You could say this for the Silver Dawn: they knew how to entertain a room. Ruthnasi Thiralas found it difficult to tear her attention from the Senche-raht that moved smoothly down the line of waiting applicants like a dreugh gliding through dark waters. Still, she refused to take any of the sweets filling the baskets at his sides, though her stomach rumbled from want of breakfast and the honey-glazed concoctions looked more inviting with every long minute that passed. The other souls in queue, most of them Nords, could not get enough of the treats. Sigurd, the young man who worked in that dreadful Breton's shop, stood just ahead of her with sticky hands. These fetchers must really be desperate if they're letting sugar-stained children apply.

Ruth was grateful the other distraction of the lodge kept any of these applicants from pestering her with questions about her purpose in queuing. On the other side of the round chamber from the line and the recruitment desk, two knights made a show of sparring. Though such barbarity was of little interest to her, even Ruth had to admit the golden-haired twins made for a formidable sight. No doubt they represented some Nord ideal of strength and glory, with sweat pouring from their muscular forms as they pounded away at each other with blunted blades.

"Falling in love, Battle-Born?" Nazeem's loathsome spawn threw the question at young Lars Battle-Born, who waited behind Ruth. "They're not going to kiss you just because you signed up for their club. You got your candy. Now run back home before your milk spoils."

"Shut up, Braith." Lars tried to wipe his own sticky hands clean on his tunic but only succeeded in leaving an unsightly stain. "You don't know anything. Being a knight is about honor and loyalty, not kissing and sweets. I admire them."

Braith hovered at his back like an ancestor spirit. "Oh, I can see you admiring them. Anyways, all you learned about knights probably came from a storybook. The Silver Dawn wants men, Battle-Born, not children trying to be something more."

"I've been a man for a full year. I'm even growing my beard out, look."

She glanced towards the sparring twins as Lars twisted to display his chin. "Not seeing anything there. I hope you don't plan to show that off to Lucia at the desk. I don't think it'll work as an application fee."

Ruth felt a pang of pity for Lars when his face twisted with despair. "Wait. There's a fee? The poster didn't say anything about that! Do you have any gold I could borrow, Braith?"

"Nope," she replied, without moving a muscle to check the pockets of her dress. "Guess you'll have to run home for that milk after all, little boy."

"Will you at least hold my spot in line? I've been here all morning."

"Now that wouldn't be very fair to the others waiting, now would it?"

Poor boy. Though Ruth had only called Whiterun home for four years, one didn't have to linger long in the city to learn that Braith had Lars Battle-Born wrapped around her finger. She was not surprised when Lars tapped her on the shoulder a few moments later.

"Uh, Ruth? It's me, Lars. Not sure if you noticed me waiting behind you. I buy stuff from your stall sometimes. Like netch jelly? Though no matter how much I rub it on my muscles, they don't seem to be getting any bigger. Just wanted to let you know, in case you imported a bad batch or something. But, err, that isn't what I wanted to ask about. Are you still listening?"

Braith snorted. Ruth replied, "Yes, Lars."

"Could I, uhh, borrow ten septims? I promise I'll pay you back right after I apply to the Dawn."

"There's no application fee. Your little friend is playing with you, sera. And not for the first time."

Braith's laugh drew the attention of the others waiting in line, and even the dueling Nords glanced her way. Lars stood jaw agape before his face turned as red as a Valentia apple.

"Why are you even here, Braith?" He hissed. "Not to join the Dawn, I know that. You'd never be able to handle a real job. Doubt you've earned a single septim in your life."

The mirth left her face in an instant. "Shut your mouth. I do plenty of things. I'm just not stupid enough to swear myself to some silly werewolf-killing guild when werewolves are long gone. You're signing up to fight myths, stupid. It's probably all some sort of scam."

S'argo sidled up to the queue and spoke, "Khajiit hopes all is well between the young ones?"

Ruth's hand went to her throat and she shifted so the four-legged knight entered her peripheral vision. She hadn't noticed S'argo getting closer.

Lars pointed at Braith. "She says all the werewolves are dead."

