Chapter 10: Serana III

Hitting the Books

A month or more had passed since Ghagra's meeting with the Psijics and now doubts festered in Serana's mind like maggots. They had been as frustrating vague in their direction as they were opaque in their motives. Quaranir the Psijic had simply instructed her to seek out the great mage Aelwin, who was living in the college and would provide them with more information, then vanished without another word.

Such a task should have been easy, and they had persisted despite an ever-growing array of disappointments. With the knowledge that the Great Collapse had, in some way, been caused by the College's actions and the effects of the Eye, she and the others had quickly grasped the absolute need for secrecy. This had at first made even the simplest enquiry needlessly and infuriatingly difficult as they were often forced to take the most circuitous methods to ask the simplest questions. Luckily initial progress had been promising- It was possible to count the masters of the college on your fingers, so they were ruled out in a heartbeat. They then checked the roles of the expert mages- and came up empty, then the class lists of adepts. They checked with Mirabel that the guest chambers were empty, and that no one with that name had visited for decades. Finally, they had even begun reading through the roles of novices and apprentices in case one of them would prove to be the mage they wanted. There was not an Aelwin to be found amongst them.

Frustrated as these failures, one morning Beric had been rash enough to question Ghagra's memory and ask if they truly meant he still lived in the college which had provoked an all-out fight that resolved nothing. Tolfdir and Orthorn both vouched for the story, and had forced him to climb down into embarrassed silence. Serana shared his suspicions, but she kept such thoughts to herself though she regrated the necessity of deception with Beric. Calming people's tempers, she reasoned that prophecies were well known for their metaphors and oblique references, and that perhaps after a little research the Psijic's meaning would become clear while privately regretting the divination seemed to have become an unpractised skill in Skyrim. Lacking any other options, the others agreed, and they started a detailed search of the library, private collection, archives, searching everywhere for anything that could help. Privately, personally, Serana shared Beric's reservations- they only had Ghagra's word after all- a vanished guild of mages with absolute control over space and time, and apparently no desire to use their immense power? She was incredulous to say the least. Incredulous of their purportedly altruistic motives, uncomfortable with their manipulation, and distrustful of their truth nature. But she kept such doubts to herself.

Besides, she decided that more effort was needed to build bridges with Ghagra, and had leapt at the challenge and the chance of searching the library with her, arguing that they should leave the boys to manage the clerical mundanity of the dusty archives and to go begging cap in hand to college masters for advice. It was a smart plan- Serana felt uncomfortable at the thought of ingratiating herself with any of these people who would likely see her as little better than a hedgemage or village witch, and Orcs are an unfavoured race to many. Meanwhile Beric had the social position and reputation to secure the release of more sensitive documents, and Orthorn's charming personality allowed him to ingratiate himself with others over a bottle or two of wine from his family vineyards on the Summerset isles. This left her and Ghagra with the run of the library as Beric buried himself in the most sensitive archives and Orthorn wined and dined various masters and senior staff, making discrete enquiries on their behalf. And, as Serana had planned, this time away from each other would help to cool tempers.

As she walked once more through the still air of the library, heavy with the scents of paper and dust she found the atmosphere of comfortable complacency and studious disinterest a salve to her. A studious hush persisted, the silence only disturbed by rustling paper and an occasional hushed argument. Here people thought her a nobody- a mere Adept from a back-waters village with maybe a few more interesting stories and some famous friends but little to teach them. She was grateful for their disinterest; it gave her space to think, and would aide with her gradual withdrawal from the public eye over the next decade or so. Her eyes slid searching across the covers of books. Some stood pristine, their gilt titles and fine leather cover just begging to be cracked open and devoured by her sharp mind greedy for their secrets, others had cracked titles written in fading text, broken spines and fraying edged. She picked up books with care, adding them to the growing pile she held in her arms.

Returning to their desk she dropped the pile with a thump. Jolting Ghagra from her work who looked up in alarm, first at her and then at Urag, glowering from his tower-pulpit in the distance. Luckily, he seemed to be busy shouting at someone on one of the walkways above them. Loose papers scattered across the desk were crushed under the weighty An Examination of Underlying Fundamentals for Mundane-Magical Communion. Above it sat the thinner and practical sounding Falmer Magics of the late Merethic Era topped by more fantastical Introduction to Theoretical Principles and Precepts of Aldmer Enchanting. The Rise and Fall of the First Nordic Empire (volumes I to IV), Azhidal's Descent, and Dwemer Magical-Mundane Constructs.

"I just really fancied some light bedtime reading." She said with a smile before seating herself across from Ghagra, who did not respond at first and instead bent low as she cast dating spelling upon an amulet and checked its response against her notes with a frown. Serana was somewhat disappointed Beric and Orthorn had yet to return. With a sigh Ghagra put the amulet down.

"What have you found?" she asked, rubbing exhaustion from her eyes.

"Little and less to be honest." Serana answered. "We're digging blind into pre-history, and separating myth and legend from truth can last a lifetime." Several lifetimes she repeated in her head, remembering the College's old boast. "I've tried to focus on early First and late Merethic era accounts as our best hope at the moment. To be honest, I've never been much of a fan of Dawn-era accounts. They're too Aedric for my tastes. Often the Aedra come across as completely selfless and hopelessly naïve, and the Daedra are completely written out. It's difficult when that bias shape most of the perspectives on offer."

