Chapter 32: The Story Does Not End Until It's Truly Over

Yrith would have liked to think that they ran. That their speed was fast and furious, that her hair waved behind her like a standard over a proud city. But she did not run. She stumbled, rather, one foot sinking before another in a free style that was not so free. Keneel-La was kind to her. He did not force her to let him carry her. He did not even suggest it. He walked patiently by her side, one arm extended to provide support which she, at times, gladly accepted. She wondered deep inside whether they would have moved faster had she allowed him to hoist her up in his arms. But he didn't pursue it and she was grateful.

The lift could not be farther than just a few hundred yards. Still, it took her so long. She fought every step, secretly strengthening the bone and muscle in her leg with magic so that it would hold, knowing full well there was a lot more strain ahead. The two of them, she and the Dragonborn, walked in silence, letting the rhythm of the place take over.

The entrance to the lift was sneakily hidden just under the ledge with the control pillars, leveled with the top of the Dwemer mechanism sphere. Yrith could see the path had been cleared, pieces of rubble tossed or kicked out of the way without much order. Glass had been shattered everywhere, covering the place with a glittering crust. Only the beam of light remained, its magic untouched by Yrith's raving. She gave it one last look. The power inside her surged like a wave, and then fell back into the ocean of her subconscious, leaving but a gentle ripple on the surface.

"Looks like we're both going to bear the brand of this place for the rest of our lives, aren't we?" Keneel-La commented as he noticed her look.

She gave a nigh inaudible snort.

"I wonder…"

He left the sentence hanging in the air, unfinished. Yrith did not ask.

They entered the short corridor leading to the lift. Yrith could hear Cain and Leyna talking quietly. She could not make out what they were saying from the distance, but she found comfort in hearing their voices. As if she had a home to return to. As they slowly approached, the words became clearer.

"… should be happy here, being a Dunmer, no?" Leyna's tone was conversational, with a tinge of amusement in it. A theatrical snort came in response to her statement.

"What? Have you ever been in any place in Morrowind that is not Blacklight? I'm not a Redoran, we don't live in burrows!"

"Well, how should I… oh! Yrith! You're standing!"

The two elves turned toward the newcomers at once, Cain's eyes bulging at the sight of Yrith. She hinted a smile, but did not reply. Keneel-La gave them a nod.

"The path was well cleared. Thank you. Now, on to the surface, I suppose."

There was longing in his voice, one that had long been suppressed. Yrith was not surprised. If dragon blood was what coursed in Keneel-La's veins, then he would surely be drawn to the skies. But there was also something else. Fear?

"What will await us there?" she asked in a quiet, timid voice.

"Let me put it this way. When I emerged a while back, I saw a group of men in red kill my brethren down in the valley. I should mention that the Tower of Mzark stands on the border of The Pale and Whiterun."

Imperials far out of their territory slaying dragons, Yrith translated in her mind. So they were surrounded.

"So why are we resurfacing?"

"Because," Keneel-La said as he entered the round platform of the Dwemer lift, placing a hand on its lever, "this tower at least is thought to lead nowhere and we might have a chance to sneak past them. They are expecting to find us in Alftand, which is much closer to Winterhold and also much more explored. Every known exit from Blackreach will be guarded closely."

As he said it, he prodded the rest to join him. When the last foot landed on the lift platform, he pushed the lever down with all his might.

Deep underneath them, an engine rumbled and thrummed. Yrith felt the vibrations deep in her body and had yet again to hold her body with magic. Instinctively, Cain held out a hand to support her. She took it gingerly, more for his comfort than her own.

"How in Oblivion are you standing?" he said, his voice sounding more like a whisper in the grating noise.

She shrugged. "A miracle, I suppose."

"Will you be all right? If I remember the map correctly, there are two mountain ridges between us and Winterhold."

"I can only hope. There's little I can do about it anyway."

He was not happy with her answer. But in the end, all he could do was watch.

"I still don't understand why we didn't fly to Winterhold," Leyna muttered over the noise. The Dragonborn gave her a light pat on the shoulder.

"Because, Leyna," the Dragonborn hurried with an answer, "aside from the danger of being easily discovered and taken down since the enemy would be prepared for it this time, dragons are proud creatures. To have them carry you out of the goodness of their heart is not how they think. I had them carry you out of that mess because back then, they considered you nothing more than a piece of baggage. It took me all the resources I had to make them. They only respond to power. But if I asked them to carry three people who are in full strength and health, capable of walking on their own two feet, they would rather kill those people to show their superiority over them."

"Yrith rode on a dragon."

"That's not the same. She made an impression. And Paarthurnax is different. Unlike the rest of his kin, he responds to wisdom. But," he raised a hand when Leyna opened her mouth again, "no, he would not take you either. He will not leave the Throat of the World. He has a good reason to stay in seclusion."

Leyna turned to Yrith, her golden brows raised sky high.

"Just how in Oblivion did you manage to impress a dragon?"

Yrith felt her cheeks heat up at the recollection. A dragon that could become a true friend in an instant. One day, she hoped, she would come back to the mountain with a story to tell. She would offer the old drake a good tinvaak…

"I… gave him a name," she said quietly.

At her side, Keneel-La started coughing.

"You… what?!"

"Well, it's more like I gave his name a meaning, but…"

"Doesn't matter, you… oh," he shook his head in disbelief. "Now I see… I knew you must have done something for him, but a name… a meaning that he, a dragon, the Master of the Way of the Voice, no less, accepted… 'impressed' doesn't even begin to describe it."

"Is a name that powerful?" Cain wondered aloud. "Would a name really change so much?"

Keneel-La's jaws widened.

"What would happen if I told you to take this," he raised the Dwemer tube that had served Yrith as a splint just a few hours back and that he had decided to hold onto, "and jab it into one of the cogs that move this thing up?"

Cain raised a brow. "It would probably break the lift?"

"And what would happen if I told you to jab it into Yrith's chest?"

Underneath his ebony skin, Cain paled visibly.

"Why…"

"Hypothetically, let's assume you would do it. What would happen?"

He shook his head. "She'd… die… probably… but I wouldn't!"

