Author's Note: This one took a while to get right. However, I'm finally happy with it – and eager to share it with you all. I hope you enjoy, and thank you for sticking with this story as it continues to move forward.

Chapter 42: Journey's End

Jon didn't answer Idgrod for a moment, merely continuing to stare into the mocking blackness. To go on was almost certain death. Jon's instincts of self-preservation told him that going inside would achieve nothing, that he should turn back, withdraw to the Jarl's hall and return with a cohort of guards, or perhaps try and hold the town until he could get word to Isran at Fort Dawnguard.

But in his Nord heart, he knew it was the wrong thing to do.

In the minds of the people of Morthal, retreat would hopelessly shatter any confidence they held in Jon. For sure, the shame would not be his alone to bear, but as the would-be leader of Morthal's warriors, he would come to embody it. To wear such a mark of cowardice was nothing less than an unforgivable crime amongst Nords. And Jon had come far too close to it already. Leaving Whiterun when he did, the way he dealt with the vampire that had plagued his thoughts, none of them spoke of the man of honour Jon had always tried to be. They spoke of a man who ran, who let his fears rule him – and his darker nature consume him.

On some level, Jon had always known that this battle would ultimately be his battle, despite the townsfolk behind and beside him. His trial. Perhaps in some way his redemption for past mistakes, and those he had already failed to save. Idolaf. Laelette. Aelfwynn. He could feel such thoughts transforming his despair into the fresh heat of anger, forging his will into a steely resolve.

"I'll fight." Jon swore, turning to swear the oath to the two friends who had failed to leave him. "To the end – to the death if needed! It's the only right thing to do. The only honourable thing."

Thonnir's eyes narrowed slightly and he nodded. No words were needed. Idgrod's expression was more appraising, and to Jon's surprise a small smile appeared on the corner of her lips.

"Maybe it's still your path after all," Idgrod whispered softly.

Jon looked at her for a moment, but said nothing. Then he drew his sword from his scabbard, and the screech of silver called the three warriors to battle.


Winterhold was no more.

What was once one of the wonders of Tamriel's northern frontier had now fallen utterly into ruin. A once proud city was now little more than a fragmented huddle of wooden shacks and houses, choking amidst the falling snows. The signs of disaster still scarred the land, the remains of the outer wall which had presumably once encircled the city much akin to Windhelm now merely tumbled off the cliffs' jagged edge, falling into oblivion below. So too did what remained of the streets. Now, a dilute smattering of residents appeared to slowly traverse what survived of them, moving like the sluggish movement of clotting blood within a fresh corpse.

The sorrow of the sight chilled Aelfwynn in a way the frigid climate was no longer capable. This wasn't a town that had been torn down through dragon fire, through civil war or vampiric machinations. This was a city that time itself had devoured.

However, as Aelfwynn finally lifted the brown hood from her face, her eyes could not help but be drawn to the magnificence of what could only be the College of Winterhold. A wounded and battered stone viaduct rose over the void of the enormous cliff which had swallowed much of the ancient city, a fragile bridge tethering an enormous cathedral of dark stone to the rest of Skyrim. The ancient building consisted of several impressive towers, as imposing as any of the fortresses Aelfwynn had encountered in her travels. High atop the tallest and most central spire, a circular window of ice-blue stained glass formed the shape of an all-seeing eye, watching impassively over its ruinous surroundings, and into the white wastes which stretched out between the mountains to the south.

"This is Winterhold?" Serana asked in confusion, crossing her arms. "It's… nothing like what I read about…"

"It wouldn't be," Aelfwynn replied quietly. "Not since the collapse."

"The collapse?"

"No one knows for sure what happened," Aelfwynn admitted. "About all that anyone can agree on is that the Sea of Ghosts struck the cliffs in a storm like no one had ever seen – and before anyone could do a thing the city was gone. Fallen into nothing."

"How long ago was this?"

"Year one-hundred and twenty-two, Fourth Era," Aelfwynn replied automatically.

"Well, that clears it right up…" Serana replied snidely.

"Oh, right." Aelfwynn realised. "That would be… Eighty-nine years ago."

"What?" Serana retorted in disbelief. "This happened nearly a century ago, and the people here haven't even tried to rebuild?"

"It happens sometimes," Aelfwynn said, her words of soft sorrow almost carried away on the wind. "When something so terrible happens that no one can bear trying to rebuild. A plague, a massacre – or just a disaster like this."

The two vampires walked side by side as they descended from the ridge, as silent as though they were passing through a graveyard. Despite the morose sorrow of the surroundings however, Aelfwynn could finally feel herself begin to untense. The gentle moonlight felt like a potion on her sunburned skin, and the claustrophobia and fear of losing her eyes had faded away in the open night. The respite however, soon began to awaken the eternal dry ache in her throat – her battered body demanding the warm perfection of blood.

As Serana and Aelfwynn reached the bottom of the slope and turned onto the only remaining road into Winterhold, the nocturnal quiet was broken by the sound of strained voices arguing furiously.

"We need coin, Ranmir, and you're not bringing home any!" A tired-looking blonde woman called out from an open door on the left. She appeared to be addressing a red-haired man in the street, who was unsteadily shuffling away.

"And you would have me do what?" The man slurred back at her, throwing his arms above his head. "Join the College and prance around casting spells all day?"