"If only it were so." S'argo's tongue ran across his sharp teeth. "Our commander slew one of the vile creatures whilst hunting with Jarl Hrongar, quite recently. At Valtheim. Are you familiar with the towers?"

"Well, duh," replied Braith, just as Lars fervently shook his head.

"They stand only a day's ride from the city gates. S'argo believes the werewolf was heading in this direction, and they often run in packs. So young Battle-Born has the right of it, this one is sad to say. The abominations of the Daedra are alive and well in this hold. It is the duty of the Silver Dawn to rectify this at any cost."

"Wow," Lars breathed. Braith rolled her eyes but offered no snide remark. Ruth did not realize how tightly she was clutching her amulet of Azura until S'argo withdrew with a deep bow of his head.

"Well, I got more important things to do than watch you make a fool of yourself." Braith shouldered Lars aside and made for the door. His eyes followed her before he turned back to the line with a sigh.

Minutes passed, and the queue moved forward like a Dwemer piston on a timer. Those at the front were directed through another door leading deeper into the lodge. Eventually, Lucia's voice became audible over the low thrum of conversation, although Ruth could not discern any specific words until Sigurd's turn at the desk.

"Hi, Lucia." Sigurd scratched his chin. "I'm looking to join up."

Lucia replied, "Kinda surprised to see ya here. This is a full commitment, ya know. Just in case you were expectin' to keep workin' for Belethor."

He groaned. "I quit that lousy job a month ago. Not that anyone seems to care. Every day, in the market: 'hey Sigurd, any deals in the shop today? Did Belethor get my weekly order in yet? What time do you close on Loredas?'"

"Well, I'm glad to hear ya stopped puttin' up with his rough treatment. That bastard doesn't deserve your loyalty. And don't worry, it just takes people a little while to get used to change. You've been workin' there for ten years, after all."

"Yeah. Maybe joining the Dawn will convince everyone I'm serious. Speaking of which…"

She pushed some papers forward. "Here ya go. Lemme know if you need more ink for that quill. Don't feel like ya have to lie about being good at fighting. Lots of Nords do. We need builders and bookkeepers just as much as fighters."

She already says 'we' with such confidence. The Lucia that Ruth knew was a hard-headed young priestess of Kynareth, who had pointed that distinctive Nord stubbornness in a direction other than the typical violence. It seemed backward that any race of man should be so fickle with their loyalties, considering how little time they were given in this world. The thought of forsaking Azura for some adventuring company that had only arrived in the city at the turn of the year was nearly nauseating.

Sigurd put down the quill. "That's good to hear, cuz I ain't much practiced with a sword. Good at writing, though. Maybe I could give that a try."

Lucia smiled and arranged his papers into a neat stack. A short Bosmer in her order's armor approached, wearing a grin that brought to mind a serpent preparing to unhinge its jaws. She accepted the documents from Lucia and turned her small dark eyes to Sigurd.

"Go on with Cylfina into the next room, now," Lucia told him. "She'll give ya the oath and all that fun business."

"Oh! Okay." He bit his lip.

Cylfina grabbed his hand, her grin widening. He almost stumbled as she guided him towards the door "Come. You are about to become part of something much greater than yourself. How do you feel about the sight of blood? Just a few drops, is all."

The door closed behind them before Ruth could hear his response. She moved to the desk and lowered her hood.

"Ruthnasi?" Lucia leaned back in her chair and her eyes widened, as if in disbelief. "Kyne's breath, what're ya doin' here? Is somethin' wrong with Alandra?"

"My daughter is well." Ruth took a sheet of parchment out of a pocket of her cloak and smoothed it down on Lucia's desk. "I've come to speak with Francois Montrose. To ask him what in Azura's name this blighted notice was doing on my door."

A hush fell on the lodge at her exclamation; the Nord sisters stopped fighting to look. The Senche-raht was nowhere in sight, but his measured breathing was audible in the tense silence.

Lucia studied the notice, her frown deepening. "There must be some mistake."

