Summary:

In this chapter, Bjorn spends his time in the Imperial City prison reflecting on his beliefs and the forces that shape him. He wrestles with the balance of light and darkness within himself while contemplating the nature of the Nine Divines and the Daedra. Amidst his introspection, he receives unexpected visitors, each bringing unique conversations and insights that challenge his perspective.

Note: In my personal Elder Scrolls canon, I create distinct characters for different questlines rather than self-inserting. Each has a unique personality, background, and role in the world. Bjorn is the Dragonborn, following the main quest, Dawnguard, Dragonborn, and the Companions. His sister, Hela, joins the Dark Brotherhood in Skyrim, while Cordelia Masterham pursues the College of Winterhold path. This chapter also references my Heroine of Kvatch, Bellona Magius, who completed the main quest in Oblivion as well as Knights of the Nine. Swims-in-Shadows, my canon character for the Dark Brotherhood in Oblivion, is not the Hero of Kvatch in my universe. His recollections of the Brotherhood's events unfolding differently stem from the Whispered Warning mod, which allows an alternative to the Purification of the Cheydinhal Sanctuary.

Bjorn walked into the dim stone corridor of the Imperial City prison, his boots echoing against the cold floor. His hands were shackled in front of him, the weight of the chains matching the heaviness in his chest. A guard led him toward his cell, but Bjorn barely noticed. His head hung low, his mind racing.

This wasn't the example I wanted to set,he thought if she hears about this? Before I even meet her, my daughter might know me as a murderer.

The shame gnawed at him as the iron door to his cell creaked open. The guard shoved him forward, and Bjorn stumbled slightly before catching himself. He sat down heavily on the rough cot in the corner, leaning forward with his head in his hands.
But as he sat there, trying to drown in his regret, a noise began to rise from the depths of the prison. At first, it was just a murmur, voices bouncing off the stone walls. Then, it grew louder, clearer, unmistakable:

"Bjorn! Bjorn! Bjorn!"

He looked up, startled, as the chanting filled the air. It wasn't jeers or insults. It was cheers—genuine, roaring cheers.

"About time they held a noble accountable!" someone shouted from a nearby cell.

"Yeah, he had it coming!" another voice called.

Bjorn's eyes widened as he stood and moved toward the barred door of his cell. He strained to see into the dimly lit corridor, where the chorus of shouting inmates filled the space.

"Hope they're finally scared up there!" one man yelled.

Bjorn's heart pounded in his chest. He had expected guilt, fear, maybe even scorn—but not this. Not adoration. He had done something he thought he would regret forever, yet to them, it seemed like a victory.

A guard passing by sneered at the noise. "Don't let it go to your head," he muttered. "You're still doing your time."

Bjorn stepped back, shaken. The cheers continued to ring in his ears as he sat back down on the cot, his thoughts spinning. Hero? He hadn't thought of himself that way. To him, his actions were mistakes born of anger and recklessness. Yet, to these people, they were something else entirely.

He rested his head in his hands again, but this time it wasn't just guilt that weighed on him—it was confusion, maybe even the faintest flicker of pride.

As the week went on he started getting many visitors. A family of farmers came in bringing him a warm, home-cooked meal for supper.

"You're a hero. You deserve more of a filling meal than the garbage they feed you here," the matriarch of the family said as she slipped him meatloaf and baked potatoes under the bars.

"Thanks. But how am I a hero? I take no pride in anything I've done."

The peasant woman took a deep breath, what she was about to say was painful for her to think about, "My sister was….violated by a nobleman much like Louis Motierre. The man who did it was never brought to justice. Nobles can usually get away with doing anything they want to us common folk and are never held accountable. Louis Motierre had a similar reputation for using his status to exploit and oppress the powerless. He would have never been held accountable if not for you."

"Besides," the peasant's husband cut in, "we heard there's evidence it was self-defense,"

Bjorn nodded. "It was initially, but I took things too far."

The woman frowned but placed a comforting hand on Bjorn's shoulder through the bars. "Even if you did, it's more justice than any of us ever see. We live our whole lives knowing that men like him can do what they want without fear. You changed that. Even if you regret it, what you did gave people hope."

