The rest of the day was uneventful and silent now that Galmir had nothing to say. Zudarra rode in front in a sour mood. Saraven had been getting on all right, making it easy to forget her guilt. But now he'd thrown it in her face again, and all of her own grievances with herself as a vampire paraded through her mind.

When are you going to admit that you hate what you are? When are you going to admit that you were young and stupid and made a mistake? Never, she answered. I can't go back. I have to accept this.

But did he? Could she really ask Saraven to accept an existence he detested just so that... why? Why had she done it? Deep inside she already knew the answer: Zudarra didn't want to be alone. She didn't want to lose the closest thing she'd had to a friend in her entire life.

Black clouds had rolled in from the Eastern mountains a few hours before Magnus set, obscuring moon and star alike. Instead of a brilliant painter's sunset they were treated to a gray curtain that blanked the horizon. Zudarra was content to ride through the night when the first drop of cold rain splashed against her helm, a tinny echo resounding inside. A faraway rumble followed not long after.

Zudarra was angry with him again. These silences bothered Saraven. If she would scream at him, vent some defensive words, get it out of her system, then she would calm down and they could generally go on as before. What was this? Had he broken some sort of vampire social code she hadn't told him about? Were they just not supposed to acknowledge the urge to dominate or fight each other? Or was he supposed to knuckle under without discussion because he was in one way her offspring now?

Surely not. Zudarra had never been one to strongly insist on unwritten rules, or indeed on anything subtle and unspoken. He had always been the one assuming boundaries that to her did not exist.

It was coming on to rain, the sky graying out across the horizon ahead of them. At the sound of distant thunder Brithe stirred, heart speeding up a little out of the regular deep rhythm that suggested she had been dozing in the saddle behind him.

"Zudarra," he called up ahead. "The thralls can't ride all night through rain. And you're a lightning rod in that armor. We'd better look for a cave or a ruined house."

Zudarra grumbled under her breath, as if Saraven were forcing her to stop and she herself hadn't been thinking the same thing. It would be a shame if her new armor rusted. Zudarra began looking around, finally paying attention to the passing landscape she had been largely ignoring so far.

Further down road a moldy little door was set in a hill on their left, a rusted and broken lantern hanging from the doorpost. A mine, perhaps? When Zudarra neared she could detect the faint stink of goblins, very old and tinged with blood. There had been a slaughter. She waved at Saraven and pointed. It was the best they could do on short notice, and the droplets were falling faster now, a constant soft patter against her armor and the black river.

The forest had grown closer to the road as they neared Bravil and not far away a thicket of trees would provide shelter for the horses. Saraven hated to leave Ves that far away on a rainy night, but the gelding seemed content enough with Elwaen – apparently the Bosmer had given her a name while they were gone – and Shadow. They were herd animals, after all, and no mountain lion or bear would attack three of them together.

Thinking of wild animals seemed an incredibly small and prosaic concern with everything that had occupied the last few days of his life. He was too tired to laugh at himself -

Tired? He shouldn't be tired, Zudarra had insisted that was not something she ever felt. Maybe it was because he was new. He had to assume the vampires he had killed while they were resting in coffins were just... No, that didn't make sense either. Maybe she had been being defensive again.

With the horses tied up, Zudarra herded Galmir back to the cave with a hand on his shoulder, her bag and his bedroll under her arms. She knew the elf could make out nothing more than vague, black shapes in the moonless night and was half asleep as it was. Saraven guided Brithe after Zudarra's tall and gleaming form in the dark as he hauled the saddlebags and bedroll in his other arm. He did not suddenly have the ability to see better than a Khajiit in the darkness, but certainly better than he had as a mer. The Nord swayed and staggered, as Galmir was doing; she had made it through a long day's ride and a trying combat after losing a great deal of blood. It was a wonder she was still walking.

Zudarra had to bow to fit inside the tiny entrance, but was relieved to find that after a short slope down in a narrow tunnel it opened up to a very wide room. Its size was the only comfort; the air was oppressively damp, and the rotting support beams which held up the ceiling were speckled with mold and mildew. There was hardly anything inside other than more rotting pieces of wood that had at one time been crates and coils of rope embedded in the dirt. Everything else had been pilfered long ago.

Zudarra's foot kicked something hard; a bone, and the rattling echo as it hit the wall made Galmir jump. There were a few old remains of the former occupant's prey littered here and there, but none of it was fresh.

