A/N: To continue from where you left off in the preview, search "'Who he is,' he concluded" in the search bar and continue from there.

Chapter X: Waking Nightmare

The crimson glow coming from the stained glass window dyed the light coming through its intricate frames, making it less piercing to her eyes. The shadows cast by the small columns overlapped with the rays. They were cast by the light came in from the opposite side of the cathedral, from the windows on the loggia opposite of the one where she was walking on. The dark stone of the walls was different from the one that made up the floor, although she noticed it only now that the two were side by side. The red light rendered all those differences less noticeable. It lit the cracks between the slabs with a particular shade, which came close to vermillion red. Everything in there reminded her of blood and suffering. There was only one word that she would think of that would suffice to describe the mere atmosphere of that place: nightmarish.

She hadn't been up there many times. She had tried not to enter the sanctum in the first place, and the times she had to were ones where it was preferable to stay on the floor. Those high balconies had been build later, when her father had decided to renew the hall. The stained glass was added during that round of renovations. The balconies were necessary to put the windows in place, but the Lord had decided at the last minute that it would have been nice to have permanent lanais overlooking the sanctum. Lastly, those artists had carved decorations in the floor, now almost completely worn out. The cuts were supposed to be symbols, and the biggest one in the center represented the emblem of the Volkihar Clan. The ones on the sides were various interpretations of marks alluding to the Mace of Souls. To the Daedric Prince Molag Bal.

She quickly brought her attention elsewhere. Not now, please, not now. Not here. She was mortally afraid of anything resembling a temple, and staying in one that was dedicated to the one thing that had caused that fear to arise was particularly unsettling. She couldn't come to terms with the impression that her father had thought about it and was using that to get something from her. He hadn't asked her to go to the sanctum, he had sent his man with specific information that he wanted to see her on the left balcony. I have no idea of what he might want, she thought, trying to get all of the options together but finding very little to go on with. It was a surprise call, although it wasn't completely out of the questions that Azrael was the matter to discuss.

Thinking was best left for when the moment required it, though. Right now, she was busy fending off all sorts of feelings that were coming back to her. Curiously enough, she found that the strong scent of blood hanging in the air caused a repulsive instinct in her. I wonder how much time has to go by before I forget what happened. Something in her instinctual core had associated blood with pain and loss of consciousness, and she had still to learn again that normally, a mortal's life lymph wasn't harmful to her. She knew Azrael's one was toxic, and she had took action considering it might have been lethal. The bond between the two factors was resilient though, and removing it still required some work on her conflicting feelings, which was something she would be willing to do only when the situation in the real world was resolved. The question was, would it ever be?

'I see you have come, child.'

Her father's voice made her raise her gaze. His tone was even, not leaning towards anything in particular, but there was a hint of impatience in it. From the first thing, she could conclude that, despite her fears, she hadn't been summoned because of something wrong she had done. From the second, she'd have said there was something he was eager to discuss. It was a good kind of impatience, which was the only kind that could be detected through subtle hints like that one. His other kind of impatience, as in annoyance or irritation, was displayed in a much more flamboyant way. Flamboyant, if we want to use an euphemism. The bottom line to all that was that there was something he was keen on resolving. But even if it related to her in any way, it wasn't something she had done wrong. That alone gave her some reassurance.

Lord Harkon stood right on the edge of the balcony, with his hips resting against the stone parapet, and was looking down in the middle of the sanctum. He kept his hands folded behind his back, just below the edge of the red cape he donned along with the ceremonial outfit. It was a red tunic with black adornments on it, the fabric of which had a very intricate weave. Along with it he wore the light pair of black boots, as opposed to the ones plated with steel that went with the armor, and elegant fingerless gloves. The long nails, more akin to talons, were left exposed and well in sight. All in all, he's become a bit more eccentric since I left this place, Serana thought, not fully recognizing the down-to-earth man that had raised her. It had been a steady thing in those five days. She failed to really recognize him. There was something in his that had changed, but it was beyond her understanding. As her gaze slid from his hands to his head, she noticed that he was slowly moving his fingers one by one, yet one more sign of his good kind of impatience. She had even grown quite curious of what he wanted to talk about.

She moved the last, difficult step. Her leg felt unresponsive, as did pretty much her entire body. It was a lot better now in comparison to the first few days. She could walk on her own now and cover the whole castle without help, but between the stairs and the long way from her chamber she still was somewhat weary. It wasn't the same kind of exhaustion mortals experience. It was almost as if her body was extremely wary of strains. Dragging her leg in place, she leaned on the parapet and shifted some weight from her legs to her hands, vaguely improving the situation. She felt the cold stone even though the leather vambraces.

'Did you wish to discuss something with me, father?' she asked softly. Despite all the good signs he was showing she had best always behaving warily around him. Especially after such a long time.

Harkon didn't answer immediately. He raised his gaze, staring in front of him into the other side's stained glass windows. She noticed that he had shaved the shade of beard that had appeared on his cheeks when she had seen him the second time, after waking up. The mustache was untouched, but the beard on the chin had been trimmed slightly as well. Such an attention to small things, for someone like him. More evidence kept piling on.

'Yes,' he answered, making her shift her gaze from the lower part of his face to the height of his eyes. 'There is one matter I indeed wanted to discuss with you.' He turned, looking at her in the eyes for a moment with a blank expression, after which he brought his eyes towards the floor of the sanctum, right in its center, in the middle of the lighter colored circle of stone bearing the worn out carvings of their dynasty's heraldry.

