The robed, masked figure made no sound walking down the stone staircases of the Eldergleam Sanctuary. Its movements did not disturb the ground beneath its spectral feet. Nor did its weightless hands shift the dust along the towering stone walls.
The figure stopped at the body of Sal-Gheel lying at the foot of the staircase. It noticed the magical steel collar around the Argonian's neck, and the lengthy chain-leash connected to it, but gave them no thought.
"Dragonborn."
Sal-Gheel stirred where he lay. His head throbbed and his body ached from head to tail to toes. A strange stiff pain stabbed through his neck and nape. But when the bitter salutation reached his ears, he jolted awake.
"Miraak." His voice came out broken, dry, lifeless.
Miraak, the First Dragonborn, knelt before him, masked and robed colorful glory. He placed a chilling hand on Sal's throbbing head.
"Dragonborn. Did you think to escape me? Did you think to be free of my influence? You may have escaped Hermaeus Mora, and his realm of Apocrypha. But you have never escaped me!"
"You…not real…" Sal whispered, as if trying to assert himself. "You're a hallucination. You're only in my head; imaginary, nothing more!"
"Am I?" Sal perceived that Miraak raised an eyebrow behind his tentacled-mawed mask. "Imaginary? A hallucination? No, Dragonborn. I am as real as the grass and dirt that you lay in, as tangible as those cold, thick chains around your neck, and as solid as the rocks that carve at your flesh."
"That's not possible!" Sal hissed. "You're another fragment of my broken mind! A twisted vision conjured up by the aftereffects of the Elder Scroll!"
A callous, humorless laugh escaped Miraak. "Do you not remember? After Hermaeus Mora slew me, that you absorbed my soul? Do you not remember what happened a few minutes ago? The Thalmor stole the power of the Thu'um away from you. They ripped your Dragon Soul out of your very being—as well as every single Dragon Soul that you have ever absorbed in your time as Dragonborn. So too was I ripped away. They freed me from the prison of your spirit. Now I am at last free again to roam the world."
He stroked the curving hanging tentacles of his mask, as if thinking. "Perhaps I'll be the one to show these Thalmor what true power looks like."
Realization suddenly struck itself across Sal's face. "It was you all along. You've been helping me remember the Dragon Shouts."
He stared horrified at Miraak. "All this time, you've been inside me, ensuring that I've never forgotten the Dragon Shouts that I've learned. Clear Skies. Become Ethereal. Whirlwind Sprint. Kyne's Peace. You've been keeping my memory sharp on all of them."
"More in the interest of keeping you alive, else I too perish when you do." Miraak explained, sounding rather nonchalant. He ran his gloves over the outlines of Sal-Gheel's charcoal-black wounds inflicted from the Thalmor whips. "Your remembrance of the Dragon Shouts over the past few days since you left Windhelm has not come from your willpower, but from my influence."
His ghostly fingers trailed down Sal's scorched chest to his charred torso and stomach. "I have been the Words of Power you've seen in your mind's eye. I am the force behind your Thu'um. Every time you Shout, the voice that comes forth is a combination of yours and mine. I am you, and you are me."
"No…" Sal whispered, his face turning white. "It's been you this entire time…"
"I have preserved you; your mind, your memory, your heart, and your spirit," Miraak continued. He pressed his whole hand into one of Sal's whip scars. His heart burned with satisfaction at the Saxhleel's tortured cries of pain. "All for my own ends. Never for your benefit. Do not think I care about you, Dragonborn. I am not like your Housecarl or your family. You've simply been a means to an end. Always have been, always will be."
"Oh, yeah, you certainly botched up that plan, didn't you?" Sal growled, groaning from the pain that wracked his entire body from head to tail to toes. "Now we're both stuck here. What do you plan to do about that, huh? How are you going to use the Thu'um against the Thalmor now that it's been taken from me?"
"Now you see the truth, Dragonborn." Miraak held one hand up in front of his face and slowly curled it into a fist. "As you grow weaker, I grow stronger."
"Well, xuth you, too!" Sal swore, showing his fangs in a hateful snarling scowl. "You're a figment of my imagination! A passing thought! I refuse to entertain you! Besides…"
He lowered his aching head again. "It's too late. I'm beyond saving. Without the Thu'um, I'm powerless."
"My predictions were correct," Miraak muttered snidely, and got to his feet. "You are as weak now as you were when you first intruded upon Apocrypha."
He lifted his other hand to his eye level and clenched it. "You have no idea of the true power a Dragonborn can wield!"
"Shut your mouth!" Sal yelled to the ground. "You have no idea what you're talking about! I should never have left Windhelm! I shouldn't have gotten Lydia and Alfarinn roped into my mess! I should've stayed home with my family when they needed me the most!"
"How pathetic!" Miraak reached down and gripped Sal's scalp feathers. Sal yelped as Miraak pulled his head up and shouted in his face, "It's too late for regrets, Dragonborn! You are a parasite; a burden to everyone you love and who love you! You are unfit to be a husband, a father, a brother! You are a disgrace to your race! You are not fit to call yourself a Dragon or an Argonian!"
He gripped Sal hard by the chin. "Your legacy is built on false promises, posturing, and exaggerations! You are worthless! You will never amount to anything! You are broken, and you will be broken forever! You. Are. Not. Dragonborn!"
"Leave me alone!" Sal snarled, narrowing his eyes in a dark glower. "Stop it!" His voice rose to a shout at the top of his lungs. "You're doing more harm than good! Get out of my head!"
Miraak released his head. Sal dropped face-first into the dirt. For a moment, neither said a word. Then Miraak stood up straight and folded his arms in disapproval.
"Hiding is beneath you, Dragonborn!"
"I'm not listening to you anymore," Sal managed to groan, his tired voice partially muffled. The exasperated Miraak scoffed and shook his head.
"Understand this. You had to die, so I could live. For me to be free, you had to be taken captive. At last, everything has come full circle. The cycle has ended. As Hermaeus Mora foresaw, so has it come to pass. The circle is complete. Fate and destiny have caught up to you. You are bound, and I am free."
"Shut up…" Sal hissed, not looking up. "Stop talking. Your voice alone is annoying. Go away and leave me alone. I'm tired of you."
Miraak put his hands on his hips and shook his head, disbelieving the pitiful sight. "You deserve neither pity nor mercy, Dragonborn. In fact, you are no longer even fit enough to carry that mantle. You are lower than the dirt and all the creatures of the base earth. You are a mere mortal. And like all mortals, you will soon die. Death is already coming for you. It will reap your soul like a farmer reaps a summer harvest. It is only a matter of time."
