CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

~…FAVOUR THE FLAT OVER THE EDGE~

Somehow Solen had seen their grand Dragon-borne entrance into Solitude going differently.

It began idyllically enough. The Reverent weren't Odahviing, who could've flown from the Solitude Lighthouse to Fort Dawnguard in two days; and nor could they soar for such long stretches, periodically breaking their glides with lurching wingstrokes – but they carried him and Aela steadily through a night of blistering frigidness yet breathless beauty; a cloudless sky of deep blue bedazzled in starlight, over a world of snowcapped mountains gripped early by winter's encroachment. Solen had enjoyed the flight, what little he remembered of it, before he'd dissolved in a blur of exhaustion against Voslaarum's neck (his scales were mercifully softer than Odahviing's, at least). Aela had not. From the moment Solen's eyes closed to when the first warm fingers of dawn opened them, still heavy with fatigue, she'd been flattened against Naaslaarum's nape clinging with all four limbs, eyes scrunched shut, and looking not the least bit honoured that she was the third person to go aloft on Dragonback in the entire Era.

She did manage to spare a glance, with as much teasing encouragement as Solen dared, at Solitude as it came into view below, illuminated grandly in the light of dawn. Never had its austere arch made such a welcome yet disheartening sight. The city looked sturdy and alive – plumes of woodsmoke trawled skyward in droves to be tossed by the sea wind, the great windmill turned, banners and gonfalons of both Solitude's wolf and the Empire's dragon proudly swaying, Castle Dour and the Blue Palace towering over it all. But the Sea of Ghosts had transformed, its dark waters almost wholly white with jagged icebergs, and in the shadow of the Solitude arch the sea had frozen into a solid plateau, a wall of ice that blockaded the sheltered harbour. The wharfs were clustered with vessels of all sizes gone firmly to port, their barren masts glittering with rime.

Solen's mind, still untangling from feverish dreams of bloody-eyed Betrayed and Rayya's warm embrace, turned back to the grim task that had driven him and Aela so recklessly north at all; somewhere beyond the sea ice lay Castle Volkihar – Gendolin's castle, now – and a battle that could not be lost. Auriel's Bow and its single sunhallowed arrow lay bundled tightly together under his cloak, though half-frozen and with a roughly patched wound that took every opportunity it could to curse him, Solen wasn't sure he could even draw it. It was difficult to think past Castle Dour's courtyard, a soft bed and a hot bath in the barracks, or the Winking Skeever if Legate Rikke wasn't feeling generous –

A salvo of horncalls from Solitude's walls and two ballista bolts promptly interrupted his ponderances as the Reverent baulked, their serene gait quickening to urgent action. Taken by surprise, Solen was nearly flung off Voslaarum's back, while Aela shrieked once in a most undignified manner as Naaslaarum doubled on himself in a sinuous loop to avoid the missile. "Behave!" Solen yelled, scavenging for what energy he had left in him – his voice sounded cracked and tired and Thu'um-less to his own ears. "Behave, Dragons! Don't throw us – Aela, hold on!"

"The Oblivion d'you think I'm doing?!" she belted back. "Solen!"

The ominous whine of an archer's volley sliced their ears. Solen seized Voslaarum's horns and threw his weight, and mercifully the Dragon obeyed, diving straight down beneath the volley. He felt Auriel's Bow shift worryingly on his back and flung a clumsy arm behind him to pin the weapon back in place. Some welcome this is! Can't they see these Dragons have riders?!

Another ballista bolt soared across Voslaarum's path, and the Dragon pulled himself up short; Solen kept going and slammed his face into his neck-scales. Sharpest eyes in Tamriel my arse. That was a lie, Farrus! A rotten lie!

The hiss of arrows forced Voslaarum to launch forward again, Solen barely keeping himself straight with numbed fingers and all his pains now savagely afire under his chafing armour. Naaslaarum had swung wider and higher, trying to climb out of bowshot, roaring shrilly in confusion; Aela was plastered almost flat against his neck, arms locked in a death-grip on his horns, the only reliable handles his backside offered, and huddled there shivering in a most un-Aela-like fashion. Solen pulled in a breath to try shout some direction at the thralled Dragon, only for a ballista to crack across his senses and Voslaarum to suddenly squeal in pain; the bolt had only clipped the end of a wing membrane, little more than a scratch to a Dragon, but the sharp shock of pain launched the Reverent forward like a spooked horse, so quickly that Solen slid across his webbed neck and nearly straight off it. The world spun again madly, downward, and by the time Solen regained his seat the harbour and its frozen bay had grown uncomfortably large in his sights, along with a rising cacophony of shouting and screams from the wharfs, and he realized with a jolt of horror where the Dragon was headed. "No! Up, Voslaarum, UP! Don't dive! You mustn't dive!"

The Dragon swung so low that his belly nearly clipped the tips of the tallest masts, all of which groaned mightily in the backlash of his wings – but mercifully Voslaarum obeyed, and his frills and wings snapped open to abort his escape into the dark sanctuary of the ice below. He skimmed the bay once in a fearsome arc, looping tightly on his wing at Solen's ever-frantic urging, and finally began to climb again, with Solen flat and cursing on his neck. It seemed even Dragons with bent wills were inclined to forget they had riders.

Alarm horns were still singing from the walls as the Reverent rejoined each other's company. "Aela," Solen yelled, "are you okay?"

"No, I am damn well not!" she snapped, in a most Aela-like fashion. "Get us out of the air!"

"I'm working on it! They see the Dragons as ferals!"

"No, really? What gives you that idea? Were you seriously just going to drop two wild Dragons the Legion's never seen before into Castle Dour?"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry – I thought the sentries' eyes would've been better – wait here!" As if she could've gone anywhere else. Solen tugged hard on Voslaarum's horns, ignoring the Huntress's shouts of protest as the Dragon wheeled obediently back towards the city walls. No time remained to be anything but reckless.

But he was prepared for the ballistae now, and Voslaarum was breathlessly quick on his turns and loops; one bolt after another, the Reverent looped and twirled like a dancer, sinuous and serpentlike. They dived below another repulsive volley – one arrow came uncomfortably close to Solen's cheek – then he pulled the Dragon's head and they shot straight up, high over the walls, too steep for the ballistae to reach with the streets of Solitude unfolded beneath them like the map on Tullius's war table.

It was there that Solen snatched enough breath and energy out of the icy air to Shout down at the walls. "ZUL MEY GUT!" The archers, turning their bows, nearly dropped them as his disembodied voice erupted: "Don't shoot, you half-blind horkwits! We're not attacking!"

In the pause, Solen straightened up over Voslaarum's head and waved his arm vigorously until a few Legionnaires below finally pointed him out. No more arrows or ballista shots followed; a fresh ripple of hornblasts bounced along the walls in the trumpeting salute they normally reserved for Odahviing. Trembling with relief and the beginnings of annoyance, Solen steered Voslaarum back across the harbour to fetch Aela and his twin.

