Chapter 54: Mist and Shadow

I suspected that dawn did not arrive willingly in Morthal no matter the season. The air was thick with an icy humidity that sheared through my lungs and made my chest ache. Though the sun had risen, the village was shrouded by craggy mountains looming to the east, and would remain darkened for several hours still. Flimsy masts with sails hanging limply alongside swayed in the dense fog that pooled on the ground, obscuring what must have been a watercourse.

And all the while, in the corner of my eye, there were flickers of swift movement.

I didn't think it was a dragon – it was too small, and they did not tend to hide and observe in this way. Whatever it was, it was as fast as one, for whenever I glanced in its direction it was already gone, leaving only trails of curling mist in its wake.

Probably a curious fox.

I shivered as we shuffled further into the village, huddling closer to Misty, collecting my bow and quiver from her back. I took a firm grip of the former and slung the latter over my shoulder with a resolute, steadying puff of air that clouded before my eyes. Farkas would blame himself if I was picked off by something or someone three steps into the village. The sudden surge of vulnerability would have been laughable had the close air not been so oppressive.

Misty seemed as unaffected as ever, perhaps feeling at home amongst her namesake greyness. This thought did amuse me, which warmed me, leaving in its wake an unexpected swell of pride in her fortitude – or whatever it was that allowed her to maintain calm when other horses were skittery and nervous.

My cold fingers fumbled with her reigns as I tied her to the post outside the inn, and she immediately began drinking from a trough of water with splinters of ice clinging to its sides.

I lugged down then heaved up my pack, unwilling to leave my lute outside, watching the inn while my hands moved automatically. Wood, thatch, stonework around the base, perhaps bordering an underfloor heating system. It looked like any other village inn, but I could imagine walking into the Moorside and disappearing. A dangling sign bore a circle of knotwork and a half-moon complete with scowling face whose lone, mocking eye weighed me as I inched closer.

The sign is not judging you.

Rolling my eyes at myself, I leapt up the stairs and rubbed my hands together, stomping my feet on the door mat in an attempt to warm up.

I needn't have bothered – a stifling heat brushed my cheeks the moment I pushed the door open, and –

"They said explore Nirn.
To many lands I traveled.
Never feeling like home," a low, rough voice crooned nearby, accompanied by the heavy-handed patter-thump of a drum.

Frowning in confusion, I turned toward the resident bard. Without a lute to harmonise, Lamentations of the Lost's melody fell into monotony, and this rendition was no exception.

I spied the Orc sitting in a darkened corner opposite the entryway. His hair was swept back in waves in romantic bard fashion, but his clothes were threadbare. An odd combination, for it told me nothing of what to expect of him, and I regarded the bard with curiosity. I caught the shadow of a lute propped against his chair; the drum was nestled between his knees.

He stopped playing and glanced up as the door swung shut behind me with a click. Muddy-brown eyes met mine; his tusks pressed into his top lip as he smiled as though he had been expecting me. "Want me to stop, m'Lady?"

My frown doubled. "Why would-?"

"Hey – don't you be hassling a customer with your – your caterwauling," a sharp, feminine voice called from across the tap room. Hurried footsteps shuffled; I did a double-take and spotted the publican of the otherwise empty tavern. She was a middle-aged Redguard with greying-black hair tied into a hasty plait. "I hope Lurbuk didn't bother you, honey," she approached, dishrag in hand, which she shoved into her apron, stained with age, not drink. Wiping her palm discreetly on the same apron, she then extended it to me. "We're a bit short on options out here – and nobody wants a residency in Morthal now, do they? The name's Jonna."

"Celeste," I replied swiftly. "And – there's no bothering occurring," I assured in an offhanded manner. Unease prickled at my neck as I shook her hand. Thumbing toward the wrapped parcel strapped to my pack, I offered the pair a tentative smile. "I'm always happy to talk to a fellow musician."

"You're a bard?" the publican stood taller and gave me the once over with rust-coloured eyes. "Want a contract? Food and board provided on any night you can draw a crowd, and you keep all your tips."

Gods, her current bard was right here! A quick glance told me the affront had not affected him, at least on the surface. His lute was now in his arms, and he plucked away at the strings, humming to himself.

The high E was flat, and I winced as he continued to hit it. "N...no thank you. I...have a contract with the Companions, actually," I answered quietly with my eyes on the Orc. What was his game? Why didn't he stop and tune his lute – or care that his employer had so little regard for his services?

Was this what it was to have a small town contract? You were treated like dirt, paid only if a crowd happened to be passing through – and simply got used to it?

The Redguard whistled. "Whiterun, hey? Very cosmopolitan. Well, you know where to find me if you want to see how the swamp-dwellers live," she snorted, turning away and motioning toward the bar. "Anywho. What can I get'cha honey, a bed or a beer? Or – no, what is it you proper bards drink? Snowberry port?" she tittered a laugh. "Reckon it might help Lurbuk hit his notes if I pay him in that?"

Lurbuk sighed and stopped plucking, instead testing each string slowly and methodically. "Sorry, m'Lady," he murmured quietly. "I'm all thumbs today."

"Well, really," Jonna rolled her eyes. "You're supposed to be a professional. You don't admit to-"

"Actually I'd like a song," making a snap decision, I dug into my coin purse and retrieved a golden Septim.

Jonna's eyes fell to me, hard and curious, but I maintained the bard's gaze. "It's been a long day, and I would welcome a ballad," I stepped toward him. "High E," I whispered as I placed the coin in his palm.

With a small, barely discernible shake to his head to dislodge some confusion, he closed his fingers around the gold and cracked a half-smile that pressed his right tusk into his upper lip. "Right you are, m'Lady. What'll you hear?"

"It's Celeste," I reminded, sitting at a nearby bench and offloading my pack, gently settling it so my lute wouldn't be pressed against. "And yes, I will have that snowberry," I belatedly replied over my shoulder, facing my pack to unlace the ties. "But juice, not port," I smiled as I peeled aside the furs. The body of my lute gleamed in the low, flickering orange firelight; a beauty to behold.

Jonna's reply was delayed and delivered in a low tone that only just masked her confusion. "Comin' right up, honey."

"Thank you," I called in cheery nonchalance; the best defence against her offhanded unkindness, which my peer seemed to embody. "Your A is out, too. Here, mine was tuned recently at the College," I drew my instrument into my lap, positioning my fingers on the neck.

Lurbuk made an appreciative sound as his eyes flickered over my precious lute. "Where'd you come by her?"

I smiled as I traced one of the silvery paths on its body with a fingertip. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"A song for another day, hmm?" Lurbuk chuckled, but left it at that. "High E, you think?"

He can't hear it? "Mm," I plucked the string, then glanced up and waited.

Twang.

With another wince – I couldn't help it – his flat E resonated about our quiet corner. The two notes were far enough from each other that the conflict trembled in the air. "Got it?" I asked.

"Mm," the Orc leaned over his lute, tuning the peg and testing quietly. "Can I have the note again, m'Lady?"

"Sure."

"And the A?"

I plucked the string for him to use as a reference. The clear note thrummed through me; my fingers flexed as I suppressed the urge to play for myself, as I had promised Hadvar I would.