When Sal gave no response, Miraak turned away and stepped up onto the first step of the stone staircase. But then he turned over his shoulder and added, "Mark my words, Dragonborn. This war against the Thalmor is one that you cannot fight alone."
Sal again said nothing. Miraak dismounted the staircase and knelt once more. He laid an unassuming hand on Sal's forehead horns.
"Give up while you can, Dragonborn. It is useless to keep fighting. All hope is gone. Surrender, and I promise you a swift and painless death."
Eastmarch Crags
"You two," Elenwen beckoned the soldiers from Northwatch to her. "Go fetch the Last Dragonborn. I want him to bear witness to our magnificent triumph when we successfully retrieve the Elder Scroll."
"Madame Ambassador!" a desperate Agent Lorcalin bolted out from a magical portal while the guards ran off to fulfill their order. He stopped in front of Elenwen and doubled over in exhaustion, hands on his knees and wheezing for breath. "We have a problem!"
"A problem?" Elenwen cocked a suspicious eyebrow at her agent. "I don't have a problem, Lorcalin. But I think you do. If you have a problem, it's due to a mistake that you made. What happened?"
"Well," Lorcalin looked and stood up straight. "We fought our way into the College of Winterhold. The mages put up a noble fight, of course. But we came out on top in the end. Ancano and Estormo led the charge into the Courtyard, after which the mages surrendered. Ondolemar, Rulindil, Ancarion, and myself continued into the Arcanaeum. But then—,"
"Then what?" Elenwen narrowed her eyes, growing more suspicious. "I assume you interrogated Urag gro-Shub on the whereabouts of the Elder Scroll?"
"Erm…" Lorcalin gulped, beginning to shudder. "Yes, w-w-we did, b-but—"
"What?" Elenwen gritted her teeth. Lorcalin shuddered more noticeably in his Justiciar robes. "Did he reveal to you where he kept it?"
"Yes and no." Lorcalin cowered beneath his superior.
"I am asking you a simple question, Lorcalin." Elenwen towered over Lorcalin, her eyes alight. "I need more than 'yes and no' answers. Do you or do you not have the Scroll?"
"Well, that's the problem. The Elder Scroll. It's missing."
The soldiers from Northwatch hurried down the winding stone staircases. They stopped at the last turn to catch their breaths. The chained body of Sal-Gheel lay still at the foot of the stairs. An unfamiliar robed and masked figure knelt beside him.
They did not glimpse the wave of power coming from behind until it was too late.
It ripped their skin clean off in a deafening rush of wind. Their skeletons collapsed lifeless to the floor. An armored phantom hastened down the staircases.
An icy shiver ran through Miraak. He climbed to his feet in protest.
"What is the meaning of this intrusion? Who are you to dare interrupt my—?!"
But the phantom Shouted a second wave of power at Miraak. He bellowed in pain, vanishing in a flash of midnight light.
The phantom knelt in Miraak's place. He ran a gentle hand over the steel collar around Sal-Gheel's neck. It crumbled to powder at his touch. He did the same to the attached leash-like chain.
Three more emerged from the shadows of the Sanctuary, encircling Sal. The first brushed the powder clean from his body. The trio laid their hands on his back and shoulders. Their hands glowed a beautiful white, channeling life energy into him.
Sal roused beneath their hands. New life flowed into every nerve of his body, revitalizing him. He took the time to gather his senses and calm his nerves. Fresh cool air entered his lungs. The throbbing in his cranium had gone, as had the stabbing pain in his neck. The searing heat in his whip scars faded away.
He dared to open his eyes and lift his head.
A tall Breton squatted directly in front of him. A set of Imperial Dragon Armor adorned in threads of pure gold, crimson, and bronze formed his well-knit, flexible figure. He wore a winning smile on his lined and weathered face. Radiant hope and comfort shone in his bright blue eyes. His stark white hair glowed in the moonlight that beamed in through the roof. Sal noticed a ruthlessness in his brow and power set in his chin.
"Tiber Septim…"
On his left, Hakon One-Eye held him under his bare chest and loincloth-covered waist. Felldir the Old and Gormlaith Golden-Hilt on his right cradled his shoulders and arms and legs, respectively.
Nodding his thanks, Sal closed his eyes to focus. The emerald power of the Histskin closed his scars from the Thalmor whips, and knit his bruised and bloodied hands and knees whole again.
The four stepped outward to form a wide circle around Sal, who climbed to his feet. More figures joined them from the obscure shadows.
First came Ulfric Stormcloak, who filled the open space between Hakon and Felldir. He wore the same fur-coated cobalt, silver, and charcoal royal garb that he wore in life as the Jarl of Windhelm.
Jurgen Windcaller appeared on Gormlaith's right side, holding his precious Horn in one hand. He wore the same flowing robe of the Greybeards, though it lacked the usual large hood.
There came one curious stranger clad in a foreign garb. He took the space between Hakon and Tiber Septim. Sal wracked his brains, but struggled to put a name to the face. Jurgen kindly identified him as the legendary Ysmir Wulfharth himself, the Dragon of the North.
The last two came in tandem. High King of Skyrim Olaf One-Eye, armored in polished Steel Plate, bore a Steel Warhammer on his back. Sal sensed the Soul of the primeval Dragon Numinex within him. He thought to detect the hint of a determined smile in his white eye alongside his good one.
Beside him was the Ebony Warrior. He removed his helmet to show Sal his Redguard face. His Ebony Sword of the Vampire and Bow of Winter were still tied to his dark ebony mail. His Shield of Fire Suppression rested on his back. They stood together between Tiber and Jurgen.
The nine phantoms closed their circle around Sal-Gheel, who took a moment to soak in the indescribable sight. Nine former users of the Thu'um surrounded him. They looked nothing like the specters that he remembered from the ancient Nord barrows, neither transparent nor arctic or intangible. Rather, they appeared solid, opaque, and in perfect color. Sal could make out every perfect detail, from the wrinkled lines of their faces to the tight joints in their armor.
"When misrule takes its place at the eight corners of the world," Jurgen Windcaller incanted aloud.
"When the Brass Tower walks, and Time is reshaped," Gormlaith Golden-Hilt added in a dramatic intone.
"When the thrice-blessed fail, and the Red Tower trembles," Olaf One-Eye's booming royal voice resonated around the Sanctuary.
"When the Dragonborn Ruler loses his throne, and the White Tower falls," Ulfric Stormcloak added, fearless, empathetic.
"When the Snow Tower lies sundered, kingless, bleeding…" Tiber Septim recited the penultimate line, encouraging Sal.
