"From whence he came we did not know, but into the battle he rode, on a brilliant steed of pallid white. Elf we called him, for Elf he was, yet unlike any other of his kind we had ever seen before that day. His spear and armor bore the radiant and terrible glow of unknown magicka, and so adorned this unknown rider seemed more wight than warrior." - The Fall of the Snow Prince

Dear grandmother,

Sorry I haven't written you in a while, but ancestors be praised, something more exciting than a netch race is happening in Stoneforest. One of the outlanders they let dock here, a catman, is marrying Marasa Darvel. Veloth knows she'll be better for it. It's been so depressing buying books ever since her husband fell into that crater. But that's not the exciting part. This catman worships the Divines, and hired a priest of Mara all the way from Skyrim to come perform the ceremony!

I bet you're wondering why I'm writing in Cyrodiilic instead of Dunmeris. Apparently, the list of Mara-worshiping Dunmer willing to travel to Resdayn is awfully short. This priest's name is Erandur, and he's helping with this letter. I know you said I should keep our exchanges kinda secret, but he's taught me so much in the last few weeks. He says I shoulda wrote "Balmora" instead of "Stoneforest", that Khajiit don't like being called catmen, and that no one has called Morrowind "Resdayn" in hundreds of years. I guess it's tough letting go of my family's words. Erandur suggests I write them all down in a book somewhere, so I won't forget. Bah. Who has time for that? Archery practice and sword drills take up most of my time. I want to be ready for the guard trials next season, and the Redoran accept no excuse. If I'm accepted, I'll be the youngest trainee admitted in decades! The trials must be tough if no other nineteen year old has ever passed.

The guards are the only ones who get to leave this boring city without armed escorts surrounding them like a pack of a screaming nix-hounds. As if I've ever seen a nix-hound! With all the blundering and trampling on those pointless trips outside, all the creatures are frightened off before we even know they exist. I want to see Morrowind as my ancestors did, Nadene. As you did! All my stupid friends don't even know what Vvardenfell used to be like. They stroll through the ash wastes on these trips, protected by the guard, ignorant of the history of the ground beneath their feet.

You say I shouldn't get worked up about such things, that everything that mattered is buried under countless layers of ash, but I'm angry just writing these words. You said we should keep these letters short, in case they fall into the wrong hands, but I feel like you're the only person that understands what I'm going through. Most of the Dunmer here now were born after the eruption, and so have no memory of before. No idea of what they lost. The last elf in town that lived in old Balmora is sick in bed, dying of the ashlung that's taken so many of the elders. I used to go listen to his stories, but now he can't speak without pain.

I wish you'd come visit. I know it hurts to see it all again, but the elves here need a reminder of what they lost. They need to know how easily it can all go away, like it did for my ancestors. Or else they'll let their guard down, and Morrowind will burn again. Ugh. I didn't mean for this letter to get all serious. Sorry. But don't worry, I made Erandur leave for this part. I just worry about you, out there alone in the forest. Just know I haven't forgotten you, grandmother, and neither have the Dunmer of Vvardenfell. They haven't forgotten the Nerevarine.

Love,

Habisunilu

"How dare you."

Gelebor looked up from the letter. Nadene was in the doorway, shoulders tensed and eyes burning as red as the lava of Red Mountain.

"I'm sorry-"

"Silence!" Green energy pulsed in her clenched fists, and she threw the gathered power towards him. His limbs stiffened and he collapsed. Paralysis. A not entirely unfamiliar sensation; the Falmer of the caves favored poisons that had a similar effect. The rug was warm and cozy against the side of his face. Nadene's footsteps moved towards him, slow and stiff. I've ruined it all.

"You betrayed my trust. I never should have let you into my home. But now you know, don't you? Your curiosity is satisfied."

He willed his lips to form words, without success.

"I hope it was worth it." Her voice cracked, or maybe it was his imagination. "I was counting the days, you know. I knew nothing good could last. You came here on the 29th of Last Seed, the 207th year of the Fourth Era. In twenty minutes, it'll be the 30th of Frostfall. Congratulations on your two seasons living with the Nerevarine." She said the word like a curse.