Brithe shivered as she blinked into the darkness of the cave. Saraven left her leaning against the wall as he circled the room, sniffing suspiciously, but he neither scented fresh blood nor heard any heart beating.

"No air shaft," he said. "We can't start a fire or we risk suffocating them. Bed them down together, to keep warm?"

"Sure," Zudarra shrugged, flopping down the bedroll near a wall and guiding Galmir down to it. It was so easy to forget that temperature could be more than a minor discomfort to those with living bodies. She fished water and a packet of jerky out of her bag and shoved it into the Bosmer's hands with an order to eat, then retreated several feet away to remove her armor. He sat with arms drawn tightly to his chest and chewed slowly, too tired and cold to enjoy the meal.

Saraven laid his bedroll out beside Galmir and urged Brithe over to sit on it. He gave her the water skin and food bag from the saddlebags and laid those down nearby, then took the extra blanket from the other bag and draped it around her shoulders. "Eat until you're not hungry. Lie close to Galmir," he told her. "You'll be warmer." Either of them should be quite safe with the other, with another sad broken soul recently bereft of loved ones and home.

Brithe nodded vaguely. She could probably climb out of the trance if she wished. He was not forcing her under, and she had chosen to do so when they were attacked. Right now she did not want to and was too tired to try. He watched her as he retreated a few feet away with the pliers from his saddlebags.

The Nord ate with some alacrity, hungry from the day's exertion, and then turned to look down at the Bosmer with the water skin still in her hands. Galmir finished eating first and had curled up miserably on his bedroll. She put the water skin carefully away in the saddlebag, wiped her hands on her robes, and lay down to scoot up next to him, throwing half her extra blanket over his body. After a moment the blanket stirred as she threw an arm over him. She shut her eyes and shed no tears. The body she held was not Glarius. He was too small and there was no smell of human sweat and armor polish. But Glarius would not mind; he was a practical man, and either of them had lain close by a comrade for warmth at different times. She was warm and at peace, and her stomach was full, and it felt so good to lie down. It seemed she had been riding forever. She drifted gladly into the embrace of cottony darkness, silent and without dreams.

Galmir was half-asleep when the weight fell across his side and he instinctively scooted back into the warm body beside him. For a moment he remembered a name and smiled with his eyes still shut. Mileth. He had found her after all. Never mind that the body beside his was too thick with muscle and acrid grub-smoke did not cling to her hair. Her warmth seeped deeper than his skin as Galmir drifted to sleep.

Zudarra had been unstrapping her armor while the thralls ate, and now her ears popped free of the helm as she lifted it from her skull and rubbed at an itch inside her ear. It felt good to have that bucket off her head and shake out her fur, although she could already feel it fuzzing up from the damp of the cave. Armor maintenance had always been a soothing process for Zudarra, a way of clearing her mind. She sat cross-legged against the wall, weapon and armor pieces and her bag arranged around her for easy access and began the long process of wiping dry every last corner and crevice of the adamantium and its complicated little designs.

Saraven unbuckled his baldric and belt, tugged off the mail shirt and began checking it over for warped links to pinch them back into place. He looked over at Zudarra, but she seemed to be calmly working on her armor. Perhaps it was better not to interrupt. After a moment he took off his mail gauntlets to make the process easier. There was a brown stain on his left hand where the link had cut him. He dampened it with spit and wiped it off, leaving the little cut in his hand. It would heal when next he fed, but it would be easy enough to get it back. It wasn't as though he need worry about infection now.

Zudarra caught another whiff of old blood and glanced quickly up at Saraven, realizing suddenly that it was something he had done to himself. She vaguely understood why, which renewed the guilt she'd already been stewing in. Zudarra carefully kept her eyes on her hands and not on him until the silence roared loud and accusing in her mind.

"No one has had any bad news from Anvil, but I can't help wondering how my mother is doing through all of this," Zudarra said hesitantly, without looking up. It was the only thing she could think to say above "How 'bout that rain?" The storm was picking up and they could hear a sudden wind hurling rainwater against the door.

"Well, we could try and write her from Bravil, but I don't know how many of the Black Horse Couriers are still running now," said Saraven calmly. He did not sound angry as he bent over the mail shirt, the sound of links sliding occasionally audible under the storm. "I've been confused. Do we actually sleep?"

Saraven's tone relieved her, although she already knew it wasn't his nature to be angry. Her quarrel was only with herself. She chuckled at his question and looked up at his face.