The woman just raised her voice further. "Don't just walk away from me! Where do you think you're going?"

"To the inn for a drink, of course!" Ranmir spat. "Where else could I even go in this gods' forsaken town?"

"And what, you think that'll solve all your problems?" The woman despaired at him.

"Probably not, but it's worth a try!"

The brittle wood of the inn door slammed shut behind him, and as the echoes of their fury died amidst the snow, the street returned to the melancholic quiet of a Frostfall night.

Thirty feet ahead lay the first stone gateway. It served as an imposing divide between the mages in their fortress high above, and the townsfolk who lived beneath them. A narrow stone path rose between two ancient statues, which guarded the winding causeway beyond. The bearded figures appeared entirely unworn by the elements, somehow indifferent to the thoroughly cold, damp and foul climate which must have attempted to tear at them for centuries untold. In their outward-facing hands they clutched great staves, and in their other; scrolls of wrapped stone parchment. These were not the wizened, secretive wizards spoken of across the Iliac Bay by Redguard merchants, Aelfwynn thought. They stood tall, pride and power in their stance.

As Aelfwynn and Serana crested the slope between the sentinels, a figure emerged from the shadows. As she stepped onto a circular patch of metal flooring directly under the archway, an opaline light spread like a running stream across it, dividing into tributaries across its surface until it came to form the shape of another cold eye, gazing blindly upwards.

"Who goes there?" An almost bored, feminine voiced called, as the pale blue light illuminated a slender High Elf standing before them.

"We could ask you the same thing…" Serana drawled in her usual wry manner, though Aelfwynn suspected it was concealing some nervous energy.

"I am here to assist those seeking the wisdom of the College. And if, in the process, my presence helps to deter those who might seek to do harm, so be it. The more important question is: why are you here?"

Serana seemed irritated by the Altmer's apparent self-importance. Once again, she had crossed her arms in a tell-tale sign of annoyance, and her golden eyes had narrowed slightly.

"Maybe I just wanted to see inside," Serana snarked back at her. "Do you get a lot of sightseers up here?"

The elf smirked at that. "Ha! Humour is often in short supply here…" Her eyes moved to examine Aelfwynn, lingering curiously for a moment at the golden amulet resting atop her breast, before moving up once again. Aelfwynn felt as though the elf were scrutinising every inch of her, a rather unnerving experience. "But I sense that perhaps you're after more than just that..." The elf continued cryptically. "Nonetheless, it would seem the College has what you seek. The question now is what you can offer the College. Not just anyone is allowed inside."

Aelfwynn reached into her satchel, lifting her three remaining septims mournfully.

"I don't require a bribe," the elf dismissed with amusement. "Fortunately for you, your arrival was anticipated."

"Wuunferth?" Aelfwynn inquired, and the Elf's slightest inclination of the head answered. "I'm surprised he managed to get a message through the snow so quickly."

"The College does not employ such… crude methods. It is easy enough for mages to communicate, when we have the need."

"Of course it is," Serana said. "May we enter the College then?"

The Altmer took a moment to reply. "See Mirabelle Ervine in the courtyard before you head inside. I think she'll want to see you both for herself, don't you?"

Before they could ask precisely what she meant, the mage summoned a ball of light into her hand, kneeling down and pushing it into the eye on the ground. The floor seemed to vibrate with a slight hum, and the High Elf stepped out of their path.

Aelfwynn was fairly sure what it was the elf had been referring to. Wuunferth's warning had been characteristically honest, as well as blunt:

Your allure may fool the students, ladies. But the masters of magic will know you for what you are.

The causeway which bridged the void between Winterhold and the College had clearly suffered greatly during the collapse. Great cracks ran across the surface of the ground, and entire sections of the crenellations appeared to have been torn away. Periodically, strange wells of smooth, rounded stone would be found along the path, the liquid within shining like lantern oil in sunlight. Flecks of light appeared to rise from the surface into the cold air, gradually coalescing into a ball of light much resembling the one the High Elf had conjured moments before.

The path finally ended in another ascent, at the foot of an imposing iron gate. The design of the ancient iron was infused at its centre with the arcane motif of an eye which seemed ever-present at the College. After Aelfwynn passed the final well, the gate slowly swung open, revealing the courtyard beyond.

The courtyard was a perfect circle, its outer edge lined with a single covered cloister. At its very centre, framed by four large pine trees arranged in a square, Aelfwynn could see a far larger version of the same wells she had seen on her approach, the floating specks of light twirling into a coherent rising pillar. Behind it stood an enormous statue of a hooded mage, his powerful hands outstretched either side of the rising pillar of radiant light as if the simulacrum was somehow harnessing its power.

The message was clear. The College was a place of mysteries and power, a message intended for any visiting outsider. It was not too dissimilar to Aelfwynn's own temple in Daggerfall in that respect, however whilst that building tried to inspire awe and reverence for the gods, here it seemed to be purely elevating the prestige of the mages of Skyrim. All in all, It left a rather bad taste in Aelfwynn's mouth.

After inquiring with a wary student, the two vampires were directed into the shelter of the cloister. The robed student pointed towards two figures, a towering Altmer in Thalmor black and gold, and a smaller Breton, dressed in what Aelfwynn had deduced to be College robes, although in a slightly different hue than the students.

