[A/N]: One of the big questions I had to figure out for D:SW was how long Serana was locked away for, because canon is exceptionally unclear about that. She and other vampires have usually referred to her disappearance in a span of 'centuries', which is maddeningly unclear and implies that it's within the last thousand years. But this directly contradicts Serana herself, who was sealed away before Cyrodiil was 'the seat of an Empire', and Cyrodiil's First Empire was founded in 1E243.

We also know that she had to have been sealed away during a period when Dragons were still prevalent enough across Skyrim to compete with each other for territory, which is what drove Durnehviir to his bargain with the Ideal Masters and his role as Valerica's Keeper. The Dragon War closed off the Merethic Era, although Dragons were still commonplace enough across the First Era to warrant the Dragonguard and Numinex's capture.

Most evidence thus weighs in favour of Serana being sealed at the beginning of the First Era, so we're not talking centuries, we're talking millennia. Of course, there's the matter of the Volkihar court recognizing her. It's not implausible to suggest that the elders of the Volkihar court were around since the First Era (Vingalmo recognized Serana on sight). There is, however, the niggling matter that the Volkihar gatekeeper you meet ingame - a thralled human - also recognizes Serana on sight. This could just be a narrative oversight on Bethesda's part, because we all know Elder Scrolls lore is infamous for its contradictions, but it certainly doesn't make the mystery of Serana's internment any easier!

So, it's this author's personal belief that Serana was sealed away over four whole Eras. And now, enough speculation: on with the story...

-CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

~…AND DISCARD YOUR OWN~

The Dragon lay with its head draped in the ruins of Alvor's forge, as if in the last moments of its strength it had sought warmth in the long-cold embers. The rest of the blacksmith's home, and Riverwood itself, lay in empty ruins, blasted down and ripped apart until there was hardly a wall left standing. "Ysmir's beard," Vilkas whispered, standing in what once had been the town junction. "It did all this?"

"There's no blood." Aela stood alert outside the collapsed carcass that was formerly the Sleeping Giant inn. "Fresh or old. Riverwood was abandoned long before that Dragon came here."

Serana stepped around the rotten remnants of a cabbage cart. "Then why all this destruction?"

Solen stood by the forge, aghast all over again. "It was just hungry." The Dragon was a living skeleton – its wasted flesh pulled tight around its bones, its muscle stripped away. Its upturned eye was sunk deep into its socket and moved vaguely without a trace of recognition under its lid, not even when Solen placed his palm upon its snout.

The heaving rasps of its tortured breathing hummed in their ears as they stood subdued in the wreckage. "What are you going to do with it?" Serana asked eventually.

Njada turned over the scorched remnant of a doorboard. "What else? Put it out of its misery and let's be going, Dragonborn. We can still make Whiterun by nightfall." She glanced up as Solen stayed motionless. "Hey, goldie. Did you hear me?"

Solen stirred as if surfacing from icewater. He shook his head. "No. It doesn't warrant the ultimate price."

"But – Harbinger, it's a bloody Dragon –"

"It doesn't warrant this. Do you deserve to lose your soul over wanting a bit of food?" Solen stepped back from the forge and over the rubble down to the main street, where Vilkas waited with the horses. Ember's broad head swung against Solen's chest for reassurance; Solen took his reins and met his shield-brother's eyes. "Wait until we ride ahead. Past the bridge should be far enough. Then do it."

Vilkas nodded and affirmed with a quiet "Aye". Solen swung himself onto Ember's back and pulled the big horse's head up. "Aela. Serana. Let's go."

Seven months ago, he and Rayya had passed through a town bustling with life – the smith's hammer ringing through the township's heart, the sawmill roaring across the river, the clamour of voices in the street. He left behind the sort of destruction he hadn't seen since Helgen. Only the thought of the town being abandoned long before starving Dragons had torn the buildings apart in search of prey stopped Solen from looking back. He still wished the mountain pass road had sealed over for winter and forced them to take the long way around the Throat of the World.

The river gurgled with sluggish gentility against the snow-dusted shoreline and beneath the Riverwood bridge. As they crossed, Aela nudged her horse up alongside Solen's. "Seeing that," she murmured, chucking her chin back towards the blacksmith's home, "reassures me that you're still you in there, brother."

Ember whickered softly as if to agree. Solen twisted his fingers into the silvery tangle of the warhorse's mane, to pull himself out of that dark night in the Rift. "Where I can still choose, I will, Aela."

"I know, Solen." Over the languid susurrations of water and wind-stirred pine carried the whish and thud of Skyforge steel meeting flesh and bone.

It didn't feel like coming home. Whiterun's golden fields were washed grey and lifeless beneath the bleak autumn day, and clumped with Imperial campfires and tents. The city's walls glowed with braziers and bristled with fortification. The Circle checked their horses on an overlook and allowed themselves a moment of dismay, while Serana stayed politely withdrawn beneath her hood. "Gods," Njada finally spat, because she could only ever stand silent contemplation for so long. "It's like we're under siege already. What in Ysgramor's hairy armpits was Tullius thinking, moving his lot to our city?"

"That it was for the best, probably," Solen sighed. Beholding his city had not brought him the comfort he'd hoped for. "Somehow I'd imagine Tullius would liven up the place."

"Tullius? Liven? Wasn't his old keep called Castle Dour?"

"Right. Good point."

Aela abruptly gave an impatient tuh. "Uh-uh. We're not arriving back like this." She groped at her hip for her coinpurse, and the rattle of septims pricked all the Companions' ears. "Come on, ice-brains, those are still Whiterun's walls. Five gold says first face is Caius."