Gelebor pleaded with her using his upward facing eye, trying to make her understand what he couldn't communicate in words. He hadn't meant to read her private letter; it had been facing up when he entered the main chamber after feeding the guars. The weather outside had been too cold even for a Snow Elf, so he'd come to start up the hearth. After his eyes had danced across the first words on the paper, his traitorous curiosity had done the rest.

"I should just kill you." She knelt down. To his surprise, she ran a cool gray hand down his stiff face. "You know too much. More than anyone on this island, now, since you read that letter. More than anyone in Tamriel, except the girl who wrote it. But I've learned a lot about you, too. Your honor didn't stop you from spying on me, but I've a feeling you won't be telling anyone else what you discovered."

The paralysis was beginning to wear off. Gelebor shifted an inch and groaned through his teeth.

"Oh, my foolish little endling." She stroked his cheek. "I had thought we were becoming more than matron and servant. Some young and foolish part of me that I thought burned away in Akavir was slowly returning. It's good you chose to betray me, in the end. I needed a reminder of what I could never have again."

"Nade-"

She clapped a hand around his mouth and turned her face away, burying it in the crook of her elbow. Her palm smelled of spice and flowers. When Nadene looked back at him, the inside of her arm was damp. For me? Oh, Auriel. What a rotten elf I am.

Her expression was still. Nadene pointed to the door. If he hadn't known better, he'd have missed the telltale tremble at the corners of her lips. But Gelebor had seen Nadene holding back tears before, and knew the signs. He also knew it was time for him to leave. The drumming of harsh snowfall against the windows made him hesitate for only a second. I've weathered worse, in the Vale. Nadene wouldn't send me out there if she didn't think I'd survive.

Ha. You've landed yourself on this path by assuming you know more about her then you do. By making assumptions in realms of knowledge you have no business in. Nadene only said she wasn't going to kill you. She didn't say anything about letting you succumb to the elements.

Putting on a brave face, Gelebor walked to the door without looking back. He made some small attempt to commit the short journey to memory: the immaculately maintained weapons and other trinkets hanging from the walls, the bizarre and haunting paintings of what he now knew to be Vvardenfell; the jars of flowers placed in seemingly random places around the tower, selected for beauty rather than purpose. The fading scent of the snowberry tea he'd been brewing for the evening.

How quickly it can all fall to pieces. My curiosity in an infant's cries lost me the Chantry, and my unwanted attention towards the tears of a friend has lost me yet another home. Will there be a next time? Taking one last breath before the storm, Gelebor found himself doubting that. One elf, even one thousands of years old, could only take so much pain. Seeking out company always seemed to end poorly for him. Perhaps Auriel was sending him a message. Stand alone, until I call you to join the others.

Very well, then. Nadene had left the room, or else remained silent as Gelebor opened the doors to the storm. He didn't care to check. Bracing himself against the winds, he stepped out and shut the tower behind him. Fortunately, he'd been coming in from this onslaught when he'd been caught reading the letter, so he was at least somewhat dressed for the elements. Nadene had used her magic to repair the heavy cloak she'd gifted him on his first night. Gelebor drew it tightly across his shoulders and staggered into the snows. The guar pen was empty. One of his last acts had been to let Ur and Alma into the back room to keep them warm and safe. Pausing by the gate, Gelebor shut his eyes for a moment and murmured a prayer for the well-being of all the tower's residents.

Nadene had once mentioned that Raven Rock was to the west of her tower, but he had no intention of returning to a town he had no place in. Instead, he intended to offer himself at the Skaal village. Whatever their feelings towards outsiders, Gelebor was certain they'd be in need of hunters and protectors in this merciless winter. He could live off the land, with their permission, and share everything he found with the villagers. Or they'll turn me away, and I'll return to the wastes and wander until my feet fail me.

His movements were stiff and scurrying. The snow didn't overly bother him, but it made navigation a rather pointless exercise. He was certain he was walking north in a straight line, but there was no promise this would lead him to the Skaal anytime soon. The forest swayed and shuddered in time with the wind, blanketing him in showers of wetness and white. I wonder if Nadene will shed any more tears over me.