"I believe I made myself rather clear." The Breton remarked sternly, seemingly unintimidated by the Thalmor looming over her with crossed arms.

"Of course…" The Elf replied, barely attempting to mask the frustration beneath his sneer. "I'm simply trying to understand the reasoning behind the decision."

His falseness was clearly not lost on the female Breton, who narrowed her hardy brown eyes. "You may be used to the Empire bowing to your every whim, but you will find the Thalmor will find no such treatment here." As she spoke, she straightened her posture, raising herself to her full height. "You are here at the pleasure of the Arch-Mage. I hope you appreciate the opportunity."

"Yes, of course…" The elf responded, apparently aware he had overstepped himself. "The Arch-Mage has my thanks."

"Then we're done here." Mirabelle stated with finality, watching with an unrelenting gaze as the Thalmor retreated back towards the College proper. Aelfwynn couldn't help but note the traces of contempt leak back into his features as soon as his back was turned.

"Mirabelle Ervine?" Aelfwynn called out, just as the other Breton was turning towards a modest set of wooden doors built into a nearby wall.

The woman turned, still reaching for the door handle until she focused her gaze on the two women, once again seemingly noting their features with a trained eye.

"I see. Faralda sent you, did she?"

"If Faralda is the Altmer who greeted us at the gate, then yes."

"Then you were expected. Aelfwynn – supposed priestess of Mara, and… Serana. Is that correct?"

"Correct," Aelfwynn assented. "Did Wuunferth-"

Mirabelle cut her off. "Rooms will be prepared for a period concluding tomorrow evening, set apart from the other student and master accommodations. You have the run of the College facilities, as long as you abide by the rules of the College – no theft, no interference in the research and experiments of academics, and no violence of any kind. Any violations will result in your immediate expulsion from the College."

The emphasis with which the Breton mage uttered the word 'expulsion' made Aelfwynn think she may have meant more than merely showing them to the exit.

"That being said..." Mirabelle began again, any malice now entirely absent from her voice. "Welcome to the College of Winterhold. Is there anything in particular we can help you with? Master Wuunferth was rather… vague in that regard."

"We were hoping you might be able to tell us about a Moth Priest," Serana explained. "One who'd recently arrived in Skyrim."

"A Moth Priest?" Mirabelle echoed curiously. "Yes... I think you will want to consult with Master Urag Gro-Shub." Mirabelle answered without missing a beat. "All information from the outside world tends to filter into his Arcanaeum eventually."

Serana nodded, and the two vampires started to move away.

"One more thing."

Aelfwynn stopped, turning to face Mirabelle once more.

The wizard stepped closer, looking behind herself for a moment as if to check if she were being observed.

"I want no incidents while you are on College grounds. It's hard enough monitoring every hair-brained experiment being carried out by the students without adding... outside variables. Especially with the Thalmor looking over every shoulder…"

Mirabelle's eyes seemed to look past Aelfwynn for a moment. "You are permitted within these walls because a Master Wizard vouched for you. I hope you show the proper respect for the trust and privilege you have been granted. Few ever are."

"I would have thought that mages had a more enlightened view of the world…" Serana interjected, placing a hand on one hip.

Mirabelle looked unphased by her response. "There's a reason we don't let the rabble from Winterhold inside either, madame. The College forbids entry to anyone who might seek to cause it harm; and daedric half-breeds certainly fall under that criteria."

Serana matched the wizard's gaze defiantly. "You're saying mages no longer summon daedra?"

"Of course we do," Mirabelle countered smoothly. "However, such incantations are done in a controlled environment and - in the case of our students – under correct supervision. In either case such creatures can be dismissed easily. The same cannot be said for… vampires.

"Now, I have many important matters to attend to. I will show you to your quarters, but no more."

With that, Mirabelle beckoned for Aelfwynn and Serana to follow, leading them towards the nearest set of dual wooden doors.


Jon could feel the gravel crumble and shift beneath his feet as he descended the circular spiral, moving further and further from the light. The potential to slip on the loose stones slowed his pace to little more than a crawl, heightening his sense of anticipation. The air smelled of damp moss, mixed in with the acrid smell of burning pitch released by his smouldering torch, inches from his face.

Suddenly, Jon felt something unpleasant brush across his face. He lifted his hand, swatting the cobweb whilst spitting onto the ground with revulsion. Moving his torch from side to side, he could make out other strands and patterns hanging from between the uneven stones of the cave wall. Jon was surprised that even a vampire could stand to live in such a rancid place – especially with their potent, finely tuned senses.

Not for the first time, Jon thought he heard a scuttling sound above him, but upon lifting his torch he saw nothing, nothing but the worn stone walls, the mushrooms peeking out from various outcroppings, curtains of evergreen moss, and the webs which span between them all. As his next step failed to lower him any further, Jon lowered his gaze.

The spiral chimney had opened into a void, of which Jon's torch struggled to illuminate even a small fragment. The picture grew larger as Idgrod and Thonnir emerged from behind him, their own torches moving like islands of light amongst the endless dark.

Jon hadn't expected this. Tricks – yes. For the enemy to use shadow as a weapon certainly, but not utter silence. He turned restlessly on the spot, trying to see warning signs amongst the shadows – but he saw nothing, heard nothing.