Serana lowered her gaze as well. The glance they ha exchanged right before had suggested it to be what he intended. I guess whatever we will discuss lies…

Her thoughts came to a halt. In the center of the lighter circle lay a prone figure. The dim, grey light penetrating through the windows below illumined its outlines, but had it not been for her enhanced sight in the dark it would have been quite difficult to make out anything. The form was mostly black or dark grey, but she remembered most of it by heart. Her eyes moved compulsively along its frame, locating the handle of the longsword sticking out as a darker shade on the floor, as did the bow and the arrows in the quiver. The cloak was thrown over to one side and laid motionless on the floor. Right beside the sword's handle and the bow's upper arm, there was a black shape. It was his head, hoodless, covered by thick, wavy black hair. A few slivers of pale ashen skin could just be seen in between the different locks.

She had reached a conclusion way before her body did, but once it did she felt something twitching very hard in her throat. It was a warning. The substance giving her life knew that man was dangerous. Why? What's the meaning of this? A strong tremor irradiated from her chest to every fiber of her body. It made her arms and hands quake and her legs tremble, so strong she feared her knees would refuse to obey her and let her fall to the ground on the spot.

She turned towards her father, who was as calm as before. 'What about him?' she asked, steeling herself against that tremor and trying to stay calm. She was unable to hide a small quiver in her tone, however. Further stabilizing her tone, she made it a little softer. 'I thought you had made your decision,' she said, 'that the matter was resolved. Yours was the right decision, father.' It was manipulative, she knew it, and she wasn't ashamed of it.

Nevertheless, he didn't react to either in any visible way. His face remained expressionless. 'I am glad you think that,' he said, 'but I do not share your eagerness.'

'Father,' she said vehemently, not cutting him off but coming very close to doing so. She hadn't even thought about what to say, she just wanted to dissuade him. 'I don't know how those doubts came to you, but there's nothing more to think about. You made your choice, you know how the rest of the court feels about it. That mortal tried to trick us and butcher us like animals. He can't go unpunished for this.'

Her father slowly turned to the side, looking at her in the eyes again. She held his gaze silently, looking as his expression gradually changed as he looked at her. He pinched his eyebrows and his lips pursed ever so slightly. 'And you? How do you feel about it?'

For a very short moment, a storm broke out inside her. Every thought, sensations and feeling, even those carefully tucked away or repressed as best as she could came back in one, destructive wave of confusion, fear and tension. I don't know, father, why did you even ask me? I don't know that myself. I just want him out of my sight. She was so focused on what was going on inside her that she almost completely drained all attention away from her senses, aside from touch. There were so many things going on in her body that she could not ignore them. Feelings of lightness substituted strong sensations of being overwhelmed and annihilated. Her hands went back and forth from feeling dizzy and relaxed to being filled with surges of energy that, left uncontrolled, could have brought her to ripping away parts of her palms. Her near empty blood vessels seemed to fill with a force with no physical substance that nonetheless made her feel like she would burst from within.

While the mind was beginning to clear, the body was still raging with all sorts of different feelings, but her mind was all she needed to answer. She wouldn't have given a straight answer to her father anyway. 'Honestly, I don't really know,' she said, making an effort to keep her lips from quaking. I don't want to lay eyes on him. I'm terrified of seeing him and I'm afraid of the things I feel for him. I just want him out of my sight. But how do I convince you of that? What do you want, father? She tried to calm herself, and redirect the question. 'You know me, father, I just want what's best for the court. They were almost unanimous. For once that Vingalmo and Orthjolf agreed on something,' she said, beaming a pleasant smile, 'we should give them what they wished for. Azrael has to die, for the good of the court.'

Her father's eyes sparkled slightly, and he pinched his eyebrows even more. He's curious, she guessed, I wonder what about. She had the feeling she wouldn't have to wait very long. 'Don't you feel anything,' he asked, confirming her assumption, 'anything at all, for the one who rescued you from your slumber? For the person who saved you?'

'No, I don't,' she said as quickly as she could. Don't reopen that wound, father, I won't let you. 'He used me, lied to me, even tried to point me to the Dawnguard,' she said, conscious that she trying to convince herself of those things. 'Why should I feel anything for someone who sent me into death's embrace at the hands of our enemies? Who might have sent me to my death? Do you think I have a debt of gratitude to him, who used me to come here and kill us all?'

'And why did he do that?'

She shook her head, trying to exhale but not finding any air in her lungs. There were things she thought correct but didn't want to believe. 'I don't know, father. The people are afraid of vampires of late, and he's a hero among them. Maybe he felt it was his responsibility to put an end to us.' There was one more things to say. Come on, girl, say it. She braced herself for a short moment. 'If you meant to ask if he's part of the Dawnguard, then no. I don't think so. I strongly believe he acted alone, and took the initiative himself. That doesn't mean he'll be the end of our trouble.'

Her father nodded twice, slowly but firmly, in a dismissive manner. 'I am aware of that,' he added, just as indifferently as he had gestured. 'I wanted you to tell me what he is like. What he does, how he behaves, how others treat him.' He fired her a scrutinizing glance, pausing for a brief moment. 'Who he is,' he concluded.

Serana swallowed her surprise, feeling uneasy. Why do you want to know that? You're not telling me something, that's obvious, but it's something big. She considered her options carefully, conflicted between trying to dissuade him and complying, but reason suggested the latter. He seems determined, whatever his goal is. It was wiser and more prudent to play along. It wasn't as if that was an easy question to answer, even if she decided to. For the moment, she chose to follow his reasoning, but she brought her gaze away from his eyes. She felt under pressure. Her gaze wandered for e brief moment before it stopped on Azrael's still figure in the center of the sanctum. That allowed her to focus on the answers to the questions.