Gelebor was no cynic. He knew they'd both weep over each other, and mourn the beautiful thing they'd been building the last weeks. A state of bliss we couldn't hope to maintain. He'd spoken to no others since returning from the forest shrine with Ur's mate. In his role as protector of the Chantry, sometimes decades or centuries passed between the visits of those seeking Auriel's bow, so this was no great drain on him. Lesser elves might resent being stuck with only each other for so long, but something in Nadene's past evidently made her just as grateful for his sole company.

I hope she heeds the advice offered in the letter. He'd thought Nadene to be completely cut off from the world, aside from her rare visits to Raven Rock. At least she has this "Habisunilu" to spend time with, if she so chooses. The Dunmer in the letter had called Nadene "grandmother", a title he'd been surprised at before recalling her great age. Sometimes it had been easy to forget how long Nadene had been picking flowers and training guars out at her tower in the middle of nowhere. And then there was the matter of that other title used in the last words of the letter, a title he knew next to nothing about. Skyrim was not a land known for literature, and by the time Gelebor had landed in Raven Rock he'd had little spare gold for books or scrolls. During his stay with Nadene, he'd taken full advantage of her significant library, but none of the tomes had mentioned the word "Nerevarine."

Best not to concern myself with such things. Obviously she didn't want me to know, and that should be enough. There's little point, now.

His thoughts felt as if they were going in circles, and he suspected his feet were following a similar path. The forest around him now looked too familiar to be very far from the mushroom tower. Simply wonderful. I can't even navigate without fumbling up. An anger was rising from the pit of his stomach, and Gelebor made no attempt to quench the rising flames. He was truly furious. Furious at himself, for ruining yet another home in so short a time and ending up alone again. Furious at Nadene, for being so damn oversensitive and neurotic over such an innocent mistake. Had his friendship meant so little to her that the matter of a single letter was enough to banish him forever?

Most of all, he was furious with Auriel. How could he let this happen to me? Gelebor stomped through the snow, shoving aside branches and pine cones until he broke through to a clearing. The shrine. The great stone pillar was unchanged, but for one detail. The markings of Namira had been freshly applied since his first encounter with the monument months ago. In a circle around the shrine, the snow turned to warm rain. Disgusting.

"The Daedra speak to their servants," Gelebor spoke. His eyes turned to the sky, and his mouth set into a thin line. "Am I less worthy than those vile creatures that kneel in service to Namira? Or is your voice too sacred for mortal ears?"

His lord made no reply, and Gelebor's ire swoll to a breaking point.

"Damn you!" He spat on the snow. "I've done everything you asked for thousands of years. My faith was ancient when Tiber Septim first learned to eat solid food. I've been loyal to you as kings and emperors rose and fell. I asked for no reward, and expected none. But you have punished me! Forced me to bear witness the end of my civilization. Forced me to be the last Snow Elf."

The sky was silent.

"A simple sign of your love is all I ask for. A word, or a kind hand on my shoulder. An acknowledgment that all this pain hasn't been for nothing. Even a warm ray of sunshine would suffice."

No response.

"You abandoned Vyrthur." His voice cracked. "One of the last true Falmer in the world, and you left him to be corrupted in the hungry claws of Molag Bal. Why? He just wanted to be cured, to be whole! It would have been so simple for you to forgive him. Now he will burn in Coldharbour until the end of time. Now I stand alone in the world, deprived even of a brother's hug. You are a cruel god. I've granted you far too many second chances. You don't deserve my love, or my faith."

Gelebor fell to his knees, and found words failing him. Slowly, in stutters, he began speaking again in a low voice. In Falmeris. The language was ancient, and he'd not had reason to speak it at length for a long time, but it returned to him like an old friend. Falmeris was a comforting language: cool and soft as the freshly fallen snow, devoid of the harsh sharp turns of the Dwemer dialect or others like it. The words were out of place here, on this island of the Dunmer, but he gradually increased his tone until the feathery syllables filled the clearing. Gelebor screamed and shouted at the sky in the mother tongue of his dead brothers and sisters until the snow stopped falling and silence fell on the coated forest like a blanket thrown over a sleeping child. He continued, shoulders shaking, his voice hoarse, resolving to keep going until he received a response. When the moons were high in the clear night sky, the last Snow Elf collapsed and fell unconscious in the cold snow.