But then he felt the ooze running down his shoulder.

Jon looked up just in time to see a grotesquely large head plummeting toward him, furnished with two hideous snapping mandibles and eight bulbous black eyes. Somehow, the creature didn't manage to knock Jon to the ground as the Nord stumbled backwards. He didn't waste the opportunity, advancing back towards the monster with several slashes of his sword. To Jon's surprise however, the giant spider seemed to expertly avoid each of his blows with an unexpected agility. In the corner of his vision, Jon could make out dozens of smaller spiders beginning to swarm towards Thonnir and Idgrod, some along the ground, others dangling from silken threads, their legs twitching ravenously. Thonnir was already kicking out his leg, dropping the crossbow in his hands in favour of the axe at his belt, though the best Jon could determine Idgrod didn't seem to move, merely observing as the foul creatures began to crawl up her legs.

Meanwhile, he continued to strike again and again at the arachnid, though invariably his sword continued to glance off the creature's chitin-like skin, or the spider would merely dodge the attack at the last moment. His inability to harm the creature, and the tiring ache gradually building in his limbs began to stir the pangs of fear and desperation. Jon didn't even realise he had started to cry out, roaring at the creature as if to shout it out of existence. Then, before he could react, with a vile sound the creature's head jutted forwards, retching a glob of viscous venom forcefully into Jon's face. Jon dropped his blade, instinctually clawing at the thick goo that blinded him. The back of his heel collided with a rock, and Jon fell.

It was over. The beast was on him in a moment, and he could feel two of its monstrous legs pushing against his shoulders. Gripping them.

Gripping them?

The legs began to shake him, and then he felt a crisp slap across his face. When Jon snapped his head forwards again, he saw Idgrod looking down at him, her hands tugging at his shoulders.

"Jon!" She cried, "There's nothing there, listen to me!"

Jon stared at her worried face uncomprehendingly, before his mind began to follow his senses back to reality.

Vampires. Masters of Illusion.

Jon lifted himself into a sitting position, picking up his fallen torch and checking his surroundings. There were no trace of the spiders. Just the dark, and the quiet.

"It's not holy…" Thonnir whispered, looking at each of his limbs in disbelief. "To not know what's in front of you – not know what's real and what isn't."

Jon had little doubt that Isran and the veteran members of the Dawnguard had trained themselves in the mental discipline required to resist such trickery, but Jon was found wanting by comparison. His mind had been filled with conflicted emotions during his training – not the ideal situation for honing it against the warping effects of dark magic. Yet Idgrod could somehow see through the deception.

"How did you do it?" Jon asked, as he took Idgrod's hand and pulled himself to his feet. "See through the illusion?"

Idgrod just shook her head. "I can't put it into words. I could see them, but also see through them. It must be-"

Jon's lips curled upwards in a slight smile. "Your mother's 'gift' again. Well… it turns out it's best you came along after all Lady Idgrod; for I fear I've failed you."

"Not yet you haven't," Idgrod countered, stepping closer to Jon, her eyes bright in the close torchlight. "But you can't afford to lose faith in yourself now. The whole of Morthal depends on it."

For a moment, Jon swore he could hear the distant echo of laughter.

The party pressed on, travelling downwards down a thin, tall passage. Jon kept his torch held aloft ahead of him, forcing the endless darkness back a precious few feet at a time. When the path eventually opened into another chamber, his nostrils were filled with the cloying aroma of decay, seasoned with the familiar metallic hint of blood. Pressing forwards, Jon swiftly noticed a worn iron shovel sticking out of the loose, stony dirt at the chamber's centre. It appeared to have been used to dig out a large pit in the middle of the cave floor, spreading the dirt and stones into irregular piles littered about the chamber.

As he approached, Jon was nauseated to discover an upturned boot clinging to the edge, with the beginnings of what looked like a calf still attached.

A grave, he thought to himself. Perhaps even vampires can't stand to watch their victims as they rot.

Nonetheless, Jon still found himself unprepared for what he saw. Within the hole, the dead victim did not sleep alone. At least twenty bodies, perhaps even more were piled chaotically atop one another. Their faces all silently expressed the horror and agony of their fate at various stages of decay, each of them silently screaming at an indifferent, unseen sky.

"Another Illusion," Thonnir insisted, before his boot unintentionally collided with a decapitated head which Jon had mistook for a stone covered in earth. The horror of uncertain revulsion passed across Thonnir's face, before he forced himself onwards, refusing to cast another glance towards the horrific pit.

Jon looked back towards Idgrod behind him, but she just shook her head. Her grim expression told him all he needed to know.


"You are now in the Arcanaeum, of which I am in charge" Urag announced, closing his ornately bound book and carefully yet firmly placing it atop the old wooden desk in front of him. "You might as well call it my own little plane of Oblivion. Disrupt my Arcanaeum, and I will have you torn apart by angry Atronachs. Now, is there anything I can help you with?"

These wizards just love their little threats, a small, irritated voice in Aelfwynn's head observed dryly. She could not help but be reminded of certain rodents back in High Rock, animals that would deliberately puff themselves up in order to convince their predators they were outmatched.