It hadn't been the most dignified of entrances, Solen thought, as the Reverent meekly landed at last in Castle Dour's courtyard, and it certainly didn't bode for a good start.

Legate Rikke, a model officer of the Legion on the surface and a true-nosed Nord at heart, fumed between her two identities as she swept out of the ground-floor offices to receive her unexpected visitors, already warily encircled by alarmed Legionnaires. "Two Dragons, Solenarren! Two! By Talos, man, we almost shot you down! You'd better have the High King of all reasons for this."

"My horse threw a shoe," Solen grunted, prising himself off Voslaarum's neck. There was still hope at salvaging the ceremony of his entrance into the city, at least until his legs struck the ground and immediately folded, pitching him gracelessly flat on the cobbles with a fresh throb of pain.

In a moment Rikke was hauling him upright. "Ysmir's eyes, you're a mess. Both of you." Aela, well and truly abandoning the remnants of dignity, had bodily thrown herself off Naaslaarum's back the instant his wings touched the ground and lay firmly on the cobbles, refusing every hand that offered to straighten her. Rikke shook her head at their bloodied and battle-soiled states and decided, "Whatever's going on can wait until after you see the surgeons –"

"No – there's no time, Rikke." Solen seized her arm as she made to dismiss herself. "We can end this menace once and for all."

That got the Legate's attention, and Solen launched immediately and clumsily into the urgent business of the matter. He fumbled for the Bow. "I know how to – we have the means to kill him, really kill him. Gendolin. Harkon's dead, it's him now, it's all him. Kill him and the clan scatters, no more orchestrated attacks in the night, no more Day of Black Sun."

Ideally it would've come out less a slur of urgent intensity and more of a disciplined report, but Solen hadn't spared a thought to assemble one, and it showed in Rikke's stare. "I'm not raving," he said, trying to sound more lucid. "The Dawnguard Isran stationed here, I need them –"

"You need rest first, soldier, and a healer. Then we'll talk."

"I didn't risk getting skewered by your sentries just to fall into a bed faster! One Dawnguard-trained regiment and I'll –"

"That's enough, Solen." The unyielding iron of the officer had emerged. Rikke swept a glower across the gathering of Legionnaires and red-cloaked Solitude guardsmen, and they scuttled swiftly back to their duties, leaving the courtyard mostly to themselves and the two Reverent, politely observing from one side. It was a mark of either sheer Legion discipline or an inherited familiarity with dealing with Odahviing that Rikke entirely ignored them; her attention lay firmly affixed on the High Elf who stood slumped and ragged, Auriel's Bow in hand and the stubbornest expression he could muster plastered on his face. "As someone who knows you, Solen, I believe you. If kicking down the door of whatever thrice-damned vampire lord is masterminding this crisis is where you have to be, I won't stop you. But as an Imperial Legate, I can't help you. The Legion doesn't have such freedoms, I don't have such freedoms."

Her hand swept up, interrupting Solen even as he started to. She knew him well; she'd commanded him directly in the field of his service, after all. "I have three thousand Legionnaires and the Solitude Guard combined to protect a Hold from vampiric and draconic incursion on the precipice of winter with the city's stores half of what they should be. I can't gamble any of them, much less the civilians' security, on such an uncertain report. Where do we find this enemy? What are his forces? What magic?"

Each – admittedly sensible – question might as well have slapped Solen. He couldn't answer them, not in any way that would've counted. He had a general idea where Castle Volkihar lay, from Fiirnaraan's vague reports, but no means to reach it beyond a pair of will-broken Dragons. There was no telling how many thrall assembled Gendolin's court, or their power, especially with Serana taken – and Gendolin himself, powerful enough to kill one four-Era-old vampire lord and capture another… The only ones who stood a chance fighting him were himself and Aela, and they were both exhausted and injured, in no position to fight, let alone rally.

He couldn't resent Rikke for it, but they were bitter realizations she'd brought him to; he had the Bow, the means, but ultimately all the odds still favoured Gendolin.

"I don't know," he admitted, heavily. "But what I do know is every day the Legion spends uprooting nests outside the walls and keeping order in them, the chill deepens, the nights grow longer. Time itself is the enemy, Legate. It only favours them."

Rikke's brow furrowed; she believed that too. But it wouldn't be enough to change her mind, Solen realized. The Bow slumped in his hands and he looked away.

Her hand settled on his shoulder. "I'll write the General," she said quietly, "but if time truly is of such essence, my hands are tied. You'll have to find your shield-siblings elsewhere. See the surgeons. Get yourselves patched up. Then go get some mead in you. The Skeever's still got some left." It was the surest remedy even a Companion knew, and Solen couldn't argue it. He nodded.

"And they won't cause trouble?" Rikke's eyes slid over his shoulder, finally acknowledging the twin Dragons now occupying much of Castle Dour's courtyard.

"Oh – nah." Solen waved vaguely. "Stuff 'em apiece and they'll be happy to sprawl."

Which they did, as he and Aela limped themselves along to the barracks surgeons; the Legionnaires were left picking their way delicately around recumbent coils of spiny webbing as the Reverent basked blankly in the weak morning sun.

"The fate of all Tamriel in the balance, and her hands are tied," Solen fumed, two hours later, with wounds patched over and reviving over a tankard. "Trust the Legion to be so good at their jobs that they're bad at them."

The mead the Winking Skeever had served them was watered down – to stretch the dwindling supply, of course – but it still managed to dredge their melancholy thoughts back into movement. "That's what heroes like you are for," said Aela wryly, "to do what needs doing without all the accursed politics."

She flinched as someone dropped a knife two tables down, a shrill clatter stinging her ears, and grumbled darkly to herself over the mess of cities. Solitude's premier tavern had always been lively no matter the hour of the day, and was only more so on winter's verge; bodies crammed at every table and a ceaseless hum of activity buzzed their lupine senses madly. At least their conversation went unnoticed beneath the slur, and they themselves were well-dissolved in the crowd. They'd turned heads entering the tavern, naturally – word of their flight over the city had surely spread to every ear in Solitude by now – but a squat table in the corner had nestled them soundly out of the way to brood.

"Find our shield-siblings elsewhere," Solen repeated flatly, and rubbed his face. "Only there is no elsewhere. Solitude's the last stop before Castle Volkihar and what's quickly becoming our certain death."

"We still have options," said Aela mildly. "Fewer than we'd like, but options."

"I guess. Isran's stationed good Dawnguard here, at least – well, I don't really know the other ones, but Beleval has Irileth's seal of approval – so they won't refuse the call, but – Ruptga." Solen set his tankard down. "We don't know numbers. Maybe they will."

"Since when did numbers ever worry you? You've proposed kicking down the Volkihar's doors every chance you had."

"Yes, before we were thoroughly thrashed by a vampire lord in broad daylight. Before Gendolin schemed everything around my torment like some perverse theatre. Before we got our hands on the one thing that'll stop this madness or seal it forever."