It's time to wake up, child. Gelebor came to in an instant, watching the woman standing at the foot of his bed. She wore a long flowing robe, and her face seemed warm and welcoming. It was she who had spoken the words of greeting. He was in a wooden dwelling of some sort, but the edges of his perspective were blurred and unfocused. I'm dreaming, he realized. But this is no ordinary dream.

Yes, the woman said. You are more clever than you know, Knight-Paladin Gelebor.

He flinched at the title, looking down. The woman came to his side with silent footsteps and drew his chin up with one tender finger. Do not despair, my child. No one could disparage you for demanding answers, after your long years of service. You deserve so much more than you have been dealt.

Gelebor hesitantly returned her kind smile. She helped him climb out of bed, and led him out of the room. The world outside was green and bountiful, and ocean birds sung happily in the clear blue sky.

It all seemed much too good to be true.

Are you a Daedra, he asked. They stood in the cool sand.

The woman smiled softly. I'm the one who's going to deliver you from darkness, Gelebor. She pointed down the beach to a small hut. He peered at it, straining his eyes, and watched a slender figure come out on to the sunlight.

We speak through a false world, but this is a mirror of reality. The woman pushed gently on his shoulder, urging him towards the hut. All that you see exists. This is true. You can come here, in time, if you follow the path I have set.

Gelebor took slow steps forward, not understanding, but desiring a clearer view of the hut and its inhabitant. Gentle wind pulled at his cloak, as real as anything he had ever felt. The figure that had emerged was a woman with pale skin. A Nord? No. He drew closer, and saw sharp ears on the sides of her head. Gelebor stilled his heart, too used to false hope and disappointment. An Altmer, surely, perhaps an afflicted one. Then the women knelt down to pick a wrapped bundle up from a blanket. She removed the cloth from whatever she was holding, let it fall to the ground, and held a baby of stark white complexion up into the morning sunlight.

He was close enough to hear her begin to speak, and recognized her words as the ones he had spoken every evening since the priests of the Chantry had taught him. She was praising Auriel. Gelebor reached for her, desperate, and felt the walls of the dream close in around him until he was plunged into darkness.

"Ah, good. You're finally awake. I'm Sanyon. Such an honor to finally meet you."

A thin Altmer with long dirty hair looked down at him. Gelebor dared not move; he felt cool snow underneath, and the wicked shrine dominated the sky above. The wisps of his dream had already faded from memory. I haven't moved far. The strange elf wore a long dark robe, and on the torso of the garment a grinning green skull was hazily depicted.

Sanyon nodded towards the forest. "We won't be waiting long. Nimphaneth will be back with your friend soon."

Gelebor began to push himself up off the ground, and a warning flashed through Sanyon's cold deepset eyes.

"Best not, my boy." The promise of magic tingled around the strange elf's hands, and though Sanyon wore no weapon Gelebor knew himself to be in grave danger.

"What do you want with me?"

Sanyon giggled. "What a question. You're to deliver us to salvation, Knight-Paladin Gelebor."

"I don't follow. I've no idea who you people are." Past Sanyon, the runes on the shrine dripped with fresh color, and Gelebor suddenly understood.

"Namira has been coveting your flesh ever since you left the protection of Auri-El. Ours is the lady of revulsion, and what could be more revolting then the last lost child of Akatosh being eaten alive on our feasting table?"

"Oh, dear." Gelebor didn't fear death, but being painfully consumed by a bunch of Daedric cultists was not how he wanted to go. "I hope you don't expect me to cooperate. I'll fall on my sword if it means depriving you of my part of this wicked ritual."

"What sword?" Sanyon smiled. "As soon as Nim returns with the Dunmer, you'll both be paralyzed until the moment of glory. The only sharp objects to fall upon will be our dining forks, and we will welcome your attempts."

"Nadene has nothing to do with me," Gelebor replied, unable to keep a trace of bitterness from his voice. "Leave her out of this."

"Ah, but we've been watching you for weeks. We came for you, but she seems strange and powerful in her own way. At best, Eola will find some arcane use for her in the ritual. At worst, we'll have another course in the promised meal. If she resists, we'll just kill her here and have a pleasant dinner before departure."

"Weeks?" While the cannibal was talking, Gelebor subtly shifted minuscule distances.