It was a difficult task, to sort through all the things she might have said about him. Firstly, all her personal feelings needed to be removed from the picture. She had no intention to reveal them to her father and didn't want to go over them again herself. Likewise, most of her thoughts and speculations had to be ridden of. She assumed a lot of things about him that weren't necessarily true, and those were best left out. The absurd thing, she realized, is that in spite of all, he made me feel well. Not pleased or happy, it wasn't that, but he was a constant source of… I don't even know. There were moments in his presence when she felt protected, others when she felt cheery, some others afraid. There were some when she felt understood, at long last, after no one had been able to do for centuries. In his absence, she needed an entire circle of different people, all of which would give her only a part of what he was able to awaken in her. He, alone, made me feel the entire spectrum of every feelings I have ever experienced. Not every single one, definitely, but most. That's it, she thought, looking at his black, dense locks of hair. I feel alive when I'm with him.

That was the main of the many reasons why it was so difficult to answer her father's question. 'Well,' she began, still not looking at him directly. She even tried to distance herself physically from him, even though the column on her right prevented her from going too far. 'It's not easy. He was quite unreadable most of time, and even the things that made sense about him were very hard to piece together.' There was a safe route she could take that seemed the safest. 'I don't know much about him directly, but there are several things I understood from how he behaved.'

Harkon nodded, only once this time. And very slowly. 'If that's what you know,' he said, while his head was still rising, 'then that's what I want to hear.'

'Very well.' She gave one more moment of thought to it, but then she made her mind up. 'Firstly, he was extremely secretive and undecipherable, which made him an exceedingly dangerous character. We saw it with out very own eyes. It wasn't only his enigmatic nature to render him threatening, but its combination with other traits.'

'Such as?'

'I could go on for quite some time talking about how physically strong and nimble he was for a mortal, or about how he used forms of magic that I never thought even existed, but his weapon seemed to be mainly his own mind. He was razor-sharp in his thinking, very perceptive and had an ability to make plans that took into consideration every minimal factor. When he first found me, he quickly understood so many things about me that I soon became unsure of everything. Every time I opened my mouth, he seemed to understand something. Voice tonality, choice of words, phrase structure, it seemed there was no end to the things he paid attention to. Once he had all those information, he was able to organize them and memorize them to perfection. The next step he took was to make use of them, into very effective and creative ways.' She glanced over, but her father was still. In truth, he seemed absorbed by what she was saying. 'There were various occasions when he reflected this, in a lot of different ways. Either through some crystal-clear analyses or sometimes piercing and very shrewd questions, making the other reveal things he wouldn't have wanted to reveal. Directly or indirectly, it didn't matter. For all the time I have spent with him, this has been his predominant trait and I don't recall an occasion when his logic wasn't flawless or when he didn't notice something. He even predicted most events with uncanny precision. The only exception being five days ago, when he tried to kills us all.'

'You have a lot of respect for this Elf.'

Serana looked down, staring at the floor below. Her hands were trembling and it felt like her ribs were shaking, making her entire chest quiver. 'You taught me to respect one's enemies,' she said, controlling her voice.

Her father's lips slowly parted in something that was very close to a smile. 'And you have learned it well. Go on, please. Enough with his acumen, tell me something about how he interacts. His general demeanor.'

Ones again, many different memories needed to be sorted out. 'He was different from what you've seen,' she clarified, remembering the strange behavior he had adopted to trick her father. 'He was silent most of the time, as if he didn't like to talk. When he had to, he remained cold and detached. He talked and moved very calmly. The tone he used was always rather unemotional. I don't think I've ever heard him laugh and I've likewise never seen him without the hood. In spite of that, he managed to be quite communicative. It required a good deal of intuition, but it could be understood.' She cast a glance in her father's direction. That was the part about his behavior she found most interesting, but she could tell her father didn't agree. She knew what he was interested in, and tried to comply. It was a hard part, because she only had his encounter with that rogue, Laegiine, to go on. 'Apart from that, he was rather forthright in all his interaction. He didn't mince words and went right to the point, sometimes skipping every and all kinds of conventions. He discussed what he meant to, got what he wanted and moved on. Despite this,' she continued, remembering the conversation she had overheard, 'he could be quite patient when explaining or expressing his thoughts, which were very complicated most of the times, and listened very intently. This goes back to what I said earlier, but it always seemed he was understanding more than the meaning of your words when he listened. It could be both very reassuring and quite intimidating.'

Now that she had touched all of the soft spots, her father seemed content. He had heard what he wanted, and manifested his satisfaction with a slow nod of the head. He drummed with his clawed fingers once on the parapet and then half-closed his eyes. 'A man like that must have quite a reputation. What do his fellow mortals say of him?'

That volley of questions was proving to be quite in depth. And still I can't be sure of what your angle is, she thought, holding back her dubious expression and lowering her gaze once again. 'That was probably the most interesting part. He was both respected and feared by everyone, but I think he was also very dear to the ones closest to him. He was strong, calm and clever. I can't think of someone better to have as a leader. That's how a minority saw him, however. To almost everyone else, he was as much a protector as he is a threat. He was a mystery that couldn't be solved by anyone, had a reputation for trampling rules and laws to get what he wanted and didn't seem to have many scruples, if any. He was a willing pariah, that had retired from the world and followed a path unknown to everyone. I have been with him for a week, and I haven't been able to understand anything more. I still don't know what the deal was with him, but everyone's' blood started running cold if they so much as heard his name.'

'And…' Her father's tone turned distant, very faintly, and she couldn't be sure it wasn't on purpose. 'Does he have any weaknesses?'