Jonna had delivered my drink and left before Lurbuk's lute was properly in tune, but once the task was done, I lifted the tart drink to my lips eagerly. "Is it difficult to keep your programmes up to date here?"

Lurbuk sat back, blinking in confusion for a beat; his hands relaxed around his lute. "Not so much," he shuffled. "The war brings soldiers occasionally, and they bring stories with them."

I sipped, nodding politely. My mind flew to Fort Kastav at the reminder of my own soldier. Had Farkas made it to him yet? Was the Fort Kastav mission a trap my sister had laid?

"Plus, Morthal has its fair share of intrigue. Can't say we're short on tragedy of late," he continued dryly.

"Hmm," I tried to draw myself back before I fell into a cycle of worry. "What kind of...intrigues?" I hazarded.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," his muddy eyes lowered – suddenly melancholy. "What about that song you paid for – while I'm in tune?"

A bard that didn't want to gossip? Lurbuk was an odd one; he seemed to follow so few of the conventions. "Okay," I rested my lute on my lap, folding my hands over the strings. "Bard's choice," I insisted.

"A rare treat," Lurbuk dipped his head over his instrument. "Stop me if its not to your liking."

He began to play slowly; his thick fingers heavy on the strings as he strummed. It was clear he had never majored in lute, but merely picked up what he could, because he had to.

"Deep silence, the iron gray time, Seeping into bones and roots," he started to sing quietly.

Angalayond. I hadn't heard it in a long time – because it was rarely performed, being somewhat grim and longer than the multitude of songs about the seasons. But there was a gravity weighing on Lurbuk that had nothing to do with the way his employer treated him. Without knowing the details – I had to hope this song might help him work through whatever ailed him.

It was not the most refined performance, but there was music in Lurbuk and I could sense his yearning with every tremor of his voice. I listened attentively, smiling appreciatively when he drew the ballad to a close. "What made you sing Angalayond?" I couldn't help but ask. "It's so...sad."

He replied with a cheerless smile; "A desire for second chances, I suppose. You mentioned you have a contract in Whiterun?" he changed the subject.

It's grief, I realised, so suddenly understanding his reticence that I turned my eyes down to hide my flush for not noticing sooner. "Sort of," I drew my cup to my lips, reluctant to mention the Dragonborn or Thane business while I was out on my own. Better if everyone merely thought me a wandering bard on her way home from some daft pilgrimage.

I swallowed and the sudden realisation that I was alone crashed over me like a wave determined to tug me under its icy currents.

"I'm a Companion," I stared into my drink; a distraction from the sudden panic. You do this for Hadvar's sake. You're the Dragonborn. You aren't half-bad with a bow. If all else fails, you can Fus Ro and run.

The deep red liquid reflected the nearby torchlight with a thick glimmer of orange. "When I'm at home, I play for them. Sometimes," I murmured, recalling with regret how much my music had annoyed Aela and Skjor. "Actually," I shrugged in an attempt to ward off everything as I cleared my throat, "that's kind of why I'm in Morthal. Do you know of any mercenaries for hire in these parts?"

Lurbuk shook his head. "Not lately. The war drew most able-bodied folk away and the village has become a bit of a ghost town since. But – why would the Companions of Jorrvaskr need a mercenary?"

"They don't," I clarified. "I do," I rolled my eyes. "Shield-brother's orders."

"Interesting. They must value you," the Orc murmured thoughtfully, though he probed no further. "Try the Guardhouse," he offered with a nod to the door. "You might be able to persuade one of the Jarl's own away for a trip like that, if the price is right."

"Of course. Money," I murmured, sitting back to finish my drink in the warmth before I re-wrapped my lute, thanked Lurbuk, asked for directions, and shouldered my bag.

Morthal seemed even more insubstantial after the deep, flickering saturation of the inn and it took me several minutes to locate the Jarl's Longhouse in the dream-like landscape. Highmoon Hall was constructed of wood and thatch like every other building in the village, though it was taller, flanked by Jarl Ravencrone's knotwork standards and topped by clumps of ice; the remains of snowfall, brown on the edges and crusty with age.

I kept my head down and veered away from the Jarl's grey-clad guards slouching sentry by the closed door. I wanted to get home to Whiterun as fast as possible, and if my arrival was reported to the Jarl, it would not take her long to realise I was the Dragonborn she was introduced to at the Thalmor party the previous night.

Lurbuk had told me the Guardhouse was past and to the left of the Longhouse, rimmed by a boardwalk on the southern bank of the lake. If I stuck to the boundary of thick mist that still obscured the waterway – and watched where I placed my feet – apparently I couldn't miss it.

The silence was gradually interrupted as I drew nearer to my quarry by a dull buzzing. At first I thought it was in my head – a product of replacing sleep with stamina potions perhaps – and shook it to try and dislodge the sound.

Then suddenly, the sound stopped.

"C'nay help ya, doll?" someone slurred.

I froze, my eyes darting up to lock onto the frame of a thick-set man in cheap, iron-plate armour sat on a bench outside the Guardhouse. He had been the source of the buzz – a tuneless humming.

He chuckled. "Jumpy li'l mouse, aren't ya? C'mere," a huge hand patted at his knee. "Can 'elp steady those nerves."

The smell of ale wafted toward me and I scowled. My fingers flexed around my bow handle, and it took all my strength to keep my hand lowered. "I don't think you're in a position to steady anything," I stepped by him; lifted my hand to rap on the Guardhouse door.

"Don' let the fancy words fool ya," the man swayed as he stood; his arm swung toward my waist. "I still got plenty solid for a sweet li'l thing to rest on-"

He was so inebriated that his movements were sloppy; I stepped aside with plenty of time to spare as his hand swooped and caught only air.

I arched an eyebrow at the Nord; got a proper look at him so that I could report him to the guards if I had to. "You don't want to try that again," I warned sharply, taking in dark blonde hair and bloodshot amber eyes. He swayed several heads above me and his arms were thick like ancient tree-trunks, but where I might once have felt fear, I felt only a thread of indignation.

The Nord cracked a grin; another waft of cheap ale reached me as he puffed a laugh. "Mm, slipp'ry li'l mouse," a foot thumped forward and with another sway, he leaned in. "Ain't gonna hurt ya."

I stepped back into the unyielding wooden bulk of the wall – and with another sudden lurch the man was close – too close. His arm crashed above me, caging me -

CRACK – THUMP - SPLOOSH.

- and the Nord was down, splayed on his back in the shallow water below me. I stared, wide-eyed, as he groaned long and low, curled on himself and cushioning his groin with his hands.

I sidestepped, then took another step away – and another. My heart hammered and my cheeks flushed – my anger thrummed inside me like hundreds of bees trapped in a jar, demanding to be let loose. I kept my flashing eyes down and begged myself not to run away, because running would be noticed.

Get Misty. Leave Morthal.

My bow thrummed from impact, clenched in my fist – my arm had reacted before my tongue could summon Fus, and my bow handle had connected before I could think, striking the man in his most sensitive area with enough force to send him staggering back and over the edge of the boardwalk.

"Wait," I could hear the man groaning – and water splashing as he tried to stand.