"Oh, I completely agree- the Dunmer have their accounts which are generally more balanced, and obviously we Orcs have our own clan histories. It's refreshing to talk to a Nord open-minded enough to understand these things."

"Many people in Skyrim worship the new Imperial cult or the old Nord gods, but there's still a few who follow the old ways."

"The old-old ways." Ghagra mocked.

"Haha, quite."

"Where are your family from then? They must have been well off the beaten trail to keep those traditions up- were you from the Reach?" Ghagra asked, obviously thinking about the foresworn tribes and their mixed pantheons.

"Not quite, we lived on the North coast- on the border of High Rock and Skyrim."

"Near Castle Volkihar then?" she asked instantly.

"Further up the coast, but all that was before dad died. Mum is in Solitude now." She responded with an artfully careless shrug. Most people now were darkly curious about such an infamous place, but Serana found that a curt response and a loose allusion to past trauma was often enough to stop any initial questions.

"I hope to get up to the border one day, see where Orsinium stood way back when." Ghagra gestured wistfully in the air. "Maybe one day I'll get there, or see a new Orsinium." She shrugged.

Serana looked doubtful at this as she saw light flicker in Ghagra's brown eyes. She had picked up something of the Orc's history from Durag and night-time stops in Orc strongholds on their travels. She could not see them ever uniting enough to wrestle themselves a province of their own in their current state, no matter how much Durag or Ghagra spoke of a need for a home for their people.

"Maybe Elisif would be generous enough to grant us land, like the Nords did to the Dunmer with Solstheim. I mean just look at history- the Dunmer and the Nords barely get on-and Orcs and Nords get on far better…."

Serana said nothing for a minute, absolutely convinced otherwise but unwilling to be bluntly rude.

"You don't look convinced." Ghagra grumbled. Luckily for her Beric arrived tottering under her own pile of books, and she took the opportunity to duck the question.

"I just think it's a complicated topic, can we chat about it later?" She asked, trying to be diplomatic. Elisif may be naïve and stupid, but she would burn Skyrim to the ground before giving up even an acre of hard-won ground to the Orcs.

"Very well." Ghagra grunted, "what have you found?" She asked Beric, returning to the matter at hand as Beric added his own pile of books and loose papers from the College Archives onto the groaning table.

"Mostly records- well find out what's what when we dig through everything. We've got the honour roles of students here for the past hundred years or so- if Aelwin's as good as the Psijics think he is, he should be there. Hopefully." Beric said with a careless shrug as he slouched in the chair beside her. "These other documents though might be useful in the meantime- they're private correspondence between the previous Arch Mage Sedoth and Potentate Ocato." He held up a sheaf of aged documents written in an elegant hand and marked with an impressive looking seal. "He discusses previous Aedric manifestations and Martin Septim's apotheosis- I'll start with these and see where that gets us."

"Good." Ghagra grunted "Serana?"

"Well, Urag recommended this book- An Examination of Fundamentals for Mundane-Magical Communion. He says it was written by Master Dunlain, a Breton and a former master of the college who Tolfdir studied under- Mirabelle mention him in passing earlier. He specialised in Restoration magic, transferred sentiences and imprisoned consciousnesses. These other books should help us understand exactly what it is we have- Falmer or Aldmer, and help us understand the historical context." Serana tried to keep things vague, and her opinions to herself. Both Orthorn and Beric were determined to see the hand of the Aedra in the Eye of Magnus, but she found it more likely that such an artifact was some sort of entombed consciousness or magically created consciousness, and was determined to prove her theory correct.

"Maybe it'll be worth asking Tolfdir about them tomorrow- he might have some more information on what they were working on." Serana nodded in agreement. There was an awkward pause for a second or two. With Orthorn missing and the public nature of the library there was a limit to what they could discuss.

"Shall we wait for Orthorn?" she asked hesitantly, breaking the silence.

Ghagra nodded with this point before speaking. "No, I think we can make at least some progress and whatever's holding him up must be important. Let's call it a day, get to our rooms and make some progress where we can. We'll meet up in the private collection early tomorrow to talk through what we find tomorrow morning before Tolfdir's visit. Hopefully we'll have found something by then…." She sighed and trailed off.

Beric nodded his head lethargically in agreement. "Ghagra's right. Besides, Orthorn's a smart boy- he'll figure out where we've gone."

"Well, I'll leave a note at the desk just in case. I've also got to sign these books out and collect some others. It'll just take a minute." She stood and swept up the books from the desk.

"Will you be able to carry them all?" Ghagra asked, nodding at her slender arms and assuming human frailty.

"I think I can handle this job myself." She said sarcastically, laying it on thick like a true-blooded Nord and flexing a skinny bicep smaller than Ghagra's wrist. "If I can fight a troll, I can carry some books."