Serana smiled, partly to hide her vague embarrassment. On second thought, she couldn't tell why she had felt awkward. 'It's difficult,' she said as a preamble, buying some time. 'I could list quite a few shortcomings, things that could render him unpleasant, but weaknesses? That's something else. He had a significant lack of comprehension about everything that concerns feelings, moods and such. Similarly, he cared little for any sort of diplomatic approach and probably had little to no respect for etiquette or formalities. He was utterly insensitive, his empathy was built through his artificial comprehension of emotions rather then the natural contact that exists between two people. For weaknesses, there were maybe two.' She had listed all those previous things while thinking of the definite answer to give, and she had found two spots that could have counted among what her father had asked. 'Firstly, I guess his lack of understanding of feelings extended to himself as much as it did to others, so I think he would have found it rather hard to handle anything where pure logic didn't apply, which leads to the next thing. I know for a fact that he was very analytical and decisive, but he lacked a moral code or a set of rules. He made his decisions case by case, and while that made him extremely threatening as a foe, I would guess it could have been used to make him fall prey to indecision. Give him a situation that can't be resolved with sheer rationality and he wouldn't have been able to proceed. Without a meaningful contact with his feelings or a set of rules to guide him, he would have entered in a never-ending cycle of analysis and theorizing. It could have worked especially well in his case, because he seemed like the type of person who was resistant to outside help.'

She quieted down, not having anything more to add. She heard the echo of her words playing once or twice in the sanctum before dying out, repeating her last word. Help. An ill omen, she thought, holding back a smile. She was looking sideways at her father. The crimson light coming from the window behind him formed a glowing halo around his profile, an impression further sustained by her eyes' efforts to amplify the little light in the room. She looked intently at Lord Harkon, trying to understand something from his expression. It was mostly inexpressive, but there were very vague traces of different impulses on his traits. His eyes, bloodshot and almost vacant, were fixed on something indistinct in front of him, although he was presumably looking at nothing at all.

He was rather pensive, but there was more. When given a careful look, his lips looked different. That's because they are, she realized, noticing their curvature. They were tight, the corners stretched in a way that she had seen them take before, when he smiled. It was a sly, almost cruel kind of smirk. I wonder what he's thinking. This is all rather strange, but it seems now there's something specific. Trying to solve that riddle was like tracing back a few minutes. He had called her in and he had been given the information he wanted. But what now? There was no way she could answer that question. Likewise, there was no way she could forebear from asking.

'What was this about, father?' she said, turning towards him to avoid giving him the impression she was afraid or hostile towards his previous questioning. 'Why ask me about a dead man? Was there something in particular that you had an interest in?'

Lord Harkon's eyes glimmered weakly. 'I have decided,' he said, somberly, 'to let him live.'

Serana's forearms were shaken by an uncontrollable tremor. 'What? Are you out of your mind, father?'

This time it wasn't a glimmer any more. It was a bright flash, a red blaze burning for a moment in his eyes along with his anger. 'I am not,' he said, straightening gradually and looking at her from above. 'And you should watch your words, Serana.' His chin was raised proudly, giving a second warning that wasn't expressed in words. 'You are blood of my blood, but I'll not tolerate your insolence. You have rebelled me once. You won't do it again.'

'I'm sorry father, it's just…' She trailed off. Her father kept his gaze on her patiently.

It's just that I can't think, was the only thing resounding in her head. The only conclusive thought she could put together was precisely that she couldn't think of anything. Every other idea seemed to lose its consistency and falter into nothingness just as her voice. Her reasoning simply trailed off. Instead of trying to understand and cope with what her father had told her, her every bit of energy was being destined to refuse and deny what had just happened, leaving her no space and no strength to put together a coherent thought, let alone a coherent reply to her father's intimidation. As it often happened when she felt afraid or embarrassed, she felt her chest closing hard on itself. Her only consolation was that, were she in need to breathe, it would have been remarkably hard to do so. And, thankfully, she didn't need to.

'Yes?' her father asked, still quite firmly.

She couldn't say how many time had passed since she had lost herself into the chaos going on in her mind. At least, the solicitation snapped a part of her mind awake. 'Nothing, father, I was just surprised.' That wasn't a lie, but also a very big understatement. She was stunned. Enough of her was now able to continue the conversation. It was obvious, really. For the entirety of the discussion she had talked as if Azrael was already dead, while he had spoken as if he was still alive and well. She should have noticed. But I'm not him. 'Forgive me,' she started off, staying safe, 'mine were hurried words. It left me… I couldn't say. I was not expecting this,' she swiftly rephrased, knowing full well that it wasn't the right time to test Harkon's patience.

She couldn't say if it was thanks to her efforts or just the time passing, but there was a more benevolent expression painted on her father's visage now. 'I forgot how eloquent you can be,' he said, 'even I have difficulties understanding whether you're lying or not.'

Coming from him, that was a significant praise. 'I needed to be such. Father, if you don't mind, can you explain to me the reasons behind your decision? I don't mean to convince you otherwise,' she clarified, even thought that was precisely her intention, 'I would just like to know how you plan to control him once he is free again, and how to tell the court about it.'

'Mortals are complicated and nonsensical,' Lord Harkon stated beforehand, 'but if I know anything about them, then he is in a dangerous situation. Despite his awareness, he was beaten to his own game when he came here. You made sure that happened. He is now tied to this place, both because he will wake up a vampire and because he will be at our mercy. His sharp mind will serve him no longer. Vampirism will shake him from within so strongly he won't be able to resist too long.'

'Why do you think it will work?'

'You told me yourself,' he explained, glancing briefly at her. 'He resists help, which would be his only option to escape the situation he's in. He relies only on his mind, but what he'll have to cope with is not something he can solve. What will he do about an enemy that will devour him from the inside? He could yield to it, but neither of us consider that an option, or he will become so depleted and so shattered he will have abandon even his own mind.'

'Are you planning to drive him mad?'

'He will drive himself mad, trying to defy his own nature,' he cut short. He didn't seem to keen on talking about it, or perhaps he had no wish to discuss it further with her. 'As for the court, I'm sure they will come to realize the reason of my action. Your savior will be a tool, no more. Killing him would mean a waste of resources.'