"I do sleep, but I don't think I need to. It's not restful in the way it used to be. I've stayed awake on the road to guard the rest of you - and a good thing, too, remembering those necromancers." Zudarra seemed to have forgotten that she'd been paralyzed and useless for several minutes of that encounter. "If you want to sleep to pass the time, go ahead."

Saraven grunted acknowledgment as he put the mail shirt and belt back on. It was so light now. He could hardly believe the mithral chain had ever wearied him.

"Did I say something wrong, back on the road?" he asked.

A muscle in her face twitched below the eye, the aborted beginnings of a scowl. Zudarra did not like to be reminded when she was wrong, usually could twist the evidence in her own mind until she believed she was right, but lately she found it impossible to do that regarding Saraven.

"No," she admitted with difficulty. "You reminded me of what I did to you, and other thoughts I try not to think of." She set aside the pauldron she'd been cleaning and drew up one knee to lay her arm across it, leaning back against the wall as if she couldn't hold herself up any longer with the burden of guilt across her shoulders.

Saraven lifted his head suddenly to look at her. Damn you. I am the monster you have made me. He had been furious, starving, grieving his lost mortality, but the words had been as cutting as he could make them at the time.

He did not enjoy what he was now, but the more time passed, the further away he drew from that despairing moment in which he had stared into a pillar of fire and wished himself ashes. Now he stood up and walked over to sit down beside her, back against the wall, shoulder to her shoulder, moving slowly and carefully in order not to trigger a reflex of threat. Some aggressive back-brained undead thing was agitated at her proximity, insisting that he was in danger, that he should attack now and prosecute the faintest chance that he might survive. Saraven sat on it firmly. It helped that he no longer had a pulse to beat faster, no working glands to poison him with adrenaline.

Zudarra's mind raced as Saraven came near, steeling the muscles of her face to hide her alarm. An ear twitched back. No one invaded the personal bubble of Zudarra the Bloody; if she moved toward them, they got out of the way. No one had friendly words for her. No one sat beside her in companionable closeness. The tickle of her fur where it brushed against his shoulder recalled the warmth of his hand on her head. Zudarra's breast surged with the same alien emotion, warm and golden, while moth wings fluttered in her belly.

His scent was contentious, needling; It was comforting, familiar. He was friend and foe in one person and as confusing as he'd ever been to Zudarra. She swallowed uneasily, watching his face from the side.

"You did what you had to do," he said. "Each of us tried to choose for the other. You chose the way that ended in survival. I can't say you were more wrong than I was." It still wrung his guts that he had had to leave the people in the cells behind, but sometimes there was no good answer. That was one of the things progressing age taught that youth would refuse to learn.

The muscles of his shoulders and neck relaxed slowly as he sat there. It was different, to just be physically near someone without the pressure of sex, without the threat of violence. He grieved that the second was now partly lost to him. For all its horrors, the last moments of his mortal life had been some of the happiest he had known.

"I wish I hadn't done it," she said thickly, looking away from him, down at her hands, resisting the sudden urge to lean closer. They were cold, they were dead, there was no comfort to be had from him or anyone. "I've killed plenty of people in my life. Killing you shouldn't have been any different, and you wanted it, even. And now- I don't know if you'll ever be with your family again, being what you are-" She stopped suddenly, fearfully, realizing she may have trespassed into forbidden territory.

"Zudarra," he sighed. "My family were lost to me when I turned to the service of Meridia. They are in Aetherius, and I would have gone to the Colored Rooms, to be hers forever. By the time I thought of that it had been too long for me to regret it. They died without ever being exposed to the things I have seen since. My Velaru would not know me. Dorova was so young that he probably does not remember me. If I went to that place they would not be reunited with the mer that they knew, because that mer died with them. What you did has not changed that." He sounded resigned, weary, more like the mer she had met first. It was something he had had time to think over and accept over the course of long years.

"It was not you that separated me from them. That happened a long time ago."

So it was a wife and child after all. Her heart sank with the knowledge. His words brought her no relief, and Zudarra found herself instead feeling.. was it angry? that he would be so resigned to his lonely eternity in exchange for revenge against an enemy he could never really conquer.

"Are you- I mean, were you happy in the years before we met? Did you enjoy life as it was?" she asked aggressively, facing him fully this time, searching his tired eyes.

Saraven faced her, shaking his head slowly. "Of course not. Haven't I told you that what happens to me doesn't matter? The reason I lived on those thirty years was not that I hated vampires. I did, for a long time, but that would not have been enough. It was to try to save families like mine. By the time we met, even that was starting to wear thin. I usually came along after the disaster had already happened. The gates opening was something new. This one might be stopped."