Bjorn looked down at the food in his hands, his appetite completely gone. He couldn't understand why these people—people he had never met—saw him as anything other than a man who let his rage control him. He felt unworthy of their kindness.

"I appreciate the food," he said after a long silence. "But I'm not sure I deserve your thanks."

"Maybe not," the woman shrugged, "But that doesn't mean we won't give it."

The days in prison dragged on. Bjorn spent much of his time brooding over his past decisions and the uncertain future ahead. Week after week, people came and went, each bringing their own stories and reasons for visiting. Some brought food, others words of encouragement. But despite the visits, Bjorn felt more isolated than ever, disconnected from the world outside the cold stone walls.

One afternoon, as Bjorn sat in his cell strumming his lute, two women arrived at the bars.

The first, a tall Nord with piercing blue eyes and wild, unruly blonde hair, leaned against the iron bars with a flirtatious grin. "Well, look at you," she said, sizing him up with a bold glance. " Even more handsome in person than on those posters!"

Her companion, a Breton with sleek black hair and amber eyes, leaned in close "You've got all the women talking. Some of them are downright swooning. Even I couldn't resist coming to see you up close."

Bjorn raised an eyebrow. "I didn't ask for any of this attention," he chuckled, running a hand through his hair.

The Nord laughed. "You didn't ask for it, but it found you anyway.."

"And you're quite the catch," the Breton added teasingly.

Bjorn shifted, uncomfortable with their gaze. "I don't deserve this... They're just trying to make something out of a mistake."

The Nord snorted. "Mistake? You stood up to someone who needed to be put down. That wasn't a mistake. And you've got the looks to match your courage."

Bjorn shook his head, his fingers still brushing the lute strings. "Look, I'm not the hero you think I am. I don't want anyone looking up to me. You shouldn't either."

The Breton winked at him "No one's perfect, Bjorn, but you come close."

Bjorn stopped playing and looked down at his feet in shame. With his deed so well known by everyone, there's no way his daughter didn't know what he had done by now. He hoped the family that raised her shunned what he did. He didn't want his daughter raised to believe ending up behind bars was admirable.

They left, their laughter echoing down the hall, leaving Bjorn to his thoughts. The attention, though uncomfortable, seemed to be growing—whether he wanted it or not. He wasn't sure if he was ready for the attention, but for now, all he could do was keep strumming his lute and try to make sense of it all.

Suddenly the prison guard's low, booming Imperial voice cut through his internal dialogue. "Damn, you've got it good, huh? Two pretty women coming to see you like that."

Bjorn leaned back, still playing his lute. "Guess so."

The guard chuckled. "Lucky bastard. I wouldn't mind getting that kind of attention."

Bjorn shrugged. "Not looking for it."

The guard raised an eyebrow, grinning. "Sure, sure. Just don't let it all go to your head."

Later that evening, he had yet another visitor.

"You got another visitor! This one's easy on the eyes too, but a little strange," the guard jested.

Bjorn knew right away who it was. It was his sister, Hela.

She was wearing black, hooded leather armor as usual and walked over to his cell. Without a word, she reached through the bars, offering her hand.

Instinctively, Bjorn met it, and they performed their signature twin handshake—fingers twisting and snapping apart, as smooth and synchronized as it had always been.

Despite everything that had happened since they were children, it was as if no time had passed at all.

Hela smirked. "I see you've managed to get yourself locked up. You should have taken some lessons from me. I've learned how to not get caught."

"It wasn't like that," Bjorn sounded slightly defensive. "This was self-defense. He had slaughtered Kurdan, he was trying to kill me. I just… became overwhelmed with rage afterward at what he had done. I wanted him to suffer, so I… set him on fire."

"You didn't tell them any of this? Didn't try to plead your case?"

"No, they wouldn't have believed me anyway."

Hela rolled her eyes. "Come on, brother. You gotta have more backbone than that."

Bjorn exhaled sharply. "Maybe I feel like I deserve to be here."

"For what?" She raised an eyebrow. "That guy was scum."

Bjorn walked to his bed, sat down, and looked at his feet in shame. "Kurdan would still be alive if it weren't for me. Margaret's son would still be alive. Even if I don't deserve to be here for what I'm accused of, I deserve to be here for everything else."