For a moment longer, she tried to keep herself from turning away. She felt a tingling sensation near her eyes, on the sides, and sensed her eyelids closing with an increased frequency. I'd be tearing right now, if there was any water left in my body, she thought, recognizing those sensations very precisely. There was much rage and much shock, both born from a deeper feeling of discomfort. I'm in my house, my castle, but I still don't feel at home. Another weak tremor shook her forearms and hands. There were dark energies mixing with her emotions, transforming her uneasiness into a strange kind of hunger.

Incapable of holding herself any longer, she turned towards the column on her right, casting a glance at the exit and briefly wishing she had never entered. There had been nothing but pain after she had crossed that threshold. She felt her jaw clenching, and she scratched her canine teeth together twice, trying to get a hold of herself. Why she found it so difficult, she had no idea. She kept her gaze on the stone, trying to follow its shape and frame, vainly trying to get out of her own head. Then she heard her father sigh, which was strange on its own, but what surprised her even more was the motion she glimpsed at in the corner of her field of vision. Harkon was extending a hand towards her, a hand he placed on her right shoulder, the one on his opposite side. 'My sweet daughter,' she heard him whisper, nearing her and embracing her.

Everything else came to a very slow stop. In spite of everything, she realized that something in her had been waiting for some kind of appreciation. True, she had rebelled him and he was still a danger to her, but he was her father. She couldn't deny that. She had no wish to deny that. He's the only thing left in my world that I can call family. She turned her head around, without forcing herself, until she felt his chest on her temple.

'Once, Serana,' he began, speaking softly and slowly, 'I promised you that I would have turned Skyrim to ash, if that was what it was needed to save you. When you disappeared, I was lost. Four millennia, and I have lived with the overwhelming shame of not having fulfilled that promise.' There was no hint of malice or manipulation in his tone. If anything, he seemed both gloomy and relieved. 'You can't know my joy in discovering you were alive, merely hidden away from me.'

She let her eyes close, finally finding some calm. 'How did you find out?'

'It was our enemies who led me to you, in fact,' he told. 'A lonely mortal, burning with self-righteousness, started inspecting ancient caves and places all throughout the land. We didn't and couldn't know which places he had explored, but word got to us he had found something. He claimed to have discovered an ancient vampire hideout, dating back thousands of years. I knew at once it was you, although I didn't know how you had been kept away from me. On that day,' he said, pausing briefly afterwards, 'I finally honored my promise. I unleashed every vampire my influence could reach against the mortal world, scouring every nook and cranny of this land in search for you. Some time went by and nothing was found. I was almost losing hope, but then Angaron found something.'

Serana wrinkled her lips at the mention. Angaron has not returned. I can't think of what could have held back that Altmer. He was deadlier than Vingalmo. Unless… Azrael did mention something… The thought started forming quite quickly, but she cut it off at its roots just as swiftly. No, she told herself. Nevermind that. It's probably best to ask him. She tilted her head very slightly and reopened her eyes. 'Father,' she asked, 'what happened to Angaron? You said he hasn't returned.'

'He has not,' he confirmed, 'and I can't deny that worries me. I have given clear orders that all vampires must cease their activity, and I'd expect obedience especially from a member of my court. He will come back, and he will be put in his place. He is a helpful subject, but he has grown quite fiery in these long centuries. He sometimes can be difficult to control. But, back to the matter at hand,' he said, clearly ending that branch of the story, 'he was the one who led a sizable group of court members and lesser children of the night to the right place. They destroyed the Hall of the Vigilant, and then started searching the area. He acted on his own, as was his preference, while the main group finally found out and explored Dimhollow Crypt thoroughly. It was most unlucky that they had to perish, but recovering you was worth their lives.'

There were few people that could instill and provoke such conflicting feelings in her. On the one hand, she felt finally proud of herself, being so important in her father's eyes. In the end, that was what she had always wanted from the moment she remembered anything. On the other, there was something akin to revulsion that slithered in her head at the mention of someone being sacrificed for her. I sometimes can't put up with his contempt for the lives of his subjects. She was not surprised, he was the one who had sacrificed a thousand lives to be granted the gift of vampirism, but she always hoped it would have been an exception, and the last one. Again and again, she was being reminded that that was normality.

Her father was convinced they had died looking for her, and that by some miracle she had still found her way back to him anyway. Part of his belief derived from the fact that she had carefully skipped the part when, immediately after her awakening, she had witnessed the massacre of those last vampires at the hands of Azrael. She couldn't have done anything, she had been caged in ice the whole time, but she didn't think her father would understand it. She had altered the scene when he told her to go to the Dawnguard, telling that it had been Draugrs who had wounded her savior and almost killed him. Even if I risked it and told him, what would change? We already know it was Azrael who killed all of them. Lokil with all his underlings and all the others, with all their underlings. Almost everything she had told her father about him, from the mental aspect to the physical one, could be concluded with that mention. That alone was something nobody thought possible at the court. Some even decided to believe that the court members had fought among themselves, instead of admitting that a mortal had slimmed their ranks that much. He had single-handedly killed more than ten vampires in a few hours time and survived. You're making a mistake, she wanted to tell Harkon, an error too big to be treated as an accident. But while that bothered her, there was something else she couldn't quite figure out. You've got me. What do you need a new tool for? Azrael, if he could truly control him, was a very powerful underling. What did he need a minion so powerful for?

After a long silence, Serana felt her father's grip on her shoulders losing its tightness. 'And now,' he said, withdrawing the arm, 'we are together again. The ones who started the Volkihar bloodline.' There was a proud note in his voice as he said it. 'Our great plans will unfold as I have predicted, and there will be nothing to stop us.'

She casted a sideways glance at him, smiling but feeling uneasy at the same time. 'So you haven't given up on your plans, I guess.'