Behind their stony expressions and promises of power, the College of Winterhold smelled of fear. Their numbers were few, their castle crumbling around them, and outside their failing walls was a nation of Nords who resented everything they were. Aelfwynn had been in Skyrim long enough to know that much. Court wizards were either under a form of permanent suspicion like Wuunferth, or at best tolerated between grinding teeth.

"We were hoping you could tell us anything about a Moth Priest," Serana explained. "One that had recently arrived in Skyrim."

"A Moth Priest?!" Urag asked, clearly not expecting the question. "What in Oblivion do you need a Moth Priest for?"

Serana's eyes narrowed slightly. "That's our business. And I'd rather it stayed that way."

Urag returned the stony glare with one no less stern. "Have it your way. He stopped in to do some research at the library, then left for Dragon Bridge. If you hurry, you might catch him there."

"How long ago was this?" Aelfwynn queried.

Urag frowned pensively. "Can't be more than ten days. Like I said, you should be able to catch him there if you move at a decent pace. Imperial Scholars aren't known for hard riding."

"What's the fastest way to Dragon Bridge?" Serana asked, impatient pangs of excitement clear in her voice.

"Hmph," The Orc grumbled thoughtfully. "There's a boy that runs a longboat out of Dawnstar. The 'Sea Squelch', or something like that. Most often he carries food supplies, but occasionally he's been known to carry visitors to and from the College. Now that the snows have set in, I'd say that's your best option."

With their thanks, the Orc swiftly re-immersed himself in his arcane tome, and Aelfwynn and Serana were left to wander the circumference of the College library.

"With all that excitement behind us..." Serana remarked, "I think it's time we got some well-earned rest. We can find out when that boat gets in tomorrow."

Aelfwynn barely heard her. Her eyes were on the bookshelves all around her, her mind desperate to know if any of them might hold the answers she sought.

"I've wanted to see this place since I first arrived in Skyrim," Aelfwynn lied. "I'll be right behind you – I just want to have a look at some of their older Maran manuscripts."

Serana raised an eyebrow, but didn't comment. "If that's what you want… But don't be too long. You've been through a lot since Windhelm. Give yourself time to rest."

Aelfwynn forced a small smile and a nod, watching as Serana turned and walked away. As soon as her companion had turned down the stairwell and vanished out of sight, Aelfwynn immediately moved towards the nearest bookshelf, opening the protective doors and trying to ascertain exactly how the books were arranged.

Her efforts were quickly frustrated. Within a few minutes of her scowling at the spines of several seemingly random tomes placed next to one another, Urag rose to his feet, his chair screeching with annoyance as he did so.

"Alright – what exactly are you looking for?"

"I'm struggling a little with your system here. Are your books arranged by subject, by author or by title?"

"No," Urag growled as he gradually approached.

Aelfwynn stared at the old Orc blankly for a moment. "I'm sorry?"

"They're not arranged in any of those ways," The white-bearded Orc answered. "Look around this room. Do you really think the sum total of the knowledge of centuries could be mundanely organised along these scant walls?"

He certainly had a point. Though the circular chamber was covered in bookcases, there could not have been more than a few hundred volumes – hardly a worthy contender for Skyrim's most prestigious bastion of knowledge.

Urag grabbed the small iron handles of each of the bookshelf doors, closing them with a definite click.

"It's protection as much as convenience," The Orc explained. "Try opening the doors again – but this time, keep a firm picture in mind for whatever exactly it is you're looking for, a particular scholar or a specific approach to magical study, for example."

Aelfwynn did as she was bid, putting her hands against the doors and saying the words in her mind.

A cure. Show me the cure for Vampirism.

When Aelfwynn opened the glass doors, she immediately noticed the change. The patterns of spines across each shelf were entirely different. After a moment's examination, she also noted the chaotic, even random subjects of each work had also vanished, the words 'Vampire' and 'Daedra' now occurring with undeniable frequency.

Urag peered at the newly formed display for a moment, his expression unfathomable behind the impassive tusks.

"Hmph," he finally grumbled. "Good luck."

So Aelfwynn began her task. She started out merely picking the first books which came to hand from the shelves, flicking through their pages to see if they held any relevance for her. Years of searching for specific lessons through the dry, dusty and dull tomes beneath Daggerfall's Maran temple had seemingly not been wasted, and within a relatively short period of time, she had selected a dozen or so volumes which seemed the most promising. Aelfwynn gathered the tomes into a pile, carrying them over to the nearest wooden desk and placing them carefully atop its surface, painfully aware of Urag's ever-watchful eye fixed on her all the while.

Time began to spiral away from Aelfwynn as she lost herself in each work. She could feel her hands trembling ever so slightly from exhilaration as she turned the pages, the feeling that at any moment the next sentence might contain what she was looking for, and bring the living nightmare to an end. One book passed, then another. As Aelfwynn read further and further, she grew frustrated at the vague and ill-defined allusions to the subject. Any references to a vampire cure consisted of hardly the course of a sentence here and there. They mostly reported rumour and hearsay, fanciful tales relating to dramatic acts of divine intervention, witches in the wilds of Cyrodiil or other, equally improbable means.

Aelfwynn's hopes were starting to fail as she concluded yet another such text, setting it aside and unenthusiastically tugging the next one from her diminishing pile of hope. As she pried open the worn, blandly bound book (it was too thin by half to be referred to as a 'tome'), a stale smattering of dust erupted into the air.