"I don't think so," I muttered to myself, bypassing the Longhouse.

"You hear that?" one of the guards by Highmoon Hall asked the other.

"Yeah," the other guard replied. I could feel her eyes on me as I hastened past. "Sounds like a man's overboard. And, seems we have a newcomer in town, fleeing the scene of the crime."

With a nervous sigh I kept walking, but I hadn't taken two steps before the summons came;

"Hey you – girl! What's your business in Morthal?"

I could hear running feet – the guards were pursuing me. I stopped in my tracks; closed my eyes and took a deep, steeling breath. "Me?" I asked; I had to say something.

"Yes, you," the pair stopped, one either side of me; one ducked, peering, his dark eyes searching my face, for what I couldn't tell.

I frowned, leaning back a little to glance him up and down. "Um. Yes?"

"She's clean," he told his associate.

Clean? I bit my tongue to temper my reaction; demanded that I calm down and talk my way out of this.

The guard stood tall and crossed his arms. "Sounds like there was a bit of a watery scuffle back there. You want to tell us your side of the story?"

When I opened my mouth, the calm, steady words of a trained bard gratefully spilled from my lips. "As you wish. I went to the Guardhouse looking for help actually," my voice wavered as my tongue wound an entreaty, "and I...was attacked, by an inebriate. What you heard were the sounds of my self-defence."

"Attacked?" the woman frowned; her head swung as she glanced in the direction of the Guardhouse, for she could not hope to see it through the fog. "Benor's awake?"

The other guard groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Right. Apologies, miss. We thought he'd gone to sleep it off. Did he hurt you?"

"Evidently not," I replied steadily with a short bob of my head. "Now if you'll excuse me, I will retrieve my horse-"

"As you like," there was a note of regret in the woman's voice as she stepped aside. "But – if you are in need of assistance, the Morthal Guard are not all oafish drunkards."

"Thank you, but I have decided I can manage on my own," I replied steadily, turning away.

Again, I felt their eyes on me as I continued toward the inn.

After a beat; "Go haul that good-for-nothing up by his ear," the woman hissed, "before the Jarl hears about this."

Oh, it was definitely time to leave Morthal; the guards planned on protecting the man I'd left writhing in the lake.

With Misty being so tall, I had to mount her before I could tie my pack to her back. Sat backwards on my saddle and with my hands occupied tying knots, I counted my breaths to fill my mind with something other than replaying what had just happened.

"That's a strange way to ride."

A child's voice, over my shoulder. A breath caught in my throat and I whipped my head around. A curl of mist snaked away from me.

"Okay," I puffed. "Definitely time to leave."

When I turned back to my pack, checking my knots but doubling my efforts, a cool wind whispered by my ear, rustling my hair.

"Are you some kind of adventurer?" the voice came again.

The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. Slowly, I sat tall and closed my eyes. Just a kid, I schooled. I was jumpy from the altercation outside of the Guardhouse, was all.

"Something like that," I replied; my voice trembled and I cleared my throat. "Are you?" I returned.

And I waited. The silence was dense, but in the space of a few heartbeats, I was rewarded. "Sometimes," came the reply from the space to my left.

I opened my eyes, shifting them left without moving my head – and this time, I saw her. A girl, short and pale, though I could make out no more detail in my peripheral vision.

It was a relief to actually see her – I had been spooking myself, what with the fresh adrenaline. With a smile, I turned to face her. "And the rest of the time?" I queried politely.

She was several years younger than Lucia with blonde hair plaited either side of her small, thin face and large, curious eyes, but the morning mists made her seem as insubstantial as the rest of the township. "Sometimes I'm here," she frowned as her eyes flickered over me, as though gauging my reaction. "Sometimes, I'm nothing."

I wanted to frown – what an odd thing for a little girl to say – but made myself keep smiling. "I'm actually a bard," I told her, for I was uncertain of how to respond. "Not really an adventurer," I wrinkled my nose. "Are you cold? There's a nice fire in the inn."

She shook her head vigorously. "No fire."

"But it will-"

I was cut off by the sound of running boots against hard-packed earth and a call; "Hey – girl – you still there?"

With a gasp, the little girl's eyes widened, and we both turned toward the sound. "Hello?" I called out. It sounded like one of the guards.

In the corner of my eye, the child vanished – and when I glanced in her direction there were only swirling mists.

What is going on in Morthal, I thought in exasperation?

The booted feet reached me – the male guard from earlier. "You are still here," he looked me up and down. "Uh – you know you have to be facing the other way to ride that horse-"

"I know," I waved my hand dismissively. "Did you see where the little girl went?"

He stopped short; cautious. "Girl?"

"Yes. A little blonde girl, about four years old," I glanced to the last place I had seen her. "I think she lost her way in the fog, she seemed very confused," I bit my bottom lip in worry – wishing I had dismounted to catch her before she had darted off.

"I see," the guard sounded grave. "Yes, I know her. That's Helgi. You needn't worry about her, she won't hurt anybody."

I turned to the guard, my brows crossed. "Hurt anybody?"

He grimaced. "Best you turn the right way around and be on your way, Miss. I'll see you safe to the edge of the village."

I baulked. "You're...escorting me out of Morthal?"

"Yes," the guard hissed through his teeth, glancing warily either side of him. "Please keep your voice down, Miss," he urged. "A young woman's voice will attract their attention-"

Sitting tall on Misty's back – albeit still the wrong way around – I squared the guard with a hard expression. "Take me to Jarl Ravencrone at once," I ordered darkly.

"I would advise against bothering the Jarl," he tried through clenched teeth. "Come. I'll take you to the outskirts," he motioned urgently. "For your sake, Miss – forget what you think you have seen."

"And I would advise you," making up my mind – there were simply too many wrongs to turn my back on – I dismounted, settling my bow and quiver more comfortably around my shoulders, "against making the Dragonborn ask a second time."

He eyed me up and down. "D...Dragonborn?" he stammered. "You're the one they're talking about?"

"The one who's talking about?"

"Everybody," he mumbled as he turned away, motioning for me to follow. "That changes everything. Thank the Gods you have come," he sighed wearily.

–

Perhaps it had been naïve of me to presume I could pass through a village without being drawn into some web of superstition, given the mythology that girdled the title Dragonborn.

The torchlights were buffeted by the breeze and the furious faces either side of me flickered like grotesque masks as the mob I had unwittingly inspired surged onward toward a nest of vampires who had been plaguing the village. Armed with only my bow – I had rented a room from Jonna, so that I could leave my lute safely behind – I felt alarmingly vulnerable.

Why did you do it, I asked myself again? Why did you go to the Jarl?

I searched the inky heavens for answers, but they delivered me no insight. The horizon was pale grey; the sun had set perhaps an hour earlier, and as with dawn in Morthal, twilight was a lengthy affair. The same was true of Riverwood of course, and I had thought the prolonged evenings beautiful; romantic even. In Morthal, the looming darkness surfaced a sense of frustrated regret.

Vampires. Honestly. Had Farkas been with me he would have smelled them, I was certain of it, and we could have avoided the place and been back in Whiterun by now.

But Hadvar might have been captured, or worse, I sobered. And the ghost of little Helgi...