"Suit yourself." She muttered, not looking like she believed her. Beric did not meet her eyes as they packed up their things and left silently as Serana hurried to the centre of the library. She had expected Beric to linger, to wave or say goodbye and was troubled by his disinterested, uncaring behaviour.

"Books to take out." She announced crisply as she stacked them onto the circular table that ringed Durag's towering desk like a curtain wall a keep. An old worried Bosmer looked up at her through her wire-rimmed spectacles. She proffered her library card and student credentials which were taken away as the Bosmer bustled about stamping the books out. Bored, Serana allowed her mind to wander as the Bosmer shuffled about grousing her herself. She had hoped to ambush him and ask him to join her for a drink later. She had a nice stash hidden away in her room, a rich Wayrest red and several blood potions and it would be nice to chat for a while as a break from work. She wanted to repair their recently strained friendship, the loss of their close and easy camaraderie, lost to this brooding dark mood that had taken hold of him. She missed seeing him laugh and smile, and hoped that with a bit of wine and a good chat they could set things right. Her mind wandered further for a moment before realising the Bosmer had returned and was trying to talk to her.

"Pardon?" She asked, blushing with embarrassment.

"Sorry, I said your friends with Beric, aren't you dearie? Only I saw you two talking earlier. He asked for a few other things from the archive and he's yet to collect them- would you mind reminding him…?"

"Not at all. I can take them out on my account if you have them ready." It would give her an easy excuse to invite Beric over. She smiled, trying to be helpful and proffered her documents again, curious, but hoping that there was little extra to add to the pile of books before her. For all her bravado human strength had a limit and it wouldn't do to draw attention. While she waited for the Bosmer to return she packed most away in her bag which she had emptied ahead of time, and enchanted with strengthening spells but even for all her boastfulness it wouldn't do to show off- unexplained displays of strength tend to make people ask the wrong sort of questions. To her relief all the Bosmer returned with was a slender pamphlet and pair of letters, both written on cheap paper.

Silus Vesuius presents

The Museum of the Mythic Dawn

A History of the Cult that Toppled the Septim Dynasty

Inside of his very own home in the Great Capital of the Pale, Dawnstar

Free and open to All Citizens of Skyrim

"…Is this all?" she asked startled and confused. The Bosmer nodded, already trying to hurry her out of the way for a new student to step forward. Serana turned and walked away dazed as she cracked open the pamphlet, curious in spite of herself. The pamphlet's contents were intriguing to say the least. The idea that people would display a cult's holy relics, sacred liturgy and private mysteries simply struck her as odd- but here the pamphlet was, recounting the history of this Daedric cult in lurid detail, the murders, the plotting and their costumes and equipment, and extorting 'All citizens of Skyrim' to visit for the chance to gawp at his displays. She thought for a moment of opening a museum for a moment to her own family's cult and she chuckled to herself at the idea- it would doubtless attract attention and outrage in equal measure, a possibility as entertaining as it was stupidly dangerous. She shuffled the pamphlet away, shaking her head at Silus's foolishness- the man didn't even have the sense to charge visitors for the privilege of visiting.

Opening the letters her cheerful attitude melted like spring snow- They were a brief exchange of correspondence, an enquiry from this Silus Vesuius for patronage of his museum and aide in his work, in particular aide in the recovery of several specific items of unique historical and cultural importance. She read the flowery lines with a growing sense of dread, and had she still been living her heart surely would have skipped a beat- Silus's letter directly petitioned Savos Aren for aid in the recovery and reforging of Mehrune's Razor, which he proposed as the centrepiece of his exhibit. With numb fingers she fumbled with the other letter- this was written in a professional copperplate hand and with a far more direct and business-like tone. It thanked Silus for his generous offer to support his work but explaining that the college could not currently spare any resources to his project, though they extended their best wishes to his work and assured them that he would be welcome to visit the college to inform them of his successes, or the Arcanaeum for research. The signature at the bottom was in a different, far more elegant hand, simply signed.

"Savos Aren, Arch Mage."

Serana had seen Beric carry and play with the Razor several times since Beren's death, and clearly while the College had refused aide to this Silus Vesuius's either he or someone else had secured the necessary pieces and expertise to reforge the blade. She did not know by what exact means such a weapon could be reforged, but was certain that such work could only be accomplished by direct communion with the deity- if half the legends of such weapons were true. She also knew the sort of person it took to attract the personal attention of a prince of that rank- she was one such being- and the costs of such a communion. A shiver ran down her back, and nausea shook her hands and vision. She broke off that train of thought such…debasement as she had suffered was the way of the world, a necessary means to power, that was all. No more needed to be said. Besides, Mehrunes Dagon was no Molag Bal, he would demand different service. Was this Silus capability of attracting such a master though? She looked over the letter again. He hardly sounded worthy of such attention, and the college's formal disinterest suggested they agreed with her assessment of Silus's powers. It was unlike a cultist to attract attention to themselves so publicly, putting a letter like this to their name. Either he was skilled in deception beyond her assessment, incredibly naïve, or a mere tool, to be used and discarded like aged blood-cattle.

