The heavy gates closed shut behind them like the jaws of a dragon. Miraak stepped back to avoid a gang of children running home, their little feet slapping against the paved street. Guards leaving duty tugged off their cumbersome helmets for a welcome breath of fresh air. An Imperial blacksmith closed up shop for the night; the clamor and clank of this work sent Miraak's skull ringing like a bell. Everywhere, shouting and laughing and talking, like the droning of a hornet's nest. The sickly smell of cooking meat and smoky hearths filled up his head. Mortals pressed tightly together in so little space. So few places to seek refuge from curious eyes.

Miraak drew his hood forward and took deep and shaky breaths. He froze in front of the gates. It seemed entirely possible he might remain in that state forever, and become a particularly unpalatable statue to mark the entrance to the city, until Aela grabbed his arm and led him up the curve of the leftmost side street. A Redguard beggar crouching near the city wall cursed at them as they passed.

"This district is quieter," she murmured a few minutes later, as they passed by dark wooden houses and the noise behind them had faded to a distant thrum. "The front of the city is a beast that never sleeps. There's always someone going or leaving. It was worse before the Huntsman burned down, when drunkards would stumble out on the streets. Did you happen to notice that burned structure?"

Miraak shook his head, dazed. In the blinding waves of color and light and noise, distinguishing between individual buildings had been impossible.

"Used to be a tavern that sold hunting supplies, right across from old Breezehome. Run by a pair of Wood Elves. Trustworthy, as far as merchants go, though I look down on any hunter who can't fletch his own arrows. They were driven out with the rest of the elves right after Balgruuf was killed. The fear-stricken mobs set their tavern ablaze. Many of their kind have returned since…but those were dark days for Whiterun."

He nodded dumbly, only vaguely hearing her words. There was no clear escape from this city, no refuge to be found among the many dwellings that hugged the swell of the land like barnacles on a sleeping whale. Only Aela's guiding hand kept Miraak from losing his grip on reality entirely. Mounted torches cast long shadows against the sleeping city, and in those patterns of mortal-born darkness Miraak saw two worlds set against him. Oblivion and Mundus. My mind and my body, under siege. Tentacles reaching hungrily, and round lidless eyes, and the squeezing grip of hunger and its companion: talons of frost, scraping away at what little remained. Escape seemed unfathomable. Was there even a light in existence that could penetrate such smothering darkness?

It was mostly guards they ran across now, and these night watchmen only chuckled at the sight of Miraak and offered up their best attempts at humor at the sight of his filthy clothes and downcast face. Not enough of his mind was present to attach meaning to their insults. Aela attacked with those weapons so alien now, her words and icy smile, and more than one man was left sputtering apologies to her brisk shadow. What power she wields, even without summoning Hircine's aspect. Qualities I once possessed, now lost to me: the weight of reputation, the influence of remarkable deeds. Words both whispered and written create heroes out of mere mortals.

It was almost a surprise when Aela pushed him down on the bench. Some part of Miraak had expected them to keep walking forever, as if they'd been trapped in some purgatorial plane of Oblivion. He glanced around dreamily: just behind him, in the center of the square, the gnarled and blackened corpse of a tree. To his left, a crumbling statue of Talos. In front of him…someone had done a poor job of bringing their vessel into port. Have I returned to Solstheim?

"Remain here," Aela ordered, unnecessarily. "I must speak with my shield-siblings."

His eyes tracked her ascent up the shadowed steps of the raised terrace and into the enormous capsized vessel. Bright light poured from windows cut haphazardly along the hull, and atop the structure a stout chimney dutifully pumped smoke. A buzz of muffled laughter reached him. Miraak smelled cooking meat and the sweet headiness of fresh mead, and his stomach growled. A pack of children scurried past the Talos statue, giggling, and were gone before Miraak could fully register their presence.

"Ya hungry, mister?"

Miraak blinked. A young woman materialized before him, her bark-brown hair tied into a neat bun. She wore simple orange robes. Her narrowed eyes demanded answers and nothing less.

She crossed her arms. "Hullo? Got ears, don't you? If ya need a meal, we can get you one. But if ya ain't hungry, hurry up and say so. There's a lotta work to be done around here."

His spinning mind took in her words, where they were lost in a jumble of half-formed thoughts and images, like snow castles blowing away in a blizzard.

"We?"

"Yes, we. The Temple of Kynareth. Y'know, the building about twenty paces that way?" She pointed past the dead tree, but Miraak did not turn to look.

"Kynareth." Miraak licked his lips. He didn't like the taste of that word.