"Huh! That'll be a stretch," said Njada, grinning. "Caius always sits on his arse at this hour. Five on that priest-woman, Danica. Bet we all know who the Harbinger's scuttling after first."

"I have no intention of scuttling anywhere," said Solen with injured dignity. "And of course I'm asking after Rayya as soon as we're behind the walls – but we're clearly going to meet one of our own Companions first. Five gold on one of them."

"You can't just lump them all together."

"Course I can, I'm the Harbinger. Oh, fine. Torngeir, then."

"Er," Serana ventured, as gold exchanged hands. "What's… going on?"

Vilkas took pity on her. "Companion tradition, vampire. We come back from campaign and bet which face we all know we'll see first in the city. Here, Aela, I'll say it's Gray-Mane. Should be about time for the old man's lunchbreak."

"Huh! Joke's on you, Eorlund doesn't have lunchbreaks."

The revival of their old humour didn't last past the meadery; it was difficult seeing it all shuttered-up tight with its farms stripped bare and empty. Half a mile from the Whiterun stables, a mounted Imperial patrol intercepted them; once recognized and welcomed, they vowed to ride ahead and alert both Jarl and General of the Thane's return. "That's really not necessary," Solen protested, in vain, as the soldiers galloped out of earshot; he'd hoped for a quiet entrance.

"I think you're the first good news they've had in a while," Vilkas remarked. "Let 'em have this, my Thane."

"Hey, that's mister Thane to you, Vilkas."

They were just turning off the west Hold thoroughfare towards the stables when a Dragon's roar suddenly split the heavens and threw the horses' heads up with fright. "Dragonborn!" Serana exclaimed, as an enormous spiny spectre whirled out of the low clouds. "It's seen us! It's coming this way!"

Vilkas squinted. "That's… the one, right, Solen?"

Solen winked at the Companions. "Sure is." He was suddenly the picture of terror. "Oh gods, you're right, it's coming right for us! Run, Serana! Run or he'll eat you alive!"

"What?"

"Ride, woman! We'll hold him off! To arms, Companions!"

Serana whirled her mare around and galloped in a most ungraceful manner back down the road. The Companions calmly sat their saddles. "We never told her about the Red Scourge yet, did we?" Njada asked, grinning viciously.

Aela smirked. "How long d'you reckon until she realizes?"

"Shhh. I only get to do this once." Solen stood up in the stirrups and waved energetically as the Dragon winged closer. "None of you've actually met Odahviing yet, have you?"

"Not up close," said Vilkas, slightly apprehensive. "Suppose that's about to change, eh?'

With his violet-and-white wings whirling like thunderstorm gales, Odahviing pulled mightily out of his dive and hung hovering above them. "Dovahkiin," he hailed. "Drem yol lok." He refrained from the customary inferno, perhaps out of mercy for the horses below.

"Drem yol lok, my friend – whoa, settle down, Ember, he won't eat you! – So, Tullius brought you along to Whiterun as well, huh?" Oddly enough, this cheered Solen. Odahviing had more history with this city than any other, having been captured in Dragonsreach on his first visit and then setting fire to a field of Cloaks on his second. "He's keeping you busy?"

"Geh. Though the challenges from mine zeymahhe have dwindled, and I range only within these borders. Tullius wishes the lair of joorre protected above all things with the…" Odahviing thought for a moment. "…collections over. It is restless work, circling this mortal lair. But at least I am fed."

He certainly looked to be in the pinnacle of health and glory, a starkly different sight from the starved thing they'd found in Riverwood. Odahviing's scarlet scales radiated with power, and his eyes glowed like furnaces within the artful sculpt of his head. Grandly the Dragon tilted his barbed chin back to the sky. "I shall inform the General that you are here, Dovahkiin."

"No, that's – really – not necessary," Solen repeated again, in vain, as Odahviing soared off with his usual breathtaking speed. And there go my last hopes of a quiet visit. He sighed crossly and looked among his silent companions. "Well, there you are, everyone. The Red Scourge of the Empire. What did you think?"

"I think both you and Tullius were out of your damn minds," said Njada, but she sounded more impressed than insulting.

"Careful," Vilkas grinned, "I think our vampire princess caught on to the joke."

Serana rejoined them a moment later, wind-ruffled and deeply unamused. "So," she said haughtily, over the Companions' sniggering, "care to explain whatever that was, Dragonborn?"

"Oh, all right. Whose turn for history lessons is it this time?"

"Don't look at us, long-ears, she asked you."

Serana's ire subsided to disbelief once the story in full was regaled to her. "So you really got a Dragon serving in this Legion," she said, as they dismounted at Whiterun's stables. "I'd heard whispers, but I thought them just fiction."

"Fiction!" Solen repeated indignantly. "You mean you don't trust us to tell you the truth?"

"Not after you claimed one of your Dragonborn predecessors was conceived by his father making love to a hillock, no."

Once the Circle had overcome the shock of discovering Serana had been sealed away during the second century of the First Era, some three or four thousand years ago, it had become a source of perverse amusement between them to bring her up to speed – the more outlandishly abridged, the better. "Well, that might be fiction," Solen allowed, as he walked Ember to his stall, "but Dragons fighting under an Empire's banner definitely isn't. Odahviing's not the first – at the end of the Second Era, another one of my predecessors, who I'm reasonably sure wasn't conceived by a hillock –"

He broke off as he reached for the stall-gate; Ember whickered eagerly and almost tugged the halter rope from Solen's hand. In the stall adjacent, a familiar black mare put her nose over the gate and snorted, banging her hooves against the walls, straining her muzzle towards them both.