"Yes. We painted this shrine with the symbols of Namira, knowing it would attract all sorts of interesting characters. As it happens, we missed your first visit, but the assassin you left behind helped us find your tower in time."

Gelebor cursed himself. My mercy brings me nothing but pain, once more. Well, he wouldn't be making that mistake again. "Where is she?" His eyes darted around the clearing, searching for the Morag Tong woman.

"Her assistance was not the willing sort." Sanyon grinned ruefully, like a child caught playing with his father's sword. "She lies beneath you. Well, her bones at the least."

"You are vile creatures." Gelebor had only just noticed that the dirt under him was more disturbed than the rest. "She was injured and alone."

Sanyon scoffed. "She would have killed you in a heartbeat. She said as much in our short time together, before Nim and I grew too hungry to continue the conversation. What were we to do, eat the filthy little forest animals? Disgusting."

His salvation was within reach. But the final movement will be the most perilous.

"What do the designs represent, on the shrine?" Gelebor inclined his chin towards the monument.

Sanyon turned away slightly to follow his attention. Marvelous.

"Oh, they depict Eola's prophecy. First, the exodus from our old home, Markarth. A fine place for our coven. The Forsworn consumed the attention of the guard while we consumed mostly whoever we wanted. Though our existence grew more difficult each year, with Elisif as High Queen."

Gelebor's hand closed around the metal hilt of a dagger. His memory had not failed him. Either the assassin hadn't returned to retrieve the weapon before being seized by the cultists, or she hadn't found it nestled in the snow. Whatever your name was, I hope you're at peace now.

"The next event shown is our landing on Vvardenfell. I wasn't present for that part, seeing as I had to be here to retrieve your precious carcass." Sanyon smiled.

Gelebor returned the smile, and lunged forward to plunge the dagger into his foot.

Sanyon screamed, eyes wide in rage and betrayal, hands instantly burning with magicka. Not so fast. Gelebor pulled him to the ground and the spells dissipated in failure. Crawling forward over the thrashing man, Gelebor wrapped his large hands around Sanyon's neck and squeezed hard.

Sanyon's eyes bulged and he clawed at Gelebor's grip, to no avail. Gradually, the color began to fade from his face and the squirming slowed. Tears and blood covered Gelebor's hands. He didn't notice quickly enough how easily Sanyon had given up, and didn't keep track of the other elf's hands no longer fighting at his clenched fists.

An ungodly tear in the fabric of reality opened with a roar. A Frost Atronach rushed forward, moonlight glinting off its surface like sunshine on a glacier, and Gelebor turned just in time to be knocked into the air by a powerful blow. The mistake of a novice. Always account for the hands of a mage. He landed near the edge of the clearing. The breath was knocked out of him, and he lay gasping in the snow for several moments. Near the shrine, Sanyon was in a worse state, but the icy giant didn't wait for further commands. The Atronach thundered towards Gelebor.

I've no time to waste. Gelebor scrambled to his feet and plunged into the forest, branches tearing at his worn cloak. The other cannibal, this Nimphaneth, would have a significant head start, and Nadene had no idea what was coming. Her skill with a bow was impressive, and she was a master of Alteration magic, but these cultists were proving to be adversaries of power and cunning. Gelebor could only hope that she chose tonight to be paranoid and wary, and not to sit on the porch drinking and cursing at Red Mountain. Knowing that their encounter put her into such a foul mood, he feared the latter was a certainty.

Time was marching on, the light of the moons shifting on the snow, and Gelebor despaired. The enchanted mace Nadene had gifted him was still sitting by the tower doorway. Though he sensed she wouldn't have objected to him taking it, somehow doing so would have felt wrong. Every kind inclination seems to bring me further trouble. Following the path of Auriel, the path of temperance and mercy, had led Gelebor to ruin. Why should I hold so closely to my heart these values that Auriel himself does not practice? Where was his mercy for Vyrthur? My brother was deprived even of the quick death our brothers and sisters suffered.

He shook his head quickly, banishing the distractions. Nadene had to be his focus, or she would surely fall.