My vision clouded and a lump swelled in my throat. No. No. How could I even dare to lament this time, her time as a setback, a hinderance? I did not deserve the name Passero, much less the title Dragonborn if I was to behave so selfishly. A little girl had lost her mother and then her life to this scourge. They were important and they had been taken.

I brushed away my tears in frustration. Grieve later.

As with the death of my parents, I pushed the sorrow aside.

"There it is!" Thonnir, the lumberjack leading our party hissed, waving with his torch hand toward a shadowed mound in the distance.

The sight of the large man did not inspire confidence. In his other hand he gripped his chosen weapon – an axe, but not a battleaxe – a generic, cheap wood-chopping variety. The rest of the villagers carried pitchforks, shovels – one was armed with a blackened frying pan.

With cries of triumph, the townspeople surged on. The freezing mists of the marshland snaked around my legs; grabby tendrils unable to gain purchase and tug me into the bogs. I pushed through, my eyes on the dark cavern before us, determined to bring at least this sad story to its close before I returned to my Divines-given destiny.

Whatever that truly meant.

The crowd lost some of its vigour when we reached the outside of the gruesome cavern.

"Demons," an aghast whisper came from somewhere behind us. "They'll kill us all," another barely-audible cry sounded above the murmurs and the sound of hurried, frantic footfalls.

The flickering torch lights reflected off fresh blood on the rocks by the entrance; caught the human skulls hanging from threads of hair over the entrance. I swallowed back nausea as I caught sight of a smaller skull with its blonde hair in two little plaits either side.

"We finish this now!" Thonnir turned to face the mob, his eyes wild and full of tears. "What are you doing?" he hollered desperately.

I turned swiftly as the mob spun me around; moving all at once, but in the wrong direction. "No!" I called after the retreating forms; my eyes wide with horror. "Find your courage!" I rallied.

There was a dull thump as one of the number fainted and dropped to the ground. With a heave, another threw up.

Shame flooded me - in them, and myself for judging them. They are not soldiers. Not Companions. They are frightened. Leave them.

I turned back to Thonnir to voice this, and found his eyes full of fear and betrayal.

"What now?" his words cracked.

"Never mind them," I mustered resolution, retrieved an arrow and placed it, ready to fire. "Are you with me?"

His watery eyes found mind; his fingers grasped the axe handle tighter. "Til the Divines take me, Lady Dragonborn."

"Only one song ends today, Thonnir," I threw my torch down by the entrance and stepped between the bones littering the earthen floor. "The vile song of Movarth Piquine."

It was a name that had tickled a memory the moment I had read it in Alva's journal, but I couldn't recall how or why.

Thonnir put down his torch and we stepped into the darkness; paused to let our eyes to adjust.

Vampires have much better eyesight in the dark, an unhelpful little voice piped up. You'll be picked off in seconds.

Shut up.

You really think you can take on a vampire overlord and followers – in the dark – with a lumberjack?

I have to, I swallowed, squinting as something moved in the tunnel.

Something orange. Flames. Torches. Perhaps we weren't going to have to proceed in complete darkness.

The merest hint of light was fortifying, and I turned to Thonnir, lifting my finger to my lips. Words Vilkas had spoken before we had gone in to Driftshade rose in my mind, reminding me that yes, two could attack and take down an entire fort of adversaries, if they were clever about it. And I had gotten a lot better with my bow since then.

"We observe before we attack," I whispered. "I'll pick them off," I lifted my bow slightly by way of explanation. "You...just...cover me for now, okay?" I urged.

What happens when there are two or three, or more, standing together or even within earshot of each other? Shoot one and then what? Thonnir is not Vilkas.

Thonnir nodded; his eyes flickered uncertainly to the dark passageways ahead. His face was suddenly pale; his expression less certain, and it was clear that the reality of what we had charged into had caught up to him.

It was to his credit that he didn't turn and run, as the rest of the town had, but my stomach churned with guilt for allowing him to come with me.

The floor and walls were slippery with blood and the dark tunnel directing us toward the mere hint of light at the other end seemed to take an eon to inch along. My nostrils burned from shallow breathing and I wanted to gag on the irony funk hanging in the air, but the fear of being heard and eaten swallowed my noises. Over and over again, I told myself that the smell would help us, because it would mask our own scents. Keep the vampires from smelling our approach and setting up an ambush. The lifeblood of those who fell to the coven would protect us so we could stop this from happening to anyone else.

At first, Thonnir and I only encountered lone people wearing the remains of common garments, motionless and with glazed expressions on their faces as they guarded the way and awaited their next command. They were thralls, I supposed – barely alive and held in trance to fulfil the whims of their masters. Alva's journal, read only hours earlier had detailed their eventual fate; when vampires tired of their servants, they drained them of blood then released them from the spell controlling their will. The spell itself was as cruel as those who cast it, freeing the mind long enough for awareness and pain to flutter in, before their spent bodies broke down into dust.

They're already dead, I assured myself, trying not to think about the beating hearts or thumping veins each of my arrows pierced. You are doing them a kindness. Being subservient and given no leave to speak, each thrall toppled with only a dull thump to the sticky earth – and released from the spell by death, their remains crumbled and sank before Thonnir and I drew close enough to retrieve my arrows.

Gratefully there were no junctions in the cavern, or I suspected we would have become lost. The lack of alternative pathways also gave us no where to hide – no where to run but backwards – if we alerted anyone to our presence.

The tunnels began to widen, and makeshift furniture broke up the otherwise grizzly signs of habitation; crates lined with furs that must have been beds, but all were empty. The rooms brightened, or perhaps my eyesight improved. Large, iron candelabras laden with thick drips of wax, each containing fat, flickering candles interspersed the wall torches, set on tables or benches spread with goblets and sharp, glass knives, glinting wetly as the tiny fires played with the smooth surfaces.

Stepping out of the tunnel into a large, sparsely-lit cavern, Thonnir and I saw our first vampire; tall and pale with a shock of wavy blonde hair and wearing a long, ruby-red robe.

"No, no, you idiot – you can't wash linens with furs!" he berated a short Nord woman, shaking a fistful of soggy material in her face.

The woman blinked.

With a defeated huff, the vampire inspected the garment in his fist. "The blood in the cloth has destroyed the fibres – were you raised in a barn?" he threw the material into the woman's face.

With a splat, it landed – then dropped to the floor. The woman glanced down, merely blinking again; a wet trail of suds dripped from her chin.

The vampire stood back, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Of course you were. Why am I even trying to reason with you?"

Casting Thonnir a glance – he gave me a short nod – I lifted my readied bow and took aim at the creature's back. Vampires could only be killed by a wooden stake to the heart, right? Or was that a myth as well?

Well – the arrow shaft was made of wood. It was time to find out.

With a quiet exhale, and a mental prayer to the Divines that my arrow would be true – and enough – I fired. It soared, whispering through the dank air –

"What was that?" the vampire turned on the spot, now facing us.

Thonnir and I froze.

The vampire's eyes darted around the tunnel and in his lowered hand, a crackling green spell coalesced. "Show yoursel-aghh!"