"Exactly. Even in this conversation, it makes a big difference when I say 'cog' and when I say 'Yrith', because that's how you identify what we talk about and what you interact with. For Yrith, it makes a difference when I call her 'Hatchling' and when I call her 'Yrith', because when I use her name, I imply a certain level of seriousness. And now, we're only speaking of words. Imagine that merely saying a word would hold power. As if you grasped the owner of that name and could do anything to them that's within the limits of your power. But then, as the shape of the object you hold determines how easy it is to control it, that name would do the same. Someone who is free will never be as easy to control as someone shackled by their own nature. A name describes your nature, and for a dragon, whose language is equivalent to magic, a name is everything. If Yrith offered Paarthurnax such power, then there is no measure for how grand a gift she gave him. He will be, to put it quite simply, forever in her debt."

"So the Demon's name could really destroy him? Literally?"

"It is quite possible."

"Say, Keneel-La," Yrith began quietly.

"Hmm?"

"Paarthurnax said that dragons are born with their names. How…"

"Ah," the lizard's smile darkened, "indeed, this may be quite confusing. A name can bear many meanings, as you yourself probably discovered. A dragon name is never just one word. It is a combination that can have many interpretations. A dragon is born with a name, yet only his deeds decide the interpretation. When the deed is great, the dragon's name is pronounced officially, which, on one hand, gives him power, on the other hand, it gives others the means to control that dragon. Many dragons remain formally nameless, but within the system, they mean nothing. Quite a nasty way to exact power if you ask me, but Alduin was never known for kindness."

"So when I suggested to Paarthurnax that his name might have a different meaning…"

"You gave him freedom. Freedom he was seeking for thousands of years. Even if he, wise as he is, might take time to process it in all its greatness."

Yrith stared at the Dragonborn a good while before she realized she was smiling. Smiling like the biggest fool of all, feeling like the biggest fool of all. What was greatness? A simple blow of wind that would move all the small specks of sand out of their places? It took so little. It felt like so little. And yet, apparently, it meant so much. Greatness… she wondered if it truly existed.

The tremble in her magic-infused legs and the sound of stone grinding against stone woke her up from her trance. The lift was slowing down, until it finally stopped. She had not even realized the coldness of the wind that bit into her cheeks. Everyone trembled now. The warmth of the Dwemer complex had made them forget what Skyrim winter felt like. As she focused her eyes on the sight before her, the snow, shining even through the gilded grating of the tower gate, painted colorful smudges in her vision. The air stung in her lungs. Everything in her screamed for the comfort of the Dwemer cities. And yet, she welcomed the roughness as an old friend. As if new life spread in her, she took in all the air her lungs could accommodate. Finally, after long days, weeks, perhaps, they were on the surface.

"Now this feels surreal," Cain breathed, and she could see the same kind of rapture that she felt in his eyes, even if closed ajar in the sudden deluge of light.

"It does so every time indeed," Keneel-La concurred. "Now, we will have to cross the mountains. As bad as I feel about this, Yrith, could you scan the perimeter?"

"So we will not be covering our tracks this time?"

"The dangers of it outweigh the merits, I'd say. Better to know what's around, risk being found and having to run than dashing right into the tip of someone's blade. In the end, we will have to fight. It's not a question of if. It's a question of when and how."

She nodded, letting her magic out. The region was mountainous, every inch of it hard to traverse. She imagined they might be at a great disadvantage with rucksacks on their backs and Yrith's injury, not to mention the numbness that remained in her after all those days spent in the depths of Oblivion. Surely, the Imperials would have supplies nearby, places to return to without having to carry too much weight. And they were trained to fight too.

Yrith tried to shake off all the unsettling thoughts running through her mind. There was a cliff behind their backs, impassable with its jagged crown. To their left was a plateau, gently rising into a slope. On its far end, amidst a few lichen-covered pine trees, a great bonfire burned up to the skies, with several creatures roaming around it lazily. She examined them, her teeth unwittingly sinking into her lower lip.

"There are… giants to the left. And mammoths. Is that the western side?"

The Dragonborn gave a nod.

"It is indeed. Giants don't scare me much, but we don't want to go that way. It would only bring us further and eventually we would run into a dead end. What's on the other side? The valley down the eastern side and around? There is an altar with a stone circle and a statue of Talos that we should pass. Further that way are two Nordic barrows that lead up to a mountain pass. That's where we are headed. If your magic allows it, search the pass too. It should lead us straight to Alftand, although we want to avoid the old city itself. We will instead go along the mountain ridge and turn just before Saarthal to reach the Shrine of Azura. That should take us to Winterhold from the eastern side which, hopefully, no one is expecting."

"Isn't that risky? What if a storm hits us?"

"Every path is risky. I've survived a few storms in Skyrim. They are not kind, they will tear your skin off if only you let them. But they are not impossible to survive if you know what to do. An Imperial blade and a magic bolt though, they are a different story."

"Well, so much for safe passage," Leyna uttered quietly.

Yrith kept her thoughts to herself. She did not feel entitled to question the safety of their journey. After all, she was the reason for all danger. She was the reason for this journey to begin with. And all she could do now was to ensure all was as safe as could be.

She searched on. As Keneel-La had suggested, there was a valley eastward. There were two forts to the north, one full of men and women in full combat gear, a professional army, it seemed, and the other occupied by rough, hard people whose weapons mostly consisted of silver. Vampire hunters, perhaps. Neither of these should present much danger.

She focused on the other side. To the south, she could find another giant camp. There was less snow in that direction. She could feel that the blanket of white covering the vast fields of vegetation around was fresher. So that was the Whiterun tundra. There was a patrol a few hundred feet from the camp. Two men, walking back and forth in laid-back gait. It was hard to discern colors with just magic, but the shape of their uniforms was definitely a Nordic cut. Not Imperials then. Or, not appearing to be Imperials.

"You probably know about the forts on the north," she said to the Dragonborn, half of her mind still scanning the land, "and the giant camp on the south. There's a patrol, maybe Stormcloak, maybe some hold guards. And to the east…"

She left their destination to the end of her search. As Keneel-La had said, there were two barrows. Yrith felt a chill run down her back as her magic touched their guards. There was no life in them, just like the skeletons of the Midden. The power that steered them was different from her magic. Dark, otherworldly. They were shadows of the people they had once been. Lost, trapped in this world until they would serve their purpose. She left them, not eager to explore them more. She doubted the Imperials would dare approach the ancient burial sites, but she scanned their surroundings nonetheless. To her surprise, there was life. Three people. Different from guards, different from bandits or any kind of hunters. Travelers. Or not.