A hostile scent began to fill the forest, bringing to memory the first Falmer assaults on the Great Chantry. Smoke and fire. Death and ruin. Gelebor hastened his pace, shoving down the aching pain in his legs. Flaming spores fell on him, harmless wisps that vanished quickly but nonetheless sent his heart racing. Burning mushroom. Oh, Nadene. What have I done? The only person to bear his presence in thousands of years, and he'd led cannibals to her doorstep.

Finally, Gelebor broke through the trees. And gasped. The cap of Nadene's tower was engulfed in fire, and the stalks and roots running down were quickly catching alight. Chunks of fiery fungi fell to the ground and exploded, showering the clearing in more flaming spores. Although the round front door was swinging madly among the wind and smoke, a harsh squeak of hinges ringing out, there was no sign of Nadene or the cultist sent to abduct her. They must be fighting somewhere in the tower. Worry overcame wariness, and Gelebor ripped his cloak off to hold over his face before rushing up the porch stairs and into the inferno.

"Nadene?" He yelled, hopelessly quiet against the flames. Smoke filled the main chamber. Gelebor grabbed his mace and crouched under the poison air, his streaming eyes searching desperately. Although the fire had not yet reached this low on the tower, Nadene's decorations were in disarray. Paintings and relics littered the floor, and furniture was upended or torn apart. There was an altercation here. Judging by the damage, a particularly violent one. Likely the cause of this disaster. Gelebor's brow furrowed, and he crept further through the doomed dwelling. Nadene didn't know any Destruction spells. Would he find her charred corpse somewhere upstairs? Knowing the depravity of these cannibals, they'd probably leave Nadene behind rather than eat overdone meat. The thought of such inhumanity lit a flame in his heart to match the ones above, and Gelebor rushed through the tower.

A sound reached him, apart from the burning and falling rubble. He didn't recognize the high-pitched squeaking at first, dismissing it as another door fighting against its hinges, but the cries grew more agitated and his eyes widened. The guars! They were still put up in the back room, and he was the one who put them there. His attention focused, and all else fell away. Gelebor sprinted towards the rear of the house, heedless of the smoke filling the air, until he reached the door trapping his small friends inside. The knob didn't respond to his frantic pulling, so Gelebor steeled himself and reared back.

"Back away, guars!" He wasn't certain if the lizards could understand his meaning, but there was no time to find out. Gelebor kicked the door, certainly spraining some of his toes, and the thin portal fell inward with a hollow thud. The roof of the room was burning, and bits of the support pillar were crashing down. One of the flaming columns blocked the rear door. Gelebor grimaced. They'd have to make their way back through the tower and escape through the front. Ur and Alma cowered in the most stable corner, their beady eyes darting frantically.

"Don't worry, little ones." He tried to smile in a reassuring manner. The issue was, these guars weren't little. In the months since Gelebor's arrival, the little lizard beasts had grown to the size of Skyrim's lambs. Nadene had commented last week: in a month or two, we'll start their mount training. Well, there was no time like the present. The air was growing hotter by the second, and more smoke was pouring into the room from above.

"This is going to be uncomfortable for all of us." Gelebor coaxed Alma out of the corner, and gently stroked her leathery hide. How does one convince a guar to be a horse? He ran through his memories of Skyrim and the stablemasters he'd come across.

"Easy does it, girl." Gelebor lumbered awkwardly on to Alma's back. For once, he was grateful his heavy armor had been destroyed by the werebear. Alma squeaked in confusion, her terrified eyes still searching for an escape from the poison in the air. An escape you shall have, guar of Solstheim. He wrapped his arms around Alma's neck and murmured reassurances to her. Too slowly, the guar began to inch towards the open doorway that was their salvation. Gelebor tapped his boots against her sides, urging her forward. In spurts, Alma increased speed and stumbled through the burning tower. Behind them, Ur mewled in fear and confusion. Don't worry, brother. I'm coming back for you.

Whenever Alma came across flaming debris and wanted to turn back, Gelebor willed her onward. In the main chamber, bits of the loft above were beginning to collapse. Nadene's room. If you lie above us in eternal sleep, know that I treasured your presence more than you can possibly imagine.

Finally they were through the front door, and Alma hopped gratefully down the porch steps whilst Gelebor struggled to hold on. I could really use a saddle right about now. He steered her towards the trees, and secured her to an old trunk far from the flames.