"Matters seem very clear to me. This newborn band of barbarians you have so unwisely thrown in with has made a powerful enemy. Our right to worship Azura is guaranteed by the Empire."

"Of course, I-"

"It is only because of the help you've provided my family in the past that I didn't first go to Legate Fasendil in Dragonsreach. I'm sure it would bring you no pleasure to see this lodge stormed by Imperial soldiers on your second day of service."

"Ruth, listen." Lucia held out her hands, and Ruth hesitated only for a moment before resting her own upon them. "We're gonna fix this, okay? Someone here must have messed up."

"So what will be done about it?" It reassured Ruth that Lucia did not hesitate to meet her gaze. Even if every other member of this laughable knight's order was a fool, they had not yet infected Lucia with their ignorance. "This offense cannot go unanswered, child. Over a dozen Dunmer in this city revere the Lady of Twilight. They deserve an assurance that the Silver Dawn will not interfere in our prayers."

"Believe me, no one will accost ya further. I know how hard you all have worked to build a place for yourselves here. I helped build it, after all." Lucia dared to let the corners of her mouth rise slightly, but Ruth withdrew her hands and closed her heart.

"Not good enough. I want Montrose to personally apologize to me, and to swear to leave us alone in the future."

"Montrose?" She swallowed and looked over to the closed door Sigurd had vanished into. "He's awful busy, ya know-"

A silky voice broke into their discussion: "Worry not, young Lucia." S'argo slid into view, a mass of dark fur and gleaming silver plate. "Khajiit will carry the request to our humble commander."

"It was no request." Ruth straightened her back and forced herself to meet S'argo's large green eyes. "If I don't have that apology by the end of the day, tomorrow I will be paying that visit to the Imperials. Azura will have her retribution one way or another."

S'argo laughed softly. "This one knows well that the forgiveness of Daedra is not easily earned. He assures the wise elf that Commander Montrose will consider this tragic misunderstanding with the gravity it is owed. You will have your meeting."

"I'd better." Ruth felt prickles on her spine but did not turn to see the rest of the queue watching her. Maybe this demonstration of the Dawn's folly would convince some of them this order was not worth their time. She walked briskly to the front doors, ignoring Lucia's weak farewell. It was more difficult to ignore the cold stares of the Nord twins as they watched her go.

A young Redguard fell into step beside Ruth when she passed the bustling market. The curved swords at his sides barely moved as he walked, and his dark leather armor fit him so well that not a whisper of sound was heard. A heavy hood left all of his face in shadow save for the tip of his sharp nose. He probably thought himself very sly.

"Benajah," she greeted him. They reached the stairs to the Wind District and passed by a few descending guards. "Shocking, to see you outside of that mead hall."

"Needed some fresh air. How'd your meeting w-with the Dawn go?"

"Better than I imagined. Montrose himself is coming to speak with me."

"Is he? Interesting." Ben paused in the Gildergreen's square, and Ruth slowed her own pace. The pink young Gildergreen looked almost comical planted in the large plot meant for its far more immense predecessor, but she'd noticed over the past day how the younger races seemed to be entranced by the sight of this new tree. Ruth had lost count of how many times she'd nearly run into someone as they paused on their way to the market to stare goggle-eyed at Kynareth's renewed child.

It was all very annoying. Still, Ben had always been a good friend to her in the past. Considering how few of those she had, it paid to let him indulge his childish human whims. Though she could not stop herself from tugging him towards a bench so they did not obstruct the thoroughfare.

Ben cleared his throat after they sat. "Seen any other Redguards enter the city lately?"

"Once again, no. Perhaps if you tell me what sort of trouble you've found yourself in, I might be able to help."

"No, no. I w-w-wouldn't care to draw you into a family matter."

She fought hard not to roll her eyes. He made her feel so ancient at times. "Ben, you were not made for subterfuge. If this were Blacklight, every mer in the city would know your precious secrets by now. We'd be making bets on every Redguard that passed through the front gates."

Though his face remained mostly hidden, Ruth heard the frown in his response. "I've been lying low in Jorrvaskr since Evening Star, and leaving only to complete jobs."