No, that was impossible…

"Yrith?"

She recoiled before the lizard's touch, realizing she had been holding her breath. She let it out, drawing in new air.

"What did you find?"

Her magic link was still working. What had she found? Was he real? So close? Did he really know where she was?

"Yrith?"

"I… that's… Sin… Master… Larkwing. I think. With two other people."

"Here?"

"I… think so."

"So he has found you as well. That wave of magic you released must have given him direction. Is he headed toward Alftand?"

Yrith shook her head. "I think they're coming this way."

"I see. So Kharjo must be with him."

"Kharjo?"

"S'kharr. The Khajiit that helped you survive when you were captured."

"I see…"

Yrith recalled the silver-furred cat man. It felt like ages ago, that day she had first seen him, when he had put her out of starvation. And the day after that, when she had called him… and the third day, when she had met the Dragonborn for the first time, in the middle of something that pretended to be a negotiation. So he was with Singird now. Why did that even surprise her?

And then there was the third one. Someone Yrith had not been expecting to come into her life ever again.

"Who is the last one?" Keneel-La asked as if reading her thoughts. She shook her head in disbelief.

"Qassir. A classmate of mine…"

"I see…" He fell silent for a moment, ignoring the surprised looks of Cain and Leyna, eyes clouded with thoughts. Then, he gave a nod. "In any case, that means we're going to meet them. They, at least, are good news. Hopefully, if there aren't any trackers on their tail. Any bad news? Patrols, scouts?"

Yrith tried to get her attention off Singird's group. She would have loved to follow them, to stay with the familiar, comforting presence. With little eagerness, she broke away, scanning their surroundings and the path further up to the pass. The life up there was scarce.

"A few ice wraiths, two trolls in the pass," she said. "I don't think we'll be able to circle them."

"Not much of a problem. Any people?"

Yrith shook her head. "None that I can see."

"Very well. Let's set out then. We'll keep to the northern mountain wall. I know," he raised a hand as Yrith made to speak, "we'll have to pass the barrows. I fear the undead less than I fear people. They, at least, won't strategize and set out targets. People will."

With that, he opened the gate. It gave a creak that spread far and wide and rebounded from the walls of the surrounding mountains. All four of them twisted their faces. Yrith knew that just like her, the others wished few souls heard the sound, and that those who did were not human.

Before them opened a gentle slope that descended into a steeper one on their right and the plateau with giants on their left. She could vaguely discern the two monumental figures and their animals in the distance. The bonfire around which they stood illuminated the surrounding area like a beacon, bright even amidst the snowy landscape. In a way, they simply seemed like campers, sticking to their livestock and the warmth of their fire.

As the four of them took the first step outside, Yrith felt the snow crunch under her boots. What an unbelievable sensation. The coldness hit her with triple the intensity now, and she felt another wave of shivers. Movement was difficult. Even more difficult than before, as her feet sank in the snow and she had to raise them high to take another step. She dug her fingers into her sides. Her injured leg kept sending lashes of pain into her system. She was still helping it with magic, concealing it from the sight of any potential passersby, as well as her own friends.

"Will you be fine?" a voice issued by her side. She turned to meet Cain's gaze. His expression was that of a person having a light conversation over a mug of tea, but she could still see the worry underneath. "If I can help with anything…"

"You mean carry me?" she smiled despite herself. "That would be counterproductive. And there's nothing you can carry for me. But thank you."

He gave a sigh. "I know. I just… wish I could. Why is it always you?"

"Not always," she shrugged. "But maybe because ultimately, I am the target?"

"Not for the Falmer. Or Dwemer machines."

"When you deal with the Daedra, you never know what's going to target you," Yrith said wisely. Now she was talking like the Dragonborn.

"The Daedra… right."

By their side, Leyna gave a quiet snicker. Cain cast an exasperated glance at her, but she only smiled back.

"Now," the Dragonborn cut in, "I know the three of you have a lot to share, but we should really move as quietly as possible. Yrith, the moment you can't stand, you'll let me know. There is no room for pride now. What we need to think of are solutions."

Yrith lowered her head in understanding. She hated even hearing him speak like that. But if that was the only option how to protect their lives, then she would do as he said.

They set out. Yrith tried to guess what time of the day it was, but it was nearly impossible with the sun hidden behind a thick blanket of clouds. It was simply grey in the skies and white under their feet. She had loathed this weather in the past. Now, she was happy to be back.


Crossing the road connecting Whiterun with Dawnstar was easier than they had imagined. The trees were thick and lush, offering shelter from both the harsh wind and unfriendly sight. The snow that occasionally fell from the branches in feathery clouds covered their footprints well. Now, they were nearing the belt of mountains embracing the Alftand basin on the north. Yrith fought for every step, limping by the Dragonborn's side. He paid her no heed, staring at the path ahead with a deep frown that had hewn sharp, jagged shadows into his lizard features. Eventually, he stopped under one of the few bare trees in the area. Yrith used the occasion to prop herself against its trunk, basking in the sliver of comfort it provided.

"Can you look around again?" he asked.

It was about the fifth time in that short while they had been traveling. Nevertheless, she nodded without asking, spreading her magic. Singird was closer now. Pleasantly close. Except for his group, only a few ice wraiths roamed the area around the altar of Talos and the stone circle that was, according to Keneel-La's information, called Weynon Stones. Then, a lone raven in the sky. Otherwise, there was no one.

"Still the same," she commented. The Dragonborn sighed.

Cain tilted his head to the side. "Are we expecting someone?"

"Indeed," the lizard snorted. "Don't you think it's too quiet?"

"What do you mean?"

"When I took the lift to see the situation, I saw Imperials. Now there are none. Anywhere. It makes no sense. As unknown as the Tower of Mzark is, I wouldn't expect to find no resistance at all. I don't like this."

"Were they really Imperials?" Leyna asked, looking here and there as if the said soldiers should jump from behind a tree at any moment. "Couldn't they just be some vagrants?"