"I'll return soon," he told Alma, jogging away, and took several deep clean breaths of air. The burning tower groaned, now listing to one side. Nadene's home will collapse in minutes. There's no time to waste. Gelebor dashed up the porch stairs and hurled himself into the conflagration once again. This time, ignoring the smoke on his way to the back room was a mistake. Hot poison filled his lungs, and he collapsed next to Ur choking and coughing. His eyes burned. The guar sniffed at him and squeaked. Better to die this way than burn alive, I suppose. But something in Gelebor helped him rise to his feet. Not faith in Auriel, that was for certain. Perhaps it was the hope that Nadene yet lived, and he could see her once more. Gelebor scrambled weakly on to Ur's back and pointed the guar towards the doorway. Past the opening, the floor was burning and smoke obscured all. The last thing Gelebor felt before falling unconscious was Ur's frightened movement towards certain death.

"Wake up, my pretty little roast." A sickly sweet voice cooed in his ear. Gelebor didn't open his eyes. Firm sinew pressed against his wrists; restraints, likely fastened from the remains of some poor soul. He could smell fire, and hear the nervous mewling of the guars. The rough bark of a tree pressed against his back. I'm still in Nadene's clearing, and someone who isn't Nadene is whispering to me. All of this processing took place in a single second, and Gelebor knew all he needed to. He drove his head forward like a boulder down a cliffside.

The woman cried out in indignation, stumbling away from him. He opened his eyes to see a Bosmer wearing the same necromancer robes as Sanyon cradling her bleeding face. Nimphaneth. Beyond them, Nadene's tower had fallen. Piles of stone and pulverized mushroom burned in the night like torches of the Deadlands.

"You bastard," she hissed. "Now I'd wish I'd taken my time killing your friend."

"You lie."

The pain in his accusation made her smile. "My poisoned dagger found purchase in the meat of her thigh. Have no doubt, promised one. Though that feisty little firespat will not fill our bellies, she is certainly dead and gone."

Nimphaneth cast her eyes about the clearing, and then stepped forward and drew a long thin blade from a fold of her robes. "Before Sanyon arrives, I believe I'll sample this meat we've all heard so much about. I simply must have a taste."

"What about your ritual?" Fear spread like cold water through Gelebor's veins. "Your master, Eola. Won't she be upset with you?"

"What she doesn't know won't hurt her," Nimphaneth soothed him. She ran the frigid steel down his face, clearing a path through the soot. "I'll just say you were hurt saving your guars. Quite an admirable quest, by the way. I simply adore animals."

Gelebor tried to headbutt her again, but she dodged out of the way and giggled. His heart beat against his chest as the point of the dagger came to a rest on his upper arm.

"You smell delicious." Nimphaneth smiled, beginning to press the blade forward, and then a glass arrow sprouted from her bicep.

The cannibal screamed and fell, narrowly avoiding another projectile. Gelebor braced himself against the tree trunk and kicked forward with his legs, sending Nimphaneth out into the open. From across the clearing, another arrow soared and embedded itself in her thigh. She cried out, and began dragging herself towards the treeline.

Nadene emerged from the darkness in glass armor that caught the flames of her collapsed tower and gleamed as brightly as the light of his forsaken god. Blood ran down her leg, but her grip on the bow was firm. She nocked another arrow and marched towards the prone cultist. Nadene kicked the groaning elf over and said words only they could hear, and then released the projectile. Nimphaneth died with a whimper.

Wordlessly, Nadene untied Gelebor from the tree.

"There's another one coming," he warned. "Skilled in Conjuration." If she wishes to fight, it's her decision. I'll stand by her until the end.

Nadene bit her lip, beholding the burning ruin of her home. And then her eyes fell to Ur and Alma, sleeping fitfully nearby, and the bruises and burns covering Gelebor's body. Her face went into a stony mask, and she grabbed the rope securing Ur and gently awoke the beast. Gelebor hesitantly seized Alma's leash, wondering if Nadene intended for him to come along. Without speaking, the short Dunmer turned away and began leading Ur through the forest. Seeing no alternative, Gelebor followed with his own guar.