He faced forward again, arms on his knees. "My mind was finally going, I think. Making me see things that were past. That's stopped," he said. "If it wasn't for the thirst my mind would finally be clear. So that's something."

"What point is there in living that kind of life?" she asked harshly, lips curling as if the very idea was bitter on her tongue. "Would Velaru have wanted this joyless existence for you? You've done your share, you've saved countless lives, but it's time to start living for yourself. You might think I'm young and stupid, and maybe I am. Maybe I haven't lived through the grief you have-" She faltered and appeared to be flustered for a moment before continuing her lecture. "Well, it was too long ago for me to remember or care. But you act so resigned to your fate, as if you are walking dead when you aren't, as if this noble suffering is the only thing that could ever be in store for you. It isn't."

Her spiel ended with Zudarra still glaring at his eyes. Her claws had sprung out as they often did in irritation, but she had not clenched her fists or shown any other signs of hostility. She didn't even know why she was so worked up over it. It was Saraven's own life, and she knew his values were different from hers. But being good and living a fulfilling life did not seem mutually exclusive to her.

Saraven turned in surprise at a piece of new information, and then stopped, eyes on her eyes, as the rest of it sank in. An electric jolt shot up his spine – claws out, defend yourself while you still can – but he was able to quell it with no more than a tremor of his upper lips, a flaring of the nostrils.

He had forborn to consider what Velaru would want. That had been too painful at first, and later had seemed irrelevant. The dead were dead. He hoped always that she never thought of him.

But she would. You wish to think otherwise, but that is doing her a disservice.

"What happened to you?" he said. "You never did say how you came to be adopted by an Imperial."

Zudarra's shoulders lowered as she visibly relaxed, now that her piece was said, a wry smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. She leaned her shoulder against the wall, still facing him.

"Lavinia seems like such a nice, harmless old lady, doesn't she? She killed my real parents when I was very small." The Khajiit seemed totally indifferent to this fact, yet slightly amused to watch his reaction to it.

Saraven lifted an eyebrow, but she was obviously baiting him.

"How'd that come about?" he asked. "With the sword on the wall in her house I assumed she was a legionnaire or something."

"Ha! No. She was a highwayman for a very long time. She says she gave it up to be a better example to me, but the truth of it is that her vision was going and she had no choice. Cataracts, and the healers said it'll get worse until she's totally blind. Anyway, my parents must have been merchants on their way to the Imperial City. They were traveling by wagon when Ma - when Lavinia and her group ambushed them. For whatever reason the idiots fought back and got themselves killed with little me, around three or so, hiding in the back under the canvas. I must have heard them being killed, but it's hard to say which of my memories are real and which are fabrications that arose over time, you know?

"Lavinia didn't like to kill people, and wouldn't have if they'd just handed over their gold. But things happened how they did and she felt so guilty about it that she raised me herself. I don't think I had any extended family in Cyrodiil, so maybe she thought that was better than leaving me to an orphanage. I have to agree with that decision."

Zudarra stopped, briefly considering how callous she must sound to someone like Saraven, who cared so deeply for his family and for other people. Shouldn't she care that the woman who raised her killed her real parents? She didn't. In a detached sort of way she occasionally wondered what kind of people they'd been; what their names were. But those details really had no bearing on her life, so she couldn't seem to find the anger or the sorrow that a normal person might have felt. The only good turn they'd done for her was to die and let her be raised by someone who wasn't weak.

Thinking of the person she might have been otherwise - a gentle girl, unhardened by living among the scoundrels who taught her how to hold an axe, how to kill clean and efficiently, content to sit on her ass in a cozy shop whilst counting her gold - made her sick.

Saraven listened quietly, brows knit. He supposed that explained a great deal about Zudarra, that her first memories should be of violent death and the subsequent ones of being raised by her parents' murderer. And Lavinia had not even been able to convince Zudarra that she was at all repentant of the life she had lived or the things she had done. Frankly it was surprising Zudarra had grown up with any ability to feel remorse or empathy at all. All that mattered to highwaymen was gold, strength, survival; and these were the things in which Zudarra had always expressed an interest.

"So you grew up among bandits," he said. "And that's where you learned to fight?" At least going into the Arena was a legitimate profession even if it still involved killing people for gold. In her way she had been trying to achieve something more respectable than her adoptive mother.

