

"You're not coming?" Jon asked.

She shook her head. "I can only show you where the path is. Mother says you have to walk it."

Jon watched as the lights of the town began to fade into a distant glow beneath him. The snow crunched under his feet as he trudged his way up the slope, moving his torch left and right to try and find the path again for the umpteenth time. It was then, stumbling forward through the surrounding night – that he first noticed the footprints. For a moment Jon feared he'd ended up doubling back on himself, but a moment's examination told him otherwise. The footprints were a good inch or two shorter than his own, and the shape of the print was altogether wrong. Helgi's cryptic mention of 'the other one' couldn't help but float to the forefront of Jon's mind.

Making an effort to move as quietly as possible, Jon followed the prints. The distance between each one seemed to suggest at first an average walking pace – but as Jon got higher and higher, closer to the peak of the hill, they stretched further and further apart. Whoever made them was clearly running now.

It wasn't long before Jon reached the zenith. Several stone cairns were piled irregularly about the peak, and at each of their bases a myriad of nightshade flowers flourished, as if they had been given life by the dead.

Jon's attention however was immediately drawn to the cairns' centre. Something wasn't right here. Jon flinched instinctively as what looked like a shovel flew forcefully through the air to the left, the iron head colliding with the top of one of the cairns, knocking the top-most stone clean off with a painful metallic clang.

Jon blew out his torch, ducking behind the nearest pile of rocks and slowly drawing his sword as he allowed his eyes to become accustomed to the faint moonlight. He lowered his pack to the ground, quickly set about fixing an iron-rimmed buckler to his left arm. He didn't want to talk any chances here.

Satisfied, Jon slowly peered around the rock. A short figure in a black robe seemed to be clawing at a hole in the earth. Now he could see clearly, Jon noticed that they had apparently desecrated the cairn entirely before starting to delve into the frozen earth itself. His lips parted into a grimace. He had little time for anyone who dishonoured the dead. Preparing himself for a confrontation, Jon watched as the figure dragged a small wooden coffin out of the earth with a set of filthy, clawed nails. Now his night vision had focused, the figure was clearly female – most likely a Breton. Her short, mud brown hair was ruthlessly unkempt, tumbling downwards in all directions, obscuring her eyes. As she pried the box from the earth, she seemed to speak to herself in a shrill series of whispers, though Jon could only make out small, senseless snippets.

Jon rose to his feet, his blade whistling through the air as he held it towards her.

"Now then no sudden-"

Jon was immediately cut off as the woman reached for an axe on the earth beside her, leaping to her feet and swinging it recklessly towards him with a chilling scream.

"An axe isn't like a sword kinsman" Gunmar pointed out solemnly. "The swing of a sword is easy enough to absorb – but a man puts the full weight of his swing behind an axe – but that deadly bite comes at a cost."

Jon nimbly sidestepped the mad wretch's advance, causing her to stumble forward, unbalanced by the power of her swing.

"I won't ask again!" Jon threatened, giving the poor creature one final chance to recover whatever senses she had.

It was then Jon saw her eyes. They glowed like the fires of oblivion, and the feral hiss that emerged from her mouth revealed two vicious fangs.

"She's mine! You won't take her from me!"

"Vampire…" Jon swore, tightening the grip on his silver blade.

So that's how it has to be, he thought – steeling himself for the inevitable.

The vampire charged at him again, this time launching her axe in a wide arc that made dodging impossible without tumbling into the pit she had dug moments earlier. It was all Jon could do to raise his blade to parry with both hands, but the unholy strength of the undead monster sent him stumbling backwards all the same.

Suddenly, before Jon could even catch his breath the air all around him appeared to glow in a crimson beam of energy as the vampire reached out with her free hand. Jon immediately felt his life energy beginning to leave him.

"Hmph," Isran grunted irritably, pacing around Jon in a semi-circle. "If you have to get up close and personal – vampires have a number of dirty tricks. If they cast a drain spell on you, the key is to act fast – break their concentration. Wait too long, and you're as good as dead…"

With a battle-cry soaring from his lungs, Jon charged at his foe. The vampire recoiled instinctually, unprepared by the audacity of his sudden aggression as Jon's bracer brutally collided with the side of her temple. The vampire's spell broke instantly.

Jon wasted no time, slashing at the vampire's side with his blade, causing another screech to erupt from its mouth as the wound began to smoke horribly, as did the boiling blood on Jon's blade. She moved to swing at him again with the axe, but now her movement was clumsy, unbalanced. Jon easily side-stepped the blow, bringing his sword down again just in time to cut the weapon from her grasp before kicking her legs out from under her.

"NO!" The vampire demanded, waving her arms frantically as Jon drove his knee into her stomach, discarding his silver sword in favour of a dagger from his belt. Jon raised the small blade, preparing to drive it into her heart – but then he froze.

In his mind, the Breton vampire's facial features shifted. The hair changed from dirty brown to a perfect white hue, and her eyes took on a familiar pink.

He couldn't do it again.

The vampire, not eager to let her final opportunity for survival pass by, grabbed Jon's shoulder, preparing to go for his neck with waiting fangs, but before she could make contact, Jon met her half-way, headbutting her with all his strength – knocking her out cold as her head slammed against the frozen earth below.