"You're not routed, are you?"

"Course not. I'm the Dragonborn. I rout, I'm not allowed to rout. Nothing in the songs about that."

"You don't fight for songs, Solen. Empty that tankard and think. We're headed into the bat's lair one way or another."

"With a lot less than I'd always hoped for." Solen did as bidden, down to the last mealy dregs, then massaged his brow and sighed gloomily. Even the beast within had slumped down, uninspired. "Legion occupied. The Companions all in Whiterun. The majority of the province's best-trained vampire hunters stuck at the other end of Skyrim." Even Rayya, bound by those unforeseen circumstances. Gods, what he'd have given just to hear her voice now…

"We don't need soldiers." Aela stuffed a hunk of bread in her mouth. "We want people with a proper fire in their bellies. Warriors. Solitude'll have its share of them."

"Sellswords, adventurers, veterans, farmers and millers and fishers furious at loved ones and livelihoods lost." Solen could envision them all – a fair representative were probably in the tavern around them right now. "Most won't have weapons. Most won't even have armour. They'll die, Aela."

"But they'll choose it over waiting for slaughter."

"And what'll inspire that choice? Who'll they follow? The city's just like Whiterun, Aela: on half-stores and full to bursting with the scared and resentful, without a scrap of spirit left between them to fight." Solen gestured at the tavern patrons. "You saw the way they looked at us, at me, when we came in. I'm no inspiration to them anymore, just the washed-up hero that makes a mess of things. They won't follow me and I can't ask them to." It'd stung being stared at that way again, as if he were a stranger, an interloper, after seven years making this land his own. Solen gloomily shook his head. "Maybe the best thing I can do now is go valiantly in battle. Just so long as I take Gendolin with me, eh?"

Aela's tankard banged down hard enough to make him jump. "Oh, enough of that horizon talk, Harbinger," she snapped. "You're not Vilkas." Her glare and manner had sharpened to Skyforge steel. "You brought down the Twilight God. You defeated another Dragonborn. You got married. Gendolin's not going to be the thing that finally bests you, and you're not sitting here mourning your own death after one inconvenience."

Solen managed to laugh, despite himself. "Of course. How unprofessional of me." But it'd shaken the despondent pall off him somewhat; the war wasn't lost yet. He reached for the last bits of bread and cheese on his plate. "Sorry, Aela. No more moping, promise. It just… it has to end."

"And it will. We don't need an army. A warband that can keep the Volkihar off us long enough to put the arrow in Gendolin's eye will be enough."

"Only we've no gold to hire them, if such warriors even exist, I'm something of a tarnished paragon, and no Nord's going to know who Auriel is or what His Bow even means. It's not even shiny."

"They're not crows, Solen. What about the High Queen? We're in her city, she can finally make herself useful. You were her Thane, weren't you?"

"Once, and have you ever tried for an audience in the Blue Palace? Alduin could come back from the dead doing cartwheels outside her window and you'd still be waiting two weeks and requested to wear an ironed shirt. No, we'll find what we need faster on our own."

A second round of tankards clanked down suddenly on the table. "Like fresh meads, perhaps?" said someone that was no barmaid. "Seems it's all they drink here."

Very few voices could have shot Solen to his feet with such alacrity. He stared, not quite believing it, but the Redguard man in sailing garb was no illusion, a face not seen for fifteen years at least; Solen rushed him with a shout of joy, and they embraced fiercely with much laughter and rocking and garbled disbelief between them, while an astonished Aela absorbed the scene from her seat.

"Gods' blood, Nosti," Solen croaked, around the emotion that had tightened his throat. How could it be? His brother was here, here, here. "You couldn't have picked a worse time. A worse time."

"Which means I've picked the best time," Nostibar grinned, and they broke apart still clutching each other's arms. "Ahh. Barely recognized you in all that clankin' getup! You've looked better, but you haven't aged a day."

"And you…" Solen faltered; reminded, grimly, just how swiftly humans grew old. Nostibar was his age, or near enough, yet the creases and laugh lines had etched only deeper in the decade and half that'd passed since their parting, his broad face grizzled by sun and sea and silver hairs. "Gods, but you look just like Yosef now."

"Heh. Dear old Dad would be delighted to hear it."

"But why are you here? How?"

Aela cleared her throat. "Old friend of yours, Solen?"

"Oh! More than!" His heart lighter than it'd been in months, Solen seized Nostibar's shoulders and swung him giddily around to their table. "Aela, this is the one and only Nostibar – the brother I grew up with on the Wandertern!"

"Ah!" Aela gained her feet. "Then it's an honour," she said, and made her introductions as she shook the Redguard's offered hand. "Solen's spun us many stories about his childhood."

"The honour's all mine, miss Huntress." Nostibar's hands were hard as wood, calloused and rope-scarred, and an impressive old blemish left a grizzled slice just above one ear. He suddenly grinned, showing white teeth as he slung Solen's head under one muscled arm and vigorously mussed his mohawk. "Hopefully those tales weren't as tall as him, har! He's a terrible fibber."

"Not as bad as you!" Solen grunted, wrestling free, then hissed and slammed his hand against his side. "Oof, and there go the stitches…"

"Stitches?" Nostibar's brow furrowed at once with concern. "You're too young to be getting slow in your old age. That's my job."

"Just a bit of light stabbing, don't worry about it." Waving off the both of them, Solen eased himself back into his seat, his assorted weapons clanking like an armour wagon. Nostibar hardly failed to notice them either, and a hoary eyebrow climbed curiously up his forehead. Solen smiled at him ruefully. "If you had half an idea what's happened since Satakalaam, Nosti… which reminds me – You. Here. How? You swore you were done with the adventures, or – or didn't things work out with Zeforah?"

Nostibar belted a laugh as he scooped a seat over. "Oh, they worked out just splendid, brother, and my old heart's grown only wilder for her as the years go by. We've little ones of our own now, all safe and sound in Evermore – we moved up there after I took on work with the merchant guilds. And before you ask, I'm the courier, not the purse-weigher! Ferryin' goods around the Iliac Bay on my own little ketch, it's been splendid work, quiet and safe, keeps me on the waves and my girls happy."

"I'm truly happy to hear it, Nosti, but I'm afraid you still can't read. This is Skyrim, not Stormhaven."

"Hah!" Nostibar punched Solen's arm. "Let me finish, you lop-eared turnip. A big contract with the East Empire Trading Company brought me out this way. Normally I'd've declined for Zeforah's sake, but it paid well, and I was curious to sail some northern seas on a galley. Maybe I wanted a glimpse at those Dragons I keep hearing about. I planned to head home again for the winter, afore the sea ice set in, but…"

"You should have." Solen's giddy cheer ebbed sharply into Oblivion. "I was serious, Nosti. You couldn't have picked a worse time."