"No. Not even vagrants in Imperial uniforms. Their fighting style was too synchronized for that, they looked like professional soldiers. Unless my own eyes deceived me."

"Deceived…" Yrith repeated slowly, mulling the word on her tongue. No, this couldn't be… not on this scale…

She closed her eyes, focusing entirely on her magic. She had to find traces. The slightest trace of magic other than her own. A hem of an imaginary cloak. A so-called cloak of invisibility… only this one would be woven with threads of magic instead of fabric, it would not cover its wearer, but instead blind the eyes of an observer. She felt her teeth grit until they hurt, her eyelids press into each other, her nails dig into the skin of her hands. Someone was talking to her… No, she needed to concentrate. The slightest lingering spark…

She found it. No. Them. Many, many sparks. Her breath quickened as she focused on them, dismantling the spell that had been working against her this entire time, thread after thread. The land changed. There were footprints, beaten paths amidst broken brushwood… people. Many, many people.

She felt all the blood retreat from her cheeks.

"Keneel-La…"

She forced her eyes to open and look into the lizard's face. He gave her a long, knowing look.

"How many?" he asked plainly.

"I'm… I'm so sorry…"

"How many are there, Yrith?"

"I… don't know. We're surrounded. From every direction."

It was the end. It took one great illusion to deceive her unskilled mind. There were too many. She scanned the place again. The image of Singird was no illusion. It remained. No. It had changed, in fact. It moved fast, here and there. He must have been running from something. Fighting… No. He could not fall with them. No…

"Leave me here," she said quietly.

"Yrith!"

She could not choose which of those three voices to follow. She chose none.

"It's over. If you leave, maybe at least you can save yourselves. I…"

Two firm, calloused hands gripped her shoulders and shook her.

"What did I tell you back in High Hrothgar?"

"I…"

"What did I tell you? Tell me now."

What was he talking about? She didn't know. Everything was surreal, grey, drowning in darkness. What had he told her? What would it matter?

"I don't know… I don't know!"

"Shouldn't we run…?" Cain tried, but Keneel-La shook his head to silence him.

"There's nowhere to run. Anywhere we run, they will have the advantage. Yrith," he turned back to her, "remember. After I put you through that trial with a blindfold. After I told you my story. What did I tell you?"

"I…"

His story…

"… that…"

How he had come from Morrowind. How he had nearly died when running away. How his sister had nearly died. How he had nearly died again when crossing the border to Skyrim. How Alduin had attacked. How his mortal enemy had saved his life. Was that it? No…

"You said," she whispered between the shallow breaths, "that the story does not end until it's truly over."

He lowered his head in confirmation. "I did. Etch those words into your mind. Repeat them, wallow in them, feel them with every inch of your body and soul. Feel them as the magic courses through you. Feel them as you face your enemies. Make them your purpose. And remember," he said as his own fists clenched tightly on her shoulders, "that if you don't take the life of the person that points their blade at you, they will take yours. And Cain's. And Leyna's. They started it. They have come prepared for whatever fate they may meet. So deliver it to them. No holding back this time, Yrith."

"The story does not end…" she whispered.

… until it's truly over, she finished in her thoughts. He gave a nod and patted her on the shoulders. Then, his hands left her, aiming right for the hilts of his two blades.

"You know the drill," he said to all of them. "Yrith, you stand side by side with us."

Cain stared at him incredulously.

"But…"

"They outnumber us heavily, Cain. We'll have better chances if we go all in."

"Chances? What chances?" Leyna snorted. Yrith could sense the restraint in her. Her voice shook. She too was clutching her dagger, even if Yrith knew it would not be her weapon of choice.

"The story does not end until it's truly over," Yrith muttered mechanically as she positioned herself so that she stood back-to-back with the Dragonborn. Before her was a wall of trees. A wall from which someone could leap at any time. She fixed her eyes on it, wishing she could just set it on fire that would consume anyone who would try to pass through. After a few silent moments, she felt the nudge of Cain's arm on one side and Leyna's soft touch on the other. It wasn't a triangle anymore, and she wasn't in the center. It was a square.


The buzzing arrows were easy enough to deflect. These people were weak. Perhaps not weak, but weak enough against magic. They ran against them with their swords pointing at their hearts, but they never reached their targets. The more skilled of them dodged the magical missiles, but even they could not get close enough to deal damage. Arrows were the only thing that reached the Dragonborn's group, if they could get through the trees. Yrith took them down, leaving the killing blows to the others. The men fell. The snow underneath them melted, turning into a mixture of blood and dirt. Yrith could taste iron on her tongue and her nostrils filled with death. She stared in horror at the bodies before her, both those that moved and those that lay at their feet. They were mindless. Their eyes were empty, perhaps they did not even see Yrith and the rest. They just charged, one after another. Many, many people, throwing their lives away in the blink of an eye. Did they have families? Friends? Not anymore…

"Damn," the Dragonborn cussed behind her.

"Are these… decoys?" Cain yelled over the fray as he fired a bolt of pure magicka from both of his hands.

"Decoys, distraction, whatever they are, they've been used as scapegoats. Don't you three even dare think of who these people are. Someone knows full well the extent of our power and our weakness. And they will use every advantage they have against us. That said, the numbers they have…"

He didn't finish. Instead, he released a roaring Shout.

"YOL TOOR SHUL!"

Yrith had heard this one from Paarthurnax. Even with her back to the lizard, she felt the heat from his fire breath. She did not want to imagine the scene before his eyes. She did not want to hear the screams. She forced herself to look at the arrows. They, at least, did not have a heart that would stop beating upon the impact.

The story does not end until it's truly over…

She repeated it, again and again, the words becoming a mantra she would hold onto. Her only hope. Cain's only hope. Leyna's only hope. Singird's only hope…

Just as she thought of him, something in the corner of her eye caught her attention. She sent a scorching wave toward the coming arrows and shielded their whole little group before turning her head to see what it was. A glimmer on the horizon. Flashes of light. Magic… magic against magic, sparks setting the snowflakes alight, giving halos to the white trees. Their fight was not the only one. But why were the mages there and not here?

"Yrith!"