Serana came to the foot of the staircase to the private collection and paused, leaning against the wall. The letters, pamphlets a and racing thoughts turning over in her head. Leaving aside Silus for a minute, Beric was clearly using the opportunity to dig into the archives to do some personal snooping into the history of Mehrune's Razor. Serana however felt conflicted about this information and when and how best to reveal it to Beric. The museum would know about the history of the blade, but was just a likely to be a dead end- the knife could well have been stolen, the museum a front or perhaps both. Her knowledge of this current age was still patchy- she was not even really sure what a museum was- but she must find some more information on this issue, somehow. All in all, it was likely this museum knew little, but she felt sure Beric would not see it that way. He would likely be angry, and defensive when he gave him the letters, she realised sadly. Clearly this was private, and it would be embarrassing for him that she had even discovered it. Not to mention the fact that he was clearly not as focused on the eye as he ought to be and people thought he was. Most of all, she was hurt by his deception and how he was misleading them all about his activities. She desperately wanted to avoid an unnecessary fight with him, but could not see how it was to be avoided. He would doubtless use the opportunity to press her once again to support his quest for revenge, and she would once again argue that the eye was more important. They had had this argument so many times in the past month their friendship had become sour and stale because of it.

She heard the wheeze and rush of the private collection doors open, and her keen ears twitched as she heard as she hurried pushed the papers into the bottom of her bag-out of sight and out of mind. She recognised their clipped accents at once, voices she recognised. Orthorn. And another, Ancano, challenging him, haranguing him, and the arrogant assurance with which he spoke, though their voices echoed off stone, rendering them indistinct and garbled. She padded up the staircase on silent feet. Keen to close the distance and get away from the entrance of the library, lest she be distracted by something else. The pair were arguing in hushed tones, one filled with a quiet malice, the other fearful defiance.

"…. What does it matter to you? You are here as a magical ambassador, at the invitation of the College. We do the Arch Mage's work- talk to him if you want me to stop! Or why don't you just become the Arch Mage and tell me yourself-" Fear filled Orthorn's voice, but a certain reckless courage sustained him.

A cold sigh echoed down the stairs to her.

"Do you know how much power I would have to give up to become Arch Mage?" the question hung on the air for a moment before he continued. "I have no need for a position in an institution such as this. The powers I currently hold are sufficient for my needs. You have, I am told, a wonderful family back home in Lillandril. It was such a disappointment to your family when you failed the entrance exams, but your sister was just so supportive when you left for the College of Winterhold? Morna, so young, so beautiful, one of the most promising mages at the College of Sapiarchs. Surely you would not allow your promising sister's career be damaged by your immature actions? Surely you would not want to see her suffer for your mistakes? I am sure her older brother will make the right decision for his family."

"She has no stake in all this! This project is of no concern to you or the Thalmor." Orthorn

"There is no project on Nirn beneath our interest- especially something as important as this. You are meddling with powers beyond your skills, the world needs to be protected from your rash action, and I am the only one here who can provide such protection. It is the burden of our race and one you will learn quickly if you wish to succeed in the new world we are forging. Now go. Away to your childish meddling- but rest assured, we will speak again, soon."

Orthorn retreated in silence, and Serana's heard his racing footsteps, rattling down the corridor and towards the staircase. Hurriedly, she reached out for her magicka, a tingling filled her body, twisting the fabric of her being into insubstantiality as her body and belongings dissolved into insubstantial mist, rousing and clung to the ceiling just as Orthorn raced down the stairs, running through the cloud of her insubstantial being with a shiver, shortly followed by Ancano. He arrived at the top of the staircase, and unhurriedly made his own statelier entrance downwards.

She was fortunate that this transformation was unlike when she chooses to take on her 'true form' leaving behind no clothes or personal belongs scattered on the floor. The effort was considerable, and the effect disorientating, empowering the primaeval part of her brain. As a mist, she had no eyes, no ears, no mouth, no feeling of corporality. Instead, she hung as a cloud above Ancano, feeling the shape of the staircase by gaseous tendrils, the pressure and contours of the environment around her. She could feel the breath in his lungs, the air swirling through his hair, the smoothness of his skin on the air, and she felt a longing for his blood that trembled below that taunt surface in a mass of pulsing veins. Some Volkihar hunted like this, a swirling lakeside mist that strangled the unwary and dumping their drained corpse in the lake. He passed below the cloud of her consciousness and she longed to fall upon his, collapse his lungs and rip his veins open, to crack up his ribs and eat his muscular heart for her glory and the glory of her dread lord Molag Bal who she had given herself to for the gift of this great power.

She restrained such notions, and allowed him to pass by un-assaulted, his feet echoing on the stairs and head held high. They were being watched, and an attack on the sole Talmor advisor would not go unnoticed. Wars had been started for less after all. She waited until the last clatter of his boots had echoed into silence, and allowed herself to coalesce, shifting from a vague wisp into the shadow of a body, and then back to physical form in a handful of seconds. She felt her skin again, the taste of her saliva in her mouth, and breathed deep the stuffy air of the library to ground herself one more. Filling her long-dead lung with those re-orientating scents of paper, and dust and ink, focusing upon those links to the material world, now made novel by the brief absence of her more mundane senses. She opened her eyes, and hurried away.