"Yes. That's precisely what has exposed you. After two months of profitable mercenary work, you elect to join the Companions for no reason anyone can fathom. You choose to make less gold and share a room with other sweaty barbarians. And then you stick your head in the snow and start wearing an oh-so-mysterious hood. If you were the protagonist of a mystery work, I would have returned you to the bookstore by now."

"It's called keeping a low profile. Blending in."

"Sera, I can count the number of Redguards that live in Whiterun without taking one of my boots off. You blend in like a Sload at a Thalmor dinner party. Should have come to me if you wanted to really hide. We Dunmer are old hands at the art of intrigue. I'd heard your own people were similarly skilled, but after observing you..."

He stood. "I left all that behind in Hammerfell. I'm a w-warrior, nothing more. Come on, let's get you home. Gonna miss your appointment."

"Very well."

He made a questioning sound as they neared her house. "Say, Ruthnasi. You're pretty...you've traveled to a few places in your life, right? Have you ever heard someone call another person a, uh, joor?"

"Joor? Hmm. I don't believe so. It's not a word in Dunmeris or Aldmeris. Fairly certain it's not Ta'agra, either, though you'd have to ask Kishla in the market or one of the caravans if you wanted to be certain."

"Nah, it's not that important. Just something I heard this morning."

Ben lingered by the door as Ruth searched for her key. She glanced at him. "Something else you need?"

"You sure you w-want to be alone for this meeting?" The fingers of his right hand tapped against one of his sheathed swords. "If the Dawn is threatening your rights as an Imperial citizen, you could probably convince a soldier to act as a mediator."

"Unnecessary." Ruth gave up searching and knocked firmly on the door. "The Imperials have their uses, yes, but I refuse to go running to a soldier like some frightened heartland child. It has been difficult enough to hold on to some measure of independence in this province."

He didn't look happy at her response. "If you say so. I could stay behind if you-"

"No thank you, Ben. Farewell." The door opened and she slipped inside.

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath; the aroma of fresh kreshweed reached out to her from the open door of the alchemy room, along with the tang of netch jelly and the burn of crushed scathecrow. In moments like these, she could almost pretend she was back on Vvardenfell. But best not lose myself to nostalgia. Azura would want her to embrace the full truth of her existence, and not linger in the past like some dead ancestor.

Ruth opened her eyes to see Javis waiting with Alandra resting against his hip. As usual, he wore an expression of slight distress.

"I'm surprised to see you again," he said. "In one piece, I mean. Please don't tell me you provoked those knights further."

She sighed and accepted her daughter from Javis in one smooth motion as she passed. A soft kiss pressed to Alandra's powder-soft forehead set her gurgling happily. "I said what I went there to say, and nothing more. We cannot bend to their petty threats, my friend, or we will end up like those poor fools that once owned the Drunken Huntsman."

Javis stalked her steps like a blighted cliff racer. "You went to the Imperials, at least? To Fasendil? This isn't Balmora. We aren't all alone here."

"No. You can whine to the Legate if it pleases you. Montrose is meeting me here later. Will you watch over Alandra again, while we speak?" Ruth emerged from the rear of the house into her herb garden and sat with Alandra in her lap.

"Of course." Javis stood behind her, and she didn't have to look up to know his brow was furrowed in worry. "I hope you know what you're doing, Ruthnasi. There was no shame in fleeing Morrowind, and there will be no shame if we are forced to leave Whiterun as well. It is not Azura's will that we suffer or die for the right to call any single place home. Remember Saint Delyn's wisdom: 'before you fight, find out what you're fighting for.'"

Her head turned sharply. "You all chose me to speak for us. If my decisions upset you so, hold your tongue and learn to live with your choice. But I swear to you I will make this city safe for our people."

Javis just shook his head and withdrew into the house. Ruth remained with her daughter for a time, playing with her small soft hands and rocking her gently back and forth. She let her eyes wander over the small but lush tangle of flora she'd cultivated over the past four years. It had been one of the greatest challenges of her long life to get such things to grow in Skyrim's punishing climate. And this young Breton and his band of gilded heroes thought they could push her out with a rude letter? It was nearly laughable. When one had survived the retribution of the Daedra and the choking flames of Red Mountain, a fresh-born company of men provoked little fear. Azura, watch over us.

