Dawn's light reached down to the riverside forest and made strange dancing shadows of the tall pines. Mortal voices would only disrupt this fragile, precious moment of Kyne's creation. This was what Jon Battle-Born said, to explain the new silence between his three guests. They ate a quick breakfast and were prepared to leave before the birds began their morning songs. Miraak leaned against a fence post as Lucia watered their mule and Vilkas spoke to Jon.

Thin shoots of grass sprouted out of muddy ground that had only days ago been smothered under mounds of snow. A squirrel peeked out of its stump hole and chittered at the still environs. Miraak pictured thin and drowsy bears emerging from their caves of hibernation, and birds returning north to their former habitats. How easily the world was fooled by a false spring. Return, he urged the grass and the squirrel and any other living thing that dared come out of hiding.

"Please give this letter to Alfhild. And these two, to a city courier bound for Rorikstead. For Olfina's folk." Jon handed Vilkas a few thick envelopes. "Remind Alfhild not to visit 'till winter truly breaks. 'Fina and I will probably see her in Rain's Hand."

"I'll tell her."

"And Harbinger...Vilkas. I'm sorry again, about your brother. I can still scarcely believe it. We were in the middle of a game of Iron Hearts. S'pose we'll have to finish it in Sovngarde."

Vilkas nodded, but Miraak knew his face well enough now to see the strain in the way he composed his features. Does it not exhaust him, to empower such falsehoods with his every word? Will I be able to bear such a burden, when my time comes? His soul was heavy with secrets as it was.

Olfina came out to wave farewell as their small party trudged up the path leading back to the road. "Kyne's blessing on you all! Enjoy the warmth while it lasts."

There might have been wisdom in that: savoring joy, instead of dreading inevitable misery. Miraak only wished he had the strength to seize on such a light perspective. It was all he could do to keep one foot moving in front of the other.

The mule, at least, seemed to be in a cheerful mood. It whinnied and hee-hawed at every traveler they encountered, but Lucia and Vilkas only had eyes for the road ahead, and Miraak followed their example and ignored any friendly words the passing strangers offered. The pines thinned out as they approached Eastmarch and the air grew heavy and wet. Sweat traced lines through the dirt on his face and stung his eyes. His spear, pulling double-duty as a walking stick, began to feel an unbearable weight.

"Two more days." This was all Vilkas said when they made camp on a ridge looking over an earth-smashed area of hissing geysers. Miraak sat on the cliff edge chewing jerky and watching the steam rise. His time in Whiterun seemed like a distant dream, now. He could almost feel his memories changing to smooth out the rough edges. That dungeon cell had been sublime, as long as Miraak did not summon the frigid stone floor, the old discarded food, and the vermin that crept in from the shadows at night to threaten his few possessions. Perhaps his quest to restore the Gildergreen would one day be a fond memory as well. He would learn to forget the hollowness in his heart, born of slaying an Argonian without a name. Or maybe the memory would go but the emptiness would remain, like a wound left by a bound blade.

Revealing his weakness to Vilkas had been a mistake. Miraak resolved to keep a tighter grip on his feelings, lest they doom his chances of acquiring the beast blood. Despite what Sofie and Aela claimed, no one could convince Miraak he would ever rise high in the Companions without Vilkas' approval. There was more to influence than ranks bestowed or boons granted; regard could be granted or withdrawn with a glance, a word, or a laugh of contempt. No band of mortals could exist without a true hierarchy, hidden or not. And somehow, something Miraak had said last night had hurt the one he most desired to please.

Vilkas seemed to wish silence, so that was what Miraak granted him on the arduous and winding path that took them into the damp heart of Eastmarch. More than once they had to double back to find a gentler descent for their weary beast of burden. Lucia occasionally cursed under her breath but said nothing else to either of them. Miraak could certainly understand the fresh animosity she must be feeling towards Vilkas. But what have I done to her? Do I stand guilty by association, merely for wishing to become a warrior of Jorrvaskr? Will she direct this same scorn at Sofie?

"Hold on, all of ya." Lucia held up her hand as they passed an opening in the ground. To Miraak it appeared no different than the dozens of other such cave entrances they'd seen in the past hours. But Lucia squeezed her amulet of Kynareth tightly in her other hand, and said firmly: "This is it."

Winter had never touched the Eldergleam Sanctuary. That was Miraak's first thought after they reached the end of the dripping entrance tunnel, mule-in-tow, and emerged into a lush realm of endless greenery and thriving, untamed life. Their mule locked onto a patch of fresh grass and chewed to its heart content while butterflies fluttered around it without fear. A small river ran throughout the entire cavern, and Miraak could tell even without dipping his toes in that the water would be pleasantly cool to the touch. And towering over it all: the Eldergleam, a thick-trunked sentinel of eternity watching over this sanctuary of Kynareth's majesty, its countless violet petals glistening in the afternoon sunlight like the tears of the gods themselves.