"…the World-Eater wakes, and the Wheel turns upon the Last Dragonborn," Sal-Gheel finished the Dragonborn Prophecy in his strongest voice.
Tiber opened a closed fist from behind his back. In his palm lay a strikingly familiar item.
"The Elder Scroll."
He took it by the handles with gentle, delicate hands.
"You're not alone, Sal-Gheel," Tiber comforted him, sympathy laced in his voice, soothing Sal's tense nerves. "You never were. The gods have always been watching you."
"My Lord Tiber Septim," Sal bowed his head, lowering the Elder Scroll by his side and bending forward in a humble genuflect. "You who ascended to the heavens and became the god Talos. I am not even worthy to look upon your mighty countenance. I prayed to you in Windhelm…"
"And I came first to your call," Tiber finished the thought for him. "As did we all."
But Sal hung his head in confused despair. "I cannot defeat them alone. The Thalmor stole the power of the Thu'um from me. Without it, I am helpless to fight back against them."
"That is why we are here," Hakon One-Eye stepped forward. "To remind you of who you are." He clapped a hand on Sal's shoulder and flashed an encouraging smile. "Do you remember?"
"I…" Sal made to clench his fists, then relaxed. "The Thalmor stripped me of my very identity. I must confess that Alduin's haunting presence in my mind has likewise caused me to question my own strength. Again, I fear I may not be powerful enough to take the Thalmor on my own."
"Those fears are only temporary now," Tiber's eyes glinted admiringly. "May I reiterate that you are my divine descendant? The Thalmor were at least right on that point."
"They don't expect me to survive," Sal explained to the assemblage. "But I have to, for my Housecarl; my egg-brothers; and most especially, my wife and our future hatchlings. What can I do, though? The Thalmor have no conscience, no remorse, no shame or guilt."
He gazed down at the Elder Scroll in his hand. "I can't let them have this. They'll eradicate the Thu'um all across Skyrim using its unfathomable power. If they were able to strip it away from me, what chance do the Greybeards have? What about Odahviing and Paarthurnax? The Thalmor are so overconfident in their plan that they think it's foolproof. They fear nothing."
"That isn't entirely true, Dragonborn," Olaf One-Eye winked decisively with his white eye. "The only thing they fear is you."
"But how do I take my power back?" Sal wondered out loud, more assertively, but still concerned.
"You already know the answer to that question, Dragonborn," Ulfric Stormcloak chimed in with a decisive wink, a knowing shine in his eyes. "It – or rather, he – was once inside you."
"Ulfric Stormcloak…" Sal spoke his name in the utmost reverence. "You once told me that killing you would make for a better song."
"That I did," Ulfric recalled without the slightest twinge of regret. "But this will make for one far greater."
"Now is not the time for deliberations," Tiber ordered, prompting Sal to ascend the staircases. "Those can come later. We must rescue the innocent hostages and eradicate the Thalmor once and for all. They have darkened the innocent heart of Skyrim. Their hearts are black with corruption, and must needs be cleansed from this beautiful land."
They brought Sal his clothes, armor, and weapons. He wasted no time dressing and arming himself. He strapped the Elder Scroll into the belt loops of his breeches underneath his armor.
"Let's put an end to this madness."
"What do you mean, it's missing?!"
More portals opened around the crags. The remaining Thalmor looked dejected and in various states of defeated bewilderment and fearful anxiety.
"We don't know how it happened! We swear!" Lorcalin now crouched in terror at the boiling Ambassador.
"We tortured Urag gro-Shub for the truth, Elenwen," Ondolemar explained, his expression one of tranquil glacial fury. "But he didn't know, either, no matter how much we pushed him. One moment it was there, and then it wasn't."
Elenwen ground her teeth and tensed her muscles. "This is unacceptable!"
She lifted her head and shrieked to the night sky, shaking her fists.
"Failure was not an option! We will find that Elder Scroll, regardless of the sacrifices that must be made!"
"You!" Lydia pointed an accusatory finger at Elenwen. "You did this! You practically murdered the Last Dragonborn! You stripped him of the Thu'um and left him to die!"
"We did not strip him of the Thu'um, as you claim," Ancarion wagged a disciplinary finger. "The Daedric Princes did that, not us. You simply imagined what you saw. You're crazy. He was robbed of a power that he was wholly unfit to wield. You should be grateful, more than anything else. A being of his immense power would have brought complete ruin to the Thalmor, and to the Aldmeri Dominion as a whole."
"By the way, Lydia, don't ask us to help you with anything else from now on." The snide Elenwen wore a haughty smirk. Cynicism and spite dripped from her voice. "Our hands are clean of this crime. We are innocent. You, Sal-Gheel, and these other hostages are the guilty ones."
She put her hands on her hips and puffed out her chest, trying to appear guiltless. "You and Sal-Gheel are helping yourselves out from this point on; that is, if there is even anything left of him to help."
"Make them suffer!" Rulindil shook his fists in the air to encourage his fellow soldiers. "Take out your frustrations on them any way you please! Paint the plains of Skyrim with their blood!"
"Beg and grovel all you like!" Valmir barked, his laughter sadistic. He planted a boot on Lydia's wrist, pressing down hard on her carpal bones. "Nothing can save you now!"
"But then again, they're not alone!"
From behind the towering trees and thick forest brush, a sextet of Bandits in Fur Armor jumped out. Bandages wrapped around injuries from their brawl with Sal-Gheel at the Bannered Mare two days earlier.
"Say what you like and do what you will," threatened the Redguard, swinging his Steel War Axe in intimidating arcs through the air. "But Sal-Gheel and his Housecarl are under our protection! By Leki's holy blade, I, Branhael Shroldom, swear it!"
"What the—Where did you bunch of idiots come from?!" Ondolemar rolled his eyes. "No matter. Your mere presence here is interfering with official Thalmor business. I highly suggest you leave now, if you value your pathetic little lives."
"We ain't going anywhere!" the clean-shaven ginger Imperial asserted, hitting the hilt of his Iron Sword on his elbow. "I am Protos Plinotus, Branhael's second-in-command! I say we've come to save Skyrim's heroes, whether you like it or not!"
"Brainless, benighted fools!" Ancarion snapped his fingers. Sharp javelins of Ice appeared in his hands. "You cannot even begin to conceive of the magnitude of power we wield!"
"Eh, maybe we do, maybe we don't!" The Khajiit dual-wielded Iron Maces. "But does Jobaiska care? No, he doesn't! Magic or not, this one is most excited to shove his Maces into your sorry Elven guts!"