"Okay." The priestess did not look impressed with him. "I don't got time for this. If you want healin' or food, walk to the temple and ask for Lucia. That's me. Don't bother Danica, or I'll make sure every guard from here to the Plains District cites you for lollygaggin'. She's got enough to do as it is."

He managed to snag a thread of sense from his broiling consciousness. "Save your breath. Already fated for the dungeon."

"You're lucky, then. Beggars die on nights like this."

When he looked up again, the girl was gone. Maybe she had been a ghost, the product of his broken mind. There were certainly enough dead in his past to produce countless spirits beyond recognition.

A minute later or an eternity, Aela returned. Miraak recovered enough to recognize the stiffness in her posture, and the composed blankness of her expression. The laughter from Jorrvaskr had stopped. The night abruptly seemed much colder, and Miraak shivered.

"Come," she said, and he followed without having to be led.

Only the thought of a warm cell provided Miraak the willpower to make it to Dragonsreach. Every step sent a jolt of agony through his joints. It felt as if he'd been constantly moving since Vilkas and Farkas had captured him. A fortnight. A year would suit me better. Should the ghost of Helgen now move to haunting this palace's dungeons forevermore? That fate did not seem near as torturous as many he had imagined.

The well-kept doors hardly made a noise when they opened. Soft carpet underfoot, elegant banners draped on polished stones, the lingering scent of a rich feast. Such richness was dizzying after years of squalor and want. The ceiling stretched to Aetherius. The guards here did not stare or comment; they were as silent and still as their master's adornments. Aela paused for none of it, and Miraak followed in her wake like a lost child.

Up the stairs, to the throne room proper: two long tables, cleaned of food, stairways and doors to other areas of the palace, many guards watching beneath their expressionless helmets. The Jarl himself: a great bear of a man, bald and thick, his small eyes crossed by a stripe of crimson warpaint. He wore scaled armor, as if he were prepared to jump into battle at a moment's notice, and was flanked by an equally bald Imperial in fine clothes and a sharp-eyed Dunmer in armor of the finest glass. A queue of two had formed in front of the Jarl's throne.

"We'll be kept waiting," Aela said lowly as the Dunmer took note of the new arrivals and began walking towards them. "Strange for the Jarl to have other petitioners, at this hour. Give me your pack. I will keep your belongings safe, during your imprisonment."

After handing over the pack - Farkas' pack, truly - Miraak looked past her shoulder. There was the woman who had spoken to him earlier, in the orange robes: Lucia. She prepared to speak to the Jarl, her arms crossed. And behind her, in heavy armor of gleaming silver, was…

"Companion." The Dunmer gazed distastefully at Miraak. Her sharp voice pierced his thoughts. "What have you brought us so late in the day?"

"The ghost of Helgen, Irileth." Aela replied. "And grim tidings. A member of the Circle was struck down in battle."

Irileth bowed her head. "You have our sympathies. The Jarl will wish to hear your words."

"Who is it that waits behind the priestess?" Aela seemed tense, for reasons Miraak could not fathom. "That armored warrior of such imposing height."

Irileth half-turned to share Aela's view. "A knight of the...Silver Dawn, I believe he said. The commander of their order, in truth. A Breton named Francois Montrose. Have words of his deeds ever reached Jorrvaskr?"

"Not that I know of. As you said, the hour grows late; I'll try not to keep the Jarl long."

"It would be nice to meet my bed tonight." Irileth chuckled dryly and moved to return to her post. Aela and Miraak shifted closer to the throne, to better hear the words now being exchanged between the Jarl and Lucia.

"Priestess," Hrongar stated, rubbing his forehead. "You last came to me only four days ago. Must we do this again?"

Lucia scoffed. "I'm back 'cause nothin' has changed, except it's a lot colder than we were expectin' it to be. The temple needs more beds, more blankets, more food, more everything."

"The court made a donation to Kynareth's temple just last week. What has become of that gold?"

"Belethor," Lucia spat the name like a curse. "This palace ain't near as secure as ya think it is. He has ears in these walls. Once that skeever knew about your generous offerin', he raised the prices on everything we needed."

Hrongar grumbled, "It is not my place to tell a man how to run his business. Nor shall we keep acts of charity secret, like some damned elven plot. There are other merchants in the city. Maybe barter with those Khajiit your temple has become so fond of."

"That's your answer?" Lucia crossed her arms behind her back, to hide her clenched fists. "The air is killin' children in the streets, Hrongar. Beggars are falling asleep in alleys and never wakin' up. Ya think they give a giant's hairy toe how well armed the guards are, while they're watchin' watch their own toes fall off? I noticed those shiny new swords on the night watch. I wonder how much food we coulda bought with that gold."