"That's Starfire, isn't it?" Aela asked, when she found Solen outside the mare's stall running his fingers up and down her broad head. "She looks glad to see you. If she's here, then…"

Then so was Rayya, beyond any final doubt. And if she was still here over two months later, that meant… surely that meant…?

Starfire's hot breath gusted over his fingers and Solen snatched them quickly away. "Hey, you can smell I haven't got any sugar lumps. And you!" He frowned sternly at Ember, who'd turned his best puppy-dog eyes at his master at the mention of treats. "Don't give me that. I'll come down later with some lumps, okay? And only because you lugged my smelly rump all over the province without complaining. Definitely not because I like you or anything."

Ember bonked his head against Solen's chest and nuzzled, plate armour and all, for scratches. "All right, you big sook," Solen murmured, finding the stallion's favourite spot behind his ears. "Come on, in the stall. You tell Starfire about all our adventures. There's a good boy."

But once the horses were stabled, nothing was left to distract Solen's mind from The Realization as they walked up the road to the Whiterun gates. Except, perhaps, that Serana hadn't known about it. "I had no idea you were expecting a child. How far along is she?"

"Far enough," said Aela tersely, "for me to hear it while Gendolin was trying to kill us in Winterhold."

"Oh," said Serana, "I… see." And the conversation ended very awkwardly.

A few more hails were shouted down from the gatehouse ramparts, a few respectful deferments made before the lauded Companions and the Thane returning (Serana was politely ignored). Then the city gates were thrown open, and Solen's attention again felt snatched away beyond his own volition. "Morwha's mercy," he murmured, as they stepped into the city streets. It looked like not just the outlying farms but the entire populace of the Hold had flocked for shelter behind Whiterun's famous walls; every available corner of the Plains District that wasn't used for thoroughfare was crowded with carts, tents, and bodies. By the clamour assailing his senses from beyond, the Wind District was no better.

So much sadness… so much fear. It was a ghastly noise, and even Aela grimaced and put a hand to her temple. "Let's get to Jorrvaskr quickly, Harbinger, before we can't think straight."

"Aye." Solen wasn't so overwhelmed as to miss the looks and whispers sent his way, as those nearest the gate began noticing his return. They didn't sound happy about it. And I don't blame them. Some Thane I've been in all this. "Let's go then. Serana, if I catch your eyes wandering the wrong way –"

"Worry about yourself, Dragonborn. I know how to control myself."

They didn't manage more than five steps towards the stairs leading up to the Wind District when the crowds parted around a welcome party of Legion red and Whiterun gold. "Commander Caius," Solen greeted with a resigned sigh – one that was echoed among Njada and Vilkas as Aela victoriously jingled her coinpurse. "Council time already, is it?"

"Thane Solen – it's good to see you still in fine health." Caius's eyes, which missed very little, glanced over the scars still visible against Solen's neck. "General Tullius requests your audience at once."

"Does he, now? Fascinating." Solen could well imagine the sort of temper Tullius would be in by now. "I'll see him after I wash up a bit first. Can't report to the military governor stinking of monkshood and horse."

"I… uh. I believe the Jarl wishes to see you as well, sir."

Damn it. A meeting with Tullius he could delay, since he was no longer a formal soldier, but a Thane's duties he could not, or Rayya would almost certainly stew his ears. "Humans," Solen grumbled up at the sky, "have no patience at all."

Vilkas clapped his hand on Solen's shoulder. "We'll walk you up to the steps, shall we, mister Thane?"

It was a long walk from the Plains District to the Cloud, where Dragonsreach dominated – Solen knew exactly how to fill up that time between then and there, although it promised to be a dour topic. "Are you sure, sir?" Caius frowned. "I'm sure you'll be briefed in full in the palace."

"I'd rather save time," said Solen, and thus Caius summarized Whiterun's unhappy plight – the city had been in almost total lockdown since the end of Last Seed, all food had been tightly rationed even with a partial recovery of the autumn harvest, and every inn room, house and temple door flung open to the refugees. Even Dragonsreach's antechamber and the throne room housed a portion of the homeless populace; only the guard barracks and Jorrvaskr remained to themselves. The majority of Legionnaires had dispersed to establish outposts in Skyrim's old keeps and along the roads, to try and keep courier lines open between the major cities; two thousand remained in Whiterun to help the overwhelmed city guard managed the displaced people. What a first year Hrongar's having as Jarl, Solen thought by the end of it. "What about attacks?" he asked. "The last time I talked with Tullius, Dragons concerned him more than vampires."

"It's the reverse now, sir. Dragon sightings have subsided completely over this last month – it's been a week since we've even seen a wild one from the city walls. Those posted at the western watchtower reported two wild ones five days ago, but they were fighting each other. Didn't even know Dragons hunted their own, but the bigger of the two was last seen dragging the smaller off into the mountains by its neck."

Solen felt slightly sick, and tried not to think too hard about what probably followed. "And the vampires?"

"Yes, sir. We have sightings almost every night. Most of them keep to the wilds for now, but we have had incidents where they breached the city (Serana shifted uncomfortably). Fearmongering, I think, sir. The attacks are always the same – they kill some citizens, then vanish before soldiers can show up. The last ambush we managed to kill all but one – that was nearly two weeks ago. Guess they're getting the message."

Njada growled to herself as the Gildergreen sapling towered into sight. "Cowards. That's all they are. Too scared of an honest fight."

Solen rubbed his neck. "You haven't had any survivors… turn, have you?"

"No, gods be good." Caius sighed through his teeth. "Danica Pure-Spring and her priesthood have been working sunrise to sunrise, and anyone who knows how to push a pestle is brewing Cure Disease potions dawn to dusk. Dawnguard's recommendation. Anyone who takes a wound sees the priests or takes a potion, without exception. Seems to be working, no one's reported anyone they know growing fangs in the night."

