(AN: Now that we've brought that storyline to a close [for now], we've got our Blood on the Ice quest to wrap up, not to mention we are just now FINALLY catching up to the date of our main storyline. Oh yes, this was indeed confusing, and I wrote this!)
(From my limited knowledge, Amaranth is a weed and a song by Nightwish; but apparently Kirkbride co-opted it to mean something undefined but vaguely related to CHIM. Speaking of undefined neologisms, "bed and basket" makes no sense. I get that it's supposed to evoke "bed and breakfast", but why a basket? Do they not feed you, and just give you a wick-wheat basket and be like "get your own food, you damn n'wah"? That would certainly fit in with Morrowind's elitist gate-keeping mindset [seriously, Morrowind M'aiq is an ass compared to his cute kitteh Skyrim version])
From Death Springs Life
Turdas, the twenty-ninth day of Morning Star, the 202nd year of the Fourth Era. The bell-tower in the Temple of Talos tolled the hour of midnight. The evening guards went to their barracks, and the morning guard took their place. Meanwhile, in the Stone Quarter, two figures watched the barren marketplace. One was shivering with cold, though wrapped warmly in a thick cloak: the other, though less clad than the other, was as still as a stone statue. Only her red eyes moved this way and that, surveying all the quarter around them.
"Still nothing," Serana whispered.
"Maybe we should turn in for the night," Jonna returned. "It's not even Sundas yet."
"It's not the Butcher I'm worried about," Serana said. "Something those elves were talking about has made me uneasy. There's a lot of uneasiness in the Grey Quarter, and that makes me uneasy too."
"What do you mean?" Jonna said, breathing onto her hands.
"What we heard three days ago," Serana said. "I've been thinking about it, and, well, I'm afraid something's going to happen."
"What kind of something?"
"I don't know, but I'm gonna find out," Serana replied. "I'm going into the Grey Quarter."
"What? But they'll kill you! I've heard Dunmer are even more iffy about necromancy than most people."
"They couldn't kill me if they tried," Serana returned. "You can go back to Candlehearth Hall if you're scared."
"No," Jonna groaned in frustration. "I'm going with you. I wanna see how this turns out."
"Fine," Serana returned. "But don't talk so loudly. And wear your hood; that way they won't see us."
From the Stone Quarter, the two of them made their way under the cover of darkness. As Serana had keener sight at night than Jonna, she led the way, leading Jonna through the darkness, from shadow to shadow. Few things could have marked their passage; certainly not the midnight patrol of the Windhelm city guard. They passed Candlehearth Hall on their left, and waited for the guard to walk on his way before taking the street that would invariably turn them back north and down into the Grey Quarter. Jonna's heart was racing, for fear of what had happened to her in this very place four days ago. They halted by the corner of a house, as Serana peered around into the narrow alley leading down to their destination.
"Steady, Jonna," Serana breathed. "We're almost there. Remember, don't talk too loudly; you'll give us away."
Serana then rose to her full height, and taking Jonna by the hand, led her down into the Grey Quarter. Several paper lanterns cast varicolored light here and there, but the streets were eerily quiet. They came to a building whose sign read 'New Gnisis Cornerclub', and, keeping their hoods up, strode inside.
For midnight, the place was substantially filled. Most of the patrons were Dunmer, sipping something that stank to Aetherius, and sitting in groups of threes at each table. There was limited chatter - no cheers, no songs, no tales of Morrowind's glory days, no jests about the lesser races, no scantily-clad dancers performing for their patrons. Perhaps it was the lateness of the hour, but Serana was not convinced.
"It's too full at this time of night," she said. "They should be in bed, but they're all up having a drink." She brought Jonna behind her as they went up to the bar, where a rather surly-looking Dunmer was engaged in discourse with the patrons. This seemed to go on for several minutes, despite Serana's attempts to get his attention. On and on this went, with Serana quickly losing patience. She banged her fist on the table, not hard enough to break it but with enough force to finally cause the Dunmer to turn his red eyes toward her.
"What do you want, fetcher?" he drawled. "Can't you see I'm busy?"
"I'm looking for someone," Serana replied.
"Ah, an outsider," he sneered. "Why don't you scurry on back to that whore-house Candlehearth where you belong? We don't serve your kind here."
"I'm not here to cause trouble," Serana said. "I just want to find someone."
"Paying customers only, b*tch," the Dunmer returned, turning aside as though he couldn't care less about what his customer had to say. "Now fetch off, or the boys'll take care of you."
"My friend's name is Sedris Ulver."
One the Dunmer heard that name, he suddenly stopped and turned around. "What makes you think I'd know anyone by that name? What, because I'm a dark elf, is that it?"
"You were heard saying that name but three days ago."
"Who heard me?"
"You don't deny you know this person?" Serana asked.
The elf frowned. "You better come with me, then." The elf left the bar and led Serana and Jonna into the back-room of the club. Here there were shelves and barrels, and a stairway leading upstairs. Once they went inside, the elf sealed the door behind them and locked it. He then turned to the two women.
"You know, back in Morrowind," he said. "N'wahs who didn't mind their own business got a visit from the Cammona Tong. Once Ulfric's dead, that'll be making a comeback; among other things."
"Aha!" Jonna exclaimed. "You just admitted that you're plotting to kill Ulfric Stormcloak!"
"I didn't admit to shit, fetcher," he returned. "All I said was that things would change once Ulfric was dead. You n'wahs are so short-lived, it'll be like a blink of an eye-lidder."
"First things first," Serana returned. "Tell us who Sedris Ulver is."
"You should have minded your own business, s'wit," he snarled. "Now, I'm afraid, I'll have to kill you."
"Kill us?" Jonna returned. "But we'll be missed!"
"Doesn't matter," he replied. "You know too much."
"And you really think you'll kill us?" Serana asked.
"Two n'wah whores?" he returned. "Please, you're locked in here with me. Out there is a whole club full of my people: they wouldn't bat an eye over another dead Nord dog."
"That's where you're wrong," Serana replied. "To think that we're locked in here with you..." She reached up to slowly remove her hood and reveal her own red eyes, and the fangs hidden beneath her thick red lips.
"When it's you who's locked in here with me!"
"Nerevar preserve me!" the elf whimpered.
In a blur, Serana was on top of the elf, her hand around his neck, lifting him up off the ground. She barred her fangs at him and hissed, her left hand open, ready to drive her fingers into his flesh at a moment's notice.
"No mores games," Serana said. "Tell us who you are and what you know!"
"I'm nobody!" he groaned. "Just a pawnbroker and smuggler. Please, don't turn me into one of you abominations! I want to go to my ancestors when I die!"
"What are you smuggling?"
"Weapons and armor," he said.
"What for?" Jonna asked.
"To overthrow the Stormcloaks, you dumb wester!" he snarled, spitting in Jonna's face. Serana tightened her grip.
"Who is Sedris Ulver?"
"A wise old woman," he replied. "Beacon of Ayem's light. She used her magicks to steal a whole load of Stormcloak weapons, but never told us where she hid them. We thought Brunwulf would know, since he's a Nord and would have heard something about it: but he's being mum. Can't trust a filthy snow-back to keep their word."