Irileth bristled. "Hold your tongue, girl."

"Peace, housecarl. All is well." Hrongar leaned back, regarding Lucia coolly. "Pure-Spring has too loose a leash on you, I think. You are fortunate I've such reverence for the honored gods. Though I've half a mind to tear your temple down and raise a proper shrine to Kyne in its place. The chill takes the weak. That has been the way of Skyrim for thousands of years. You squandered the gold we offered, and now lay the bodies of the dead at my feet? No. That was your folly, priestess, not mine. Now begone."

Miraak could not see Lucia's face. She remained still for a moment, facing the Jarl, and then twisted away, pulling her hood forward to hide her features. She departed Dragonsreach in a rush of footfalls, her worn leather boots padding against the carpets. Commander Montrose had observed the exchange attentively, and turned to watch Lucia leave with a strange light in his gaze.

The knight stood as tall as Farkas had, but Montrose wore polished silver in overlapping plates instead of wolf armor. A simple leather belt held up his heavy satchel and a long dagger at his side, but his primary weapon seemed to be the silver greatsword at his back. His gloves and greaves: silver and tough boiled leather that left not a centimeter of skin exposed. In fact, if Montrose had not clipped his heavy helmet to his belt, Miraak might never have known it was a Breton standing before them.

But by far the most striking adornment was the wolf's head attached to the knight's shoulder. Vilkas. The unsettling sight stirred Miraak's memory of that rapturous night in a way that left him queasy. He might have been reminded of Farkas' orange eyes, lighting up just seconds before his death; but Montrose had replaced the head's eyes with spheres of gleaming silver that seemed to stare accusingly at Aela and Miraak as the commander turned back towards the Jarl's throne.

"Irileth tells me you're concerned about some missing member of your order." Hrongar leaned forward, an obscenely large presence on a throne obviously built for another. "Tell me more."

Montrose spoke with a heavy Breton accent, his words like round little shortcakes drawn from a rosy oven. "A native gentleman, yes. Valgeir Songbird; name like a pampered poet, I know, but he's jolly good with a spear. I sent him out towards old Helgen. I do hope nothing's happened to the poor chap."

"I've never cared much for knightly orders, but I have great admiration for your cause, so you'll have all the help we can offer. The people of Whiterun know that no Daedric presence will be allowed to fester in our lands. It would bring me no greater pleasure than to see all of Skyrim wiped clean of the werebeast filth."

"Swell. Tell me, my good man, would it trouble you overmuch if my company remained in your lovely city while we searched for old Songbird? I espied an inn or two on the walk up here."

"Your presence honors us." Hrongar swept his arm through the air, and Miraak had to fight the instinct to duck. "Dragonsreach has been too empty since my brother's bitter murder. All of his spawn have left the nest. Let my servants house you here, while you look for this lost man."

For a second it appeared as if Montrose might refuse the offer, his broad shoulders tensing slightly. Then he let out a breath, and replied, "Marvellous, marvellous. I'll send word to the others. You're wise to make a friend of the Silver Dawn, my Jarl. Wiser than many rulers I've met."

Hrongar seemed content to bask in Montrose's meager praise, but Irileth cleared her throat. "That matter is settled. Commander, speak to steward Avenicci to make the arrangements. Next supplicant!"

Montrose turned away and walked briskly towards the palace doors, Hrongar's Imperial steward trailing behind him like a hungry duckling. The commander glanced at Miraak and Aela as he passed. He seemed to dismiss Miraak at once as insignificant, a judgement that Miraak himself did not question. But then he leaned in close, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips, and murmured: "Fin Lein Dah Daal, eh?"

The words left Miraak stunned. Montrose withdrew, and his cold green eyes lingered momentarily on Aela and traced the lines of her warpaint. Soon the towering knight was gone, leaving only the faint aroma of boiled leather and sword oil behind.

Hrongar fixed his weary countenance on Miraak and Aela when they approached. "Companion. And this must be the so-called ghost of Helgen. I told everyone there was nothing to those rumors. All I see is a man…or what remains of one."

Aela made a noncommittal sound. "Whatever he is, he won't be bothering the Imperials any longer. Those milk drinkers will be happy to know they can survey the ruins without trouble, now."

"Aye. Though I thought it was your Harbinger and his twin I sent on this little errand. How has it come to pass that you stand before us, and they are nowhere in sight?"

"My shield-brothers were attacked on the road leading to the Guardian Stones. Farkas… succumbed to his wounds."