Surprisingly, Nostibar's smile grew only more mysterious. "I don't know, old friend. I think I'm right where I need to be. You hear a lot of tales at port, and seems some of 'em were true."

His dark eyes took the length of Solen again, the measure of his steel and furs, the mighty greatsword and the Bow on his back. Far different from the leather vest and dune-cloths and the notched scimitar they'd parted ways in. Solen felt slightly peculiar; he hadn't really considered anyone from his past learning what he'd become. He hadn't really expected to see anyone from his past ever again. "They're exaggerated, you know. Whatever you've heard. Probably."

"You nearly crashed a Dragon into my ship an hour ago, I'd say they're true enough." Nostibar's chuckle grew into a roar of amazement as Aela sighed and Solen looked sheepish. "That was you, wasn't it? Hah! By Morwha, you really are straight out of their songs! Solen the Dragonslayer! Who'd have seen it?"

"Close enough, and I killed that sea-serpent when I was fourteen, remember? Must've been a divine hint. Look, just how long have you been in Solitude?" Between the bards, the sailors, and the general density of the city's Nordic populace, Solen was starting to suspect that Nostibar had been aware of his exploits for quite some time.

"Few months now," Nostibar shrugged, confirming it, "and now 'till the thaw. As I said, didn't plan on it. Haven't wintered away from the girls before. Then there was the new client."

"Again? Someone's popular."

"Har! Only coz I was the only saltbeard round here not yet spooked by all this vampire business. She heard you were in town; she's partly why I'm here. Wouldn't mind a word, if it suited ye. Says she has information you'll need." It was Nostibar's turn to furrow his brow. "Just what have you gotten yourself into, Solen? The things they say you are, you've done…"

"If I tell you now, we'll be here 'till next Sundas. I'll summarize it all later." Solen stiffly persuaded himself back upright. "Coming, Aela?"

"Right now?" Aela stood quickly. "Shouldn't we –?"

"If it's a trap I'll Shout her out the window. We need all the allies we can get, and all the better if she's already taken some initiative with the vampire problem. Lead the way, Nosti. Who is she, anyway?"

"Wouldn't say, even to me. Bit reserved on that front, but otherwise straight enough, for a Khajiit. She's upstairs, second door on the left."

Solen had assembled a vague suspicion by the time he reached to the first floor rooms, and wasn't disappointed when the indicated door yielded under his knock. The Winking Skeever dorms had always been spacious and airy, dry and well-robed and warmed by the cooking-hearths below; there was plenty of room for a small crowd to join the Khajiit woman who awaited them inside, seated well back from the shuttered window. Her head turned their way with an air of equal unsurprise, hooded up to the nose – not that it concealed her true nature, as the acrid repulsion struck the backs of his and Aela's throats at once and ignited the instinctual brindling. "So," she said, unhurriedly, "we meet at last, walkers."

"So we do," said Solen, waving a tensing Aela down. "You're Adusa-daro, aren't you? Gwendis mentioned you were bleeding stones out here."

"Ah. Good. You know the Ravenwatch, this will save us time we cannot afford to waste. Captain, close the door, if you please."

Nostibar reached for the handle. "With me on the other side, or…?"

"Stay," said Solen. "I get the feeling you've been up to your neck in whatever this is for some time."

"This one tried not to." As the door clicked shut, Adusa-daro threw back her hood. Solen had never seen a Khajiit vampire before, and admittedly wasn't sure he would've taken her for one at first glance; her fur was ghostly-pale and almost translucent in the room's candlelight, her eyes so deep crimson as to almost be brown. A pair of glittering brass rings hung studded in one rounded ear. When she stood, her cloak slid back to reveal a sleeveless variant of the same Bretic-styled leather raiment Gwendis had worn, dyed dark and unremarkable. "The less mortals know of our endeavours, the better off they are. This one apologizes for her deception, Captain, but it was for your own safety."

Nostibar paled a little, but otherwise took the revelation surprisingly well. "Breath of the Tricky God. You're one of them, aren't you?"

"One of the good ones, thank your stars. The Ravenwatch do the whole vampire thing differently." Solen returned his attention to the Khajiit. "You could've just led with that, if you wanted my attention. Sending my brother as messenger was overkill."

"Brother?" Adusa-daro flicked her ears forward. "Ah! This one was not aware of a connection; that is only a happy coincidence. Less so are the discoveries that she has made of the one you pursue."

"Gwendis mentioned stolen power from old vampires. We watched him husk another ancient. I don't need a second briefing and we already know Harkon's dead."

"That is old knowledge – well, most of it. It is good you are already informed of the usurpation. But Adusa-daro has pursued more than the graves of the Gray Host. She has observed the Volkihar's movements. The court is awakened; Gendolin has sent them across Skyrim."

Aela sharpened. "He's emptied Castle Volkihar?"

"Of the strongest ones, his elders, clan leaders, lords, lieutenants. Just so. You chase Gendolin down, five-claw, this is known – there is no finer time than now to strike him down."

Solen touched Auriel's Bow, the tip of which protruded down past his knee, with a strange sort of elation. Chasing Gendolin to Castle Volkihar had left him with the stone-and-mortar impression that he'd have to cut through the vampire court itself, of Eras-ancient elders and lesser vampire lords that made the governance of the Volkihar clan. He knew one of them was in Riften, of course, and was certain that Irileth had that little matter under her thumb, but to learn that the whole court had dispersed across Skyrim, the anticipated barrier between himself and Gendolin reduced to a handful of weaker thrall and static castle guardians – for a fleeting moment, his battlefire kindled. Gendolin was injured, he was vulnerable, he –

Solen's vigour vanished swiftly as it came. What was he thinking? This was Gendolin – this wouldn't be some serendipitous oversight, it was intended. New and deeply uncomfortable understandings arranged themselves quickly in his mind – the new Volkihar sovereign wouldn't just send off all his most powerful subordinates from pride alone, especially not in the shadow of a victory so narrowly lost. Come to think of it, he couldn't have returned to his Castle to scatter his minions less than a day after their battle in the Forgotten Vale – somehow Solen didn't think even Gendolin could move that quickly. And Adusa-daro didn't give him the impression of one mistaken in her observations – which only meant that Gendolin had sent the Volkihar out before he'd trailed them to the Chantry.

"But why?" Solen growled, when he'd voiced these revelations aloud. "Why send them out then?"

"The Bow," Aela suggested at once. "It's the last thing he needs."

"He didn't know that then. He didn't even have Serana then. And we stopped the Day of Black Sun by the skin of our teeth – he was that close. That confident." The memory was etched uncomfortably clear in Solen's mind. Hard to believe it was only yesterday. "Yet they were on the move before he came after us – gods' blood, he'd meant it to happen then and there, didn't he?"

"What is this?" Adusa-daro demanded sharply. "The Daughter of Coldharbour was with you?"

"She insisted," said Aela. "We gained the Bow but lost her. Gendolin's taken her back."