"What can you tell us about Athal Sarys?" Jonna asked.
"He's our leader!" he replied. "He's the one who will drive his ebony knife into Ulfric's back and rip out his heart. You can't stop him now: Sedris' power has preserved him beyond all reprisals. Soon you and all you filthy westers will drown in oceans of your own blood!"
"Enough with the rhetoric!" Serana snarled. "Give us the facts. Where is he?"
"I don't know!" he returned. "He never gave me an address to his bed-n-basket. He goes where he wills, that's all I know, by Seht, I swear!"
"Where's Sedris Ulver?" Jonna asked.
"I don't know," he replied. "She disappeared with that snow-back fellow: the tall one who threatened to Shout us into the sea. Where they went, I don't know."
"What!" Jonna exclaimed, her face growing ghastly pale. "You mean Eirik?"
"I don't know your snow-back names, they all sound alike to me," he groaned. "Just as you all look alike." He then turned back to Serana. "I've told you too much. Kill me now, but whatever you do, don't turn me into one of your kind."
"Maybe I should," Serana returned. "Just to punish you."
"You wouldn't!" he begged. "Please, I'll do anything, just don't make me one of you!"
Serana fixated her gaze on the elf, and brought him under her control. She loosed her grasp on him, then waved her hand and he fell asleep. She was pulling her hood back up when she saw Jonna looking horrified.
"What's wrong?"
"Serys Ulvan...Sedris Ulver..." she muttered. "They're the same. That dark elf witch he mentioned, the one who stole the Stormcloak weapons: she's with Eirik."
"What do you think will happen?" Serana asked.
"I don't know," Jonna bemoaned. "But whatever it is, I hope he keeps his head about him." She figured that, despite her pretense to the contrary, this Sedris Ulver wasn't nearly as friendly as she let on that day in the Grey Quarter. Out in the wilderness, however, anything could happen. Would the Dragonborn be safe?
Miles away, deep within a cave in Falkreath, there was a loud cry and a small explosion as a fireball struck the side of the cave wall. Tiraa Vilenis looked up from her reading at Arvela. She was fuming, and her red eyes were welling up with tears.
"Uh, excuse you," Tiraa interjected. "I was reading."
"Be silent, whelp!" Arvela snapped. "Things have gone from bad to worse now! Sedris is dead."
"Dead?" Tiraa asked. "Hasn't she been alive since the Third Era? I didn't even think she could last this long! How did she die?"
"The Dragonborn killed her," Arvela sobbed.
"Well, finally someone who didn't want her wrinkly old ass," Tiraa commented. "I'm surprised." Arvela slapped Tiraa across the back of her head.
"You know, you're not nearly useful enough to be this insolent!"
"Is that so?" Tiraa replied, rising from her seated position. "And when did you plan on telling me of your other little plot? That our dearly departed Sedris was planning on killing me as part of her mantling? Did that occur to you, or was it not convenient enough to share with me?"
"You wish to shine with the wisdom of Seht, yet you babble like a Nord fool."
"I'm a lot cleverer than I look," Tiraa returned. "Do you really think you can keep godhood from me? I'm part of our little plot, remember?"
"And if you remain this insolent, you will be cut off," Arvela threatened.
Tiraa shrugged. "Go ahead, then. Kill me. You'll never know the secrets of the future book!"
Arvela's hands were raised, as though she would call down a fireball to strike Tiraa down. But when she heard these words, she halted.
"What did you say?"
"Hmm? Oh, yes. While you were plotting my death and the Dragonborn's death and pole-dancing upon the Tower, I finished Crixus' book."
"And?"
"I won't tell you unless you promise not to try anything with me," Tiraa returned. "We're in this together, now, especially since Sedris is no more. We need each other. Now do we have an agreement?"
Arvela hid her left hand behind her back and crossed her fingers. "I so swear. Now reveal to me this secret."
Tiraa opened the book and began thumbing through the pages. "Most of this is just boring filler stuff, all about their journey. They sailed as far west as they could until they could no longer see the shores of High Rock. Once they became lost in the Sea of Ghosts, and the mists prevailed, they found the Isle of Artaeum."
"That's nonsense," Arvela replied. "Artaeum is in Summerset, not the Sea of Ghosts."
"Well, they found it anyway," Tiraa said. "And once they were on the island, here, let me show you what they found." She had now reached the end and was pointing to lines in the book which had been underlined by her quill.
"A doorway?" Arvela cynically asked. "We're looking for a doorway?"
"Not just any doorway," Tiraa returned. "A magical doorway: one that is only open once in an era. But look what it says here." She pointed to a line that she had underlined near the end of the page.
'If the Divines are indeed real, then this is proof enough of their existence. I've stepped through the Other-Side and even I cannot fully describe what I saw over there. There were Doors, Pathways, Timelines, Choices: I can only conclude that this door is some kind of portal into the realm of Aka-Tosh. There were many Choices before me, each one worse than the other. In the end, I chose to play the villain a little longer: if mankind falls with the Snow-Tower, then so be it, for at least then I shall unmake the world the Dominion wishes to possess. I leave this book as my apology and a map.'
"What madness is this?" Arvela asked.
"No, no, see?" Tiraa asked. "This isn't madness, this is genius! He found a way to control time, and that's how he sent this book back."
"How does that help us?"
"What he said, about the book being a map? What if there's a spell hidden somewhere in this book? And we could use it to summon the Other-Side Door to our world, here and now? Think about it! We could reach out through the pages of history to the time before the Red Year, and beckon the Three-in-One to our time?"
Arvela's eyebrows arched. "And do you know the spell?"
"Not yet," Tiraa frowned.
Arvela groaned. "Then start learning it! I have to find a way to salvage this catastrophe."
Tiraa rolled her eyes, then went back to reading the book, while Arvela continued to pace about, muttering and sobbing to herself periodically. Tiraa frowned when she was sure Arvela wasn't looking: she had been on amiable terms with Sedris, likely one of only two who were. Though she didn't let on, she was disappointed with her loss. But there were other things occupying Tiraa's mind besides the death of an old friend, things which the focused and driven Arvela could not possibly comprehend: not yet, at least.
Yet while she was reading, Tiraa looked out into the bleak darkness of the cave, then waved her hand: flames hovered in the air, and arranged themselves in the fashion of the Daedric letter Ayem.
"Sedris, my old friend, you will be missed."
Morning dawned on the twenty-ninth day of Morning Star. On the banks of the White River, Eirik and Mjoll were lying together under a thick fur blanket. They had made love for the rest of the night until they became too weary to carry on, and so fell asleep in each other's arms on the river's side. It wasn't until morning that they were found by Lydia of all people; she said nothing, but grumbled when Eirik asked her to bring them their clothes. They dressed each other, barely a minute out of each other's grasp. At last they were clad, and went back to their campsite to join Aela and Lydia. The Huntress had caught a stout deer, which she, Lydia, and Mjoll were now preparing to eat: they could sell some of the game back in Windhelm, and it would fill them up more than a few strips of dried meat. While they were busy, Eirik went back to the north tower, then came back with a spike he had made using one of the axes of the fallen bandits. Upon that spike he fastened the head of the Dunmer witch, and placed it a few paces away from their campfire. He then told Lydia and Aela, in brief, what had happened.