Solen was just about to ask which Dawnguard operatives had been stationed in the city when he heard his name shouted – it pulled his head as if he'd been called by the Thu'um, and there she was, tripping a bit over the Gildergreen's roots in her haste to run towards him, with Lydia one step behind. His mind emptied at once of all thoughts but the one. Rayya.

Time no longer seemed to quite match up with the moment. How did she look even more beautiful than he remembered her? Her belly had swollen up under her layers of woollen shirts and trousers; she wasn't in armour, but a thick fur mantle draped her shoulders and her scimitars were crossed at her hips, as ever. Then he was running to meet her, all dignity quite forgotten, and then she was in his arms and he was staggering from the weight of her impact and then he was holding her tightly, oh so wonderfully tightly, burrowing his cheek against the soft weave of her headwrap with her scent alive and warm on his tongue.

"Rayya," he choked out when he finally found his voice again, "you've… you've gotten fat."

"Fat!" Rayya leaned back indignantly. "Fat! Two months without one bloody word of writing from you and that's the first thing you have to say to me?! Come here." She pulled him down by his ears and kissed him hard, and it was quite amazing how even his lupine senses couldn't distract him from this moment.

"I know it's a moment, Rayya, but for the love of Kynareth slow down," Lydia puffed as she stumbled at last to standing beside them. "You'll do yourselves a harm – hail, my Thane," she greeted, with Solen finally detached from his wife's face. "Please might you urge your woman to take it a little easier?"

"Oh, he'd be one to talk if he dares try," Rayya scoffed, as immediately her hand traced the scars on Solen's neck. "Look at this! What in Tu'whacca's name have you gone and done to yourself now, husband?"

Before Solen could decide whether to be bewildered by Rayya's and Lydia's newfound affability or ashamed at the topic she'd broached, Aela swooped in and clasped Rayya's arm sturdily in the warrior's embrace. "You're looking well, sister. The baby sounds strong."

The baby – oh, gods, that's right – Solen heard it now, Rayya's heartbeat strong and proud, and then beneath that, something fainter, so much fainter but there… and before he could have a chance to feel amazed or terrified or whatever he was meant to feel at the confirmed prospect of fatherhood, Vilkas and Njada had brushed past him to clasp Rayya's arms and offer their congratulations and gladly reunite since the dramatic tenor of their parting. By then quite a little crowd of fascinated townsfolk were gathering around the Gildergreen sapling and Solen's head was starting to spin at the speed of it all.

Then Rayya's eyes flashed upon Serana, lurking at the edge of the gathering, and hardened with her usual suspicion of strangers. "And who's this, then?"

"Oh." Solen blinked himself back into the present. "Right. Yes. This is, uh… you know, we should do the introductions in Jorrvaskr."

"Seconded," said Lydia at once, and interceded firmly among the Circle warriors. "Rayya, it's only going to get colder out here and you haven't eaten in hours."

"I'm not about to fall over fainting, woman!"

"I must insist, as your Housecarl – Solen, my Thane, can we please move this reunion back indoors?"

"Er, I don't mean to intrude, sir," said Caius awkwardly in Solen's ear, "but the court is waiting."

The court? The court? In one sweeping gesture Solen had his ferocious Redguard warrior-wife bundled bridal-style in his arms, much to her indignation. "Sorry, Commander. My duties as husband must precede even those as Thane. You heard my Housecarl – my wife needs attention in her delicate condition."

"Delicate! I'll show you delicate, you bloody Elf! Put me down! Solen!"

Even the townsfolk were laughing. "Aela, my trusty shield-sister, you can fill in for me, can't you?" Solen inquired, and without waiting for her reply he marched up the steps and into Jorrvaskr with Rayya in his arms.

The sheer joy of the reuniting didn't last. It was actually quite a while before Solen and Rayya actually had a proper moment to themselves. The Companions had no shortage of grievances to air about the lack of work and their confinement to the city, and it was impossible to deflect himself away from them as their wise advising Harbinger. Then Vilkas and Njada walked in the doors, and a great fuss was made at them about their capture by the vampires and their tenure with the Dawnguard – Lydia pointedly raised her eyebrows, and Solen and Rayya seized their chance and vanished down into the undercroft without delay.

Then the Harbinger's office door banged shut after them, and for a time it seemed all the world had finally been shut out. The words didn't come at first. They held each other in a long sort of silence for awhile. Then Rayya sat down on a padded seat, and Solen sat on the floor beside her and put his head in her lap, and at last he began to talk. He spoke of the mission that had failed so disastrously, the discoveries that had been realized of his enemy, the unexpected alliances that had been formed, the changes that had followed. He spoke and didn't dare stop, fearing that he might never start again. All the while Rayya listened unsmiling and without interruption, running her fingers across the soft fuzz on his temple.

Solen almost didn't want to speak of what had happened outside Riften, yet it fell off his tongue all the same. He feared Rayya would no longer recognize him, as he'd barely recognized himself. Yet when all the bad news and the shames had been recounted, and everything had been said that needed saying, Rayya only murmured, "Tell me about the beast blood."

Solen had never discussed it with her before. "Intense," he murmured finally. "A constant presence in your head and under your skin, teeth poised on your restraint. Making you think about all your dark urges, constantly reminding you that you have the power to see them through. That all the world can be your prey. It's… temptation, Rayya, a celebration of bloodlust in its most brutal, carnal form. A hunter unfettered by the fear of losing his kill." He sought out her hand and squeezed it. "It's a side of me I never wanted you to see."

