Now the Dragons are Gone

by SomeSod

Harkon, Miraak and Aldiun are dead. Ulfric Stormcloak's corpse lies in an unmarked traitor's grave as Elisif the Fair rules from the Blue Palace, Queen of Skyrim by the will of The Divines, and the might of the Imperial Legions. With mature content and adult themes throughout as our exhausted heroes try to return to their previous lives in a world which no longer needs them.

8. Chapter 8: An Eye for an Eye

Chapter Eight: An Eye for an Eye

Serana II

It had been a brutal road. Her thighs ached from riding, and she could feel her clothes sticking and freezing to her ice-cold skin, a mildly discomfort that nagged at her and had left many of their horses and guard's crippled, half frozen in the blizzard. Snow swirled across the mountain road to Winterhold, driving like icy spears into the mortal eyes. Serana looked untroubled through that cold darting wind, searching the whirling horizon as night began to fall. The snow remained frustratingly thick and fast-flying, blinding her sight to the college which she knew must not be far.

She and Beric had been in this hold before, back in the late winter and early spring of 202 but not by this road. Serana had taken Beric into the wilderness, away from civilisation, avoiding the towns and byways populated by decent people and the common folk. The journey by small boat had been an invigorating adventure for them both and a new challenge for her as Beric adjusted slowly to vampirism, a dear-bought but necessary sacrifice on the road to victory over her terrible Father. They had sailed by night, sleeping by day as they sailed along the coasts, preying on pirate camps and cruising amongst the glaciers and ice floes to discover Septimus Signus's outpost and leaving quickly before Beric's self-control snaped. They had watched with wonder as icebergs floated past, admired pods of whales and dolphins leaping from the frigid waters and watched horkers nesting on the beach. The natural beauty of the landscape matched by danger and the promise of fresh blood, fighting back to back in every encounter against pirates, bears sabrecats, then laughing away scares and close calls as they shared a tent against day's harsh light. Day-by-day and night-by-night the walls that had separated them as vampire and Dawnguard had fallen, and they had slowly learned all of each other's secrets and stories.

This journey had lacked the joy, the urgency and freedom of that one; slowed by weather, surrounded by mortals, and tied to the roads. News of Beren's murder and the riot had spread like wildfire, and everywhere they met they saw anxious foot patrols and the fear of wanderers. Already the murderous clown had passed from reality into fantasy, as inevitably the news leaked out. Mothers used the threat of him to bring their children inside as they passed as strangers through their towns, warning their kids of the daemon clown hiding in sewers to snatch them away before disappearing. They were turned away from towns and inns as much as they were given entry, for even though they did not look like murders, they did not much look lime merchants either, and Beric was loath to use his name for fear of the questions and sympathy it would provoke.

They were fortunate that their road was not without interesting sights to see as they plodded along miserably. They passed along much of the route Tullius's armies had taken to Windhelm, over the battlefield of Blizzard's Rest, that blood-soaked ground now freshly famous as the site of the defeat of Ulfric's army, where she and Beric had fought before leaving with the Army of High Rock for Riften. They had followed the path of Ulfric's retreat down to the town of Nightgate where they rested for only a day before pressing on, as the season and the weather was against them. Passing through the Karstav pass they left behind the pleasant valleys and plains of Skyrim's central plateau and entered the frozen tundra and glaciers of Winterhold. Since then Serana had seen any number of wonderous sites.

They watched awed at shambling Giants, droving their vast cattle herds down from the mountains for winter, free from the human hunters who had driven them from Whiterun's plains and the coasts of Haafingar, they headed to the small Nord villages where they would barter their goods in their groaning tongue. They cheered the Mammoth-riding Nords nomads in their creaking howdahs of bone, wood, and furs that had lumbered past them in an earth-shaking trumpeting gallop as they hunted Snow Bears and sabrecats, a sight from her own human childhood. One of the carters had a fine singing voice, and he had recited the Ode of the Tundra Striders in tribute. As night had fallen one day, she had watched the sun through squinting, burning eyes slip behind the colossal statue of Azura that stood atop the icy mountain peaks. Even Beric had stood and looked in silent fascination as he pretended to ignore her. It had amused her to watch his face and see in his eyes how awe at the soaring majesty of that statue had warring with that little part of himself that told him good little Nord boys shouldn't look well on the works of the Dark Elves or their evil Daedric gods.

The snow swirled, thickened and then, cleared with a sudden buffeting gust of wind. There! She squinted, Winterhold. just a mile or two away. The city did not interest her, a squat wall of dark stone buttressed by square towers behind which sat an untidy mess of snowy thatched roofs- that she had seen any number of times in Skyrim, both then and now. It was the College that dominated it, perched upon a rocky pinnacle soaring apart the city and far above the pounding sea below. Its high keep disappearing into the low clouds, towering above every other building she had even seen. Even Solitude's famous Windmill and the towers of Castle Volkihar were barely a quarter of its height. The sight of that famous college filled her with energy and relief even as it again disappeared once more into the swirling storm, confirmation that their three week long journey was almost over.

Excitement filled her, swiftly met with worry and concern, pushing her discomfort and exhaustion to the back of her mind. The college intrigued her, an alien place filled with 'pupils' and 'teachers' and 'schools' of magic. It had been a fascinating, brave and foolhardy experiment in her time when magical knowledge was carefully hoarded by secret societies like the Psijics or Aedric or Daedric mystery cults. The chosen lived in isolation, learning magical liturgy in strict hierarchies of masters and apprentices. The magics they wielded demonstration their unique connection with the Gods, proof of their power and favour and a celebration of their divine patron's power. Her mother had been cult matriarch, and her privileged position as a Daughter of Coldharbour showed the great and terrible gifts the favours powerful gods brought.

Instead this college broke every rule of witchcraft she had been taught, and as much as she scorned such foolishness, its endurance intrigued her. That a mage would abandon a close connection with the gods and the master-apprentice relationship to instruct the random masses, to willingly, openly share their knowledge shocked her to the blood, as did the fact that the college had flourished over the millennia since its founding. It was yet another facet of this modern world she would need to study and understand, yet another perspective that had been denied at Castle Volkihar. There was much that she could learn here, and She might even be generous enough to share a of her own secrets.

A horse whinnied behind her bringing her back to the present, and she turned, tired, knowing and dreading what that noise would inevitably bring.

"Serana!"

Starting as the yell, she turned to find an exasperated Beric motioning her, standing beside the lead wagon. Since leaving the inn at dawn the carts had reliably gotten stuck in snow, ice and potholes every half mile or so. Their guards and Beric were struggling through the snow drifts that had now piled up upon the road such that they stood almost knee deep in snow. wrapped thickly in scarves, glove and cloaks against the storm, covered in frost and ice they resembled shambling ice atronachs more than men.

"Lend a hand with this!"

She signed and dismounted, handing her reins one of the guards. She wished they had brought more of them for this hard, dirty work. Beric seemed to relish the release manual labour brought and the simple humour of the men and women. She found them crass, irritating and irreverent. Sighing she joined them, as Beric and others pawed and kicked away the ice and snow that was compacting around the rear wheel.

"Not far now…not far now." She yelled over the wind.

Beric grunted, shoulder now braced against the rear of the cart.

"One-two-three-heave!" he yelled into the blizzard as the men and woman gritted their teeth and stamped their heels deep into the snow, pushing their exhausted muscles to the limit. The wheels rocking as the exhausted guards strained, the carter cracked his whip and the horses in their braces strained. It rocked forwards, caught the lip and then rolled back, returning to the pothole.

"And again!" Beric called, and this time it rocked a little further.

"Good! and Again!" he yelled, getting the rhythm. Tireless, ruthless, calling the others into line. A whip crackled over the horses back, and they screamed in sympathy as the men groaned.

"Come on! And again!" with that final push it climbed the snowy lip, one of the guards tripped and fell in surprise head first into the snow, while the others staged on, pushing wheels and the body of the cart to keep the momentum going.

"Good, good, keep it going! Keep it going!"

she re-mounted and kicked her horse forward after the carts, as Beric rode off without a word of thanks. Overall, the journey had not been good for him. She looked at the college once more, isolated atop a mountain of rock. Its towers, curtain wall and keep seemed to shimmer over the city like the air above a forge, it before they disappeared behind the mass of the city's walls of squat dark grey stone. When this journey had started, she had been glad to leave Whiterun. While Lydia, Durag and Aela had been pleasant companions during their time together for the most part for the most part, Aela had always known of her vampirism and had treated her and Beric with muted hostility. They had all at some point decided that affection she and Beric had for each other was an open secret, and had often gently mocked her and him for it. She had disliked their intrusive prying and had been embarrassed by their interest. Above all else hating their unnecessary venture into her private life and thoughts, and often she had snapped back at them, before regretting her anger even as she wished they had let it be. Sometimes, late in the evening after a bottle of wine or two they had even gone so far as to ask her about marriage, Marriage! She scorned the notion. Courtship in Skyrim was quick, marriage a sham ritual held before powerless god long abandoned, a simple as a prelude to the bedding ceremony, the very thought of being touched in that way sending an icy shiver down her spine. She had no respect for any of those customs. What she wanted was Beric's companionship, without conditions or rituals. The College could be a starting place for that, where they could run away and be forgotten.

Now they were here, and it all was nothing near wanted or dreamed it. Their goodbyes had ben hurried- Durag had been sad to see them go, and had given her a letter to carry to his sister Ghagra, an adept at the college, while Lydia had so busy managing the Dragonborn's estate that with their sudden departure that they had barely said a surprised goodbye. Aela had not seen her go, and her threat to expose them rankled her and coaxed her fears that Beric would do something rash. And it was Beric most of all who worried her. Beric had not been himself since his brother's death. Beric feigning excessive good cheer and throwing himself into every chore, but the moment these were finished he would fall into a surly isolation, stewing in quiet misery, often he would stay awake most of the night, staring at nothing, writing on scraps of paper half-formed plans, and ignoring her. Then he would snap. The suddenly explosion of violent anger, and the embarrassed quiet that followed. The anger and the rage were too be expected, but she was uncertain if the lethargy or the anxious, almost frantic constant need for distraction worried her more. Beneath it lurked an anger and bloodlust for a revenge she only half believed in that chilled even her vampiric blood whenever it cast a shadow upon his character. Mania was a dangerous emotion in a vampire lord.

She and Beric had often spoken on and off during their adventures about what they were going to do 'when all this is over' making a dozen different promises to themselves at dozen different times and place, making plans that they barely believed they would live to honour. She had hoped that they would have shared more on the long road here plans on the long road here, to invite him to dream of a better future. She had talked to Beric on the first few days of their journey, when they had seen from afar a bandit camp nestled in a ruined tower house. Beric had ignored her. She told him they could make a home there after all this was over, and Beric had grunted a reply. She invited him to share her vision- there would be a bathroom, a fine library and comfortable bedrooms. Thralls would guard their sleep by day and a stable of cattle taken from the surviving bandits to slake their thirst. Beric jumped and screamed at her. He refused to even consider it, asking how she could imagine enslaving her fellow man so casually, how she could be happy just sitting and watching the world pass knowing that clown was still out there. Then he walked out into the night, returning only at dawn.