"She almost had us fooled," Lydia remarked.
"I had a feeling something was off about her," Aela added.
"Well, it's settled, then," Eirik said. "I've decided that we'll go back to Windhelm and send her people off." He turned back to Mjoll. "I know what you're going to say, that I shouldn't judge all of them by the acts of one. But she said that she's armed the Grey Quarter in some kind of coup. Her actions threaten not only us, but the rebellion." He sighed. "Of course, innocent lives may very well be hurt by what I intend to do. But I have no other choice: if I fail to act, then whatever horrible future Sigrun saw may very well come to pass."
"You believe that?" Mjoll asked.
"I heard the old witch's words myself," Eirik said. "She said that we were to be slaughtered; she said that her people would show us who was the slave and who was the master. Meaning that she wants to enslave us in our own land: she's as bad as the Thalmor, and every one siding with her."
Mjoll sighed. "I promised to stand by you no matter what, my love, and I still hold true to that. Whatever you do, know that I'm with you."
Eirik smiled. "Your words bring me strength and assurance." He turned back to Aela and Lydia. "And what do you two think?"
"Do you need to ask?" Lydia smiled.
"I'm here to fight," Aela stated. "That's why I left Jorrvaskr; because they'd let the war wage on without putting us in the thick of it. But if you're asking me to kill women and children, I won't do it."
"There will be no bloodbath," Eirik said. "No repeat of the Markarth Incident. I will simply march down into the Grey Quarter and force them out, if I have to Shout down every pack of thugs that try to stop me. No one will have to have the blood of children on their hands: not even me."
"Can you really do that?" Lydia asked. "I mean, I've seen you kill Alduin, but what you're saying may very well be just as huge."
"I'll have to do it," Eirik said. "The fate of the rebellion depends upon it. Pray to the Divines...by their true names: Shor, Kyne, Arkay, Tsun, Stuhn, Jhunal, Mara, Dibella, and mighty Talos...or Hircine for you, Huntress...that we succeed."
"Amen," Lydia solemnly added.
They ate heartily, and then prepared for their journey. With Serys dead, Lydia could now ride her horse and Eirik and Mjoll each had a horse of their own: Aela chose once again to run on her own. While they were mounting, Eirik noticed that there was something about Mjoll that was slightly different than before. Her hair seemed more vibrant than before; instead of the blue stripe on the left side of her face, both of her eyes were painted with black warpaint that went back to her temples and down sides of her face to her neck.
Eirik smiled: she looked almost like the kind of creature whose name she bore as her kenning.
They began the long and terrible ride eastward. For indeed it was terrible: before them the clouds were gathering, thundering periodically to herald the coming of a storm. Moreover, the dark cloud of ash billowing up from the Red Mountain threatened to dump the noxious clouds over the Velothi Mountains and towards Eastmarch. Some force or another was now blocking their return. Yet ride they must, for now they had looming over their heads another cloud, and it hung over Windhelm. Eirik began to put the pieces together in his mind: the disappearance of the weapons and what Serys said about "arming the Grey Quarter." Had she been behind it? As a sorceress, it would have been no hard task for her to move the weapons and supplies from the Stormcloaks' storehouses and into some house in the Grey Quarter: it was a shame he didn't know which one. He realized also that, one way or another, he would have to get an okay from Ulfric for what he was about to do. But he had the war to plan.
If he could be brought substantial proof that they had stolen the weapons, then perhaps he would be more willing to accede to his plan.
About midday, as they were riding, the horses suddenly came to a halt. They were neighing and bucking and crying wildly, and would not budge beyond where they had paused. Suddenly, a large black shape leaped down upon Mjoll's horse, sending it to the ground. Eirik leaped off with a cry and drew his sword: the thing was a troll of massive size. Its massive hands beat fiercely upon Mjoll's armor, sending shards of carved armor flying with each of its powerful strikes. Eirik thrust his sword through the troll's girth, piercing its heart, and sending a hoarse rattle through its gaping jaws. Without even pausing to remove his sword, Eirik shoved the beast off and took Mjoll up in his arms.
"Are you alright?" he asked. "Are you hurt?"
"Yes, I'm fine," she returned. "I've faced worse than an angry troll."
"But what about the baby?"
"I'm fine, dear!" Mjoll repeated. "It didn't leave any serious wounds, trust me."
Eirik examined her over and over: she was whole, even as she said. Her armor had taken the brunt of the assault and so saved her any severe damage. Unfortunately, because of that, her armor was now useless: the plates of Skaal-crafted Nordic armor were bent, broken, and crumbled, good only for the scrap pile. Worse still, Mjoll's horse had three of its legs broken by the troll's attack. Aela put down the poor beast, and she, Lydia, and Eirik dragged its body off to the side of the road, along with the troll. They then helped Mjoll onto the back of Eirik's horse and continued on their way north and east.
"I'll have to try something else, then," Arvela muttered, as she watched them depart from the cliffs to the west.
Things swiftly turned from bad to worse for the little group riding northeast. The storm blew upon them, with a biting wind down from the heights of Mount Anthor. Snow and ice were now being blown directly into their path, always coming from the northwest and blowing them southeast: away from their destination. It became so blinding that even Aela, keen-eyed huntress she was, could not see more than a few feet ahead of her. Worse still, the light was growing more and more faint: hidden by the clouds of the blizzard it was already dim, but by and by, it was making its way westward and threatening to blanket them all in darkness.
"We need to settle down for the night!" Lydia cried out. "This storm will be the end of us!"
They pulled their horses off the road and came to the shores of the White River; it was a little lower than the main road, so they hoped to be sheltered somewhat from the wind and snow. Their last two horses remained standing in front of them while they huddled together for warmth. Eirik clandestinely suggested that Aela transform into her wolf form and lay across them for warmth: to which she refused.
"I'm not going to strip in this cold," she replied. "Because eventually I'll turn back, and then I'll be ass-naked in this freezing blizzard. No thank you."
Therefore the four of them huddled together for warmth on the banks of the White River and tried their best to sleep that night. The snows piled up around them, while they tried their damnedest to cling to some kind of warmth. Several yards away, Arvela watched them as before. She had had no qualms about sending a wild troll to attack them, and hopefully do some great damage, but she wouldn't dare attack them now. Before she was safely away, out of sight, and her hand could not be seen or discerned: but now she would be risking herself. Eirik had slain Sedris, and she feared to face him openly: she knew that she had not the power to match his Voice, not yet.
She waved her left hand over the sleeping forms, then held her right hand up to the sky, and a loud and heinous cry echoed in the darkness; then she disappeared before she was seen. The four Nords rose from their sleep; their horses neighed in fear and took off into the night. They called for them over and over, but their cries only faded into the night. They were now confined to go on foot from here on out.
"Well, that's just great!" Lydia sighed. "Stuck in a blizzard with nothing to do but walk!"
"We've walked before," Eirik said. "We can do it again."
"But what about..." Lydia began, then suddenly halted.
"Yes? What about what?" Eirik asked.
