Sorry folks, life is getting the better of me. So let me thank 16DarkMidnight80 not only for looking this document over, but also for prodding me to update. So I hope you will all forgive my current flakiness and enjoy the story.

-B-

"Some days all you can do is ask 'what the hell?'"
Anonymous Adventurer

-B-

I was up early the next morning, watching Artherius and Lydia making breakfast. Well, she was making breakfast, he was making with the magicka to make the job easier. I'd never seen breakfast cooked over a pink fire, but apparently he'd colored it for Lydia's amusement. It had been shifting through the spectrum earlier. The smoke was also coiling in weird little spirals that shouldn't have been physically possible.

"He likes to play, and has had precious little of it under the watchful gaze of his superiors," Deirdre noted when I paused in ordering my things.

"He's not going back, is he?" I asked.

"I don't think so. And part of that is for your benefit, so you can see that he was willing to cut ties with a stable position and give up work beneficial to the movement in order to join you—and without your being obligated to anything."

I took her point: don't be hasty in staying or quitting.

"So, your cousin, huh?" I asked, dubiously. He's so cheerful…maybe I've gotten too used to grim attitudes and compressed lines of mouths. He seemed so out of place, like Sheogorath at a funeral.

"Not a close cousin," she answered. "But a decent enough sort. You can trust him, whatever else he says about it not being necessary, if such advice means anything to you."

"Your recommendation does. It's why he's here." I looked at all my things, realizing that I was not in as much of a hurry to leave as I usually was. I'll admit, I was curious, and it was nice to hear chatter ringing through the silent halls. I began to wonder if, maybe, part of my problem was just somber company.

"Tell me about how you met him. He's evasive," Deirdre declared.

It required explaining so much but, strangely, I began to feel better as I let her have the full story. Telling it all seemed to lift a weight I didn't know I'd been carrying off my shoulders. It was one thing to fill in the gaps for Lydia and Artherius himself. It was another to tell the whole, long story to a trusted friend and I felt much the better for it by the time I was done.

I explained about the assassination attempts, how I'd found a safe haven with certain questionable allies, and how I'd ended up at war with myself. Then, I spoke of how I'd gone to Markarth and picked a secluded battleground, how I'd called my bound Dremora to me once I was inside, and how the battle had gone.

I still shuddered at the thought.

"So that's why Markarth exploded like it did," Deirdre mused, nodding. "I'd heard a little from him, but not much. It makes sense, now. I think you should abandon the Dremora, however."

"He said as much."

"He's right. Bellona—"

I fell into thoughtful silence as Deirdre rehashed everything I knew about Dremora.

Artherius' 'movement' wanted me as a figurehead. The Altmer woman declared as much…but there was an extreme difference between being a figurehead as these people saw it and being a figurehead for the Blades as Delphine presented it. What Artherius' people proposed warranted the word 'alliance' in a way Delphine's game never did. It definitely felt…like a cleaner option.

And they're right: the Thalmor will never really leave me alone. I've been at war with them—in my mind—since the Embassy, when I reached out and smacked them.

A nasty, dark little thought settled in my mind: the Blades are, effectively, two people plus myself (and my inclusion is highly dubious). But if the Blades' duty is to protect and guide the Dragonborn, then I may have found a pool from which to recruit…assuming everyone is showing most of their cards at this point.

I glanced at Artherius, who was holding bowls as Lydia ladled porridge into them.

Being Blades—or being associated with them—would give these rebels (or whatever they are) a kind of formal legitimacy as something other than a ragtag movement, a Tamriel-scale version of the Stormcloaks…only not.

It would also give Delphine some perspective. And annoy her. She certainly looked sour when she went to be last night and I haven't seen her all morning.

More and more, I think she's been alone and paranoid for too long and can't think outside her well-worn mental ruts. It's a though exacerbated by and perhaps tempered by the two Altmer, who seem to have pity for her. Like and dislike don't seem to come into the picture where they're concerned.

But I know her better than they do: I can't trust Delphine. She'd lead the Blades—arguably my Blades—astray, or recruit only those who would hear her voice and not mine. The Blades exist to support the Dragonborn…not the other way around and she's forgotten even when she uses the words. If I have to be used…then I like what I'm hearing from my new…contacts? Acquaintances?

I mothballed all these thoughts: Alduin first, state of the Empire—and Delphine's influence—later.