She turned just in time to block another volley of arrows. Behind them, she saw the faces of the exhausted, desperate soldiers. They seemed more exhausted than her. Some had seen through the ruse and decided to run for it. In vain. Somewhere behind those trees, another circle began to shrink. Those who ran met their fate in the shape of a fiery magical missile. Whichever direction they would choose to face, they would only find death. Yrith's eyes met with the eyes of the closest man. He gave a sad but relieved smile as he sank to his knees, not minding the cold. She saw his lips move. He was begging her. She let out a shaky breath.

For the first time since she had met the Dragonborn, she raised her hand to deliver the killing blow.

At least he would die with honor.

She released an ice bolt. It never found its target.

As it flew toward the poor man, it was cast astray by the same beam of magicka that sent the man flying until he hit the closest tree, his life left to wane away at time's mercy. She stared at the caster. It was an elf, standing in the front line of a whole mage squad. An elf she knew all too well.

"Long time no see, little Yrith," he said amiably.

Her breath stopped. The cries of the battle stopped. Everything stopped.

"N-no…"

He should have been dead. She had killed him. Countless times she had replayed that moment in her mind, the pain he had inflicted on her vivid as much as the pain of taking a life, even if rotten. He had fallen right there before her eyes. And yet, here he stood.

She could smell the mint on him even from the distance. She still tasted the wine he had dripped on her chapped lips. She still felt the dark blade on the skin of her neck.

She retched. He gave a light chuckle as if observing his own child. Then, he lifted a hand, fingers sparking with magic, and fired. Not at her, but to her side. At Cain.

No, he wouldn't. Not Cain.

As if someone had pulled a Dwemer lever, all the sounds returned at once. Yrith produced a ward just in time to shield the Dunmer boy at her side who seemed to have been yelling something at her for a good while. Both of his hands were burning with magic, sending one ball of fire after another, even if now they seemed smaller and weaker than before. Leyna was warding them from the other side, the magic shield tattered and flickering on its edges. Keneel-La kept Shouting, his voice becoming raspy and wheezy. They were running out of resources. And now, the mages had come. What a flawless plan.

Yrith's face hardened. Whatever trick he had used to come back, she could not let Erinor kill a single one of her friends. She could not succumb to his ruthless tactics.

The story does not end until it's truly over…

She did not even aim. Magic burst from her clenched fists, forming into atronachs. They would not last long against the casters, but still, they could provide some distraction. If only she could create an opening…

The mages against them moved, spreading to cover more area. This did not look good. And yet, she could still see a path to the north-east.

"Cain?" she yelled.

"Finally listening?"

"Never mind that," she brushed him and his worried tone aside as she cast a ward with one hand and a poorly aimed bolt with another, all too aware he had been trying to reach her all this time, "can you still go? I'll give you magic. Your aim is better than mine."

The brief moment he took to reply felt like eternity.

"Are you serious? Of course I can!"

The sudden smile in his voice gave her courage. She did not hesitate to give him her hand, careful not to gaze into his mind as she flooded him with magic. Their hope was a decision, not a state. It would only take a while until the ecstasy of the moment would evaporate. And so they would fight now. She would let Erinor and his men taste all the rage she felt toward him. She would make him pay double.

As their hands broke apart, Cain's missiles flared with new life. He fired rapidly, not giving the enemy time to think. Speed was his only way to occasionally hit. When he hit, he hit hard. One in the head, another in the chest. Mages fell. Not Erinor.

The slick elf glided among the others as bolts of magic followed him. At times, he hid behind someone else's ward. Others, when there was no ward to protect him, he would simply grip the shoulders of a fellow mage and send him to death. Once, his living shield survived the blow. He did not hesitate to use him again.

Yrith felt her mouth twist by itself. She hated his ever-present smile. She wanted to wipe it off his face. She wanted to strangle him. Her missiles missed as well. The Dragonborn's Shouts, now less frequent as the lizard, protected by Leyna's ward, took longer breaks to draw breath, did not seem to affect him. Something was not right. Yrith was quite sure he had not been this quick and resilient the last time she fought him. Was it the surprise back then? No, certainly not.

She quickly produced a ward as a bolt of lightning flew at her. With the other hand, she sent a fire atronach to the side of the enemy line, followed by a dremora. The effect was opposite to what she had intended. She wanted the mages to back away. Instead, they rained on the creatures like skeevers on a slice of cheese.

She could not even think of an appropriate curse before she had to block another bolt. There were too many. They did not mind dying. Where one fell, two others took his place. Were there even so many mages in Tamriel? And most of them high elves too. All men. Not a single woman. That said something about Erinor.

She sent a dremora on their other side. The trick did not work. Erinor had read her intentions well. Now, the mages were firing from the distance and even extending it. Slowly but surely, they moved to block the passage entirely. Yrith's chances slimmed yet again.

"How do we break through?" she called to Keneel-La. With shock, she realized he was panting. His Shouts had ceased entirely.

"By force, it seems," he grunted, slipping behind Leyna's ward to avoid a fire bolt. "Can you and Leyna do it again?"

Yrith assumed he was talking about the ward they had used against the Falmer. She would have liked to look at Leyna and confirm. The constant fire did not let her. It seemed the mages against them grew fiercer and faster with every moment. No, that wasn't it. It was her that was becoming exhausted. It was her who was now too slow.

She took a breath as she fired another missile. It went wide, disappearing somewhere in the treetops. As if answering to the moment of weakness, Erinor's face appeared out of nowhere, just before her. She gasped and backed away instinctively. Her back hit the arms of Cain and Leyna, causing them to miss their shots and barge into Keneel-La. Erinor did not bother with magic. He pulled out a thin sword with a gilded leaf-shaped guard, thrusting its hilt into Yrith's chest. Dull pain hit her like an avalanche and spread far into her body. She staggered. Her injured leg gave way under her. In a desperate attempt, she sent forth a ball of fire. Erinor sneered and waved it away with magic. She could see Cain trying to get to the wicked elf, but a wall of fire rose before him, separating him from Yrith. On the other side, Leyna cried out as the first shot hit her. Not magic. An arrow. In all the chaos of fire, ice and lightning, they had forgotten the remaining soldiers. Keneel-La's huffs were drowned in the ringing of blade against blade. He too was preoccupied with his own opponent and much too weary from the previous fight.