'I most certainly have not, my dear daughter,' he said, putting both his hands on the parapet and grasping it firmly. His long nails scratched the stone, screeching faintly. 'You have arrived at the right moment, indeed. But enough about that,' he said, turning away her and looking down at the Dunmer's motionless figure. 'You can go have some more rest. Thank you for your providing the information I needed.'

She gave him a nod, making it look somewhat eager. 'Any time, father,' she said, before letting go of the parapet and balancing. Her limbs felt weaker than when she had arrived there.

'Would you please tell me, my lady, if your father has finally decided to let the prisoner free?'

She was about to answer automatically, looking for the most discreet way to explain, but then she came to realize what exactly Orthjolf had asked. The comprehension immediately tore her away from the sleepwalking state she had been in for the entire two hours following the talk with her father. She hadn't even realized how lost in thought and absorbed in her own feelings she had been. It was as if she noticed the room around her, the light, the sounds, the smells and every sensation for the first time, like they hadn't existed beforehand.

As the overwhelming amount of new information was handled, more questions began to emerge. And yet more worries. How does he know…? The answer formed independently, using her distant memories to make some sense of the situation. Orthjolf didn't know anything about it, but he had a hunch. His premonitions were very often correct, and he often made those into daring assumptions that either threw people completely off or managed to make them more nervous, giving him more control over the entire conversation to come. Almost simultaneously, something else popped up in her mind. I wasn't even paying attention to my reaction, I hope I didn't make a stupid face. She immediately froze her every muscle, but she couldn't understand if any foolish of shocked expression had appeared on her features.

After a moment's thought, everything appeared quite ordinary. Orthjolf had done his usual thing and it had worked. She slowly relaxed and started to smile faintly again, this time with her attention fully to herself and her surroundings. 'I don't know anything on the matter,' she said, looking the man directly in the eyes in search of some movements that might betray his skepticism. She had a question, but she wanted to ease him a bit more before posing it. 'If you were wondering why my father summoned me, it was entirely unrelated. He did tell me that our prisoner is about to wake, so whatever happens, you'll have your answer soon enough. Although, if you allowed me a question…' she said, slowing her voice down. Orthjolf's unresponsive features forced her to be more careful, but now he nodded faintly. 'Why would you think my father's planning to free him?'

The Nord scoffed, his throat producing growling sounds along with it. An ugly smile stretched his thin, deformed lips. 'Your old man hasn't changed, young lady. He is stubborn to a fault.' He was the only one who could afford to say such things about his Lord, because he meant them in a good way. 'If he had decided to kill the mortal, he would have done so immediately. There at the feast, if necessary. He chose to wait instead, for five unending days.' The left corner of his lips stretched even further, exposing the teeth. 'Everyone here knows what's about to happen. No matter what Lord Harkon has told you, finding you was only the beginning of a larger game.'

'You've tried to put me and my father against each other for a lifetime,' she replied, unable to ignore the conspiratorial note in his growling voice, 'and you know it doesn't work. And besides, your reasoning has several weaknesses. Perhaps I'm only part of a bigger plan, that doesn't matter. What does matter is that he had no way to know a stranger would bring me back. If he has a need for the outsider, it is something he has thought of recently. So don't try to trick me.'

Orthjolf's ugly smirk slowly faded away from his face, returning his expression to a more neutral one. 'What did you say is the name of the stranger?'

'Azrael.'

'And nothing else? No titles, no family names? Not even aliases?'

'If there are, I don't know it.' She briefly considered withholding the information, but there was no risk involved with spreading it. 'Garan Marethi has helped me in trying to understand something more about him, but we concluded very little. I have no background information on him, and no way of determining how old he is. Garan has written down the fluctuations of his accent, but he's still uncertain about his deductions. He has not been in his homeland for a while and he presumed Azrael to have grown up there. He says that something that sounds similar can be found near the city of Blacklight. However, he pronounces just a couple of sounds in a way that resembles the inflection heard around Mournhold.'

The man scoffed again. 'That Marethi knows too much for me.'

'For once, I can concur,' Serana replied with a smile. She had too been quite surprised by the amount of things the Dunmer had been able to recall. She thought that nothing could surprise her after spending entire days with Azrael, but that had been different. It hadn't been a display of acumen or memory, but or great organization in the information. 'Garan truly knows a lot, and he has been a great help in these days. But, in spite of all the things he knew, we haven't learned much. The very name Azrael was unusual to him. He even suspected it could have been a mistake, a bad transcription from an older term.'

'An Elf strong enough to kill a dozen vampires and we don't even know where he comes from,' Orthjolf commented, chuckling lowly and turning slightly to the side.

Serara couldn't help but notice his use of the concept of strength to describe Azrael. She restrained from grimacing, even minimally, but resisting the reaction left a sour taste in her mouth. Orthjolf was obsessed with strength, the form in which it came didn't matter too much. As long as if wasn't magic, he was happy to have it. Having attributed strength to Azrael could mean two things. If he had used that concept consciously, then it meant he had already framed him as someone who was more alike him, despite being a Mer. If, instead, it had been involuntary, it could mean that he recognized in that stranger a degree of power that he wanted for himself. In one word, he desired his strength and probably even envied it. Whichever it is, it's bad enough. I don't think there's a way for me to know, and I don't even think I want to know.

It wasn't as if she hadn't thought about Azrael's strength. She had, for a long time, and her thoughts had continued right as she came out of the conversation with her father. She still remembered when they had stopped in Dragon's Bridge, how she envied his strength back then. It's not the same as Orthjolf. He's thinking more of his physical strength maybe, she considered, whereas I looked at his mental resilience. Nevertheless, she had understood that her envy was empty and dangerous. His strength wasn't meant for her. While it was undoubtedly a resource to have, it probably was something that molded the life of the person having it. From what she knew, Azrael traveled alone, lived alone and did almost everything essential by himself. He didn't need anyone, and his only contacts were the ones who could enhance his life. He presumably wanted some people around him, but he didn't need anyone. He could have done everything on his own. And that, she had realized, even the simple possibility of doing everything on my own, scares me terribly. If she hadn't felt the need for everyone, what then? What will others think of me? A great strength, from what she had seen, demands decisiveness and autonomy; if those aren't met, it shirks into wasted energy. And she was neither of those two things.