At this news, Hrongar straightened on his throne. "Unthinkable. A member of the Companions, slain so close to our holdings? Tell me who is responsible for this."

"Vilkas cut down their attacker," Aela reported. That is certainly one way of putting it, thought Miraak. "We are still trying to discover whether or not he acted alone or as part of a larger group."

"Keep us privy to your findings," Hrongar ordered, but seemed to diminish somewhat at the revelation that there was no immediate bloody vengeance to be had. "And send word of when you intend to hold the ceremony for Farkas. He was an esteemed member of my hunting party."

"Of course."

"Also, see Avenicci for your reward for this little distraction."

"What of my prisoner?" Aela inclined her head towards Miraak. "He was quite the handful. I would recommend at least a fortnight in the dungeons, to drive home the severity of his crimes."

"Oh, yes." Hrongar glanced up at a balding Imperial in guard's armor, who was standing vigil in a shadowed corner. "Commander Caius. Throw this stinking vermin in a cell for a few days. Far as I'm concerned, he ain't done much harm. If putting a bit of fear in the Empire's dignitaries was some grave misdeed, I'd be locked up down there with him."

Aela stepped forward, but Miraak approached the Jarl before she had the chance. Something in him awoke, for only a brief second, but it wrenched control free from the scrambling scavenger and sent a single suicidal message through successfully.

He spat blood on Hrongar's face. It dripped across his dark warpaint like a red teardrop. The entire court froze, save for Irileth, who drew her glass sword and stepped in front of the Jarl. Aela looked at Miraak with an expression he could attach no emotions to: her mouth slightly open, her eyes slightly wide.

"A fortnight, you suggested." Hrongar wiped his face with one paw-like hand. "Caius. What day is it?"

"The first of Morning Star, my Jarl."

"This bastard will not see the sky again until Sun's Dawn. And no food for his first two days. Get him out of my sight before I kill him where he stands."

Caius barked orders to his men, and Miraak found himself shepherded none-too-gently towards a doorway shrouded in darkness. The scavenger's cloud had returned to his mind; he offered no resistance. He did look back at Aela, who watched him go with a guarded expression.

A few bruises later, Miraak looked up at a stone ceiling from his resting place in a pile of straw. No bed. That was good. He was accustomed to sleeping without one, and the conversion process was nothing he wanted to deal with presently. This straw was clean, and the cell was somewhat warm, and that was almost enough to distract from the gnawing want in his stomach. How I wish now I had taken Lucia's offer of a meal. I wonder what they are eating, down at her temple?

While Miraak pondered, the scavenger spun webs. Stay still, stay quiet, it whispered. No one will hurt you if you make no trouble. A lie, of course, proven wrong countless times. He was abruptly furious at the scavenger, at the creature's low cunning and petty strategies. It had kept him alive. But had Miraak ever truly lived, since the scavenger came into his mind? Nine years of chewing on scraps, of crouching in the shadows and fleeing at loud sounds. It was all so exhausting.

Only a single guard kept watch. An old Nord with a short gray beard, who sat at a small table and clutched a piece of parchment. Miraak rose from his rest and crawled over to the bars of his cell, ignoring the scavenger's protests.

"D-duh-deh-dear…" The guard's mouth moved as he read. "Dear…"

"Reading a letter?" Miraak asked hoarsely. His throat was dry from want of water.

"Oh, yes." The guard looked up, as if noticing Miraak for the first time. "From my little girl in Solitude. She's studying at that college for music. Writes me letters now and then. Usually the court wizard'll read 'em to me for a few gold, but I don't got the money to spare this time."

"I could read it to you." Miraak's hands tightened on the cold bars. The scavenger howled at this outrage, this inconceivably dangerous act.

"Hrrm." The guard looked up and down the dark passageway of the dungeon, and then returned his attention to Miraak. "Just for nothin, you'd do that?"

"No. Not for nothing. For a bucket of warm water, some soap, a razor, and a looking glass. And…some food and water."

The guard thought it over only for a moment. "Cold water, rusty shears, and I'll hold the glass for ya. And an apple. Commander said no food; I don't dare cross him by giving ya more."

"Very well. The bargain is struck." Miraak offered his hand through the bars. The scavenger sunk its claws in deep, trying to draw him back into the shadows. He bit the inside of his cheek to still its pull. The guard stood from his chair with a groan and clasped Miraak's hand. "Your name is…?"

"Hlormar. No clan name, just plain and simple Hlormar. You got a name? Wouldn't feel right just callin you ghost, heh."

"I am called…Miraak," he replied, and the scavenger died with a whimper, never again to haunt his thoughts.