Jon pushed himself to his feet with one arm, rubbing his throbbing forehead with the other as he began to stumble towards where he left his pack. He seized a large coil of his rope and set about sawing off several reasonable lengths, before returning to his incapacitated enemy. Jon bound the vampire's arms and legs, ensuring the snares were tight enough to restrict her movement, preventing her unholy strength from simply snapping them. Content, Jon rose and approached the exhumed coffin, preparing to lay it to rest once more. Yet as he reached for the box, a familiar, small voice called out to him.

You found me! Laelette was trying to find me too, but I'm glad you found me first. Laelette was told to burn mommy and me, but she didn't want to. She wanted to play with me, forever and ever. She kissed me on the neck, and I got so cold the fire didn't even hurt. Laelette thought she could take me and keep me, but she can't. I'm all burned up…

Helgi's voice began to fade, becoming slow and weary.

I'm tired. I think I'm going to sleep for a while now.

With that, the voice faded away, until all Jon could hear was his own wearied breathing. He turned to look at the comatose vampire once more, this 'Laelette'. Once again – this vampire had seemingly showed remorse for what it – for what she had done, and had seemingly become obsessed with making amends – in her own warped, twisted fashion.

Jon regretted in this moment that the Dawnguard were only interested in killing vampires – they had no scholars seeking answers on the nature of the condition itself. Was Aelfwynn truly an anomaly? Or was there perhaps more to his undead foes than he could understand.

"Is anybody there!?" A voice called out from beyond the cairns. Jon ceased his attempts to rebury Helgi's remains for a moment, turning to face where the voice had come from. He saw an orange glow rising over the lip of the summit, and soon what appeared to be a bulky, heavy browed Nord with sandy-blonde hair heading towards him.

"Over here kinsman." Jon called out, clapping the dirt from his hands.

The man made a bee-line for Jon, his eyes squinting to see him beyond his torch's reach.

"I heard the commotion, I came to see what – my gods, Laelette!?"

The man rushed to the Breton's side, falling to his knees before her. Jon rushed to grab the man's shoulder, trying to pull him out of harm's way. The man shook him off roughly with a cry.

"What have you done to her stranger?! Was it you who kidnapped my wife?"

"Certainly not brother," Jon assured him sincerely. "The Jarl herself can vouch for my arrival this evening. But… there is something you have to know. Look at Laelette. Look closely."

The man's expression shifted from blind hostility to confusion. He swivelled back to his wife's prostrate form.

"What are you talking about – she's my wife, she's…" he stuttered, before breaking off mid-sentence. Jon could see him observe the unnatural pallour of her skin before he touched its cold surface and identify the claw-like talons at the end of her fingers. Jon watched as the nord gently parted her lips with his index finger and thumb, revealing Laelette's predatory fangs.

"Ye gods!" her husband yelled, pulling himself away from her. "Laelette… she's a vampire!"

Jon nodded solemnly. "I'm sorry friend. For what it's worth… I understand how you're feeling.."

"Do you?!" He accused, running his hands through the crest of his hair in anguish, seating himself on the cold earth. "Do you know how it feels to have to explain this to your own son, who begs me to tell him what has become of his beloved mother every night!?"

Jon could give no answer.

"Is she… Is she dead?" The Nord asked, his voice cracking as he spoke the final word.

Jon shook his dead. "Merely unconscious. She will awaken before long. Vampires… tend to heal quickly."

Laelette's husband just shook his head, as if by denying the reality of the situation he could render it false.

"What's your name, kinsman?" Jon asked, trying to distract the man from his own personal horror for a moment.

"Thonnir," he replied.

"Do you have a trade Thonnir?"

"I… just work at Jorgen's mill. When I don't, I look after my boy, Virkmund. He's more important to me than anything."

Jon moved to sit beside him, forming a small smile. "As it should be."

"You… you have children?"

Jon smiled sadly. "Afraid not Thonnir. At least, not for a good while yet."

"So, who are you?"

"Jon," he answered. "I just got here from Whiterun"

"So, you're a wanderer?"

"Amongst other things. I'm a bard by trade."

Thonnir looked back over to Laelette, who gently twitched in her sleep. "I've never met a bard who could take down a vampire." He let out a small laugh. "She was always quite the firebrand. Even… even before this."

"Well, as I said – I dabble. Joined up with a group of vampire hunters out in Riften a while back. In these dark times, they're valuable skills to have."

Thonnir stared off into the distance. "I'd heard stories…. They say vampires have been attacking whole cities out in the other holds. I had just put it down to harmless tavern tattle."

"It's true," Jon admitted. "But that's no reason to lose hope. They're not invincible Thonnir – and they haven't won every battle."

"But now they've reached Morthal. Or at least… they reached Laelette."

"When did she first go missing?" Jon asked, trying to put the pieces of the puzzle together.

"It was two weeks ago. Two weeks tonight in fact."

"Was there anything… odd you noticed about her? Anything that might have suggested something was wrong?"