Vilkas sneezed. A thin layer of pollen had already settled on them. Lucia brightened as she took in the offered beauties of her matron.

"Welcome," called a man's voice. An olive-skinned man with a short brown beard approached them from the thin path. His belted tunic and trousers looked well-worn by time, but there was nothing of desperation in the man's manner. "I'm Maurice Jondrelle. Have you come to hear the voice of Kynareth?"

Miraak spoke, "I seek to restore the Gildergreen, in Whiterun. Danica Pure-Spring told me Kynareth could grant us a new sapling to take the place of the dead tree."

Maurice's face closed at the mention of Danica. "An unwelcome surprise. This is not the first time she's sent someone to help restore her precious tree. I'm surprised you're not carrying that cursed dagger of the hags she supplied the Dragonborn."

Internally, Miraak laughed to himself. Still I haunt the Last Dragonborn's footsteps, as he once haunted mine. Yet he had the benefit of a soul undivided. How long until his shattered legacy leads me someplace I cannot follow?

Lucia rubbed her shoulder. "No sap will heal the Gildergreen, this time. The fire reached too deep. Danica had Nettlebane sent away years ago, Maurice, to a place where it could never threaten our Lady again. A museum collector, in Solitude. She understands it was a mistake."

He scoffed. "Leave it to a city priestess to arrive at the right choice after exhausting all possible alternatives."

"Please, ya have to try to understand. Danica was desperate. I was only a girl, but...ya don't know the pressure she was under. Waves of refugees, war widows, wounded soldiers. It was so hard to hear Kynareth's voice over the roar of chaos. Still is, sometimes."

Something in Maurice's expression softened at her words. "I can see you're in dear need of guidance, sister. Something tells me you came here for more than a sapling. If you're comfortable speaking of such things in front of your violent companions?" He eyed Miraak's spear.

"I…" Lucia hesitated, glancing at Vilkas. He grumbled something inaudible and walked off towards the path leading to the Eldergleam. Miraak moved to follow, but Lucia grabbed his wrist. "It's okay. I trust ya, Miraak. Not really sure why, but I do."

"If it helps any," he said, in response to Maurice's glare, "I have only been a man of violence for a few days."

Maurice led them to a patch of wildflowers growing above the crystal stream, and there they sat for awhile while Lucia spoke of her doubts and worries. Any potential fear she might have had of her voice carrying to Vilkas was no doubt allayed by the storm of chirping and tweeting coming from the many-colored birds flitting from tree to tree. Miraak reckoned every flying creature from Eastmarch to Whiterun must have fled to the Sanctuary's warmth.

Lucia spoke quietly, her eyes on the clear water below. "I've been workin' hard for years. Prayin' at the right times, helpin' those in need. It was tough after the Dragonborn died. I'm sure ya heard. Labyrinthian, and all the rest. Suddenly there were fewer hands offerin' aid, and more folks needin' it. S'pose Whiterun doesn't seem too attractive with dozens of orphans and one less Gildergreen."

"You may not remember, but matters were much the same ten years ago when I first came to Danica inquiring about the health of your resident tree." Maurice smiled wistfully, lost in his own memories. "During the bloodiest months of your civil war. I may have been too harsh on her. Little wonder she was pushed to such desperation. Thank the Eight that Nettlebane is far out of reach, this time. Do you believe a new Gildergreen will attract more priests to your temple, child? Will the winds of the goddess, heard anew, provide the salvation you seek?"

"Well, I'm sure more help will come. I'm doin' this for Danica, so she can have a rest. But...I don't know if it will be enough for me."

Maurice hummed thoughtfully. "Tell me. Do you know the essential difference between the Divines and those foul lords of Oblivion, the Daedra?"

What does this monk know of my old masters? Miraak tore his attention from the cavern's beauty to listen in. Lucia shrugged helplessly.

"Desperation leaves one in a vulnerable state, as Danica learned all too well. Such weak souls are the favored victims of the Daedric Princes. They answer that desperation with ungodly power, and in doing so, ensnare their worshippers for lifetimes or more. I suspect that is why you have come here, Lucia. You expect Kynareth to fill the bitter hole inside you, but she cannot provide such an easy solution."

"So what, then?" Lucia wrung her hands. "I just go on doin' what I've been doin', until I drop dead of exhaustion ten years from now?"

"Now, now, let's not get carried away." Maurice put a hand on her shoulder. "Though our Lady will not provide all the answers, as we bask in her beauty we can ponder whether or not you're asking the right questions of yourself in the first place. Guidance for your soul, child, without surrender of it. Is it possible your journey as a city priestess has run its course? Change can be a powerful salve for the soul, in the right dosage."