My arrow struck true, bisecting his chest, and the spell discharged with a fizz. Shrieking in dismay, he stumbled back, landing on the thrall. "Get it out, get it out!" he cried desperately; his voice echoed around the small chamber.

Damn it!

Thonnir nudged me but I was already in the process of aiming another arrow. My heart thumped noisily in my ears as I drew back and fired.

This arrow pierced the vampire's throat and he staggered back again, crashing with the thrall woman into a dresser.

The vampire's eyes shot up; honed in on me. Wide with realisation and horror, he lifted a shaking hand and pointed. There was a gurgling sound, and he lurched sideways.

"Kyeeeeeeah!" the thrall woman screamed, ducking underneath the wounded vampire's arm and drawing a battleaxe as she charged toward us.

"Your turn!" I called furiously to Thonnir as I drew a third arrow. In the process of placing I stepped backwards, trying to give the man some space to swing.

Thonnir crouched down and cowered.

He gibbered something, but spoke to the ground. I couldn't hear his words over the woman's battle-cry.

Cursing, I re-aimed and fired at the closer of our adversaries – the rabid thrall. With a thunk, my arrow pierced her forehead and she crashed backwards, legs flying as she tumbled.

"Get up," I ordered the lumberjack, gripping a handful of tunic and hauling. He was like stone; I tugged desperately, glancing at the vampire, who was still alive, but slumped on the floor. "Come on!" I hissed urgently.

"Leave me!" Thonnir begged. "I couldn't protect Lae, and I can't protect you-!"

A crackle of sound from behind us; a sharp tang to the air. I knew that smell; Giselle had made it often enough showing off at home, lighting candles with a flick of her wrist. We had seconds. Twisting my hand in his tunic, I leapt sideways.

"Wuld," I whispered. The word thrummed through my throat; vibrated as it pushed me through the air, dragging Thonnir with me. Thrown off-balance, he fell, crashing down onto the hard earth as a plume of fire flew over our heads and landed with a whoosh at the end of the tunnel; the blood on the wall fizzled and the rock turned black.

The vampire had recovered and if I didn't end him soon, he would either kill us both, or alert the entire coven to our presence – if the spell hitting the tunnel wall hadn't already done so. The realisation struck me; I couldn't use Fus in here - it would draw all the vampires and thralls in our vicinity straight to us.

I would have to make do. I stood; turned; trained my eyes on the vampire. "Stay behind me," I commanded Thonnir quietly.

The two arrows I had fired stuck out of the vampire's chest and throat and he appeared to be in a great deal of pain, hunched over and stricken. He might once have been a Nord, but the skin of his face had sunk around his eye sockets and his cheekbones were too high, too sharply defined. Another ball of orange pooled in his hand as he watched me. He tried to say something – a threat perhaps, from the look in his eyes – but all that emerged from the pale slit on his face was a dribble of blood.

As I drew another arrow – surely three would finish him – he released a spell. I ducked, taking cover behind a chest of drawers, and in the corner of my eye, Thonnir dogged my movements; crouched down behind me.

There was a wheeze – and then a shuffling sound. Footsteps? Eyes widening in horror, I peeked around the side of the drawers, confirming that yes, the vampire was hobbling toward us – his hand outstretched as the flames continued to intermittently shoot from his hand.

I was out of time – to fire an arrow, or to run away, with or without Wuld. This one would put the cave network on alert. Either he had to be taken care of now, or we would have to retreat before we were killed.

I darted to the other side of the dresser, throwing my bow over my shoulder and grabbing Thonnir's axe on my way past. Before I could think about what I was doing, I stood, and with a cry – part frustration, part desperation – flung the axe toward the vampire.

Doubtless he hadn't expected me to stand, let alone throw something at him. The vampire didn't see it coming – and the spiralling axe hit him in the knees. With a lurch, his legs flew up and he fell. The flames spell discharged and the vampire landed hard on his face, skidding across the floor as his hands flailed to find purchase.

Last chance. Do it or die tonight.

Using Wuld to propel me forward, I retrieved the axe in the space of a heartbeat. Before the vampire had done more than push himself up on his hands, I swung it down, splitting his back open.

He hit the ground; his arms flailed again, and if he could have made a noise, I'm sure he would have screamed. Droplets of blood flew up; my cheeks were wet and the even sharper smell of iron made my nostrils flare in protest. I lifted the axe and swung again, crashing the blunt side of the axe head into the vampire's spine.

When he moved this time, it was from the force of the axe rather than any will of his own. I left the axe where it lay and stood back, grabbing for my bow and fumbling for an arrow with shaking hands. I managed to place it, even managed to aim at the unmoving blonde head lying face-down in the blood-soaked dirt.

For seconds that dragged as though minutes, all was silent and unmoving but for the ragged breaths that left my mouth. I stared at the back of the vampire; stared at what I had done. Watched as the body shimmered and crumbled into dust. The axe thunked against the now-gritty floor as the form dissolved and returned to the earth.

"He was a sadist who got off on hurting those who couldn't fight back," Giselle's voice drifted; taunted me.

I swallowed down nausea as I watched, certain that the dust would reform if I turned away.

"You did it," Thonnir broke the spell with a relieved whisper.

With a small start, I glanced the lumberjack's way; took in his bashful expression and the deeper guilt in his eyes.

I lowered my bow and stood tall. "Go back to your son, Thonnir," I said gently.

Thonnir's cheeks pinked. "But – what about -" he motioned onward, deeper into the cavern.

With a sigh, I stepped forward; retrieved the axe from the small pile of ash. Handing it to Thonnir, I forced a smile and shook my head. "I have it covered," I spun, winding confidence I didn't feel into my tone. "Your boy needs you more than I do."

Thonnir nodded slowly as he accepted his axe and slung it to his belt. "If you think it best, Lady Dragonborn."

"I do," I took a step away and fixed him with another smile. "I'll finish up here, and see you back in town."

Because if you stay, you will die.

It did not take much more coaxing to convince the man to leave. Once he had departed for home, a spike of panic rocked me.

You think you can do this alone?

Why not, I challenged the voice? I had done everything myself thus far.

So I pushed the voice aside. To turn back was unacceptable, unthinkable, and I would never forgive myself if more families were torn apart because someone might hurt me. I could be stealthier on my own; I could run, and I could Shout. If pressed, I could Wuld into the night, and return when they least expected me. I had learnt much with the Companions; much since I had left Solitude.

I can do this, I schooled, turning to peer deeper into the cave network. I can save the rest, I insisted.

Perhaps it had been naïve of me to presume I could pass through the fogs of Morthal untouched; that this muddy piece of Skyrim and its people's plight would roll off me like water off a duck's back because I had bigger fights to fight in bigger places than this.

And yes, perhaps it was exceedingly conceited of me to presume that this problem was my problem; that Skyrim's ails, large and small, ended with me. Perhaps too many delusionals had told (and not told) me who my ancestors had been; what they had achieved despite mountains of adversities before them.

These were deeper thoughts for another time. During that moment after ending that horrible and somewhat ridiculous vampire, my thoughts centred on one person, one focus; Helgi. The little girl who'd watched her mother burn by her father's weakness, who'd lost both parents and then her life at the whim of this foe.