Or she wanted to be famous, and famous highwaymen chiefly get tracked down and killed by the Legion, he thought dryly. He strongly suspected that was the real answer.

Zudarra nodded.

"Yes, although Lavinia tried to insulate me from the worst of them, and she never allowed me to see her working or to participate myself until I was much older. I insisted until she gave in. That probably gives you a poor opinion of me, to know I've robbed people, but I suppose you had no illusions about me being good to begin with." She spoke flippantly, as if it didn't matter what he thought. "Ma was always fighting some inner battle with herself, always so sad about how I was being raised, but I don't think she knew how to escape that life or do anything differently until fate forced her hand. I started making gold in the arena, helped her to buy that house along with what she'd saved. She's been a different person since we left."

Zudarra's throat was starting to feel sore. It was the most talking she'd done with another person in quite a long time.

"To begin with I only cared that you were a vampire," he said bluntly. "I felt sorry for Vandalion, but then everything went to hell before I found you again, and you know how that turned out. Then things just sort of happened one after the other, and." He shrugged. "I saw you trying, and I had to respect that even if it didn't fit what I've always believed."

He turned to look over at the two thralls, sleeping peacefully with the Nord spooning the Bosmer, and sighed. He would have killed himself before willingly agreeing to the necessity of keeping another person around as a food source. But hateful necessity was not a novel thing in his life. Wasn't it really a matter of degree, when you got right down to it?

Hateful necessity is not what Velaru would have wanted for you, either. He acknowledged it silently, with resignation. But what was he to do about that now? Already he was growing accustomed to being stronger, faster, without the creaks and pains of middle age, without his own mind playing tricks on him. He could not pretend that he missed the weakness of his mortal flesh.

Zudarra laughed at the absurdity of his compliment, a short bark of a sound. Trying at what? she wondered, following his gaze to the thralls, and again considered what sort of price Saraven must be paying for his. Gears seemed to be turning when she looked upon his face again.

"I can't say my opinion of you has changed much since our first meeting," she said, smiling. "I had you pegged as a rigid goody-goody, and still think so. But you've stuck to your principals the entire time I've known you. You've fought hard for them. I'll take that over the hypocritical asses who are all talk any day. You're all right, Saraven." She had relaxed quite a bit more, claws sheathing themselves as one palm rested comfortably on her knee, the other in her lap.

"Thanks," he said, smiling very slightly. "You, too." The claws were in, anyway. That stopped the persistent alarms going off in his back-brain. He risked bumping the side of her knee with the back of his hand, once. Zudarra's stomach flipped when Saraven touched her, but for once she allowed herself to enjoy the sense of companionship rather than trying to push it away. She was too exhausted to fight with herself, and she was glad that he actually seemed to be in a good mood despite the heavy topics they'd discussed.

Saraven got up then to walk about the cave slowly, listening to the rain. Keeping his feet quiet on the dirt floor was a disciplinary exercise that absorbed some of his attention, at least; one ought not wake the two mortals if it could be helped.

The mail link seemed to be helping. He might need something stronger the next time he fed. He couldn't depend on Brithe to protest while she was either entranced or in the state of mind in which he had found her. Maybe if he started out with that hand closed, so that he could still feel it from the beginning, it would stop him from going into that lustful trance from which he had not yet been able to voluntarily extract himself.

The night wore on. He tried sleeping at last, and it was a strange experience; he sat down with his back to the wall and told himself, I will wake up when the sun rises, and knew nothing until his eyes suddenly opened on a shaft of light rolling across the floor in front of him. Saraven put his hand into the sunbeam and then jerked it out again as he felt the sting. It was like touching a hot stovetop.

His gums itched again. He looked around for the thralls. Brithe still seemed to be heavily asleep, still curled around Galmir like an octopus.

Zudarra dozed lightly herself, always at the cusp of awareness, listening to the howling of the wind against the flimsy door and the gentle patter of rain as the storm slowly receded. She found it soothing. Hunger eventually roused her from her torpor, and she winced at the sunlight that crawled menacingly through the cracks in the door. Saraven was awake already. He would feel the hunger as well - worse than her, his last meal had been mortal while she feasted on dremora.

It was time once again for the uncomfortable truths to be spoken.

"You will feed first," Zudarra said firmly. "I'll be here, watching."

"Yes," he said grimly. He walked over to kneel on the floor beside the Nord, reaching out to shake her shoulder gently. "Brithe, wake up."