Hela sighed, shaking her head. "You're still dragging that around, huh? Thought you'd figure it out by now—punishing yourself doesn't change anything."

"Yeah, well I'm not like you. I actually have normal human emotions," Bjorn snapped at her, but then caught himself and softened his tone. "You're… you're different is all I'm saying."

Hela's blank, unreadable expression remained unchanged. "Well it's better than being like you," she retorted without even raising her voice, "lamenting, feeling sorry for yourself. At least I own what I am and embrace it."

Bjorn rolled his eyes and shook his head. A brief, awkward silence followed until he spoke again. He took a deep breath, unsure how his sister would react to what he was about to say. "Look, Hela, I've been meaning to bring this up. You may be my sister, but I'm not going to be your accomplice by keeping quiet. I need to know—you're not out there hurting innocent people, are you?"

Hela was silent for a few seconds, then answered flatly, "I have a code."

"A code?" Bjorn stood up from the bed and started pacing. "I'm supposed to know what the hell that means?"

"Well, I suppose it's like what you did to Louis—only not out of rage or revenge. It's more calculated. But I go after people like him." She paused. "The people I target—they're untouchable. The kind of scum the law won't touch, or worse, protects. You think they don't deserve to pay just because no one else will make them?"

"So you're judge, jury, and executioner."

"If you want to put it like that, sure. Think of me as a bounty hunter. Would you question them for taking out a mark?"

"That's different, though. Bounty hunters-"

"There's no difference, Bjorn," Hela cut him off, "Killing is acceptable to society as long as it's in the right context. You don't think bounty hunters take pride in their work or feel satisfaction when they bring someone down? I'm no different. The only difference is I make my own rules, I choose my targets. I don't need some rich person with coin telling me who deserves it and who doesn't."

"But what if you're wrong, Hela? What if you pick the wrong target? What if it's not justice, just a mistake?" Bjorn's voice rose slightly, the concern he had been bottling up slipping through.

Hela's smirk softened but didn't disappear. "I don't make mistakes," she said simply. "And if I did, well… even a sword sometimes cuts where it shouldn't. That's the risk of being sharp, Bjorn."

Bjorn didn't want to argue with her any further, he sighed and sat back down on his bed. He grabbed his lute and started playing. Hela watched him, curiously, but said nothing.

Finally, Bjorn stopped playing, sighed, and spoke again. "You've got your code. Fine. But how far does it go?"

Hela was silent. Suddenly a frightening thought came to Bjorn's mind, one he couldn't ignore.

"You told me once, when we were kids…. if anyone hurt me, they'd end up like Granny."

"And they would."

Bjorn's hands tightened on the lute. He stared at the strings, afraid to look up. He swallowed hard before finally asking, "But you didn't kill her, right?"

Hela stared at him blankly for a moment before her lips formed into a smile, and she let out a loud belly laugh.

"No, Bjorn. Granny died in her sleep, same as everyone said. I don't harm family. Blood's off limits—you know that."

Bjorn leaned against the wall, looking conflicted. Hela stepped away from the bars and let out a big sigh.

"Look, you don't have to understand it. You just have to know I've got rules. And I'm not some rabid animal, no matter what you think."

"Where'd you develop this code anyway? Just on your own, or from your adoptive parents? They were assassins I remember you said."

"A mix of both," Hela responded, "My adoptive father was an Argonian, my adoptive mother a Breton, they trained me in the art of stealth and gave me my gift as well."

"Your gift?"

"Come on, brother. I'm sure you figured it out by now," she smiled wildly, teasingly revealing her sharp fangs.

Bjorn looked away awkwardly, "I had my suspicions. Can't say I'm surprised."

"But you don't need to worry about that, brother. We're working with a group of our own—vampires who hunt down other vampires who prey on the innocent. It was founded by Redfane, a vampire who tracks down and kills the worst of our kind, determined to reshape how the public views us."

"Redfane," Bjorn remembered the name. "The Redguard lass. Mother used to sing me ballads about her, but I always thought she was just a legend."

Hela gave a sharp nod. "She's real. And she's leading the charge, cleaning up the messes the rest of us make. Trying to make sure the world sees us for who we really are, not just the monsters they think we are."