Now, a few days later, she had understood. She had recalled one of the more basic principles that guided court life, as well as most of life outside of the castle: everyone is different. There are people that are alike, and there are shared qualities, but she couldn't ask for Azrael's strength. It wasn't hers, it didn't fit anywhere in the person she was. Azrael himself wouldn't be someone at all, if he lacked his strength. He would know a lot, true, but then there would be someone else doing what he does in his stead. He would be someone different. She had felt almost conflicted, confused, when her envy vanished from the great deal of emotions she felt in the last days. In that moment though, it didn't feel strange anymore. His might felt all the more unnecessary to her. If she had it, some would try to force her into situations where she would need to use it. No. I don't envy him that anymore. I don't want it. Not for myself, at least.

Not for herself, true, but she couldn't deny looking for that same strength in other people. There were many different forms of authority, even in her own life, but she had always found out that some people wielded a raw, pure sort of power. Inside the court, Vingalmo held some sway. If you disobeyed him, you would loose his trust and probably some others' too. It was unwise to refuse him. There was a hidden blackmail hidden in his every word. But that was very artificial, unreliable kind of power. Garan, on the other hand, despite proclaiming his indifference towards court intrigue, manipulated everyone through the use of selected information. Offend him, and he would inform the opposite party with something that wasn't known to all. This created dependence on him, but it was very artificial, too. It required a great effort on his part to always stay ahead and know everything that others didn't. And, if one day one would come to know exactly how much he knew, that kind of power would vanish into nothingness. Lord Harkon was something different, someone that went closer to exerting raw power. The court obeyed his orders because they knew his anger was something terrible. When he gave an instruction, something in the gut told you to comply. But yet again, there was some habit involved. He was the one giving the orders and everyone obeyed because they were used to. His anger was remembered as terrible, but it wasn't felt. Not anymore. Serana, after a week together, knew that Azrael was different. Although he could be intimidating, he wasn't always. Furthermore, she didn't remembered seeing him angry, not even irritated. He possessed a small part of everyone of the others, and something that rose above. He had a small portion of Vingalmo's, Garan's and even her father's kind of power. All in more subtle ways, but they were there and they could be used to interpret his authority. But there was something else. When he said something, she recalled, I immediately did it. It didn't even come to my mind to disobey.

It was something about him as an individual, not only the orders he gave out. It was as simple as realizing how strange the court's reaction had been towards him. Everyone had yelled insults at his lifeless figure at first, of course, but only in public. Her father had fallen prey to that strange sense of enigma, and was about to let him live despite what he had done. Garan, surprisingly, had revealed to her that he was fascinated with their prisoner. He had studied his attire and weapons from a distance and found himself obsessing over him. Now Orthjolf had declared his interest. And I shouldn't forget myself, she thought. That's the person who could have sent me to my death and that planned to kill everyone I know, and yet I feel conflicting feelings for him. She couldn't say what it was, she really couldn't, and had the suspicion not even Azrael was fully aware of his own influence. He sometimes acted a lot more aggressively than necessary to get what he wanted. It could have been disregarded as a sadistic vein, but if he had a sort of madness, it was something that went towards coolness and absence of impulses. Indulging in a personal tendency seemed completely out of character.

'Well,' Orthjolf muttered, 'I should go.' He turned back towards her. Serana came back to the present smoothly, without any rough transitions like before, and looked at him in the eyes. Some time had passed, a long moment of silence. She hadn't noticed anything of what he had done, but when they looked at each other there was that shared sensation of having been lost in thought for a long while. The man smirked again, making the fangs just blink. 'I shall see you later.'

She smiled back. 'Godspeed, Orthjolf.'

'Enjoy yourself, my dear princess.'

Serana turned back, considering her options while her smile slowly faded away. Among everyone in the court, she could say Orthjolf was to her liking. She couldn't stand Vingalmo, that was one point they already had in common, and probably because of that the Nord had taken the habit to treat her as a person instead of an asset. That was a long story, one that traced back to before her disappearance. In the court, the games never ended, but everyone managed to develop some sort of bond behind the courtesies. The one with Orthjolf was one of the most intense, and probably the most sincere. He was a manipulator too, and he didn't restrain from always trying to get information from her, but there was some sort of hidden code. He was allowed to do that, as long as nothing more poisoned the rest of their relationship. It's a compromise, she thought with disdain, a concession, a mere lesser evil. Her craving for intimate connections had been very rarely fulfilled throughout her life. She had managed to forget it somewhat, but that one week with Azrael had made her remember all her craving.

On the ending of her reasoning, she glanced at the stairs. I could use some more rest, for sure, but maybe I have to see Feran first. Her legs were still quaking and she still felt quite weak. The feeling that a large part of her strength was still sapped out of her body had been a constant in those days, and although it had retroceded to a manageable level, it was still predominant. Feran Sadri was still giving her blood potions, but he had also came to the conclusion that it wasn't only the toxic blood making her feel so weak. It was something else, something mental. Luckily, whatever had happened, it was clearly getting better with each passing day. Her gaze rested for a moment on the other set of stairs, leading up towards her own quarters. No, it's better if I get back in my chamber. If Feran wants something, he can contact me.