"How dare you!" Elenwen held a hand to her heart, as if offended. "Never have I beheld such blatant disobedience in Skyrim! Your blood will soak Skyrim's snows by the next sunrise!"
She lit a golden Flame in one hand and advanced on the Bandits. "This is your final warning. Turn back now, and your lives will be spared."
"We refuse!" The mustached, blond-haired Nord dug his feet into the dirt. He gripped his Iron Mace and held an Iron Shield in front of his body. "Skyrim shall never belong to the Thalmor! Heimkvir Star-Defender says so!"
"Turn. Back." Elenwen hissed, her bitter eyes glaring and her nostrils flaring. She lit a second Flame in her other hand. They both grew an inch taller and turned blood-red. "Now!"
"Over Trebuvinius Statelli's dead body!" The brunet Imperial lifted his Steel Sword and Dagger to deliver a blow.
"And Rahnrion Ephiseric's, too!" added the Breton. He loaded a sharp bolt into his Dwarven Crossbow, and lit an amber Fireball in his offhand.
"Then die!" Elenwen raised her blazing hands high in the air, preparing to throw tongues of fire.
Suddenly, there was a loud neighing behind her.
She pivoted on her heels. A pair of horse hooves slammed down onto her from above. The horse's weight bludgeoned her into the ground. She slid forward a couple of feet on her stomach. The magical fire in her hands burned out. The prisoners and Bandits all pointed and laughed at her, much to the abject horror of their captors.
Misty landed her front hooves on the ground, neighing furiously. Upon her back sat a saddled Alfarinn. He held his Iron War Axe and Misty's reins.
"I warned you!" Alfarinn smirked, waving his Axe. "That's for burning my carriage and scaring Misty and I half to death, you destructive witch! Let the Thalmor shake in their boots! Ysgramor is with me, as he is with all of us, Nord or not!"
"Enough of these impertinences!" Elenwen pulled herself to her feet. Grass stains, dirt, rocks, and dust spotted her torn Justiciar Robes. "They matter nothing to us in the long run! Kill them all!"
Valmir moved his boot to Lydia's throat. Ondolemar and Rulindil used psychokinesis to pin Branhael and his Bandits to the trees. The rest of the Thalmor surrounded Sond, Asta, and Maurice, who huddled and cringed together, begging for mercy.
"Get away from them!"
All eyes and ears turned towards the entrance of the Eldergleam Sanctuary.
Sal-Gheel climbed out of the darkness, fully clothed and armored. He held Dragonbane in one hand and two Elven Helmets in the other. Beneath the twin reddish and white moonlights of Masser and Secunda, he stood stalwart. Righteous unbridled fiery rage blazed in his eyes. An arctic, merciless fury had etched itself into every line of his face.
He tossed the helmets in the Thalmor's direction. They rolled noisily across the ground and stopped at Elenwen's feet. Lorcalin gagged and put a hand to his mouth at the sight of the intact Altmer skulls resting within them, though bodiless. Elenwen, however, furrowed her brow in infuriated disbelief.
"Lay your hands on my friends one more time and I'll chop them clean off!" Sal pointed Dragonbane in accusation at his abusers.
"No!" the wrathful Elenwen exploded. "Impossible! We drained you of the Thu'um! We left you for dead!"
"Maybe you did," Sal flourished Dragonbane, sending sparks blazing. "But I had help coming back to life from powers far higher than you!"
"Unbelievable!" Elenwen gritted her teeth and shook her fists at the Argonian. "We'll simply use the Apocalypse Anathema on you again! We'll rip your Dragon and Argonian souls out of you, and imprison them in the nethers between the Planes of Oblivion! We'll get that damn Elder Scroll one way or another!"
"Oh, you mean this?" Sal slipped the Elder Scroll from underneath his armor and held it up to the sky. Everyone's jaws dropped at the otherworldly light it emitted.
"Inconceivable!" Rulindil's eyes widened in disbelief. "How did you procure that?"
"If you must know, it came to me," Sal explained, replacing the Scroll back inside his belt loops. "You'll have the Scroll when you pry it from my cold, dead, scaly hands!"
Elenwen breathed in and out to bate her anger. Then her blood-faced rage contorted into a wicked sneer.
"Face it, Sal-Gheel. You may have escaped your prison, but you cannot defeat us. You are no longer the Dragonborn. Without the Thu'um, you're nothing against our superior magical and physical might. Even your numbers are minute compared to ours."
She scoffed when Sal's impassioned temper wavered. Sal adjusted his grip around Dragonbane and took a couple hesitant steps forward.
"You're not—That's not true—I still am—"
"It is just as well," interjected a disturbing voice over his shoulder. Miraak stepped out from behind Sal and came into view. He did not acknowledge the Thalmor, only stood directly in front of Sal and glared through the narrow eyes of his tentacled mask.
"Why try if you will only fail? You'll never realize the fullest potential of the Thu'um. You'll never become Dragonborn ever again."
Miraak's voice froze Sal's nerves. The First Dragonborn's words crawled beneath his scales. He dropped his defensive stance and stood up straight. To Miraak's honest surprise, he nodded his assent.
"You know what, Miraak?" Sal decided, sheathing Dragonbane. "You're right. Maybe I really do have no idea of the true power a Dragonborn can wield."
"As I suspected," Miraak snorted in derision. "Your intellectual incompetence makes you weak." He tapped his temples to emphasize his words. "You don't have what it takes to be a true Dragonborn."
A strange devious smirk tugged at Sal's lips, showing his fangs. "Sure, I don't. But you do. All of that time spent in Apocrypha must have filled your mind with the most unspeakable things, Miraak."
"Again, you are correct," Miraak waved a palm to concur, not the least bit intimidated by the Argonian's fanged grin. "You cannot possibly ever know the depths of insight I have acquired from my time in Apocrypha. You can never hope to measure the magnitude of my studies."
Sal tilted his head, giving Miraak a challenging look. "Can't I, Miraak?"
He advanced with confident steps. The Dragon Priest stood firm and resolute, never wavering where he stood.
"Who in Oblivion is he talking to?" Estormo asked Elenwen in a discreet whisper.
"I don't know," Elenwen put up a restraining hand. "But he is no threat to us."
Sal, not having heard the exchange, continued to approach Miraak. "All that knowledge at your fingertips. All the secret truths of the universe and reality revealed to you at the simple turn of a page. All that enlightenment of what it truly means to bear the name of Dragonborn. All those Dragon Shouts Hermaeus Mora must've taught you, even those that no Dragonborn was ever meant to know. Where did they get you, Miraak?"