Outnumbered and isolated, I yielded to my foe. The creature dressed like a gentleman, and I hoped for honourable treatment. Instead, I found myself a feast for a blood-drinking monster.

Aelfwynn blinked in surprise, turning back the page to examine the provenance of the work more closely. In contrast to all that had come before it, this work appeared to be written by a vampire. The title read 'Galur Rithari's Papers', and for a moment Aelfwynn was slightly confused as to why she had even selected it from the shelf, with such a vague title. Reading the preface, it seemed the original writer was a Dunmer from the second era, serving as something known as a 'Buoyant Armiger' in the service of Morrowind's Tribunal Temple.

The first pages dealt with the man's transformation, and after noting the first pangs of recognition, Aelfwynn began to skim ahead. She hardly needed a reminder. Yet her mind snapped back into focus as she noted a change in the prose:

Shamed by my corruption, and despairing of my own welfare, I passively acquiesced in my gradual integration into the affairs of Clan Aundae. I made no human my prey, only beasts, and kept myself apart from the other clan-kin; nonetheless, I abandoned hope and lived like a beast.

If Aelfwynn was still mortal, she would have felt her heart thumping faster in her chest. The man's remorse and despair were palpable, so different to her own experience after her turning, but so reminiscent of her current state of mind.

Drawn by intimations of my former life, I visited my former post at Bal Ur, hoping perhaps to atone in some manner for my crimes by preying upon its monsters, or perishing under their attacks. It is there that, by chance, I made petition to the Lord of Troubles, Molag Bal, at an altar deep in the caverns beneath the pilgrim's shrine. I was surprised, and thrilled, and terrified, when Molag Bal, or some aspect or agent of that Daedra Lord, offered me a chance to cure myself of vampirism, in return for a favour. However, with no hope for my soul or spirit unless I might be cured, I undertook his quest.

The quest in question appeared to centre around the retrieval of a mysterious, 'cursed' soul gem from a cavern on Vvardenfell, before returning it to the shrine of the Daedric prince of domination.

Aelfwynn rose from the table, hurriedly requesting the use of some parchment and ink from Urag before furiously beginning to make notes on the key details of the manuscript, copying the details of the ritual itself verbatim:

I placed the gem within the basin before the altar, and instantly experienced a blinding of pain and terror that I cannot express in words, except that it seemed afterward that I had been asleep and dreaming that I was being sliced by thousands of tiny knives from my bowels inside out. I awoke before the altar, and gazed in the reflection of my own sword blade at my own face - no longer a blood-seeking beast of teeth and empty eyes.

"Mara's mercy…" Aelfwynn whispered under her breath. "This could be it."


Once again, the dark passageway came to an end.

This time, the cavern fell away from the path, which had now become a narrow causeway overlooking another open chamber. Jon barely managed to stop himself before walking headlong into Thonnir, who had suddenly halted ahead of him. His companion was peering over the precipice into the cavern below, a look of firm concentration on his face. It did not take Jon long to determine exactly what it was that had so grabbed his attention. For the first time since the trio had descended into the depths of Movarth's lair, there was light in the room. More than that, Jon could see that the light appeared to emanate from a series of candles, perched atop an utterly incongruous ornate dining table, which stood atop a wooden platform slightly raised from the cave floor. Along its surface were plates and goblets as if set for a banquet. Empty chairs were neatly dotted around it, unremarkable except for that at the table's head, which strongly resembled many of the stone thrones Jon had seen in ancient Nord structures. There were no sounds, no movement apart from the flickering candlelight below.

He turned to Idgrod behind him, silently asking for confirmation. Idgrod nodded. As far as she knew, the incongruous sight before them was real.

The three companions followed the path, snaking around the outskirts of the chamber before entering another tunnel, curving downwards towards the lower floor of the cavern. Thonnir had his crossbow loaded and raised, and Idgrod's hand was gripped on the sliver dagger at her waist. Whatever trap awaited them, they were determined to be ready.

But again frustratingly, maddeningly – none came.

The chamber opened up, and Jon slowly moved towards the empty table. To his surprise, there seemed to be several examples of genuine food atop it, apples, bread and slices of venison and bottles of what appeared to be wine. He circled the table warily, Thonnir and Idgrod close behind, watching the floor, walls and even the ceiling for any sign of ambush. He had learned the lessons of this place well.

"You've arrived," a dry, neutral voice observed as Jon returned to the head of the table. Jon's head snapped around. From where only moments ago he would have sworn there was nothing, a man sat sipping from one of the goblets. The pallor of his skin immediately exposed his vampirism, as did his hard eyes, the colour of clotted blood. As a living man, Jon would have placed him at no less than forty, the flecks of silver behind his temple betraying the few remaining signs of his former mortality. The top of his head was bald, the remainder of his hair draped around the top of his head like an empty crown.

By his side, an old war blade leaned against one of the arms of the throne. Jon's eye was not only drawn to its antique design however, but to how exquisitely it had clearly been maintained. He could not make out so much as a single tarnished mark, nor a sign of dullness to its edge.

Jon knew who this must be.

"You knew what awaited you," Movarth continued, failing to lift his gaze from directly in front of him. "You knew the things you would face, yet you came nonetheless."

As the vampire spoke, Jon became convinced he was rather pleased by the notion.