Now he avoided her. In camp by night he was distant and brooding, hunched over that Daedric blade the killer had used to murder his brother, grumbling of plots and assassins when he was not sleeping fitfully. By contrast each day had promised a fresh struggle, a new adventure and the threat of ambush or raid by bandits, and that had shaken dark thoughts from his mind, focusing him on survival even as he ignored her. With a sword on his hip and troop of warriors at his call he feigned happiness. he hid his feeling behind a mask of cold command and pretended to grow back into the man he once had been. Once facet remained unchanged, for he was curiously protective of them, and had taken her to task when she had fed from one, the second argument in as many weeks. The fact that she had fed on every single one of them many times before this journey went unmentioned by her, and she had though him joking until he has seen the anger and protectiveness that flared deep within him. He made sure they were fed well of fresh bread, good ale and hot stew, and bedded down in a warm tavern beds of clean straw whenever a village or town had space for them all. Such profligacy towards their mortal servants seemed an extravagance to her. But, she supposed, the fact that they could not just simply enthral them meant that they depended partially upon their willingness to serve, much as she regretted such indulgences.

For their part they seemed to worship him, brother to the Last Dragonborn, a stern and aloof leader who lent his hand and back to every task, and possessed a strength and bravery in battle near unmatched. Every night after their fight he would join them after their supper by their fire, hearing their stories and enjoying a pint or three with them before taking a tavern whore into his bed. The guards found this endlessly amusing in their vulgar, tasteless way. The fact that he was bleeding the whores, not bedding them, or that his endurance was vampire-gifted remained secret, his endurance a convenient lie. For her part, she cared little of what they thought or him or her for that matter. She was not glad to see him socialising with them, for when he was not stewing in indolent misery and fingering that leaf-bladed Daedric dagger that now hung on his belt he was speaking to people who encouraged, celebrated the crass and the cruel- often pledging bloody murder on his behalf as revenge for his brother, and he took them into his confidence as he pondered aloud the perpetrators of the crime. Thalmor, Stormcloak or Bandit- fantasies and conspiracy theories whirled like sparks above the fire, carried into the night. She kept her distance, and avoided future arguments and feeding on his men. If she had not been so worried, she might have even found it amusing her to watch how his curious sense of honour made him pay for a whore to bleed. Sometimes she forgot that he was still a fledgling and came with all those moral knots that they so loved to tie themselves in. She had never sired before, and wondered if such behaviour was normal, and how long it lasted. Truly, it took a hundred years to make a vampire.

She dismissed her thoughts with a shrug as they rode past three corpses hanging from a primitive gibbet and neared the gatehouse, its gate and portcullis protected by a pair of square towers. The ice and snow had turned to slush underfoot as a steady trickle of traffic resumed through the city gates. The frozen guards looked at them with bored curiosity through narrow slits between cloak and scarf as they clutched shield and spear in mittened hands. She was at first puzzled that their arrival did not merit more of a reaction, then she remembered that this was Winterhold not Whiterun and they were unknown in this city- by face at least. Swaddled in mud-splattered clothes and ice rimed cloaks they must look like any other party coming up the Windhelm road, and few mortal guards had the energy or attentiveness to do their jobs properly in such weather. The gibbet was all the threat that was needed, where three frozen dark elf corpses hung like frozen washing. 'Murderer' was scrawled upon the crude placards that flapped on their chests as they gazed down upon them. She felt magic swirl within her, and the corpses seemed to twitch at her presence, the salute of the dead to their princess. The guards glanced over their carts with bored curiosity, a few simple questions answered with curt responses and they were waved through. Their hooves clattered and echoed as they road through the cavernous arch of the gatehouse, and rode out along the main road.

The blizzard had eased off with the fall of night, and Serana pushed her hood back as the bitter sun quickly gave way to dark's comforting embrace, ignoring the few scatted snowflakes that fell upon her raven hair. She was curious to see a Stormcloak city untouched by war as she mentally ticked the others off: Riften, half destroyed by dragon attack, had fallen by subterfuge. Windhelm flooded, burned and half-razed. Dawnstar surrendered under threat of dragon fire after a protracted siege. By contrast, Winterhold had endured little. After the college had declared itself neutral it had been judged 'a sheltered irrelevance without industry or worth to the war effort' in General Tullius's own words. After a legion had occupied Fort Karstav and blocked the mountain pass, Tullius had been content to ignore the city. After the siege of Windhelm, Beric and the rest of their party had likewise simply sailed past en route to Dawnstar.

So far, so disappointed. It had none of the Imperial magnificence of Solitude, or the nordic wealth of Whiterun. There were no little blue streamers tied to door frames, or blue cloaks proudly worn by provocative youths. There was little to see at all. There were few people about, and the houses that pressed close together either side of the road were both poorer and more densely packed than she had seen in Whiterun's slums. Many looked unoccupied, and there were large stretches where the ruins of buildings still stood abandoned, their crumbling walls half hidden under snow. She had become used to the modern sewers and cobbled streets of more prosperous cities, here the streets were made of frozen mud. This city smelt of nightsoil, woodsmoke, sweat and salted fish, and it reminded her of the old peasant villages that had marked the shores of Haafingar while her family had ruled. Her memories of that time brought up another scent- the whiff of easy blood that set her thirst on edge. Back then one of the few escapes from the tedium of court and castle life had been an exhalating midnight ride with just a pair of guards along the shores and cliffs of their island, arriving at some small village to invoke her rights to blood-tribute from the headsman then racing dawn's rays home to return to the arguments of father and mother. Blood did always taste better when it had matured in the sun and had been worked in fields rather than taken from sickly undercroft bred cattle. She looked at Beric's back, hooded and cloaked, and wished he could share her excitement. Perhaps one day he will understand, and join her in raiding a bandit camp and the thrill of racing against the dawn.

Another scent, another sense broke through her remembrance- magic, hands tingling at its swirling potency, twitched her towards it like iron to a lodestone. They rode closer to its source, and as they moved deeper into the city more people began to appear. This deep into the city the crooked buildings towered above them, lines of frozen washing stretching between them over their heads. They passed a patrol of watchful guardsmen rushing out of their watchhouse smelling of smoked fish and sweat and disappear up an alley, while fishwives and merchant appeared from their homes or side-streets pulling wagons or pushing carts piled with goods, carts picked their way through the streets driven by sullen men and woman in thin cloaks who barely spared them a glance. All hurried to make their deliveries now that the weather had turned for the better.

They entered the main square; the snow had scarily settled before being tramped into slush as business resumed, and she eagerly looked around taking in the sights. It had little of Whiterun's charm or energy, but when she saw that many of the surrounding shops specialising magical and alchemical supplies, her excitement peaked and she promised herself to get Beric to show her around, hopefully he would be gracious enough to do so. The jingling of bells and the crack of whips and yells drew her attention to north side of the square. Passing through high gates behind which crouched a rambling collection of thatched roofs and rough stone walls came a number of finely decorated sledges filled with noble men and women who sat stiffly ignoring the growing crowds, blankets cross their laps and bodies hidden under piled furs that left just their ripe rosy cheeks exposed to the cold, while before and behind the carriage guards sat with naked blades across their laps, a rather excessive display of force. The Jarl's palace she guessed, and shrugged unimpressed.

Directly across from the palace stood the Frozen Hearth Coaching Inn, the famous (or infamous, depending on your point of view) home from home for many a traveling mage with business at the College. It was well known that any alchemical ingredient or magical tome one could desire could be purchased there, for the right price. She watched fascinated as a boisterous party of human youths in college robes spilling out of a tavern as a run, laughing and carrying tankards, their cheerful voices turned to yells as the rumbling carts of merchants splashed mud on them, their yells turning to curses, and curses to a scuffle which brought the town guard running, blades easing from scabbard and fear written across the faces of the guards. Serana was shocked at the reaction, and twisted in her saddle to watch before the scene disappeared into the crowd behind her.

They carried on along the road, deeper into the city passing hawkers and fishwives rubbing shoulder with mages in college robes, and Serana looked at them with interest- Redguards, Altmer, Dunmer, and even a few of the beast-folk, cat people to be exact, seemed to be represented amongst the college, and she was surprised to see that their kind was allowed within the walls. She stared second more, having rarely seen the cat-folk in such a mundane setting before turning away and checking her horse, unwilling to be thought of as some backward country girl. They did not seem welcomed by the humans of Winterhold, who watched them warily, and she did not miss that many of the elves and beastfolk walked in tight watchful groups while their human wizards wandered in loose alcoholic packs. But as they rounded the corner Serana stopped dead having finally found the view she had been dreaming of, a sight commensurate with her dreams and ambitions, and ability to wonder.

The barbican of the College towering before her, almost as large as Volkihar keep by itself, perched upon the edge of the cliff where hundreds of feet below crashed the waves of the Sea of Ghosts upon the rocky shore. A ramp lead up to a gate marked with the seal of eye of Magnus, protected by pair of towering circular towers that sored a hundred or more feet into the air, the individual stones of its construction fused together with magic, seating them without mortar such that not a crack showed. Even without extending her magical senses she could feel that they have been bound with wards and charms against scrying, hostile magics and a dozen other ancient spells who purposes alluded her initial investigation. She sat awed at the slender bridge that spanned from cliff to rocky precipice upon which the college stood, the pillars upon which it had stood fallen away but its arches still holding strong, stones bound together in defiance of elements or gravity through the sheer strength of their magical enchantments. She looked again at the Eye of Magnus picked out in stonework above the gate and shivered at the unblinking Aedric symbol, the Sigil of Shalidor, a mage whose skills had even been legendary in her own time. Beric never mentioned that, she thought to herself.

She tore her view away as their carts stopped by a small coaching inn. Dismounting and throwing her reins without glancing at the rushing stableboy, she hurried stiff legged and relieved her most precious cargo. Buried under packs and bags, well hidden from view sat a lockbox, triple locked and chained to the floor with links of ebony as thick across as her thumb from which she retrieved a carefully wrapped package containing three elder scrolls, the most precious items in all of Skyrim and the college was about to receive them for free.

Beric stood next to her, one hand guarding his purse, another on his sword hilt, he watched the peasants that came and went around them with a bored but guarded air before turning towards her. She felt quite tired and giddy as she held their scrolls between them and give the bag a little shake, rattling them. A small smile played on his face and she laughed to see it.

"Let's go see what these are worth."

---

"Your unexpected arrival yesterday seems to have brought about a great deal of mistaken excitement." Mirabella Ervine said querulously, succeeding in ambushing Serana. She had been walking half in a dream under the mage-light torches, running her fingers over the tightly packed bookshelves filled with stained grimoires and precious hundred-year-old tomes as her feet skipped across the intricately tiled floor in what was by far the best appointed mage quarters she had seen since her mother's laboratory. Their late arrival yesterday evening had resulted in a rapid and belligerent interview with Head librarian, a dusty suite of guest rooms opened for their use that night, and their rapid admission to the college, complete with the College Robes. Pulled into an early morning reception so far she had not had any opportunity to explore, and she was now being interrupted in her curious investigation of the Arch Mage's office.