Dragon's fire flared in the eye holes of Miraak's mask. Sal noticed the abstract hints of a dark scowl on the human face beneath. "What are you implying, Dragonborn? Your mind games will not work on me!"
Now it was his turn to clench his fists in irritated anger. "My education in Apocrypha was infinite, my power fathomless! Even now, I have the very essence of Apocrypha itself, and all of its wisdom within my grasp!"
"Exactly, and it'll never be enough for you." Sal circled Miraak, never moving his eyes from the masked and robed specter. "You craved power and wisdom like a Khajiit craves moon sugar and skooma; or like an Argonian craves Hist Sap, or a Nord craves mead and ale. It was an addiction. Your thirst for knowledge was insatiable."
He stopped in front of Miraak again, his back to the Sanctuary. Remorse suddenly creased itself across his face. He heaved a deep and sincerely regretful sigh.
"I know what it's like, Miraak. I walked down that same path myself. I went searching for the other Words of Power all across Skyrim long after I defeated Alduin, and shortly after the Civil War ended, even against the Greybeards' wishes. That's why I went looking for the Black Books. That's how I ended up in Solstheim, and eventually, Apocrypha."
He met Miraak's gaze, sensing the Priest's curiosity. "Do you want to know why I did it?"
"Why?" Conflicting suspicion and earnest inquiry coated Miraak's voice. "Why did you do it?"
"I did it to ensure that I possessed the power to fight my future enemies on equal terms," Sal explained, gesturing to himself. There was a genuine heaviness in his voice now, the weight of heartfelt guilt. "I wanted to make sure that when the time came to confront an enemy with greater power than Alduin's, that I would be strong enough for it. I wished for my powers to be in equal measure to theirs."
"But…?" Though he could not see it, Miraak knew Sal discerned him raising his suspicious eyebrows.
Sal allowed himself an empathetic nod. "But the Greybeards brought me back to my senses in time. They showed me the dangers of walking down that dark road of obsession. They warned me of the consequences of growing my power too quickly. I've since learned my lesson. I turned away from power even when it was right within my grasp. I've come to recognize that had I not seen the error of my ways, I would have turned out exactly like you, Miraak."
"What about me?" Miraak growled, a snarling scorn in his speech. "What did you see in me? What lessons did I teach you? How would you have turned out exactly like me, the superior Dragonborn in every single way? Your lack of foresight to the truth would have been your downfall, and my ascension."
"In you, I saw a Dragonborn who grew their power too quickly." Sal frowned, oddly sympathetic. "I saw my own dark reflection. I saw what I would have become had I continued down the path of power. You were a servant to your desires for the truths of anything and everything. Hermaeus Mora took advantage of that. He drove you ever deeper into your obsession until he controlled you like a puppet. Once you sought to free yourself from his control, he cut your strings."
He mimed cutting an invisible string hanging at his eye level using two fingers as scissors. "No matter what you did, Miraak, what extreme lengths you went to, and how hard you tried, it did not save you from being betrayed by Hermaeus Mora. It did not enable you to escape Apocrypha and retake Solstheim. Most importantly, it did not save you from being absorbed by me."
"No!" Now Miraak retreated, throwing out his palms to keep Sal at bay. "This is unacceptable! Your power is a mere mite compared to mine! You don't intimidate me, Dragonborn! You will never be equal to me! I am Miraak, Allegiance Guide! The First Dragonborn! Greatest of the Dragon Priests! My Thu'um is limitless, unlike yours! You are nothing more than a False Dragonborn!"
"Your words and titles will do you no better this time, Miraak." Sal drew near to Miraak again, more authoritatively. "In the end, you and I are the same."
"No…" Miraak lifted his gloves in front of his mask as if to repel the Argonian. "No!"
"Do I detect a hint of fear in your voice, Miraak?" Sal's smirk broadened into an ear-to-ear grin. "How does it feel to be the powerless one for once? Don't you see it already? We are both Dragonborn. Now I take back what is rightfully mine. It is true I no longer have the Thu'um. But I can still absorb souls!"
He gripped Miraak tight by the cranium, digging his claws deep into the tangible ectoplasm.
"Miraak! Zii Los Dii Du!"
An immediate terror filled Miraak. Adrenaline surged through his spirit. He thrashed hard and violently against Sal's grip. But an inexorable pull forwards continued to draw his spiritual essence into the Argonian's body.
Sal heaved him closer until their eyes locked together. Miraak roared and fought to resist as the very life drained from his phantasmic form into Sal's physical form. Utter confusion overcame him, then drained into hopeless futility. He dropped his arms by his sides in empty defeat.
Sal thrust Miraak into him. Spirit and body merged together. A brilliant blinding golden-white radiance enveloped his entire body and illuminated the starless night. All the Thalmor shielded their eyes in indescribable agony. But Lydia, Alfarinn, Misty, and their allies were all able to gaze on in speechless, painless wonder.
The nine phantoms reappeared and surrounded Sal. The white radiance of his body contrasted their ethereal azure auras and illuminated the finer details of their otherworldly forms. They raised their hands to the sky with palms turned inward, and chanted as one in thunderous voices:
"Lingrah krosis saraan Strundu'ul, voth nid balaan klov praan nau.
Naal Thu'umu, mu ofan nii nu, Dovahkiin, naal suleyk do Kaan, naal suleyk do Shor, ahrk naal suleyk do Atmorasewuth.
Meyz nu Ysmir, Dovahsebrom. Dahmaan daar rok."
Then Jurgen Windcaller lifted his Horn to his lips and blared long and hard upon it. A deafening boom filled the air. The visages of Daedric Princes appeared amongst the clouds. Dozens of Dragon Souls poured from the mouths of Molag Bal, Boethiah, and Mephala, who thrashed and roared as if the very sound of the horn tortured them. Sal bared his chest to draw them into his phosphorescent body.
"Here in my temple,
Here in my shrine,
That you have forgotten.
Mirmulnir…Sahloknir…
Here do you toil,
That you might remember.
Vulthuryol…Nahagliiv…
Here you reclaim
What faithless minds have stolen.
Vuljotnaak…Krosulhah…
Far from yourself,
I grow ever nearer to you.
Viinturuth…Sahrotaar…
Your eyes once were blinded;
Now through me do you see.
Kruzikrel…Relonikiv…
Your hands once were idle;
Now through them do I speak.
Naaslaarum…Voslaarum…
And when the world shall listen,
Dragons...Blood Dragons...
And when the world shall see,
Skeletal Dragons...Frost Dragons...
And when the world remembers,
Elder Dragons...Ancient Dragons...