"You're not even listening, are you?" Deirdre asked with a sigh.

"I was listening. It's just…Lydia watches Delphine because don't trust her. Now I've got you and Artherius here, and I don't dare leave you alone with Delphine. And I'm not ready to take anyone who can't come back if they take a bad hit with me. Is it so wrong to want to protect my friends?"

Deirdre sighed in a way that suggested, at this point, it was.

She didn't try to stop me, though.

-B-

It was slow getting to Dawnstar. The snows were bad; mid-Sun's Dawn in the northern reaches of Skyrim is never kind to travelers.

Kathutet's resentment of being kept out of things had melted into reproach. He was surly and taciturn to the point that I got surly and taciturn back, but he wouldn't go back to the Deadlands unless I made it an order. Repeated insistences from third parties that I ditch the Dremora—so to speak—left me feeling even more resentful than if I was just dealing with Kathutet's bad attitude.

Thus, travel was not pleasant and I arrived at Silus' home tired, frustrated, and not in the mood to deal with Daedra-worshiping fanatics.

Silus wrenched the door open (it had partially frozen closed) when I banged on it. He had his breath taken in so he could give his welcome speech, but he let it out in a jet of steam when he recognized me. "Oh, come in! Please, come in!" he ushered me inside. "Oblivion, you're near frozen through!"

This was not true, but I didn't mind letting him urge me to unwrap myself from my cold weather gear and was mollified a bit when he hastily checked the soup cooking in the fireplace and served me a bowl with a chunk of yesterday's bread. "It's a good a time as any for a meal, don't you agree?" he asked, serving himself.

He did not ask if I had the pieces, but his eyes did and he seemed highly excited—not unlike a child during the New Life festival.

Once I'd eaten the soup, I dug into my traveling pack and produced the shards, each wrapped in its own individual square of oilskin and charmed heavily, then all three wrapped in several oilskin squares and charmed again.

"You do take care with these things, don't you?" Silus marveled.

"To be honest, I was more worried about fumbling a shard and slicing my fingers to ribbons. These things are dangerous without magicka or anything like it," I answered, trying not to sound ill-tempered. The meal and the warmth had put some heart into me and taken the edge off my bad mood.

Also, I think your red hair is no lie and this dragon soul thing means you can exercise that temper of your with greater impunity, Artherius' voice echoed blithely in my head.

Beh. What does he know about it?

"I can't believe it," Silus marveled, regarding the three shards and the sheath, which he had taken out of the case. The pieces of the Razor—the blade, hilt, and pommel—gleamed with a strange light I could only describe as 'sharp.' It made me intensely uncomfortable to stand there as the lamplight and firelight played across the pieces.

Strangely enough, the pieces looked strangely mundane, like broken garbage. I couldn't tell if it was a glamour or a result of having been broken, but I would have pegged them as cheap souvenirs for travelers rather than pieces of the real thing. Maybe it makes sense: what's ambition spring from but lesser origins? "Now what?" I asked as Silus, using the oilskins to protect his hands, bundled the fragments of the Razor together and put them in the case where the sheath had previously rested.

"Now, we take the evening to prepare for the morrow!" Silus rhapsodized. "You see, I know how to put all the pieces together. We just need to take them to Lord Dagon's shrine and contact the Prince of Change directly."

I spat my wine back into my cup. "Say gain?" I asked hoarsely.

Silus grimaced at the display. "I said, it takes the touch of Lord Dagon to repair the artifact. And, when it has been repaired, he will—"

I tuned him out as his speech tuned to the sort of drivel Kathutet would agree with at every full stop.

It's not so much that this is a surprise, it's just…well, I didn't think Mehrunes Dagon had a shrine in Skyrim. Some shrines—like Azura's—are known and the Vigilants leave them alone. Some shrines belonging to the more pernicious or unpredictable Princes were disposed of ages ago or are kept 'cleaned out,' so to speak—Sanguine and Sheogorath, as well as Namira's shrine in Reachcliff Cave.

I sighed inwardly, looking at Silus. I had a bad feeling that things were not going to end well if I went with him—Mehrunes Dagon is a nasty piece of work and would probably enjoy watching a cock fight for his favor between his supplicants.

"And you're sure he'll just put the Razor back together?" I asked, finally deciding that Silus was even more naïve than I've been accused of being in the past.