Bjorn hesitated for a moment, his brows furrowing. "But… who do you feed on? How do you get your blood?"

Hela smirked at his cautious tone. "It depends. Sometimes we use blood potions—that's the cleanest way. Other times, we feed on bandits or enemies we take down in fights. And occasionally…" She paused, her smirk turning playful, "It's in a more intimate setting, with a consenting partner."

Bjorn rubbed the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable with the last part. "Right. I didn't need that much detail."

"Relax, brother. It's all aboveboard," Hela teased, leaning against the bars. "Not all of us are out here draining innocent villagers. Some of us have… standards."

"So it seems they taught you a code in more ways than one," Bjorn said, trying to be understanding.

"They not only taught me their code but also honed my skills in stealth—how to move unnoticed, how to remain discreet. Both of them were members of the Dark Brotherhood."

Bjorn shook his head. "But the Dark Brotherhood—they're just murderers. They don't care who they kill. They just do it for money."

"They're tools, Bjorn. Nothing more. You wouldn't blame a sword for killing, would you? It's the person who wields it that matters."

Bjorn frowned. "So you're saying the Dark Brotherhood's just a tool? They're hired killers."

"Exactly," Hela replied. "And that's all they are. Just like your hero, the Nerevarine. He was part of the Morag Tong, wasn't he?"

Bjorn hesitated. "At least the Morag Tong was legal. They had a purpose—to keep noble feuds in Morrowind from spiraling out of control. The Brotherhood is just senseless murder."

Hela chuckled. "So because something's legal, that makes it more just? The Nerevarine also killed slave owners and freed slaves. Slavery was legal, what he did was illegal. Does that make the slave owners right and him wrong?"

"Of course not, but that was different than what you're talking about," Bjorn asserted, "And the Nerevarine eventually turned away from the Morag Tong. His lover Jasmine and his best friend Julan were his moral compass. They helped him be better."

"Anyway, brother," Hela sighed, "you don't need to worry about my… tendencies getting out of hand. I have structure. Discipline. Control."

Bjorn exhaled deeply. That was probably the best answer he was going to get. He wasn't entirely comfortable with her explanations about her code, but it was better than the idea of her killing people at random. If nothing else, he'd rather try to understand her than turn against his sister. He still couldn't condone her killing those bullies as a child. Despicable as they were, they didn't deserve to die. But she had been only five then, far too young to understand or control the darkness within her. At least now, it seemed, she had learned to manage it.

As for her being a creature of the night? He could live with it. His time among the Orcs had taught him that society's assumptions about what they feared—and didn't understand—were often wrong. Sure, there were plenty of bad vampires, but just as many bad humans weren't undead. Was it so hard to believe they weren't all inherently evil?

And if she was working with Redfane to hunt down others of her kind who were up to no good, then that was something he could get behind. He'd never met Redfane, but he knew the legends. Stories of her deeds painted a picture of someone who walked a fine line between myth and reality. If she worked with his sister to hunt down rogue vampires, that was enough for Bjorn.

Before her departure, Hela handed Bjorn a worn leather-bound book: the memoirs of her adoptive father, Swims-in-Shadows, titled Reflections of an Argonian Assassin. She explained that she'd been given his blessing to share it, believing it would help Bjorn understand her better. Hela knew the darkness that lingered inside her was in Bjorn too, even though he resisted it. She hoped the book might not only shed light on her path but also help her brother confront and better understand his inner struggles.

When he read the memoirs, he learned that Swims-in-Shadows was born a slave in Morrowind, sometime in the third era. He never knew his birth parents and was abused by his masters from the day he was just a hatchling. Eventually, he killed his master and his master's family, and that's when he learned what he was good at. It wasn't long after this he fled to Cyrodil and was recruited by the Dark Brotherhood.

I wonder if I were in his situation I would have done the same. Bjorn thought to himself. My darkness was always there and I grappled with it, but what if I never had loving parents? What if I only knew violence and subjugation from the day I was born like he did?

Now Bjorn thought of his sister. But she had the same parents as me, and she still turned out how she did. She was born the way she was. So where does the darkness come from? Does it come from our experience? Are we born with it or is it a little bit of both? Maybe we all have it inside of us, and some are more attuned to it than others.