"It's the strangest thing," Lydia remarked. "I was just thinking about something. I had it on the tip of my tongue, and now...now it's gone. Strange."
"Whatever it was," Eirik returned. "Can you think about it later? Right now, we have to decide what to do next."
"Why now?" Lydia replied.
"It's still snowing," Eirik answered. "It might have been a blessing in disguise for those horses to bolt on us, or else we'd wake up buried in snow."
"How does that help us, though?"
"We'll go by night, then," Eirik replied. He turned to Aela. "I suppose you'll have to lead us, then."
"Fine by me," she returned.
The four of them made their way to the banks of the White River. To their surprise, they found that the water had frozen over by reason of the fierce wind and sudden drop in temperature. One by one they made their way across to the other side of the river. Unfortunately, the storm and night were still dark and they could scarcely see a few feet in front of them. Moreover, they couldn't seem to bring to mind the power that Eirik possessed that could assist them in this scenario.
Things truly had turned from bad to worse.
The thirtieth day of Morning Star dawned in Windhelm. There was still no sign of the Butcher. While Jonna continued to keep watch, Serana was now on the trail of something else. She wanted to find where these weapons the Dunmer stole were being kept, and so often would leave Jonna to her watch on the Stone Quarter while she disappeared to the Grey Quarter to sneak into houses and look for her quarry. Serana insisted on doing this not because she was particularly interested in the rebellion - for her part, it made the world "more interesting" - but because she could sneak into places easier than Jonna: and, since they were tracking a killer, it would do best to have the least conspicuous one among them do the watching.
Today the weather was bitingly colder than usual, for a storm had blown up from the south and was burying the fields before Windhelm in blankets of snow. Boredom led Jonna to pace about in the Stone Quarter, listening to the idle gossip of those who were on their way. So far no further news about the Butcher fell among them; much to her disappointment. She did hear, however, about the sudden appearance of the snow, and how it had closed several passes leading farther south into Eastmarch on the eastern side of the White River. She prayed that Eirik and the others stayed to the main road and so avoided the closed passes. While she was thus listening, there was suddenly heard a new voice that set her teeth on edge.
It was coming from the main thoroughfare, just outside Candlehearth Hall. She left the Stone Quarter and made her way there as quickly as she could. There she found a figure vaguely similar, but fundamentally different than one she had seen before. He was standing near the brazier, dressed in the robes of the Vigil of Stendarr, with his hood upon his head. The voice was almost identical, but it seemed somewhat less arrogant and his drawl less condescending than before.
"This storm is no natural weather of the world," he was saying. "The powers of the princes of Oblivion are using the turmoil of this civil war to their own nefarious ends. It matters not who wins in the end - Empire or Stormcloaks - if your world is destroyed and you yourselves are enslaved to a worse enemy. Come now, my brothers, and join the Vigil of Stendarr. Hand in hand with our brothers in the Dawnguard, we slew the plague of vampires that was menacing Skyrim. We ask that each and every one of you, who is strong in their arms and devout to the Divines, join the Vigil of Stendarr! Rid Skyrim of the daedric menace!"
There was a small crowd around him as he spoke. Some of them were impressed by his words and nodded; most of them, however, found him to be just another amusement in the chilly day. Others, however, were less cordial and hurled insults at him, reminding him that his Legion talk was not welcome in Windhelm. As the crowds were disappearing, Jonna came up and grabbed him by the collar.
"What are you doing here?" she demanded.
"Uh, excuse me, have we met?"
"Don't play dumb with me, Crixus!" she returned.
"You know my name," he returned. "But I've never met you before. Please, take your hand off me and let's talk like civilized folk."
"Why? So you can try to trick me into doing your dirty work for you?"
"I'm sorry, I think you have the wrong man."
"Oh no I don't," Jonna returned. Then, just as she saw the hold guards looking her way, she brought her arm around his shoulders - a difficult thing for her to do, considering her height - and led him back into Candlehearth Hall. Once inside, she pushed him up against the wall.
"Okay, spill it," she demanded. "Why are you here? Going to kill Ulfric in his sleep?"
"What, you don't really believe what they say out there, do you?" he returned. "Look, I'm not promoting the Legion. I'm recruiting for the Vigil of Stendarr; that's all, I swear."
"I'm not as naive as you may think, Servius Crixus."
"What? Servius? No, I'm Venerius," he returned. "Venerius Crixus, Vigilant of Stendarr. Servius is my brother. You mean you've seen him? He's alive?"
"You lie! You are Servius Crixus!"
"Look, I don't know what my brother has done," the younger Crixus returned. "But I'm not him, I swear by all the Divines. Now will you kindly take your hand off of me? I'm authorized to use force, but I'd rather not if it's all the same to you."
Jonna didn't release her grasp. "If you're his brother, then maybe keeping an eye on you would be of some worth to me."
"I'm not your enemy!" Venerius insisted.
"You certainly look like him," Jonna muttered. "And you sound a little like him."
"That's because we're brothers," Venerius replied. "From the same father...and the same mother, despite what anyone else may tell you."
"Oh?" Jonna asked, her eyebrows perking up. "And just what else about Servius Crixus do you know?" Before Venerius could speak, Jonna placed her hand on his neck. "Don't try anything: I've taken down tougher men than you. You're not leaving until you've told me everything I want to know about your brother. Is that clear?"
"As you say."
Meanwhile, several miles to the south, the four travelers were still plodding through the thickest part of the storm. They had walked all night in complete darkness, feeling their way forward like blind beggars, each one holding the hand of the other, with Aela at the lead. She was dressed in the hide of the deer she had slain the day before, which provided her some form of warmth. Yet the biting wind was intense, and seemed to sink into even the thickest cloak.
"Do you still like the cold?" Eirik shouted back to Mjoll, who was second to last before Lydia.
"Yes, I do," she returned. "But there's something unnatural about this wind. It bites harder than the fiercest storms of the Jeralls. If only you could..."
"If only I could what?"
"Dammit, I...I swear, it was just on the tip of my tongue!" she replied. "I can't remember what I was going to say now."
They walked on for many long yards, trudging through the snow, seemingly going nowhere. After a while, Aela halted the company and sniffed the air. Eirik came up behind her, a concerned look on his face.
"What's wrong?" he asked. "Have you lost the smell?"
"I think so," she replied. "A foul wind has blown down from the east: the air is full of ash and death. This is from the Red Mountain: ash mingled with snow. We'll have to find a place to shelter for the night: away from the wind."
"Do you see any caves?" Eirik asked. "I can't see anything in this blinding blizzard."
"No," she returned. "But, still..." She paused. "...I've been stalking the marshlands while you were in Windhelm. There's an Orc fortress somewhere near here. Perhaps they can offer us shelter."
"Orcs?" Eirik asked. "I've never spent much time around them."
"They respect strength," she replied. "And considering you and your wife, I think we'll be fine."
Aela continued the trek into the snow, leading them roughly east as best as she could guess in the blizzard. They followed along as best they could, shielding their eyes from the snow and ash that swirled around their faces. By and by, they could see a dull shadow looming up in the darkness, high above their heads, directly before them. The closer they got to that shadow, the shape of a wooden fence appeared before them: a tall wooden fence, made of logs sharpened into spikes on one end. Once the wall was within a few feet of them, Aela led them about until they came to the great gate: here she pounded upon the wood with her fist.