Serpentine, Revered, Legendary Dragons...
That world will cease to be."
One final Soul flowed from the bell of Windcaller's Horn. The full-lunged thundering roars of Sal's own Dragon Soul resonated in the walls of his skull.
Good to see you, too, old friend, Sal spoke to it. Ready to wreak some havoc?
A triumphant fanged grin spread across his face at the Dragon's confirmatory battle cry.
The light faded from his body. His irises shone gold briefly before fading to their natural cyan. Form-fitting Dragonplate Armor complemented his lithe and svelte figure. Two large, thin, leathery, majestic Dragon Wings spread from his upper back behind his shoulders, made up of purple veins and tan membranes and topped by three leafy-green talons. A sharp curved dewclaw pointed outwards from the heels of his Dragonplate Boots. His forehead horns and scalp feathers had also each grown an inch longer.
"Tremble before me, Thalmor, and despair!" He proclaimed in his resonant voice enhanced by an ensemble of countless Dragons. "No longer am I the street hatchling of Bravil! Nor am I the lizard prisoner the Empire condemned to death at Helgen! I am not the broken and powerless Argonian that you tortured and left for dead! I am Sal-Gheel! I am the One They Fear; the Prince Among Dragons! Thane of the Nine Holds! Legate of the Imperial Legion! Descendant of Talos and Heir of Miraak! In their tongue, I am Laat Dovahkiin! The Last Dragonborn!"
Elenwen, fuming, beckoned to her Archers. They loaded their weapons and formed three rows in front of their ambassador.
The first row knelt on one knee. The second row raised their bows in between them. The third row aimed their arrows at the sky.
"ZUN HAAL VIIK!"
Disarm burst in a ferocious wave from Sal's mouth. It disintegrated the Thalmor bows and arrows to fine useless dust.
"For Skyrim!" The Last Dragonborn led the charge with the Three Tongues, Ulfric Stormcloak, and the Ebony Warrior at his sides. The rest vanished into the night.
"Let's back 'em up, boys!" Branhael climbed to his feet and picked up his Axe. The others followed suit.
"Ysgramor! For Windhelm!" Alfarinn cried, flourishing his Axe. He and Misty bolted opposite the Bandits.
"Attack!" Elenwen pointed her Elven Sword at the charging Argonian. "Strike to kill! Get the Elder Scroll by any means necessary!"
Gormlaith Golden-Hilt phased through Valmir. The frantic Captain yelped in shock and clutched at his body. Lydia sprang right up. She threw one knee into Valmir's stomach and the other in his sternum. The two warriors scrambled to free Maurice, Asta, and Sond, and lead them safely back inside the Eldergleam Sanctuary.
A stray Thalmor Warrior had snuck through the evening shadows behind Sal. He reached a tentative hand out to snatch the Elder Scroll hanging underneath his Dragonbone Armor.
But Sal spun round to clamp the Warrior's exposed neck. He gagged, flailing his legs and clawing at the Dragonborn's vice grip lifting him off his feet.
"Out of my way."
He tossed the Warrior aside. A sickening snap signaled him breaking his spine against a tree trunk. He sank down to its roots like a broken ragdoll.
"MUL QAH DIIV!"
Dragon Aspect adorned Sal's body in rippling blue and orange spectral armor from his arms to his chest and head. An invisible Ancient Dragonborn adorned in the same materialized beside him wielding a Nord Hero Battle Axe.
"FO KRAH DIIN!"
Its Frost Breath stopped two attacking Thalmor in their tracks. They fell, wrapping their hands around their bodies to ward off the perpetual biting cold.
The sound of sprinting turned Sal around. Captain Valmir snapped his fingers to conjure a steel collar and chain leash. He moved to seize Sal's neck. But the Argonian's tail whipped forward to swipe his ankles.
Valmir tripped backwards, throwing the collar and leash in the air. Sal caught the collar and threw it around the captain's neck. He sat down against the rocks, pulling the captain into his lap. His ghostly companion turned its attention to any enemies in his immediate vicinity.
"Not this time, Captain," Sal hissed in Valmir's ear. "Now it's your turn to crawl."
He garroted the chain leash around the captain's throat. Valmir groped at the collar and chain constricting his trachea. He choked and gagged for breath. Legs kicked and arms thrashed in a frantic but futile attempt to escape his captor's grip.
But Sal yanked harder on the end of the chain to keep him in place. A stuttering, ugly gasp escaped his mouth when he tried to cry out. He opened his mouth to protest. Sal clamped a smothering hand over it. He tightened the garrote with his other hand.
Valmir's eyes rolled up into the back of his head. He fell limp in seconds. His head flopped down, chin dropping onto his chest.
Sal splayed his corpse across a boulder in a rather unceremonious pose. He turned his back and sprinted across the plains.
"Stop right there!"
Estormo hurled Sparks at Sal's chest, stopping him mid-run. His Dragon Wings swatted them aside without the slightest effort.
"Hand over that Elder Scroll," Estormo perched on a boulder in front of Sal. He conjured Chain Lightning in his palms. "And I promise to make your death as fleeting as possible."
Far from chilling his blood, Estormo's threat instead elicited a bark of genuine, uproarious laughter from Sal. "Are you serious? With your hideous fashion sense and pitiful excuse for magic, my death by your hands should be anything but fleeting. Bo aak fahdonne," he whispered to his Ancient counterpart.
The other Dragonborn levitated away in the opposite direction. Estormo flung spells as it rushed by him. But they passed through its spectral form and sputtered out on the ground.
Sal's ear-to-ear-grin shrank into a confident smirk. "Stand aside, Estormo, or I won't intend to make your death fleeting." He flapped his wings a couple of times to intimidate the Agent, swirling up dust and dirt everywhere.
Estormo clenched his jaw and took a couple steps toward Sal. The Chain Lightning in his hands sparked brighter, illuminating his hooded face. "Foolish Argonian. You don't stand a chance against my power."
"I don't?" Sal cocked his head to one side, raising his eyebrows in incredulity. "I think you forgot who you're talking to."
His eyes narrowed in a dark daring glower. "You want the Elder Scroll? Come and get it!"
Estormo advanced on him. Sal drew a full breath of air into his lungs.
"KRII LUN AUS!"
Marked for Death's mauve wave phased through Estormo's body. The Chain Lightning in his hands sputtered out.
He staggered back until he slipped off the boulder. Sal clambered over to see where his adversary had fallen.
Estormo had landed beneath the roots of an aged cypress tree. Purple energies dissolved the fabrics of his robes and clothes beneath. Arms and legs jerked in a sudden convulsive seizure. His muscles spasmed in uncontrollable fits. Foamy saliva dribbled from his mouth.