As he continued reading, Swims-In-Shadows described his contracts with the Dark Brotherhood:

As I made my way through the ranks, the contracts became more challenging—and dare I say, more fun!
From sneaking aboard a pirate ship to assassinate their captain to eliminating guests at a lavish party one by one (the others huddled near me, hoping I'd protect them from the killer—never knowing it was me all along!), my life with the Brotherhood was never dull.

This sent a chill down Bjorn's spine. He could understand Swims-in-Shadows' satisfaction at killing the slave owners who oppressed him, and perhaps he could even understand the thrill of killing a pirate aboard a ship. But to enjoy murdering guests at a party? What did these people even do? Bjorn now wondered if he could end up like that too. The thought frightened him. He would be lying if he said he didn't feel some satisfaction from killing Louis Motierre in revenge. If he kept on that route, would he start enjoying killing for the sake of it? Could he be a murderer himself?

Bjorn continued reading and the Argonian then talked about something that changed him: love:

It was also during my time with the Brotherhood that I met my dear Antoinetta Marie. She was the one who taught me I could care about others. Because of my love for her, I couldn't follow through with the order to purify the sanctuary. I couldn't slaughter my new family in the Dark Brotherhood—and I especially couldn't kill Antoinetta—just because one of us was a traitor.

So I warned my dear Antoinetta. With her help, the others placed the bodies of lookalikes around the sanctuary. Lucien Lachance and the Night Mother fell for it. Or perhaps she knew the traitor wasn't among us.

Besides, I wasn't bound by the Five Tenets for that contract, and one of them is to never disobey an order. So I suppose I wasn't bound by that either.
In time, Antoinetta and I were wed in secret—a quiet ceremony far from blood and contracts. For once, I felt something close to peace.

But even in peace, the shadows are never far behind.

Bjorn leaned back, absorbing the words.So, even though he had become a hardened killer, he still could care about someone, he thought. A part of him had held onto love, even in the darkest of places. He then thought of his sister, Hela—a cold-blooded killer who had shown him loyalty and love in ways few others could. Despite the bloodshed that defined her, she stood by him as his sister.

What, then, was morality? Bjorn wondered. Was it simply a code we made for ourselves, a set of rules we followed to justify our actions? Or was it something deeper, an inherent force that guided us toward good or evil, regardless of the choices we made? If love could exist in the heart of an assassin, was it enough to redeem a person, or did the darkness inside them always outweigh the light? The questions swirled in his mind, and for the first time in a long while, he felt uncertain.

Finally, he found the section that discussed Hela—toward the end of the memoirs. Two hundred years had passed since Swims-In-Shadows first joined the Dark Brotherhood. His fellow assassin Vicente had granted him the gift of vampirism, which he later shared with his wife, Antoinetta. It was this dark blessing that had allowed them both to survive all this time. Bjorn continued reading:

Several years after I became Listener of the Dark Brotherhood, the Night Mother stopped speaking to me. I waited a few more years to see if she'd speak again, but she never did. Eventually, I decided it was time for retirement, I traveled all over Tamriel with my love. We had many adventures and saw sights we thought we'd never see.

After a while, Antoinetta started talking to me about how she had always wondered what it would be like to be a mother and wanted to give it a shot. Unfortunately, biology wasn't on our side with me being an Argonian and her a Breton. And what kind of life would it be for a child to be raised by two vampire assassins?

About ten years ago, we read a story in the paper about a little girl in Windhelm who had slain two boys in cold blood. Her parents sent her to the orphanage in Windhelm. As soon as we learned of this, we knew at once—this was our daughter

Lady Grelod, who ran the orphanage, refused to let anyone adopt the children, but we used our vampire seduction powers to force her to agree. The little girl, Hela, was in awe of our gift and asked to become a vampire. We initially refused, but she persisted, and when she reached her teenage years, we granted her the gift.

We trained Hela in the art of stealth combat, teaching her to channel her homicidal tendencies through a code—only killing those who deserved it in some way, never innocents without cause. She is determined to make Grelod pay, and we made sure she had the skills to do so without being caught. Rumors say the Brotherhood is resurging in Skyrim, and knowing our past ties, Hela is eager to join. Perhaps the structure of the Brotherhood is exactly what she needs, given her more primal instincts. It would put a smile on this old lizard's face to see her rise through the ranks in our lifetime..