She bit her lip. "I have been thinkin' of followin' another path. I've been talkin' to someone I think could make a real difference for the poor folk of Whiterun."

Guidance without surrender. Ha. Little wonder that the Divines possessed such meager powers, throwing around weak platitudes such as this. How worthy could Kynareth be, if her strength did not seem to extend beyond the boundaries of this isolated sanctuary? For five years the Gildergreen had stood ugly and charred in the center of a city founded by followers of this so-called goddess, and in all that time she had done nothing to heal the wounded symbol of her divinity. But Miraak had witnessed the gifts of Hircine firsthand, and there was no doubt in his mind which deity was more deserving of reverence.

Miraak stood, his knees popping, and left the two followers of the Divines to their inane conversation. He brushed a butterfly off his shoulder as he trudged through the brush towards the path Vilkas had taken. The novelty of the Eldergleam Sanctuary was wearing off quickly.

"An easy solution, this monk claims," Miraak muttered darkly. "Let him rot in Apocrypha for thousands of years in the grip of Hermaeous Mora. Let him be shattered into pieces. Damn you, it has never been easy!"

Vilkas stepped out from behind a tree. "You'll want to get a handle on that. Talking to yourself, I mean. Whelps sleep a dozen to a room, and though there'll be enough noise to spare, I'm guessing you don't want your dark secrets leaking out in the night."

"From what I have witnessed of you people," Miraak replied. "I will be in fine company." A bead of sweat ran down his neck. I must watch my tongue, now that I so seldom find myself alone.

"Hermaeous Mora, was it?" Vilkas asked as they continued on the path, as if they were comparing birthsigns. A shiver of unease went through Miraak's gut. "Certainly explains the breadth of your knowledge. I have trouble believing you suffered under him for millennia, though. From what little I have read of Mora, no mortal soul could have survived that."

How closely he blunders to the truth. "You saw what remained of me, in Helgen. I was fortunate. Your own Daedra seems to be treating you far better."

Vilkas took a sharp breath through his teeth and stopped. He looked around, as if he'd suddenly remembered where he was. "No. No more of that. It seems wrong to speak of such darkness in a place like this. I'm sorry I brought it up."

My, my, Vilkas. Sensitive, are we? Miraak wondered if Vilkas had ever even thought of himself as a worshipper of a Daedric Prince, or if the concept was too painful to even consider. It would be interesting to see how the perspectives of the other members of the Circle differed if he ever got the chance to speak with them on the matter. Might they all be as shy as Breton brides, dancing around the bloody truth of their existence lest it topple the Companion's charade of honor? Aela had seemed fairly comfortable talking of Hircine, on the short journey he had shared with her.

"Tell me something, Miraak." Their path was blocked by heavy roots. "The werewolf we faced at Valtheim. Could you describe it to me?"

"Hmm. Slightly larger than you are now, but much smaller than you were at the Guardian Stones. Matted brown fur. Yellow teeth. In dire need of a good bath. That is all I remember."

Vilkas crossed his arms, clearly agitated. "Nothing about its face? Or its ears, maybe?"

"Nothing." Miraak turned to see Lucia coming up the path to join them. He lowered his voice. "Though now I understand why you tried to speak to it. You believe that beast was one of the Circle?"

"No. Of course not. They would never dare hunt so brazenly in the light of day. And...we'll not speak of the beast blood again. You should never have learned of it in the first place."

Oh, we will speak of it again, Harbinger. When I stand before you prepared to receive Hircine's gift and join your pack.

"Let's get this over with," Vilkas said when Lucia joined them. "I want to start the journey back before sunset. How do we remove these roots, priestess?"

She pointed to the closest tree. "Just stand over there and don't stab anything. Miraak, c'mere."

Miraak rubbed his shoulder. "Me?"

"Yah, you. It's your little quest, ain't it? Take off your glove and put your hand on the root. See? Like I'm doin'."

He reluctantly copied her action. The root felt thick and fibrous under his naked fingers. Doubtful that even a steel sword could get through it.

"Do you feel it?"

"Feel what? The root?" Miraak shifted his hand around, but the texture was much the same no matter where he touched.

"No, stupid. Kynareth. Do you feel her presence?"

A shiver ran down Miraak's spine. He had little desire to let another phantom entity into his mind. "We stand alone here, Lucia. I do not understand you."

She sighed. "No wonder. You're as closed off as a Thalmor trainee. My goddess won't help ya unless ya let her. Put down your shield, Miraak."

He huffed. "I swear I heard Maurice speak of guidance without surrender. How do you expect me to conform to your contradictions?"