She walked ahead, still thinking. She was on the left side of the great hall. As per usual, with Feran's workshop so close, she still had the strong doubt that she should go there before going back to her lodgings. However, the Dark Elf would most likely send her away. He was almost always busy with some of his research, or telling his apprentice off. He preferred to have the choice of when visiting her, so there was really no point in disturbing him. Still, the doubt remained. It weakened right as she passed by his door, and since he didn't call and didn't make any effort at getting her attention, even the doubt waned in strength. She cast a glance beside her, in the near empty hall, as she stepped in front of the arch leading to the cathedral.

Suddenly, her field of view suddenly became really dark all of a sudden. Black, dark grey and all colors very close to them, with the very slight exception of a shade of faint, barely seeable vermillion red a bit under the height of her eyes. That sight persisted for a few moments, but afterwards her head smashed against something that was very cold and hard. Her shoulder had also hit something similar a few moments before, but she had been too focused on her sight. Now that the head had also been hit, she felt the cool surface and thin and dull edges scratching her face. The impact was strong and, after that single moment of contact, she felt herself thrown backwards, getting a sense of her legs struggling to find a place to stop and find balance again.

A voice. 'Out of my way, you—'

It was only now, stumbling backwards, that she realized what had just happened. Put simply, she had bumped into someone. Someone with a deep voice. A thought tore her mind in two like a lightning bolt tears the sky in two during a thunderstorm. Azrael?

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––– A Ω ––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

You. It had to be you.

Since he had woken up from that nightmarish slumber nothing had been the same. In such a way that even this is nightmarish. It's all a waking nightmare. It was like seeing her for the first time, all over again. Except the first time it had been something of a guilty pleasure, in the literal meaning of the two words. Something strange, forlorn by the others parts of his mind, had felt well upon seeing her. The overall feeling had been lightening, somewhat alleviating. He hadn't indulged in it, because he had something to learn from that overgrown leech, and he had done exactly what he wanted. The sensation had persisted nonetheless, unable to be put down. It was useful to have, and it seemed to enliven every time he thought about her or looked at her. Careful from becoming too reliant on it, he had used it for quite a while.

Now though, it was something completely different. He failed to remember what exactly was different from the first time around, but he knew it. The lightness was completely faded away by a feeling of compression, of the ribs curving and collapsing on themselves, choking the air out of him. This is what it feels like to suffocate, he realized, with crystalline clarity, and it'll torture me as long as I can't get used to not breathing. At the same time, even though the familiar sensation of his warm, dark elven blood was almost utterly missing, there was another sort of substance that flowed inside his body, following a pattern that seemed similar to the blood. It was clear to him that it wasn't anything physical. This is pure energy. Very dark energy. Vampiric one. Beside the fact that it felt like pure energy, he remembered all too clearly how those had exponentially increased as soon as he had managed to shapeshift. At that, he cut clean the thought. No. He had no wish to remember. In that moment, he felt like he was trying to suppress an amount of thoughts that was beyond what his mind could handle. They were seeping in through the cracks in his defenses, coming back and haunting him with renovated vigor and with the wrath of having being sealed away. His every thought seemed to have a life of its own, now that he had lost his.

He moved his eyes slightly down, feeling the strange sensation of the eye globes emitting a eerie sear as they moved down, without any more liquid to water them. His gaze fell on the young woman's face, following its lines and frame as if trying to devour it and store it in the mind in its essence, in addition to memory. The essence of undeath emerged, sometimes. The large eyes with wide, bloodshot, bright red irises and vertical pupils. A white and lifeless skin and an unnatural absence of movements in her face also hinted at that. That didn't ruin her visage, but gave it an odd structure, which he failed to understand. These vicious, unnatural eyes were shrouded by the long eyelashes; above them the thin and fine eyebrows further lessened the alienating effect of her gaze. The nose was small and narrow. The cheekbones were slightly higher than normal, for a Nord. The chin was round and elegant. The lips were red, in stark contrast with the paleness of her skin, and they were thin and sensual. Finally, as if to frame her face, her hair fell down on her back. Obsidian-black, glossy and straight hair. They were significantly shorter than the last time he had seen her. She had cut them.

Performing that accurate observation again did nothing to silence the amount of voices screaming in his head. He was so overwhelmed he struggled to understand which voice was his. Is any one of these mine, truly? He had never identified with any, assuming he was just the observer, but in that moment he could feel his own desperate wish to be one of them, to feel as if some substance was being retained. And desperation wasn't something he was used to, at all. Despair. The word had a strange taste now. It caused an outcry, both in the mind and in the chest. Somewhere far, very far, a vice with an ironic undertone remarked that once he had thought of calling his own blade Despair. He knew despair very well. He knew its look in the eyes of the ones he killed, he knew what it did to his enemies, but had thought of calling a blade Despair without knowing how it felt.

It was dreadful.

You, he thought, casting a freezing glare in the young woman's direction. You did this. He brought a hand forward, feeling for her belly and putting the palm on it. As he prepared, the energy seemed to muster to his arm, permeating it with a sort of strength that he had never imagined could exist. It supported his sudden movement as he pushed and smashed her against the wall. He heard her groan dying in the noise of the armor crashing on the rock, but didn't look back. She was alive. For some reason, he wanted to hurt her, not kill her.

A/N: And so we reach chapter ten, coming back to Azrael. It's a milestone. From now on, I will publish more regularly. I was mainly working on another small book in these last months, and sometimes there was very little time left for Day Keeper, Night Reaper, but now everything will return to normal. I will also revise some of the older chapters. I have read a few and there were definitely too many mistakes. I don't think I'll change anything in regards to the story, in fact I won't, but if half the heavens fall on my head and I decide to do it, I'll let you know.

To the ones who left reviews in these lapse of time, I remember answering personally to all of you and thus I'll say nothing more here. If I haven't answered, I apologize, and I thank you here and now.

From now on, it has truly began. The story takes its turn and there will be no turning back.