In a way, Bjorn was thankful to her adoptive parents. Where would his sister be if not for them? At least they taught her some kind of discipline.

Bjorn's gaze then lingered on the words about Hela's desire for is determined to make Grelod pay.A cold knot tightened in his chest as he read about her thirst for Grelod's blood. He understood it—after the way she and the other children in the orphanage were abused, he couldn't blame her. However, he also knew this was just an excuse. She had these instincts before she was even sent there.

But even so, the thought of Hela slipping further into that dark, unforgiving part of herself unsettled him. She had always been a killer, from the moment she first took a life that day in the Windhelm Cemetery. It was the thing she was, the thing she had always been. He knew it, and yet, a part of him had hoped she might find some shred of peace, some way out of the spiral of violence.

Could this revenge be the final step into something even darker? Was there room for redemption for someone like Hela, or was she too far gone?

He thought of his struggles with his darkness, how he fought it—how, even after all he had done, he still felt remorse. Would Hela ever feel remorse for her actions? Would she ever look back and regret the lives she had taken? Or would she continue down this path, never questioning whether the bloodshed was justified?

Bjorn couldn't help but feel a pang of fear. The thought of her becoming lost to it, unable or unwilling to turn back, gnawed at him. Was it possible to change someone like her, or was this simply who she was meant to be?

As the days passed, the swarm of visitors grew smaller and smaller. Bjorn preferred it this way. It gave him more time to think and reflect. Whatever came next, this quiet and solitude allowed him to expand his mind, dive into books, and master new songs on the lute. He spent his days working out in his cell, steadily transforming into a stronger, sharper version of himself. Despite the bars that held him, he felt freer than he ever had before.

He used this time for soul-searching. What did he truly believe about the gods? Raised with the traditional Nordic pantheon, he had also been a devout follower of Malacath during his time in the Orc stronghold. But now, he wasn't sure what to believe. He had always felt that the Aedra and Daedra complemented each other—neither inherently good nor evil. Molag Bal and Mehrunes Dagon were malevolent forces, but perhaps even they served a purpose within the grand design. And other Daedra, like Azura, had guided the Nerevarine on his quest. Malacath wasn't evil, nor was Meridia.

Finally, he decided to pray to the Nordic god Shor. Something in his heart told him that when he prayed, he wasn't just asking for guidance—he was connecting with a higher part of himself, a deeper consciousness.

Then, one day, as he was sitting in prayer and meditation, he heard the guard's voice. "You have a visitor."

Light footsteps echoed down the hall of the prison, and Bjorn glanced up from his seat to see who it was. He wasn't sure who to expect.

A small figure appeared in front of the bars, just outside his cell—a child. A girl. Her dark hair framed a round face, and her bright green eyes practically glowed in the dim room.

Bjorn squinted to see more clearly, tilting his head. There was something familiar in her features, though he couldn't place it.

Then it hit him.

"Tava…" he breathed, standing slowly.

The girl looked up at him, clutching her hands together nervously. "You know who I am?"

"I… I think so," he took a careful step closer, his blue eyes scanning her face. "It's you, isn't it? You're… my daughter."

Tava nodded shyly. "I am."

Bjorn stared at her, unblinking, as if the moment wasn't real. "I didn't think… I didn't know if I'd ever see you," he said finally. "But here you are."

She shuffled her feet slightly, still holding back. "I wasn't sure if I should come," she admitted.

"You should've," Bjorn said quickly, his tone softening. "You should always come. I'm glad you're here."

Tava hesitated, her green eyes watching him closely. "You're not what I imagined," she said quietly.

Bjorn knelt slowly, so they were eye to eye. "I didn't know what to imagine," his wet eyes lit up with joy, "But you're more than I could've hoped for."

She stepped closer, reaching out hesitantly. Bjorn didn't move, letting her take the lead. When her small hand finally slipped into his, his chest tightened, and he fought to steady his breath.

"Thank you for coming," Bjorn's voice cracked with emotion.

"I wanted to meet you," she whispered.

He held her hand gently, as though she might disappear. "And now that you're here, I won't let you go."