"Was it surrender when ya let me cut your hair? Or pick out your clothes? There's a place between paranoia and submission. Can be tough to find it, but it's surely there."

Miraak grumbled, but closed his eyes and tried to find the medium she spoke of. He expected the dragon to be salivating in anticipation as he let his guard down, but the monster seemed strangely subdued. Is it trying to lull me into complacency? It will surely strike as soon as I open my mind. But Lucia had not led him astray thus far, and he was strong enough now to be confident in his ability to fight off the dragon. Very well. It is not as if this dalliance with a Divine will alter my ultimate goals.

And he did feel something: a warm aura pulsing just beyond the grasp of his consciousness, like a mother's heartbeat heard from the womb. The sensations of the Eldergleam Sanctuary came into sharp focus: the aroma of a thousand different flowers filled his nostrils, birdsong swelled in his ears, and he tasted sweet honey on his tongue. For a moment he was no longer Miraak once-Dovahkiin, but a Nord-shaped expression of life standing amidst an endless green forest of his brothers and sisters. But there was still the root beneath his tingling fingers, impossibly solid...and yet open to yielding. He asked it to do so and stumbled back as his vision cleared and the root lifted from their path. Why would something so strong give way to let the weak pass?

"You did it!" Lucia grabbed his hand and grinned. "Ya felt her, didn't ya?"

"I certainly felt something," he replied, and to his surprise, a breathless laugh escaped him. "Strange, to have something in my head that does not wish me harm."

She squeezed his hand. "Ya got a lot to learn, Miraak."

Vilkas scuffed the ground with the side of his boot. "Three roots to go. Can we move this along?"

Miraak could not read the expression on Vilkas' face as he watched them commune with Kynareth and part the roots. Did he long for a connection with the Divines, forbidden to him because of his beast blood? Or did he look down on all gods with equal scorn?

Miraak felt almost drunk by the time they reached the Eldergleam itself, and he stumbled forward to brace himself against its trunk.

"Careful there," Lucia cautioned him, an edge to her voice. "The goddess ain't above sending Spriggans to protect her children."

So Kynareth does have teeth, after all. As interesting as it might be to be attacked by a Divine, Miraak decided now was probably not the best time. He stepped back and looked up at the transcendent tree as Lucia knelt before it.

"You are asking for the sapling?"

"Yup. And it ain't like bartering for apples at the market, so hush up."

"Might I ask?"

Lucia blinked and turned to look at him. "I've been her priestess for years, and I'm not even sure she'll listen to me. Communin' with one of the Eight ain't somethin' you pick up in twenty minutes."

Miraak drummed his fingers against his thigh. "Can I try, at the least? As you said, this is my quest."

She rose. "Sure, give it a whack. Just don't get mad if it doesn't work. Like I said, Spriggans. Big and nasty fellas."

At first, everything seemed to be going well. He felt the warm presence, as before, and the hard lines of his individuality faded into the ocean of life around them...but when he pushed forward the concept of a sapling, the idea slipped between his fingers like a handful of melting snow. He tried to hold on to it again and again, but each time: the same disappointing result. Miraak was distantly aware of sweat running down his face. Why? Why do you deny me this simple gift, Kynareth?

You stand divided, child of Akatosh.

Miraak gasped and nearly lost his grip on the vision. The dragon. Just as he suspected, it must have been waiting for an opening to strike. But where were the teeth? Where was the hatred?

You must know yourself again. All of yourself. One who does not know his own life cannot hope to embrace another.

"I cannot let it in," he whispered. "It will kill me, I know it will. But when I have my new power, I will be powerful enough to get rid of it. Once and for all."

A path of certain self-destruction. You hope to kill that which is a part of yourself. Hircine is no savior to mortalkind. Let this not be another lesson of agony, the last in a long line.

Kynareth withdrew from his mind, and Miraak scrambled back panting like an old warhound.

Lucia leaned down and gripped his shoulders. "Mara's mercy, are ya okay? I've never seen someone affected like that. Must have been a powerful vision."

He looked past her to the empty ground in front of the Eldergleam. "Not powerful enough to earn a sapling, it seems. You had best start your own communion, quickly. Vilkas will be growing impatient."

She regarded him worriedly for a few moments but then turned to her work. Miraak collapsed on the soft grass, his heart still racing like a Dwemer piston. Even Kynareth does not understand. How could a Divine know anything of suffering? No mere man can stand against the dragon. I walk the only true road left to me.

By the time he collected himself and stumbled to his feet, Lucia cradled a pink-leafed sapling in her arms. He ran a finger down one of its tiny branches and nodded.

"Little cutie, ain't she?" Lucia smiled, but there was still a trace of worry in her expression. "Come on, let's get goin'. Maybe our little friend here can cheer even Vilkas up."