Serana did not relax until she had bolted shut her chamber door. Dropping books and bag she collapsed onto her bed, though the cool pillow pressing against her face and the darkness over her eyes offered little comfort. She had little doubt that Ancano would break Orthorn- it was simply a matter of time. The reputation of a Thalmor agent was not in question and Orthorn must now be regarded as a liability to their work and an enemy asset. Ancano would doubtless exploit him for information on their activities, as much as he would look to manipulate others by intimidation and flattery. Flustered, she briefly wondered how many others had been turned into spies, and by who. Sadly, it was not a novel experience for her, she had been exposed to spies and manipulators frequently in the past, indeed they had once been a fact of life for her, though her privileged position had protected her from the worse of their manipulation.

Back when she had lived in Castle Volkihar people would frequently appear with seemingly-sincere offers of help or flattery. They were often superficially keen to aide her research but in reality had been sent by one of the court factions come to curry favour or steal secrets. They would listen attentively to her chatter and encouraging her to divulge her thoughts, only to exploit their friendship for favours later- a little comment to her father, or a whispered word in her mother's ear. Such encounters had soured her on the court, and had only intensified after she had received the gift of the Blood and the rift between her mother and father cut the court in half and had eventually provoked a near all-out civil war before their flight. She had been taken in by such factionalism despite her attempts to isolate and distance herself. Eventually she had been reduced to only trusting only her mother, only sharing their work with each other, but in the end even her mother had betrayed her.

She had been blind her to her mother's manipulation, drawn in by the novelty and excitement that came with breaking new ground in magic. When they had been human, what they worked on together home was fascinating but limited- their cult's spells, books on necromancy, alchemical almanacs and other such works penned by their ancestor's or the Mage-priests, a few traded spell books and dependent upon the limited power a mortal body could hold. After receiving the gift, they had been granted extraordinary power and wonderous new abilities, and they had delved deep into necromancy until its essence permeated their very beings, such that she sent even the most decayed and long-dead corpse twitching at her passing. They had revelled in their power and the wonderous new insights it brought. But as time passed her mother grew more and more distant and unkind. Under her strict direction their experimentation stopped, and little by little she found herself reading the same old notes, old books, brewing the same old potions, enacting the same old rituals, and applying enchantments as their island home slowly became a prison. She had questioned this at first, but that had proved in vain, and she learned to keep such questions to herself in a desperate hope to maintain the last friendship she had. Dutifully she had complied to every one of her mother's orders like a well-trained sheepdog, hoping her diligence would renew their relationship, and they could put this misery behind them. Now she realised how her mother had sought to distract and occupy her time with mundanities while she had carried out her own secret preparations. She had been played for a fool, and her failure had seen her entombed, her friendship with her mother destroyed, and thousands killed by her unchecked father.

It would not happen again. Forewarned is forearmed as they say. Her first instinct would have been to reduce any interactions with Orthorn, eliminate all contact if at all possible. But that was childish panic, and she knew that they needed Orthorn for this work and she did not have the power or position to simply sideline him. They could not just simply replace him with Rona or another adept- that would simply alienate him and leave him vulnerable to further manipulation. Nor was there any real way of isolating him in the project- it was obvious Ghagra trusted and valued him over her, and she lacked proof. Instead, she would have to find some way of keeping this secret, keeping him involved while somehow misdirecting him without harming the project. The task filled her with unease and she did not regard success as likely. While she had complete confidence in her battle-skill and abilities, this manipulation was beyond her usual skills, the knowledge required to replace Orthorn was also unknown to her. In battle, she could tear a man limb from limb with her bare hands, flay him alive with a spell and raise his bones as a servant to her whims, but all that was of little value in their current work - unless of course they wanted her to get rid of Orthorn or Ancano. She turned onto her back and looked up at the ceiling, smiling contentedly at the image. Now that would be child's play. But it was modern magical theory that remained a mystery to her, and she was desperately curious about what new spells she could learn here at the college since her awakening, as so far she had had little time to gain much more than a vague sense of such things. Reading a rain-damaged The Art of War Magic in flooded imperial siege lines, or a tattered second-hand copy of the Apprentice's Assistant in Castle Dour was hardly an adequate introduction to modern magical practice and theory. By contrast to her antiquated, cultish understanding's, Orthorn's knowledge of magical theory far outstripped her own, placing him on the cutting edge of progress from what she had seen so far. If they were to make any progress at all he would likely be critical in understanding what the eye was and how it worked.