"Mistaken?" She replied politely, curious at the rather abrupt statement, picking at the cuff of her crimson and cream merchant's dress, a suitably sombre and conservative garment for such a ceremony, and much more comfortable than the college robes they had been given that Beric was wearing.

"Yes, Tolfdir has taken a few of his adept level students to Saarthal and has yet to return. When we heard the celebrations of your arrival many assumed that they had finally arrived safe out of the ice fields."

"Wait…Saarthal?" she replied shocked, the lost city was ancient even for her, and she was beginning to feel a little foolish as Mirabelle continued her lecture. An orbiting servant carried a tray of goblets pass and she grabbed one and drank deeply from the golden wine but waved the nibbles away, while a member of the Thalmor shifted indiscreetly amongst them, as welcome as a chaurus.

"Yes, Saarthal, first city of the Nords and ruined during the Night of tears. Tolfdir, Registrar and our Master of Alteration is justly very proud of his discovery. History is a passion of his and it should provide unique opportunities to research ancient nordic society. They were due back last week but we have yet to hear anything from them."

Serana didn't really have much to say to this as, and her eyes roved around the room searching for an escape. Beric stood across them, where he was deep in conversation with the Orc Librarian over an empty goblet and did not catch her desperately darting eyes, the orc motioned a servant over, whispered something and gestured at Beric. Her eyes darted elsewhere to the three elder scrolls that stood gleaming and golden where the caught the light from the high arched windows on their stands next to the Arch Mage's desk and she gestured towards them.

"I hope that the endowment of three Elder Scrolls to your college was some compensation for your worries."

She sniffed at this. "I would be more relieved to hear that our students are back safely." She replied, but before Serana could say another word an aged Dunmer in elaborate robes swept down upon them.

"Ah Arch Mage, we were just talking about Tolfdir's discovery of Saarthal."

"Are ancient nordic ruins a particular interest of yours Serana?" he asked her pleasantly, his red eyes burning under his bushy eyebrows.

"I think I've spent more than my fair share of time in them." She replied sarcastically, forgetting for a moment that fact that this Dunmer was now her superior, and she reddened as her unthought rudeness. However, his eyes glittered with amusement and he took her comments with a good humour.

"Ahh yes, I could see how your past adventures and skills as a conjuror would have that result. I imagine that the possibilities of studying the Draugr in such a place must be a fascinating experience."

"I think after all the time I've spent in them I'm prepared to be generous and allow another the pleasure." He laughed cheerfully at the thought and opened his mouth to reply.

"I was just saying that we were awaiting their return, and many in the college are concerned about their safety." Mirabelle interjected again, and Serana wished that she could leave this conversation.

"We must be patient for news, and accept the fact that progress often comes with a cost." Savos Aren grumbled, avoiding Mirabelle's eyes.

"Research and advancement should not have to come at the cost of lives. What do you think Serana?" Mirabelle asked, suddenly turning on her.

"Oh…well. In my experience, knowledge and power have only ever come by ambition and won through struggle and risk. 'Nothing ventured, nothing gained' as the saying goes. Besides, I'm sure that Tolfdir and his students can handle whatever they find- I've found alteration mages to be surprisingly useful on the battlefield." she gestured to Beric, they glanced at him briefly before turning back to their argument.

"And yet so often such a mindset leads to unnecessary losses. The college cannot afford to continue to lose promising young mages to silly mistakes and accidents made by those who lack the necessary level of skill, knowledge or experience and seek to show off to their peers."

Serana scowled at this, but bit her tongue. How dare this woman lecture her, thinking her some naïve child playing with their first spellbook on their name day! during her living life she had been faced with people doubting her abilities, from her family to the court and the common folk, and even in her undeath any number of people still dared to presume themselves her equals or better.

"Yes, yes, Mirabelle. You've made your point to me about this many times." The amusement in Savos Aren's eyes was gone, and she could tell he was embarrassed at being lectured by his staff in from of a new student in this way, and Serana felt a warm approval grow within her for the old Dunmer- doubtless a member of that race appreciated the gifts ambition and struggle brought. Mirabelle seemed to take the hint.

"Very good Arch Mage…Forgive me, but I have other duties to attend to. Serana your examination for Adept study will take place Turdas next week, you should receive details later today."

With that she stormed off. Savos Aren turned to her, a reassuring smile passed over his face as he tried to reassure her.

"Please forgive my Master Wizard's concerns, she has a Restoration mage's sensibilities and is rather on edge covering Tolfdir's job while he is away. Unfortunately, these past years a large number of our most recent novices and apprentices have lacked the necessary talent and have met with an unfortunate number of accidents. For my part I have long accepted that a few apprentices incinerated here or there is simply the price we pay as mages to weed out those who lack the skills to succeed…and that reminds me…..."

At this Savos Aren clapped his hands sharply three times and the polite buzz of conversation that had filled the room died quickly. He walked into the centre of the room, standing before the massive desk that so dominated the space, just next to the Elder scrolls on their stand. He cleared his throat a moment before starting, savouring the attention.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, I would just like to take this opportunity to say a few words before we get too carried away with our day drinking." Polite laughter from the attendees greeted this comment.

"Today we welcome back one of the most promising young mages of our generation- Beric Stone-Strider. When he left the college two years ago to continue his apprenticeship studies with the Dawnguard we all hoped that he would return to us one day, but we little dreamed that he would meet with the successes he has seen since leaving our fine college. He joined the Dawnguard, where he fought alongside the Dragonborn and was there to oversee the destruction of the vampire menace, the defeat of Miraak's cultists and the death of Aldiun. Not content with those minor triumphs, Beric then joined the Imperial Legion as a tribune, winning honour, glory and a battlefield promotion to Praefect in recognition of his role in securing an end to the Civil war which has plagued Skyrim…"

Savos Aren paused for a moment as applause broke out from amongst the assembled staff and select guest. Serana had to stifle a giggle at the delicate blush that was reddening Beric's cheeks and the visible discomfort he was evidencing at having his achievements listed.

"…Throughout these encounters he has been joined by Serana, a mage of unparalleled skill in Conjuration and Destruction magic. While she has not attended the college, she has made a decisive contribution to all of the Dragonborn's victories, and her many magical achievements have been noted by all of us at the college."

Polite applause welcomed his remarks and Serana found herself blushing just as Beric had, and he flashed her a thin smile from across the room. She had not expected to be singled out, and felt a mix of gratification to hear that her peers recognised and appreciated her talents. However, she felt embarrassed all the same. Savos's praise was bland, as much of her work had been in the shadows of Beric and Beren, and she had been given little public recognition by the great powers of the land, not a thane, a house or a housecarl. However, the room grew still at Savos Aren's next words.

"There is however a mammoth in the room that we must acknowledge. The Elder Scrolls and the cost it took to recover them from their secret places. We owe an eternal debt to Serana and Beric for the recovery of these scrolls, but most of all we owe the Dragonborn, Beren Stone-Strider, and his tragic murder last month in Whiterun. It was his wish that the three Elder Scrolls were to given to the college upon his death, for the good of all future generations. I would ask you now all to raise a toast to his memory and in thanks of his generosity."

Goblets were raised, gold and gleaming in the unwavering magelight as a solemn toast rippled across the room for the assembled guests.

"To the Dragonborn…to Beric stone-Strider." The toast rippled out as the guests down their goblets. Serana glanced at Beric quickly, worried how he might take this reminder of his brother's death. She had gone out of her way not to speak of it, and he have avoided any conversation on the topic altogether. He looked still at the mention of his brother's death, first clenched at his side and face grey.

"I am proud that both Serana and Beric will soon start their studies here as Adepts. They and the three Elder Scrolls have arrived at time of change for the college. It is true that the college has struggled these past few years. Our decision to remain neutral during the civil war has been unpopular and we have suffered much. We have trained few new students and many of those have been lost to us from a number of accidents. But we must remember we are not alone in this, how all of Skyrim has suffered in these past few years, and how with the return of peace we must all now make our best efforts to put such unpleasantness behind us. We must all move forwards together rather than allow the past to weigh heavy upon us. We should take the arrival of these scrolls as a symbol and the means of the way ahead. Of the bright future that beckons to us as we focus upon research which will place us at the forefront of magical development! It is the time for us rebuild our reputation and return our college to its rightful place amongst the foremost Magical institutions in Tamriel..."

Savos's words had wetted Serana's interest and she listened with respect as they chimed with her own desires, and she felt momentarily torn between her desire for public recognition and the fear of discovery that all vampires face. She allowed herself to indulge in a harmless daydream for a moment, and her mind's eye the opportunities unravelled with lightning speed before her- unknown magics discovered, mastering the dark arts which she could not practice in Whiterun for fear of their aura attracting the priests and adventurers - the opportunity to investigate legendary lost cities and loot their treasures, fighting with Beric at her side- she would put him to rights. Together they would accomplish such things in magic to impress the idle doubters who still placed her reputation on beauty over brains- she was more than a mere Elisif in black and red! Here and now, she could make a name for herself as a mage, separate to Beric and Beren's own fame but their equals in glory - as was her right as a Daughter of Coldharbour. And with that chilling reality swept back, and she was surprise at how the party had grown still and the air stale at Savos's words and Serana could see many of his guests wear polite expression of interest, or to put it more bluntly, veiled expression of disinterest. Mirabelle looked positively uncomfortable at his words, while the Thalmor agent wore an expression of polite disbelief.

"…Now I can tell from Urag's expression that I have gone on for far too long, and we all know what his patience is like! This is not the time for politics and policy but for celebration and renewed acquaintance. So, to them both we say simply 'Welcome home!'" enthusiastic applause and laughter greeted the end of his little speech as Savos Aren one again raised his goblet in welcome. A gentle patter of conversation resumed and Serana attempted to hurry across the room towards Beric but was intercepted en route by Savos Aren once again. He gently led her to a quiet corner as a look of concern and curiosity playing across his face

"Now then, I had hoped my dear that you might entertain an aged Dunmer a while longer and be able to tell me some news from Whiterun."

---

It was with relief that Serana was released from the Arch Mage's interrogation after an hour's interrogation, politely yet persistently insistent upon an account of the Dragonborn's death and the riot, before a never-ending stream of question on other issues. Departing with Beric at her side they were given a note from Mirabelle, giving details of their examinations and explaining that they would find their luggage moved to their new rooms. Serana, jumping down the steps three at a time left Beric to hurry after her as she raced down the great staircase, carefully carrying under one arm a heavy black leatherbound book and waving questions about it with the other. finally, separated from guards and Arch Mages and other distractions, she had Beric alone, and it was past time that they rebuild their damaged friendship.