Silus sighed, tired but as a man fulfilled. He swirled a fresh serving of wine in his glass, watching the liquid catch the light before sipping it. "Ever since I was a boy, I've felt this strange sense of destiny surrounding the Mythic Dawn, and now I know what it is. Don't you see?" he straightened up, his bright eyes fixed on me. "Fate has led you to me and to the pieces to us. Lord Dagon has to answer our call. We're so close."

"And if he wants us to fight for his favor?" I asked bluntly.

Silus looked like I'd smacked him. "Why should he?"

"Daedric Prince. And if we catch him, say, at an inopportune moment he'll be an irritable one," I pointed out as neutrally as I could.

Silus considered this, his brow knitting into deep furrows. "Impossible. We were faithful—you reassembled the pieces of his Razor and I have found and protected the Mysterium Xarxes. He could do more with our hands than just yours or just mine."

I shrugged at this. I don't believe it, but there wasn't much point in fighting. "You're right. We should start in the morning. Do you know where the Shrine is?"

"Of course I do! But…just to be safe, I don't think I'll tell you. Just in case you get any ideas. And you can carry the Razor, in case I get any ideas. Fair enough?" he asked.

I had to chuckle at that. Maybe he's not as naïve as I thought—he's still a fool, though.

-B-

The shrine of Mehrunes Dagon was impressive and strangely like ambition in itself: it was built into the side of a mountain, difficult to see at distance but maintaining a magnificent vantage point over the surrounding areas. The shrine itself was less like an altar and more like Dagon had ensconced himself on that mountain. There was a sort of vault built into the throne upon which Dagon's effigy sat. Some ten or fifteen feet away from the stairs leading up to the vault was an altar of simply dressed stone.

Upon his chair, Dagon towered, one massive foot planted firmly on the ground, the other on the edge of his seat. Great stone arms clutched at his surroundings as if he meant to lever himself from his throne to standing that he might bring under his dominion all that his gaze rested upon. The massive axe near to hand did nothing to soften the sentiment that it was only stone bindings that kept him from getting up and walking all over Skyrim.

Like Azura's statue, snow did not accumulate on Dagon's effigy. The blade of his axe and the blanks of his eyes both seemed to have been washed with some kind of metal, for both glittered ominously.

Even for someone like me, it was an inspiring sight—though I don't think it inspired Silus and I with the same feelings. He looked so excited he could just burst, whereas I felt highly nervous, as if Dagon's eyes—his actual eyes—were already upon us. There was a charge in the air I didn't like and which I hadn't noticed on the ascent. It was slightly warmer, and I couldn't tell if that was because of the shrine's innate power or if we somehow had Dagon's full and undivided attention already.

"Here, let me have the shards," Silus prompted, voice unusually low given how excited he was.

I swung my backpack off and, while he unwrapped the oilskin around the individually wrapped pieces, I slid Kathutet's binding ring off my finger and threaded it onto the nearest available strap. I don't know how important Kathutet is to Dagon, but if Dagon tries to crack the binding spell the ring would likely suffer some kind of physical damage. It just seemed to me that something, anything, connected to the Deadlands isn't a good thing to have on hand.

I swallowed as Silus arranged the pieces on the altar, then beckoned me to come closer and stand with him.

The Imperial shrugged off his cloak, revealing his Mythic Dawn robes—I had declined a set for myself—and raised both face and hands in supplication. "Lord Mehrunes Dagon, Prince of Change, Destruction, and Ambition. Behold your servant who had brought before you that which you most craved. I humbly beg that you would restore the Razor to its full glory, that your will in Tamriel might be accomplished!"

Nothing happened, except that my neck started prickling.

"It's not working," Silus said nervously, looking around. "Give it a try. Maybe he expected us both to present ourselves. Just put your hands on the altar."

I stepped up, skin tingling and lay my hands delicately on the altar.

It began as a waft of slightly warmer air blowing past my ears; then it was a thickening of the air. Finally, with the air of someone waking from a deep sleep, Daedric magicka seemed to cascade from the statue, catching Silus and I in its path like water. Snow began to melt like water wherever the rapidly warming air touched it, leaving the ledge upon which the supplicants' portion of the shrine was located wet underfoot.

It began as a laugh, a low, wicked sound that made every muscle in my body tense. "So, Mortal," a voice rang, its words seeming to meld together while remaining perfectly distinct. He seemed to roll the words around in his mouth as though he would only have this one chance to converse with our side. "You have claimed the pieces of my Razor." Dagon laughed again, sending shudders up and down my spine. "Well done, indeed. It has been an especially amusing game to witness."