The Khajiit spat a swift curse, and then it was her turn to pace, her long tail lashing. "Then it is worse than this one feared, much worse. They have become bold, with good reason. They believe fulfilment of prophecy is imminent – they believe their ascension is close."

"But it isn't." Solen seized the Bow, their one sliver of hope, just to reassure himself. "So long as Gendolin doesn't gain this."

Adusa-daro's eyes settled on it alertly. "That is the weapon, yes? Moons above… this one thought it would be shinier. But the shaveskin will never stop until he is defeated, five-claw. You know his heart, and Adusa knows his kind. It is her belief that each of his clan are assigned a task, the better to fulfil the dominion they intend; as Gendolin has marked you as his conquest, Dragonborn, so too have they been marked with a spearhead to blunt, to consolidate their triumph."

"Like what?" Aela folded her arms. "A vampire doesn't get much greater triumph than shooting out the sun."

"They'd get opportunity," Solen muttered, "more opportunity than they've ever had, all of them, everywhere –" A chill shot down his spine. "Sep's scales. Gendolin sent them to the cities. The Day's their signal to attack."

"Attack what? Everyone? Everywhere?" The Huntress shook her head. "They don't have the numbers. There's Legionnaires and Dawnguard in every Hold, rings of guards round every Jarl; they'd need an army just to breach Whiterun's walls."

"They're not soldiers, Aela, they don't fight like…" A second chill joined the first. "Spearheads… Besides me, the Legion and the Dawnguard are the last two thorns in the Volkihar's side. Gods' blood, they're assassins – he's sent them after Tullius and Isran."

Aela audibly scoffed. "Then they've picked the two hardest necks in Skyrim to bite, shield-brother. They'll have to go through the Dawnguard to get to Isran, then Isran himself. And Tullius is surrounded by soldiers night and day, not to mention the Red Scourge and a score of Companions."

"They've breached Dragonsreach before."

"Nords aren't fooled twice, Solen. They'll be ready if they try."

Solen wanted to believe it, fervently, yet knowing both Riften and Whiterun had fallen under the Volkihar's eye, let alone the other cities… He pulled himself up short before his panic gained momentum. It wasn't confirmed; dismaying was the last thing he could afford to do; and even if it was true, the best thing he could do to protect them, protect her, was to finish what he'd started, right here. Rayya was surrounded day and night by fighters, she was a fighter. She'd be safe – had to be safe – she'd vowed as such in the undercroft the night they'd parted. Whiterun would hold. It had to.

It still took every ounce of willpower he had to force his mind away from those dreads, to review again the crucial opportunity the Ravenwatch's intelligence yielded. He's that close. He's that alone. We can end this. And deep within, the wolf bared its teeth. "You can confirm," Solen said slowly, "beyond all doubt, that Castle Volkihar is almost empty right now."

"Just so. Adusa has crossed the ice, followed the blood-scent; the oldest Volkihar are elsewhere."

"Wait – you've been there? You could lead us?"

"Oh, this one is coming with you." For a moment, Adusa-daro's eyes flashed molten silver. "The Volkihar are long overdue chastisement."

"And where you're going," Nostibar added brightly, striding forward, "you need a ship."

Much to Solen's alarm. "No. Absolutely not. Your wife will kill you. Then me."

"Hah! She'll forgive us afterward, don't you fear. Now, I may've missed a chapter or two in this grand old tale of yours, but I understand enough that something's out after your head; I sure as saints ain't sitting this one out by a hearth." Nostibar clapped Solen's back, firmly, shattering the protest gathering in his lungs. "Give me half a day to find us a crew."

Solen, floundering, glanced at Aela for help. She merely shrugged. "Said you'd take any allies you'd get. Or are you really about to eat your words?"

They'd rented out a room in the Skeever more for the purpose of cleaning themselves up than to sleep, or so Solen had intended. One moment he'd sat down to clean out the snarling facets of his Harbinger's armour, the next he was being roused by a hammering at his door with his face firmly planted in the bed blankets. Aela, who'd managed to catch some much-needed winks despite the noise below, dragged herself off the rug and went for the door. "Well, he found the crew," she said on return, clawing her sleep-tangled hair back into a semblance of structure. "They're downstairs waiting."

"To go? Right now?" Solen reached groggily for his boots. "Morwha, that was quick. What time is it?"

"Evening." Aela tossed her head in disdain. "There's quite a crowd down there."

"It's the Skeever, there's always a crowd in here."

The 'crowd' took on a rather different meaning by the time Solen got himself downstairs; the last of the sleep-fog evaporated immediately as he entered the dining area and found no less than half a hundred faces turning expectantly his way. Maybe four or five of them wore sailing garb. "This isn't a crew," Solen said, pulling up short.

Mercenaries in eclectic hodgepodges of iron and leather tilted their heads, sizing him up alongside Imperial veterans, retirees, their scars of service etched across their hands and faces and missing fingers – Solen was reasonably sure he recognized a few of them. Fisherfolk and lumber millers levelled gazes dark with unsmiling curiosity; stonemasons and dockworkers leaned arms bulging with muscles over their knees. There even looked to be a few adventurers scattered in the mix, armour fresh and faces fresher, those who'd been swept up with Solitude's lockdowns and unable to find themselves quests to follow. Until now. Word spread hard in Solitude, and Nostibar certainly hadn't slowed it down.

"Oh, they will be," said the man himself, leaned on a column to one side. He winked at Solen's disbelieving expression. "Seems a little bird told them the Dragonborn's hiring on for some deathly dangerous voyage."

"That true?" One of the veterans stood; Solen wouldn't have been surprised if she'd been an Imperial officer at one point, she carried herself like one, despite her missing hand.

Solen scrambled after his wits a little longer. "That's… that's true, yes." He felt Aela draw up by his elbow, a silent presence; it suddenly felt like he was facing off against a horde of new hopefuls in Jorrvaskr again, those seeking appraisal of their mettle. Only this time he wasn't doing the appraising, he realized – they were appraising him. Solen drew a deep breath and tried to look more the part of the confident Dragonborn off to fight evil. "One more good battle to cut off the head of the snake – well, a vampire, in this case – and it'll end the vampire menace. Well, the schemes that they've been anxious to see through."

Glances darted between the gathered. "Is it true you gave over some old priest?" the veteran persisted again. "Because you were scared to fight?"

"Misconception," Solen answered, with the familiar stab of old guilt. "Dexion – the priest gave himself over willingly. It was that, or a bloodbath."

"But you didn't protect him. Or couldn't." The veteran folded her arms. "And the Dragons? Thought you had them under control."

"Thank the Volkihar for that too. They wouldn't be attacking if they weren't starving."

"Then where were you? Skyrim's gone to ruin and we've hardly heard a thing. Besides the odd stunt. Got half us thinking you'd turned tail and fled."