Montrose came alone. He stood amidst the dying rays of sunset peeking over the city walls, and his bald head nearly touched the top of her doorway. Though he wore simple robes instead of the striking armor of his order, Montrose still attracted more than a few glances from people walking past. See? I have nothing to fear. Not even this delusional Breton is brazen enough to attack me after so many eyes have witnessed his passage.

"Commander," Ruth greeted him. She nearly offered her hand to kiss, just for the potential satisfaction of watching his disgusted refusal. This man clearly hated her kind. That gave her a certain power over him. "Come inside, won't you?"

Montrose entered and closed the door behind him. He took in her modest furnishings without comment or expression and looked at her askance. His eyes were the eyes of a passing stranger, cold and disinterested.

Ruth frowned. She'd received the impression this was a man who enjoyed the sound of his own voice, but he appeared disinclined to conversation.

She turned, and the folds of her priestess robe fluttered. There'd barely been enough time to put them on before his arrival. "We'll speak in my garden. Do try to be quiet. My daughter is sleeping in the other room."

He seemed to take her command to heart, as Ruth heard not a whisper of sound from Montrose before they emerged out into the garden. She shut the glass doors behind them and experienced a strange sensation of being cut off from the rest of the world. As if she and Montrose had been dropped into a jar by a child seeking violent entertainment.

"You move rather quietly for a knight." She offered him a chair opposite her own. They sat next to a patch of trama shrubs, and the sharp and ashy scent of the plant washed over them at once. Ruth noted with pleasure how Montrose's face momentarily scrunched up before he remembered his manners.

"Enchanted shoes," he said, and offered no further comment. He glanced around at her lush garden.

"As I told your weak-willed followers, the Empire has promised us the right to worship whatever gods we see fit, so long as we do no harm to anyone else. I thought you came here to make amends. But it seems I will have to pay that visit to Legate Fasendil after all."

She'd expected her words to alarm Montrose, to send him rushing for some sputtering apology. Instead, he pursed his lips and looked up at the moons, as if he were running late for some other appointment. Ruth would even have been satisfied with a display of rage, a confirmation of the hatred he felt for her kind. What is this fool playing at?

Montrose stood and turned to walk a few steps to the low wall shielding her garden from the streets. She wrung her hands in her lap and murmured a prayer to Azura.

Montrose rested his palms against the stone and gazed out at the Wind District seized by night. "What's the point? I'm sure the Divines don't expect a chap to put on airs for some demon-loving abomination."

Ruth wished he'd return to his seat. "What in Azura's name are you talking about?"

"Yes, well, I could give the whole bloody song-and-dance about where I came from and all that rubbish. Maybe startle you with some surprising bit of my personal history. Though it'd all feel a bit self-serving, is what I'm getting at. You'll be in Oblivion soon enough. There are plenty there that can tell you all about the Silver Dawn. Whiterun will be better off without your kind, and you can stew in hell with all the others. You and the little Daedra-spawn you produced. To corrupt your own offspring with your evil...you truly do disgust me. Better...better even to die, I think. We will be doing it a favor."

She made to move from her chair but found herself unable to. Some twinge of unease kept her pinned like she'd been struck with paralysis. "You're completely mad. The Dunmer of the city want nothing to do with you, fetcher. We simply want to exist in peace."

He huffed as if she'd made some amusing jape. "Darling, there can be no peace while you exist. The gods sent me to save the souls of Whiterun."

"And what of my soul, commander? You expose your own prejudice. Surely I am worth no less than any Nord or Breton."

"Your soul was forsaken long ago."

The Companions of Whiterun counted very few mages among their ranks, and when he'd first come to Jorrvaskr, Benajah had feared his brief flirtation with the Alteration school would preclude his application for membership. Despite that unfounded fear, he'd not had cause to employ his limited magical skills for months, so he expended much of his mental strength just trying to cast the simple life-detecting spell.