Rayya squeezed back. "But you can control it. That's what set the Circle apart from other werewolves, wasn't it?"

"Aye. We could always hold our minds better in the shape than others, control our urges instead of being controlled by them… but it doesn't change that we're still Hircine's. Sovngarde won't honour the glories won by monsters."

"And there's really no cure?"

"Kodlak spent his whole life looking for one. The only answer he ever found lay with those witches who first bestowed this bloodcurse upon the Companions' ranks – now there's nothing left of them to burn in the Harbinger's Flame – and I don't know if there's any other way for my soul to separate from the beast's." Solen's eyes stung with unshed tears to be reminded of it all again. "Aela blames herself, for saving and damning me. It was the lesser of two evils, we both know that, but – for it all, we're still no closer to stopping him… Gods, Rayya, I'm just so frustrated. I'm meant to be the one keeping evil at bay, and right now I can barely keep the evil out of me."

"Husband, look at me." When Solen did so, Rayya's hands settled on either side of his face. "You were born without a wicked bone in your body. That's why you were chosen for the divine burden you bear. It's not hard to find the darkness within all man and mer. It's so much harder to find the light – yet you find it, time and time again. You forgive. You give chances. You take chances. You lead. You may lose yourself from time to time, but you'll always find your way back, because your soul knows its worth, and no mere beast will ever change that."

"It's not just myself I fear losing, Rayya." Solen closed his eyes and pressed his cheek against her swelling stomach, heartbeats puttering against his skin. "Fear unmakes the best of men and I think Gendolin knows that."

"Better a thing to be unmade by than pride."

"Well… there's a little bit of pride. But mostly fear. Terror, actually."

"Hush." She tweaked his eartip. "Danica says we're both doing just fine, so you'd better not have been distracting yourself worrying about us."

"What? No, of course not. Not once. Definitely never."

"Very convincing, my Thane."

Solen's mirth flickered away. "Rayya, if I can't find the Bow… if I fail again…"

"None of that. Deserts aren't crossed on ifs." Rayya frowned at him sternly. "We'll find a way through, as we've always found a way through. It didn't make an appearance today, but the sun was still there behind those grey clouds."

"It's been a month, Rayya…"

"And you know how fast Gendolin can move when that harpy's son puts his mind to it. If he hasn't found it yet, then something's holding him back. Maybe something that protects this holy weapon from unholy intervention. Or maybe he's just a terrible cairn diver." Rayya laughed softly. "A thief and assassin do not an adventurer make, dear. Gendolin might have luck and unspeakable atrocities on his side, but you still need skill and a head for old traps to navigate a Skyrim ruin."

Solen smiled. "Well, maybe that's true…" He sighed a little as muted footsteps padded down the hall. Can only shut out the world for so long. "Come on, then," he said, as the person hesitated outside the doors. "We're still dressed, if you're worried."

Lydia stepped through a moment later, three hot tankards steaming in her hands. "Relieved to hear it, my Thane. Mulled mead?"

"Oh, yes please," Rayya sighed.

Lydia tsked like a grandmother as she passed a mug to Solen. "You know better, Rayya. Here. I managed to get my hands on some fresh milk. Drink up. You're growing a skeleton in there."

"Don't remind me." Rayya wrinkled her nose, but obediently she drank her tankard of warmed milk. "Solen, I know you're thinking it. Don't you dare say it."

Solen hid his smirk and observations of milk-drinking in his cup. "No, no. Only thing I'm thinking is how amazing it is watching you let someone fuss over you."

"Leaves me free to worry about you," said Rayya. "It's how Lydia and I agreed we'd best help you."

"And you'd be right." Solen looked gratefully at Lydia. "I can't be more thankful to you for looking after her. We never thought…"

"It's all right, my Thane." Lydia sat down in the adjacent seat. "It's what needed to be done. I certainly wasn't going to sit quiet on my laurels when those night-attacks started."

Solen's smile fell off his face. "How many?"

"Attacks or deaths, Thane?" Lydia grimaced. "About ten attacks so far, and somewhere between forty and fifty citizens. They come and go from the dark, pick off from near the walls."

Solen gripped Rayya's hand again. "They're not… targeted, are they?"

"I don't think so. They go after anyone unwary. And those neck-biters were milksop weaklings, nothing like what you've been fighting with the Dawnguard." Lydia squinted at him suspiciously. "Are you really travelling with the daughter of the most powerful vampire lord in Skyrim?"

"Incredibly," said Solen. "But she's had more than enough opportunity to chew on us in our sleep, so I think she might be on our side after all." Which reminded him, belatedly – "Oh, fishbait – Serana – where's she –?"

"With Aela, I believe," Lydia interrupted him calmly. "They went up to Dragonsreach together."

"Huh!" said Solen, amazed. "Almost wish I was in the palace now. They've glared daggers at one another since Fort Dawnguard. I don't think Aela's forgiven her yet for giving her the slip at Ancestor Glade…" He went quiet as he noticed Rayya frowning down at her lap, an unusual expression on her face. Solen sat up sharply. "Are you okay, love? Does it hurt? Can it hurt?"

"What –? No, it's – no, it's not that. And no, it doesn't really hurt. Moves occasionally, to remind me it's there, but… mentioning those attacks just reminded me…" Rayya sighed and took Solen's hand. "Husband, Faendal is dead."

An odd humming started in Solen's ears. The floor seemed to shift. He put the mead mug down before he dropped it. "But… no, that's… how? Riverwood, it was – we passed through it – abandoned, no blood –"

"No, dear. Camilla, she…" Rayya looked grim. "Riverwood was abandoned about a fortnight after Tullius and the Legion arrived in Whiterun. Camilla came alone. She told me that Faendal disappeared in late Last Seed. Went out to get firewood and never came home."