She lifted herself on her elbows, only to be hammered down on the ground again. She could not find the breath to cry out. Erinor was playing with her. He would not kill her. Again, he would savor her torment with gusto. She retched again. And then, she felt stabbing. Stabbing in her forearm. Stabbing in her thigh. Stabbing in her hip. Again, and again, and again, white hot pain flashed through her like lightning in a thunderstorm, but the pain was not the worst. The pain, at least, reminded her she was still alive. But with it, came the cold. It was the cold of nothing. Through the tears in her flesh, her magic was, by some inconceivable force, leaving her.

Until it stopped.

She was barely breathing. There was hardly any life left in her. The stomped snow under her felt even colder and harder than it was. She gathered all her strength to look up. The elf stood above her with a soft, yet triumphant smile. In his hand, he twirled a thin dark blade, sparks of magic running along its edges. It was quiet now. The battle was over. Yrith could not hear her friends. She was afraid to think of the reason.

"I do not lose, little Yrith," Erinor said with a smile. "Not even in death. You are out of magic, and so are your friends. Well, well, well. Who would have thought I would gain myself a nice trophy by postponing the time I finally deal with you. The Dragonborn's head will fit nicely in my collection of dragon heads."

"You wish, scum" she heard Keneel-La's muffled voice. At least he was alive then.

"Oh, did I hear something? Perhaps a rustle of the wind…"

The mages standing behind him laughed. Then, their line broke to form an aisle for several newcomers. Five other elven mages, dragging along…

Yrith's heart shrank. No. No…

"We found these at the foothills," one of the elves said as he tossed his burden on the ground. So they finally met. Yrith stared into his dark eyes, her heart beating faster despite the fear and exhaustion.

"S-Singird…" she whispered. Even in her situation, she found solace in the name. In his presence. He was alive. Beaten, covered in blood. But breathing. Alive.

He said nothing as he looked at her, but she could read the words right off his face. Words of regret. Words of shame.

I failed you…

She was the one who had left Winterhold. Who had failed who?

"Well, well, well," Erinor sang sweetly. If only she could silence him. If only she could turn that smirk into agony. "Look at what we have here. A kitten," Yrith had almost missed the silver-furred Khajiit friend of Keneel-La's, "a naughty child of the desert," Qassir lay the furthest from her, his eyes staring absently into the sky in spite of the barely noticeable cloudlets of steam rising from his mouth, "and a mediocre mage calling himself a Master. And his own student calling him by his given name? Intriguing."

He cast a wicked glance at Yrith. The dark blade moved over to the nape of Singird's neck. If she had not been pale before, Yrith paled now. They had just met. They had just met! Would he kill them all? One after another, slowly, painfully, right in front of her eyes, before he would finally kill her? She wanted to cry out. She was scared to. He would take it as an incentive. Every move, every gasp or moan, every word was a sign to Erinor. But then again…

"What is it, little Yrith? You're not scared, are you?"

Silence was as well.

Yrith glared at him with all the hatred she had for him. She wished to kill with her eyes. Why was the world so unfair? If only it would end already. If only it was over…

"Indeed, you have a reason, don't you? You've gotten so used to your borrowed power. It's not yours, abomination. And you are out. You can't do anything but watch, can you?"

If only it would end…

The story does not end until it's truly over.

"You're out…"

The words were so sweet on his tongue. He laughed and twirled the blade again. The magic on it gave a light crackle. Magic. Yrith's magic.

She was out. He had deprived her of her power.

She stared at the blade, understanding clearing her mind of all doubt. A smile formed on her lips. A bestial smile, wild, uncontrolled. She laughed with him. She laughed louder. He tilted his head to the side, amused.

"So you have finally lost it, haven't you, little Yrith? Poor, powerless, little Yrith…"

She was still laughing. And then, she stopped.

"You're right," she hissed as she stared right into his beautiful, cruel eyes. "I'm out of magic."

"I'm glad we understand each other."

Erinor raised the dagger. His final moment of glory. His final mistake.

"But you're not!" Yrith cried. It was her magic. It would answer to her. Her fingers clutched the air. Her blood was still warm. Warm enough to provide the tiniest bit of energy. It was all she needed to create the link. She did not aim for the blade. She aimed for Erinor.

One moment he laughed. Then, horror marred his face as he realized what she was doing. He realized too late.

The dagger fell from his hands and jabbed itself into the ground just next to Singird's head. The spell Erinor tried to cast did not work. His magic did not obey him anymore. It was all under Yrith's control. With a hint of cruel satisfaction, she pulled. He screamed. The sound of it cut deep under everyone's skin. But he was powerless. The more he screamed, the more hunger she felt. She pulled. And pulled. And pulled.

"Stop her…" he rasped. "Stop her!"

Only a few of his mages dared turn to Yrith. She did not give them time. It was too easy. Too easy to just seize their life force and take it for herself. To shatter their souls like porcelain dishware tossed down from its shelf. Vaguely, she realized she was baring her teeth. Power flowed into her, filling her with new life. She ignored their screams. The sight of him, lying before her, helpless, his eyes begging her to spare his soul, was exhilarating. She wanted more. She drank his life in great, satisfying gulps. She drank theirs too, all those that tried to oppose her. The rest of them ran, stumbling through the snow, falling and rising again to get away from her as fast as they could. Run, away from the abomination. Away from the damnation. Never mind their fallen comrades.


It was quiet. Yrith's fingertips burned. Her head throbbed, her heart raced. She had done it. She had devoured the foul elf's soul so that he could never come back again, she had broken the cursed blade and undone every threat. The bodies lay in her feet, lifeless. She had saved her friends. She had cleared their path. She had…

Her eyes found Singird. He stared at her with wide eyes, face twisted in shock. He said nothing. But his long, piercing look was impossible to bear. She turned to Cain. The Dunmer's mouth was open, as if the hinges holding the jaw had come loose. She turned to the Dragonborn, but his face was carved in stone, unreadable. Questioning, perhaps. Leyna, Qassir, even the silver-furred Kharjo…

There was no joy in their stares. No triumph. No gratitude. Of course, there wouldn't be. She had just devoured the souls of several mages. She had denied them the path to Aetherius. She had the power to erase people from existence. She scared them. She was an abomination. Now, everyone could see it. Now, everyone knew.