Bjorn looked at Tava, trying to take in everything about her. She was so small, so young, but there was something in her eyes—a depth that didn't belong to a child. The silence stretched on until Bjorn broke it. He had so many questions to ask.

"How did you find out about me?"

Tava hesitated before answering. "Amirah visited me. She told me she was my real mom and that you were my real dad. I always knew I was adopted because my adoptive mother was a Bosmer and my adoptive father an Imperial. I got along with them, but I always wondered where I came from."

Bjorn was looking down at his feet, brooding. "I only wish you didn't have to see me behind bars. I wish I could be a better example," he lamented. "I've done things I regret, things I can't take back."

"That's okay." Tava smiled. "You are still my daddy, and you're not a bad person," she said. "We all make mistakes. One time, I tried to help Mama—my adoptive mother—with the laundry, but I dropped all the clothes in the well instead of the washbasin. She wasn't very happy, but the water was right there!"

Bjorn started laughing and crying at the same time, touched by her innocence. He stroked her cheek with his hand affectionately.

Tava looked reflective. "Maybe we all have both good and bad in us. Maybe both are needed. The light and the dark. You can't have one without the other."

Bjorn blinked, surprised by the simplicity of her words, yet how deeply they cut. "What do you mean?" he asked.

Tava shrugged slightly. "Like how the world was made. Anu created the light, and Padomay brought the darkness. They're both important. Without one, the other wouldn't have a purpose."

Bjorn let the weight of her words settle on him. He didn't know what to say. "You're a very bright girl, just like your mother," he said with a slight smile.

"Or like you. You're smart too."

Bjorn laughed. "If I were smart, I wouldn't be in this cell."

"Well, Amirah—my real mama—said you're smart when she visited me."

"Did she now?" Bjorn's curiosity was piqued.

Tava nodded. "She said you knew more about Redguard history than any other non-Redguard she ever met. She said you were as skilled playing the lute as you were working the forge as a blacksmith."

"Did she say anything else?"

"She said you have a good heart, but sometimes you lose control and make mistakes. She says you have a lot to learn, but she believes in you. And she said you love me, even though you weren't able to be there."

Bjorn chuckled. "She knows me like the back of her hand, that woman. But yes, she's right. I do love you. I came here to Cyrodiil to see you, originally," Bjorn's smile faltered and turned into a frown. "But then, of course, I ended up here instead."

He exhaled deeply, looking down for a moment before meeting her gaze again. "So, who are your adoptive parents? Are they here? Didn't think they'd let you come here alone."

Tava nodded. "They're waiting outside. But I get along with them well. They said when they were younger, they used to get in trouble a lot. They used to be bad guys but learned to be good. They said you were still a youngster, had time to learn and grow."

Bjorn chuckled softly. "Did they now?"

She smiled slightly, her eyes lighting up with pride. "You know, my adoptive daddy is Barcus Magius. He's the great-great-great-grandson of Bellona Magius, the heroine of Kvatch."

Bjorn's face lit up in surprise. "Wow, that's amazing! And I love that you call her by her name. Too many people just refer to her as 'the Hero of Kvatch,' 'Champion of Cyrodiil,' or even 'the prisoner.' Doesn't anyone know she had a name? And don't even get me started on all the people who call her 'he.'"

He paused for a moment, shaking his head in frustration. "And that whole nonsense about her becoming Sheogorath? Ridiculous. She was a Knight of the Nine, a devout follower of the Divines. Why would she suddenly want to become a Daedric Lord? No, no. Some other bloke went to the Shivering Isles, not her."

Tava's smile was small but sincere as her father went on his passionate rant. She could sense the reverence he had for Bellona, someone whose legacy had clearly touched him deeply.

Bjorn then watched his daughter, her eyes gleaming with innocence and wisdom far beyond her years. Maybe there is light in the darkness , he thought, his heart stirring. Perhaps there's hope yet—for me, for her… for both of us. He squeezed her hand gently, feeling the weight of the moment.

"You're right," he said quietly, but loud enough for her to hear. "The light and the dark, both are needed. But you, Tava… you are the light."

He watched her smile, a soft, radiant thing that filled the room with warmth. For the first time in a long while, Bjorn allowed himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, there was a way back from the darkness after all.