Thonnir creased his brow in thought. "She… began to spend a lot of time with Alva. Yet just a week before, she despised her. In fact, the night she disappeared, she was supposed to meet Alva. Alva told me later that she never showed up, told me there were rumours about her joining the Stormcloaks. I never got to tell her goodbye."

"The Stormcloaks? Had she ever mentioned that before?"

"Never," Thonnir affirmed confidently. "She would never have left our boy without a mother. Truth be told I thought Alva must be mistaken – that may she just ran into trouble out in the marshes. She used to go out to collect certain mushrooms and herbs sometimes. Truth be told, that's why I heard the shouting from up here. Each night I've gone out to search for her."

There was quiet for a moment.

"You love her greatly, don't you?" Jon asked, already knowing the answer.

Thonnir looked back at his bound wife. "That I do."

Jon ran his mind over everything that had happened. Whilst he had certainly solved the mystery of the fire – there was something else at work here. How did Laelette become a vampire – and who would have such power over her as to force her to doing something Helgi had told him she never wanted to do? Something which caused her such remorse as to try and turn the girl, once after the fire, and again on this very night?

This Alva seemed to be his only lead.

"What.. what are we going to do with her?" Thonnir asked him hopelessly.

"One step at a time, friend. Lets get her somewhere safe."

Jonna listened to the comforting crackle of the hearth steadily burning down, her eyes watching the almost hypnotically dancing wisps of flame. She was gradually beginning to cross the wall of sleep – when that accursed bell rang out from the door.

The barkeeper's eyes snapped open, only to see the green-cloaked stranger from earlier that evening storming towards her.

"Room's over there," Jonna said sleepily, pointing towards the adjoining guest chambers.

Jon smiled apologetically. "I'm sorry to bother you Jonna, but I need your assistance."

"What kind of 'assistance'?" The Redguard asked suspiciously, raising an eyebrow.

"Do you have a strong-room here? Somewhere you protect your valuables?"

"Are you robbing me?" Jonna asked in disbelief, shaking the last traces of sleep from her mind.

"Nothing so mundane, I assure you. It's… probably best you sit down whilst I explain."

And so Jon began to explain himself. Whilst at first Jonna had brushed his suggestion aside as misplaced chivalry, within moments she had dropped onto her stool behind the bar. She just listened in disbelief as Jon explained meeting the ghost of Hroggar's daughter, and how Laelette, sweet Laelette had apparently burned their home to the ground – after being turned into a vampire.

"Do you have any idea how crazy all this sounds?!" Jonna interrupted him in exasperation.

"I apologise Jonna. But you'll have all the proof you need in a moment – but we don't have much time."

Nevertheless, Jon's request still managed to take her by surprise.

"You wanna lock up a vampire in my inn?!"

"Just for a while," Jon assured her. "Until we get to the bottom of all this. When she wakes, Laelette may have vital information for the safety of Morthal." He paused for a moment, his eyes becoming distant." There's something wrong about all of this, and we need to know what it is."

"Why don't you lock her up in the jail under the guard house?" She asked, pausing for a moment. "You realise that's exactly what it's for, right?

"We didn't think the guards would take to kindly to being handed a vampire to guard in the middle of the night. Thonnir thinks they might just… kill her. The poor man isn't ready for that yet."

"But you think it might come to that?"

Jon nodded gravely. Jonna drummed her fingers on the bar for a moment, wrestling with what to do.

"Don't suppose saying it'll scare off the customers will carry much weight, huh?" Jonna sighed. "I've got a store-room, down below," She admitted. "It's where I keep the ale barrels, and the best bottles I get hold of. The door's iron reinforced, and it's got a pretty good lock. Bring her down there. But you better go and tell the Jarl about this first thing in the morning, you hear?"

Jon nodded, walking back towards the door.

Jonna picked up a nearby bottle, pointing it at Jon accusingly. "And you're paying for everything she breaks!"

Jon gave Thonnir a reassuring nod before he vanished into his house, wishing the confidence he wore on his face was genuine. But there was no time to wallow in uncertainty. Despite what had happened at the cemetery, Jon was reluctant to report back to the Jarl just yet. The revelation of Laelette's nature may well exonerate Hroggar, but laying Morthal's fears to rest so soon might blind them to something worse.

This 'Alva' was the connection. Thonnir had reacted incredulously when Jon had suggested she too might have fallen to vampirism, but Jon knew it was a possibility he couldn't ignore. A single vampire nestled comfortably within a community could wreak more havoc than an army camped at its gates. He had trusted Jon enough to point out which house was hers, back across the water on the far marsh bank.

Weeks ago, Celann had explained to Jon how vampire infiltrators were often careful to leave no trace – preferring to move amongst the prey completely anonymous. However, in recent times such an adversary seemed almost from another age. Vampires had been brazenly attacking villages, cities, even forts had been said to have been emptied in a single night, only for their imperial or stormcloak reinforcements to find their comrades slaughtered like cattle, their punctured necks speaking mutely as to their fate. But in this case – anyone could be under the vampire's spell. Perhaps Thonnir's avid denial of Alva's guilt suggested even he had succumbed to her influence.

So Jon stood, staring across the black waters, planning his next move.