In the end, she had lost. She had lost everything. They would hate her and fear her. They would avoid her and never speak to her again. Perhaps it was just right that she would die by the Demon's hand. She did not deserve to live.

She found herself struggling for breath. Her throat felt tight, barely letting in any air. She had to leave. Get away from them, leave them to their safety. They would be better off without her. They had always been.

She staggered backward, barely keeping her balance. One step, two, three… then she stopped, turning to Leyna for the last time. They were all lying on the ground, their limbs covered in nasty gashes. She knelt beside her elven friend, finding her fingertips. The hand yanked under her touch, but she held onto it, sending in a wave of magic. Magic that was not hers…

"For healing," she rasped, feeling the tears fall on her lips.

Then she turned away, forcing her feet into motion. Run, run away. Away from the madness, away from the hurt. Away from their looks, away from the blame.

She would run until she would be out of breath. She would run after that too. She would keep running forever, despite the pain, despite the innumerable wounds on her, despite her body that was crumbling apart.


Singird could not find the right words. What had just happened? What had he just witnessed? This was… Yrith? The look in her eyes, the mindless ferocity… he did not know this Yrith. This wasn't the same person he had met back in Winterhold. Where was she?

He looked up where she was standing, despite the quite obvious wounds littered all over her slight frame. He gazed into her face, long and deep. No, he was wrong. She was still there, that beautiful girl he had been searching for. She was there, and under that layer of false triumph and demonic smile, she hurt. She hurt so much he had to clutch his own chest. It was all there, not just this battle, but all those months of struggle and solitude, all the suffering she had gone through, all the hard lessons she had had to learn. She must have known the elf, he was sure about that. She loathed him, feared him. He had driven her into this state. He had all but deserved his fate.

He wanted to stand and embrace her. To finally hold her in his arms, after all this time, after those moments when he thought he never would. But he did not find the strength. He did not find the courage either. She was so close, yet so far. Perhaps she would crumble under his touch. Perhaps she would burst and consume him.

She turned away, her eyes roving from one person to another. And then, out of all people to approach, she chose… Leyna Travi. Why?

They shared something intimate. He could see Yrith touch the Altmer's hand, and his heart yearned to be in her place. Magic flared between them, and then it was gone again.

Her next words were accompanied by tears. He watched as she stood again and broke into a run. Why? Where was she going? Yrith!

"Yrith!" he cried, but she did not hear him anymore. He was not alone. Three other people were calling her name. All of her companions with whom she had come here.

The Dragonborn was the quickest to turn away.

"Damn it, damn it!"

He fought to stand. Singird beat him to it, even if barely able to keep upright. He limped to the closest tree, propping most of his weight against it as he tried to circle it. If she could run, he would never catch her. Still, it would not stop him from trying.

"Wait, Master Larkwing… let me…"

Singird didn't want to let him. He took a step away from the tree and fell into the smooth blend of snow and dirt.

The Dragonborn hissed under his breath.

"Dammit. Leyna, can you…?"

Miss Travi nodded, flooding the Dragonborn with golden magic as she crawled to him. His wounds ceased their bleeding. He was visibly relieved. Still, he grabbed his rucksack, pulling things out of it without much order. A waterskin, a belt, a non-transparent bottle filled with splashing liquid, a stuffed burlap pouch, spare shirt. As soon as his fingers clutched the shirt, he ripped it apart, quickly using the long, thin shreds in place of bandages or to strangulate his limbs. He rose the instant he tied the last knot, shaky, but determined.

"I'll get her," he said, nodding to Singird as he passed him. Singird gripped his arm, losing balance once more as the lizard moved.

"I'll go with you," he still tried, knowing full well how pathetic he must have sounded.

"Merciful Talos," the Dragonborn shook his head. "Yrith was quite a handful on her own. So now I have two fools with no preservation instinct on my neck, eh? You stay here in Leyna's care, she'll fix you right up. I'll bring the hatchling back."

He took two steps before turning around to glance at Singird once more.

"I promise," he added. And he was gone.


She did not know how long she had been running. Time had lost all meaning. She only knew it had become dark and she could not see. She did not care. She did not care when her injured leg finally buckled under her and sent her to the ground. She did not care about the pain that spread throughout her body, or the coldness of the snow she was now lying in, or the fact that she had nothing with her. No food, no water, no bedroll to warm herself up. It did not matter. Nothing mattered.

She had killed so many. Not just killed. She had devoured them. Their own life was now coursing through her and giving her a semblance of strength. Erinor's life too…

Her stomach knotted. She didn't know how she managed to stand and lean against the closest tree when the contents of it decided to leave the entirely wrong way. She felt disgusted with herself. It had felt good. For a moment, she had been literally drunk with power. She had craved more. She might have taken more…

What if, one day, she would lose control? What if she would turn against her friends too?

No, that must not happen. Never.

She stood there, head against the tree, her mouth open, even if nothing came out anymore. There was nothing left inside. She felt so sick. Sick of herself. Sick of this life.

A while or two, or an eternity later, she was staggering through the snowy pine forest. She let her feet work on their own, until they gave way again. She found herself half buried in the snow, staring into the coldness below. But who cared. Who cared about anything…


Warmth woke her. A tight, strong embrace. Arms accustomed to hard physical work and heavy burdens, firm and solid as a rock, yet tender in their own way. She opened her eyes, realizing she was resting against Keneel-La's chest. But how…

She pulled away. The Dragonborn looked at her gently.

"Apologies. I didn't find the strength to carry you in my state, and I didn't bring anything with me. This was the only way to warm you."

"I…"

They were alone. He must have come after her, even after everything she had done. She didn't know what she wanted to say. Everything felt so wrong. She realized she was sweating and shaking.

"Y-you… you should have left me…"

"And what good would that do, eh? What happened to your purpose? What happened to the Elder Scroll you hold inside?"

"It only makes me more dangerous…"

"No, Yrith. Despair makes you more dangerous. It's natural. Even the most docile animal will bite if you drive it into a corner. And you have the misfortune of being a very powerful mage."

"But I felt… I…"

"It felt good, didn't it?" he said quietly. He knew. There was naught but understanding in his lizard face. Painful, agonizing understanding. "The power, the triumph, the knowledge that he is gone, it all made you feel good, didn't it?"