Sal drew his Iron Dagger and knelt in front of the half-naked Estormo. Already life was leaving his rapid eyes. He gripped the High Elf by the hair and held the cold metal dagger to his neck. The blade cut a smooth fine line along the external jugular vein.
Estormo could only look on as his cold saliva congealed with the warm fresh blood dripping down his neck. Sal cleaned the blood on the Elf's face. Then he stood up, sheathed his dagger, and walked away, leaping back over the boulder.
A charging cry snapped Sal to the left. He turned in time to catch one of Rulindil's searing whips around his wrist. The Dragonbone Gauntlet protected him from the flaming lash. He wrenched his former torturer into his other hand.
"Do you want to know how it feels?" he seethed in the Third Emissary's face.
Rulindil's face drained of blood. He gaped horrorstruck as Sal drew in yet another breath to Shout.
"YOL TOOR SHUL!"
Fire Breath engulfed Rulindil in blistering flames. He dropped and rolled around in a vain attempt to extinguish them. Raging fire scorched his skin and scarred his insides. The grass and dirt beneath him remained unscathed.
"Meyz!" Sal hearkened to the Ancient Dragonborn, who rejoined his side.
Ondolemar cast Oakflesh around himself. He summoned a pair of Ice Spikes to throw at the Bandits charging his way.
An Iron War Axe whistled through the air from behind him. It slammed into his cervical spine and knocked him flat to the ground. His Ice Spikes exploded in the collision.
Alfarinn rode around in front of him with Misty, laughing. He flipped his War Axe in the air and caught it by the handle. Ondolemar gave him a dark death glare. He raised a hand to summon a spell.
"Aaauuuggghhh!"
A crossbow bolt pierced straight through his glove. Ondolemar rolled onto one side, cradling his broken hand. The blood-covered head of a bolt jutted from the center of his palm.
Rahnrion shot a Firebolt at a Thalmor sneaking up on Heimkvir. He leaped down beside Ondolemar.
"This creep threatened to freeze me where I sat in my carriage!" Alfarinn pointed his Axe at Ondolemar in an accusing manner.
Rahnrion tossed Alfarinn his crossbow. He cracked his knuckles, sneering at the High Elf.
Ondolemar raised his other feeble hand to object. "No, please; I beg you—mmmfff!"
Thick Frost magic from Rahnrion's hands coated Ondolemar head to toes. He tried to cry out to no avail. The ice weighed on him heavier than any mundane encumbrance. Rahnrion did not stop until it covered the Justiciar in a thick heavy cloak.
Alfarinn swung his War Axe at the crystal statue. The blow shattered it into countless tiny shards. He and Rahnrion shared a triumphant high-five. Then the Breton hurried back to help his comrades.
Misty reared back, hooves high in the air. Alfarinn held on for dear life. She crashed down on a Justiciar who had arrived too late to Ondolemar's aid. The bay horse trampled her until she was nothing but a suffocated mess of dirt and bones.
Lydia lifted her shield to block Lorcalin's dual Elven and Glass Daggers. She swiped her sword at his side, grazing his left hip. Lorcalin stumbled back, holding his bleeding side. He unsheathed a third Steel Dagger to stab Lydia.
A katana impaled itself through his chest. Lydia seized him by the shoulder and drove her sword through his stomach.
Sal removed Dragonbane from Lorcalin's corpse first. Lydia pivoted around, gripping her sword and shield. They stood back-to-back under the moonlight.
Lydia deflected flying daggers on her shield. Sal parried swords using Dragonbane. His Dragon Wings swatted aside spells.
A dozen Thalmor encircled them. Lydia stepped up to Sal until their shoulders brushed together. Sal reached around and grabbed Lydia's shield.
"MID VUR SHAAN!"
Battle Fury caused a gleaming cyan aura to cover the shield. Lydia pulled her arm back and hurled it sideways through the air. It ricocheted off of two boulders and a tree trunk. It slammed into several Thalmor heads and faces before sailing back to its owner.
Lydia caught it by the rim. The recoil caused her arm to jerk back a bit, but she recovered herself in an instant. She aimed it at the ground on the next throw; it bounced off before slapping an incoming Thalmor, cracking her jawbone. The Ancient Dragonborn finished her off with Fire Breath.
"Nos!" Sal ordered the Ancient Dragonborn to attack the Thalmor closing in on him and Lydia. The invisible spirit spun around in a lethal circle. It slashed and hacked all those unfortunate enough to dare stand in its blood path.
A Thalmor leaped in bringing an Elven Battleaxe down on Lydia's cranium. She threw up a high parry to block it. The weight of the Battleaxe strained her arm bones and muscles.
Sal pressed Dragonbane into her other hand. Lydia crossed it over her Steel Sword and pushed upwards to knock the Elven Battleaxe away. The wielder retreated a few steps, but Lydia kept coming.
In a split second, she had skewered the Warrior on her double blades.
Sal lifted his left hand behind him in the air; Lydia's Steel Shield sailed into it. He grabbed the nearest enemy and slammed it on the shield boss. Dazed, the Thalmor staggered in a clumsy, lightheaded gait. Sal seized the opportunity to slash at its exposed neck. His claws covered in blood, he unpacked his Blades Shield from his back and repeated the process on the next enemy.
Thane and Housecarl rotated around each other, exchanging swords and shields. More than two dozen Thalmor fell by their hands. Alfarinn and Misty bolted to their side to strike down any stragglers who managed to escape their wrath.
"Krii suleykaar Fahliil kro!" Sal directed his phantom to Ancarion, who had dashed away to try to gain some tactical distance.
Ancarion shot a spell at a pile of rocks beside him. They levitated up in the air to form a Storm Atronach. It hovered over to the Ancient Dragonborn, shooting Shock magic. The spells, however, phased through the invisible armored man. In a single blow, it broke the Storm Atronach and advanced on Ancarion, hefting its Axe.
"S-s-stay away…" Sweat dripped down Ancarion's brow as he threw spell after ineffective spell at the Draconic ghost. "Stay away from me!"
The first Word of Unrelenting Force knocked Ancarion down. The Ancient Dragonborn gripped its Axe with both hands and raised it high in the air like an executioner. It brought the weapon down hard on the High Elf wizard's neck.
Sal glanced at the forest. The Thalmor had disarmed a rather familiar group of Bandits. The thought to intervene crossed his mind for a split second. But the Khajiit held up a hand to stop him. The Ebony Warrior, Ulfric, and the Three Tongues emerged from the trees to lend their aid.