I took my hands off the altar and stepped back: there was animosity beneath the 'amusement,' a savage pleasure that chilled me to the very bone even as I began to sweat from the heat the shrine gave off. My tongue felt too big in my mouth and my throat began to constrict.

"You have served well, Vesuius, as cannot be said of your forebears," Dagon continued in amore off-handed tone. Clearly, judging from tone, Silus was not as interesting as I was. "But Mehrunes Dagon always rewards those who serve well and well you have served. Your reward…lies within."

The vault doors creaked open, disgorging six Dremora in two lines, all of them armed to the teeth and clearly ready to fight. Their presence nearly took my breath away: it's one thing for a mortal mage to wrench a Dremora to his or her aid and let it go; it's one thing for a particular Dremora to be bound to an artifact.

It's another entirely for Dagon to send them over en masse from the Deadlands. The power and effort on display by admitting this miniature army—and they looked like an army even as three of them unshouldered heavy-looking bows—made my hands shake.

This is more than I bargained for.

To my relief, there was no sign of Kathutet among the helmeted faces.

"What is this?" I asked, trying not to sound shaky.

Dagon laughed at this, but in the way of someone who is laughing to mask anger rather than out of good humor. "What does it look like, Dragonborn?" Dagon sneered, but sounded pleased I'd asked the clichéd question. If one cannot interact one must be satisfied with speech, I suppose. "Did you think, for one moment, I would have lost track of you? Did honestly believe one of your kind could take and keep one of my soldiers? Did you think to wheedle his loyalty away from me? He has repented that flaw and expunged it. Disillusion yourself. The Dremora are mine and have always been mine."

I took the moment to glance around; the Dremora weren't shooting at me yet, but there was someone, and a weapon, closer to hand. This caution allowed me to see, out of the corner of my eye, the Razor snap together into a glittering, malevolent thing which Silus took in hand.

He also held it like a man who didn't know how to use it effectively.

"You are the last of your kind, Dragonborn," Dagon purred. "I shall take pleasure in your blood on the stones of my shrine. Then all shall be ended as it was meant to be."

"What about Alduin?" I demanded, finding my tongue. "Once he has Tamriel, mightn't that cause concern for your kind? Dragons get bored without conquest." Speaking from personal experience.

Dagon laughed again. "That should have been considered before your kind rejected my guiding hand. Let him do as he likes—he cared little enough before and my men would enjoy a skirmish. Perhaps the rules will even have changed by his…ah, 'leadership'…and your world will repent their folly and accept proper rule."

There was no warning, but I'd observed Silus take up the Razor while my attention was supposed to be elsewhere. My heart hammered, tension pulsing in my head. I didn't understand the why of what was happening, but I didn't much care. I could worry about it later.

I turned to face Silus. "ZUN!"

I don't use the disarming Shout often, it being one of the ones I was still studying, and it showed. The Razor did not jump out of Silus' hand, but he had to fumble for it in order not to drop it. I sidestepped, several arrows whizzing far too closely out of my blind spot. Viidost-Vey was out of its scabbard in an instant and Silus screamed a second later as the keen weapon sliced effortlessly through the arm thrown out to keep hold of the Razor.

Razor and hand hit the ground, the former with a loud but strangely melodious 'ting!' while the latter went unheard beneath Silus' scream.

"FUS RO!"

Silus screamed again as the Shout caught him and threw him violently over the edge of the ledge upon which the Shrine was situated. He hung there for a moment, face full of shock, then dropped like a stone, screaming until…

…until the noise of Dremora blocked the sound. Or maybe he stopped screaming because of a hard landing.

"FEIM!" the Shout saved my life, as it bought me time to turn and see where all the Dremora were. They were not all trying to come out of my blind spot, but were trying to get around me. Arrows passed harmlessly through me.

Kathutet must have told them about the Shout, or maybe they were just that smart, for they had a plan to counter my ethereal state. The nearest Dremora threw himself into me, into the space I occupied. If the Shout gave out, we'd be an ugly assortment of bodies. It was something from which he could recover but which would certainly end me permanently.

I staggered back, only to find myself herded by Dremora until I was solid again.