"Hmn?" She yawned hugely, squinting at the back of the Bosmer's head, then rolled over under the blanket to blink sleepily up at Saraven.

"It's time again," he said. Saraven leaned down to nudge his hand under her back and scoop her into a sitting position.

Count the seconds. At ten I let go.

She held out her arms obediently, trusting and calm in a way that twinged at his gut with guilt, and he wrapped his arms around her and fastened his fangs into her neck, enclosing her mind in euphoric calm. One. He remembered to close his left fist against her back in the moment before the blood hit his tongue, and then pleasure exploded through his body. Two. He made a sound that would have humiliated him if he could think at all, a guttural moan. Three. His fingers tightened convulsively, and then the pain interrupted his mounting frenzy as the hidden link stabbed his hand. Four, he remembered. No, six now, I lost... lost... He snarled as ecstasy threatened to obliterate his control. Brithe shuddered and gasped into his shoulder, arms squeezing him so tightly that if he had been alive he would not have been able to breathe.

Eight, damn it. Nine. NOW. He clenched his fist and jerked his mouth away.

"Ten," he hissed, eyes wide and half-mad as he briefly met Zudarra's eyes past the Nord's shoulder. She'd been staring hungrily, nostrils flaring at the scent of blood on the air. Zudarra had to check herself from stepping toward him prematurely, beat down the urge to steal his thrall from his hands. No. She is not mine. I will feed next.

Pulling away was the hardest thing Saraven had ever done, coitus interruptus and a sore tooth rolled into one, but Brithe was conscious, a fervid spot of color in each white cheek as she looked at him with wide, dilated eyes. He looked away from the other vampire quickly.

"Good," he said, loosening his grip. He healed Brithe with a brief gesture. "Eat." He dragged the saddlebags closer and got up to pace to the other side of the cave, to lean his head against the wall and try to think of literally anything but blood. Brithe scooted to the end of the bedroll, away from Galmir, and reached out to dig for the food and water, still breathing heavily.

Zudarra fully expected that she would have to separate Saraven from his thrall, but he'd pulled away on his own relatively quickly. Her smoldering eyes followed him as he moved away, fighting back the rage and the jealousy. She would have liked to blame the beast within for those emotions, but Zudarra knew that it was all her original personality. He had mastered self-restraint on his third day; he was superior to her in that regard.

His face did not speak of superiority. His face spoke of torture.

"You did very well," Zudarra said, stomping down her unhelpful emotions, trying to appear kind. "It will get even easier."

Zudarra actually said something reassuring? Whatever the change had done to him, it seemed to have brought out the best in her. That was worth something, wasn't it? Last night had been the longest conversation they'd ever had.

Is that because she feels guilty or because she only sees another vampire as an equal?

Ha. Vampires don't see anyone as an equal, least of all each other. You know that, or you wouldn't constantly be talking yourself out of attacking her.

"Galmir, get up," she said to her thrall's back.

Galmir was already awake, the withdrawal of Brithe's warm embrace having roused him. His eyes had slowly cracked open to a dank and dreary mine, animal bones scattered on the floor a few feet away from his nose. There had been a sharp pang of grief when he remembered that his last thought before he fell asleep was an impossibility. Rational thought surged through the fog and for a moment he knew what he was: food. He'd pressed his face into the bedroll so that the others could not see his eyes screwing shut as he listened to Saraven feed on his bed-mate. Galmir knew that he was next and didn't care at all. Let the stupor come.

But he obeyed when Zudarra spoke, pushing himself up with his palms, keeping his eyes downcast to hide the redness that must surely be there. Zudarra could feel his sorrow as she kneeled beside him on the other side of their joined beds. He obediently held his head to the side for her easy access and his pain was extinguished before she even touched him.

Zudarra didn't take much, only what she absolutely needed to weather the sun. He was small, and it was better to save his strength for after the next gate. It was hard. But if Saraven could show restraint, then damn it, so could she. Her mouth popped free with an unnecessary gasp and she stared greedily at his wound for an eternity, droplets leaking with every throb of the big artery, but finally rose to her feet and let her healing magic go. Galmir smiled stupidly up at her as the magicka caressed his neck, once again lost in the peaceful, thoughtless calm. He couldn't even remember what had troubled him a moment before.

"Eat now, Galmir," she said stiffly. Brithe patted Galmir familiarly as she ate, offering him a tidbit of dried apricot. He seemed like a nice elf, she decided through the glow of gentle bemusement. "And Saraven, my armor? Please." It would give him something to do, something else to focus on, and they could leave as soon as the others finished their breakfast.