A string of restless murmurs followed, some angry, all resentful. Solen's ears burned to hear them; he felt Aela stir beside him but stopped her with a glance. Yes, his honour was challenged; but this challenge was his to answer, alone. He turned back to the veteran who'd become the gathering's spokesperson, holding her gaze. "What's your name?"

"Sirilla Scipiata."

"Sirilla – first things first, I'm Harbinger of the Companions. If I turned and ran from anything, they'll be the first to hold me accountable." Aela reinforced this with a slight nod and a hand on her dagger, which elicited a scattering of laughs. "Secondly – Skyrim's gone sideways, yes. I thought I could protect her the old way of being louder than the enemy." A few more chuckles. Solen smiled sadly and shook his head. "One painful lesson after another reinforced that no, one doesn't simply fight vampires like that, led by one whose cunning and resources… Well, frankly, they've exceeded my own. I'll give him that."

Silence. A few looks. "I know what you're thinking," Solen continued. "The Thu'um ended the war. The Thu'um stopped Alduin. Why shouldn't it stop this? It's the Thu'um! It can do anything, I can do anything, right? Only I couldn't, not in the ways I knew. This struggle, this war, it was never just about brute force or valour. Half of it sends you down where you fear to go, down to the darkest corners of yourself you never thought you had. I had to do things I never thought I'd have to, become things I never wanted to be. And I've slipped." He shrugged. "More than once. Maybe I'll slip again."

Their silence seemed heavier this time, more pensive. "What about the other half?" someone asked.

"Oh – that part is brute force and valour. You're still killing bloodsuckers, after all." The laughter came more readily this time, and Solen managed a brief grin. "I suppose all I'm saying is no, this time, I don't have the enemy on the run. I'm not sure I ever did. But I'm not running, either. The master of the Volkihar is waiting for me out there, and I'm going to meet him."

The assembly shared restless looks among themselves again, and Sirilla furrowed her brow. "Can you kill him?"

"Honestly? I don't know." Solen withdrew Auriel's Bow – there seemed no better time to present the weapon. "But with this, I have a chance." And maybe it wasn't as resplendent as a divine artifact ought to have been, but it still drew every wondering eye to its otherworldly design. "Gendolin, the sly bastard behind all our woes, plans the end of our days in the sun. I'm going to stop him, or die trying. If anyone wants to join me…" Solen looked seriously among them all. "I won't say no. But there will be death and horror, and more than your lives to lose, and no guarantee of victory. I'm sorry if that seems deceitful, after all the songs and deeds and impressions of control – but even a Dragonborn's only mortal."

He would've heard a pin drop, without the beast's aid, so still and quiet the Winking Skeever had become. Solen grimaced a little and dropped his gaze. They'd come here expecting some sort of inspiring speech, something that would galvanize them to take up arms and remind them why he was worth a damn. He'd been honest instead, perhaps too much so; a nice enough sentiment, but not the sort that motivated others to bleed and die for.

Until Sirilla suddenly said, "A chance is still a chance. I'll take it." Solen's head bounced up in confusion, and the veteran thumped her first on her chest. "Show me where to strike, and I'll strike."

Which left Solen scrambling for his wits again. "You're – willing?"

"So long as you're taking the fight to them, goldenrod." Sirilla turned around, the picture of Legion ferocity. "Well? Or have you sons of horkers all forgotten what happens when Sovngarde beckons?"

A cavalcade of creaking chairs and groaning tables filled the tavern as the motely assembly of vagabonds, artisans, sellswords and sailors all clambered to their feet, each and every one, and saluted with spirit. Nostibar grinned, Aela folded her arms, and Solen stared. Never in his life had he been so glad to be proven wrong.

Sirilla turned back to him. "Is this enough for you, Dragonborn?"

"It's…" Solen counted the determined heads with a leaping of hope. "It's a start."

It seemed word spread even faster in Solitude when there was a potential legend in the making and a battle on an ever-nearing horizon. The following morning greeted Solen with yet another mob of volunteers awaiting him below, and the atmosphere could not have been more different. There was much hand-shaking and vows of putting the vampires back in their crypts, from civil war veterans who'd dug up their old armour and shortswords from their retirement and greeted him like an old friend, to farmer's boys with their father's axes so Agmaerish in motive and origin that Solen half expected them to share his name as well.

And fighters or would-be fighters weren't the only ones clamouring to join the northern voyage. "I'm flattered, truly," Solen said, unsure whether to laugh or be stern, "but I can't permit it, Ataf."

"Oh, come on, Solen!" The bard had even gone so far as to bring his skindrum and a satchel of notebooks, as if he planned to compose an eddy mid-slaughter. "It's Nord tradition for skalds to accompany mighty warriors into great battles. The Bat and the Dragon was a hit, and I wasn't even there for that event!"

"Movarth and Gendolin are two very different vampire lords. I don't fear you won't write another ballad good enough to drive Tullius crazy – I fear you won't live to write ballads again."

"Oh, bring him along, Harbinger," said Aela, not raising eyes from her breakfast. "At the least he can keep us entertained on the sail over."

Taking the famed Huntress's blessing as all the permission he needed, Ataf seized Solen's hand and pumped it up and down with many an enthusiastic promise not to let a single detail of the great adventure go to waste. "You," said Solen, as the bard finally shot out the tavern doors, "are not helping."

Aela arched her brow. "You wanted allies. You have allies."

"Allies, yes, they're great, don't get me wrong – I'd rather this than the other way round – but half of them only think they're seasoned warriors, and I doubt Ataf's so much as swung a shovel to defend himself in his life. The folk in Morthal got swept up in the vampire-killing excitement too, and then they all lost their nerve when they saw the vampire den. These ones can't just turn around and go back home."

"Then they'll make good distractions," said Aela, a little callously, as she checked the worn string of her bow. "It's their choice, Harbinger. They're Dawnguard now, by your own reckoning."

The Dawnguard themselves made an appearance after the eager new recruits had dispersed down to the docks, yawning after their nocturnal patrol but enthusiastic all the same. Isran had stationed five of them in Solitude, none of whom Solen knew well, but he'd seen Beleval around the Fort a few times in the early days, and their battle-scarred lamellar and well-greased crossbows made a welcome sight. "Give us a few hours to recover ourselves and we'll be down harbourside afore noon," Beleval promised, as she and her fellows attacked their rations on their feet.

"You have them," Solen said, feeling more like a commander than he'd have liked. "Aela and I need to resupply, and Nostibar's still making ready to sail. We're leaving on the evening tide."

He'd wanted to leave that morning, but that had always been an impossibility – a patchwork warband they might have assembled, but they wouldn't all fit on the Dragons, and a ship needed to be provisioned and rigged to sail. That Nostibar claimed he'd have everything and everyone ready to go on the evening tide was nothing short of miraculous, and hinted that the good Captain had forgone sleep to see it happen. Besides, it was senseless rushing after Gendolin with both their quivers empty and Solen's armour chafing in weird places, reminding him that a Chantry had fallen on him two days ago. It took most of the morning to restock their kit, bang out the worst of their armour's dents, and check that the Reverent hadn't eaten anyone during the night – by noon they were down on the wharfs, with Solitude scowling over their heads and Nostibar striding to meet them. Despite the overcast day and the whirling wet snow, the harbour was alive with a frenzy of activity.