Standing in the great courtyard under the statue of the great mage Shalidor, Serana got Beric to gradually explain the general design of the college, pointing each part out as he went. It was made up of four great towers connected by a thick curtain wall lined with cloisters to allow easy passage even in the depths of winter. The Gatehouse which connected the college to the outside world by its slender stone bridge was where the college servants lived and worked in shops and offices. The Hall of Attainment was next, and was where the novices and apprentices studied during their first four years of study. The Hall of Countenance was where the more senior mages lived and where Beric and her would be given rooms as adept rank mages.

Lastly there was the keep. Beric had explained that was divided into numerous floors but was often thought of as five major levels corresponding to the landings of the great staircase-firstly a basement dining hall and kitchens. Secondly the ground floor Great Hall of the elements which held lectures and important ceremonies. Serana had peaked around the open doors to the great hall and saw it could have held the entire college twice over with ease. It was a large, light and echoey room with huge arched windows and row after row of benches divided into eight groups that rouse level by level around a central magical well. Above that was the library, covering numerous floors and was the largest library in Skyrim. It was massive beyond belief, with high arched windows maybe a hundred feet high, between which stood bookcases that rose from floor to ceiling, crawling with walkways, ladders and spiral staircases over which students crawled like ants. The entire library was circular, and surrounded a circle of desks where the library staff worked, overlooked by an elevated central pulpit from which the chief librarian was perfectly position to observe every nook and cranny within its massive holdings. The fourth level was the private collection, where the treasures of the college were kept and the Elder Scrolls would be secured. Serana had seen the nondescript corridor that led to it, and burned with curiosity to dart down its throat and learn its secrets. At the top stood the private residences of the college professors, the guest rooms and the Arch Mage's quarters. All four of the college's towers were joined by the monumental curtain wall, into which was built study rooms, classroom and laboratories where the mages of the college mastered their crafts through practice, research and trial and error.

Lastly, below them all was the midden, a dense and confusing run of tunnels, underground caverns and forgotten ruins that honeycombed the ground below them. The first few levels had been modestly explored, but beyond that their layout was unknown. It was not helped by the fact that search teams send down often reported that the rooms and layout had subtly shifted, that the map themselves seemed to change even as the ink dried upon the parchment. The exploration teams sent down there had a bad habit of losing people for unknown reasons, if they returned at all. Given what had lurked down in the Volkihar Undercroft, she could well believe the rumours were true. Secret and embarrassing experiments abandoned or allowed to run amok, to say nothing of the insane lost below. Perhaps she could persuade Beric to accompany her below for a night of adventures and bloodshed, it would do him good the world of good to exercise some of his aggression in a positive manner.

Standing in the courtyard, she enjoyed the dense low clouds that blocked the hated sun from their pale skin. Hidden in the lee of the high curtain wall from the worst of the wind their little world was filled with an unhurried air as robed and cloaked students meandered either alone, deep in thought or in excitable packs talking merrily to their friends. A few nudged each other and pointed discretely at her and Beric, and even without her sensitive ears she would have ascertained their topic of conversation. He still looked worried and distant after the Arch Mage's speech, and she felt worry grow within her as he avoided her eye. Sat together on a bench she gestured broadly as at the breath-taking faded grandeur that surrounded them.

"Beric, how can so many students afford to be here?"

"Well…Not many can to be fair…. A few pay the college's fees in full like us, most of them are the sons and daughters of nobles, or are loaned the money by guilds and banks. Others were like me when I first arrived, 'college boarders.' We paid a lower rate for bed and board, working off the rest of our fees enchanting trinkets and brewing potions for the college stores. There's also the 'Jarl's Scholar's' who have their fees paid by the jarls and usually are apprentices to their court wizards. They have it made. And a very, very lucky few from poor backgrounds do very well in the entrance exams and get a scholarship." He spoke reluctantly at first, but warmed to the subject and seemed to enjoy the distraction.

"How many people attend the college?" she asked quickly, keen to keep him talking.

"About 500, maybe a few more. They say that there used to be a thousand or so back before the great collapse, ever since then the college has had trouble attracting new mages."

"How is it that there are apprentices here and also outside the college? Didn't you carry out your apprenticeship with the Dawnguard?"

"I finished it there." He clarified, "Normally people study for four years here, first two years as a novice studying general magical practice and theory and then spending two years as an apprentice studying under a Master of one of the schools. After that students continue their apprenticeship outside the college, offering their skills to court wizards or Guilds. When you think you've learned enough, you come back and have a crack at your Adept exams. Or at least that's the theory, few people return now- they can't tolerate how the Eight Masters' dictate what you study. Often those that return have to suck up to one of the masters and indulge crack pot schemes to make sure they stay at the college. It's not uncommon for students to fall out and then be forced to leave when the master drops them from their classes. I can't wait to tolerate Tolfdir's latest lunacy." He shrugged, and seemed to say the last sentence to no-one at all.

"I know magic is unpopular but I would have thought that would make it all the more likely for people to come back. At least here it's accepted, celebrated even."

"A few come back because they love it. Many then leave because they hate it. but most of all people struggle to find reliable work. Families will usually take their sons and daughter back, sure. But few guilds want to deal with the unpopularity of employing a mage, and many mages get seduced by their power. It's easy to practice fashionable schools like destruction, conjuration and other things here, but those skills don't pay well outside of certain jobs. Some become adventurers, some mercenaries but most eventually become bandits, then people fear mages even more. Besides the Thalmor use magic, everyone knows that."

"What about the Jarls? Surely, they need mages, or the Imperial Legion"

"Most leave that to their court wizards, and they've got their scholar's remember? They've selected their successors sometimes years in advance. Those who leave and can fight join the legion, or the Dawnguard like I did but few trained here have the skills to be spellswords or battlemages. High Rock and Morrowind is where the legion gets their best recruits, they're trained from birth for that sort of magic there. Overall, it's hard to find work as a mage in Skyrim."

Serana nodded agreement. There was a world of difference between the safety of classroom spell-casting and the carnage and confusion of the battlefield. Looking around it seemed that few of these students had ever worn armour or swung a sword in anger.

"I never really thought about it." she mumbled.

"Some of us are lucky, others not so much." He said it without heat, but Serana felt a little awkward.

"Is that why you became chose restoration magic then?" she asked quietly curious.

"Yeah."

"I have a hard time imagining you being happy as temple-healer. I image it would be running it like an army camp within a week." Beric living out his life in some placid shrine somewhere, swinging a censor and wearing temple robes just seemed wrong and Serana wanted to laugh.

Beric gave a bark like laugh "the job might not be the most exciting one around, but have you ever seen a temple healer go hungry? I became a restoration mage as I gave up the possibility for ever being rich for the certainty of never being poor or hungry."

They sat in silence for a moment, ignoring the bustle and shouts of the college around them as she fidgeted while her dress. Beric was in a mood, and seemed to be building to something, and she had no wish to rush him into his apology. Besides, she had never really thought about how she would sell her own skills. Few Jarls wanted a Battlemage for a court wizard, most wanted their futures read, potions brewed and amulets enchanted. Between the Dawnguard and serving as an auxiliary mage to the legion she had never really worried about her future or where money would come from.

"So…Serana. I wanted to say something." She stopped fidgeting and looked up, relieved and expectant.

"I'm sorry." He began, slumping forwards to hold his head in his hands, "I'm sorry for how I behaved, how I treated you in this journey. I'm…I'm really struggling with this. Since Beric died, it feels like the last link with my old life is gone."

"Beric, I know you have, but I'm trying to help."

"Yes- but what can we do? the Dawnguard and my old patrol comrades are all dead, or scattered, and now I sit here, every day alone with you. Other than Dervel and Rona I can barely find any of my old friends from the college. Sometimes I see something, and think about what I would say to Beric if he were here, the funny jokes and stories I would write in a letter to him, and then I can't."

"How often do you think about him?" she asked quietly, worried deeply. She looked around and was relieve to see most of the college was standing round the gatehouse, utterly ignoring them on the far side of the courtyard.

"Every day I force it to the back of my mind. And then at night, I get no rest, and my body tells me I should be awake, as is only natural for us now. But when I sleep, I see him. His body dragged in on a common haycart, the terrible gash in his throat smiling from ear to ear, and the look of surprise on his eyes. And then he wakes, looks at me and gives me a terrible double grin. And then he tries to speak, and the wind whistles through his throat, gurgling. and then I wake up." he finished lamely

"Oh Beric, my sad little fledgling" she said, half heartfelt, half exasperated as if he was the only vampire to be haunted with such dreams. "You need to let me know these things. When I turned, every night my childhood wet nurse returned in my dreams- staring at me with betrayed eyes as she held her hands over the bite I had taken out of her neck. These dreams come from Coldharbour, to test us with struggles and challenges. In times, we overcome them, and they pass. In time, it gets easier, and we only remember the good times as the pain leaves us." She pulled him into a deep hug, and felt his hands puller her close, she could feel his arms stiffen and shake around her, and when he moved his head away from her shoulder, it was wet with his tears. He sniffed, and looked away, embarrassed and red faced at this public display.

"I liked being on the road this month. It was like the adventures we had together before all of this. Long days under the sun, the threat of a bandit raid or a troll hiding around the corner to keep us sharp and watchful. Lying next to you in our tent or sharing a room in the inn. Its everything I've missed. And that helped me forget, for an hour, or half a day. And then sometimes I would remember that I forgot that Beren was dead, and it would all come flooding back. And I don't want to keep arguing about it." they were silent for a little while. "let's go out tonight. Into the town. Put all of this behind us." Beric suddenly announced, looking up at the pink and red evening sky.

"um..." Serana responded, worried as she watched Beric come to some sort of decision, nodding to himself and sitting up straight. "Well that would be nice, and you can introduce me to…Dervel and your other friends"

"First, we should find out what in oblivion that is all about."

She looked up, and noticed for the first time the large crowd of people around the gatehouse staring and yelling through the arch towards the town, bringing others running from towers and keep. The scene was curious, and drew them from where that sat to stand to the edges of the crowd where they were ignored but they could not see what held the crowd's attention. An excited hubbub ran through the air, she caught snatches of conversation and none of it made sense. She looked curiously about the densely packed mass of students, as if that might contain some clues, and as she had never seen so many of them together before. Nords seemed in short supply, with Altmer, Breton and imperial well represented and even a few beastfolk present. There were even a few Khajiit scattered amongst them, and wondered how they had entered the college from the city. Perhaps Elisif and her new jarls installed were proving more progressive than the old Stormcloak order.

Suddenly there was shouting and jostling in the crowd, as it surged forwards in response to some new sight, and she stood on her tip-toes to see. She could feel it to, deep within her blood, the blood of Coldharbour was subtle with its power when at rest, the better to entice its prey, yet now it sang as the magicka within it roiled. but frustratingly she could see nothing. Yet just as they pushed forward the crowd was forced back again. Angry voices were raised as people tripped, and then silenced. She could hear the sharp intake of breath around her.