A clock chimed five, and she propped herself up on her elbows to look at her bag with distaste. She had work to do and couldn't sit here mopping and plotting forever, Tolfdir would want to know what progress they had made tomorrow. Besides which, she had to give Beric the pamphlets…

She hissed, frustrated and slummed back again, covering her face with long fingers. It was just like a fledgling vampire to get wrapped up in issues like this, and cautionary tales abounded in the court of young vampires who failed to acclimatise to their new powers and gifts. It was customary to reckon a vampire a fledgling until a century since their turning. By this time all links with their mortal life would have expired, and they could be trusted as a mature vampire. Until that time they were reckoned almost a child, and their sire held responsible for their actions. The high death rate after turning had been a matter of frequent discussion at the court, and two philosophies had evolved while she had been there. Orthjolf, in life her father's champion, had favoured simply collecting together the most powerful young warriors before a surprise turning, taking them as Molag Bal had Lamae Bal, then leaving them to their own devices as fledglings. This sink or swim approach resulted in a shockingly high failure rate, and brutally savage warriors. Hestla and Fura Blood-mouth had been survivors of such methods, and while warriors nearly without compare, their skills had arguably remained under-developed and narrow since their turning as they turned inward and remained deeply suspicious of others. Vingalmo, her father's old chancellor had by contrast opted for a more subtle approach, using spies to identify likely candidates in their youth, investing considerable time and effort into their development before turning them in middle age. His supporters rarely turned more than one or two in a decade, and often used a combination of friendship, coercion, deception, and sexual manipulation to 'train' their protégé's as they saw fit, with every death keenly felt by their sire.

She had been deeply uncomfortable with both methods, and thankfully had never previously had to face the choice. Overall, though she much preferred Vingalmo's approach with its development of a close relationship between sire and fledgling. This was despite the wanton depravity many sires and fledglings engaged in, the emotional manipulation that so often played apart, and the desire to display power through gaining dominion over an unruly fledgling. She remembered well how the most depraved of Vingalmo's followers often showed off their cowed and chastened followers to the court.

It was unfortunate that she and Beric had rarely spoken of her vampirism before his turning, and she regretted not discussing it much with him. He has certainly shown no interest in becoming one, and after some initial hesitation his turning had been most perfunctory in its approach. Beric later called it a necessary choice given his options, claiming that he would not allow his squeamishness to endanger their mission, and his brusque dismissal of the intimacy of the act had hurt her. She suspected this was merely a salve to his uneasy moral code.

Yet now she wondered how she would have taken him had Beric shown greater inclination for the gift. If they had spoken earlier, of the great honour that it would do him to take the gift, and the great power that it afforded him, of the great benefits it brought with it. If she had offered him her blood earlier, would he have taken it willingly? Many vampires would have opted for length ceremony or elaborate rituals, some offering blood from a chalice, others a fresh-flowing wound to the breast offered in the heat of passion. She had been given no opportunity to indulge in such frivolous luxuriousness- standing in a ruined laboratory she had drained his blood, and offered him her bitten wrist to drink from, a sensual, highly sensuous act for her as he had lapped desperate for life at her fresh-flowing blood, tonguing her open wound desperately. She dismissed the musing, ashamed and uncomfortable. It was irrelevant how she would have wanted it done. It had happened already, and there was no changing any of it. All that mattered was Beric was precious to her-more precious than any other person in Mundus. He was her only true friend in this world, ever, and she desperately wanted to help him. Beren's death had unbalanced him, and saddened her.

She had always known that Beric would watch his brother die. Violently in battle, stricken with illness, or slowly with the passing of the years until, bowed and grey death would break Beren and leave Beric alone in the world. She had hoped it would have been the latter, something which would have allowed Beric to slip away into obscuring with her with the passing of the years. It would have been difficult, but secrecy demanded it so, and Beric would be happy by her side. She knew that she had given her word to help in his quest for revenge, and had meant it though she had little idea of how she was going to support him in this, other than trying to prevent him from going too far- a difficult and dangerous prospect. Realistically winter and the need to maintain a suitable pretence of mortality kept him in Winterhold for the moment, though doubtless come the spring Beric would be keen as razors to get to work.

Enough. She snapped at herself for the second time today. She had enough to focus on for now, and she needed to forget about Beric and other problems until that was sorted. She pulled herself up, poured herself a measure of blood and wine and set to work. She glanced out the window to the darkening Sea of Ghosts and contemplated lighting a candle or two, then dismissed it. Candles were expensive, and it would be nice to work by moonlight and vampiric sight for a while. With the door bolted no-one could observe her working in darkness, and she had long found the stillness of night a comfort. Doubly so as the college settled around her, and her natural awareness spiked with the rise of the moons.

Sitting at her desk she laid out the problem in her mind as Ghagra had explained it. The discovery of the Eye had provoked the Psijics reappearance bearing a warning, implying that the Great Collapse had been the result of the discovery of the Eye, but that greater damage had only narrowly been avoided- and was still to come. The Psijics had been frustratingly vague and non-supportive as far as Ghagra had told them, seemingly happy to observe but not to intervene, and their combination of dire warning and disengagement was maddeningly frustrating. All that aside, the problem as Serana understood it was threefold. Firstly, what was the eye exactly? Secondly, how do people interact with it? and thirdly- who will interact with it to have caused the great collapse?

For now, they were working on the first two questions and as she saw it, she had an opportunity to provide a unique perspective. One that did not dismiss the role of the Daedra and better understood Skyrim's ancient history, which for her had only recent memory. Her family history had it her ancestors had followed from Atmora in the wake of Ysgramor's conquests, and she had been born, lived, turned and entombed in what they today called First era. She had information that others simply had no access to, but would need to be able to prove it and cloak it to prevent awkward questions and make her case effectively. The books she had retrieved from the library would help- sources that would cloak her first-hand accounts in a veil of textual evidence, as well as broadening her understanding of the world beyond Castle Volkihar and her ancestral home.