"Who goes there?" a deep, gravely voice shouted.
"Strangers," Aela replied. "Travelers looking for shelter from the snow. May we come in?"
"You're not an Orc," the voice replied. "Are you blood-kin?"
"Yes, we are!" Mjoll shouted. "I am Mjoll the Lioness: I was named blood-kin by a tribe in the Wrothgarian Mountains, after slaying three of their strongest warriors, enemies of their chief."
There was a low grumble. "I'll bring you to Chief Mauhulakh: he'll judge whether you're worthy to stay with us."
The doors were opened and the four of them walked into a bare-earth courtyard. On every place where there was still grass, there the snow gathered. In the center of the courtyard was a great longhouse, built in a style such as Eirik had never seen before. Several large Orcs, green of flesh, dressed in furs, and rather gnarled looking in the face, approached them: they were wielding ugly-looking weapons made of orichalcum, the ore often used by the Orsinmer. These gestured wordlessly toward the longhouse: thither the four of them went, and the doors were opened for them by two of the Orcs escorting them thither.
Inside, there was a warm fire burning upon a central hearth. Two Orc women, one of middle-age and the other younger, were gathered by the fire, cooking food for the evening meal. There were three other Orcs; a very old woman who was pouring a concoction of skeever entrails over the finger-bones of a troll, a young Orc sharpening a rather wicked-looking sword with a whetstone, and a large one dressed in orichalcum armor draped with a troll's pelt. On his knee was a helmet similar in fashion to that of the old Nords - with two horns curving down towards the cheek-guards - but it was clearly made of orichalcum and not the steel of the ancients. This imposing-looking Orc must certainly be the chieftain.
"Which one of you is called the Lioness?" the chieftain asked.
"I am," Mjoll said, stepping forward and saluting the chieftain with a fist to her chest.
"And you say that you've been named blood-kin by our brothers in Wrothgar?" he asked.
"Yes," Mjoll replied. "We have no quarrel with you, mighty chieftain. We only seek shelter from the storm."
"Huh," the Orc grumbled. "And here I thought you Nords liked the cold."
"Mauhulakh!" the old Orc woman spoke up. "The entrails speak of the sudden coming of this storm: against the will of the land. It is not wise to judge these smooth-skins based on something unnatural."
"Tch," Chief Mauhulakh dismissed. "We barely have enough for ourselves: why should we give to these outsiders?"
"Blood-kin are always welcome in our strongholds," the old woman returned. "You know the Code, my son."
Chief Mauhulakh grumbled. "Very well. The Lioness can stay. But what right do her weak companions have to ask for my hospitality?"
"We're all worthy warriors, each one of us," Aela replied. "I am one of the Companions, as is this man here." She gestured to Eirik, and brought him forward.
"Well?" Mauhulakh asked. "What do you have to say for yourself?"
"I am the Dragonborn," Eirik said. "Slayer of Alduin World-Eater, Harbinger of the Companions."
Mauhulakh stroked his bare chin. "Hmm. Bold words. But they mean little here. What proof do you bring of your strength?"
While they were standing before the chieftain, one of the Orcs who had led them in noticed Eirik. A keen light entered his eyes and he followed them inside, just outside of Eirik's view. As Mauhulakh was thus critiquing Eirik's prowess, he now stood forth.
"Chieftain!" he said. "I know this human. He fought with me in the Dawnguard. He slew many vampires with his sword and His voice."
"Durak?" Eirik asked, recognizing the Orc warrior of the Dawnguard.
"Before Malacath," Durak said. "I will vouch for him."
The chief grumbled. "We've had trouble with the vampires, this much is true. If what Durak says is true, then I name you, Dragonborn, blood-kin of the Orsinmer. Welcome to Narzulbur." He then turned to Lydia and asked about her. She introduced herself as Eirik's servant, and was allowed to stay with them. Once the pleasantries had ended, Lydia ran to the fireplace to warm her hands: she was slowly followed by Mjoll and Aela, though Eirik turned around to Durak.
"I didn't think I'd see you after the Siege of Volkihar," he said. "What brings you here?"
"I'll tell you more later," Durak replied. "For now, however, you owe me for speaking up for you."
"I do?" Eirik asked.
"I'll explain once the chief is asleep," said Durak. Eirik nodded. He hadn't spent much time with Durak, certainly not enough to know him well enough, when he was with the Dawnguard: but the way he was acting so cagey gave him the impression that something else was going on behind the scenes.
"So what's been happening with the Dawnguard?" Eirik asked. "How is everyone since the vampire menace ended?"
"Isran has been expanding," Durak began. "There's trouble in mainland Morrowind that has drawn his attention. Apparently the hostility between the dark elves and Argonians has drawn out the blood-sucking fiends. Also there's rumors of vampires in Cyrodiil that Isran is taking particular interest in."
"Kept busy, I see?" Eirik asked.
"Yes," Durak said. "I've spent most of my time here in the Rift, until I heard news of...well, you'll know soon enough. Before I forget, Beleval was looking for you."
"Who?"
"Beleval, the little wood elf," he said. "She's one of us. She said she wanted to speak to you after Volkihar, but you left before she had the chance. She said it was urgent."
Eirik sighed. "Do you know where she is?"
"Not a clue," Durak shook his head. "All I know is that she's not at Fort Dawnguard. She might be in Morthal, investigating rumors of vampire activity with Ingjard and Vori. But I could be mistaken."
Eirik said nothing, but thanked Durak for vouching for him, then went over to the fire to warm himself with the others.
The day passed on. When night came, the middle-aged Orc women gave them furs to sleep on the floor by the fire, then went to attend to the needs of the chieftain. Durak remained awake, tending to the fire while everyone else slept. Eirik remained awake, though the exhaustion of walking through the snow of last night was urging him to fall asleep next to Mjoll's golden head: he wanted to know what Durak had been keeping from him. Sometime after the hour of ten, when the chieftain and the Orc women went to sleep, Eirik scooted over to where Durak sat by the fire.
"Alright," he said. "Tell me what you're keeping."
Durak looked over at the chieftain's bed and snorted. "I told you that I was spending my time in the Rift. Particularly at Largashbur, the stronghold there. Having proved myself, I was looking for challenges among my own people: something to test my mettle and keep me strong for whenever Isran summoned me again. Unfortunately, I heard of ill news here in the east. Mauhulakh has become weak and complacent, refusing to take a wife for himself and letting the sisters of his deceased wives serve him like a fat Colovian count. So I came to challenge Mauhulakh and become chieftain of Narzulbur."
"Is that allowed?" Eirik asked.
"He dishonors tradition," Durak replied. "Challenging another Orc would prove my own strength, and give me something else to do to keep myself busy. Despite what you've seen from Mauhulakh, being a chieftain is a constant struggle. An Orc must prove his strength before the rest of his stronghold and before Malacath every day: living isn't worth the trouble otherwise. He isn't worthy of the title, so I'm going to take it from him and prove my strength."
"What will happen then?" Eirik asked.