A huge mysterious ball was levitating out through the gatehouse. Five feet above the heads of the crowd and banded with angular writing of some archaic script unknown even to her. It spun, lazily about its axis, as its insides swirling blue-white with some mist pulsed oddly. Here and there lightning flashed silently across its domed surface, soundlessly contained within that strange translucent material. Over the heads of the crowd she could snatch glances at the few mages who followed it. There was an elderly Nord in splattered college master's robes-that must be Tolfdir, and a few others students in college robes- a Khajit, an Orc, a Nord and a Dunmer. The crowd opened up before them as the young orc woman manipulated the energies holding the Ball aloft, and the massed ranks of the college followed with silent curiosity as they crossed the courtyard in the most curious parade that Serana had ever witnessed. The cavernous doors of the Keep opened before them, and then they were swallowed within, the doors slamming shut. With that thunderous rush the spell of silence was broken.

"What do you suppose that was?" someone around her asked.

"Did you see that Orc woman?" Beric nudged her and she nodded 'that's Ghagra, Durag's sister. I'll leave a note with the porters for her to join us tonight- we should get the news straight from the horse's mouth."

"What about all the other people?"

Beric shrugged by way of reply, turning and hurrying back towards their rooms in the Hall of Countenance. Serana glanced at the others and followed, quickly. They sketched out a quick plan, she wanted to unpack, and he planned to change quickly, dash around the college to search out old friend and then they would head into town to discuss the new development.

"Do you suppose all that is why Savos Aren was talking about a new future?"

"Yeah, it's his hobby horse, bring the college back to his rightful place in Tamriel. To be fair, I don't think it's a bad idea. Magical research would keep the mages out of trouble, and if that means fewer bandits then I suppose I'm happy."

"Difficult, tricky people those mages." She gave him a smile, and he raised an eyebrow in reply.

"What is he trying to do?"

"The college has been struggling for some time. After the great collapse a lot of the mages left or were killed and their experiments abandoned in the Midden, now who knows what's down there? Since then standards have dropped and there's been far too many accidents. After Savos Aren took over the college he's always been on the lookout for new magical artefacts, something that will attract mages and money back so that he can rebuild the college."

"You don't sound exactly sound enthused by the idea." She said, confused. Beric turned and she was surprised by the intensity of feeling that burned in his eyes.

"He's desperate to make this place the equal of the Psijics or the Synod, and thinks a big discovery will let us stand shoulder to shoulder with them, that we'll win the respect of Mages and the people of Skyrim. But Nords have never cared for flashy magics, we're a practical people. Now students spend their time thinking up get rich quick schemes or researching hidden prophecies while practicing destruction spells to satisfy their master's scheme's. Sometimes we forget how many people here sneer at restoration, and how many people out there need it. If we showed people why they need magic then fewer people would be scared of it."

Serana listened to this rant.

"Well…he's got the scrolls now, and Saarthal too. Hopefully he's happy with that."

"Would be hard not to be." Beric grumbled. She looked closely at Beric, and not watching where she was going slipped. She fell quickly, jostling Beric as she did so.

"Serana!"

He caught her roughly, awkwardly in his arms, just as the heavy book slipped form his grip and slammed upon the flagstones, snow and ice scattering away from it. she stared, its title and author smartly scrawled in silver letters across the black-leather bound front, burnt into her mind now she was face to face with it. Tamrielic Lore. Yagrum Bagarn. She slipped herself from Beric's grasp, knelt and picked the book up, curious. Several pages had been flagged with loose paper whose ends twitched in the wind, and a quick brush away of fallen snow across the front revealed the subtitle: A list, Compiled by the Last Living Dwemer, of Ancient Artifacts.

"Are you going to give me that back?" his hand, scarred and callous hovered in front of her face. She stood. A nervous silence descended upon them, as she passed it over quietly. Beric snatched it back, checked for damage or stains and hid it away in his bag, anger flaring across his features. Serana was embarrassed and confused. Most of Beric's reading material were more practical than theoretical, Imperial Legion Drill, the Fundamentals of Magical Physics, or Wards and Wartime. They walked in an awkward silence as she thought. She looked up, saw his face. He was embarrassed, upset, she could never imagine him reacting in this way for fear of the Librarian's reprisal for a damaged book. She opened her mouth to ask, but Beric had cut her off.

"Serana I don't want to talk about this." he turned away from her and spoke over his shoulder.

Serana reached out with a hand to turn him around, but he shied away out of his grip, determined, she reached out and poked his arm with a slim finger.

"What you need is a project. Not something Tolfdir or the others have you doing. Something we can work together on, would that help?"

"Why do you say that?" he looked suspicious, and embarrassed.

"Oh, magical research keeps mages out of trouble, and that means fewer bandits."

"Who said that?"

"Some man I know…" she called teasingly over her shoulder as she walked towards the hall of Countenance. "Now, are you going out, or am I going to have to entertain myself tonight?"

---

The clink of pottery mugs and noisy conversation filled the taproom of The Merry Apprentice, a small tavern just a short five-minute walk from the College Barbican. The room was crowded, with college students and fishermen who lined the bar or sat at closely packed rickety tables, both seeming to tolerate the other's presence in exchange for plentiful alcohol and a bowl of hot chowder. Serana took a speculative sip of suspiciously cheap wine, winced and put down the mug. Beric had succeeded in rounding up a few friends and on arrival had been cornered by an Imperial named Proculus, who had fought at Dawnstar as a spellsword under Dagard Hardshore. Their conversation was quick and urgent. Beric was busy ticking of former classmate on his fingers, putting names to fates as Proculus related what he had discovered since term had started, catching them up after their late arrival. Yisra-unknown Rundi-missing, Borvir-missing, Llas-Tei-missing. Alof-dead at Dawnstar- the only one whose fate was known for certain. A Stormcloak Proculus said, and now Madena had awarded the position of Jarl's tutor to him. He sounded bitter at his good fortune.

Serana left them to each other's company. By the sounds of it, he had struggled just like Beren had when they had come home to war to find their friends that had grown rich and fat at home as they sat out the war. But she could not just leave him tonight, Beric was the only person she knew here. Besides, she was worried what might happen to him if she wasn't there. Whenever a raiding party had returned to castle Volkihar the parties they had thrown in the Great Hall had made the rafters ring with screams and laughter. Old friends and absent friends have a habit of encouraging people to drink more than they should, and maybe Beric wasn't in the right frame of mind to turn down a good distraction like a few bottles of wine. Most of all, she feared he might slip. His self-control was admirable, but lose, drunkenness and bloodlust were a dangerous mix for an unsuspecting city. But in the end, all of these thoughts left her with his other…old friends, this couple.

The pot-bellied Breton and his Redguard wife who sat before her were a complete mystery to her apart from the short introduction she had been given during the walk to the inn. She was thin, with kindly eyes and a quick smile, and sat carefully in her chair. He lounged by contrasts, and looked like a foppish knight, with his great cavalier wave of auburn hair and aquiline nose well suited to attracting and sniffing out ways to mis-spend his inheritance. Together they looked at her with curiosity and jealously. She could sense them wondering how she had earned her place at the Dragonborn's side. She had heard the whispered rumours before, mostly by those who had never seen her in battle, and could sense their thoughts running in that direction. First, they would ask her age, and then about magic, and she was keen to avoid such questions.

"So how do you know Beric, Dervel?"

He looked up surprised at the question, and passed a hand through hair, the fine sheen of it and his gleaming rings catching the light.

"Ha, we studied together for four years! Did our novice classes together, and worked together on a few projects as apprentices, though he was more interested in Alteration and Restoration, while Rona and I wanted to pursue our interests in Alchemy and Enchanting- much more lucrative than healing warts and all that. What about yourself, how did a woman as young and smart as you end up alongside that old grump?" he playfully pointed at Beric who didn't catch the gesture, still absorbed in the old war.

"Oh, well I met him in the Dawnguard."

"Nasty times." He said gravely, quickly, and he waved the thought away dismissively like a bad smell.

"You could say that," she raised an eyebrow, though Dervel didn't seem to notice as he started speaking.

"I told Beric to leave it, but he said he needed the money, and once he's decided on something then that's it then. As for us, well, Rona and I had left Skyrim by then, made ourselves a nice little home in High Rock for a while. We didn't want to stay what with the civil war and all, the Stormcloaks were bad for business." Rona shuddered at the thought, but that might have been the wine she had just sipped, and leaned in.

"You don't know what it was like here back then." She said in an earnest undertone as she looked around the crowded taproom anxiously. "All those Thalmor agents crawling over Skyrim, Stormcloaks thugs shaking us down for the cause, claiming it was the 'magic tax.' And it only got worse when Ulfric rebelled- we had made our home here, in Winterhold and in Skyrim, but that was the last straw. We just didn't feel safe anymore. But when the war was over, we decided to come home. Try as we might to forget it, we missed this crazy clifftop town. But the moment we get here and think everything was safe under the Dragonborn peace he dies and Winterhold hangs three Dunmer as Morag Tong."

"Morag Tong?" she asked confused.

"Daedra Cultists of Mephala out of Morrowind. A rumour blamed them for the Dragonborn's death." Rona said, her voice a whisper barely heard above the thrum of the tavern crowd.

"Well they're more like an organised guild of assassins with official government approval to operate in Morrowind and contracted by the great houses-" Dervel jumped in loudly, the eager light of correction gleaming in his eyes. Rona looked around in alarm and shushed him with her hands, and Dervel had the good sense to look embarrassed. It probably didn't do for a mage to know too much about that sort of thing, just like necromancy. Serana suppressed the urge to roll her eyes, offered a thin smile and reached for another sip of wine but remembered the taste and stopped. Rona spotted the gesture and smiled.

"I don't blame you-I wouldn't either. Their wine is awful, but their ale and rum is excellent. Sadly, there's few places that sell good wine in this city- and fewer still who appreciate it! but well be moving on soon, Orthorn and Ghagra will be joining us here."

"How did you end up running around with the Dawnguard mob then?" Rona asked, though she could tell from the tone it was motivated by a macabre curiousity.

Serana had prepared an answer to this a long time ago, and it came out as if by rote.

"My family used to live on our estate on the northern coast, when it was burned to the ground during vampire attack, we fled to Solitude, I met Beric on the road at Dragonbridge and joined the Dawnguard as a mage. Spent the next few months fighting at his side and just got used to it."

"By the Divines how awful! I'm sorry Serana. Did any of your family survive at all?"

"Well my mother Valerica runs a perfume and apothecary shop in Solitude, and my father died in the siege of Castle Volkihar.…I'm sorry but I don't really want to talk about this anymore."

There was an awkward pause and Serana looked around the pub for a minute, it seemed to be taking Orthorn and Ghagra an incredible amount of time to get here. She looked back and saw Dervel and Rona's clasped hands on the table, their gold wedding bands winking.

"So, you and Rona met here then?"