"Armor. Yes," he said, and turned, shaking his head to try to clear it as he moved to help her put on the adamantium. He could scent Galmir's blood on her, and fought down the urge to be smug that his thrall was bigger and stronger. Any undead creature that could live to be ancient must spend a lot of time fighting down the stupid instincts of a fledgling. Or maybe they went away over the years. He could hope.

...Years? Was he really resigned to letting this go on after the gates were closed?

I have become the thing I hate most!

You don't hate Zudarra. You accepted the necessity of Brithe awfully quickly.

Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.

He calmed slowly as he put the armor together, a task that required enough concentration to gradually quell the confusion.

Everyone fed and properly attired, Zudarra was glad to get underway. The poor horses had been soaked even under the dense forest canopy, and although they didn't seem to mind at all, were given brushings and pears as a consolation. Galmir laughed at the gentle tickle of Elwaen's rubbery lips as they gathered the fruit from the flat of his palm, leaving behind a gob of horse slobber that he wiped on his pant leg. He gave a pear to Brithe, urging her to try it, too.

Brithe accepted a pear cheerfully, laughing at Galmir and the horse. It was a little mealy, but it was sweet, and she enjoyed it. The taste seemed even more vivid after she had fed Saraven. Probably because of the blood loss. She accepted that philosophically – it was worth it to be rid of the pain.

She rode behind Saraven, arms around his mailed waist, and tried not to mourn in her heart for Glarius, who had been bigger and broader and so strong, always reliable. And warm. The vampire leeched heat from her body rather than providing more.

The world was wet and misty again but it cleared as the sun rose and turned into another pleasantly warm day. Zudarra rode with the others, occasionally remarking on the landmarks they passed. Several hours after their noon lunch break, they noticed a mass of shapes on the horizon down road. As they grew near they could see what appeared to be a platoon of armored warriors, moving away from them. Hoots and hollers rose above a strange parody of a military drum beat, the clanking of a ladle against a cast iron lid. It soon became apparent that the troops marched with absolutely no formation, and that their armor was nothing conventional. From a distance, the pots and pans strapped to some of them had looked like gray armor as they glinted in the sunlight.

Saraven frowned as they approached the motley crowd. There were about thirty travelers of various species, and all seemed oblivious to the horses clopping up behind them. Zudarra shot Saraven a questioning look. He shrugged minutely in response, then raised his voice.

"Excuse me!"

Some of the people turned to look at them, but most were too absorbed in their singing and banging and general idiocy to notice the voice of the newcomer.

A young-looking Dunmer woman turned and waved cheerfully to them. Her long red hair was a cascade of elaborate interwoven braids, an assortment of wildflowers stuck between the plaits. She allowed herself to drop back from the crowd to walk backward in front of their horses. Flat, dingy pillows that looked to have been outside for a while were strapped to her chest and to her arms with twine. Beneath was a burgundy robe that was torn at the knees, and which also appeared to have spent some time in the elements. She was barefoot and carrying a garden hoe.

"Hello!" she said enthusiastically, looking at all of them in turn. Galmir smiled vacantly and waved back. "It's a lovely day for going to war, is it not?"

"What?" Zudarra said stupidly, still looking back and forth between the woman and Saraven as if he could offer some explanation.

"Yes, you know, the daedra are attacking Tamriel! Haven't you heard?" The Dunmer laid a hand on her chest and tilted her head to the side, regarding Zudarra with a deeply sympathetic expression that the poor, stupid dear was so dreadfully unaware.

Another face in the crowd turned to look at them and fell back alongside the Dunmer. He was an Imperial of middle age, thin and flabby all at once, splendidly arrayed in a full suit of makeshift armor. Every inch of him seemed to be covered with some form of cookware; even his joints were protected by spoons. He saluted them smartly, hand banging against his helmet-pot. A long brass candlestick was wedged under his belt, which he constantly had to hold to keep from slipping out. He was wearing leather boots, but had no clothes on underneath all of this aside from a loincloth wrap. Zudarra cringed and looked back at his eyes.

"Commander Decanius, at your service! We've been tasked with a quest of utmost importance on behalf of our Lord Sheogorath. I'll permit you to travel with us as long as you stay out of the way."

"He sent you to close the gate in Bravil?" Zudarra asked carefully.

The Dunmer burst out laughing and Decanius glared at her. Apparently their quest was very grave, no laughing matter.