"I'll take a bride or two and start fathering little green monsters," Durak grumbled. "I hear tell there is a fierce warrior in Mor Khazgur in the Reach: one who is available to be married to a chieftain. Perhaps I'll make her my forge-wife."
"I mean, what will happen to the people here?"
"They'll have to submit or find another stronghold for themselves," Durak said. "The women may stay, if they're willing to pull their own weight." He pointed over to the young Orc that Eirik had seen. "That one over there? That's Dushnamub, the chieftain's son. A sorry little runt: always whining about how weak his father is, but no guts to do anything about it. He'll have to either submit to me or run."
Eirik nodded. "And how do I fit in to all of this?"
"You're backing me up in this," Durak said.
"Wouldn't it be dishonorable for me to fight with you as a second?" Eirik asked. "Or are your rules different?"
"You're not fighting Mauhulakh for me," grumbled Durak. "But he only has three others on his side: they might try and do something if I challenge him. With you and your companions, you can back up my claim here...and in Windhelm."
"What do you mean?"
"I've heard about your allegiance to Ulfric Stormcloak," Durak returned. "Personally, I don't care who runs Skyrim as long as they leave us alone. You'll make sure that happens."
"Ah," Eirik nodded. "Well, if it means a shelter from the storm, then I'll do just that."
"Good," Durak returned. "Knew I could count on you."
The thirty-first day of Morning Star. The last day of the month: the next day would be the first of Sun's Dawn, a Sundas. In Windhelm, Jonna took Venerius with her on her daily rounds of the Stone Quarter, keeping her eyes out for the Butcher; while Serana continued her search for the weapons. To the south, the snows continued and Eirik and his companions were waking up from their slumber. They still had some of the deer Aela caught to eat, and this they devoured hungrily. As they were eating, Durak told Eirik to follow him out to the courtyard with the others. He took up his sword and left the longhouse, calling the others to do so as well.
Outside, amid the falling snow, Eirik found Durak standing before Chief Mauhulakh - both of them shirtless - and the three other guards who had led them into the fortress. The three women, Dushnamub, and another Orc, a young woman, gathered around to see what was happening. Realizing what was about to happen, Eirik wordlessly gestured for Mjoll, Aela, and Lydia to follow on behind him and stand with Durak.
"Mauhulakh," Durak announced. "You have grown fat and complacent. You dishonor Malacath with your ways."
"Watch your tongue, city-Orc," Mauhulakh retorted. "We're not so soft-bellied out here to take insults lying down."
"Then prove me wrong," Durak replied. "I challenge you to a duel. Winner gets Narzulbur." Mauhulakh grumbled, and Durak used this as his opportunity to press his challenge. "Is there enough Orc left in you to answer this challenge? Or will you hide behind the skirts of your women?"
Mauhulakh roared. "Kill this upstart!"
The three guards behind him drew their weapons. Eirik shouted "To arms!" and his companions drew theirs. The women drew their weapons as well, though they stood more to defend the stronghold from what they believed to be a bandit raid rather than a change of management.
"What is this?" Mauhulakh retorted. "Why do these pale-skins stand behind you?"
"They're not your concern," Durak returned. "I am. Will you fight or will you cower?"
"Stand down!" Mauhulakh said to those around him. One by one, they lowered their weapons; Durak nodded to Eirik, and he and his companions did likewise. Mauhulakh then walked over to a wooden stool, half-covered with snow, and picked up a wicked-looking great-axe made of orichalcum.
"I'll show you how a true Orc fights," the chief grumbled.
Durak drew a one-handed axe from his belt and seized a shield that was lying on the bare earth; then he turned about, banging his axe-head on the shield and roaring with battle-fury. The onlookers gave them a ring of space for the battle to commence. Mauhulakh made the first swing, and Durak turned it with his shield. Another swing came and it was turned again. A third came straight down and bit into Durak's shield; but Durak was anticipating this, and pulled with all of his might. The shield and battle-axe went flying from the chieftain's grasp and they now fell to fisticuffs. Durak was larger and stronger, and was soon raining blow upon blow to Mauhulakh with his mighty fists. Then he seized the chieftain by the head, ripped one of his tusks out of his lower jaw, and thrust it into Mauhulakh's bare chest.
"Malacath!" Durak roared as he let Mauhulakh's body fall to the frozen ground, raising his fists in triumph.
Those around him looked on with awe. They were stunned in silence to see their chieftain bested and slain so easily. Yet they did not rebel: tradition had been upheld, and there was now a new chieftain in Narzulbur.
Durak then turned to Eirik, a laugh on his lips as he swept him into a strong embrace.
"You did well!" he said.
"I didn't do anything," Eirik replied.
"You had my back when he called his guards on me," Durak said. "For that, I am grateful. You're as sure as you were back in the Dawnguard. For this, as well as killing Harkon, I name you and your companions blood-kin. Now come, watch as I take my place as chieftain of Narzulbur."
The rest of the day was spent with Eirik and his companions watching as Durak oversaw the change in leadership. Apparently it was more involved than any of them would have imagined, especially in this place. A rather lucrative mine of Morrowind ebony sat in the mountains against which Narzulbur was built, and Mauhulakh had hired many Orcs to serve him, since he had only two children. Lydia reminded Eirik about what they had talked about with Adrianne, about adjusting Eirik's armor: they now had a stable source of ebony right here in Skyrim, which would certainly not be nearly as expensive.
"I'll talk to him about it," Eirik said.
There was also the issue of the former chieftain's family. Durak said that the women could stay, but that Dushnamub had to leave in order to find his own strength. While he was upset at the death of his father, Dushnamub was grateful to be allowed to leave and find his own way. Durak then had the daughter, whose name was Urog, go to Mor Khazgur and inform Chief Larak of his intentions.
Once all this was said and done, Durak had Mauhulakh's sisters-in-law prepare a feast for the whole tribe. Eirik and his companions were allowed to eat with them, which they did not refuse. The food was to their liking, though it was all meat-based. While they ate, Durak turned to Eirik.
"I noticed your woman's armor could use a touch-up," he said. "If you don't know, Orcs are the best smiths in all of Tamriel. I'm sure we could find some way to fix that for her."
"That would be most welcome," Mjoll said. "But I'd just as soon be rid of this. I fear it's beyond repair now."
Durak grumbled. "Nothing is beyond repair for an Orc smith. Still, if you insist, you can have the chieftain's old armor. It might be your size: he was rather small for an Orc, but just the right size for you." Mjoll rolled her eyes and took a bite of the roasted beef flank she had been given.
"As for you," Durak continued. "Is there anything you would like from us?"
"Perhaps some ebony from the mines," Eirik returned.
Durak chuckled. "Ah, indeed. Well, I could certainly use the coin to convince Larak of my ability to provide for his daughter. Very well; how much do you need?"
"I don't know right now," Eirik replied. "I'll have to go and ask my smith."
Durak spat. "An Orc would be better. But, you do as you wish. Send me word when you can and I'll send you what we have. Now, then, is there anything else?"
"No, that's it," Eirik returned. "Though, it would be good to remain here until the storm passes."
Durak grimmaced. "That's up to you, I think."
"What do you mean?"