I ducked a blow from a mace that would have caved my head in had it connected. "FUS RO DAH!" The Shout caught two of the Dremora, bowling them over onto their backs, the force causing the armor to gouge the stone across which they skidded.

I raised a hand before the momentum wore off, a sheen of ice forming on the stone, facilitating the slide until just sort of tipped over the edge of the ledge, falling in a cacophony of clanks and curses. The ice was gone by the time they were out of sight, and I could feel anger and animosity radiating with the heat from Dagon's statue.

I couldn't help but think he'd give half his Realm for a chance to join the fight in person and I wondered why.

Viidost-Vey glittered in the air biting into the newest Dremora's armor and sticking. He grinned, grabbed the blade and forced it through. His eyes clouded in death, but when he dropped to the ground he took the sword with him, wrenching it out of my hand.

A quick ward slowed another arrow enough that I could get out of the way, but the Dremora were still there, still maintaining a fixed number. I was starting to flag. It was clear they had intelligence about the thu'um, because anything they could do to counter it—like keeping my attention zipping around so I could not focus as much as I would like—was done.

All I could think was that Kathutet had betrayed me, had told them everything they needed to know in order to fight me effectively. I couldn't help but curse my own stupidity: people have been telling me to quit the Dremora's company.

Except it wouldn't have mattered if I had: the damage was done.

I dove for Viidost-Vey, but could not easily wrench the weapon free. "ZUN!" Desperation sent the weapons of three Dremora closing on me jumping out of their hands—much to their shock. "YOL TOOR!"

Dremora are fairly fireproof, but dragonfire is not like real fire and the one I hit immediately began panicking, trying to do something about an element that rarely causes him difficulty. They panicked, flapping about and causing chaos among their own.

Another sheen of ice had them slipping, with weight so off-balance that they couldn't have recovered even if they could have ignored the fire—

A hand grabbed my hair from behind, jerking me off-balance. Hairs snapped as the heavy gauntlets caught on the individual strands.

One of the Dremora had finally managed to get behind me, unnoticed, and had grabbed the knot of braid in one hand.

I twisted as I went down, looking around as I felt him lining up a killing blow.

"FE—ow!"

His foot came crashing down between my shoulders knocking me forward. My chin scuffed on the ground but the change in position meant he'd had to let my hair go.

I twisted like a fish, eyes flashing. "FUS!" The Shout staggered him leaving me a split-second to count how many Dremora were coming at me.

There were still six. Dagon was in deadly earnest about killing me.

I rolled aside to avoid a fireball thrown by a Dremora in more ornate armor than most of the other—it had gold edging in places and he had the look of a doubly hardened warrior. I sent a weak net of lightning crackling at him, which he had to pause in order to ward off even as I sheathed Viidost-Vey. There was only one answer to all this: run away and hope Dagon's influence would lessen with distance from his shrine.

A glitter out of the corner of my eye caught my attention, and threw myself at it.

I screamed a second later as my hand closed over the Razor. I knew that when I slapped my hand down on it, I had the hilt under my hand and the blade was flat, impossible to cut myself on. A last trick of Dagon's, no doubt, levitating the blade into a position to do damage.

Blood sheeted onto the blade, which seemed to bite and stick into my flesh as if drawn to the bones like a needle to a lodestone. It burned and froze and sent shooting pains up my arm that made my hand essentially useless, fingers flaccid. I'd never experienced such pain before; not even the rush of battle dulled it.

I held onto it and threw myself to the altar. The Razor's sheath still lay there. My knuckles scraped painfully against the stone as my hand closed around the strangely hot sheath. "FEIM ZII GRON! WUL NA KEST!"

As the wind whipped past my ears, I heard Dagon screaming and cursing in his own language, the sound rattling the mountain. Dremora rushed to the edge of the ledge…but either they were silent or Dagon drowned them out in his rage.

I found Silus dead on my way down, wrapped around a tree, his back bent in the wrong direction, eyes wide and terrified, but glassy.

I hit the ground like a feather and ran as hard as I could. As soon as possible, I used another Whirlwind Sprint to put some distance between the Shrine and myself. I didn't know how far he could send his Dremora and I didn't know how much he could do before he exhausted his ability to work on our side of Oblivion.

I had never been so scared. I ran and I ran until I began to feel lightheaded—the Razor was still embedded in my hand and I'd never seen such a small weapon produce such a bloody outpour.