Success at last. Ben leaned against the front door of Ruth's house and tried to steady his breathing. Two shimmering shapes in the rear garden: Montrose, and Ruth herself. Another two glowing shapes in the nursery, one of them quite small. He'd only met Ruth's friend Javis in passing, but Ben recognized his silhouette easily enough. The tiny shape could only be Ruth's daughter Alandra.

Maybe Ruth was right, and Montrose truly had come to parlay in peace. Accepting that truth, however, went against Ben's every instinct. You didn't spend most of your life bouncing between the cold-hearted courts of Hammerfell without learning that unchecked power was a draught that very few would willingly abstain from. Jarl Hrongar had given the Silver Dawn so much already; was anyone truly foolish enough to believe a dozen Dark Elves would present any kind of obstacle for them?

He was about to re-cast the spell when a tall aura materialized outside the nursery window, on the opposite side of the house. Ben froze, his heart beating like a giant's footsteps. Would they really hurt a child? His carefully made plans to expose the Dawn's underhanded movements evaporated at once. The intruding shape entered the nursery. Javis and Alandra remained still. Sleeping. They're defenseless!

Ben swept through the house and held his swords tight against his sides to keep them from making the slightest sound. The door to the garden remained slightly ajar, but there was no time to even warn Ruth of what was happening. He burst into the nursery, swords drawn.

"Talos smite you," the Nord growled as her sword entered Javis' chest. His eyes fluttered like a moth's wings before his body spasmed and went still. Blood pooled underneath the dead elf and ran into the shadows.

"Step back from the crib." Ben raised his right sword.

The Nord straightened to her full height and chuckled heartily. She wore a gray robe and no visible armor, and carried no shield. Her free hand held only a piece of parchment. Still, Ben did not let down his guard. His eyes searched the darkness.

"Still your gaze, Redguard." She made no move to obey his order. "I stand alone this night. Hardly necessary to send two knights to purify a single cursed nest."

"Purify? I name this murder." He advanced slowly, still wary of a surprise attack. "Lay down your w-w-weapon and surrender."

"A daughter of Talos, kneeling to a tongue-tied little wolf pup?" The Nord hid the parchment in a fold of her robe, and grasped her sword hilt with both hands. "No, I think not."

"I don't w-want to kill you."

"I must often cloak my true essence, for my faith threatens the Dawn. Prying elf eyes lurk in every shadow." She raised her sword and stepped towards him into a shaft of moonlight. Ben looked into her wide blue eyes and saw only madness. "But not this hour. Ysmir stands with me. I shall send you to Hircine in pieces, abomination."

She was on him before he could blink, her sword falling again and again as a scythe to wheat. His own twin blades danced in rhythm to redirect the blows so he never had to stand against her full strength. Ben was no small man, but that was still no fight he could win. Already his arms strained against her overwhelming power.

Cries from the crib: Alandra, awoken by the clash of steel. Ben ducked under the Nord's sword and sliced her calf with the edge of his scimitar. She gasped and kicked, catching him right in the chin. One sword slipped from his fingers and he stumbled back, his vision full of rainbows.

Suddenly there was a handful of bright divinity in the Nord's hand, and she blew like a bellow to fill the air with gleaming particles of silver. They stung his eyes, but he merely crawled out of the cloud and raised his remaining sword.

"No matter." Bloody footsteps followed the Nord, but the limp did not slow her. "This blade will still pierce you, Redguard dog."

Her blade fell as inevitably as the moons, but fury made her movement predictable. Ben rolled underneath and sliced her other ankle as he rose. She cried out and fell to her knees as he staggered towards the crib with a mouthful of blood. For a few moments, the nursery returned to stillness, save for the heavy breathing of the combatants and the sobbing of Alandra. He spat red and felt his last reserves of strength waning. I will not survive another charge.

Sweat dripped from the Nord's pale face. "I am slain."

"You'll live." He grabbed the squalling infant without turning his back on the knight. Her skin felt blanket-soft against his callused fingers. "Yield, and I'll fetch a healer." Yield, I beg of you, or it will be the death of us both.