"But – if he's only disappeared – he might not be – still be –"

"They found his body in one of the vampire lairs the Legion cleared out with the Dawnguard, three weeks ago. Camilla recognized the engagement-band they brought back."

There was something more. Something she hadn't said. "Rayya. What else?"

Rayya looked away. "He'd been tortured, Solen. Tortured to death."

The humming grew louder. Faendal – his first real friend in Skyrim – who'd helped him find his feet in this land when the path of destiny had called – dead. Gone. Dying in torment in the clutches of vampires. "Why?" Solen whispered. "Why? Was it because he… because we were…?"

"I don't know." Rayya gripped his hand tightly. "But Camilla said that a lot of foresters disappeared across Hearthfire, those who hunted in and out of Falkreath. Dawnguard operatives found most of them… what remained of them… in other lairs."

"Hearthfire," Solen repeated, and suddenly the chill of disbelief in his blood was warming into something much darker. "When we were searching for the Ancestor Glade."

Lydia's hand flew to her mouth. "You don't think they…? Oh, Talos."

Solen stared hard at the floor, his skin scorching, his heart hammering in his throat. "Rayya," he managed quietly, "when… when I said that it was… temptation… moments like these…" He jerked his head. "Sep's skin, for moments like these…"

He expected her to talk him down, to urge him to control it, to breathe it through until the beast within subsided. Instead, when Rayya's hands slipped under his chin and turned his face up to hers, her eyes were flat and sharp as iron.

"For moments like these," she said quietly, fiercely, "your enemy deserves to see that side of you."

Absolutely nothing else could have made the wolf in his soul sit back on its haunches so hard. Rayya smiled, and kissed him, and murmured in his ear, "Discover your foe's habits and discard your own, my husband. If he is set upon this path, follow him down it, and show him there is no darkness in which he can hide where you won't find him."

"But – if I lose myself…"

"You won't, husband. Not while you remember the why."

Why he fought. Why it mattered. Broken blades, broken towns, broken families, broken lives. No, it would be impossible to forget the why, not when he still had so much left to lose, so much he feared to, so much to fix and fight for. Solen felt more clear-headed than he had in months; every anguished perception that remained of his fate had disappeared like smoke. No matter how dark it became, he could always find his way back. Knowing Rayya believed he could had set his troubled heart free.

His head was pressed to Rayya's, a smile wide across his face, when Aela and Serana entered the office side by side. "Look at you both," Solen greeted them, partly amused and mostly astounded. "And here I was thinking you'd slipped away to murder each other. Sorry for throwing you under the oxwagon there, Aela. How's the old crowd?"

"Angry, on Tullius's end. Hrongar was more forgiving. Neither of them impressed that Gendolin and Harkon have Skyrim by the throat." Aela was not a woman who wasted time. "We need to talk, Harbinger – about the mission north."

"So you two have been conspiring."

"Shocking, I know," Serana said, folding her arms. "But seems we can both agree that finding Auriel's Bow is something we should have done yesterday – and the truth of it is your warrior friends – with no offense to them – will ultimately slow us down for a task where speed is paramount."

"Ah," said Solen, nodding, "with the sleeping, and the horses, and whatnot."

"Exactly – wait. You're not arguing?"

"You've clearly got the speech rehearsed. Go on, please. I've got to hear it."

Aela and Serana looked bewilderedly at each other. Solen calmly prompted, "You were about to tell me that two werewolves and a vampire lord can travel much faster than if we had plain old one-skinned mortals in tow. And I agree." They were all beasts of the night now, and it was time to accept the blessing of it as well as the curse. He nodded to Aela. "I'm ready to stop fighting it."

Aela looked startled but pleased as she folded her arms. "About damn time."

"Two – werewolves?" Lydia repeated, as her eyes widened to saucers. "You?"

"Uhhh." Solen glanced her way apprehensively. "Surprise?"

Considering that Lydia was a woman born, bred and raised on traditional Nordic values, she took the news rather well. "You know what, my Thane? I won't even ask. Do what you need to do. Rayya and I will keep things going in Whiterun. And before you ask, aye, of course I'll still be keeping her and the baby safe."

Solen put his hand solemnly on the Nord's shoulder. "You're a bloody brilliant Housecarl, Lydia. You know that, right?"

She winked at him. "Does Nazeem ask about the Cloud District? It's yes, by the way, he still does. You'd think he'd worry more about his farm."

Solen's grin fell off when he turned to Rayya, a lump suddenly rising in his throat. It was going to be hard leaving her behind again. What else would happen in between their next meetings? Would there even be one…?

Rayya rose to her feet and hugged him tightly, and Solen again was reminded that deserts weren't crossed with ifs. "It'll be okay," she murmured, though he scented just as much reluctance on her skin as he felt in his soul. "Don't worry, husband. I'm as well off as anyone in Skyrim can be right now. And I'll be keeping my sword-arm ready, no matter what my nursemaid says."

"Wouldn't expect anything less from you, my heart." Solen kissed Rayya gently, one more time, and stoically ignored how the others were all clearly smirking at him over his shoulder. "Say goodbye to Ember for me. I promised I'd take him all the sugar cubes."

"You're not taking him? But how are…?" Rayya's gaze wandered between him and the Huntress, and she nodded. "Ah. Right. That's why the others will slow you down."

Solen glanced ruefully at Aela. "We can't tell the rest of the Circle, can we?"

"Not if we want to leave them behind. They'll be pissed, Harbinger. But they'll forgive us. Eventually."

"You're not leaving right now?" said Rayya.

Serana shrugged. "We can't wait for dawn."