And I hated it. Hated that I hadn't been here to protect her or been here sooner, for whatever good it could have done. Hated that she was already dead; that all I could hope to achieve was to send her on to an afterlife I prayed would be kinder to her.

Whatever the cause, my path was set. Tomorrow I might have a mercenary or a shield-sibling by my side to ease the load, but today – tonight, I walked alone.

My pursuit of Movarth Piquine took longer than I would have liked, but time was, in its own way, on my side. Several dead vampires and stamina potions later, hours after I had entered the cavern with Thonnir, the sun must have risen. I had no way of verifying so deep underground, but as though on cue, the vampires retired to their crates, leaving only their thralls on alert.

The resting vampires each took a single, precise arrow through the heart to crumble into nothingness, and thralls were easy; robotic in their movements and slow to react, like the draugr Faendal and I had encountered so long ago in Bleak Falls Barrow. The two adversaries weren't so dissimilar, tenuously tethered to their worldly shells in the indefinite service of another.

Thralls seemed to always expect a full frontal attack with screaming and swinging – an attack they could meet head on with brute force. When my arrows struck true, they toppled without a sound. When my aim was off and they didn't – when they moved after I had released an arrow, I would run back the way I had come, or hide amongst the furniture and shadows, until their brief, frenzied search turned up nil. After a time, they would retreat to their prior post, seeming to have forgotten about me – and I would aim more carefully, and fire again.

Eventually the tunnel became more structure-like with walls and a smoothed ceiling; the furniture became older, richer, and more elaborately carved. When I reached an opening bordered by thick, ancient-looking beams of wood decorated with beautiful scrolls of knotwork, cracked and smoothed with age, an uncomfortable itch prickled the back of my neck; this vampire I was labouring to face was old. How long had he resided here? Why had he only begun to infiltrate Morthal now?

The doorway led to an upper balcony that arched over a cavernous hall. The dining table was set for formal dinner with fine silver plates and goblets that reflected the hundreds of candles suspended overhead in a polished silver candelabra.

"Does the vigilant of Morthal arrive at last?" a strong, deep voice from within the room below asked.

Standing tall and still, I searched the extents frantically with my eyes. The room was clean – impeccably so – and had at first glance been empty. The dove-grey flagstones were lined with chalky-white veins without a speck of blood to mar the smoothed surface. The walls were faultless panels of mottled tan stone, interspersed with dark carvings pressed into recesses, each sporting a rendition of the grotesquely sneering Molag Bal.

One chuckled; a dry rasp that echoed off the dining room walls and sent a chill down my spine.

Then a carving shifted. "Oh, wrong question. Listen to that heart flutter," the same voice commented fondly.

The echoing quality to his voice subsided as the form stepped forward. What I had taken for another carving had been a tall, broad, bald vampire draped in steel-grey folds of soft, fine material – perhaps silk, or perhaps something even finer, with a criss-crossing belt of tan leather at his waist, holding up heavy-looking bronzed swords, glowing faintly with a threatening, deep scarlet. His skin was grey and papery and his slit of a mouth curved upward. Sharpened fangs peeked out below his upper lip as his ruby-red eyes glinted as they found mine. "You appear to be missing an angry mob," he quirked an eyebrow.

I opened my mouth – but another spoke before I had the chance.

"Not missing," feminine tones; older and amused – this voice I recognised. From under the balcony, a woman with chestnut-red hair, scantily clad in leather and yellow cloth sashayed forward. The long-dead eyes of Alva turned up. "They ran away, didn't they?" she murmured thoughtfully.

Sudden fury coursed through me at the sight of her; the reminder of what she had done. My fist clenched tight around my bow, and it took all of my will to keep from drawing, firing, and sealing my fate. Calm down, I schooled desperately. I couldn't fight two vampires, particularly two who were looking straight at me. I was lucky they hadn't already cast a thrall spell on me. For now I had to watch, listen, hope, and wait for some opportunity.

"I believe that is also the wrong question," Movarth wiggled his fingers toward me, grinning. "Listen to the fire roaring in her chest. Where have you been hiding her, Alva?"

Alva turned, tittering a laugh. "Oh, she's not one of mine, Master. She's a stranger. Wandered into town this morning, claiming to be the Dragonborn!"

"Dragonborn!" Movarth echoed in understanding, lifting his chin and closing his eyes. He took a deep breath; I suppressed another shudder. He was smelling me, drinking my scent in to learn about me.

"And not just Dragonborn," he waved his hand a few times, as though to waft me, or more of my smell, toward him. "Who are you, child?" he opened his eyes. "Is that the right question?"

Rooted to the spot, I stared. Question; his bizarre obsession with the right question. What did he hope to learn? How I could have possibly made it this far? How I planned – hoped – to kill him? Whether I was worth turning, or thralling, or eating?

If a student doesn't ask the right questions, the teacher cannot be responsible for his failure.

The memory – a quote – sunk into my thoughts and with a rush of recognition, I remembered how I knew him. That was why Movarth Piquine was familiar to me; I'd read about him in a book – he was the subject of Immortal Blood. Reaching a snap decision – because this was all I had that might keep me alive a moment longer – I slung my bow over my shoulder and stepped forward into the flickering lights; rested my hands gently on the balcony railing. "I could ask the same of you," I squared him; my face a mask of dispassion. "Legend has it that you once hunted that which you have become."

"So she speaks, and we find you have read a book," Piquine bowed a conceding, somewhat mocking nod. "Congratulations."

"Yes," I returned quietly. "Most children in Skyrim have read the story of the vampire hunter who was betrayed by his mentor," I swallowed; my throat was parched, and I cleared it hastily. "I'm sorry."

In the corner of my eye, Alva turned curiously between her Master and I, but Piquine's eyes narrowed as his smirk widened. "You think I bear regret? Require sympathy? Do you believe you can reason with the monsters?"

While my heart thumped frantically, fooling nobody, I managed an outward smile. Did his eras give Movarth insight; had he found my deeper uncertainties nestled within the beat of my heart and breath of my lungs?

"Ah," the vampire's amusement tickled his words. "The right question."

"Master, she's here to kill us," Alva reminded him dryly. "She already killed everyone else on her way here," the woman shot me a frustrated look. "Why are we entertaining the main course?"

"For that service, she has my eternal gratitude. They were a weakness that plagues us no more," Movarth waved his hand dismissively. "It is not often that I praise my food."

With a whisper of unnatural wind, my bravado fled as mass loomed behind me. "Perhaps it is a sign, that I should keep you." Grey silken folds fluttered around my arms as a finger, cold and hard as ice, trailed around my chin; a touch barely there.

I dared not fight the command, though the compulsion was driven by my fear, not a spell. I repressed a shudder as I found Movarth's eyes; bottomless pits, glinting with eternal fires.

"Pools of azure and the favoured of Akatosh?" he murmured; stepped closer. Rock-solid against my back, his drifting fingers closed around my throat; gentle, but with unmistakable purpose as he tilted my head. A sharp, claw-like fingernail drifted across my trachea. "A splash of red here, and the coronation would be all but complete. Tell me your name, little blue-eyes."

My eyes slammed shut as his mouth ghosted my neck; "Tell me your real name."