They walked in silence for a time. Eventually, they left behind the scent of smoke and roar of flames. Nadene didn't glance back. Now that the adrenaline had gone, Gelebor's body screamed with new pains. Though only light burns covered his arms and legs, they itched in agony. I wonder how many in Morrowind felt this torment, on the day Red Mountain exploded. I would not wish it on my worst enemy.

Nadene led them to a seemingly unremarkable part of the forest. Seeing nothing of note, Gelebor was confused until she began pushing snow away from the ground. Kneeling down on tortured legs, he helped her shove away the frost. Her bleeding leg had to be hurting worse than any of his injuries, and the cold affected him far less.

Eventually, a large trap door was revealed. The wood was ancient and weathered. This must have been here before even Nadene came to Solstheim. She reached under her armor to retrieve a rusty key, and with shaking hands attempted to unlock the door. Whatever strength had been keeping her going until now was faltering.

"Let me help," he said softly, and grabbed Nadene's cold hands to steady them. She tensed, face contorted in fury. For a second, Gelebor feared she would send him away again. Then she closed her eyes and let her anger fall, sagging against him.

Together, they unlocked and opened the door. She went down the old steps first, legs wobbling, and a strange illumination lit up the underground dwelling.

"Come down with the guars," she called out roughly. Gelebor obeyed, taking hold of both ropes and descending the steps slightly before closing shut the trap door above them. The air was artificially warm. Golden pipes churned against the walls. Dwemer technology. The sight of such apparatus always disquieted him, knowing what the dwarves had done to his people.

He released the guars and they hopped down the steps. Gelebor followed, a bit more hesitantly. You're being a fool. The Dwemer are gone. When he reached the bottom, he found only Nadene. The stone chamber was smaller then he thought it would be, and set out in a rather utilitarian fashion. Large chests and bookshelves held countless strange treasures and tomes of unknown language and origin. One humongous cabinet took up an entire side. A large bed sat against the far wall, and Nadene had collapsed on top of it. One of her hands was clasped to her leg, and aetherial energy pulsed like a golden heartbeat.

"Bandages and salves in closest chest," she said without looking up. "Won't have any magicka left for you."

"Thank you." Gelebor found the medicines and applied them carefully to his wounds. By the time he'd finished, the guar were sleeping once more under one of the warmest pipes. He thought Nadene to be in a similar condition, but she sat up after he returned the supplies and shut close the chest.

"Come here," Nadene beckoned, and limped to the massive cabinet. Gelebor followed. Is she still angry with me? Will I be banished again in the morning, never to see her again?

She took out her key again and unlocked the cabinet. Inside, countless colorful robes and armors were secured on silver hooks. Gelebor watched as she pushed aside many garments and gowns. Minutes passed as she searched, but he waited patiently. Finally, Nadene's eyes lit up in satisfaction.

"You'll have to lift it out," she said. "My arms aren't up to the task."

Confused but eager to help, Gelebor shifted past her and looked into the cabinet. And his heart soared. Praise Auriel. But really, Auriel had nothing to do with this. He pushed away thoughts of his god. Nadene was the one he should be praising.

By the gods, it's so beautiful. The shaking in Gelebor's limbs had little to do with burns and bruises. When he withdrew himself from the cabinet, arms filled, a tear ran down his cheek.

"It's yours by right, really. Found when this island was still part of Skyrim." Nadene glanced away, color in her cheeks. "I have no use for it. Too damned heavy."

Gelebor set the armor of the Snow Prince down, marveling at the gleaming white steel etched with the ancient runes of his people. He couldn't rip his eyes from the lovely craftsmanship and care obvious in every layered centimeter of the ivory chestplate. More tears streamed down his sooty face.

"Nadene?"

She had turned away, in respect or nervousness. "Yes?"

"I haven't wept for my people in centuries. Thank you. I'm sorry about your tower."

"Ah..you're welcome. And it was just a house. Thanks for saving my guars." She watched him for a long moment, and then returned to bed. Gelebor slept next to the armor of his fallen prince, arms cradling one of the few remnants of his race left in Tamriel. I can never repay Nadene for such a gift. He dreamed once again of that vivid beach, of the Snow Elf woman and the pale baby she held in her arms like a treasure never to be taken away, and forgot for a time the troubles plaguing them and the challenges yet to come.