"Oh yes, first day, first year. We met as a pair of novices, both new in Skyrim. We started courting when we became apprentices, and we got married as soon as I returned to High Rock, my father was not supportive of the match, As he felt I could have married better, but I told the old man that it would stop me asking him for cash if I had a home of my own and well that was that!"

"He sounds important- who is your father?"

"Oh, he's Duke Tristaine of Wayrest," he said with the carelessly tired air of a man who expected people to know exactly who that was. "He met my mother on campaign against the Orcs a few decades back when she was the daughter of the local mayor. He recognised me as his son and paid for my education. He always said there was a space for me to become a knight or a battlemage if I wanted to stay at his castle, but I just wasn't interested in waving swords around and all that rubbish."

"Beric! By Malacath let me get a look at you!" a cheerful bellow stunned half the room, as an Orc woman with a dirty gambeson and arming sword belted over her college robes pushed her way through the crowd, followed by the most depressed looking Altmer she had ever seen. She ignored the shouts of anger at her passing, and pulled Beric into a bear hug. Calling for ale from a harried looking serving girl who had come to deal with the disruption as the Altmer tried to apologise to a trio of angry fishermen, she spun a chair around, sat down and peered at him closely.

"Last time I saw you were waving goodbye from the Windhelm road gate. How have you been?"

"Well, surviving I guess." He said with a careless shrug

"Thriving is more like it from what I hear- Tribune then Praefect in the imperial legion, battlemage of renown and one of the richest men in Skyrim." She grinned broadly as she teased, punching him on the arm at his humility in evident good humour.

"Ah well." he said lamely. He shrugged embarrassed at the attention, while Ghagra looked at him steadily, until he looked her again in the eye.

"Durag is well by the way, he wrote you a letter. He's well enough, when he's not trying to burn the house down that is." Beric gave a mirthless chuckle that died on his lips.

"I was very sorry to hear about your brother. He must have been a great man if he was anything like you, and I wish I had had the chance to meet him before he died. I always remembered how much you spoke of him, how much you missed him while you were here. I am sorry you had so little time together." She said suddenly, quietly with heartfelt emotion, and Dervel echoed it with a quiet 'hear hear.' Rona gave a smile, her eyes soft and shining.

"Thank you. I think you two would have gotten on well." he gulped and looked away, a hand playing with the hilt of the dagger on hip.

"I don't really want to talk about him right now, let's just… let's just have fun tonight, forget about all that for the moment." No one interrupted him, and he bravely continued. "What about you- I don't remember you being one much for dungeon-delving. What was that floating ball? Where did you find it- that's a story worth hearing" Beric said abruptly, leaning forwards towards Ghagra, curiosity writ across his features as he took in her warlike and dirty appearance. They could both smell the adventure on her, the stink of the road and the grave musk of the Draugr.

"Ahh, well its fucking big! And it's a good story, but we'll sort that in the morning. Work can wait, let's celebrate first. Let's get fucking smashed."

Serana wrinkled her nose as Ghagra downed the pint that was offered her in one, belched, ordered a pitcher and started working her way through that. It was with alarm and regret that Serana realised that she was going to have to stay and join in the celebration, and consigned herself to drinking beer for the rest of the night. To her relief the beer proved to be drinkable, very drinkable, and she ordered another pint before they walked off into that star light night, a lack of blood leaving her lightheaded. The night became a scattered jumble of images stuck in her head.

They found themselves in another smoky pub, quieter now that they had left the fishermen behind. Ghagra had pulled Beric away at this point, and they talked quietly for a moment about half a dozen things- many of them things they had promised to leave until tomorrow. About his brother's death, and the dagger. Ghagra paled to look at it. About Psijics, and Draugr, amulets and ancient magics. Beric shook his head, pointed to her and she looked away. Rona and Dervel were asking about her and Beric. She had not expected questions about Beric, and she felt a blush rise in her cheeks, and they laughed as their questions gently poked and teased her innocent babbling. She watched their silly games, ordered another beer and leaned against Beric as they sat together on a bench. She watched a Ghagra beat a half dozen Nords arm wrestling, and went to order another bottle of beer. A drunk Nord cornered her, speaking loudly into her ear and an insistent gleam in his eyes as he tried to pull her towards his friends, laughing and egging him on. Beric rescued her. A quick punch sent the drunk Nord Spinning. Spinning blood, blood that flowed red upon the floor. One of his mates stood too fast, and collapsed as Ghagra belted him hard in the belly.

Then they were out into the street, cheering as snow fell upon their heads. Beric was laughing, his cares washed away, they lost Orthorn then. She watched as the rest of them left for the next pub and urged them on. She left them for a moment, following the drunk man down a side street abandoned by his friends, he turned in surprise, she caught the lewd gleam, then the fear in his eyes, the sudden fear before he tried to scream as he caught her sharp grin by moonlight. He shuddered in her fierce grip at the sudden violence of her assault, her fangs deep and bloody in his neck as his blood jetted down her eager throat, gulped away with a grateful shudder. She left his body drained and forgotten in the gutter, food for the dogs. She returned, found then again and saw Beric being carried shoulder high on the shoulders of Ghagra and Orthorn down the main street, banging every tavern sign on the way, she ran after then, whooping and laughing. They climbed onto a roof, low and flat enough for them to sit dangling their feet off the edge and pelting passers-by with snowballs. It was all good fun until Ghagra ended up on the roof of a pub, and swan dived into a 6-foot snow drift that proved to be a snow-covered pile of manure. Between the laughter, the swearing and the cursed smell they decided that that was an end to the night.

---

Serana woke with a groan at light stabbed her eyes and pain lanced her brain as light streamed through the window, its curtains unhelpfully un-pulled. Damn all Brewers!her tongue felt thick, her mouth dry and her head swam as the room spun around her, and last night's dress was bunched up around her thighs from kicking in her sleep. She pulled the thin pillow over her head, but it was musty, and light pricked her hands and naked calves. Blearily, she kicked the bedclothes away and stood, stinking of smoke and drink and sweat and pulled the curtains shut before collapsing from the effort. She dozen there for several hours, before she eventually pulled herself from her bed, found both her shoes and stockings (unhelpfully kicked or thrown into opposite ends of her small room) and set out for the bathroom, desperate for the revitalising effect of warm water and soap, the product of recovered dwemer pipes and magical ingenuity.

Walking back and forth from lessons with the other hopefuls looking to enter the college as Adepts, and long periods of study in the Arcanaeum and her small private room. The college was superbly well provisioned, with the alchemical shop in the Gatehouse even having a small supply of preserved Daedra hearts, a luxury she had not seen since her mother's laboratory. however, as she quickly learned the learned the rhythms of the college gave her little time at the moment to enjoy such opportunities. They had a punishing week of orientation lecture and revision lessons to prepare for the examinations. Their evenings were often taken up with a mix of jealous meet and greets with Eight Masters and their chosen adept and expert students, and she found it a harsh awakening from her previous privileged positions. Here her previous rank meant little, and many seemed to sneer at the thought of 'her' achievements.

She leaned that her examination would be divided into practical and theory, and It was with relief that far from an examination in all of the eight schools of magic, she only had to select the three that she wished to study in depth, as well as pass a more general examination of basic magical theory to demonstrate her competence. Many of those taking the adept examinations alongside her twittered away concerned with how best to catch the attention of one master or another, weighing their personal interests and considering what spells to demonstrate in the practical examination, which was always supervised by one of the Eight. She paid it no attention, and played to her capabilities as a witch, taking Destruction, Conjuration and Alchemy.

However, none of these were lessons Beric was taking with the result that they often only saw each other at the start and end of the day. Outside of lesson Beric often joined, but at other times he disappeared, and he frequently returned at odd hours of the day and night, the bag he carried straining with books. She was affronted by such secrecy from her fledging, but now was hardly the time to deal with it. Beric seemed determined to pursue whatever it was he was researching in secret, and she was frustrated that yet again he seemed to be hiding his misery and his secrets from her.

She found that many of the peers undertaking the lessons alongside her treated her with a mixture of fascination, disdain and arrogance. She, turned at eighteen and passing herself as a maid of twenty, was sitting the same examinations of many who were now in their last twenties and early thirties. Her many early errors of understanding in their theory lessons cemented what many of them seemed to have suspected. That far from the rumoured magical prodigy, she was merely a half-skilled cultist from the frozen north, ignorant of the finer points of magical academia and fit only for the rough and tumble of the battlefield. The excellence that she displayed during their practical lessons cemented this view. Even her solid, albeit not inspired performance in the theory examinations did not change this view, while her excellent practical marks hardly seemed to register with the bored looking Breton master of Conjuring, who seemed disappointed that her interests lay more in necromancy than in the plains of oblivion.

She had hoped that with the exams behind her, the issue would be at an end, but after finishing a particularly bruising conjuration theory lecture one day she found herself left alone as she walked across the courtyard. Many of the students had seemed to come to the same view as Phinis, viewing her practice of practical necromancy as dirty and workmanlike in comparison to the elevated theoretical debates they held on the nature of the Dwemer's disappearance, on Sunder, and Keening, and other topics which she half understood and interested her not at all.

She walked, head down from to avoid the Sun's evil glare. The common mages she cared little about- if they wished to avoid her, then that hardly mattered to her. But it was Beric's old friends and Beric herself that were the issue. Rona and Dervel she met during alchemy classes, and they were pleasant enough but seemed more interested in the fine points of academic study then their practical application. Dervel's long-winded lectures to her served only to irritate her more, as did his cack-handed approach to potion making. Meanwhile Rona seemed to be more invested in following the literature to the letter, and seemed aghast when she created potions from memory or with subtly different ingredients and mixtures to those proscribed by the senior mages. They argued frequently over it, and eventually both simply stopped interfering in the others business and kept their conversation light and superficial, one day she overheard Dervel describe it as a Modus Vivendi, whatever that was. Orthorn had taken a quick interest in her, but seemed disappointed when she refused his offers to join a half dozen other schemes which all seemed to centre upon studying together, alone. Just as quickly his polite interest waned, and he soon spent much of his time in with another Altmer woman who looked like she sharpened her chin with a grindstone.

She stopped and sat, armed crossed and lost in thought on a bench. The reassuring mass of the curtain wall blocked the worst of the wind and snow and left the courtyard a shadowed oasis. Finally, there was Proculus, Ghagra and Beric. Ever since Tolfdir had returned from Saarthal, they had been huddled away, surrounding Tolfdir like disciples to a prophet. She had offered to help, to both to them as a group and one by one, and as a group and one by one they had refused her help, Beric last and most hurtful of all. she had not spoken to him for a day and a night after that. Attempts by other students to discuss their work been met with polite refusal, and when the Thalmor advisor called Arcano had started questioning them many dropped the issue altogether. While the power and presence of the Thalmor in Skyrim had been greatly reduced by civil war and the destruction of their Keep at Northwatch point during the vampire crisis, many students still feared them and their power. Rona told her that three of her classmates who had been less than discrete about their worship of Talos had disappeared in the night.