"Come, now. It wasn't that long ago that you've forgotten, was it? I was at Volkihar. I heard that you cleared a fog on the Sea of Ghosts before the battle with your Voice. Surely you could send this storm back to whatever plane of Oblivion it came from."
"I...I can?" Eirik breathed. Meanwhile, Aela, Mjoll, and Lydia all dropped their food at the same time and rubbed the sides of their heads, groaning in pain. He turned to them. "What's wrong?"
"There, there it is!" Lydia exclaimed. "I finally remembered what I was thinking about!"
"Hircine's antlers!" Aela uttered.
"Amazing," Mjoll said in awe. "I was thinking about that too. How could it have slipped my mind?"
"What are the odds that all three of us were thinking the exact same thing," Aela asked. "And all three of us couldn't say it?"
Eirik shook his head. "I...I don't know."
"There's some magician's curse afoot here," Durak said. "I can't help you with this. But, if you're interested, Bolar can help you." He gestured to the old woman who had spoken up about the storm earlier. Eirik made his way over to Bolar and, after getting her attention, spoke to her.
"I...I think I've been cursed," he said. "Durak said you could help me."
The old Orc woman nodded, then placed her hand upon Eirik's forehead, closed her eyes, and let out a deep, throaty hum. She held the one note for a very long time, then opened her eyes and released her hands.
"There is a certain Sky magic about you," she said. "Something unknown to me. The curse is known, however. I can create a potion that will purge the rot from your mind, and open your mind to what was lost. But you must be patient: these things take time."
"How much time?"
"If all goes well, I should be ready by tomorrow evening. Can you wait that long?"
Eirik turned to the women, then turned back to the old Orc and sighed. "I suppose I don't have a choice."
It was almost midnight on the streets of Windhelm. Serana had been surprised to see Jonna with Venerius, though she was more apt to believe that he wasn't the Crixus she had known. She at least could better discern the tell-tale differences. Serana didn't spend too much time listening to Jonna's excuses for why she had kidnapped a Vigil of Stendarr and was holding him hostage, more or less: she especially didn't care much for him at all, given his venomous glances at her (did he know, or guess, what she was?). She had more important things to attend to now.
"I think I've found it," she said. "I'm so close, I can feel it. Are you sure you can keep watch on the Stone Quarter while I'm away?"
"I'm sure, I'm sure," Jonna groaned; though in truth, she had been short on sleep since Venerius had appeared yesterday. Watching him was tiresome business.
"Remember to call me if you get into trouble," Serana said. "I can be there pretty quickly, much faster than the guards. Stay safe, and...keep an eye on this one." She gestured to Venerius, then departed.
Nights upon nights of going from house to house, listening in on conversations, had led Serana to this place: the last place one would expect. She had heard someone mention Sedris Ulver again, but in a past tense. She had been in Sadri's Used Wares, the shop in the Grey Quarter: why the Dunmer called shopkeepers 'pawnbrokers' was beyond Serana's understanding. Further listening led her to believe that Sedris and the owner, Revyn Sadri, had been intimate in the past two weeks: this put her in Windhelm during the time-frame of the missing weapons. Tonight, she made her way to Sadri's Used Wares and, with a wave of her hand, disappeared into a cloud of smoke and passed through the window of building. Once inside, she began creeping quietly around the main room, looking for any indication of the missing weapons. Her boot rested on a board that creaked as though there were a hollow space beneath it. Taking to her knees, Serana knelt down and peeped between the cracks of the floorboards into the dark space beneath.
"There you are," she whispered to herself.
Outside, the hour was growing late. Soon the bell would toll for midnight. Jonna was nodding off as she and Venerius stood guard over the Stone Quarter. She tried in vain to keep her mind awake. She thought about Sigrun, and how she had captured and held Erik the Slayer for her hostage in their own time: and now she had done the same with the Emperor's brother. Funny, though, she never remembered ever hearing that Emperor Crixus had a brother. Perhaps something had happened to him before his brother became Emperor? Or perhaps he was lying after all, as she had initially thought?
"You know you could always let me go," Venerius suggested.
"Why would I want to do that?" Jonna replied. "I have a member of Crixus' family."
"You think to use me to bargain with my brother?" Venerius asked.
"How much do you think your life is worth to your brother?" she asked.
"I don't know," he replied. Venerius hadn't seen his brother since he ran away from home to join the war.
"Well, in any case, you know more about Crixus than any of us," Jonna said. "That makes you a great asset."
"If you think I'll help you murder my own brother, then you're wrong," Venerius replied.
"Once the Dragonborn returns," Jonna said. "He'll decide what we'll do with you. Until then, you're my prisoner. So get used to it." Venerius grumbled, then crossed his arms and leaned against the wall of the White Phial.
"I need to stay awake," Jonna muttered. "Tell me more about this Sedris Ulver character. You mentioned her before, when I was grilling you about Crixus' past. What was she to you?"
"She was our stepmother," Venerius began. "My...our mother died giving birth to me, and our father married Sedris. Gods, I'd wish he'd remained a widower. Every year she was with us was a living hell: she always tried to pit us against each other, me against Servius, Servius against me, both of us against our father, and our father against us. She enjoyed the strife."
"You're kidding! Why would she even marry you, then? Just to cause strife?"
"I think so," Venerius returned. "That was one of the reasons I left home: wanted to get away from all that, join the army and become a man. But..." He sighed. "...it wasn't for me. Yes, you heard me right: I'm a deserter. Left the Legion and went off on my own for many years, before joining the Vigil of Stendarr. Now I found purpose."
Jonna nodded, stifling a wide yawn as the bell began to chime the twelve tolls of midnight. "Well, the way you surrendered so easily to me, you're definitely not Legion material."
"I found my discipline eventually, just not in the army. Besides, you're very assertive for one so sma...look out!"
Jonna was roused awake almost immediately; only to find a hand on her mouth and a knife coming down toward her neck. One hand reached up for the hand on her mouth, and the other seized the wrist of the hand that held the knife. Into her ear, a familiar voice cooed in a smooth, Niben accent.
"Shh, it's okay," he said. "Just let it happen. It'll all be over soon."
But Jonna wasn't in the mood for laying down and dying. She bit the hand on her mouth, and only then was she able to pull it off and cry out for help. Venerius, meanwhile, was frozen with inaction: at one point, there was an assault happening, and his discipline as a Vigil of Stendarr demanded that he never refuse aid where it was within his power to provide it. On the other hand, the one being assaulted had kidnapped him and was holding him hostage against his will.
Jonna suddenly felt the grip of the attacker released from her, and an agonized groan coming from behind. She turned around and, in the dim light of the still-burning brazier, saw Venerius holding by the hair her attacker with one hand, and another hand held the wrist that held his knife.
"Calixto?" she exclaimed. "You're the Butcher?"
"Kill me!" he begged. "You've ruined it all. Let me die. Let me join her."
"What are you babbling about?" Venerius asked.
"Why did you attack me?"
"Same reason I attacked those other girls," Calixto replied, his eyes welling up with tears. "I just needed their flesh and bones: it wasn't anything personal. I didn't rob or violate them, I swear!"