"Sunset, aye, that hasn't changed," Nostibar affirmed, when Solen asked. "So long as the tide stays good, and the sea ice ain't so thick we can't plough through."

"Don't worry about the ice," Solen started, then promptly became distracted as Nostibar waved out their vessel – not that it was hard to confuse, being the only ship at port having the ice shaken off her rigging. "That's your ship? That fat old sloop?"

Nostibar laughed. "What were you expecting, a bristling galleon? Or have you forgotten how to tell a galley from a ketch already?"

"My heels aren't that dry," said Solen, punching his arm. The ship, which was a galley, was a hybrid of Bretic and Nordic design; long, broad and pot-bellied in the hull, typical of merchant vessels, with short masts and wide booms to bear sails greater in their girth than height. Rows of oars jutted out from their windows, and the front of the prow had been reinforced with icebreakers, though those appeared more as an afterthought than a compliment to her design. She lacked the visual elegance and certainly the speed of the Wandertern, whose origins had begun as a Maormeri frigate, but she would certainly hold the northbound raiding party without a care.

"Don't let her gainliness deceive you," Nostibar remarked, following along Solen's thoughts with unsettling accuracy. "Bluefire's faster than she looks and twice as sturdy."

Aela, whose ship knowledge extended only to the one that had been upturned to form Jorrvaskr's roof, said, "It'll do. How long will we sail for?"

"Three days, by my reckoning, if we leave on the tide. Course, this is all going nowhere fast if she can't break through the sea ice."

"And I've told you, Nosti, don't worry about that. Put us out on the water and I'll worry about the rest."

"Huh!" Nostibar shook his head. "Only for you, Solen. You'd better have something damned grand up your sleeve."

"It's not up my sleeve, but it'll be grand." They stopped to supervise the Bluefire a moment and admire exactly how much had been accomplished in almost no time at all, until Solen's attention found the heap of crates and barrels being hauled aboard. They were more supplies than he'd anticipated – and by the sound of their contents, they weren't all just food and spare sailcloth. "No way," he muttered, opening up one of the barrels; a nest of blade-tips greeted him.

Nostibar grinned. "Didn't think they're all just bringing their pickaxes and fishing rods, did you?"

But even he wasn't entirely clear on where or who these provisions had come from, only that they'd been wagoned down to the docks by a pair of Solitude guards an hour before Aela and Solen arrived. The wolf-head insignias they found time-worn and stamped in the swordhilts suggested that they'd been purloined from the guardhouse armouries, if from their deepest corners. The blades were a bit notched and rust-spotted, their hilts moulded to the hands that had wielded them; the armour told a similar tale, a jumble of leather jerkins and chainmail and boots with their toes wrinkled in. The ensemble was as far from the Dawnguard's standard as could be, but the steel was balanced and fit for a fight, the leather tough and supple, the chainmail unbroken. They might keep their volunteer fighters alive.

The mystery of their benefactor took a turn when Aela discovered a note tucked under a helmet. "A Sybille Stentor sends her regards. Admirer of yours?"

"Elisif's court wizard," Solen recalled, more bewildered than ever, "and no. We've talked a grand total of once, maybe, back when all Solitude had to worry about were kingslayers and wolf queens. Adusa, d'you know anything about this?"

"Of course she does," said the vampire, and Nostibar jumped; she'd appeared seemingly from nowhere at his shoulder, though both werewolves had scented her approach. She scowled into the crates and tsked to herself. "It must do, walkers. It is the best this one can arrange on such short notice."

"It's still more than we could've hoped for," said Solen respectfully. "How in Leki's name did you manage it?"

Hooded against the glare, Adusa-daro twitched her whiskers at him in a way that suggested a wink. "This one has friends in high places too, Dragonborn," she only said, which left Solen wondering if there was perhaps more credence to the sinister gossip surrounding Solitude's court wizard than he'd ever given credit for.

By late afternoon, it seemed all of the Bluefire's passengers had found their way aboard; Solitude's residents turned sailing raiders clustered in knots across the deck as the sailors scrambled with their last preparations. Solen hunched by a brazier near the prow, his back to the frost-dusted wood, snow settling gently on his mantle, finding himself torn between the boyish happiness of being put to sea again and the sobering task that awaited him at voyage's end. The others didn't seem too stricken yet; the Dawnguard operatives were showing a cluster of beefy-armed Nords the functions of a crossbow; the one-handed veteran whose name Solen had already managed to forget was rolling dice with some of her old comrades, an odd sort of two-fingered prong strapped to her stump; Aela had gone to make conversation with the Ravenwatch, of all passengers, to his general amazement; Ataf was learning to find his sea-legs, to the amusement of the fisherfolk. Solen tried not to think too hard on how many of them would never return.

But it was their choice – and in the end, a warm reminder that Skyrim hadn't lost her spirit yet. With Auriel's Bow pressed against his back, the sunhallowed arrow tucked safely in his laden quiver, and the achingly familiar scorch of salt in his nose, Solen felt like he could start to take heart in it.

As evening darkness swept the skies, Nostibar came creaking over to them, bundled up in so many layers that he almost resembled a Skaal. "Have you tried furs yet?" said Solen, himself still hunched near his new best friend of the brazier. "They're great. Best thing since sliced cheese."

"Hah! I'd be fluffy like you if they didn't get so sodden. Well, everything's ready and everyone's aboard, they're just haulin' anchor now. You made your offerings yet?"

"Offer –? Ah."

"Thought not, you old pirate. Here, I've a few extra –"

"Ach!" The coin clattered to the deck. Solen had quite forgotten they were silver, and how potently werewolves felt its heat.

"The matter with you?" said Nostibar, astonished, stooping to recover the roundel of metal. "It's just a bit of silver for old Hyrma below."

"Yeah – right, of course." Solen had nearly forgotten the old superstitions, the ones that invoked a fearful reverence among sailors and a respect of the fathomless chaos of the sea. A tithe paid your respects to Him, and the whirlpools and waves that sucked hapless vessels to unknown fates would spare your own. It didn't have to be silver, but Uncle Torendil had always used them. As delighted as he was that his uncle's tradition survived, Solen took the coin with renewed caution and tossed it overboard with an ardour Nostibar hardly failed to miss. "Feels weird doing this after Solstheim," Solen muttered, as the bright flash was swallowed at once by the inky murk. "As if He isn't already watching my every move… I met Him there, Nosti, did you know? In all His tentacular glory."

Still suspicious, Nostibar scoffed. "I know you, Solen. That one's a leg-puller."

"I wish it was, brother, and I don't miss those audiences. Takes Him a week to string a sentence together, though how He manages to say anything without a mouth is probably His greatest secret. So, are we all set? The anchor's up."