"Is this another one of your games, then?" Jon asked, a measured anger in his voice. "You invite us to sup at your table, we discuss the matter like civilised men?"

"I've never been known as one for foolish frivolities," Movarth countered. "To the contrary, everything you have experienced since arriving in Hjaalmarch has been carefully tempered to further my goals."

"What is he talking about?" Thonnir demanded.

Jon just scoffed. "If you meant to lure the townsfolk into your lair vampire – I'm afraid your plan has fallen apart at the seams."

Movarth shook his head. "I do not have the time to waste, stamping on rats as they flee. They can await their fate in their own time. Unlike many of my brethren - I am only interested in worthy opponents."

"And Alva?" Jon asked curtly. "What would you call that, if not some sick game?"

"Your anger blinds you, hunter. Alva's eyes were my eyes. Her ears, her hands and her blood – all instruments of my will."

"She won't be helping you any longer," Jon pointed out defiantly, even as he felt a shiver down his spine.

"A necessary loss," Movarth dismissed with a nonchalant wave, as if her death meant nothing to him. "I have a far greater prize in mind."

"And what could that be, I wonder..." Jon murmured.

"There's a war coming hunter," Movarth diverted, taking another drink from his goblet.

Jon narrowed his eyes. "I'd noticed, vampire."

Movarth looked at Jon for a moment, before his lips curved upwards into the ghost of a smile. He let out a mirthless chuckle. "Oh, you mean you and your Dawnguard friends? No. You mortals aren't participants in this war, hunter. You never were."

Jon tightened his grip on his sword. "I wouldn't count the Nords out just yet."

"Mortal-kind is already doomed," Movarth insisted. "There are greater forces at work than you know. The war I speak of is between who rules the world born out of its blood."

"Harkon."

The goblet paused in Movarth's hand. "You know of him? The would-be king…" Movarth practically spat the words.

"Where is he?"

"You'll know that soon enough," Movarth assured him. "As soon as you and the woman join us. Her gifts will be most useful in the battles ahead. As for the other one… his life is of no consequence."

Jon put a hand in front of Thonnir's chest, preventing him from swiftly descending upon the seated vampire. This was not a time for rash action.

"You think, after all this – we would join you willingly?" Jon asked in disbelief.

"Oh no. You see I know you, hunter. I know you far better than you might think. You'll fight until the end. And I wouldn't want it any other way."

"You might just regret that," Jon threatened.

Movarth's eyes finally lifted, carefully examining Jon. "I spent a life-time hunting the children of the night," Movarth explained. "I travelled from the frozen lakes of Skyrim to the deepest forests of Valenwood, and wherever I found vampires I slew them. It was my sole purpose, my reason for being. I probably know your heart better than you do yourself. What drives you. What forces you out into the cold night after night… And I know how the journey ends. Here. With me."

If the vampire was trying to manipulate him, Jon could not fathom the reason. After everything he had been through since arriving in Morthal – it was hardly as if a sob story or declaration of kinship would lessen Jon's determination, and surely this miserable creature knew it.

"You chose this?" Jon asked. "You chose to become a monster, betray everything you stood for?"

Jon could see Movarth's jaw tighten ever so slightly. "Not quite. In fact, I was the one who was betrayed. Double-crossed by a man I had come to trust, and for a few precious moments I allowed my guard to laspe." Movarth chuckled mournfully. "In the end, I was merely the prey of a far more audacious hunt."

"When I awoke it had all become clear – the hypocrisy of my life. Like the vampires - I killed without regret, without remorse. I would go to any lengths to achieve my goal and ensnare my target, because I believed my cause was just, my vengeance true. Even though I became as nocturnal as they, as lustful in my pursuit of spilled blood. All the while the good citizens of Tamriel sang my praises - hailed me a hero. But I was a monster long before I became what I am now. This state has merely allowed me to pursue a more… honest existence. The world is divided into those who have strength, power – and those who do not. Morality, honour... the little lies we tell ourselves to believe ourselves above the likes of beasts and monsters. To believe that we can be heroes – like you."

At the edge of the candles' light, Jon could see several pairs of red eyes appearing out of the darkness all around him.

"I'm sorry to disappoint you," Jon replied, stepping away from the table. "But I'm no hero. I never was. I'm an exile, a failure and a disappointment." Surprising even himself, Jon actually smiled. To tell the truth, I'm just a bard."

For the first time since he had arrived, Jon saw a flicker of confusion in Movarth's expression.

"Then why are you here, bard?!" The elder vampire spat.

Jon shook his head. "Because I'm going to stop you. Because it's not important if the skalds sing my praises, call me a hero. Sometimes right, is just right. Simple as that. Whether I live or die, in the end that's all that matters."

Jon saw something then, emerging in Movarth's eyes. Comprehension, possibly even respect. For a moment, it seemed almost as though he was remembering the ghost of another life. Then he stood, lifting the old blade beside him.

Movarth slowly emerged from the table, starting to circle Jon with a stalker's gait. "After I turn the people of Morthal into cattle – I hope that somewhere, in those addled minds of theirs they remember what you tried to do."

Then Movarth struck, and the battle began.

The ring of steel rang out as Jon caught the blow on his silver sword, knocking Movarth's blade to one side before launching a ferocious series of slashes towards the elder vampire.