Jobaiska swung his dual Maces sideways into the nearest Thalmor's gut. Sal and Lydia watched with speechless pride.
Branhael Shroldom forced one Thalmor to walk back and forth on his hands. Then he dealt him a cruel kick to the stomach, throwing him flat on his torso. The Ebony Warrior stabbed his Sword of the Vampire through the enemy's back.
Branhael then swayed back and forth in an ungainly manner. He sprang forward, throwing his hooked fists into another Thalmor's face, breaking its nose cartilage. His War Axe slashed across its shoulders and collarbone.
Rahnrion shoved his gleaming palm at Ancano. He shuddered at the maroon energy sapping his Magicka reserves. Rahnrion struck a stance and whipped one leg at Ancano's diaphragm, ribcage, chest, face, and forehead. He swung his right leg out to swing Ancano onto his back, and bashed his skull in with stones.
Trebuvinius Statelli threw a series of rapid punches to a fourth Thalmor's midsection, followed by a swift uppercut to the jawbone. Hakon hacked his Ancient Nord Battleaxe into her back.
Heimkvir Star-Defender flipped over into a handstand. One leg smacked a Thalmor's chin, who was then pushed by the shoulders down into the dirt. Felldir plunged an Ancient Nord Greatsword through his heart.
Protos Plinotus ducked to dodge an axe swing. Springing back up, he slammed his knuckles into his adversary's nose. He dealt an incapacitating punch to the forehead. Ulfric Stormcloak gashed its torso and stomach for good measure.
An Archer twirling a pair of Steel Daggers managed to break away from the chaos. She scampered in Sal's direction.
Jobaiska locked his fists around the archer's throat from behind. The Khajiit picked her up by the back and waist to hoist her atop his feline shoulders.
He rolled the Archer backwards off his shoulders facedown. Then Gormlaith stabbed her in the shoulder blades.
By now, the last dozen Thalmor left alive had started to flee the battlefield, screaming for their lives in terror.
"Sal, we can't let them all get away!" Lydia prompted. She and the Ebony Warrior picked off as many as their bows could reach one by one. "They might call for reinforcements!"
"Don't worry, I've got us covered!" Sal cornered those who dared to stay and fight. As they lifted their weapons, an unfamiliar Shout appeared in his mind. The Words of Power hung on the tip of his tongue.
Miraak, grant me your knowledge!
"RII VAAZ ZOL!"
Soul Tear struck them all, draining their life energies. They collapsed on the forest floor dead. Then, in plain sight of their flighting allies, they rose again as reanimated corpses. Sal ordered his new thralls to pursue their former brothers-and sisters-in-arms into the woods.
Sal perched on a high boulder and Shouted to the sky,
"OD AH VIING!"
The remaining Thalmor cut down the thralls, but then froze in their tracks, shivering and whimpering in overwhelming anxious fright. A couple bated minutes passed. Then—
"Dovahkiin! Here I am!"
Roaring, Odahviing swooped down from the clouds towards the Thalmor. They immediately fumbled their weapons and hurried away towards the undergrowth.
"Sahrot kendov, Odahviing!" Sal greeted the red Dragon, who landed in front of him. "The Thalmor are taking flight into the forest. I need you to hunt down every last one and dispose of them however you wish. But the ones in Fur Armor are my zeymahhe; do not hurt them!"
"Hii piraak dii rok!" Odahviing promised, extending his wings. "You have my word, Dovahkiin! They shall not be harmed!"
He took back to the skies and soared towards the woodlands, breathing fire at the Thalmor below. The Tongues, Ulfric, and the Ebony Warrior also partook in the hunt. Odahviing's flames passed harmlessly through them as they cleaved the Altmer's armor to pieces.
"Idiots!" Elenwen shouted at the last of her soldiers bolting away in every direction. "Come back here and fight for your ambassador! Fools! Wretches! Cowards!"
Sal stalked up to her. His wings spread wide on either side of him. "End of the line, Elenwen! Surrender now while you still can!"
"No!" Elenwen cast Stoneflesh on her body and prepared to summon an Ice Storm. "I am Elenwen, Ambassador to the Thalmor of Skyrim! I will never surrender to the likes of you! We are the Aldmeri Dominion! All shall submit to our supremacy! All shall live and slave under our superior rule, or perish beneath our grandiose sorcery! This land belongs to the Dominion, to the Thalmor, to all High Elves!"
"Skyrim shall never belong to the Aldmeri Dominion, Elenwen!" Sal bellowed in a Draconic voice. He continued to step towards Elenwen, who lobbed every spell in her arsenal at him. But his wings and armor deflected each one. "For that matter, it doesn't belong just to the Nords, either! It belongs to Argonians, too! It belongs to Redguards, and Bretons and Khajiit and Imperials; and Dunmer and Bosmer and Orcs! It even belongs to Dragons, too! Skyrim belongs to all people, and those people long to be free!"
As he spoke, Lydia came up on his right side, and the Ancient Dragonborn on his left. The Tongues, the Ebony Warrior, and Ulfric paced behind them. Tiber Septim, Jurgen Windcaller, Olaf One-Eye, and Ysmir Wulfharth reappeared between the other five. Branhael and his Bandits took up the fifth row, joined by Alfarinn and Misty. Odahviing landed in the rear.
"This is anarchy!" Now Elenwen was raging at the top of her lungs. "I have never been so disrespected in my life! I hate this! I hate all of you; especially Sal-Gheel! I do not fear death, and I certainly do not fear you!"
"Last chance, Elenwen," Sal's eyes burned golden once more. "Surrender!"
"Never!" Elenwen crossed her arms in front of her face in an X-shape. Blazing blood-red fire covered them. "Not until I see all of you kneeling before me! You are but dogs, and I am your master! You all owe me this land and your subservience!"
Ssshhhrrrkkkttt!
Thin bony blades hoisted Elenwen high into the air. She stared down at her shredded robes. The three leafy-green talons on the ends of Sal's Dragon Wings had impaled her ribcage and lifted her up to the sky for all to see beneath the moonlights. Sal stood below, glowering at the Altmer blood streaming down the membranes and veins.
He wrenched his talons out of Elenwen's body with a grunt of effort. Elenwen crumpled to the ground, her robes crinkled and body broken. She held a trembling hand to her ribcage where Sal's wing talons had speared her flesh. Trails of blood leaked from the stab wounds in her skin, staining her robes.
"Go and do what you want with the dead," Sal told the others. "I would have some final words with Elenwen before she finally shakes off her mortal coil."