Still not quite sure whether to believe him or not, Nostibar affirmed, "All's set. Aside the ice, of course, and you've assured me that's your problem."

"Still is." Solen slapped his shoulder. "Get them rowing."

"I know that look of yours. I'm not going to like this mischief, am I?"

"Oh, no, Nostibar, you're going to love it."

Perplexed and intrigued and even more suspicious, Nostibar nonetheless set about hollering the orders for castoff. The raiders scrambled for the oars, and the last mooring ropes were thrown off – groaning mightily, the Bluefire nosed forward, inching out from her dock and into the bay, as slow and laborious as a bear roused early from hibernation.

Solen stood at the prow and waited until she was well and truly away from the jetties, the barrier of frozen ice drawing steadily nearer beneath the arch. Then he drew breath and the Thu'um tore forth. "NAAS LAAR UM! VO SLAAR UM!"

The twin Shouts cracked the frigid air one after another, a sledgehammer on the senses, eliciting a string of the usual oaths from the onlookers behind him. Then he was answered by the pulse of a distant roar, and those aboard were pointing as two lean shapes spiralled high into the Solitude skies. Writhing like ribbons in the wind, the Reverent sped obediently towards the harbour, identical in their every action, their great frilled sides bending and flexing with every hungry wingstroke.

Solen climbed out onto the prow and pointed enthusiastically at the sea ice, hoping that would suffice – he didn't know enough Dovahzul to Shout the instructions, nor did he want to panic the crew by having a pair of Dragons attempt to land on the ship to receive them. But the gesture of his will seemed to convey his need fine enough to the thralled Dragons – they altered their course at once. One of them – Naaslaarum, perhaps? – went first; his frills and wings snapped flat to his sides, he arrowed through the sheet of sea-ice, throwing up huge splinters and a mighty spray. He erupted back through further afield seconds later, water twirling from his wingtips in glittering arcs, leaving two dark breaches in the plateau with fractures already creeping to meet in the middle. Then Voslaarum speared himself squarely between them, and with an almighty crackle the sheet split in two, a dark wedge opening as if hewn by a giant axe. The submerged Reverent crashed back into the sky as the airborne one dived to widen the wedge, and so it continued, a weaving dance as seamless as a needle pulling thread.

By then the Bluefire had realized what the Dragons were doing, and a rousing cheer went up from her deck. Nostibar, laughing with amazement, near pulled Solen off the prow to shake him with a mad excitement, and for a moment they were children again, leaning over the prow and pointing unseen wonders out to each other. A renewed salvo of shouts went up, a call for half-sails and oars and a beat to follow. Ataf, grinning exuberantly at Solen, took up his mallet and launched himself into song.

Beware, young maiden bright, for some flowers only bloom at night,
And on their fruit the Bat flies out to feed.
The fire climbed, the ashes fall, a fate foretold on old Morthal,
Beguile, defile, and make the people bleed!

"This is why you really came, isn't it?" Solen shouted over at the bard, though he could only grin back. The Bluefire leapt forward with greater vigour, her ploughing oars finding their stride to Ataf's pounding drum as her rowers lustily belted out the chorus.

But show me the true colours of the night,
I'll show a flame that burns the brightest,
The Bat's a shadow of the might
A Dragon wields in fury righteous!
O storm! Ash to ash! He knows your name and Shouts it free!
O storm! Dust to dust! Tempest of mortality!

Even the Dawnguard operatives were singing along with Nordic gusto. "Ever the humble hero, eh, Solen?" Nostibar grinned.

"It's not my fault I'm just so singable! So, you going to steer us out of here or what?"

The stout galley nosed grandly into the Reverent's handiwork, the mess of loose floes and bergs left in their wake scattering off her hull like dry leaves.

O! What wonder, Voice of thunder, whose whisper gentles spirit's play,
Whose Words upturned the answers burned and spoke apart the thrall,
The fire climbs, the Bat protests, his spells and guile the Thu'um contests,
And ashes spin around them in the tomb of Movarth's hall!

Solitude's arch eased over their heads; the masts shivered their anticipation, though they were well and truly clear of any danger. The first brisk gusts from the Sea of Ghosts battered the prow, as if trying to push the Bluefire back to port. Her oars churned the chopping waves to foam.

But show me the true colours of the night,
I'll show a flame that burns the brightest,
The Bat's a shadow of the might
A Dragon wields in fury righteous!
O storm! Ash to ash! He knows your name and Shouts your doom!
O storm! Dust to dust! Harbinger of hallowed Thu'um!

Then they were through – the arch lay behind and the Sea of Ghosts beyond, a labyrinth of icebergs and the spurs of waves frozen mid-spray, through which the Reverent continued to doggedly plough. A fierce unbroken wind bucked the ship, clawing at her opened sails, and the galley turned into the gales, eager as a wild horse faced with an open plain. By then Nostibar had assumed his place at the helm, his hands steady on the wheel and the glint of adventure bright as stars in his dark eyes.

An adventure I've certainly promised, Solen thought, admiring the inhospitable expanse from the quarterdeck; somewhere out there lay their destination and his enemy, hidden in the sea-fog behind a perilous maze of ice. But for now, there was only the journey there, banished of all doubt and mystery, and by Ruptga he'd enjoy it.

No shelter in the shadows fled, no mercy for the risen dead,
Some blood is born to burn the tongue, the Bat did learn too late!
The fires climbed, the Dragon spoke, and Shouted him apart to smoke,
And left the lair in laughter bright, for changed was Morthal's fate!

Solen didn't have to say a word when icebergs the size of longhouses, torn free from the Reverent's efforts, menaced the ship – the Dragons had taken their jobs as icebreakers with a will, and they crumbled the bergs like clay beneath their Voices. The Thu'um might not do everything, Solen thought in admiration, but it could certainly do a lot.

Nostibar laughed again, the wheel spinning in his hands. "Oh, Tu'whacca knows this'll be a tale for the grandchildren! Stow oars, landlubbers, and full sail! She'll take us from here. Solen, you righteous rascal! Care for the honours?"

Solen was more than happy to – he strode for the mainmast, and with one tug that invoked in him perhaps the fiercest spur of nostalgia yet, the mainsail came rolling down, bulging at once with the wind.

O storm! Ash to ash! Shout it through the field and fen!
O storm! Dust to dust! Until the night is ours again!

The Bluefire lunged forward with such enthusiasm she nearly sent her crew tumbling off their feet, proving that she was indeed faster than her ungainly girth suggested; racing the Reverent lunging at her prow, she soared into the Sea of Ghosts, and in moments Solitude was lost to the mists and the dark of the encroaching night.

[A/N]: I am not a songwriter, and I'm especially not a poet - but hopefully Ataf's ballad was fun enough! Figuring out all the rhymes certainly were.

With new friends and old friends, we're off at last to Castle Volkihar! Where the final showdown awaits...