Then, suddenly, breaking the stillness around her she heard the great bells of the college begun to peel in exultation into the crisp autumn morning air, answering the ringing of those below in joyous celebration, just as the wind send snow eddying around her. The crowds of college students in the courtyard stopped, and she saw others pouring out from the halls and classrooms. From out the great keep came the Arch Mage and his entourage, stalked by the Arcano. Breathless, a college student came sprinting into the central courtyard, climbed up onto the statute of Shalidor and yelled his news to the audience.

"Aela is pregnant! The Dragonborn has a child!"

Cheers and a deep murmur greeted this news. With a scowl the Thalmor withdrew at a barely dignified pace, the black hem of his robes swishing behind him. Some took this as proof of the Thalmor involvement in the Dragonborn's death, and jeered him behind his back. Serana stood shocked, her mind racing. It had been commonly assumed that with the Dragonborn's death his line had ended and with his death the dreams many had had of a line of dragonborn kings and emperors. Many had blamed the Thalmor, some Morrowind, alleging revenge for the staggering numbers of dark elves killed in Windhelm. A few quietly murmured that Elisif was to blame. But with a child? An avenging son? Serana's mind raced in time with the whispers of those around her at the possibilities a healthy child had before them.

Beric. Beric had never mention that Aela was pregnant, and given how she had kicked them out of the house it seemed unlikely that she would take him into her confidence. Sudden thought filled her- did she want news of Beren's still living legacy entrusted to some college student? She would tell him, and see the joy spread across his face, and relieve him of the deep gloom he had once again dug himself into, hiding away in darkened library and pouring over books. Some memento of his brother's life still lived, something that he could defend, tie him to his former life and shield him from the beast and the rage and the bloodlust that claimed so many fledglings before they reached their hundredth year.

She rushed off, checking his rooms-empty, the Restoration practice room-empty, then the Alteration study, where Proculus told her he had seen him in the Arcanaeum, researching books on Arch Mage Gauldur. She shouted her thanks to him and dashed for the Arcanaeum, dashing from the north cloister across the courtyard and ignoring the confused looks and shouts, throwing the doors open, and heading up the great staircase. She jumped the stair three at a time, dodging those on the stairs and ignoring the enraged shouts of students tottering under piles of weighty books.

"Beric!?" she yelled, crashing through the doors into the calm of the Arcanaeum, sending dust motes swirling into the narrow beams of light falling from the windows.

"Shush!" several students looked at her open mouthed and scandalised, some were already hurrying away before the wrath of the librarian could descend.

"Beric! Where by Oblivion are you!"

"THIS. IS. A. LIBRARY!" Urag shouted from his pulpit, scandalised that someone had dared violate the placid sanctuary of his library, already the drones behind the desk beneath him were filtering towards her, promising the terrible punishment of a severe scolding.

"Serana? What's going on?" a voice sighed from behind her and she whirled around to find Beric, tired and dusty standing an few steps down from the landing for the private collection. She rushed to him, ducking out the library and up the great staircase, leaving behind Urag's enraged yells about lack of manner and good breeding echoing behind her.

"News from Whiterun! it's all over town and I came as quick as I could! Aela's pregnant Beric!" she started forward, then drew away from him, puzzled at his lack of reaction, and suddenly conscious of the presence of other students watching them.

"What?...oh." She took a step back from him watching his eyes where the guilty truth swam. "You knew already." She felt foolish, and felt a faint embarrassment warm in her cheeks. "Why didn't I know, why didn't you tell me?"

"Beren didn't want people to know, it was still too early when we left. Aela must have decided to make it public soon after we left. The news must have finally caught up with us." He shrugged, looking embarrassed.

"And you didn't think to mention it on the road?"

"Beren didn't want me too." He said steadily, unwilling to yield the point.

She looked away, embarrassed and uncertain. He didn't seem particularly excited by the news. Didn't seem to have any reaction at all other than guilt. She felt terrible, to have been excluded and forgotten in such a way. Ever since she had known Beric, they had been utterly open and told each other everything. She had found it a relief after the secrets and lies of her own family, and the muted suspicion and hostility that still flavoured the letter she and mothers exchanged. She turned to leave.

"Well. I guess I'll go then…"

"Wait, Serana." He fumbled "I-"

"Beric? What's going on?" Ghagra had appeared above them on the staircase that led to the private collection, he turned, frustrated at being interrupted.

"Aela is pregnant Ghagra. I'm going to be an uncle. Serana and I were just talking-"

"Oh. Beric congratulations! You can tell the others and we'll celebrate the news tonight after we've finished." She then turned to her, looking passed Beric to address her directly. "Thanks, Serana, that was really kind. Unfortunately, we've got to run-we've work in the private collection, but we should be finished soon- well see you tonight yeah?" She nodded, turned and began heading up the stairway towards the private collection's landing. They hurried after, drawing them away from the eyes that still darted from the Arcanaeum's open doors.

"Wait! Wait!" Beric announced once they stood by landing for the private collection, its actual entrance half-hidden down a shadowed corridor. He looked pained, glancing back and forth between the two of them, before pulling them into a quiet corner.

"Divines, wait Ghagra! We need Serana for this project Ghagra. We're not getting anywhere."

"Are you kidding? Even after all your begging Tolfdir barely wanted to give you a key to the private collection, even after your brother gave the scrolls out for the college. I had to stick my neck out for you."

"And I appreciate the efforts, really I do. But it's Serana you want. Not me."

"Why? We need to keep this a secret- you, me, Savos, Tolfdir, Orthorn, Proculus, the others, there's already too many involved. Then there's the Psijics and the Thalmor and every other witch cult and mage guild snooping about. Do you have any idea what they've found? What it could mean if it gets out?"

Serana looked dubious. Whatever it was, it was far more interesting than musing on the nature of mundus, it would be dangerous, and probably lead to a fight or two, but she could scent blood a mile off and what use was that gift if you didn't use it? she spoke up.

"Beric and I have kept secrets these past few years that would turn your hair grey. Secrets of war, politics and magic. Do you know how many I have killed to keep them? Can you say the same, Orc?"

"Thank you for that, Nord. I don't mean to be rude but given your background why should I take you on? What do you know of magical theory, or natural philosophy, or theology? What do you know of the Aedra, and the Daedra and their works? I need scholars, not spellswords." She turned to leave down the corridor, and seemed to expect Beric to follow alone.

"Enough, Serana, Ghagra. Enough." Beric snapped, standing with Serana to look at Ghagra who now turned and seemed to be almost blocking their path down the corridor into the private collection. He spoke, low, insistent and determined. Tired of their games, their arguing.

"Do you know why you need her? Do you speak ancient nordic? Can you read and write it like your mother tongue? And of the old stories, of the old ways- mage-priests, clans of housecarls, their chieftains. Serana was brought up on such tales of bravery and heroism…and as for all this about the Aedra and Daedra…" he glanced at Serana carefully, and she gave him just the slightest of nods. "Just because you live in Skyrim and worship your one god loudly and proudly, do not lecture me that there is only one nordic religion. I've met a lot of people who follow the old Nordic faith, and others who worship the new imperial gods. I've met Dunmer dragon cultists, and Nords of the Morrowind faith, and other stranger worshippers from odder religions. Trust me when I say that Serana knows how the world works. That she has walked the plains of Oblivion, of the Soul Cairn and conversed with the Ideal masters. Trust me that I speak the truth."

Serana felt a rush of pride at his praise, and Ghagra looked at her with interest, the searching look of a Daedra cultist who suddenly recognises their faith in another, but guarded by suspicion as to which master, she served. She had little doubt that Ghagra would never guess her dread Lord.

"Swear it to me then, by Malacath."

"I swear it, by Talos."

"And you Serana?"

"I so swear…by the Vampire Mace." Surprise. Terror. Anger. Disgust. They all flittered across Ghagra's face for an instant, before disappearing behind the mask of calm resolve. Beric was looking at her strangely, then let out a long, slow breath.

"I suppose that's enough for you then Ghagra?"

"Aye. Let's to work." She turned on her heel and left, almost rushing away as she disappeared from sight. Plainly that was more than she bargained for.

"Beric?"

"Hmm?"

"Thank you."

"No Serana, Thank you…And Serana. I'm sorry. I wanted to include you in this earlier, but Ghagra's terrified of betrayal, somehow already the Psijic's found out what we're about and they're…communicating…somehow. Ghagra only trusted me because of Durag's letter. And I think after that little display, she trusts you entirely. You two must be the only Daedra worshippers in this place."

"Ah. At last, a friend." A small smile twitched the corner of her mouth, but Beric didn't return it. Ghagra had disappeared up the corridor with startling speed, leaving them alone.

"Well?" she asked, gesturing for them to follow Ghagra, curiosity growing within her. "Shall we make a start?" she prompted, hurrying past Beric. They had still not explained exactly what it was that they were working on, and why her particular set of skills were so critical. It must have something to do with that sphere.

They reached the end of the corridor, to find Ghagra leaning against a heavy door of Dwemer metal, large enough for a centurion to walk through, it stood out of place amidst the cold grey stone of the rest of the college. Warded and sealed, there was no doorknob, or keyhole, merely a regular, imposing wall of rivets hammered into the metal that dully reflected the light of a single flickering torch sconce. Serana reached out with her magicka, felt the power built into it, the strength of it's magic standing like a cliff before her, throwing back all attempts to understand or penetrate what stood behind it. To her senses it did not seem to be a pocket or bubble of protected space, like so many magically shielded rooms she had seen, and like the one she had created herself back at Kyne's Rest estate. Instead it seemed as though nothing stood behind the door at all- as though it had merely been bolted to the wall as a curiosity as you might see in the public gallery of Calcelmo's Museum. Her brain told her that was impossible- there must be something behind this door, an entire level of this keep cannot simply not exist if the floors above and below were to stand, and yet all her magical sense told her that was true. She felt fear coil within her, as for the first time since her arrival at the college she stood face to face with something commiserate with her expectations of genius. If it was Shalidor who had placed this door here, and the pocket of non-space to nowhere that stood beyond it, he deserved his fame well.

Beric removed an intricately carved key from a chain around his neck, before pressing his bare hand to the metal seemingly at some random point. He stood absolutely still for a second and she watched, transfixed. Then light flashed around his hand, and he stiffened in pain, she saw his shoulder twitch as the muscles below went taught, and then he relaxed with a sigh, and drew back his hand. An imprint, drawn in red light of his hand remained upon the door, perfect with every minute detail of his palm and fingers drawn upon it in glowing red. Every line and swirl glowed starkly upon the dull surface, before fading from the inside out, until there was just the faintest outline of his hand. Then the red light ran and spun, swimming across the surface of the metal, twisting into a keyhole. The key entered, twisted, clicked and was withdrawn. Then that light too was gone.

There was a quiet whirling and clicking from the door as cogs and levers pulled, and a faint swish of oil filled pipes. Silence, followed. Then the door swung open on silent hinges and they stepped inside.