"But…"

"I know the feeling. Even killing a stranger can have this effect."

"I devoured his soul…"

He gave a sad, yet warm smile. "And he would have done the same to you if he only could. Perhaps he was going to. You did exactly the right thing. You used his weakness against him."

"Doesn't that make me the same as him? How can this be the right thing?!"

"You managed to save yourself and all of us. How is it not the right thing?"

"I devoured their souls. All of them. Ripped them apart, denied them the right to exist, the journey to Aetherius. It's just…"

"It was their choice, Yrith. Until the last moment, it was their choice."

"To die like that?"

"They picked their side."

"Did they even know who they were fighting for?"

Keneel-La let out a long, weary breath. She felt his hand on her shoulder.

"Don't ask yourself these questions, hatchling. Ignorance is also a choice. In most cases anyway. You can't spare everyone just because they might not be aware of what they are doing. This was their souls or yours. Ours. You were trying to save our lives. And you did."

Yrith shot him a dark look. He made it sound so noble. So purposeful. He made her look like a hero. Easy for him to say when he was one.

"I was trying to take revenge," she uttered grimly.

He laughed. She wished to hit him in the face.

"Indeed you were. It would be strange if you weren't. The short display he presented was enough to help me understand how much he must have done to you back when you were captured. Hurt, Yrith, is not a sickness. Hurt has to be healed. Wounds on the soul can fester too."

"But I…"

"It's all right, Yrith. He is gone. He can't hurt you anymore. He can't hurt any of us, thanks to you."

Tears were flowing uncontrollably, like rivers bursting their banks. No matter how many walls and dams she tried to build in their way, they just poured.

"You wouldn't be in any danger in the first place if you weren't constantly trying to protect me," she sobbed, feeling foolish for receiving comfort from him on top of everything else.

His smile grew brighter.

"But that's a choice as well, isn't it? Our choice."

She blinked as she tried to clear her vision.

"What?"

"To be honest, you're not being very fair. By shifting all the responsibility onto yourself, you're denying us the right to make our own choices. What would you do if the tables were turned?"

"I…"

She couldn't find an excuse anymore. Of course she would do the same. Of course she would give her life for Cain and Leyna, for Singird, for Keneel-La, perhaps even for Qassir and the silver-furred Khajiit. It was for this reason it all hurt so much. It was for this reason she had to cry. But, curious as it felt, it was for this reason that she could smile too.

She shook her head.

"I'm so sorry…"

"If you are, then come back with me. I think young Cain may have ripped all his hair out with worry by now. Not to mention Master Larkwing. Such fine hair he has…" he laughed. "I have to give it to you, you never fail to surprise me."

Yrith paled. And there was that too. Upon their arrival, she would have a lot of explaining to do.


The sun was peeking over the eastern horizon when they finally reached the cave. Yrith's eyes fell on the Nordic burial urns at its entrance, but the Dragonborn passed them with no concern. She could feel the warmth of a campfire coming from the inside. They entered in silence, but the quiet voices echoing through the place told them all was in order. She hesitated before stepping up from the shadow. But then, she drew a breath and took a resolute step forward. All eyes turned to her in an instant.

"Yrith! By the gods…!"

Cain cast aside all restraint. He flung himself on her person, wrapping his arms around her so tightly it hurt. Then he pulled away, stepping into the line formed by all others.

"You're alive," he commented wearily. "We were so worried…"

"I can only concur."

She looked at Singird. He, on the other hand, held onto all of his restraint. She could see his hands fidgeting. His jaw trembled, his eyes were shaded by dark circles. But deep underneath all that, there was the joy from seeing her in one piece. Quiet, grateful joy.

"I know," she whispered.

"Then why did you run?" Even Leyna joined them. The snort she gave could not be more unconvincing. "What were you thinking?"

Qassir and Kharjo simply observed, but their eyes did not leave Yrith for a split moment.

"Foolish things," Yrith shook her head. "I was worried that…"

"That we would look down on you, or fear you, or whatnot, as always, eh? Don't you ever learn?"

She flushed fiercely as she looked away. There were more burial urns. A brazier filled with dead embers. The remains of a dried-out snowberry wreath. The places they had to pick for shelter just to transport her safely across Skyrim.

"Damn you fools and your stupid choices," she snorted quietly.

At her side, Keneel-La laughed. There was a moment of silence, save for the crackling of the campfire. Maybe now they were finally regretting…

"What?" Cain's voice issued just a tiny bit louder than the softest crackle.

Yrith turned to him, wondering if the weakness in her knees was due to injuries and exhaustion or her own silly words.

"Who asked you to protect me?"

They all stared. All except Leyna who gave another snort.

"You've gone completely troll, haven't you?" she asked, shaking her head. Her voice was so light. She was smiling a contagious smile. Yrith felt her own lips curl.

"Likely," she said. She really felt tired. So, so tired. In a good way.

"Welcome back," Cain said, his face bright with relief. "I haven't seen that smile in a while."

Yrith gave a nod. She had not felt that smile in a while. But still, it had come. They were there, after the spectacle she had given. They were there, not judging. Not forcing her to go back. What had she seen in their faces back then? Perhaps it wasn't disgust after all.

A gentle pat on her shoulder made her turn to the source. Keneel-La was beckoning her forward, the merry sparks back in his eyes. She nodded. There was one last thing to do.

She crossed the empty space between her standing spot and the group of people by the fire. When she stopped, she was standing before the person she had most yearned to see and most feared to face. He had changed. His robes were ragged, his hair way less shiny and obedient, his face hard and weathered. And yet, his eyes shone brighter than she remembered them. They were fixed on her, and even with no words, she could guess his thoughts. She took a breath.

"It's been a long time," she said.

He gave a slow nod. "Too long," he managed. His voice was shaking more than hers. And then, with no concern for whoever might be watching, he pulled her close and aimed for her lips.

The scent of starched linens was gone from his person. But he was still Singird. Too tall for her, and much too straightforward.

Indeed, she'd have a lot of explaining to do.


A/N: Did Erinor survive, or did he die and come back? That's the question… ;)

And I know, I might have cut it right after Yrith ran away and made the chapter shorter. But I thought wrapping it up here would be more fitting than a forceful split. Not every chapter needs a clilffhanger. :)