"A great comfort that'll be do them, I'm sure!" Jonna returned.
"Why were you harvesting flesh and bones?"
"Might as well tell us," Jonna said. "You'll hang once the guards get here."
"I wanted my Lucilla back," Calixto replied. "The fools in Winterhold wouldn't allow me to study this kind of magicka. I thought they at least would be open-minded about this: they'd managed to destroy themselves with their experiments, I'd heard."
"Necromancy," Venerius said, with thinly-veiled revulsion. "Is that what you've been practicing, fiend?"
"Necromancy, flesh-magic, call it what you will," Calixto said. "It's my only way to bring Lucilla back. And you've ruined it!"
"And you've been killing girls and harvesting their parts to bring her back, is that it?" Jonna asked. "Do you really think this is what she wants? To live a half-life as some cobbled-together monstrosity of misshapen limbs?"
"When I have her in my arms again, it won't matter," Calixto returned. "But you took that from me! Now there's only hope on death! Lucilla, I'm coming!"
With that, he reached back with his other hand and tried to shove his own dagger back into himself. Venerius resisted, holding back as much as he could. Jonna also joined him, holding the knife back as best she could. But Calixto was infused with a maddening ferocity and strength that even both of them found difficult to master. He kicked Jonna in the stomach and rammed the back of his head against Venerius' face. Thus staggered, he was now free. But instead of stabbing himself, he decided to run. But he was also delerious from his headbutt, and couldn't see much in the darkness. Soon he found himself brought to a halt, an iron-like hand grasping colder than death upon his neck.
"Serana!" Jonna exclaimed. "You made it! What kept you?"
"Had to leave the Grey Quarter without being seen," she replied. "I'll tell you all about what I found in the morning. I take it this is our Butcher?"
"How much did you hear?" Jonna asked.
"Everything," she replied.
"Take care of him," Jonna said, then leaned in and added: "Somewhere else: he's not fond of what you do."
Serana shook her head, then turned to Calixto and noticed the amulet upon his neck: the very one they had found in Hjerim. "Necromancer, eh? Well, I guess you'll be familiar with what I'm going to do with you. Trust me, you won't like it." There was a blur and Serana disappeared yet again. Jonna then turned to Venerius.
"Come on, you," she said. "Back to Candlehearth Hall. I've earned my rest."
Day dawned in Eastmarch yet again. The first day of Sun's Dawn had come. The blizzard clung heavily to the northeastern portion of Eastmarch, while the ash-clouds continued to blow west and north, showering the Velothi Mountains and Solstheim with ash. The day wore on, and more snow was being dumped upon the land: the magical storm that Arvela had conjured up was doing its work in keeping the Dragonborn from returning to Windhelm. More than that, her curse had quite removed the memory of his power from himself as well as his companions. But the curse wasn't very powerful, at least on the companions. For them, they only had to hear someone else mention his Thu'um and the spell would be broken. Not the same for Eirik: all of her focus and concentration went into his part of the curse, for he was the one she feared the most.
All that day, Eirik remained in Narzulbur, waiting on the potion of wise woman Bolar. Lydia was equally bored and, with Aela, shared stories and waited for evening when they could drink mead until they were drunk off their asses. Mjoll, on the other hand, was now decked in the armor of Chief Mauhulakh: fur-lined orichalcum plates upon the shins and wrists, and pauldrons of iron upon the shoulders. A hauberk of orichalcum rings went over her body - which was still clad in the leather-scale jerkin of her Skaal armor - and went down to just below her waist. On top of this went an adornment that made Mjoll smile: a skirt and shawl made of saber-cat fur were belted upon the loins and draped over the shoulders.
"Lioness indeed!" she laughed, as she looked down upon herself. "All I need now is the skull of one to wear on my head: I'd make every bandit from Wayrest to Tear piss themselves at the sight of me!"
Eventually evening came, and Aela and Lydia filled themselves with mead, laughed, and told stories that made even Eirik, grim as he was, smile. Eventually, from exhaustion rather than inebriation, they fell asleep in each other's arms. It was about that time that Bolar called Eirik to her corner of the longhouse: the potion was ready. Mjoll remained where she was and watched the events unfold, wondering if her husband's memory would be restored.
As for Eirik, his vision swam as the potion coursed cold down his throat. Into his mind he heard, over and over, the sound of the Greybeards' words when they greeted him after his return from Ustengrav:
Lingrah krosis saraan Strundu'ul, voth nid balaan klov praan nau...
Words he had heard, knew what they meant, yet at the same time did not understand. Words that had shaken him to the core, even as his Voice had shaken the very skies around him. Had he really done such marvels?
Naal Thu'umu, mu ofan nii nu, Dovahkiin, naal suleyk do Kaan, naal suleyk do Shor, ahrk naal suleyk do Atmorasewuth...
Those words entered into him, as easily as the breath into his nostrils. The name he had been called by when he slew Mirmulnir: Dovahkiin, the Dragonborn. It was his name. The name that had caused dragons to bend before him, the name which had broken the power of Miraak, slain the World-Eater, and saved the Beauty of Dawn from the Tyranny of Eternal Night.
Meyz nu Ysmir, Dovahsebrom. Dahmaan daar rok.
You are now Ysmir, Dragon of the North. Remember these words. Crixus had once called him something to that effect: 'the Grey Spirit', as it were. Likely as a paranoid delusion, but now he saw it for real. He saw the Sphere from all sides and knew his place in it. Perhaps Crixus wasn't mad: perhaps he saw in him his true strength, and as a result feared him. A warmth filled Eirik's being as he recalled once again the feeling of power rushing through his being and projecting from his lips: enemies were blown apart like chaff, fire, ice, time, sickness, and the wind bent to his will.
He opened his eyes and smiled. He remembered it all: everything. With a reverntial nod to the old Orc, he rose to his feet and walked out into the darkness of the night: Mjoll followed behind him. Out into the blizzard he stood and looked east: east, towards Morrowind, towards Resdayn, towards the Red Mountain. Within that mountain, the Heart of Shor, the god of man, lay dormant. In the name of Shor he had been given this recognition, as the reincarnation of Ysmir, Wulfharth the Undying, the Grey Spirit, protector of the Sky Children. His thoughts turned to Sigrun, who was now in Solstheim, a land that had long been hazarded by the Red Mountain. This blizzard was blowing from the east now, from the land where the wicked Dunmer had betrayed him so many years ago: a betrayal that was echoed three nights ago by Serys Ulvan. He closed his eyes, smelling the icy cold, ash-laden air. The Dragonborn spoke:
"Lok...Vah Koor!"
And the universe answered.
(AN: Okay, so this chapter did end up having some content in it [a LOT], and the return of a certain character who was killed off before he got a chance to shine. I'm sure most of you are banging your heads against the keyboards asking why Eirik didn't Shout the storm away. Well, I gave some kind of explanation for it in this chapter, beyond mere "plot convenience." At least now it coincides with the air clearing on the second of Sun's Dawn, as we saw before.)
(Also got to have Mjoll put in her warchief armor [see Immersive Armors: it's really cool], and set up some potential subplots later on in this story. Next chapter, we go back to Solstheim for the conclusion of Sigrun's time there.)