"I don't mean that. You won't be getting out the front gates. Whiterun goes on curfew each night. Even the guards won't make an exception for their Thane."

"Don't worry, sister," Aela smirked. "We have a back door."

The Skyforge had existed long before Jorrvaskr. No one knew who'd built it, and not once in the memory of men had its fire ever been known to have gone out. The Underforge, the secret cavern below, was older than the Skyforge; and within its embrace, where the old magic that wrote the world ran young with memory, every werewolf of the Circle had been sired by blood.

It had been years since Solen last had ventured within this sacred chamber, but his memory of it hadn't changed; the stone basin, the chaste altars to each side, the tunnel that curled below Whiterun's impregnable walls and opened to the wilderness beyond. "Well? What d'you think?"

Serana dusted impassive fingers against the rocky wall. "It's just a cavern. And I've had my fill of those."

"Just a cavern," Aela scoffed. "This is no crypt, vampire. It's alive, a place where the laws of the wild run to the surface. But since it's just a cavern, you can wait for us outside."

"What a generous offer," said Serana dryly. "I suppose this is another one of your Companion rituals?"

Solen's attention turned to the altars, and what rested on them. "Something like that."

He and Aela had hunted together in the wild way months after Kodlak's death and the twins had decided to cleanse their souls of the beast. While he'd never shared the fervency of Aela's worship, he'd respected the Huntsman's tenets, the bond between hunter and prey. He'd been a hunter longer than a warrior, after all, and so Aela had trusted him with pursuits even she hadn't shared among the rest of the Circle. Among those pursuits were the Totems of Hircine, ancient relics of primal power whose blessings emboldened the beast within. Three of them, little more than crude tools to the unsullied eye, rested safely upon the Underforge's altars; the beast within yearned to surface and bask in their presence, as a sabre cat sprawled under a Midyear sun.

Solen had received their blessings once, when he'd been eager to explore his new nature; now, reborn, they called to him again. After Serana had agreed to wait at the other end, and followed the winding tunnel out of the Underforge, Solen took his place before one of the altars. He still remembered how, and though Eldródr's edge was sharp, he asked in the old way. His teeth tore the flesh of his finger, and he sensed Aela's approval as he pressed a drop of his blood – the beast's blood – upon the Totem of Fear. Lord of the Hunt, let me teach him what it means to be prey.

Serana wasn't kept waiting long in the frost-tinted fields of Whiterun; behind her, the Underforge passage darkened with howling and snarls. The werewolves, transformed, exploded from the tunnel and into the plains of Whiterun, Aela leading, Solen hard at her heels, as if they'd been racing. Gone was the elf clad in Harbinger's steel; his pelt was gold and tawny-brown, and his eyes flashed green and gold as he rose onto powerful hind limbs, monstrous jaws agape, breathing deeply of the scents of night. This change was no mad enslavement to newborn instinct; this time his mind was his own, fizzing with delight, and he revelled at the world's old song that burst triumphant in his aching heart. He thought he would burst with its euphoria. Oh, how he'd missed this!

As glorious as ever, brother. Aela spoke in the secret language of the beast, handsome in her russet coat, her scent fierce with the age of their shared blood. But not as glorious as me.

Solen hastened to defer, tail down and throat bared, affirming her status as the elder. Of course, sister.

The rival stench of another Prince's bloodline hit the backs of their throats, and both werewolves swung snarling, surging with the instinctual hatred. Serana had also transformed; she hovered safely out of range of the beasts, a titan of grey skin and an almost bat-like visage, elegantly ornamented with the talismans of a darker royalty. Her braided black hair had turned long and silver, flowing between the prongs of her one-fingered wings. "I rarely take this form," said Serana, as if they'd asked, "so consider yourselves honoured."

It was hard not to see Gendolin in such a ghoulish shape, and Solen, growling, sternly reminded himself that this vampire lord was not their prey. Aela, whose reign over her instincts were much tighter than his, leaned back contemptuously on her haunches. "We rarely hunt with outsiders, so consider yourself blessed."

Reminded, Solen turned his muzzle to where the chill of the north blew down and the Haafingar mountains waited. The vigour of the world erupted in his flesh – it would feel good to run again. His coarsened voice rumbled like a glacier from the depths of his lungs. "Lead, Serana."

And westward into the night they sped, the wolves side by side, the ancient vampire on the wing, leaving Whiterun far behind them across the golden plains paled with frost.

They found Florentius on the road between the mining settlement of Shor's Stone and the Imperial garrison of Fort Greenwall, his head in his hands and a carpet of slaughtered Legionnaires at his feet.

Irileth lunged through the trees and seized the priest by the collar of his gambeson, her fury leaping almost beyond its bounds. "What in the Sharmat's name are you thinking, you idiot?!" But she realized at once by his glazed expression that berating him would be useless now; he was still quite lost in one of his 'communions'. "Damn you," Irileth cursed, as he stammered an incognizant answer. "Vori! How old?"

"Still fresh, Irileth." The operative was already knelt over one of the corpses. "I'd say half a day, certainly no older than a day."

"Pile them. Ingjard, help her. Hakar, firewood. We'll do it on the road."

The Dawnguard leapt to their tasks at once, the motions of vampiric clean-up automatic to them all. It left Irileth free to focus her wrath upon Florentius, and she seized his scruff again. "Two days," she snarled, "I was two days gone from Fort Dawnguard! What in Oblivion happened? You know full well that retaking Riften is priority, and I'm barely back outside the city walls when I get an urgent missive from Isran sending me after you – how one minute you were arguing about your research with Sorine, the next you were ahorse and riding out – alone – without so much as a by-your-leave! Answers, now!"