Everything stood in contrast to the openness of entry to the library below and its invitation to enter and to learn. Here they entered a corridor like she would have seen in Castle Volkihar, ominous and emanating a sense of watchful eternity. Where much the rest of the castle had been lit by the wavering poor light thrown by candles, or else lanterns with panes cut from shattered proof ox horn, here the once again the rooms were lit by that curious unwavering lantern light, as she had seen in the Arch Mage's quarters.

They stood in the shadows of two great Gargoyles that looked down upon them with cold carved eyes. The hallway was low ceilinged and lined with lockers, shelves and drawers, and every twenty feet or so heavy iron doors stood closed on both sides, named with indecipherable numeric codes. There were precious few books on display here, and those that were stood chained in place. They came to a large crossroads at the end of the hall. A lectern of ancient wood stood just before the centre; A book written in Daedric script with human blood bound to it with silver chains. It stood before a pentagram that had been carved deep into the stone of the floor, the exact centre blackened, and her keen nose revealed the scents of void salts and ectoplasm burnt into the stone. She shivered with excitement. They turned left, their quiet footsteps the only sound in the absolute stillness that hung about them.

"So…what exactly are we working on? And why do you need me?"

"The Eye of Magnus." Ghagra answered smoothly, saying nothing else. From the name it was clearly Aedric, and she and her family had long since turned from those gods. She had once sneered at their name altogether, although recent events had rather changed her perspective on such matters.

"And why do you need me?"

"Because this eye somehow causes the great collapse. Because the Psijics are appearing through the walls, threatening to destroy the college as time unravels. Because if you don't help, it will destroy us all."

Ahh. Lovely. She thought. Another one of those days. They turned left again, found the second door to their right and entered in the same way as they had done before.

The room was narrow, windowless, and divided into two halves. The first half was lined with shelves, a pair of desks stood, surrounded by a jumble of chairs. Books were strewn upon the surface of one desk, written in half a dozen languages, some on paper, some on parchment. On the other table stood a mess of finds- ancient nordic pottery, weapons, drawing on loose scrapes of paper of etching and low-reliefs and a mess of other recovered artifacts lying in straw in packing crates. But it was the far end of the room that dominated her attention and that she only had eyes for as she walked past the piled materials without a murmur of interest.

The eye floated as it gently spun about its axis. It did not bounce like she had expected but simply spun, slow and steady, the mist and light within pulsing to some erratic beat she could not understand, the globe bound with bands of some metal, covered in script she could not read even if she spent a hundred mortal lifetimes of study. She walked right up to it, felt the presence of it. She had expected the air to be cold near it, but instead there was no drop in temperature, just an overwhelming sense of pressure, like a stormfront coming off the sea, like when you descend from the great heights of the mountains to the plains below, or when she had striped, swum and dived deep into the seas around her home until her nose bled and the pain bursting in her ears made her scream two hundred feet below the surface. She felt something stir, deep inside that orb, a consciousness impossible ancient and vast, and for one brief moment she felt it scrape curiously against her the essence of her being, like a gentle finger run across the back of an ant. She shuddered and stepped away.

She gestured at it.

"Where did you find this?" wonder filled her voice as she stared at it.

"Saarthal" Ghagra replied, helpfully.

"Yes, I mean where in Saarthal?" she replied, rolling her eyes.

"You can read that in the excavation notes. Unfortunately, we will not be able to return until the spring. It is difficult to maintain the College's expeditions into the frozen north at the best of times during summer, and in winter it is simply impossible."

She gestured to the book covered table, and Serana hurried over, curious and ready to begin. She stopped, staring for a moment in shock at a book on the table she recognised. Before the chair closest to her sat a large black book with silver letter. Neither Beric nor Ghagra seemed to notice her, to consumed in their own conversation.

"..and I need to talk to Orthorn about his translation of On Artaeum. The boy needs hurrying along. In the meantime, Beric can you fill Serana in on the details? I'll let you talk to Tolfdir about it later."

"Sure." Ghagra nodded and left, the heavy door clicking shut behind her, Beric turned to look at her, and stopped.

Serana sat at the book covered table, looking expectantly at Beric. The large black book lay on her lap, Tamrielic Lore glinting in silver lettering on his face. she gently tapped the front cover with a slender finger.

"So, this is what you've been up to when you've been avoiding me and not sleeping?"

"Mostly."

"Mostly, Meaning yes….Hmm…" she opened the book, curious to read what this so called dwemer claimed to know, and its relevance to the Eye of Magnus. It was an anthology of weaponry from the look of its contents, a chapter by chapter catalogue of notable armaments from history, some know to her, many unknown. She leafed through towards the page marked with a sliver of paper. Noting the handsome woodcarving of the weapons described within she turned paged by page as Beric looked on, scandalised.

"Serana…"

The book fell open on the marked page, and she read the introduction with a deepening frown.

"Mehrune's Razor

The Dark Brotherhood has coveted this ebony dagger for generations. This mythical artefact is capable of slaying any creature instantly. History does not record any bearers of Mehrune's Razor. However, the Dark Brotherhood was once decimated by a vicious internal power struggle. It is suspected that the Razor was involved."

A woodcut opposite picked out the dagger, its 'Oht' etched leaf blade, the jagged crescent hilt and large black pommel stone. She looked at it confused- this was not the eye. Before glancing up and seeing Beric toying with the weapon in his hands. The dagger was unquestionably Mehrune's Razor, its picture matched, and it was no mere copy. She had felt the Daedric presence within the blade, there was no way that could be faked. She had even confirmed it for Beric over a month ago in Whiterun. Tainted blood why had she been so stupid!

"Beric…what is this? What are you doing?"

"Urag gave me the first book, but I needed more! I needed to get access to the private collection- and the Eye of Magnus was how I got it- between the scrolls and Ghagra's petiton on my behalf I got a key, and they gave me the information to prove it. I told you. I told everyone. Beren was not killed by some lunatic clown. He was assassinated. And this proves it." He held it high, the ebony blade gleaming in the steady light, wickedly sharp, before sheathing it with a snap.

"Mehrune's Razor. Lost since the Oblivious crisis. It was destroyed then, its pieces hidden across Tamriel-you can check the other books it's all there- and now reforged by the Dark Brotherhood for just this purpose. The perfect tool for a band of assassin." He lent forward, and pull another book out from his bag, excited and tapping at its pages, an account covering the end of the Oblivion crisis "Look Serana! Destroyed, but someone remade the blade. Don't you see the artistry that went into this? No clown could have made a blade as precious as this- he was given it. That means planning, it means organisation. It means responsibility." He ticked the last three points off on his fingers, the fervour of belief burning in his eyes.

Serana sat frozen in her chair, mind racing. There is no indication that the jester was part of the Dark Brotherhood, and she flicked back and forth through the pages-but then she supposed would there be? It hardly seemed smart to go marked as an assassin. There was no proof that Jester had been anything other than a madman, besides his assassination and escape and…and now the dagger. And there hadn't been any other proof of the dark brotherhood's existence for years, other than those who claimed the Emperor's death was something other than a heart attack. The very same people who claimed that they weren't all wiped out in that attack by those Penaltus Occulatus people in Falkreath?

Somehow it made some terrible sense for the first time Beric actually had evidence, and opportunity- and she wonder darkly, eventually he might even find motive. Suppose for a second you wanted to kill the Dragonborn- would this not be the perfect blade to do it with? And if it was missing, would you try without it or rather wait, and how long would it take you to recover? That could not have been an easy quest given its master and why would you make the effort unless you needed the perfect assassin's blade? She knew well what the Daedra demanded in their pacts, body, soul and her virgin blood she had pledged to Molag Bal for his mightiest gift. She froze, tasted bile, swallowed, and quickly pushed that uncomfortable thought deep and away into the frozen forgotten corners of her mind. Focus now Serana.

She steadied herself. Where she had been chilled by fear, cold certainty began to sink in. Few weapons such as these end up in the hands of mortals randomly- the Daedra were nothing if not discerning to those who they granted their gifts, even Sheogorath for all his lunacy reserved a certain logic for selection of his champions. Today three Daedric artifacts were known to be at large in Skyrim, the vampire mace and the black star in the hands of Apraxis The Defiler, and Dawnbreaker with Serafen the Altmer, both of them legendary warriors in their own right. Mehrune's Razor would certainly have been wielded by a warrior of equal skill- or created by one- and if its wielder killed a demi-god and executed an impossible escape, then it seemed likely the Dark Brotherhood were behind it.

"What are you planning Beric?" she stood, dropping the book to the floor with nerveless fingers and hurried across to him, holding him by the shoulders gently, speaking to him in a low, insistent voice even as she saw the bloodlust flare in the depth of his cold eyes.

"It's simple I just need to find who reforged the blade, and then the Dark brotherhood, and then who paid them to kill my brother…"

"Beric…please…please listen to me for just a moment." She held his head in her hands with her iron strength, looking him dead in the eye. She would back a quest, but refused to enter into some blood-crazed suicide pact. "I understand that you want revenge. I do. Beren was the only human other than you who ever treated me with respect after he learnt what I am, and I will honour his memory through the death of his murderer..." he nodded, still and looked deeply back at her. She took a steadily breath, a human gesture that surprised her, she had not meant to bind herself so quickly like that, but there was no turning back now.

"…But, lets be smart about this, and you'll have to trust me, Beric. Listen to me when I say you're going too far, or too fast. Remember who you are and the gift you're received- we need to focus on the Eye- that's what's critical right now. Think of the gift of my blood in your veins, the time we have for revenge danger we will be in if we're discovered! I know we've never cared for the titles and positions of mistress and fledgling, but you need to listen to me now. It wants to control you, deceive you and overpower you. That's how the blood works. You must master it; you need to master it. We will have our revenge, but don't lose yourself to it. Don't be stupid."

He brushed her hands aside gently, and he held them in his own, clasped before him, trapping them between his own.

"Please. Serana. You promised me. You promised you would help. I need you now, more than ever. I'm not going to be stupid Serana. I've got a plan. I'm going to find them. I'm going to talk to them. And then I'm going to kill them. One by one. Until every last one of them is dead. And you are going to help me. I don't care if it's the Dark Brotherhood or the Thalmor or even if it's the damned Greybeards. I don't care if I have to wipe them all from the face of Nirn. There will be no mercy, not for this crime."

Beric let go and she dropped her hands. Serana looked at the eye and felt its silently judge her. Biting her lip, she turned back to Beric, and nodded.

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A/N

Hello again everyone, sorry for the very long wait- unfortunately my work/life balance has been awful and will likely deteriorate again, so it will probably be a few months before I can publish a follow up. Please note that the text quoted from the in-game book, and belongs to Bethesda- all credits to them. I'm also an awful human being for promising to write shorter chapters and then committing myself to leave this 19,000 words monster all cut up, but I felt that I needed to get both eye and razor plotlines moving. I'll hopefully have another chapter out for October.

Please let me know your thoughts on everything, what worked well and what can be improved, and hopefully ill have a new chapter incorporating your feedback out soon.

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