He is too close; too old, too strong. You have lost your chance.

"Speak, Dragonborn," he urged in a rasp, loosening his hold to stroke my throat as though to coax my words from me. "Ask me the right question, and your fears will vanish; as insubstantial as the mists the creature below us calls home."

"Master!" Alva's voice came; offended and scandalised.

Insubstantial as the mists echoed through my mind; prodded at my fear pointedly.

My eyes opened in startled realisation; there was my way. "Feim," I whispered from the depths of my soul, stirring the snaking pool of knowledge caged within.

With a victorious swell of brightness, I dissolved, and was tugged back. No, back wasn't right, for I didn't move. I was under and over and somehow between the space I had occupied, and at the same moment, my emotions scattered.

Movarth's arms closed around nothing. "Whaaaat?" he stumbled slowly; head swaying lethargically one way, then the next.

As the surprise dawned on a vampire who clearly hadn't felt surprise for a long time, a calm took hold of me, like the warm hand of a loved one. I could feel my fear swimming above and beside me, unable to find purchase.

With a smile, I glided backwards; watched as Piquine gradually turned; his grey robes swam around his hips like ghosts, exposing the hilts of his glowing swords.

The Shout would not hide me forever, and I could not hope to fire on and then hide from such a creature. Each second weighed on my mind; the ticking of time, reminding me that my hours, perhaps minutes, were being counted. Reaching forward, I slid his swords out of their sheaths.

They were weightless in my hands, and glowed brightest along their sharpened blades. As I lifted the weapons and crossed them, as I had seen Farkas do with his own favoured weapons countless times, I wondered that Movarth didn't seem to see them, or wonder at the loss.

In the space of a heartbeat I drew the swords against each other, and closed them around Movarth's neck.

Swish.

They were sharp. His head was rent from his shoulders, sinking, rather than toppling to the earth. I watched its progress; watched as the realisation reached him; watched as the fire in his eyes extinguished and the mouth, open in shock, elongated canines made bright red by the glow of his swords, spoke no more.

As I was tugged forward, the weight of the two heavy swords dragged at me. I let them clatter to the tiled floor, overwhelming the dull thunk of Movarth's head as it landed.

"No!" Alva's pained cry came from below; fading even as she screamed.

I sucked in a breath of air as my fear crashed over me, chilling me to my core. I leaned forward, catching my knees urgently, and glanced up. The echoing ring of the fallen blades dissipated, and with only my own breaths for company, I watched Piquine's body dissolve; the remnants fluttered, caught by some breeze I didn't feel.

With a whispering hiss, the vampire was gone. The lack of Alva by my side to avenge his beheading was enough to tell me that the undead woman had lost her hold when her Master had lost his. Did it work that way with vampires? Did all those a Master had created die if the first lost their life? If so, were countless vampires who had plagued countless villages crumbling to dust at this very moment? It seemed like an impossibly fragile balance, though if true was doubtless the instinctive source of a progeny's devout loyalty to their Master.

It's questions such as these that got Movarth into this mess to begin with. I shuddered, recalling the snatch of life presented to the reader in Immortal Blood. He had once wanted to help, too, and had ended up becoming the monster he had fought.

A chill rippled over my sweat-soaked skin and I stood taller, coughing feebly and covering my mouth with my arm as I glanced around the enormous, elaborate chamber, then stepped forward, kicking at the dust pile that had once been a two-eras old vampire. The wreckage was wrapped in folds of grey and straps of leather. Two eras, to dust in an instant.

Would my own quest for knowledge and understanding lead me along a similar path? The dragon within me mustered a powerful, intoxicating control, working above my body; a wingless anchor tying my feet to the ground. If I was to save the dragons from Alduin's breed of compulsion, would I have to become him to understand his means and motives, and overcome them?

Would you do it to save them, I queried? Turn into a dragon to save the others; the world; all you love?

Of course I wasn't going to turn into a dragon. It was a ridiculous thought, borne of over-tiredness and the uneasy, sudden stillness of the dreary cavern; an impossible-

Impossible? Martin Septim did it.

Swift tears welled in my eyes and I turned toward the tunnel, cursing myself. "No," I said aloud, determined as I backtracked, retracing my steps. "I'm not him-"

"You did it," a small voice interrupted my internal anguish.

Startling back, I held out my hands to steady myself against an outcropping as the ethereal form of Helgi shimmered before me.

I blinked at her; she stared at me expectantly. Did she experience time and awareness as I had during Feim? She was barely visible in the dim cavern; mere stardust clinging to the memory of a little girl who once played in the sunlight.

I gave her a short nod; my anguish over my fate diffused. While I had life, I had hope.

"Yes. It's over."

She turned her eyes down; seemed to consider. "Is that why I'm here?"

"Here?" I echoed.

"To say good bye?" she looked up. "But I'm so tired. Why am I here?"

Tired, my mind echoed desperately. "I don't know."

"I want to sleep," she closed her eyes, tight, as though to will herself to sleep.

To end, I corrected. When she sleeps, it is over.

My throat was thick; I cleared it. "Did your mama read to you before bed?" I asked. "I could tell you a story? To make you sleepy, I mean," my throat closed up again; I glanced to the cavern ceiling, blinking away tears.

"She used to sing to me," Helgi opened her eyes, staring up with widened eyes. "You said you were a bard," she remembered.

Oh Gods. "I am," I confirmed, laughing unsteadily.

"Would you sing for me?"

"If you like," I choked. "Which song would you hear?"

Finally, there was a hint of a smile; the first I had ever seen grace her tiny features. "Do you know Edge of Night?"

Nodding swiftly, I closed my eyes; took a deep breath, and another. I wasn't certain any amount of breathing would prepare me for this song, so I decided to use what I felt and do my best. It was the least I could offer her as a parting gift from this world.

"Home is behind, the world ahead," I began. My chest ached; my notes wavered. "And there are many paths to tread."

Before me, Helgi closed her eyes; nodded seriously. "I'm ready," she whispered.

"Through shadow, to the edge of night," I watched her, determined to remember this moment. "Until the stars are all alight."

The little girl sighed with relief.

Why does a ghost need to breathe?

"Mist and shadow," I couldn't hold my tears back any longer, and let them come.
"Cloud and shade.
All shall fade."

Perhaps breaths were a habit of the soul.

"All shall fade."

And on the exhale, she faded.

Perhaps that's what the ghost of Helgi had been; the habit of the mists of Morthal, unwilling to forget who she was, clinging to the threads that once made her human. Whether true or not; my respect for the grey township deepened.

"We'll remember you," I promised, watching until the last speck of her remaining light flickered out.

–

I woke to the smell of dirt and blood, and grimaced as I arched up onto my hands; winced as my muscles protested and bruises on my knees flared in painful protest.

Glancing around, I remembered where I was. I had dragged myself out of the cave and made my way back to the Moorside, to the room I had rented earlier to house my lute in. I stilled; listened, but heard nothing beyond the door. Perhaps it was the dead of night.

I fumbled in the dark for my pack and a health potion, feeling drained, both physically and emotionally. The sleep had achieved little. There was only a stamina remaining, but it was better than nothing; I downed it and gratefully, the thump in my head diminished.