Her sword remained at rest, but the Nord withdrew her parchment again and twisted to face him. A trembling grin seized her features.

"A pity, not to take part in the glorious battles to come. Though my heart swells in triumph to perform this last act of cleansing." She unfurled the parchment, and Ben recognized too late the danger it represented. "Talos, bless me! Abominations, you shall burn."

Ruth finally managed to leave her seat, and now she hovered between Montrose and the doors to her house. "We have a saying in Morrowind, Montrose. 'There is no difference between the theorist and the terrorist.' Despite this, I had been wondering which you were. Now it terrifies me that you may be both."

"I know it's your instinct to retreat into wicked teachings for comfort." There was nearly pity in Montrose's expression when he glanced back at her. "But you hide in a false paradise, and it is only in the light that you'll find a lasting truth. If you should see my mother in some plane of Oblivion, please kill her again for me." He took three huge steps and then he was looming over her like Red Mountain itself.

"Your...your mother?" She blinked up at him, feeling far from Azura.

"She was the first, Ruth." In one motion he seized her by the collar of her priestess robes and wrenched her painfully above his head. She gasped and sputtered, her body trembling with a terror she'd forgotten herself capable of. "The first, but not the last. Never the last."

His lips moved again, but Ruth heard nothing. Her ears filled with a piercing shrill that knew no end and a hot wash of air tugged at her robes. Weightlessness, and shattering glass. A shard embedded itself in her palm. For a moment she was on Vvardenfell again as the sky filled with black poison and spheres of flaming death rained on everything she'd ever held dear, and Ruth knew nothing but a white terror that said no, there is no hope, there never has been, and this is nothing but what you deserve for your betrayal. Warmth against her face; too warm, but the promise of the Mother Soul waited just beyond the veil. Then Ruth remembered soft skin, and small pointed ears and her fear left her in a scream that rivaled the roar of flames eating the side of her house.

She was in her living room, in a pile of glass. The garden doors were shattered. Ruth struggled to her feet just as the fire jumped to the greenery and the enchantments that had protected her little piece of Morrowind for so long evaporated with a hollow boom that she felt deep in her bones. It sent her to the floor again.

A hand she could see through yanked her to her feet. Her father's spirit offered her only a glare of expectation before pointing into the seemingly far reaches of her dying home. Then he vanished.

He was right; her house was beyond recognition as anything she'd loved. Ruth dashed to the nursery even knowing the maelstrom had been born there. She seized the red-hot handle and threw open the door without pausing for the agony of burns.

Alandra's crib, reduced to cinders. Two flaming corpses before it, and one of them had to be Javis, but Ruth held her heart back from despair. She fell coughing, with her mind nearly as choked as her lungs; was her daughter mere ash, like so much of her bloodline before her? No, I would feel it. I would know.

Yes, yes, a shape in the corner: in a home turned to blazing death, anything not bright or smoldering was out of place. Ruth crawled towards it, and with the smoke in her eyes, she only recognized the forms by touch. Benajah, with her daughter in his arms. No time to see if they even lived; Ruth dragged them both behind her, praying to Azura for strength, and headed back towards the flaming doorway against her every primal instinct.

Somehow she found herself in the street being helped up by Danica Pure-Spring amidst a crowd of onlookers. Two orange-robed priests carried Benajah away on a makeshift stretcher.

Alandra, Ruth tried to wail, but all that came was a pained croak. She sagged against Danica's arms.

"She's fine," Danica said close to her ear, to be heard in the chaos. "Lucia is with her at the temple. My poor dear. Why don't we go join your daughter and see to those burns?"

She could only nod numbly and accept Danica's hand. As they walked down the street she imagined a thousand eyes on her: eyes of pity, of confusion, of satisfaction and rapture. So many footsteps against the cobblestones. Everywhere Ruth glanced there was silver armor. The knights looked to be forming water lines from the wells to keep the fire from spreading. But who would keep the shrine to Azura from burning, in her small basement where they knelt every week for worship? I have failed you, my lady.