Frustratingly though she could not find any evidence against an Aedric origin for the Eye. The others had settled upon it being Aedric, on the pattern of the Heart of Lorkhan, which she gathered had been Aedric artefacts of some fame. She could accept that she was perhaps more than a little bias against the Aedra, and that between the heart, Martin Septim (and Beren, she admitted ruefully) an Aedric origin was far more precedented than maybe she was prepared to admit.

She was also already certain that several alternative options could be ruled out. It was unlikely that the Eye was Falmer and a quick leafing through of Falmer Magics of the late Merethic Era provided her with a handful of notes to support this. Likewise, it seemed unlike Dwemer, and Dwemer Magical-Mundane Constructs supporting her thoughts. The book was highly illuminating, and she found herself savouring the revelations within. Slowly the sheer sacrilege of constructing one's own god in blasphemous denial of pre-existing deities gave way to grudging acceptance of their skills, and a budding curiosity at the descriptions of the 'mantella' a colossal soul-gem to power the Numidium in place of the Heart. However, the examples of Dwemeris provided in the book clearly clashed her transcriptions of the writing on the eye, and the legends of the Night of Tears implied that the Nords had discovered the Eye, thus provoking Falmer attack. Serana had grown up with the tale, and was been surprised that a bastardised form of his had still persisted to this day. In retrospect she wished she had asked Gelebor about it.

There were however other options, a magical-based consciousness constructed or imprisoned, or an artefact utilising tonal Architecture, either of which could have been created by a mage- and it was this option that Serana had found most promising. She yawned and leafed through the copies of the Rise and Fall of the First Nordic Empire she had taken out, trying to cross-reference it with Underlying Fundamentals, searching for the information on Early Nordic magics and great mages such as Shalidor and Gauldur, who would have possessed sufficient power to have either located or sealed away such a powerful artefact. It was possible they were involved in its creation, but they were unlikely to have a hand in its construction as the legends and histories implied a pre-Nordic settlement creation for the Eye. Shalidor was discussed frequently but Gauldur seems to have almost disappeared from the record apart from a few scattered references to the most basic magical constructs her search came up empty and she slumped in her chair, frustrated.

It was the height of night now, and moonlight streamed through her window. She got up and stretched, admiring the view before propping her chin on her hands and looking out the window. This was the problem with blending in with mortals she sighed. Spending all day awake when she should be resting, and then anxiously exhausted at night when she was most naturally awake to the world, and no amount of afternoon naps that would help completely offset the effects. She glanced at the books, scowled at where they sat open on the desk or tossed carelessly on the floor and felt frustrated energy twisting away within her. She felt burned out, and needed a break, and a distraction for an hour or so. She looked away back to her window. The Sea of Ghosts was restless, and a low fog spread across its surface was crawling away from the castle, revealing the light of the moons that shone on its rippled surface. She felt stale and the need to stretch her legs. A moonlit walk to, feel the moonlight and the wind, taste the salt air. Maybe Beric was still up, and she could have some pleasant conversation on something, anything other than boring old work. Then after another hour or so of reading maybe she could force herself to have a quick nap before morning.

Pulling on her black bearskin cloak, hat and gloves for seemliness (it was mid Frostfall after all!) as she hurried from her room, rushed down the hall and rapped on Beric's door. There was a drowsy grunt of surprise through the thick wood, and after a pause the door opened. A bandaged hand, a muscled arm and naked shoulder wrapped around the door, followed by Beric's tousled hair and surprised eyes. The room was unlit, and Serana could see books and pages strewn hap-hazard across floor, desk and bed over his shoulder.

"Oh, sorry I didn't mean to wake you." She apologised as Beric looked quizzically at her.

"No, that's alright, I wasn't really sleeping." He fumbled a yawn. "What's the matter?"

"I couldn't sleep and really fancied a quick walk, and I didn't want to go alone. Would you mind giving me some company?"

Beric looked carefully up and down the darkened corridors, vampiric sight piercing the shades effortlessly just as hers did. She knew there was no-one around but she liked to play-up even when she felt safe- you never knew who might be listening.

"That sounds…nice, in a bracing Skyrim winter sort of way. I'll just get dressed and join you."

Beric was back out in seconds, wrapped in the crimson of his old legion cloak, and hustled after her as she took off with a light laugh down the hall. She allowed him to draw level as they reached the stairs. With the hood drawn up and a pair of homespun fingerless gloves he looked like any Legionnaire veteran.

"There's just something so nice about an evening walk in the cool air, then getting back home into a nice warm bed and getting all cosy." She declared airily as the emerged into the cool night air.

"I come up here quite often, late at night or early in the morning. I find a walk and a bit of lone time helps to clear my head." Beric "I can only spend so long cooped up inside before I feel like I need to get out and stretch my legs. Change is as good as a rest, as they say." He shrugged, but looked happier as they walked about the battlements.

"Does it help?" She asked, keenly interested and sensing that he was in a more talkative mood.