A flicker of brightness. With my vision sharper, I peered at the window and frowned. I had assumed it was night, but -

I tugged aside the thick curtains. Daylight met me – broad daylight – blue skies – not the slightest hint of fog. I must have slept for nearly an entire day. My stomach promptly gurgled, as if to confirm my negligence.

Hunger could wait. I sat on the edge of the bed, turning the emptied green bottle in my hand as I took stock of my immediate needs. Bath, food, clean my armour, and then...to Whiterun. That's right. I was supposed to be going home, then taking Vilkas to High Hrothgar with me.

Good. Pleased that I had something to do, something to aim for, I rose and made for the door. My booted feet scuffed and rustled something on the floor.

I peered down. Paper. No, folded paper with a little red wax seal – a letter?

It must have been slipped underneath while I slept – I ducked down and retrieved the small note, then continued on my way to ask Jonna about a bath and meal.

"Sure, anything you need – it's on me," Jonna welcomed with a broad smile, motioning toward a table. "I'll get your water started first; there's a nice pot of stew for lunch. Make yourself comfortable, Lady Dragonborn."

I wasn't that happy about taking charity from a village inn that needed patronage and made a mental note to leave a large, discreet tip somewhere she would find it. The Redguard bustled off, towing a tub into my room, and I gingerly took a seat. The inn was empty but for Lurbuk in his regular corner. The Orc hadn't noticed my emergence; seemed engrossed in some papers of his own, scribbling furiously and muttering to himself now and then.

He looked as tired as I felt, and I wondered if he was working on what I had asked of him when I had stumbled back into the inn the previous afternoon.

Write Helgi's song, I had urged him.

I turned my eyes down to the letter in my fist. The seal was Jarl Ravencrone's.

Oh. I probably should have gone to her, though truthfully I didn't feel that bothered. I broke the seal and blinked in confusion as a single feather fell out of the folds and onto the table. Frowning at it, I let it alone and scanned the note.

Lady Dragonborn,

Word spreads swiftly in a town such as mine, and news of your success reached me this morning. On behalf of Morthal, I thank you. As a reward for your service to my people, I offer you the title of Thane of Hjaalmarch, lands in my region, and a place at my table.

Until you are rested sufficiently to visit my Longhouse and make your appointment official, I would urge you to crush the feather into your next meal or drink. I do not doubt your caution or strength, but it is better to be safe. If there is even a trace of Sanguinare Vampiris in your system, the hawk's feather will neutralise it.

I look forward to receiving you, once you are refreshed,

The Jarl's angled signature followed.

Widening my eyes at the feather, I picked it up; inspected it. This little thing could neutralise the disease that led to vampirism? Interesting.

As interesting as being made Thane of Morthal?

Sighing, I placed the letter aside, and the feather on top of it. I should have felt honoured, but the thought of another accolade, particularly for this, made my stomach churn.

It was that moment that Jonna reappeared, bearing a laden tray. "That came for you first thing this morning," Jonna nodded toward the letter as she set down a bowl of stew, a wooden cup of snowberry juice, a plate of bread with grilled tomatoes on top. "Jarl's housecarl delivered it himself, but I didn't think it right for anyone to wake you," she stepped back; bit her bottom lip. Her eyes flickered between me and the note. "Is it...good news? The Jarl's pleased, isn't she?"

Nodding idly, I sat taller and wiped my palms on my trousers. "Thank you for this."

"Any time," Jonna dismissed, preparing to leave. "And I mean that," her hand brushed my shoulder. "I'll keep that room ready for you. If you find yourself in Morthal again, don't hesitate-"

"Actually that's a great idea," I glanced up, pleased to come up with a way to pay her back. "I'll rent the room from you indefinitely. Lurbuk can use it, when I'm not here," I lifted my spoon, took a deep breath to inhale the scent of the stew. Chicken, mushrooms, carrots, sage, garlic. I put my stomach out of its misery, and took up a spoonful.

"...you sure, honey? You can have the room – and Lurbuk-"

I made myself smile, though I didn't feel any brighter for it. "Consider it an investment, if you wish. This is delicious, by the way," I turned back to my meal.

Jonna hesitated, hugging the serving tray to her chest. "'cuse me for saying, but – why would you want to invest in here? In us?"

With a small shrug, I took another mouthful of stew, then motioned toward the letter by way of explanation. I spoke after I'd swallowed. "Isn't a Thane supposed to look out for her people?"

Jonna cursed under her breath. "Then I insist, Thane...what is your last name again, honey?" she asked in a hiss.

I laughed, and it almost felt genuine. "Passero."

"That's the one," she motioned toward me. "If you won't accept the room, then maybe you'll accept food and drink on the house, whenever you're here."

"That's a very generous offer," I stood; extended my hand to her. "I believe we have an agreement."

Jonna smiled, slightly baffled as she shook my hand. "Thank you, Miss – Thane Passero."

Taking my seat, I lifted the cup to my lips. "Lurbuk can have my meals on the days and nights I'm not here."

Jonna spluttered a laugh this time. "You set me up. What is it that you see in him?" she motioned toward her bard, lowering her voice. "He can't hit a note to save himself. Drives more customers away than he keeps."

I regarded the bard for a moment; he was unaware that he had attracted our attention. He put his papers down as I watched; picked up his lute and began to strum lightly; light enough that I couldn't hear the notes from my side of the tap room. Now and then, he would refer to his papers, glance to his fingers, and shake his head.

I hadn't planned on sponsoring the resident bard when I had left my room, but it had happened swift and naturally, as though it had always been my intention to do so. "I see his grief," I spoke quietly, not truly thinking about what I was saying. "There is music in him," I turned back to the publican hastily, sighing as I lifted my chin. There was music in all of us. "I see his music. I want him to see it," I nodded reasonably, "and if he doesn't have to worry about where his next meal is coming from, or where he'll be sleeping every night, perhaps he will see it too."

Jonna gave me an amused, but sly look; re-crossed her arms. "If you say so, my Thane. You know more about these things than I do," she patted my shoulder. "I'll get your bath finished up. Enjoy your meal, honey."

"I will, thank you."

Guess you're becoming Thane of Hjaalmarch after all.

I stared into my stew; gave it a small smile as I crumbled the hawk feather into it. Sure. Why not?

A/n: Excuse my use of Edge of Night from Lord of the Rings. The past months have brought a personal loss and that song wouldn't accept a substitute.
And as for time between posting? All I can say is - sorry. I fully expect that the delay between chapters has lost me any readership I might have had. Work is, as ever, a major cause; I'm finding it impossible to devote more than 5 minutes a day to writing at the moment, as it seem everyone is hammering me for work, all the time. When it isn't work or family annihilating my time, my mind is at fault; a crisis of confidence that I'm nowhere near through, resulting in a major edit of the first 15 chapters of this story, and a desire to significantly edit the rest (and despite wanting to bring new chapters out, I probably will continue to edit what's already here, delaying progress further).
It is slow, but I promise that this story will be finished. I didn't expect Celeste to linger in Morthal, but she went and sat on her high horse (backwards), and 12,000+ words later...