All around the three Nords, the red eyes in the darkness had formed a shrinking circle, all clad in shadowy black armour and clutching a variety of vicious-looking weapons. As soon as Movarth attacked Jon, Thonnir fired a bolt into the throat of one of the monsters, and a moment later Idgrod had nocked a barbed arrow and shot it into the leg of another, which fell to one knee with an angered cry.

But the initial skirmish was over as quickly as it had begun. Idgrod only got the chance to fire a single additional arrow before she and her companions were closed in by the advancing circle, falling on them with tooth and claw. Idgrod discarded her longbow in favour of her silver dagger, slashing towards the nearest vampire's throat. A clawed gauntlet suddenly gripped the back of her shoulder, dragging her backwards for a moment before Thonnir's axe cut the vampire's arm clean in two. He gave her a brief nod, before both warriors moved in unison to stand back to back, stubbornly defying the oncoming tide.

As Jon's duel continued, it became clear the Nord was outclassed. Movarth's ancient blade moved like an extension of his arm, every blow fluid and precise as it probed for a gap in his defences. Jon had to exert considerable energy just to keep each strike at bay, channelling every lesson he'd learned from hours of daily training with his Dawnguard mentors. However, Jon had one further advantage. As he fought, he kept his torch burning in his left hand, and his opponent would instinctually recoil whenever Jon thrust it towards him. It kept Movarth from gaining the upper hand, at least for the moment.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jon could see the trap closing around his friends. Idgrod and Thonnir were valiantly striking out at the vampires all around them, but it was clear they would be overwhelmed in mere moments. He needed to get them out of the open.

In a desperate move, Jon threw his torch underneath the wooden dining table, switching to a two-handed grip on his blade. With any luck, Movarth would merely think he was trying to increase his chances to break through his opponent's defences.

Jon was in luck. Within seconds a trail of smoke began to fizzle into existence from the dry wooden platform, which swiftly became a spreading inferno. For a moment every vampire staggered backwards in fear, and Jon made sure not to waste the opportunity.

"Fall back!" He shouted, motioning for Idgrod and Thonnir to flee back towards the passageway from which they had entered. They did as he bid without question, only stopping to grab their weapons from the ground before leaping across the burning table. As soon as they were across, Jon moved to follow. To his surprise, Movarth did not pursue him, though Jon could see his furious brood already moving around the inferno towards him.

Jon saw his friends plunge into the darkness of the tunnel, and prayed they would head up to the ledge above them. From there, they might have a chance to hold the coven at bay. Jon slowed his retreat, facing the vampires which chased them with his sword held ready as he began the climb.

The first of the vampires to reach him swung wildly at Jon with a flail, hissing venomously as she did so. Jon ducked the blow, slashing at her legs and cutting them out from under her. The vampire shrieked, collapsing as her legs began to smoke hideously. Within moments, two more vampires were almost upon him, Jon caught the first one's sword on his own, but cried out in pain when the other's slashed his thigh. Jon staggered backwards, clutching the wound with one hand.

Then Jon felt the knife in his back.

As his unseen assailant wrenched the blade from him, Jon fell to his knees, unable to breath as the air was forced from his lungs. Through bleary eyes, he saw Movarth Piquine walking in front of him, a bloody ebony dagger held between his fingertips.

Behind Movarth, Jon could see a dozen shadows approaching, black silhouettes with bleeding eyes, painted onto a canvas of flame. He felt as though he were underwater, it seemed to take both an enormous amount of time and effort just to swivel his head round to look in horror at the blackness behind him, which his friends had vanished into only moments before.

This is it, Jon thought. Journey's end.

He heard the distorted sounds of laughter echoing around him as he struggled to draw breath, to hold onto the life energies that were now ebbing away from his battered body.

No, not like this. A Nord should die on his feet, fearlessly staring his foe in the eye. When Jon's father told him tales of the warriors of Clan Battle-Born through the ages, his ancestors burst through the gates of Sovngard with a defiant cry on their lips.

If he couldn't honour proud Olfrid in name any longer, he could do so in one last deed.

Jon felt a rising fury within him, the roar of a hundred generations of Nords demanding he fight to his last breath. With every ounce of strength he had left, Jon raised his sword once more towards the shadow in front of him, tearing downwards with a defiant cry.

Even as Movarth stepped backwards to neatly avoid the blow, the laughter stopped. Jon clumsily lifted his right foot, forcing it to support his weight before stumbling unsteadily onto his feet.

Jon struck at the vampires all around him, enduring the searing pain of every blow they gave him in return. With every stroke, Jon imagined Thonnir and Idgrod gaining precious feet away from them. In this moment he dared not consider any other possibilities of what may have awaited them in the watchful dark.

He fought until his legs buckled, until he could feel the hot rivers of blood running over his skin, and until finally, reluctantly, his blade slid from his grasp. Movarth knelt on the ground before him, placing his hands atop Jon's shoulders, holding him firm. Jon held his gaze as long as he could, before Movarth's head sprang forwards, and Jon felt the sharp pain shooting through his neck.

As Jon's vision darkened, he kept his eyes focused on the bonfire ahead of him. Even as his consciousness fled, he swore he could see great tendrils of flame extending above the blaze.

Jon faded away, and the sound of screams went down with him into dreamless sleep.