"Yeah. It's nice. Just to get up here, away from all the noise, and just think through things, rest a bit away from other people. I just feel like I can get a bit of space up here. Besides the weather keeps the crowds away."

"Its almost a shame. They're missing out on all this." Serana gestured at the view. The mountains of Skyrim, glistening under snowfall and starlight away to the south, the twin moons rising in splendour, casting their gentle light upon the fog-cleared white-capped sea, which looked almost playful at this distance above it. Finally, the magnificent northern lights that danced above them. They stood and stared, necks craned back as they marvelled at the interplay of the colours, brighter and fuller than they had ever experienced as mortals. It was sights like that that made vampirism all worthwhile.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" she sighed in wonder.

"Yeah, but nights like this always look so cold to me." He shivered reflexively.

"Well, then its shame you did have a nicer cloak to keep you warm." She teased poking him in the chest; he was terribly proud of that old rag even if it didn't look particularly warm.

I'll survive…." He said with offhand carelessness as they resumed wandered aimlessly around the battlements of the tower.

"How will you manage that?"

"Well, maybe some kind rich young woman would lend me some of hers…"

Shaking her head in mocking indulgence at the vampire, she threw the train over Beric, wrapping it about him and binding him to her side.

"There. Now I can enjoy my walk without you moaning about the cold and freezing to death." She fussed over the cloak, pulling him in closer and laughing to herself. Content, she wriggled around until she could stand with her back him and look out from the tower, the back of her head against his shoulder.

Standing there, Serana reflect on how with the more time she spent in the college, the more it reminded her of the old Castle Volkihar, and the more she fell in love with the place. For sure, both sat perched on a defensive promontory above the sea, limiting access to a single narrow bridge. Both stood proud above the town, separate and above from the mass of the common folk below, and both were proud institutions of magical thought. The views were much the same too- out across the icy seas to towards the land where a mass of Rocky Mountains and icy cliffs blocked sight deep inland. Yet it differed in important new ways too.

Serana closed her eyes and turned her face upwards towards the moons, allowing their familiar glow to play across her fine features as it shone happily down upon them. She felt the wind gently wave its way her hair, and the gentle comfort of Beric behind her.

"Serana..."

She opened her eyes and Beric looking over her shoulder at her, an odd little smile playing across his face, and she couldn't help but laugh and smile back, turning around with a wriggle to look him in the face.

"What?"

She felt his arm wrap around her waist, pulling her closer into him and she snuggled deeper into the hug. The rough pads of his fingers playing along the fine lines of her jaw, the whisper of the bandages against her skin, his hand running through her hair. Then his lips found hers. She was startled at first, then relaxed and returned his kiss with sudden passion as she gave into his tender touch. It was comforting, feeling the embrace of his arm around her, his hand cradling her head, the taste of him on her lips and the feel of his tongue on hers.

A panicked flood of intrusive thoughts broke through. Her hazed brain stumbled, she blushed horribly and anxiety filled her heart; she was suddenly awkwardly conscious of her arms, hanging limply by her sides in his embrace, constrained by his arms and then she broke the kiss, wriggling in his grasp.

"Was that ok?" Beric asked alarmed.

"Um, yeah. Sorry." Serana said awkwardly, not meeting his eyes as she pulled away from him. Maybe she should hug him back? She thought. The emotions must have shown on his face as he released her from his arms.

"I was just caught by surprise." She smiled back at time. She had never been kissed before, not like that; she had never even had a proper suitor. "I'm sorry I just feel a little stupid right now." embarrassed and confused she wrapped her arms around her chest and held herself tight

"That's ok." There was an awkward silence for a moment as Beric watched her, she breathed a few deep breaths, and settled herself.

"Um." She stuttered after moment. A smirk played across her features, and Beric smiled back as she wriggled back into a proper hug, enjoying this close tenderness for the uniqueness of the experience. She could not recall the last time someone had held her like this.

He kissed her again, and she eagerly returned it. She tried to savoured this for a moment longer, ignoring the feeling of anxiousness building within her, the panic within her gut, the feel of someone's hand on her body. Fear broke them again, and she ended the kiss, resting her head on his shoulders as she struggled to regain control, forcing herself to maintain the aristocratic composure expected of her. Trying to subdue the fear and hurt the surged within her, the panic. There was nothing wrong with this. She was sure of that. So, she surprised herself when she buried her face into the cloak to mask her tears and muffle her cries, before tearing herself from him and fleeing into the night. Ashamed, weeping, alone.


A/N

Thanks everyone for reading. This chapter was really difficult to write as I was trying to hit the right notes with Serana's past and present, and the state of play Beric is in to say nothing of the entire context. There was a lot of sensitive stuff at play which has made it a struggle to write, and a fair bit of research had to be done to look into how I wanted to evolve their relationship and all the baggage both of them have. Just a quick note to say that the next chapter is written and will be released next month. And I will try and get a few more 5,000-9,000 word chapters done over the next year as obviously this story has been dragged out a bit in terms of time due to work and other commitments.

The pamphlet text and some of the book titles are taken from Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim. Others are my own creation.