"I – it was – urgent." Florentius clutched his ears. "Arkay has never shouted so loud…"

"Mark me, priest, that god is going to be the death of you! You're damned lucky the Dragon was in the area, luckier still that you're not lying stiff on the road with those Imperials!"

"You don't understand." Florentius' pale eyes wavered frantically as if trying to find her through a storm. "The blood… the redwater… that abominable power, and what it's meant to do – Irileth –" He seized the Dunmer's shoulders, all manic intensity. "They must be burned, now."

"Easy. Come back to Nirn." Irileth was too taken aback to snap. Never had one of Florentius's… moments left him this agitated. "They'll burn, priest, just talk Common. You're still not making sense."

"The artifact. The font. Like chaff in summer. A harvest. It was only a harvest to sow the seeds –" Florentius shook his head. "Those men, those poor soldiers… I came too late…"

"Focus! They're dead now – focus so we can help the living!"

"But they're not, Irileth, they – they were a test. Don't you get it?! The Bloodstone Chalice, the Redwater Spring, none of it was ever meant for vampires!"

Vori yelled. Irileth spun around. The corpse she was dragging had suddenly protested; thrashing and snarling, teeth bared, eyes ablaze, the skin bone-white and flecked with broken veins. The Legionnaire flung Vori off him with inhuman strength and lunged snarling at the staggered Nord.

Ingjard had always been quick off the mark with a crossbow; the bolt thumped squarely into the risen Legionnaire's skull, exploding it in a spray of gore. Then she hollered and leapt back as the corpse in front of her came similarly awake, hissing. In an instant the field of bodies writhed like a serpent's nest, clambering and scrambling over each other as they threw themselves at the nearest Dawnguard.

"Don't let them touch you!" Florentius bellowed, ablaze in a halo of holy light. "Don't let them break your skin!"

Irileth's adamantine blade flashed like white fire in the autumn sun; the soldier's lunging fingers were lopped off from the wrist, and his head followed a moment later. She spun to help Hakar, grappling with a burly bearded Nord that was trying to bite him over the stock of his crossbow. Irileth's blade shot between the torn seams of his ragged armour, and the Legionnaire arched with a ghoulish shriek – a shriek cut short as Hakar jerked his crossbow up and stapled him through the neck.

These things are feral, Irileth realized, as she whirled past an Imperial's wild lunge and sliced open her stomach, emptying her innards onto the road. Azura's ghost, even Solen's werewolf put more thought into his attack. A piteous shriek spun her around – two turned soldiers had lunged pell-mell at Florentius, and they screamed as his aura of holy light burned them to the bone. Florentius finished one off with his mace, Vori the other with a crossbow bolt.

The ambush was as over as suddenly as it had begun, and in seconds ten dead Legionnaires again carpeted the road. Irileth thrust her sword through each of their heads just to ensure they stayed that way. "Anyone hurt?" she barked, and once the operatives assured her that they'd suffered no worse than a shock, ordered them to resume their initial task. They did so gingerly. This time Irileth and Florentius stood wordless and watchful, spells and weapons bared, until it was done.

The Legionnaires were piled and burned. The flames burned white, under Florentius's magic and his insistence. The Dawnguard stood back, watching flesh and bone and even ashes slough away in the priestly flames. "I don't understand," said Irileth finally, voicing what she and all her operatives were thinking. "They were only dead one day. It takes three to turn."

"Those weren't vampires." Florentius was fully awake now, and uncommonly dour. "Those were bloodfiends."

"The difference?"

"Their flesh was turned. Their minds were left to rot."

Irileth faced him. "Start over."

Florentius drew a slow breath, as if to ground himself. "I studied the sample of the Redwater Spring for months, as you know. Its corruption was beyond doubt, Arkay assured me well of that, yet its intention remained a mystery. It always responded to vampiric essence – bone, blood, dust – but never in a way that unmasked the true purpose of its potency."

"So what was the breakthrough? Isran mentioned you shouting about one before you ran out the doors."

"The Daughter of Coldharbour and the child of Verandis – when they spoke of the Gray Host, I was reminded of Saint Pelin and his brave sacrifice. He whose blood became an ocean under the teeth of the unholy horde."

"Or a wellspring," Irileth realized, recalling that accursed font from Redwater Den.

Florentius nodded. "Inspired by that sacrifice, I offered the evil sample a drop of my own mortal blood. And it changed. It consumed, it corrupted, it devoured, it – it came alive, the sickness manifest and crazed with hunger. It nearly shattered the phial that held it. It was then that I understood what Arkay has urged me to understand from the moment He led me to that unholy cave. That evil power – that power that now resides within the Volkihar's artifact, the Bloodstone Chalice – its true potential isn't meant for vampires. Vampiric essence only concentrates it, until…"

Irileth looked back at the pyre, understanding. "Until it doesn't need three days to turn mortal flesh."

Florentius nodded. "A bite. A scratch. Living or dead. When that corruption touches mortal blood… Arkay and I both fear, Irileth, there may come a point very soon where such a sickness will not even need any time at all to incubate."

"But why bother even making those rabid things?" Vori frowned, disdainful. "They died like dogs. A vampire fledgling puts up more of a fight."

"And what about twenty of them?" Irileth scowled. "Thirty? A hundred? Two hundred? A city?"

Vori's face paled with understanding. "Shor's bones. They're meant to be fodder."

"They're meant to infect. Multiply. Overwhelm." Irileth caught Florentius's eye and knew it to be so. "The Volkihar are building an army for the Day of Black Sun – an army that will be right on Fort Dawnguard's doorstep if we don't get Orthjolf and his plague rats out of Riften."