"No," he said slowly, as if to be sure her thick mind would grasp what he was saying. "We are tasked with retrieving the eye of a clannfear. It is considered a delicacy in other worlds, and will be lovely in a casserole."

Sheogorites. Saraven squinted for a second before his usual expression of weary gravity reasserted itself. It was completely likely these people would walk into the gate and be slaughtered or captured en masse, but with worshippers of the Mad God you couldn't be completely sure. Sheogorath had his own sense of humor and it was not always predictable whether he was in an "all of you get killed because you're poorly armed idiots" mood or a "bunch of dremora get slaughtered by crazies with garden tools" mood, or even an "everyone on both sides turns into butterflies, spends three days in an orgy of mating and egg-laying, and then dies of old age" mood. Usually something awful was about to happen to someone. Completely harmless manifestations of the Mad God were not impossible, but they were not common.

"Thank you, Commander Decanius," he said now. "We won't interfere with your culinary mission, we promise. We just want to get in and close the gate."

"Do as you must, Sir!" Decanius said, saluting again before whirling around to take his place at the front of the group. He marched in an exaggerated fashion and the crowd parted around him to avoid the flailing arms. The Dunmer turned away from them as well, chatting happily with one of her comrades. Zudarra caught a snippet of the conversation - she was wondering aloud if the dremora would offer them any tea before battle.

A pink and gray-splotched Argonian wearing a crown of flax flowers and a ragged dress that appeared to be made from a large flour sack was walking alongside his horse. She was scrawny and her hands and feet looked a bit big for her – she might be a teenager. At present she was offering a small blossom to Brithe. Brithe leaned down to take it cheerfully and stuck it behind her ear. The Argonian smiled, showing all her sharp teeth, and jogged back up to lose herself in the throng. She was carrying an axe in her other hand.

"You're content to let them walk to their own slaughter?" Zudarra asked incredulously, eyeing Saraven sideways. She regretted it as soon as the words were out of her mouth. There was no way for them to stop a crowd this big from doing what they wanted to do, and she didn't need Saraven having some sort of moral crisis if he couldn't save them.

"Sheogorites," he said, lifting one shoulder. "Even if we could stop them, be a bad idea to try. They may not be what they seem." He didn't like the idea of just letting all of them walk into a gate to the Deadlands and die, but he suspected that was not all that would happen.

They knew when they were approaching the city because the sky overhead turned red, swirling with black clouds. Not long after, they topped a small rise, and the high, sharp spines of the gate came into view in the distance. The parapets of the city of Bravil looked small through the crimson membrane, the glittering water of Topal Bay sprawling out behind it. A camp stood around the gate, neat rows of the yurt-like flesh tents, and a crude wall of nailed boards had been erected on the side facing the city. The wooden bridge that had connected Bravil's upper gate with the cliff shore was gone.

They must've cut it when the gate opened, or soon after. They had undoubtedly sacrificed the lives of the two guards normally posted on the cliff side but saved many lives within the city in the process. He reigned up, looking grimly at Zudarra.

"Leave the horses up here with Galmir and Brithe, run as fast as we can for the gate?" he said.

She nodded, and raised a hand indicating Galmir should halt behind them.

"Now that we can both become invisible, it shouldn't be hard to get past the welcoming committee that's most likely waiting just inside." She lifted herself in the stirrups and clanked to the ground, leading Shadow to the side of the road. They had left the Sheogorites and their din behind them on the road. While it might be amusing to watch unfold what may, Zudarra hoped they'd have the gate closed by the time the Mad God's worshippers arrived.

"Galmir, we're going in. Take care of the horses and don't talk to that rabble when they catch up. Saraven, wait to hide yourself until we're almost there. The spell won't last long, and we have to get inside the tower before it wears off."

"Stay here with Galmir," Saraven told Brithe. "Defend yourself if anyone bothers you. If we don't come back, take the gold from the saddlebags and ride to Anvil. There's a surviving Guild there." She nodded dreamily, and then he turned and saw Zudarra already sprinting away. He turned to run after her as fast as he could, visible only as a trail of little puffs of dust. She had not told him how to use the spell. He tried drawing on the power that he knew he had, willing himself to vanish. His hands, darting forward and back as he ran, faded from view, and then he was sprinting through the fringes of the dremora camp, individual soldiers looking around for the source of the noise but too late to see him pass. He plunged into the membrane a fraction of a second after Zudarra.